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ALTHOUGH THE GEORGE Nidever Dinner officially started at seven o’clock, all the invitees were talking and milling around the large lobby in front of the ballroom at the university hotel. Nidever was a private university, and as Fenway looked at the chandeliers in the lobby, she realized Nidever students had a much different perspective on the world than a woman who had to get student loans to attend a public university like Western Washington.
“For crying out loud, Fenway,” Millicent Tate said, “you know even if you don’t have your phone on you, you can still call to get your voicemail.”
“Officer Young,” Fenway said, “would you mind getting us both a glass of champagne while I have a chat with my campaign manager?”
“Certainly,” he said, and turned and headed in the direction of the bar.
Millicent watched him go. “New boyfriend?”
“The cop assigned to protect me.”
“He cleans up nice,” Millicent said. “I hope you keep it under wraps if you have some Bodyguard-style hot romance.”
“You don’t have to worry.”
Millicent kept watching Officer Young walk toward the bar. “We’ve definitely lost some momentum today,” she said. “I didn’t know you weren’t going to make the senior center today. They were disappointed.”
“I’m sorry,” Fenway said, not sorry at all. “The family therapist my father and I see was murdered this morning. I found his body. I had to take care of a bunch of things.”
“Ugh,” Millicent Tate said, rolling her eyes. “I wish you were just a candidate, and not the sitting coroner. It would make things a lot easier.”
“I’ll make sure his family gets your heartfelt condolences,” Fenway said.
Millicent turned toward Fenway and folded her arms. “Your father is paying me to run this campaign, Fenway. He’s not paying me to feel bad about murder victims, or to hold your hand and nod sympathetically. He’s paying me to win.” She sighed. “You know, I get that your dedication to the job makes you the right candidate for it, but it’s hard with you not campaigning.”
“It must be a little easier when my opponent’s son spray-paints shit on my car.”
Millicent slapped Fenway on her bare shoulder. “If you’re going to play the family card, remember you’re the one whose stepmother was arrested for murder.”
Fenway winced.
“Yeah, you didn’t think of that, did you? You thought because you and she almost never spoke, none of the voters would associate you with her?”
“Uh—no, I guess I didn’t.”
“Did you see the ads that Ivanovich’s been running on Channel 12 today?”
Fenway gasped. “Oh no—he mentions Charlotte?”
“No, he talks about his stance on tax shelters.”
“Really?”
“No, you idiot, of course it’s all about Charlotte! They’ve got a picture of her, and it’s not a picture of her feeding orphans either. It’s one where she’s got a nasty look on her face, boobs hanging halfway out, a tequila shot in one hand, and a damn tiara on top of her head. A tiara!”
“Oh.” Fenway said. She had seen the picture before.
“What, do you know the picture I’m talking about?”
“It was her bachelorette party,” Fenway said. “Lots of women wear tiaras at their bachelorette parties.”
“Well,” Millicent said sardonically, “once we explain it’s merely a bachelorette party to the voters, it should all be great. They should get right on board with us.”
Fenway ignored her tone. “Have we run anything? Any counter ads?”
Millicent looked around and lowered her voice. “We’re divided on what to do. You were supposed to be the deciding vote.”
“What were you going to run?”
“We have a picture of your car with the spray paint on it. We have a picture of your window after the brick was thrown through it. We have a voiceover talking about how Dr. Ivanovich thinks he can use white supremacist intimidation tactics to scare you out of the race. How you weren’t scared to take on your father’s head of security, you weren’t scared to take on the head of the most powerful pharmaceutical company in California. We were hoping to get you in the studio, maybe even in your dress blues, saying, ‘I’ve taken on the most powerful men in the state. I’m not scared of anybody calling me names.’”
“Oh,” Fenway said. “That would have been good.”
“Yeah, you think?” Millicent’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “Maybe that’s why your dad pays me the big bucks.”
“I mean, part of me doesn’t want anyone to see the N-word spray-painted on my car. You show that to white people and they freak out. Even people who say they’re allies get all uncomfortable. But I like the tough stance on stuff. Makes people realize I’m my own person. I don’t answer to my father for anything.”
“Or your stepmother.”
“Right.”
“Plus, it helps to have a different, uh, last name.”
Fenway shifted her weight from foot to foot. “And skin color, you were going to say.”
Millicent hesitated, but nodded. “Yes. Because you don’t look anything like Charlotte. You don’t have the same name, you don’t have the same skin color or hair color. People will see you, taking a tough stance, and they’ll think, ‘Oh, yeah, another old rich white guy who dumped his wife for a hot girl half his age. Like his daughter is going to let that bitch get away with murder.’”
“You know I think she’s innocent, right?”
“Fenway, listen to me. For the next seventy-two hours, I literally don’t give a damn if she committed murder or if she tried to poison the water supply. I care about getting you elected.” She laughed. “Your dad is paying me so much I don’t care if you committed murder. It doesn’t matter what the truth is.”
Fenway’s eyes widened.
Millicent Tate smirked. “That’s right, Little Miss Idealism, it doesn’t matter what the truth is. Not for the next seventy-two hours, it doesn’t. It only matters what the voters think.”
It only matters what the voters think.
And with a shock, Fenway realized she had been looking in all the wrong places for the killer of Jeremy Kapp.
The money laundering, the phantom oil supertanker—Fenway realized none of that was why Jeremy Kapp was killed. Uncovering those crimes had completely distracted her from looking at personal motives. But the fake emails, the doctored photos, the clumsy setup of Charlotte—those weren’t the work of a professional.
Jeremy Kapp’s murderer wasn’t the ruthlessly efficient killer who blew up Rory or bludgeoned Dr. Tassajera—or ordered the death of Carl Cassidy, for that matter. Jeremy Kapp’s death was from an amateur hand. His death exposed a lot of people in the money laundering scheme, for sure, and might have been the root cause for the latest murders—but, if Fenway was right, she needed to look at the people closest to Kapp.
She had to talk to Dez.
“Fenway?” Millicent snapped her fingers. “Where did you go?”
Fenway’s eyes came back into focus. “Sorry, sorry. I just had a thought about the case.”
“Pay attention, Fenway!” Millicent barked. “Keep your mind on the campaign for more than thirty seconds! Are you onboard with the ad or not?”
“I’m onboard with the ad,” Fenway said.
“Great. We can get in the studio tonight after the dinner.”
“Are you okay if I just step out for a second to make a call?”
Millicent’s eyes went wide. “Oh, there’s the camera from Channel 12. Turn around and smile. Pretend you haven’t been receiving death threats.”
Fenway turned, saw the camera, and smiled.
“You’ll obviously have to change,” Millicent continued. “A pantsuit or something. I mean, we can shoot you from the waist up, so maybe someone can run by your apartment and pick up a blazer.” She took a step back and examined Fenway with a critical eye and frowned. “This dress makes you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. People don’t want to vote for an ingénue, they want to vote for someone reliable and competent. Maybe we can get your blazer sooner rather than later.”
“This is a black-tie dinner,” Fenway pointed out.
“And I have three dresses back at the campaign office picked out that are much more appropriate for a politician,” Millicent said. “But at least you’re not showing too much cleavage, and at least you didn’t do anything fancy with your hair.”
“At least,” Fenway said. “Listen, I’ll make one quick call and I’ll be right—"
“Hang on,” Millicent said, staring over Fenway’s shoulder at an older white, blonde woman standing about twenty feet away. “That’s Cynthia Schimmelhorn. I wonder what she’s doing here.”
“Cynthia Schimmelhorn?” Fenway asked, surprised. “Isn’t she on the board of directors of Ferris Energy?”
“Yes,” Millicent said, lowering her voice. “She has an agenda—and she sure doesn’t like your dad.”
“My father said she called for a vote of no confidence for him in the last board meeting.”
“And if your father hadn’t been so charming, he’d be out of a job right now.”
“Yeah, I heard that too.”
“So is she some big hotshot at the university?” Millicent said, mostly to herself, as she pulled her smartphone out and started tapping on the screen. “Oh, look, she’s one of the star alumni.”
“Wait—from Nidever University?” asked Fenway.
“She sure is,” Millicent says. “Hey, did you know Abby Herrick graduated from here two years ago?”
“Who?”
“Abby Herrick,” Millicent replied. “You know, the pop singer.”
Fenway briefly remembered the tee shirt Donovan Kapp was wearing the first time she saw him. “Oh, right, I know who she is.”
Millicent kept scrolling on her phone.
“What are you doing?”
Millicent tipped a little more champagne into her mouth. “Research,” she said, winking at Fenway. “You might as well get to know her a little more since she’s practically standing behind you.”
“Abby Herrick’s behind me?” Fenway started to turn around.
“Don’t look!” Millicent hissed. “And no, you idiot, Cynthia Schimmelhorn.”
Fenway stopped.
Millicent lowered her voice. “Where did you get your undergrad? Wasn’t it Western Washington?”
Fenway nodded. “Go Vikings.”
“Well, so did Cynthia Schimmelhorn’s daughter.” Millicent scrolled a little more and her eyes went wide. “Who names their daughter Nerissa?”
Fenway paused, trying to search her brain for where she had heard the name. “Oh—that’s from Shakespeare.”
“I don’t care if it was spelled out in rose petals on the ground at the moment of conception—it’s an awful name. Like ‘narcissism.’” She stopped scrolling and looked up. “Okay, so that short guy who was talking to her walked away. Now’s your chance.”
Fenway grabbed Millicent’s arm. “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”
Millicent rolled her eyes. “Fine, I guess so. Wouldn’t hurt to have someone else in my contact list who could singlehandedly bankroll a congressional candidate.”
“Gee, thanks,” Fenway said.
“What?” Millicent said. “A girl’s gotta eat.” She strode purposefully over to Cynthia Schimmelhorn, who was putting her empty champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “Ms. Schimmelhorn?” she asked, in a voice far more polite than anything Fenway had heard come out of Millicent’s mouth.
Cynthia Schimmelhorn looked up. “Yes?” She looked like a well-preserved fifty, although Fenway wouldn’t have been surprised if she was much older. Her skin was smooth and untouched by signs of aging; her blonde hair brushed the tops of her shoulders—and yes, she was wearing a sleeveless evening gown, with a graceful V-shaped neckline that managed to be both sexy and demure. Fenway felt envious; she hoped she looked that good at whatever age Schimmelhorn was.
“It’s good to meet you,” Millicent continued. “I’m Millicent Tate.”
“Ah,” Schimmelhorn said. “Of course. You’re the magician behind some of the crazy electoral upsets in our great state.”
“That’s me,” Millicent said. “And the architect of Fenway Stevenson’s win, if I know my stuff.”
“And I’m sure you do,” Schimmelhorn said, turning to Fenway. “Miss Stevenson, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Fenway said, feeling underdressed and awkward.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of my little dust-up with your father,” Schimmelhorn said. “I’d apologize for it, as it seems the polite thing to do, but the truth is, I’m not at all sorry. And you, of all people, should know his personal judgment has been, shall we say, subpar the last several months.”
“I think he’s starting to regret pulling the strings to get me appointed coroner, for sure,” Fenway agreed.
Cynthia Schimmelhorn smiled. “I do so enjoy seeing young women stretch themselves beyond the orbits of the men who have taken them under their wing,” she said, chewing on her words as if they were fine chocolates. “Sometimes those wings can be less a shelter than a holding cell.”
Fenway could only gape at her.
“I must say, you’re doing an exemplary job,” Schimmelhorn said, placing her hand on Fenway’s arm and giving it a maternal squeeze. “I always appreciate when the truth wins out over familial loyalty. Blood ties are so often confused for the gospel truth.”
Fenway cleared her throat. “I, uh, I appreciate that, ma’am,” she stuttered.
“Oh, please. Call me Cynthia. There’s too much work we have to do to overcome the poor social and business positions we often find ourselves in to bother with formality.”
“Sure,” Fenway said. “Cynthia.”
“And for what it’s worth,” said Schimmelhorn, “I’m appalled by the ugly business with your opponent’s son.”
Fenway cocked her head to the side. “With his son—how did you—”
“Oh, my dear,” Schimmelhorn said, “those secrets don’t keep as well as you’d like, I’m afraid. You must know by now I’m well-connected. Let’s just say I’m sorry about it. Maintaining one’s composure in a political campaign is difficult enough without having to deal with these, shall we say, extraneous issues.”
Fenway was unable to mask her discomfort, but Millicent broke in and changed the subject.
“I understand your daughter and Fenway both went to Western Washington, Cynthia. Fenway thought it was a great nursing school.”
A shadow fell over Schimmelhorn’s face. “Ah, yes. You’ll have to excuse me, I see—"
Just then, several of the staff began chiming their tiny xylophones, announcing that the dinner was about to begin. Schimmelhorn turned and glided away.
“That was weird,” Millicent said.
“Maybe they’re estranged,” Fenway said. “Like me and my father.”
“Or maybe she was disappointed Nerissa didn’t pick an Ivy League school.”
“Western Washington is rather pedestrian for a rich family.” Fenway laughed. “Anyway, thank you for saving me from having to talk about Terrance Ivanovich.”
“You know I’ve got your back.”
“So,” Fenway said, “we didn’t really have time to brief on this dinner.”
“You’ll just be introduced. No big speeches at this one. It’s more of a rub-elbows thing, and the press shows it off as a who’s-who in Estancia.”
“Cameras?”
“You can see them out here,” said Millicent, “like this is some sort of red-carpet event before the Oscars. But they usually don’t let cameras in there. I’ve been requesting they make an exception for weeks now. Flattery, freedom of information requests, offering to pay to record the university president’s speech—they haven’t even returned my calls. I’m not surprised—most of the candidates don’t want to be filmed in a poorly-lit ballroom with a mouthful of dry chicken. I’ll do what I can, but I think they want the cameras to stay in the foyer.”
They both started to walk toward the double doors to enter the banquet hall. “Did Ivanovich ever make some sort of statement about what happened with his son?” Fenway said in a low voice. “Maybe that’s why Cynthia brought it up.”
Millicent shook her head. “I haven’t heard a peep from Ivanovich, unless you count seeing his ridiculous ad a few times today.”
“Think he’s going to say anything about it tonight?”
“Not if he’s smart,” Millicent said. “I heard a rumor he was going to blame it all on you, saying you somehow framed his son, you’re bringing race into it, blah blah blah. But we had the son’s prison record ready for release, and we even found Dr. Ivanovich’s name on a donation list to the local chapter of White Storm.”
“Ugh.”
“Now—it’s possible he simply thought his kid was having a fundraiser and didn’t know what it was for. But I think he heard we had more ammunition than he could deal with.”
“How come you didn’t hit him with the son’s prison record and the White Storm stuff when you saw his ad?”
“Because,” Millicent said, “the ad we just talked about will be far more effective. It uses his momentum against him. It doesn’t allow him to change the subject, and the point he makes will become a point for you.”
Officer Young in his dashing tuxedo appeared by Fenway’s side. “Sorry,” he said. “The line was long at the bar. They started calling for everyone to sit down before I could get you champagne.”
The lights started to dim and Millicent stepped away. “Okay, now go in there and sit.”
“You’re not sitting with me?”
“You’ll be fine.”
Fenway realized she wouldn’t have a lot of choice where to sit because she waited so long to go in, but she hoped it would work in her favor: she didn’t want to sit anywhere near Dr. Richard Ivanovich or her father, and perhaps the seats at their tables would all be taken. But even in the fading light she could see the larger tables at the front of the banquet room were empty, with name cards on them. Her heart sank.
She approached the tables, and spied her name on one of the cards. A placard simply stating Guest was above the next placesetting.
“That must be me,” Officer Young said. He pulled Fenway’s chair out for her, and she sat. Officer Young took the guest seat to her right.
She looked at the small menu card on the table; dinner was a spinach salad, then pheasant in mushroom and wine sauce, then a chocolate mousse for dessert. Better than the barely edible food she was used to at most of the campaign events.
She looked to her right; her father’s placard was next to Officer Young. She didn’t see him. She looked to her left; the placard read Imelda Ivanovich. Ah, she thought, the missus. She wondered what had happened at home to make the son turn into a white supremacist. She looked behind her, toward the entrance.
She saw Dr. Ivanovich and a thin, raven-haired woman in a cream dress with a gauzy burgundy wrap coming toward the table.
“Not a word about Terrance,” she breathed to Officer Young. “We’re trying to keep the conversation somewhat decent before the election.”
“I saw those commercials he ran today,” Officer Young said. “I don’t call that decent.”
“Still,” Fenway said, “it looks better for me if I keep things decent.”
“I don’t work for your campaign,” Officer Young said. “Maybe I should arrest Ivanovich as an accessory.”
“Please, Todd.” Fenway looked in his eyes, pleading.
He sighed. “I’ll keep my mouth shut,” he said, “but only because I need to stick with you tonight. As soon as I’m off Fenway Protection Duty, I’m going to give that guy both barrels.” He coughed. “Not literally, of course.”
“Thank you,” Fenway mouthed, squeezing his hand gently as the Ivanoviches sat down. Fenway put her hand in her lap. She looked at Imelda Ivanovich and smiled. Imelda shot daggers at Fenway with her eyes.
Maybe she believes her husband’s press, Fenway thought.
Fenway turned back to the front of the room.
A white man with a salt-and-pepper van dyke, in a beige suit inappropriate for autumn, got up to the lectern in front of the hall. He cleared his throat and his thin, reedy voice sliced through the silence of the room.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Dr. Alfred Pruitt, the president of Nidever University, and I’m proud to host our forty-seventh biannual George Nidever Dinner. When this tradition began, the school was in its infancy, and Dominguez County wasn’t the international crossroads it is today.”
Fenway looked closely at Dr. Pruitt, but found no trace of joking or irony in his face.
International crossroads. As if Estancia, whose international airport had two weekly flights to Guadalajara, could reasonably be called an international crossroads.
Although as she looked around the room, there were a lot more people of color in the room than she expected. She wasn’t the only person of color running for office; there was a black candidate for associate judge, and two Filipinos, a man and a woman, running for the state assembly seat and the board of education, respectively.
“Back then, after World War I had ended, California was nowhere near the populous state it is today. This area was full of orchards, and a fur trapper and explorer named George Nidever inspired a group of academics from the east coast to journey west to found this great university.”
Fenway looked around the room and caught Catherine Klein yawning. Mrs. Klein was in a bright red evening gown, more red-carpet formal than Fenway’s dress, but as the potential first lady of the town, Catherine could get away with wearing a cocktail dress, where a candidate couldn’t.
Fenway looked around the room, hoping a camera had been let in by some miracle, and might be aiming right at the yawning Catherine Klein. But no such luck.
Barry Klein was on his wife’s right, with Sheriff McVie on her left, with an empty seat on the sheriff’s other side. He obviously didn’t have a guest to bring, going through the divorce from Amy.
Dr. Pruitt continued to drone on about the storied history of George Nidever, and put a glossy sheen on the story of Nidever and the Lone Woman of San Nicolas Island, and embellished the legend of Nidever staring down a grizzly bear, and bragged of Nidever’s influence on Ralph Waldo Emerson...
Fenway allowed her mind to drift. She wondered if she could surreptitiously sneak her phone out and text Dez. And then start cleaning up some of the voicemails in her inbox. Millicent herself probably was responsible for ninety percent of them.
She quietly pulled the phone out of her purse and texted Dez.
We’re on the wrong track with the Kapp murder
While she waited for Dez to respond, she brought up her voicemail. She dug around in her purse until she found one of her wireless earbuds. She put it in her ear—one would do—and heard the tone as the phone connected. She put the phone underneath the tabletop and angled it so only she could see it. She looked around; everyone seemed to be pretending to pay attention, and if she could focus mostly on Dr. Pruitt and only occasionally look down at the screen, she could get away with cleaning up her voicemails during his coma-inducing introduction.
Sure enough, the first five voicemails were from Millicent Tate on Friday night, each one asking where she was, why she wasn’t checking in, and asking for a phone call as soon as possible. The number of swear words in each message seemed to increase logarithmically.
The next voicemail was from her father, hurried and frantic, not the calm demeanor he usually possessed. Fenway looked at the screen; he must have left it right after Charlotte had been led away in handcuffs.
Another four voicemails from Millicent Tate from Saturday, and then another two this morning. A reminder about the eleven o’clock therapist appointment with dear old Dad. Then another with the screaming and swearing, again with the not knowing where Fenway was, missing the senior center event.
A text came in. Fenway glanced down, hoping Dez had responded. But it was from Millicent.
Put your phone away or so help me I will come over there and shove it up your ass in front of all these people
Fenway clicked her phone off, pulled the earbud out of her ear, and as stealthily as she could, put them back in her purse. She looked to her right: the Channel 12 camera was coming back up the side of the room toward her table.
As maddening as Millicent could be sometimes, she was often right.
Just as she put her purse down on the floor again, she caught her father out of the corner of her eye. He was clumsily moving between the seats, bumping the backs of chairs in his effort to get past the people and up to the front of the room.
Fenway turned around so he could see her better, but his focus was down on the ground, looking where he was stepping, trying to avoid toes and the bottoms of long dresses.
She had never seen him so disheveled; he wore a rumpled black suit with a dark tie, although Fenway couldn’t tell in the low light if the tie was navy or black. He owned a tuxedo; in fact, Fenway thought he might have owned more than one. Why wasn’t he in a tux?
His hair was jutting up in the back, as if he didn’t put any of his normal styling mousse into it, and his shoes were scuffed around the sides.
His face, though, worried Fenway.
Though Nathaniel Ferris was nearly sixty, he often had the confidence and bravado of a much younger man. But the lines on his face and the weariness in his eyes told Fenway there was something wrong.
Of course there was; Charlotte was in jail.
Fenway wouldn’t have believed it—Nathaniel Ferris loved Charlotte, the twenty-five-year-old girl he had married a decade earlier, so much that he would go to pieces in front of Fenway’s eyes when Charlotte wasn’t around.
Charlotte had always seemed vapid, vacant, unfeeling; obviously Fenway hadn’t seen the things in Charlotte her father had.
Ferris finally got to the table and sat down heavily next to Officer Young. He leaned over and caught Fenway’s eye.
“Sorry I’m late,” he mouthed.
Fenway nodded and shrugged, hoping her father would understand the shrug meant no worries, you didn’t miss much. She looked to the back of the room and saw Millicent sneak out into the foyer.
Then she was surprised by sudden applause. She looked up; the two candidates for assembly stood up and waved, a spotlight focused on them. Fenway adjusted the skirt of her dress and pushed the chair back a bit so she could easily get up when the two coroner candidates were asked to stand.
A few offices were introduced before the coroner candidates, but when Dr. Pruitt finished talking about how Dominguez County separated their coroner and sheriff positions over a decade previous—nothing Fenway hadn’t heard or even explained herself a dozen times in the last six months—he finally said, “And for county coroner, two candidates: Dr. Richard Ivanovich and Acting Coroner Fenway Stevenson!”
Applause broke out around the room. Fenway thought it sounded much more enthusiastic than for the other offices, and she looked around. A lot of people seemed to be casting admiring looks her way.
Dr. Richard Ivanovich stood up, and Imelda, right next to him, stood a split second afterward. Fenway caught McVie’s eye across the table and he gave her a warm smile. She pushed her chair back slightly and stood, looking around at everyone in the room with her warmest, friendliest smile, feeling fake, the spotlight blinding her.
Then the spotlight moved off them, and Imelda Ivanovich was staring at her, a sneer on her face.
She spit at Fenway, and it landed on her left cheek.
Fenway heard a few gasps.
Then an arm shunted her out of the way. She was pushed back against the chair and almost lost her balance, but she caught herself on the table just in time.
Officer Young stepped in front of her—he must have pushed her to the side. He had a pair of handcuffs out, and Imelda Ivanovich’s sneer changed to a look of terror. Dr. Ivanovich turned his head to see his wife taken to the floor by Officer Young and rolled on her stomach.
Richard Ivanovich raised a fist to hit Officer Young,
“Stop!” Fenway shouted, and grabbed his arm.
“Get off me, bitch,” he snarled.
McVie jumped into the middle of it and pulled Ivanovich away from Fenway and Officer Young. “Richard! You don’t want to do that!”
And Imelda was screaming a stream of racial slurs.
“Imelda Ivanovich,” Officer Young said, trying to catch his breath, “you’re under arrest for assault and battery of a peace officer under California Penal Code 240.”
Fenway looked up. Most of the other attendees had looks of shock on their faces.
And she saw Millicent Tate, in the back the room near the double doors, next to a man holding the Channel 12 camera, aimed directly onto the action, the red light brightly lit. Fenway reached up to discreetly wipe the spit off, then realized being discreet would waste an opportunity. She turned to face the camera, picked up a napkin off the table, and dabbed her face. McVie had pushed his way through and was standing next to her.
“Are you okay?” said McVie.
“I’m fine. It’s just spit,” Fenway said, a little louder than she normally would have if the camera hadn’t been on her. “It’s not like she threw a brick through my window.”
“My son’s a good boy,” Imelda Ivanovich yelled from her prone position on the floor, hands cuffed behind her. “You broke his hand! And for what? You’re ruining his life!”
The camera had picked up that, for sure.
Fenway wondered how this was going to play out. Had enough people in the room seen Imelda Ivanovich spit on Fenway? Had the Channel 12 camera entered the room in time to capture it? Would the events unfold in the media showing Fenway in a positive light, a victim standing strong in the face of adversity, or as a bully, using the politics of color to intimidate her opponents into submission?
From her position next to the cameraman, Millicent Tate grinned widely and gave Fenway a thumbs-up.
“I guess that answers that,” Fenway muttered.
