Sawyer, Meryl (6 page)

The powerful klieg lights in the television studio caused a
rivulet of perspiration to trickle down between Royce's breasts. Having Mitch
staring at her wasn't helping either. The makeup man dusted her forehead and
nose with powder again, telling her to relax. Out of the corner of her eye she
saw Mitch seated in the guest chair opposite hers, looking cool despite the
dark suit he wore.

The jitters she'd had all day had solidified into a hard knot
lodged at the base of her throat. Would she be able to utter a single word?
Would she remember all she'd learned about the homeless?

Would she have the courage to wait until the final seconds of the
program before dealing Mitch a blow, exposing his political aspirations before
he was ready? She gulped a calming breath, reminding herself if she played this
right she'd land the job as the
San Francisco Affairs
hostess and make
life rough for Mitch.

"Two minutes and we're live," yelled the floor director,
sending a dozen people scurrying over the skein of cables strewn across the
studio.

Someone clipped a tiny microphone on her suit jacket. She followed
instructions and said a few words for a mike check, conscious of the glass
control booth suspended above the studio floor. Arnold Dillingham was up there,
evaluating her performance. She couldn't remember ever being this nervous. Was
the job so important, or was it besting Mitch?

Royce stole a glance in Mitch's direction and found him studying
her again. For a moment their gazes caught and held. Was he thinking about that
kiss?

He suddenly flashed her a knowing grin. He
was
thinking
about that passionate kiss. She must have seemed incredibly weak to him. Well,
he'd find out.

"Five, four, three, two, one." The director pointed his
finger at Royce, mouthing, "We're live."

"Good evening," Royce said, using her high-voltage
smile. "I'm Royce Anne Winston. Welcome to
San Francisco Affairs.
This
program is dedicated to in-depth discussions of issues that interest our
community."

She took a quick breath, justifiably proud of her even voice.
"Tonight, we'll be talking about one of the most troublesome problems in
our city, the homeless. With me is Mitchell Durant, recently named trial
attorney of the year."

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of Mitch, who smiled, an
arresting smile worthy of a television evangelist. Trust me, Royce thought, you
won't be smiling when this program's over.

"Tell me, Mitch. You're a very busy attorney. Why such
interest in the problems of the homeless?"

"The plight of the homeless is everyone's problem,"
Mitch responded, his tone a convincing mix of authority and concern. "As
you know, Royce, San Francisco's city code requires that homeless people who're
here thirty-six hours are entitled to register and draw payments from the
city."

"That's why our city has become a Mecca for the homeless.
Don't you think the law should be changed?"

"It doesn't matter what I think," he replied, true to
form. Politicians avoided committing themselves. "We have to deal with the
situation as it exists. That's where my plan—"

"Some of the homeless appear to be mentally incapable of
holding down a job," she interrupted. She didn't want Mitch to reveal the
details of his plan yet. Uncle Wally had warned her not to let him steal the
show, to remain in control. "Shouldn't they be in institutions?"

Mitch didn't appear to be the least bit rattled that she'd cut him
off. "Under the state law certain mentally troubled individuals who are
not a danger to society have a choice. They can remain wards of the state or
they can go free. Which would you choose?"

"Freedom," she reluctantly admitted, "but they will
never be productive members of society? Add to that number the people who're
unwilling to work—"

"How do you know they don't want to work?"

"I have no way of knowing about every person," she
backtracked, reminding herself to choose her words with care. Here was a man
who interrogated people for a living. She was very sympathetic to the plight of
the homeless but if she weren't cautious, he'd make her sound like a heartless
shrew instead of a sharp interviewer doing her job by presenting all sides of
the issue.

"Some people say the homeless around Union Square station
themselves outside the ritzy shops with "beloved pets" to exploit the
situation," she said. "Many believe those homeless people are playing
on our sympathy and using animals to get money."

Mercifully, the director signaled for a commercial and she mumbled
something about the sponsor. The makeup man reappeared, draping a towel around her
neck. She stole a peek at Mitch and found him watching her.

He winked and gave her an intimate look, his gaze scaling down her
body and stopping at her thighs where her skirt had ridden up. She tried for a
withering glance, but its impact was destroyed by the makeup man blotting the
prickles of perspiration off the bridge of her nose and dusting her with
powder. Before she could gather her thoughts, they were on the air again.

She said something as the camera zoomed in for a close-up. Out of
camera range she saw Mitch wink again. Honest to God, the man had a bulletproof
ego.

Mitch leaned forward, talking to the camera as if he were speaking
to his most intimate friends. He
was
perfect for politics. "What we
as a society need to ask ourselves is how we can walk right past a homeless
person with a sign will work for food and ignore him. Yet if that same person
has a dog and a sign that says FIDO NEEDS FOOD, we toss him a coin. Can you
explain it?"

"Yes," she responded. "People know an animal has no
way of feeding itself. They feel responsible for a helpless creature, but they
assume the person could—if he wished— help himself."

"That's how most see it, but what if you could assist the
person to become a productive member of society again?"

"I have helped. I noticed a woman living in our alley. She
was divorced with no job skills. I took her to the Center for Women in Crisis.
Now she has a place to stay, and she's enrolled in a training program."

"That's terrific. If everyone pitched in we'd be—"

"Not everyone has the time to help or knows how. It's easier
to give money, but a lot of people feel that only encourages begging. So they
don't do anything."

The camera was on her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw
Mitch smiling, an unspoken challenge in his grin. Now she had no choice except
to hear his plan. "What do you suggest?"

"First, tell me what groups you see within the ranks of the
homeless."

There. He'd done it. Now he was asking her questions. He'd have
her around his finger in a minute, if she weren't careful. "There are the
mentally incapacitated and those who find it easier to ask for money than
work."

How would she describe the third group? Oh, Lordy, the camera was
zooming in for a close-up. She hesitated, seldom at a loss for words, but
suddenly unable to express herself.

Her father would have coined a new phrase that would later be
repeated by everyone, but she didn't have his intellectual genius. Her gift was
pointing out the absurdities of everyday life. But there was nothing remotely
funny about the homeless.

"You're validating my point." Mitch filled the
uncomfortable pause. "It's hard to classify the homeless. Like most
persistent problems its solution isn't simple."

"There but for the grace of God go I." Royce had no idea
what made her say that, but the well-known phrase did sum up her feelings. All
right, it wasn't an original term, but at least words hadn't failed her
entirely.

Mitch gave her an approving nod. "Exactly. A great many of
the homeless have fallen through society's cracks. Under the right
circumstances anyone could be homeless. The woman you helped is a prime
example."

"Just what do you propose?"

"To concentrate on this third group that's fallen through the
cracks. We have the best chance of helping them. I've lined up a number of
businessmen. We're developing a system using a computer network that will match
the skills with jobs."

It was time for another commercial, giving Royce a moment to
marshal her thoughts. She braved a glance at Mitch and he grinned. She quickly
looked away. Of course, he would smile. He sounded brilliant—the celluloid
image of the perfect candidate. Obviously, he was priming the audience for a
political career.

How was she doing? Nothing special. No incisive observations. No
witty remarks. She'd said nothing that would make Arnold Dillingham choose her
to hostess his program.

Well, she had one more shot at this. She had to phrase her final
question carefully so that she was within the guidelines Mitch had set And she
had to time it perfectly, making certain Mitch had no chance to answer while
they were still on the air.

The next few minutes passed quickly as Mitch explained his plan.
Royce asked questions, her eye on the clock, her mind on her final question.
She had to admit the plan Mitch outlined sounded innovative. It wouldn't solve
the homeless problem entirely, but it would give ordinary citizens a way to
become involved.

Her closing question wouldn't sabotage his plan, but it would
expose his political ambitions. Mitch wouldn't suffer the way her father had
suffered, but it was the best she could do.

The director gave her the "wrap" signal. She took a
quick breath, amazed at how the words stalled in her throat despite having
rehearsed them countless times. It couldn't have been more than a split second,
but it seemed like hours before she heard herself speak.

"I've studied your record, Mitch. When you were in the DA's
office you had an impressive conviction rate." She glimpsed his intense
blue eyes glaring at her and warning her not to violate the guidelines.
"In your private practice you've avoided representing drug dealers. And
you've been incredibly sensitive to women's issues. In the DA's office you
successfully prosecuted numerous rape cases. Since you've been in private
practice you've refused to defend any man accused of rape."

She sensed Mitch's eyes locked on her, anger roiling beneath the
facade of composure. "I wonder if your critics aren't right. You've
planned your career carefully, avoiding drug and rape cases, grooming yourself for
political office."

She hazarded a glimpse at Mitch. He flashed her a look that would
have stopped a charging rhino.

"Now you've aligned yourself with animal rights groups by
agreeing to defend a vicious cougar the Fish and Game Department wants put to sleep.
I'm certain the viewers are asking if this program for the homeless—although
not without merit—is just another ploy for media attention in your climb up the
political ladder."

The camera switched away from Royce. Mitch shot her a look that
bordered on a death threat. He opened his mouth to respond, but her timing was
flawless. The theme music began to play.

Paul Talbott knew when Mitch walked into the Liquid Zoo. The bar
was darker than Hades, lit only by neon pictures of pink elephants quaffing booze
through their trunks, and by a big screen TV. Several of the bar's patrons
greeted Mitch, asking if he was running for DA or attorney general.

He couldn't hear Mitch's answer, but Paul figured his blond hair
would have a few more gray streaks by morning. He'd never seen Mitch angrier
than he'd been in the closing shot of that television program.

Mitch dropped onto the well-worn bar stool beside him and the
bartender handed him a Jack Daniel's on the rocks. He took a swig, then asked,
"What did you think?"

Paul had known Mitch since they were eighteen-year-old bunkmates
aboard a Navy ship. Almost twenty years had passed, and they'd remained close
friends by being dead honest. Mitch would forgive anything—except a lie.

"You sounded good, Mitch, until she cold-cocked you with that
political angle."

"Yeah, the bitch." Mitch knocked back his drink, then
stared at the glass. "Swear to God, I could strangle her."

"You know, I picked up on a subtle bit of antagonism throughout
the program. Royce Winston doesn't like you."

"Damn straight. She hates my guts." Mitch shoved his
glass forward for a refill. "I'm surprised you saw it, though. I didn't
think it was obvious."

"That's my job, remember?" Paul was proud of his ability
to read people. He'd zeroed in on Mitch the day he'd met him years ago in Navy
boot camp. Lonely, insecure despite his tough appearance.

Paul's years on the police force had honed those instincts. Now
his practice as a private investigator demanded he rely on his observations
about people. He was seldom wrong.

But it didn't take a sixth sense to know not to question Mitch.
Minutes after meeting him Paul had learned Mitch told you what he wanted you to
know. Even after all this time, Paul had no idea about Mitch's life before they
met. He doubted he ever would.