Rule of Capture: An Historical Mystery

Praise for The Natural Selection

Finalist, Fiction Category: California Commonwealth Club 2009 Book Awards

Finalist, Mystery Category: San Diego 2009 Book Awards

Finalist, Mystery Category: Next Generation Indie 2009 Book Awards

A story about one of the most fascinating trials of history and told with a sympathy and a remarkable eye and ear for the time. The research is superb.

—Anne Perry, bestselling author of the Thomas and Charlotte Pitt

and William Monk mysteries

"The fast-flowing, elegant writing will hook readers; but the book is all the more fascinating, if not distressing, because it strikes close to today’s social and political climate. The controversy and relevance of The Natural Selection will draw them into the time period and keep them turning pages until the end."

—Philadelphia Stories Magazine

Praise for O’Brien’s Desk

An intense historical.

—Library Review

Within the field of historical mystery, the time period of 1920s America chosen by Russell is a unique one that piques reader interest. Sarah Kaufman is an engaging protagonist, thrust into an authentic, sociologically driven mystery involving issues which still resonate today.

—Miriam Grace Monfredo, author of the Seneca Falls historical mysteries

A thrilling, suspense-filled, and vibrantly told novel.

—Midwest Book Review

An intriguing and thoroughly researched story that gives us insight into the moral dilemmas of 20th century America. A well-told story ...

—Anne Perry

"This is an engaging example of that popular cross-genre, the history/mystery. The daily details, smoothly integrated into narrative, give her tale a pleasing, authentic ring…Sarah [the protagonist] pushes the career edges of the possible, for in 1923 she is both a Jew

and a Progressive."

—The Historical Novels Review

Early Praise for Rule of Capture

Russell intertwines fictional and nonfictional events in an engaging manner, weaving both the peculiar charms of early Hollywood and the real-life Julian Petroleum scandal into her murder mystery. Los Angeles landmarks, such as the Brown Derby and Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, become the settings for Sarah’s exploits, and real figures, ranging from author Ayn Rand to Russell’s own father, Marvin Marvy Kantor, populate the city. The author also explores difficult matters of race and religion…effectively show[ing] that identity and oppression are far from simple issues, and that the same person can be both a victim and a victimizer.

—Kirkus Reviews

Praise for The Natural Selection

Finalist, Fiction Category: California Commonwealth Club 2009 Book Awards

Finalist, Mystery Category: San Diego 2009 Book Awards

Finalist, Mystery Category: Next Generation Indie 2009 Book Awards

A story about one of the most fascinating trials of history and told with a sympathy and a remarkable eye and ear for the time. The research is superb.

—Anne Perry, bestselling author of the Thomas and Charlotte Pitt

and William Monk mysteries

"The fast-flowing, elegant writing will hook readers; but the book is all the more fascinating, if not distressing, because it strikes close to today’s social and political climate. The controversy and relevance of The Natural Selection will draw them into the time period and keep them turning pages until the end."

—Philadelphia Stories Magazine

Praise for O’Brien’s Desk

An intense historical.

—Library Review

Within the field of historical mystery, the time period of 1920s America chosen by Russell is a unique one that piques reader interest. Sarah Kaufman is an engaging protagonist, thrust into an authentic, sociologically driven mystery involving issues which still resonate today.

—Miriam Grace Monfredo, author of the Seneca Falls historical mysteries

A thrilling, suspense-filled, and vibrantly told novel.

—Midwest Book Review

An intriguing and thoroughly researched story that gives us insight into the moral dilemmas of 20th century America. A well-told story ...

—Anne Perry

"This is an engaging example of that popular cross-genre, the history/mystery. The daily details, smoothly integrated into narrative, give her tale a pleasing, authentic ring…Sarah [the protagonist] pushes the career edges of the possible, for in 1923 she is both a Jew

and a Progressive."

—The Historical Novels Review

Rule of Capture

An Historical Mystery

Ona Russell

© 2015 by Ona Russell

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or

mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems

without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer

who may quote brief passages in a review.

Sunstone books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use.

For information please write: Special Markets Department, Sunstone Press,

P.O. Box 2321, Santa Fe, New Mexico 87504-2321.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Russell, Ona, 1952-

Rule of capture : an historical mystery / by Ona Russell.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-1-63293-047-7 (softcover : acid-free paper)

1. Nineteen twenties--Fiction. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.)--History--20th century--Fiction. 3. Political fiction. I. Title.

PS3618.U765R85 2015

813’.6--dc23

2014044950

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For Jude and Ines

What sets worlds in motion is the interplay of differences, their attractions and repulsions.

–Octavio Paz

Poor human nature, what horrible crimes have been committed in thy name!

–Emma Goldman

Prologue

May 6, 1928

The imported silk frock hugged Rita’s curves a bit too tightly, but she would only make a token appearance at the trial anyway. Tomorrow, when she would stay for the duration, she would choose something more sedate. She called for the chauffeur, tilted her hat, and turned off the Victrola.

Jack Fulton’s clear falsetto lingered in the air as she waited for the car to pull up. "In a little Spanish town it was on a night like this…. She hummed along as if the song were still playing. Bittersweet lyrics, a dark melody that, as of late, reflected her own mood. Today, however, the whole piece sounded lighter, as if the minor key had yielded a note or two to its more optimistic relative. The doctor had given her a clean bill of health, the stock market was up, and Phillip was traveling, allowing her to go about her business without having to lie. True, the weather could have been better, but it hadn’t prevented the detective from checking the grounds and, for the third time this month, assuring her that all was in order. No footprints, no sign of any trespassing on their two-acre, currently drenched, Beverly Hills property. If I may, ma’am, he said before leaving, I think you’re just alone too much, trapped in this enormous place. It’s no wonder you hear things."

Perhaps he was right. She was alone a lot, and the home was indeed enormous, a grand Tudor with cavernous rooms and tunnel-like hallways. So many things to creak and groan. The servants were around of course, but they resented her, and unless performing a specific task, stayed in their quarters. Who wouldn’t be a little afraid? Who mightn’t imagine they were being watched? Still, for now, the detective’s words, like Fulton’s voice, were comforting.

Pershing Square? the chauffeur said.

She nodded and scooted into the back of the new Rolls Royce. She affixed a cigarette to her gold-encased holder, lit up and puffed. With each exhalation, she felt more at ease, the sense of foreboding that had accompanied her for weeks diminished, though not entirely gone. Drake, you didn’t see anyone lurking about this morning, did you?

Lurking, madam?

You know what I mean. Anyone, anywhere, doing anything!

No, madam.

You’re sure?

Yes, madam.

She laughed a little. I asked you the same thing earlier, didn’t I?

Yes. But that’s all right.

Understanding as always, Drake, a young college student at the new UCLA campus, was the one employee she trusted. She regretted that he only worked for them part-time, for he had a calming effect on her.

Silly of me. You won’t tell my husband about that, or…or about the police officer, will you?

My lips are sealed, he said, grinning boyishly into the rear view mirror.

"Gracias. I mean, thank you, Drake." Rita smiled and closed the glass partition. Everything was fine, she told herself. Fine. Rain pattered lightly on the car windows as she looked out at the elegant neighborhood where politicians, leaders of industry, actors, and, against all odds, Rita herself lived. Rita Bradford. Maiden name Fuentes. Poor. Mexican. Like her parents and all those before her, destined for a meager existence. No one would have believed it. She didn’t quite believe it herself, although she’d been married to Phillip for eight years, since January 1920, the dawn of the new decade.

Poor, Mexican, but also beautiful. She reached for her mirror to be sure. Sí. Hermosa. Despite the passage of time, beautiful still, from all angles. It was that trait, that blessing from God that had changed her life. Black, waist-length hair, wide, symmetrical features and smooth, caramel skin that even in this flat, grey light, looked, as Phillip often said, good enough to eat. Many had admired her, but none as much as Phillip, who by chance had entered the Baja tailor shop where she worked. He was instantly smitten. Twenty years her senior, certainly not handsome, but kind and rich. Phil thought she was the loveliest woman in the world and wanted to show her off. He took her to restaurants and movies, bought her shoes worth more than her father’s adobe and an emerald that he said matched her eyes. He offered her a way out, and she took it.

Not that it was easy. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead even now as she remembered those days. She patted off the sweat, wishing she could rid her herself as easily of the humiliation she still felt at the thought of Phil’s friends, of their whispers and stares when they first found out about her. Suddenly they were busy, far too busy for a drink or certainly a dinner party. Phil even lost a few accounts back then. They might have understood a backstreet affair, but marriage? Phillip Bradford was of prime, Anglo stock, a purebred with a reputation and legacy to protect. What of his fortune? What if, heaven forbid, there were children?

But there were no children, and over time the resistance to Rita waned. People adjusted, accepted, and some even welcomed her into their circle. She smiled again and sank into the leather seat. They welcomed her, but only because she had consciously remade herself, adopting their hairstyles, attending their teas, employing their decorators. She joined their clubs, took up golf and hired other Mexicans to clean her toilets. She reflected back their own image. And she learned their language, so well that she even had come to think, as she was now, in English. In a word, she assimilated.

What was that? She banged on the glass.

Madam?

Drake, the car made a strange noise, didn’t it?

We hit a bump. Water splashed up, that’s all.

She laughed, heartily this time. "I really did hear something then?"

Yes, he said, with a chuckle.

Rita leaned back and thought as they passed one soggy palm tree after another. Assimilated. Well, not completely. She had indeed cultivated a public self to blend in. But underneath still lay a private being who continued to embrace her heritage and secretly found ways to express it. In stolen moments, she did things that connected her to her roots, mostly just wandering through the Mexican part of town, grabbing a bite from a food stand, listening to conversations on the street. Often she would wind up in a church and kneel with her brethren. Occasionally, however, as she was planning to do today, she would go further, meeting personally with someone of her own kind. A very special someone. She stretched out her freshly manicured hands and imagined them being held, caressed, kissed. These were the best moments, the ones that made everything else bearable. For years, she had lived this way, first with the father, then with the son. Now, with another. Managing two worlds, giving and getting. There’d been pain to be sure, but it was worth every minute.

Recently, however, her control was slipping. Since that first time a few months ago when she swore someone was following her. That’s when it all started, wasn’t it? She bit her lip and nodded. Yes. When she was on that walk and felt a presence; fleeting, but terrible. Who? Who was it? A shadow her husband said. Only a shadow. Her mind playing tricks. She tried to believe him, just as she had the detective. But it happened again, and again. And each time the fear grew. She was afraid still, even in this car, even with Drake’s assurance.

It was this fear that was chipping away at her, allowing the self she concealed to intrude into her everyday life. Chip. First came the Spanish, bursts of her native tongue. Dios mío. Por favor. Cuándo? Simple words, but suddenly they were peppering her speech. She had tried, as one might do with obscenities, not to make such utterances in public, but they had a will of their own. Chip. And then the images, the stubborn flashes of memory. At the beauty parlor, in the middle of a card game, it could be anywhere. All would be normal, and then, there! A photograph, or, no, more like a vision: the Lady of Guadalupe, the towering crucifix in the humble village of her youth, her mother’s braided hair. Worst of all, the fires, those fetid, blazing flames she had desperately tried to forget. Chip, chip, chip. She felt her breathing quicken.

Usual time, madam? Drake said, opening the door.

She jumped. Huh? Oh, yes, I’ll meet you here at five.

Rita jogged up the courthouse steps and took an empty chair in the back of the room. She searched for familiar faces. Uh huh. There was Charlie, Phillip’s partner at the ad agency, who had just finalized that incredible deal with Sears and Roebuck. Since Phillip had been awarded Advertiser of the Year in ’25 for his work with the Chamber of Commerce, Charlie had been itching for a prize of his own. Of course, both men shared and benefited from each other’s achievements, but the Sears Catalogue put Charlie on even footing. Rita willed the heavy-set man to look at her. She smiled as he twirled his pudgy fingers in the air, offering her a silent but friendly gesture of hello. Down the row sat Joan, one of the high society women she played golf with. She caught Rita’s gaze, too, and hunted around for a nearby vacancy. Fortunately, there were no seats. She shrugged and Rita shrugged back.

After a while, Rita eased her way out, leaving, for now, what Phillip said was history in the making, a trial to rival any other where money and corruption were involved. Right now she didn’t care. Rain was still falling, but she was well covered. She headed south, hopped over a few puddles and was soon being welcomed at the small, ivy-covered hideaway. She searched the tables. Not there yet. The familiar aroma of freshly baked conchas warmed her, that perfect mingling of cinnamon, vanilla and butter. She ordered a coffee, picked up a magazine and pretended to read. Out the half-curtained window, drops turned to drizzle. A cozy, romantic sight that she was eager to share. She checked the clock. Late. She ordered another coffee and pretended to read some more. Any messages for me? she asked the hostess, who frowned and shook her head. An hour passed and then another. Not coming. Maybe something was wrong. Probably not. Either way, she couldn’t call to find out.

She sat for a while more, sad and empty, feeling the beginning of a chill. She could sense movement around her, but her eyes glazed over. She stared without seeing, until something, some ominous shape forced her to blink. No! Impossible. Her mind playing tricks again. She rubbed her eyes, but it was still there. A jangling skeleton, the one her parents kept in the closet to celebrate the Day of the Dead. No! Go away! She bolted up, threw on her coat and ran out. And she kept running, her purse swaying on her wrist, her half-opened umbrella useless in her trembling hand, until the street where Drake would pick her up came into view. Thank God. The car was already there. She slowed her pace and caught her breath.

But then…. What? She spun around. "Quién esta? Who’s there? Oye! Quiénes?"

1

May 7, 1928

What is your occupation, Mr. Julian?

Oil and mine operator.

Are you familiar with the corporation known as the Julian Petroleum Corporation?

I am.

Did you have anything to do with the organization yourself of the corporation?

I had everything to do with it!

It had been four months, but Sarah could still feel the sting of that impudent opening testimony. Sitting in this same courthouse, directly behind the prosecutors as she was now, she’d watched as nattily clad C. C. Julian strutted to the witness box and responded to the State’s questions as if he had nothing to be ashamed of. As if he hadn’t swindled countless souls out of their savings. The nerve of the man! And yet he still walked free, debauching at one club after another, unrepentant in his gleaming spats and Parisian ties.

Sarah twisted her three mismatched rings, pressing metal against flesh until her finger nearly bled. Another form of penance, she thought, wincing from the stinging pain this little habit of hers had increasingly produced. But she deserved it. Indeed, she had reproached herself nearly every day since Julian insiders began dumping their stock over a year ago. Overissue? She had barely known the meaning of the word, let alone contemplated the possibility that her investment was threatened. Intelligence is knowing one’s limitations, and she had clearly exceeded hers. Even so, she could have forgiven herself if it really had been out of ignorance, if she’d gone in totally unsuspecting. But deep down, not even that deep, she had known. Her inner voice had warned her and she’d ignored it.

Why? She knew why. Because everyone else was against her, too. Mitchell, her lover. Tillie, her sister. Even Obee, her boss and dearest friend, a man who usually rallied to the female cause, thought this was going too far. Investing in stocks? In oil? In California? I know you’re unconventional, Sarah, but really, you must be mad! Or going through the change, he thought but didn’t say. This sort of risky business should be left to adventurers, gamblers, big shots—in other words, to men.

Sarah felt in her purse for her notebook, an old pad of paper really, that she brought to chronicle her reactions to the trial. She had never kept a diary or a journal, mostly because she wasn’t all that interested in rehashing her own experiences. Moreover, although she was an avid reader, she had no talent for writing. Several unfinished stories and reams of doggerel were a testament to that. Even an accidental glimpse at the stuff, tucked away in the back of her underwear drawer where it belonged, made her skin crawl. So when a year ago the doctor suggested she document her feelings, she resisted, and indeed, had yet to obey.

Just now, however, she found herself scribbling. Obee, she wrote in a forward slant, the O towering above the rest. Obee. The Honorable O’Brien O’Donnell. A devoted public servant whose intentions, and usually actions, were good. That was one of the reasons she had developed feelings for him, unrequited as they had been, and why she had worked for him all these years, first as a junior officer, now as head of both the women’s probate and juvenile courts. Unromantic but important jobs that were as much about listening as administration. Obee had trusted and respected her. That is certainly why she had stayed working for the judge, even after his personal failings had nearly cost Sarah her life.

Cost Me My Life she wrote, examining the melodramatic but nevertheless accurate phrase intently, almost scientifically, as if through a microscope. Nearly, she added in bold print. The operative word. The pen felt surprisingly comforting, cool and smooth between her tortured fingers. And as the doctor said, the black ink was giving shape to those invisible thoughts, those repetitive, microbe-like thoughts. Treatable, he had said. You just need to face what you’ve been through head on.

That’s what the doctor meant, and, of course, she knew that. Feigning ignorance about the therapeutic value of writing was just to avoid doing it. She had in fact advised many of the people she counseled to do the same. But maybe she was ready. She picked up the pen again and started to doodle. A swirl, a line, a dot. A stick figure in a robe and cone shaped hat. She breathed in deeply, pressed the pen hard on the page and exhaled. KKK. She had formed the terrible letters. They stared back at her as she remembered the murderous hatred. The shootings and lynchings. The killers she helped put behind bars.

Yes, perhaps she was ready. She quickly sketched two more figures—her artistic skills even worse than her prose—nearly identical, both with curves and little half-marks for breasts. Twins, of a sort. When she thought back on those events, it was as if she were looking at someone who resembled and spoke like Sarah, but who was a distinct individual, with an entirely different personality. Inviting danger, risking bodily harm? No, that wasn’t someone she recognized. Certainly her work had brought her in contact with criminals, but with the distance of a guide, mentor or observer. Though her position in the courts was valued, it wasn’t because she went where others feared to tread.

She drew a dotted line from Obee to each of these figures and nodded. Obee had been connected to both, in some ways brought them to life. And that had deepened the bond Sarah had with him. But it also made her wary of his advice. She closed the notebook and thought. The fact that he had been against the Julian investment had indeed made her want to do it all the more. Besides, in this instance, the judge was simply wrong, or so she’d convinced herself. She couldn’t trust him or her gadfly of a conscience. She had done her research. More women than ever were entering the market, and plenty had bought shares of Julian Pete. This wasn’t just for the high rollers. Indeed, C. C. Julian himself encouraged small investors, and that opened the door to the so-called fairer sex.

Sarah twisted her rings again: her mother’s thin cluster of marcasites, the gold-encircled garnet Obee gave her for her birthday, the sterling silver band she’d bought on a whim. They were part of her, these modest little jewels, expanding the shape and function of an otherwise average digit. Had she’d invested any more in C.C.’s scheme, however, she might have had to hock them.

C. C. Short for Courtney Chauncy. The name alone should have put everyone on alert. C.C. Of the people, for the people. He wanted everyone to get a cut of the pie. Show Standard Oil they weren’t the only game in town. And some of the early returns had been astounding. Thirty dollars for each dollar invested. Oil was spouting up everywhere, faster than they could build the wells. Why should other women, many of whom had husbands, who didn’t have siblings to support, get rich while she struggled to make ends meet? It wasn’t as if she were investing the bank. Just that little extra she’d saved for a rainy day. Her sister, Tillie, would thank her for it when they could finally buy some new furniture.

Well, now it was pouring, in Los Angeles no less, and Sarah had nothing to show for it except soaking wet pumps. Not her old black ones, mind you, but her favorite red suede. She glanced around the packed courtroom at all the other duped souls. Men and women of all stripes. A goateed aristocrat in a once-elegant suit, a bejeweled, thick-wasted matron, a shrunken, fair-haired young couple that looked as if they hadn’t slept in weeks. More. Many more. A generally somber, if not forlorn crowd, but at least most had the sense to bring umbrellas. Angelenos, as they called themselves, apparently knew that, contrary to popular belief, it indeed did rain in their divinely touched city.

Oyez, oyez. The Superior Court of Los Angeles is in session. The Honorable Judge William Doran presiding. All rise.

Judge Doran marched to the bench. A clean-cut, muscular Republican with strong, regular features, he had, despite his politics, impressed her before with his confident judicial manner, calmly overruling an objection as if there were no other possibility. Then again, as Sarah knew all too well, looks could be deceiving. He must be tired, she thought, bored even, from the length of this thing. Of course, he hadn’t presided during all those years of testimonies, hearings and near arrests, the scope of which Sarah had only recently come to appreciate. But four months was four months. Longer than a Toledo winter, and that was saying something.

The room quieted as Harold Davis, a nondescript member of the district attorney’s office, stood and routinely called his first witness: Theodore Rosen. Sarah stiffened. Dear old Ted. Not so old really, thirty-two, seven years younger than Sarah, with a soft, rounded face that belied his hard-hearted core. This was the man she was here to see, the reason she had, for the second time this year, boarded the California Limited from Toledo and headed for Los Angeles. The Annual Juvenile Courts Conference was a fortunate coincidence and what helped her persuade Obee to fund the venture. Admittedly she was eager to see Jean Shontz again, the keynote speaker. But even if she had to steal pennies from all those jars Tillie had hidden around the house, she would have found a way.

There he was. Ted Rosen, son of a family friend. Sarah reached for her notebook again. On a fresh page, she wrote his name in Hebrew-like lettering and drew a motley Star of David beside it. Some friend. Persuading her to invest in what he knew to be a criminal scheme. Join our little Jewish pool, Sarah. Put in a hundred bucks and you’ll take home a thousand. More than C. C. More even than Stan Lewis, who masterminded the overissue after taking over the company, it was Ted she blamed, taking hers and everyone else’s money, giving fodder to anti-Semitic stereotypes. Prosecutor Asa Keyes, reputedly of questionable character himself, had tried, to the shock of even his own colleagues, to have the charges against Rosen dropped. But Judge Doran was no chump. He politely declined Keyes’ outrageous request. As Ted took the oath, Sarah drilled her eyes into him, trying to pierce his flesh with her gaze.

Your name, please.

Theodore Rosen.

Your address?

Four twelve South McCadden.

Los Angeles?

That is right.

Mr. Rosen, I am about to inquire of you about certain matters connected with and appertaining to the Julian Petroleum Corporation, Jack Bennett, Stan Lewis, yourself, and various other persons. Are you willing to tell us all you know about this matter?

I am, yes.

Sure you are, Sarah thought. All you know that won’t incriminate you.

You know Mr. Adolph Ramish, do you?

Yes, sir, I do.

You first met him, I believe, in regard to any transactions of this kind along about October, nineteen twenty-five?

Yes, sir.

And, briefly, your attention was called to the fact that the Julian Petroleum Corporation needed some financing, and you heard that maybe Mr. Ramish might be, through you, induced to help in that matter?

Suavely sinister in his dark pinstriped suit, Ted closed his eyes and sat back, crafting the proper answer. Sarah glanced at the onlookers, including the elderly, gentile jury, and could almost hear the unspoken epithets: Shylock, yid, kike. She knew the words, and the sentiment they expressed, by heart. It was only this morning, in fact, that she’d overheard a conversation in the hotel lobby about Jack Bennett, whose real last name was Berman. He’s a bumptious young Jew, said one man laughingly to another, reminds me of a wharf rat that has just climbed out of the water.

Sarah shuddered. Berman, Ramish and Ted finagled the funding of this scheme. What exact part each played she wasn’t sure and didn’t much care. Greed was greed. What she did care about, however, was that all three were Jews. The majority of her people were ethical, compassionate and generous. But just try telling that to those waiting for a chance to prove the rule through the exception.

Ted finally responded. No, not that the Julian Petroleum Corporation needed financing, that Stan Lewis and Jack Bennett wanted to know if I knew of any one or a number of people who could assist Lewis and Bennett in the control of the Julian Petroleum securities market.

Market?

Yes, sir.

Was that the way it was put to you at the time?

Yes, sir. That was three days after the break of the market from thirty some odd down to ten or fifteen dollars a share, on a Friday in October, nineteen twenty-five.

And at that time the matter of financing the corporation had not yet come up?

No, sir.

And you approached Mr. Ramish on that subject?

Yes, sir.

And stated to him just as you say?

Yes, sir.

And from that time, as regards that transaction, do you know anything of what transpired between Ramish and Bennett and Lewis?

No, sir.

The room stirred audibly with that remark. Sarah didn’t believe him and neither did anyone else.

The judge lightly tapped his gavel. Order. Mr. Davis, please continue.

Mr. Rosen, when did you…?

The defense, silent until now, stood. Your Honor, may I approach?

Doran raised an eyebrow. Now?

Please. Yes, sir.

Judge Doran nodded. Sarah kept her eyes on Ted, who patted his carefully coiffed, wavy hair.

Doran conferred with the prosecutor, then motioned for Davis to join them. The three talked briefly. Something was up, Sarah thought, something not good. The attorneys returned to their tables and shuffled thieir papers but remained standing. The judge rose, and with characteristic aplomb, addressed the audience: Ladies and gentlemen, due to an unexpected circumstance, court is dismissed until tomorrow morning at nine a.m. Thank you for your patience. He admonished the jury, stood and exited the sanctum.

What the hell? You kiddin’ me! A travesty, that’s what this is!

Sarah sympathized with the spectators’ angry remarks. Bullshit, she wrote, almost without thinking, and returned the pad to her purse. She too was tired of the waiting, especially with Ted, the very person who got her into this mess, on the stand. And now another delay, for some trumped up reason no doubt. She was experienced enough in such matters to know that even an upset stomach or a forgotten anniversary was enough to halt the flow of justice.

•••

She inched her way to the open double doors, her feet sloshing in her still-drenched shoes. Umbrellas started to flip up around her, so she hunched over, preparing to do battle with the elements. But to Sarah’s and everyone else’s surprise, the rain had ceased. A brilliant sun was flirting behind puffy clouds, which floated in a blue sky nearly identical to the unnatural color in the postcards Ted’s father had sent when he first moved to L.A. The air smelled distinctly sweet, a fragrant, post-rain mix of eucalyptus and lavender.

The collective mood lifted a bit as umbrellas lowered. A few smiles, even an occasional laugh echoed out, as people headed en masse down the concrete steps, shedding jackets and adjusting hats. Weather certainly could affect one’s spirits, Sarah reflected, although she suspected that most would have still rather faced a blizzard than wait another day to see these crooks get their due.

Sarah leaned against a marble pillar that the sun was beginning to warm. The conference didn’t start for a few days. Perhaps she would finally see Hollywood and Vine. She wasn’t star struck, but she loved the movies and admired the people who made them. Except for Cecil B. DeMille, that is, who, with the help of insider information, was reported to have made a bloody fortune on his investment in Julian stock. Indeed, DeMille and other elites got out in time, while the masses were left to fend for themselves. Ironic, given C. C.’s claim to be a man of the people.

Ah, well. Sarah pulled out a mirror and checked her hair—the French twist was surprisingly intact. In this light, though, she could see every line on what many well-intentioned friends called her gracefully aging face. She reapplied her lipstick and snapped the compact closed. Better to look elsewhere.

She turned just in time to see a lithe beauty in a long, mink coat flick her cigarette into one of the palm tree planters that flanked the court’s Gothic arch. Was she an ingénue waiting to be discovered, or had she already paid the price for some bit part nobody would notice? Was she another victim of C. C.’s get-rich scheme or one of its beneficiaries? Whichever, she’d clearly been in the city for a while because she seemed immune to the lure of the palm, indifferently using it as an ashtray. Sarah didn’t know what it was exactly. The plant wasn’t pretty in a conventional sense, with its disproportionate, spiny bark and sharp, shadeless leaves. Nothing like her comforting oak. Yet it moved her, made her think of exotic places, just as the Chamber of Commerce intended. The fact that most palms weren’t even indigenous to the region only added to the mystique. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, suddenly glad that she had a free day. First, some new shoes. What was that store? Bullocks? Then, she’d explore, maybe even take a bus to the ocean. Or….

A soft tugging on her arm interrupted her planning.

"Señora! Señora!"

Sarah cocked her head at a young, bronze-skinned girl with troubled green eyes.

"Señora," she said again in a low, desperate voice.

Yes?

A few inches shorter than Sarah, the girl looked up. As she did so, Sarah noticed the beginning of folds around her mouth. She was older, thirty-five maybe.

"Te acuerdas de mi?" She glanced around, gulping back tears.

Mexican, Sarah thought. Though she’d been to L.A. before, she was still becoming accustomed to seeing these people. Selling spicy foods on outdoor carts, cleaning hotel rooms, digging along the road. They were everywhere. Sarah flushed. How could she? How could she think like that? But she had been warned. And last time she had almost been robbed. She swallowed and clutched her handbag.

"Te acuerdas de mi? Remember me? the woman said. I just saw you in the courtroom. I recognized you. Remember me?"

Sarah studied her now. High cheekbones, thick, arched brows. Her hair was thick too, thick,