Box Office Poison le-2 Page 17

  So the issue wasn’t understanding Phase Change. The issue was whether Kate Billingham’s embrace of this faith had influenced her husband. Merlin was a whiz. I was always links and pages behind him as we tore through everything we could find about Billingham, Montolbano, and Phase Change.

  This temple to the Álfar gods resided in an old mansion just off Hollywood Boulevard. Kate Billingham, Jeff’s wife, was on the board of directors and had helped purchase the building. She wasn’t just a casual convert. She was deeply involved. Which would have made LeBlanc’s objection credible if the articles about Kate’s conversion hadn’t gone back seven years. The whole idea that this had just come to their attention was crap, and LeBlanc knew it.

  I made them wait. Because I was really annoyed. Actually pissed was closer to how I felt, but pissed didn’t sound very professional. I knew how I was going to rule, and I had a feeling I was going to be hearing about it on Entertainment Tonight or reading about it on a blog somewhere.

  * * *

  I walked back into the conference room and surveyed the terrain. Everyone was keeping to their individual tribes. It wasn’t surprising that the human and Álfar actors weren’t mingling, but even the agents and the studios and networks who should have had common cause were keeping to themselves. It disturbed me because for the first time I was getting an inkling of how most humans viewed the Powers. I had an admittedly skewed view. My father had business interests with them. I had been fostered by them. I worked for them.

  Most humans never really interacted with them. They just knew the Powers were richer and far more powerful than themselves. Of course this was nothing new. Before they’d gone public the Powers had still wielded enormous power, both financial and political, but from behind the scenes. They had pulled the strings. The difference now was that humans could see the strings being pulled. Groups like Human First were manipulating people, convincing them that they were being denied rights, wealth, power. Right now they were just going after the Álfar, but how long before they broadened the attack to the entire triad of inhuman powers? And a steady diet of resentment and hatred could only have one result—violence.

  I feared this case was the first salvo.

  But the broader societal implications weren’t my problem right now. This arbitration was my problem. I walked back up to the head of the conference room table. There was a rattling of china as coffee cups and plates were set aside, the chattering as chair wheels rolled across bamboo flooring, the whisper of shuffled paper, a few coughs, then silence. Everyone was now seated and regarding me. I met LeBlanc’s lizard stare and wondered if she would have raised this if David had been present? I decided she wouldn’t have, and the fact that she obviously viewed me with disdain got me mad all over again and stiffened my spine.

  Gabaldon got to her feet. “Ms. Ellery, if I might have the opportunity to rebut Ms. LeBlanc’s assertions.”

  For an instant I considered allowing her to take point. It lowered my visibility, defused any accusation of bias, but I could read the other woman’s expression. She wasn’t as overtly dismissive as LeBlanc, but it was there. Some of it was age. I was a baby lawyer, not even a year out of law school, but some of it was also because women still have a tendency to give greater credence to men. I suspected that if David had been present Gabaldon wouldn’t have been so quick to rise to her feet. I understood the impulse, I did it too, but I wasn’t going to let it stand. And it was time I tested myself. Maybe past time.

  “Thank you, Ms. Gabaldon, but I will address this myself.” I shifted to look at LeBlanc. “Ms. LeBlanc. I’ve researched your claim.” I picked up the three-inch-thick stack of papers I’d carried in with me and dropped them with a dull thwack back onto the table. “And I find it unpersuasive. In the words of the late Senator Moynihan, you are entitled to your own opinion but you are not entitled to your own facts. There was nothing covert about Ms. Billingham’s involvement in Phase Change. It’s been widely known for years. Which then begs the question, why did you bring it up now? Unless you think your client’s position and assertions are unsupported and unpersuasive, and you’re grasping at straws. The statistics you provided indicate support for your position. Why undermine that with a, frankly, personal attack against Mr. Montolbano? Your objection is overruled.”

  I leaned back in my chair and realized I hadn’t taken a breath the entire time I’d been talking. I sucked in a lungful of air and felt the pain in my chest and the fluttering in my stomach recede. I snuck a glance at my watch: 2:20 p.m.

  “Ms. LeBlanc, do you intend to present evidence in the time remaining to us?”

  “I had a casting director lined up, but when you called the recess she had to get back to work.”

  “Can you get her back?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Will you have her first thing tomorrow morning?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Fine, then, we are recessed until tomorrow morning at nine a.m.” I stood.

  “Will Mr. Sullivan be back tomorrow?” Brubaker asked.

  “I have no idea. You may just have to deal with me.” I was startled when he ducked his head and looked down.

  I gathered up my papers and headed for the door. Jeff touched me on the elbow before I could exit.

  “Thank you,” he said and then his expression darkened. “They can go after me all they want, but when they start in on my wife…”

  I touched his arm gently. “I know. You don’t have to say anything more.”

  I headed back to my office cave reflecting on love. Conclusion: it was a good thing, and I wished I had somebody as protective of me as Jeff was of his Kate.

  Qwendar was at the water cooler filling a paper cup. He gave me his wintery smile. “You are a most interesting young lady.”

  “Interesting in the Chinese proverb sense?” I asked, a bit suspicious.

  He chuckled, a sound like a breeze whispering through fallen leaves. “No, interesting as in intelligent, passionate, determined. In short, you were rather impressive.”

  “Tiny but mighty, that’s me … okay, maybe not so much.”

  “You should not doubt yourself.”

  I slumped. “Thanks, but I was really nervous.”

  “It didn’t show.”

  “If it didn’t I can thank Mr. Bainbridge and my father. I channeled them.”

  “Well, it worked.” He paused for a sip. “Though it is a bit disconcerting to have humans trying to worship in our manner when they cannot possibly understand our faith.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You cannot walk the worlds, so you can’t see the face of…” He paused. “Well, let’s call it God since you really don’t have a word for it.” He correctly interpreted my expression. “You don’t agree.”

  “I think there’s a constant tension between inclusion and superiority in religions. The “chosen people” strain versus the “do unto others” Golden Rule thread.”

  “That can be said for people as well,” Qwendar said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “That it’s in the nature of all creatures to think that their particular kind is superior to all others.”

  “And that’s part of why we have law—to try to counter those tribal instincts.”

  “You place law above religion,” Qwendar said.

  I considered that for a moment. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because law adjudicates outcomes based on facts, evidence. While faith is important, it shouldn’t have a place in law.”

  “But sometimes your facts are flawed,” Qwendar argued.

  “Yes, and we have in place a system to try and counter that. It’s not perfect and mistakes are made, but it’s there. There’s no recourse with faith.”

  “So, you’re saying you cannot question faith?”

  “Oh, you can question it. What you can’t do is examine it. It’s not subject to analysis or investigation.”

  “But at the end of the day don’
t you have … er … faith,” his lips quirked in that thin smile. “That justice will be done?”

  I threw up a hand. “Okay, touché. Remind me never to debate you in public.”

  He surprised me by taking my hand and brushing his lips across the back of it. “I think you would be a worthy opponent.”

  15

  Given Maslin’s less than diplomatic approach to interviews I thought it was better that I visited the Human First headquarters on my own. That afternoon when I presented my reasoning, he disputed my conclusion—vociferously.

  “They will want to talk to me. I promise you. They will want ink … well, phosphers, since magazines are pretty much all online now, on this.”

  We were having the dispute in the center of reception. Not my choice of venue. Interested faces were peeping over the office dividers.

  I planted my hands on my hips. “A two-second Google search and they’re going to know you’re not going to be sympathetic.”

  “And that’s fine. I’ll make it clear that I’m giving them the chance to present themselves rather than letting their opponents define them.” He flashed a grin at me. “That almost always works.”

  “They can’t be that stupid. You’re going to do a hatchet job on them.”

  “And Cartwright won’t care. She’s savvy about playing the political game. Having the lame-stream media”—he rolled his eyes—“take out after the group will put them in hog heaven. It’ll fire up their supporters. And she knows there is no such thing as bad press. Most people are too busy living their lives to pay attention to this kind of thing. The more press the more likely it is that people will look up and notice. She’ll want to talk to me,” he repeated.

  I threw my hands up and surrendered. “I’ll drive,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m not dressed for the jeep today.”

  Turned out that Human First didn’t have an actual headquarters. They shared space with Cartwright’s lobbying group, Liberty Front, and were located in a strip mall in Van Nuys. I could tell from the curl of Maslin’s lip that Van Nuys was not up to his standards. I asked him about his reaction, and he answered cryptically, “It’s the Valley.”

  I figured I’d follow up on that later. Right now I wanted to stay focused. We got out of the car and I studied the storefront. There were a lot of American flags in evidence, both the real variety and on posters. The latter tended to be eagles superimposed over American flags depicted in way too saturated colors. Another poster divided into three sections showing the Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima, firefighters at Ground Zero raising a flag, and American astronauts on the moon with the flag. Then there were scary posters showing Álfar men lurking near angelic-looking human children and young, Madonna-like human women. Just inside the door there was another poster showing a demur young woman in a wedding gown standing at the altar with a giant lizard dressed in a tuxedo.

  “Wow, that’s subtle,” Maslin said loudly.

  The people seated behind desks and phone banks looked at us. They didn’t look friendly. I noticed they were all mostly white, mostly female, and mostly older. There were a few exceptions. There was a skinny old duffer whose bow tie just accentuated his neck’s resemblance to a turkey’s. There was a plump young woman with five little towheaded girls playing on the floor around her desk. Then I realized the plumpness was due to pregnancy. The room was filled with the sounds of ringing phones, hushed conversations, and the patter and click of keyboards. It had all the earmarks of a campaign headquarters.

  I approached the desk that looked sort of receptiony. The woman eyed me. “I’d like to see Ms. Cartwright,” I said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Linnet Ellery and Maslin Ambinder.”

  There was a flicker deep in her eyes at my name. No reaction to Maslin’s. “I’ll see if she’s available.” She picked up the phone, then indicated with a jerk of her chin a leather sofa against the wall near the front door. “If you’ll wait over there.”

  Maslin and I moved away. The receptionist kept a hand cupped over the mouthpiece on the phone and kept shooting glances at us as she whispered into the phone. She nodded, hung up, and came over to us. “Ms. Cartwright is finishing up a conference call. She can be with you in fifteen minutes if you want to wait.”

  “We’ll wait,” Maslin said, and he leaned back, folded his arms across his chest and grinned up at her.

  There were printed materials on a small table next to the sofa. The bold heading read “Voter Information Guide.” Beneath it were listed all the reasons why a person should support Proposition 9.

  1. Contact between different species has always been banned by biblical law. Such prohibitions are even found in secular law.

  “Yeah, you got to force those commie, pinko, socialist lawmakers to ban bestiality,” Maslin murmured as he read along with me.

  The Álfar have been proved by modern science to be a different species from humans.

  “Funny how science can’t be trusted when it’s talking about climate change or evolution, but it’s cool when it can be used to support bigotry,” Maslin added. Maslin’s constant kibitzing had me struggling not to giggle.

  2. The rise of a relativistic attitude toward cultural and moral norms will lead to public schools teaching our children that a mixing of species is okay.

  “Yeah, it’s up to parents to decide whether Johnny can diddle the Labrador.”

  “Stop it!” I gasped nearly choking on a hastily swallowed laugh. We returned to reading.

  3. The purpose of marriage is procreation and responsible child rearing. Unions between Álfar and humans are always sterile, thus undermining the purpose of marriage in a civil society.

  “Wow, my grandfather, ninety-three, is romancing a woman, eighty-six, in his nursing home. Guess we better tell him to stop.

  But I wasn’t laughing any longer. I hadn’t realized that Álfar and humans couldn’t reproduce. Now my father’s remark about how he wanted grandchildren came into focus. I wanted children. Or at least one. If John and I— I cut off the thought. We were hardly at that point. We might never reach that point. Especially since John was a prisoner in Fey.

  4. All currently existing marriages between Álfar and humans must be annulled.

  The receptionist called over that Mrs. Cartwright would see us now. Maslin plucked the page out of my hand and carried it as we wended our way through the desks accompanied by the trilling of phones. And now that we were among them I could hear more than a murmur; I could hear actual words. The volunteers were busy sending the arguments listed on the voter guide into receivers and presumably from there into the credulous ears of California voters.

  Belinda Cartwright was waiting in the door of her office. She was a pretty, perky brunette, taller than me with a very curvaceous figure. She was dressed in a red suit set with gold buttons on the coat, a skirt at a demur mid-knee length, and red, open-toed, high-heeled shoes. A pen thrust into her chignon, and a pair of designer glasses gave her the look of a naughty librarian. She smiled at both of us and offered her hand.

  “Miss Ellery, Mr. Ambinder. Pleased to meet you. Mr. Ambinder, I enjoyed your series of articles on female circumcision in sub-Saharan Africa. Very enlightening and offered a stark comparison of religious ideas.”

  Maslin shot me an I-told-you-so look, then turned back to Cartwright and said, “It wasn’t intended as a moral comparison. I was looking at the medical effects of the procedure on women.”

  “Of course you were maintaining your journalistic integrity, but I could see what lay beneath the words,” she said.

  “Wow, that’s quite an extraordinary power you have,” Maslin said.

  The smile didn’t slip. “Mock me if you want, but I really have an ability to know what’s in a person’s heart.”

  I wasn’t sure what happened, but suddenly I found myself channeling Maslin. “Ms. Cartwright, please. I’ve done my research. You’re a graduate o
f Cornell, you worked for Congressman Rankin from Mississippi as his chief of staff, you worked for the Senate Finance Committee, you’ve written articles for the Cato Institute, and you were a lobbyist before you founded Liberty Front. Remember who you’re talking to.”

  She gave me a look that revealed the woman behind the mask. What I saw was smart, sharp, and calculating. “That’s fair, and allow me to remind you that I also do my research. Linnet Ellery—graduate of Yale Law School, summa cum laude. Did Law Review. Clerked for a Supreme Court justice one summer. Joined Ishmael, McGillary and Gold last year and won a major case regarding the ownership of a multimillion-dollar company.”

  There was a moment of silence, then I said, “I guess we’re even.”

  She gave me a predator’s smile. “Do come in,” and she waved us into her office.

  There was the usual assortment of framed photos on the walls. Cartwright with various presidents and religious leaders. There was a gavel on the desk with a brass plaque from a former congressman who gave out “civic awards” to people in exchange for a five-thousand-dollar “donation.” The furniture was nice and tastefully arranged. She waved us to a sofa and took a seat in an armchair across a coffee table from us.

  “So how much of this manure do you actually believe?” Maslin asked and tossed the voter guide onto the coffee table between us. “Or are you just using the energy of the angry and ignorant to push your agenda?”

  There wasn’t the reaction I expected. Cartwright kept her cool and just studied Maslin as if he were an interesting new specimen of bacteria. She then swept up the voter guide, crumpled it, and tossed it aside.

  “Yes, it’s simplistic, and you would probably call it blatant fear mongering, but I’m working this issue because I am actually very concerned. We have inhuman creatures—for God’s sake, some of them are dead—taking greater and greater control of our institutions and industries. The position of humans in this brave new world is in question. I’m damned worried, and you should be too.”