One Murder More, page 6
Camper could wag his whole body at the mere thought of food and was doing so now with such intensity that Maren thought he might levitate. Her spirits lifted a bit and she smiled, recalling Noel’s assertion that attributing human feelings to animal behavior was inappropriate—”anthropomorphizing,” as he put it.
Call it what you like, Maren thought, I wish a little minestrone could make me feel that good. Now cheesecake, on the other hand . . .
But the soup was thick and warm, and she found her place in the worn pages of the secondhand novel without trouble, giving her cause to reflect that sometimes it was the simple things that carried her through.
CHAPTER 9
Daniel Horatio Gold, chair of the California Senate Health Committee, opened Thursday’s hearing promptly at 10:00 a.m. His face appeared held together by a complex network of lines and wrinkles amassed over fifty years in politics. Drooping, thick white eyebrows threatened to obstruct his vision. Gold had been a local council member in a small town across the bay from San Francisco for decades before running for a seat in the California legislature. The only big fish in a tiny pond for so long, he had never forgiven the state senate for having thirty-nine other members, each one believing themselves to be his equal.
With twenty-five bills on the docket, including Senator Rickman’s controversial cell phone bill, audience chairs in the large hearing room were filled. Since Maren was there to testify in support of Rickman’s bill, she had arrived early to secure a prime seat.
“File Item 1, SB 104, Senator Camillo.” Chairman Gold’s scratchy voice boomed through the microphone as his small dark eyes scanned the room. “Is the senator here?” When he saw Camillo approach the lectern he nodded at her, but the line of his mouth remained grim.
Senator Trixie Camillo, a tall, heavy redhead in a dark pantsuit and pearls, smiled up at the committee members seated on the dais before reading from prepared comments. “Thank you, Chairman Gold. This important measure would ensure that fire exits in California nursing homes are not locked from the inside at any time. A tragic death in my district last year was attributable to just such ill-conceived actions.”
The kind of bill introduction that Sean prepares for Rickman, Maren thought, glancing around and noting he hadn’t yet arrived. Not unusual, since staff often stayed in their offices working while keeping an eye on the hearings on streaming cable, coming down only in time for their own bills to be called. Even committee members were often late as they juggled jammed schedules. So it didn’t surprise Maren when she saw Republican leader Joe Mathis make his way to a seat next to Gold after the proceedings had started, ignoring the chairman’s pointed glare.
Camillo finished and Gold asked testily if there was anyone to speak in support of the bill, as though daring someone to bother him.
Three witnesses filed up to the microphone to wait their turn.
How many people does it take to persuade the committee that fire doors trapping old people in a building must remain unlocked? Maren thought, glancing at the time. But she knew the answer.
With rare exceptions, legislators made up their minds on votes in advance of public testimony. They took direction from their party caucus, relied on staff analyses, were persuaded by lobbyists like Maren, or more often than not came to a decision based on their own preconceived notions. Even so, most recognized open committee hearings as an important part of the democratic process, perhaps because they permitted exceptions to occur based on public testimony in a political world that was increasingly hard for outsiders to penetrate with anything other than money.
After support for SB 104, the opposition had its turn. Nursing home operators argued that there was a compelling need to prevent elderly with dementia or similar conditions from leaving facilities. They produced charts to show that in the absence of locks the increase in the number of staff it would take to monitor patients would add significantly to the cost of care and thus to the burden on taxpayers who provided much of nursing home funding. They noted that last year’s fire and resulting death of an occupant in a small nursing home in Senator Camillo’s district was the only such incident in the capital region in over fifty years—deeply regrettable, of course, but not a cause for a wholesale shift in policy.
Maren was reminded that there were nearly always two sides to law-making. It was rare that any bill was a slam-dunk, start to finish. She reviewed her testimony on the cell phone measure and checked unsuccessfully again for Sean. He could be there, but if he was, she couldn’t see him from where she was seated. Her thoughts were interrupted by the next bill call.
“File 2, Senate Bill 246, Senator Joben,” announced Chairman Gold.
“Thank you, Senator Gold,” Alec Joben said after taking his place at the witness microphone. “My bill has a simple and important purpose: to prohibit the use of the chemical bisphenol A, known as BPA, in the manufacture and sale of pacifiers in California.” He quickly reviewed the impressive science. Exposure to BPA was linked to decreased intellectual capability, fertility problems, cancer, and more. As he spoke, Alec looked at each committee member in turn, his ramrod-straight posture and unflinching gaze—undoubtedly habits from his days as a marine—contributing to the urgency of his message.
Maren had thought of Alec more often than she liked to admit to herself, but she hadn’t seen him since they parted the morning before last.
“BPA has been banned in eight other states and many European countries. California needs to do the same. Far better to harm profits than to harm babies,” Alec concluded.
A researcher and a public health professor spoke next, providing detail on the evidence that Alec Joben had highlighted. Although the part of the pacifier that goes in a baby’s mouth is BPA-free, the plastic shield attached to it often contains the chemical. And babies weren’t known for exercising caution in what they chewed or sucked on.
The witnesses in support were followed by a line of opposition rallied by Saniplaz, a plastics manufacturer located in San Jose, two hours south of Sacramento.
Saniplaz, with over eighteen hundred employees, utilized BPA in the production of a number of products, mostly food storage containers, but also pacifiers. The company saw Alec Joben’s bill as the first step down a slippery slope that could end in a prohibition on BPA altogether.
Maren had experienced it countless times—a tense debate in the capitol that seemed out of line with the apparent stakes. To participants, the escalation was rational since the real fight was about something else altogether. Act 2, behind the curtain.
Saniplaz witnesses argued there was no compelling proof that BPA was toxic, and that the data presented by the supporters reflected only a spurious correlation, a “loose connection” masking the real cause of any illness and disability. Much more research was needed, they said, before a ban on such a useful and cost-effective material should be considered.
“Questions from committee members?” Gold asked, looking down at his bill list as he spoke and sliding his weathered index finger to the next item, indicating he was ready to go on.
“What about the free market?” Senator Joe Mathis asked. “Parents who are persuaded by the data can already purchase BPA-free products. There are many. Unless there’s a clear and proven danger, why should we interfere in people’s choices?” There was loud applause from the Saniplaz group.
“Order, order!” Senator Gold bellowed, slamming his gavel on the table. It looked like the first time the crotchety committee chair was having fun all day.
Alec returned to the witness lectern. A Republican, he was respectful and brief in his response to Joe Mathis, his party’s leader. “I agree the government must limit its reach,” he began, making eye contact with Mathis. “But in this case the evidence is more than sufficient to support a limited ban on the use of a clearly toxic chemical in baby products. I urge your aye vote. Thank you.”
Gold called for a motion, and a roll call vote was taken. Senator Mathis and the other Republicans on the committee voted “No,” but the bill was passed by the Democrats, who held a majority. It was an unusual outcome for a Republican-authored bill.
While collecting his papers, Alec saw Maren in the front row and smiled at her.
She wanted to smile back. She wanted to engage him in normal, everyday conversation, to tell him Ecobabe might be able to help with his bill. It doesn’t have to be personal, she reminded herself. It doesn’t need to result in my being vulnerable. But she couldn’t quiet the throng of butterflies in her stomach. So she barely nodded. He seemed unperturbed. Alec smiled at her again and walked away.
Damn, Lois Lane would have done better, she thought as she watched him leave.
The next fifteen minutes passed at a glacial pace. With twelve more bills scheduled before hers, Maren resigned herself to being stuck in the hearing room for several hours in limbo. But then Chairman Gold announced with apparent disgust that SB 770, the cell phone driving ban, wouldn’t be heard at all that day. It was being put over to a future committee hearing at Senator Rickman’s request.
Maren’s first thought was to be thrilled. Like getting out of school before the bell rang with an extra day to study for the test. Then she worried about what the postponement might mean. Sean must have known. It explained his no-show status. But it didn’t make sense to Maren—why on earth would Rickman postpone a vote on the bill without alerting her? Now that one murder had happened involving people Maren knew, her sense of the possible had altered considerably, and not for the better.
There was an exodus at the announcement of the cancellation of the cell phone bill as witnesses pro and con left. Maren spoke with those there to speak in support, letting them know she would notify them when the bill was reset for hearing. When the crowd thinned, she saw Rorie Rickman standing near the front door.
Maren picked up her satchel and made it to Rickman easily, carried along by the outward flow.
“My office,” the senator said without preamble. “Now.”
People were waiting three deep for the elevators nearest the hearing room, jockeying for position to board. So Maren and Rorie Rickman took the stairs the five floors up. There was no privacy, limiting conversation. It was quiet except for the echoing footsteps of lobbyists and legislators tramping up and down the bare stairwell.
Senator Rickman closed the door to her office and walked to the window.
When she spoke it was so softly that Maren had to step closer to hear.
“Sean was arrested this morning. For the murder of Tamara Barnes.”
CHAPTER 10
“I received a courtesy call from the district attorney,” the senator said. “The police were here within the hour, searching Sean’s office. They took his computer.” Her voice rose. She paced a few steps in each direction. “He’s my chief of staff, for God’s sake. There’s analysis on his computer that we need in order to get our bills passed.”
Rorie Rickman looked pointedly at Maren, as if expecting her to make sense of this—that’s what lobbyists did, made sense of things for legislators. But while Maren tried to ground herself in the here and now, to contribute something, she couldn’t get past how surreal it felt standing in the senator’s office discussing Sean’s arrest. She found herself unable to think of a single thing to say.
Rickman walked purposefully to her desk and slid open the lower file drawer. Leaving it that way, she picked up her briefcase and retrieved a white physician’s coat from a small cupboard. “I’m late for clinic,” she said, crossing the office and walking out.
Maren stared at the door. Even given the circumstances, including Maren’s unexpected silence, Rickman’s abrupt exit seemed odd. Then Maren took in the still-open file drawer. She had never known the senator to leave a paper out of place, let alone the relative unbridled chaos of an open drawer.
She moved behind the desk and knelt to see the drawer’s contents. There were nearly twenty files marked SB 770 filled with papers and notes. Many printed from the computer, some in Sean’s hand.
“Can I help you?” Hannah Smart’s petite frame was stiff, her chin held high as she frowned at what appeared to be Maren rifling through the senator’s papers.
She backed off when Maren channeled her brother Noel’s best “don’t-you-question-me” look.
Maren carried the large stack of files the ten blocks back to Ecobabe, hardly noticing their weight in her hurry to get them to her office. She felt like she was trafficking in stolen goods.
It was possible Rorie Rickman routinely kept all work on current bills, including her staff’s, close at hand. But that would make it difficult for Sean and others to get what they needed without interrupting Rickman—and if there was one thing valued by all legislators, it was the brief moments of privacy they had in their offices. Maren thought it far more likely that Rorie Rickman had gone into Sean’s office and removed the SB 770 files in advance of the police visit, and she doubted that was, strictly speaking, legal.
Maren decided to check her emails before tackling the files’ contents—something routine to calm her. It was no use. She got through only three messages in twice the time it would usually take her. The last was another “Invest Now!” missive from senrabyllit@talk.com. She wondered briefly why her spam filter had failed her, before losing all interest in the screen. She shifted her focus to her cell phone, which sat silent on her desk. Willing it to ring.
To her surprise, it did. Maren picked up immediately.
“Maren, it’s Rorie Rickman. The clinic operator said it was urgent.”
Maren had thought about how best to frame her request. “Senator Rickman, I’m sorry to disturb you. Do you know where they’re keeping Sean? I’ve been unable to get answers from the police.” Or from the district attorney’s office or the newspaper that broke the story, she thought. But she didn’t see any reason to walk the senator through each frustrating dead end, particularly since she would have at most a few minutes before Rickman had to return to her clinic patients.
“Sean’s in county jail.” Rorie Rickman sounded weary. “I doubt he’s permitted visitors.”
“Do you know if he’s hired a lawyer? I thought it might help if I spoke to them. I have years of history with Sean—as my intern, a tenant, now a colleague.”
Rickman was silent.
Maren’s stomach tightened. She eyed the orchids on her desk, wondering if she would feel better if she methodically tore off the blooms.
“Let me see what I can do,” the senator finally offered.
Maren expected Rickman to hang up and was surprised when she spoke again.
“You know Sean’s parents died a few years back, both of cancer, one after the other?”
“No, he never said.” Sean had mentioned to Maren only something about his mother being ill. She realized then how private he was with her, just banter and politics when they talked. And how alone he must have felt underneath it all. No parents. She could relate.
“This is Sean’s first year with any real salary, and he has significant educational debts. With no family to turn to, he will qualify to have a state-funded public defender.” As if to quell any protests, Rickman added, “The Sacramento PDs are good.”
Maren had interned briefly with the public defender’s office in San Francisco during her last year of law school. So by “good” Maren knew the senator meant they were smart and dedicated attorneys, but underfunded with a caseload of at least seventy-five defendants each.
Maren pictured Sean with the same confused look he’d had when Tamara Barnes had come into Rickman’s office, although now he was wearing a prison-issued orange jumpsuit. That unsettling image was replaced by one of Tamara lying on the restroom sofa, arms crossed, feet together, still wearing her elegant gray pumps. Her eyes were peacefully closed, but her chest was covered in blood.
Maren spent the next hour scouring the web for detailed reporting on Tamara’s death and Sean’s arrest, but other than the fact that Tamara died from a single stab wound to the heart, there was little she didn’t already know.
The headlines were consistent in their enthusiasm: “Staff-on-Staff Murder!”; “Capitol Homicide!”; “26-Year-Old Brutally Slain!”; “Legislator’s Chief Aide Arrested in Grisly Crime!”
Fortunately, it didn’t take Senator Rickman long to work her magic.
By 2:00 p.m. Maren had escaped the media’s collective joy in the tragedy and was standing outside the offices of the Sacramento public defender at 700 H Street.
The tall gray building had been easy to find. Shortly after moving to the capital, Maren had learned that if you could count and knew the alphabet, you could locate anything in downtown Sacramento, moving from A to Z Street in one direction and First to Eighty-Fourth in the other. The rational layout made her wish the government processes housed within the city were as simple to navigate.
Having shown her ID and acquired a guest badge, Maren was directed through a series of narrow hallways to a small office in the back. The door was ajar. The attorney inside was sorting through stacks of manila files on top of a scratched, cheap-looking credenza—more government-issued furniture.
Maren took in the woman’s flawless skin, high cheekbones, and full red lips. Thick black hair fell gracefully to her collarbone, while the considerable curves of her body seemed hard-pressed to stay contained in a tailored dark brown jacket. A matching narrow, straight skirt ended modestly below her knees, but served only to accent her shapely calves and long legs.
Deputy Public Defender Lana Decateau was a dead ringer for Olivia Glass, the new-millennium starlet of Puerto Rican and Ethiopian descent, a 1940s bombshell glamour girl reborn in the modern era. Maren thought involuntarily of Jessica Rabbit of Roger Rabbit fame. I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way.
“Ms. Kane, welcome. Please sit down,” the attorney offered, revealing a lilting southern accent that, without intention, heightened her aura of femininity. “I apologize for the mess. We lost twelve lawyers in state budget cuts—those of us still here have double caseloads. We’re suing the government to prevent staff reductions of another six.” She gestured to Maren to sit in a folding chair before seating herself behind the desk. “The Verston case, isn’t it?”
