Go-Between (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

“I can't believe I
let you talk me into this,” Troy said in a low voice.

Caitlin actually cackled. “You know you love it.”

He snuck a grin. “Yeah, maybe I
like
seeing heads explode.”

“Well, here comes your first chance. Our host is on his way over.”

Garth Johannsen was heading in their direction. Michelle checked her phone: 7:40. Time for Caitlin to give her remarks. Her pulse quickened.

It'll be okay, she told herself. Caitlin's a pro. She'll handle this, and it won't be a disaster.

“Michelle, nice to see you again,” Troy said.

She smiled back. “Likewise.”

He didn't actually seem happy to see her. But then, she sure wasn't glad to see him.

“Hello,” Johannsen said, extending his hand in Troy's direction. “Garth Johannsen.”

Troy took it.

“Troy Stone.”

It was always interesting to watch the male handshake ritual, Michelle thought. Garth would want to show his dominance, but there was no way he'd be able to crush Troy's broad hand.

A vigorous, quick shake.

“Troy's a friend of mine from Los Angeles,” Caitlin said. “He heads up an organization called PCA, Positive Community Action. Maybe you've heard of it?”

She was enjoying this, Michelle could tell.

Johannsen's brow crinkled. “Sounds familiar.” He knew, or had an idea, Michelle thought. He just couldn't make the knowledge make sense.

“Your group's working on Prop. 275?” he asked.

The sentencing reduction proposal.

Troy stretched out a smile. “Yes, yes we are.”

“Oh. Well.” Garth looked to Caitlin, the question showing as clearly on his face as if he'd asked it.

“We've been having some discussions about approaches to crime reduction and community safety,” Caitlin said.

“Have you, now?”

“Do you think I should do a little talk now? Have folks had enough chance to settle in?”

“I think so.” He didn't sound all that certain.

A waitress had appeared at Michelle's elbow. “Something to drink?”

“Yes. Please. A glass of red.”

“Well, I'm just delighted
to be here.”

Caitlin stood with her back to the wall of windows, illuminated by a soft pool of light cast by the overhead spots.

“I'm a little worried, though, about some of the things I want to talk about tonight, because I don't think they're what y'all are expecting to hear. I apologize for that.”

She did that trick of hers, the one where she looked around the room, making brief eye contact with people in the audience, making you believe she'd connected with you, if just for that instant.

“But lately I've been doing a lot of thinking about our mutual goals—about creating a safer America—and asking myself, what does that actually mean? Does it mean making sure that more and more people go to jail? Is that really making us safer?”

She paused. Surveyed the room again.

“Now, we all know there's dangerous folks who belong in prison, who do violent things and hurt other people. But I'm gonna admit to y'all here, I'm not so sure putting people in a cell for selling weed or shoplifting a couple pieces of pizza is getting us where we want to go. Which is to safer, stronger communities that are better for us and better for our kids.”

She spread out our hands. “So
. . .
I'm open to suggestions. I'm talking to a lot of different people”—she gestured in Troy's direction—“like Troy Stone here, from Positive Community Action, about the kinds of things we can do together to truly build a safer America. And what I'd like to do now is get some of
your
ideas on that.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Finally, a man at the back of the room raised his hand.

“So
. . .
are you
not
supporting No on 275 and 391?”

“To be honest with you? I'm not sure any more.”

An audible buzz started up in the audience.

Oh shit, Michelle thought. This was bad.

“Our prisons had nearly
twice the number of inmates they were designed to hold. The overcrowding was so bad we're operating under federal court orders to fix it. We're sending prisoners out of state, we're releasing inmates to local jails, we're double-celling in administrative segregation, and you want to starve the system even more?”

This was the representative from the prison guard's union, standing toe-to-toe with Troy.

“You've just stated the case for changing sentencing guidelines better than I could,” Troy said.

“What about community safety? How's releasing offenders into communities with no supervision going to help with that? What we need are more facilities, more resources—then we can get to more of the rehabilitation functions people like you are always going on about.”

Troy raised an eyebrow. “People like me?”

“Activists,” the union rep spat out.

“Now, isn't it true y'all are already spending more on prisons than you are on colleges here in California?” Caitlin said, neatly stepping into the conversation.

“Mostly because we're spending more money per prisoner to improve healthcare and rehabilitation opportunities.”

“And salaries,” Troy said. “Let's be honest, your members make fifty to ninety percent more than correctional officers in the rest of the country.”

“Yeah, and so do California highway patrol officers. We got prisons in some of the most expensive areas of the country here. My officers are professionals who deserve to be compensated decently. Unless you'd rather see a bunch of poorly trained rent-a-cops like what the private prisons are hiring for shit wages.”

Michelle took a few steps back, toward the wall of glass that overlooked the water. She'd drunk most of her glass of wine as the question and answer session broke into a general discussion, with Caitlin working the room and chatting with guests.

Would a refill be a bad idea? She felt sick to her stomach. Not everyone here was hostile, from what she could tell. Many seemed interested in talking to Caitlin and hearing what she had to say. But much of this crowd had come to raise money to defeat the two propositions that Caitlin said she was now on the fence about. In the case of Prop. 275, she'd already decided, Michelle knew.

“Looks like Ms. O'Connor's had kind of a turnaround, doesn't it?”

Standing next to her was a man about her age. Sandy brown hair, rimless glasses with titanium frames, wearing an open-collar blue button-down Oxford cloth shirt and a blazer.

“Her views are evolving, I think,” Michelle said.

He chuckled deep in his chest. “I've been telling Garth he's going to get caught out on the wrong side of this issue. If Caitlin O'Connor's coming around, I'd say the tide has officially turned.”

“Are you working on one of the propositions, Mr
. . .
. ?”

He stuck out a hand. “Shane. You're Caitlin's person?”

“I'm her assistant, yes. Michelle.”

“I have a fund,” he said. “We've taken some positions on cannabis-related industries. I'm in with both feet, and I'm advising others to do the same.” He leaned over. “Heard of Budly? Or Skunkish? Green Goddess LTC?”

She'd vaguely heard of Budly. “Budly
. . .
isn't that
. . .
Facebook for weed?”

“Potentially—more like Amazon. But you have the right idea.” He was watching Caitlin across the room as she listened intently to a red-faced man who was chopping at the air with his hands: Angry. Frustrated.

“People are going to get very rich off this business,” Shane said.

“People already have,” Michelle said.

He laughed again. “I mean, legally. It's already happening, with the medical industry. Once states start legalizing cannabis for recreational use
. . .
”

“You'll still have to deal with the federal government.”

“This too shall pass. I'm not going to pretend it isn't a little tricky right now, especially the banking end. But it'll all get worked out. I can afford to be patient.”

Michelle glanced past him, out the window. By now it was completely dark, the night muffled in fog. She could make out a haloed string of lights somewhere out in the water. A bridge? A ship?

“There's a lot of money being made right now with the way things are,” she said. “A lot of the people in this room don't want things to change.”

Shane gave an easy shrug. “In any scenario like this, you have winners and losers. And you have people who know how to adapt to changing circumstances and stay winners regardless. If I'm wrong about this, I'll lose money, but it's not going to break me. If I'm right, I win big. And I'm pretty sure I'm right.”

He continued to stare at Caitlin. She'd calmed the man she'd been talking to by the look of things, clasping his hand and resting her left hand on his forearm for a moment.

Shane turned to Michelle. “How about introducing me to your boss?”

“Sure,” she said. “I'd be happy to.”

Dread sat in her gut. She thought she might actually be sick. She knew she'd never been in control of this situation, far from it. But now she had a palpable sense that things were spinning far, far out of her grasp.

x
x
x

Shane suggested they adjourn
to a “speakeasy” in the Tenderloin after the cocktail party.

“There's a private bar down there that's good for conversation,” he'd said. “Just follow me. I'll get us in.”

Michelle had Googled him on her iPhone. He looked like he was who he claimed to be: a very successful venture capitalist/fund manager and one of San Francisco's richer men. His car was a red Tesla Roadster Sport.

As the town car pulled up in front of the Johannsen house, Troy hesitated.

“You're coming, aren't you?” Caitlin asked him.

“You want to ride with me?” Shane called out the window of his Tesla. “We should talk.”

Troy nodded. “Yeah. I guess we should.”

A pro-legalization venture capitalist and an activist working on keeping drug users out of prison probably did have a few things to talk about, Michelle thought.

“You know, I'm really having a good time tonight,” Caitlin said in the car. “Believe me, all the time I've been doing these events? That's rare.”

Michelle forced a smile. “I'm glad to hear it.”

As they followed Shane's Tesla through the San Francisco streets, losing the taillights now and again in the fog, Michelle tried to figure out how to tell Caitlin the truth, or at least to come up with a story that would make sense. One that Caitlin would believe.

“People are responsible for
their own choices.”

Troy let out a sharp sigh, almost a huff. “That's a
thing
with you masters of the universe, isn't it. You're in control, and if you're not, you're weak.”

He leaned back in the booth, in that still, coiled way Michelle already recognized. “You know, for most people, getting lectures about choices when they don't have opportunities isn't all that useful.”

He was clearly irritated, and Michelle couldn't blame him. Shane had been going on since they'd arrived about paths to success and personal freedom, a conversation that had presumably started in the car on the way over, and Michelle was already tired of it.

She wanted to get out of there. She needed to figure out what to do. She was going to have to call Gary, for one. Caitlin's reversal of Safer America's positions in this election was bound to get back to him, and if she didn't get in front of that, he'd take it out on her, and he'd take it out on Danny. She was sure of that.

The private bar of the speakeasy was down a flight of stairs, in a bricked basement that they claimed was used to smuggle booze during Prohibition. Who knew if that was really true? It was the kind of story Michelle could see making up to add a little burnish to your marketing. They'd gone with the theme down here, using old whiskey barrels for stools and installing a long, wooden bar scarred with cigarette burns.

“You're disadvantaged, you don't have a support system, you gotta make all the right choices, not slip up once,” Troy continued. “There's no margin for error. Meanwhile, some people have the privilege to fuck up over and over again and still come out on top. You gonna talk to
them
about choices?”

“Life ain't fair.” Shane raised his craft bourbon cocktail with its hand-chipped ice and sipped.