Corwin had been moving an overstuffed binder from one side of his desk to the other when Marla launched this diatribe, and he stopped with it in midair as he listened, his smile gradually dwindling away.
He set the binder down on the blotter and chuckled again, this time without a trace of humor.
“Okay, well, you do get right to the point, no doubt about that. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. And I suppose there’s no sense in asking you where you got your information.”
“None.”
Corwin smoothed down the hair at the back of his head, then leaned forward and held both hands up, palms facing his guest.
“Look, I don’t want this to turn into a schoolyard scuffle, okay? I invited you here in part because you’ve been requesting an interview for so long, and in part because I was hoping you’d be fair to me and let me give my side of the story. I’ve got a pretty clear idea of where you stand on the issue of nuclear power, but I am also under the impression that you’re an objective and open-minded journalist. If I didn’t think that, I wouldn’t have granted the request at all. And I’m basing that opinion, by the way, on many other articles you’ve written.”
Marla was surprised that Corwin had taken the time to dig into her past work. “I’ve only written about one side of the issue,” she said, “because that’s all I’ve had to work with. Nevertheless, the information I’ve given to the public so far has been based on very thorough research. The facts are the facts.”
“Well, okay. I’m not going to try to pull you off the things you’ve written. I’m also not going to sit here and say nuclear power doesn’t have its problems. I’m well aware of the dangers; I can’t afford not to be. That’s the truth, regardless of what you may think of me — and what I know you think of my father.”
In a measured tone that she found difficult to conjure, Marla said, “Your father is one of the most ruthless men in the energy business. And that’s not merely my opinion. The list of people who have gone on record stating similar sentiments is so long it could—”
The hands came up again. “I don’t want to get into a discussion about my father, please. Since his stroke two years ago, I’m the one who’s been making the decisions concerning the management of this plant, as well as all his other business interests.”
Marla tilted her head slightly and grinned. “You’re telling me your father has nothing to do with the day-to-day operations of Corwin Energies? That’s what you’re going to ask people to believe?”
“Marla, my dad can’t even drink a glass of water on his own. He’s got nurses around the clock. He can barely communicate.”
“From what I understand, Leo Corwin can still speak and still write.” She delighted in the renewed look of astonishment that crossed his face upon hearing yet another privileged revelation. “I have the feeling a man like Leo Corwin doesn’t relinquish command very easily.”
Corwin shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong on that point. I’m in charge.”
“Well, I guess I’m going to have to take your word for it, as I don’t know enough about what goes on here during the course of an ordinary day to say otherwise. Between the nondisclosure agreements you require your employees to sign and your steadfast refusal to address the media, you and your father have done an admirable job of creating an impenetrable fortress where information is concerned.”
“Our employees sign nondisclosure agreements due to security concerns. If some terrorist cell gets the details of a nuclear plant in this country, I assure you it’s not going to be a Corwin plant. And as for our radio-silence policy toward the media, I’m hoping to change that.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t imagine your dad being too happy about that.”
“As I said, Marla, I’m the one at the controls now.”
She nodded and dropped her gaze, purposely creating the illusion of confusion and vulnerability. She didn’t miss his repeated use of her first name; a subtle attempt to defrost her through familiarity. People had tried to manipulate her thousands of times in her career, and the only aspect of Corwin’s attempt that disappointed her was the fact that he obviously thought she wouldn’t notice. I can play along.
“Then I guess the buck really does stop here,” she said, “and I’m talking to the right person.”
“You are. And I promise you, you’ll have a very different attitude toward nuclear power by the end of the day.”
“Well, we’ll see. Would you mind if I used this?” She reached into her bag and took out a small digital recorder. Corwin paled at the sight of it. She might as well have produced a tarantula.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” he said gently. “Really, I’m sorry. But, no… I would really rather not.”
“No?”
“No.”
She shrugged. “Okay, your choice. Remember, the main advantage when a journalist records a conversation is that it greatly reduces the chance of mistakes. Misquotes and so forth.”
“I know. I’ll take that chance.”
“All right.” She set the recorder down on the edge of the desk, next to a row of thick directories that were sandwiched between a pair of cooling-tower bookends. “I’ll leave it right here in plain view,” she said. “And as you can see, it’s not turned on.”
Corwin nodded. “Thank you.” He rose, his smile returning again. “And in appreciation, I’d like to do something for you — how about I give you a tour of the plant while we do the interview?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. I just have to ask that you don’t take any pictures.”
“I didn’t even bring my camera.”
“Good, then let’s go.”
Marla let Corwin take the lead in the hall. As he passed her, she reached into her pants pocket and activated the digital recorder she’d put there before she even got out of her car. The device’s wireless microphone was disguised as a pendant; she wore it around her neck on a thin gold chain. The tiny recorder, bought from a dealer in Hong Kong, had cost her a fortune, but she believed it had already paid for itself many times over. I have him exactly where I want him, she thought excitedly.
As Corwin opened the door that led into the plant, he was thinking precisely the same thing about her.
4
“That one has a coat hanger, and that one has a coat hanger…”
Sarah was mumbling to herself in the passenger seat of their two-year-old Honda sedan. They could’ve afforded something a little better and once discussed leasing a BMW or a Saab, but Sarah felt it was important that an elected town official not appear too grandiose. She was willing to take the hit on luxury rather than risk even a whiff of impropriety. Not while we’ve got people living on welfare on River Road, she had said, and Emilio agreed. His family had never needed government assistance to pay their bills, but she knew they had come close more than a few times.
They were cruising along the southwest stretch of that very road now, one side hugging the twists and turns of Silver Lake’s main estuary, the other segmented by a run of low-income properties. Most of the houses followed the same simple blueprint — a small box with an A-frame roof and a bay window next to the front door. Built half a century earlier to accommodate the influx of young soldiers returning from World War II who were looking to get started on the budding American dream, the homes had been regarded as modest metaphors of hopefulness.
Now they represented a slice of society that lived on the very edge of the economic cliff, where one minor misfortune — a car accident, a burst appendix — would all but assure ruination. Sarah disliked being in this area, not because she harbored the squirming revulsion that others felt toward those who were financially disadvantaged, but because she couldn’t stomach the idea of anyone in her town struggling to survive.