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Sean’s cellmate, Big Mike, was in the exercise yard. Sean took the opportunity to stand and stretch his arms over his head and then out to the sides, almost able to touch both walls of the seven-by-fifteen-foot cell.
At first glance, it might have been a dorm room. On one side built-in bunks, above which a narrow window spanned the length of the wall with a vista-like view of downtown Sacramento. The tiny space also housed a steel toilet, matching sink, and two shelves. The clue that it wasn’t typical housing was the single heavy metal door to the hallway and the world beyond, locked from the outside.
Pre-arrest, Sean Verston had shared the image of prison life that most of the public had from TV and movies. Inmates hanging out in “the yard,” lifting weights daily, eating together at long metal tables, trading favors for cigarettes. A social life, albeit a tilted one. Once inside, Sean discovered a different reality. Like so many California jails and prisons, Sacramento County Jail was severely overcrowded. Too many men meant less rather than more time in group settings. Food was delivered to their cells and outside privileges were rotated, each man getting at most a few hours three days a week. So Sean did push-ups and sit-ups and ran in place in the cell when he could. If Big Mike was around (which was nearly always) they took turns, one of them on a bunk, feet off the floor, while the other exercised.
Not that Big Mike took up a lot of space. He was five foot three, compact, with shoulder-length hair and a wispy mustache. Since they lived together, clothed and unclothed, Sean knew exactly where Big Mike was “big,” and that it was clearly a source of pride to Mike.
Still, it hadn’t kept Big Mike out of jail. Sean thought his cellmate might have been better off focusing on something else and coming up with a new nickname. But then Sean realized, who was he to talk? Mike was awaiting trial for robbing a convenience store while brandishing a toy gun. He planned to plead guilty, and his lawyer told him he would be out in three to five years, while Sean was in for Murder One and faced life inside.
“Maybe a few more inches below the belt and a cooler nickname, and I’d only be in for robbery,” Sean quipped aloud, needing to hear the sound of his own voice. But the lack of response tapped a feeling he hadn’t had in years, not since he was a freshman in college, when he’d lost interest in everything.
He tried to remember what he’d done to keep from sinking under the weight of too much coursework, his mom getting sick, and Janie, his girlfriend, leaving him.
Of course, there was the overdose on alcohol and pills—the only way he could figure to stop the pain. Sean had been hospitalized as soon as his roommates discovered him.
But after his discharge, antidepressants had helped while he worked things through. He still went on and off the meds, and fortunately they seemed to work quickly. Or maybe there was a placebo effect. Either way, they offered a safety net. Mostly, Sean had learned that if he kept his feelings to himself, exercised strenuously, and accomplished things he believed were meaningful in his life, he was okay.
He paced the small length of the cell as he considered how he might implement those “sanity strategies” while he was locked down. The odds of getting mood stabilizers inside were slim to none. He’d seen firsthand in the senator’s office that money for mental health services for prisoners during an era of state budget cuts didn’t make the top of any policymaker’s funding list. Sean wasn’t sure he wanted the pills anyway. They made him foggy and he needed a clear head for whatever questions might come his way.
Exercise was still good—he was finding a way. As far as not sharing his feelings went, that was easy. No one asked, though he’d had a few visitors in the little over a week that he’d been inside—one of his roommates and two legislative staff.
Sean suspected they thought he killed Tamara in a fit of jealousy and rage. He appreciated that they came anyway, awkward in their unstated forgiveness. He’d asked them to bring him books they’d read and liked on their next visits. That would give them something to talk about besides real-life Sacramento stuff. Sean didn’t want to know which bills had passed committee since in jail he couldn’t help to pass a law that saved lives. He couldn’t balance the scales.
But no matter who he saw or what he tried, Sean was unable to block out the memory of holding Tamara one last time as he lifted her onto the couch.
Even when he was able to shut down the desperate images and feelings, he found himself lost in the emptiness that was left.
Sean felt around his waist for a belt, intent on gauging whether he could form a makeshift noose. He looked around to see how he might anchor it. Not for now. Just in case.
But, of course, the guards had taken his belt.
He swallowed hard and did twenty more push-ups.
* * *
THE VALET IN FRONT of the Santa Fe Bar & Grill traded places with Maren, hopping into her vintage black Beetle convertible in exchange for a small white ticket.
She felt out of her element.
Maren generally avoided Old Sacramento. It was typically overrun with tourists and reminded her of Main Street in Disneyland, though without the photo-ops with Mickey and Goofy.
Not that there weren’t nice things about it.
The views along the riverfront were beautiful. The original cobblestone streets and restored covered wooden sidewalks offered a glimpse of Sacramento in the mid-1800s, when finding gold had trumped politics as the city’s obsession. Interesting art and clothing shops were mixed in with the purveyors of cheap souvenirs. A small, tasteful sign and a menu in a glass case distinguished the Santa Fe from the many casual restaurants on the block. Specializing in pizzas grilled in oversized clay ovens and featuring limited-press wines, it was distinctive and pricey.
Maren realized that by suggesting they meet there she was unconsciously testing Garrick’s resolve, wallet first.
She saw him as soon as she got inside.
Not a conventionally handsome man, Garrick Chauncey had coarse brown hair fuller on top than on the sides. With round hazel eyes and a large nose, he was rescued from homeliness by his critical intelligence, humor, and attentiveness to those around him. That and the fact that he worked out daily while watching global investment markets on the big-screen TV in his home gym. He was in better shape than men half his age and had the money to buy quality, understated clothes to show it off. Today he wore tailored gray slacks and an immaculately fitted sage-green dress shirt.
When he saw her, Garrick gave Maren a look so loving that she had to remind herself, “Adulterer, cheapskate. Adulterer, cheapskate.” Unfortunately, her mantra was having trouble getting traction in light of the memories that being close to him evoked. Long passionate nights in bed, warm cuddly mornings in bed, and sweet stolen afternoons in bed. (She acknowledged the memories were limited in scope, but still . . . )
He kissed her lightly on the cheek and stepped back.
“Maren, you look lovely.”
She had trouble finding her voice to respond. Problems with basic speech with Senator Alec Joben and now Garrick Chauncey. She wondered if she was going to have to learn sign language now that she had resumed dating. She was rescued by a young blonde hostess in a buckskin minidress, bangled jewelry, and platform moccasins—Santa Fe hip, translated for the upscale end of the tourist trade in Old Sacramento.
Seated by an indoor cactus garden and waterfall away from the crowded riverfront tables, Maren and Garrick had some measure of privacy in the busy restaurant. She was regaining her composure and could not for the life of her understand why she had been fool enough to show up.
“I’m sorry about Simone Booth. But what you did, rescuing those children . . .” He looked at her intently. “It was extraordinary. Wait, I take that back—not for you. It’s what I would expect.”
Maren studied his eyes. Deep brown under heavy brows. “It seems a long time ago,” she said.
“Then finding that young woman murdered. Followed by Sean Verston’s arrest.” He shifted the small vase centerpiece to one side and placed his hand over hers on the table. “How are you doing?”
Sean’s internship and residency in Maren’s studio had taken place before she and Garrick had become involved. But Garrick had been there for the frequent calls between Maren and Sean after Sean had moved out. She eased her hand out from under Garrick’s, reached for her water, and took a sip, afterward placing both hands safely in her lap.
“I know it looks bad,” she said. “But Sean would have had every reason to be in the capitol building at that time, and once he found Tamara . . . found her dying . . . it makes sense to me that he was frightened, that he closed up and didn’t share that with anyone. He’s young, and I’m learning he’s a very private person, despite his glib exterior.” She leaned forward to make her point. “And with Tamara working for the governor, the motive for the murder has to be political.” As Maren gestured for emphasis, she hit the full water glass to her right, knocking it off the table. It shattered noisily on the Mexican tile floor. Patrons on either side stole a glance at her before going back to their meals. It was the kind of place where people knew it was rude to stare at someone else’s clumsiness.
A smiling busboy appeared within seconds with a rag, which proved insufficient. He returned with a mop. When the mess had been cleared and replacement water served, Maren found she’d lost the energy to discuss Sean, at least with Garrick. It felt suddenly futile. She leaned back in her seat.
Garrick seemed to get the message, moving to safer ground. “How are things at Ecobabe? Still fighting the good fight?”
Maren was relieved to talk about work. She could do that on autopilot. “Ecobabe is sponsoring a driver’s cell phone ban to expand on the hands-free restriction of last year. We’re also supporting a bill to ban the chemical BPA from use in the manufacture of pacifiers.”
“Who are the authors?” Garrick knew from his time with Maren that which legislator carried a bill could determine whether a lobbyist’s life was heaven or hell.
“Senator Rorie Rickman, a pediatrician from Bakersfield, has the cell phone bill. She’s good, although hypervigilant about detail. She reacts to any small error as though someone could die as a result, like being off by a decimal place on the dose on a prescription she’s written. You know the old saying, what’s the difference between God and a doctor? God doesn’t think he’s a doctor.”
Garrick smiled, his eyes focused only on her, his forearm resting on the table. His hand was close enough to hers to touch it again, but this time he didn’t. Still, against her better judgment she was reexperiencing how Garrick’s voice could make her feel. An octave lower than anyone else’s, she noted, able to make a simple rounded vowel into foreplay.
She sipped her new water to buy time, then set her glass down carefully. “Alec Joben has the BPA bill. Good guy,” she added, before remembering Garrick would know from the media that Alec was with her at the site of Simone Booth’s accident. And if Garrick’s jealous streak surfaced—it was never far away—he would expect that her work now with Alec Joben was a sign of something more, despite Maren’s intense loyalty to Garrick when they had been in a relationship. Adulterers project their sins upon the innocent, she had concluded at the time. But Garrick let her mention of Alec Joben go without comment. A good thing too, she thought, because this time he would be right about something more than work happening there. Or at least there was potential for a spark, even if she had lost the technique (assuming she had ever had it) to fan it into flames.
Maren was surprised when their meals came, since they hadn’t yet ordered. “I called ahead,” Garrick explained. “They can get jammed in here at noon, and I knew you had to get back to work.” There was an organic green salad with goat cheese for each of them and one of the Santa Fe’s famous flat crust pizzas to share, this one with blended cheeses, artichokes, and pineapple. Garrick had indulged Maren by ordering the pineapple topping, which he didn’t prefer, knowing it was the way she liked her pizza. Despite herself, she found the gesture touching. It had been too long since she had shared a meal with someone who really knew what she liked. Then she noticed Garrick hadn’t ordered wine. While he didn’t let alcohol interfere with his work, he never passed up a chance to have a drink (or two or three) to accompany a meal or social hour.
He saw her looking at the tableau and guessed her thoughts. “Would you like a glass of wine? Just because I’m passing doesn’t mean you need to.”
“Busy afternoon?” she asked.
Not that it stopped you in the past.
“I gave up drinking. Taking Gray Goose vodka and wines off my shopping list saves me hundreds of dollars a month.”
Maren set down her fork and appraised him more carefully. Garrick without high-priced alcohol was like the Hollywood Hills without the Hollywood sign, an iconic representation of his success. But Garrick’s reference to dollars saved, no matter how many millions he had, was grounding for her. He has a genuine Renoir in his living room and he’s still counting pennies? That was the Garrick she knew.
“If I could get an iced herbal tea—” Maren began.
Garrick gestured to the waitress, who quickly returned with the tea.
“How are things at Sacramento State?” Maren asked.
“Classes hum along, my students are generally dedicated and bright.” Garrick was not one to begrudge others their talents and successes. “My real challenge has come from a business deal. Getting the investors to agree on terms.” Garrick spoke about interest rates and stock prices. Maren asked a few questions. They fell into an old, familiar routine, Maren, the lifelong student, and Garrick, the experienced teacher.
When their plates were nearly empty, the buckskin waitress came by to check on them. Garrick gave her his platinum credit card, but made no move to go. Maren breathed in deeply, steeling herself for the purpose of their lunch together.
“Maren, I appreciate your seeing me . . .”
Here it comes.
“I know things ended on a bad note . . .”
A bad note? You call a fax from your paramour while living with me and the fact that I had to drain my bank account to keep up with our “shared” expenses a bad note? How about a bad symphony? Maren was getting ready to let Garrick have it when he interrupted her windup before the pitch.
“I miss you, Maren. I love you. I have changed. And I will change in any way that you want if you will come back to me.”
Whoa!
In Maren’s experience, Garrick was a liar when it came to affairs and cheap when it came to anything he wasn’t wearing or imbibing. But he’d never done anything but defend who he was and what he did. The word “change” was simply not in his lexicon, not applied to himself.
“Before you say anything,” he said, assessing the look of shock on her face, “we’re both strategists—you in the world of politics, me in the world of finance. We envision a goal and plan steps to get there. My goal is to be with you. I suggest a phase-in approach. We agree to three months of friendship—lunches, socializing, talking, nothing more. If that works for both of us, we then engage in three months of dating and whatever intimacy that brings.”
Maren felt herself redden, as intimacy with Garrick was an enticement and he knew it.
“If that goes well, we live together for six months, at the end of which we get married.”
Maren could feel herself making a round cartoon O shape with her mouth, but she couldn’t help it. This was beyond belief.
MARRIAGE?
Garrick had once said there was a reason women wear white at weddings and men wear black—the bride believes she is ascending to heaven, while the man knows it’s his funeral.
Maren did the only thing she could do. She got up from the table and began walking, increasing her pace through the foyer and out the restaurant’s front door.