“Mr. Schwartz is on disability leave,” she told me. “Has been for about two months.”
“Paid leave?” I asked, absorbing the implications.
“Yes,” she said. “You should call the county personnel office for verification, though.”
I thanked her and went on to round two. If he was on leave from the D.A., then for whom was George Schwartz following us around?
I already knew from trying to track down LaShonda DeBevis that county personnel wasn’t going to give me anything as useful as an address and a telephone number. Information was of no use: there were too many George Schwartzes in Los Angeles, doubtless many more in the commuter suburbs that fan out from the city for a hundred-mile radius.
Mike’s badge number is 15991. I invoked it when I called the south Pasadena police and asked for booking information on Schwartz, George, white male, arrested for assault on a police officer that very day. Among the information I received, including Schwartz’s booking number, was the address on his driver’s license-he lived in Santa Monica-and a work telephone number. I dialed the number I was given. Intrigued, I dialed the number a second time to make sure I had it right: the phone was answered by campaign headquarters, Marovich for District Attorney.
I didn’t come up for air until about halfway through dinner at a Chinese place in Sherman Oaks when Casey tapped her chopsticks on the edge of my plate to get my attention.
“Earth to Mom,” she said. “What’s your estimated time of arrival?”
“Sorry,” I said, taking her hand.
“What are thinking so hard about?”
“These accusations against Mike. There’s something strange going on.”
“What are you going to do?”
I shrugged, tried to change the subject. “I saw a dance shop on the way. You need some shoes.”
Shaking her head, smiling at me to show she wasn’t buying, she said, “What are you going to do?”
I leaned toward her. “I’m going to visit the campaign headquarters of Baron Marovich. You game?”
“Hold on.” She picked up one of the fortune cookies that came with the check and cracked it open, read the fortune, handed it to me. “Let’s go.”
The fortune said, “Make your own destiny.”
Marovich campaign headquarters was on Victory Boulevard out in Van Nuys. The campaign had taken over a vacant storefront at the end of a block of vacant storefronts; quiet neighbors, but a busy intersection.
I could just make out “Valley Carpets and Floorcoverings,” no more than a gold-leaf shadow on the big front windows to tell who the last tenant had been. Campaign posters covered some of the holes left by long-gone store fixtures. The huge space was unevenly filled with rented desks and mismatched chairs, tangles of telephone wires, a hodgepodge of computer equipment and typewriters. The only luxury to be found was the luscious seafoam-green carpet.
I scanned the dozen or so volunteers working the phones or stuffing envelopes, picking my target. I passed on the retiree with the bald head and bald-toed tennies, passed on the well coiffed matron and the earnest young pair I guessed were there as part of a Poli-Sci 1A assignment.
I settled my attentions, finally, on a young man stationed off to the side, polished Gucci loafers on the desk next to half a take-out order of sushi. His clothes, which he wore easily, were subdued in color but extravagant in tailoring and, I was sure, in cost. Slacks, striped silk tie, custom-fitted white-on-white shirt rolled up to the elbows. In his manner I read good schools, good connections. Going places.
If money is the mother’s milk of politics, then press coverage is surely the hand that rocks the cradle. I pulled out my press credentials as I led Casey over to my pigeon.
I think Casey liked his looks. She held herself tall, flipped her long hair over her shoulders.
“Maggie MacGowen,” I said, holding out my press card to him. “My intern, Casey.”
He brightened, took down his feet, swept the sushi into a desk drawer. Then he offered his hand to both of us in turn, giving Casey more turn than me. “Schuyler Smith. How can I help you?”
“I’m interested in your volunteers,” I said.
“Media relations handles all interviews. If you’ll leave your card…”
“Sure.” I smiled, propped my hip against his desk. “All I’m doing at this point is deep background for a nonpartisan piece to run as filler on election night after all the rhetoric has been canned. ‘Volunteers: Who Are They?’-something like that. Marovich is an old-time pol. I thought there might be some personalities to mine here.”
Smith surveyed the mixed bag populating the room, smiling at some retort he was keeping private. What he said was, “The district attorney depends on citizens dedicated to his platform of a quality judicial system, of fairness…”
“Are you a volunteer?” I asked. “Or paid staff?”
“Full-time volunteer.”
He must have read something into the glance I gave his Guccis, because he felt a need to explain further. “I feel so strongly about Mr. Marovich’s candidacy that I took a six-month leave from my job.”
“Paid or unpaid leave?” Already a familiar refrain.
He frowned. “You really should talk to media relations.”
I made a little bow as an apology. “For background only. I’m curious, of course. A campaign on this scale takes a lot of bright-young-man hours.” I glanced at Casey. “And bright-young-woman hours. The time represents quite a financial sacrifice. Your employer would risk violating election laws if he kept you on the payroll, risks his own productivity if he leaves your job open for you. I was merely wondering how you keep yourself in sushi and why you would put a career on hold and how you got your employer to go along.”
He was eyeing my daughter, holding in his little gut for her benefit. “I’m fortunate to work for a firm with a social conscience. They feel that any sacrifice now is an investment in the future. Contacts made, friendships solidified.”
“They pick your candidate?”
“Of course not.” Still smiling.
“Who do you work for?” I asked. The law firm he mentioned was only too familiar. Jennifer Miller hung her credentials on the wall there. Baron Marovich was an alumnus.
Casey had wandered off to leaf through a stack of posters. Smith watched her. I was tempted to snatch him bald for his thoughts. Not so long ago, I… I believe the first sign of impending middle age is becoming invisible to men under thirty. I wasn’t invisible yet, but I felt I was fading.
“George Schwartz,” I said to get Smith’s attention. “Excuse me?”
“I understand George Schwartz has left his position with the district attorney’s office to work for the campaign. Do you know him?”
“I know who he is. George works under the aegis of the executive staff. I don’t see much of him.”
“What does he do for the executive staff?”
“Leg work. I’m not sure.”
“Know how I can reach him?”
“You might leave a message through Roddy O’Leary. Or call media relations.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Mind if we speak with some of your volunteers?”
“Media relations will be in at nine tomorrow. You’ll have to ask them.” He was smooth, never let the friendly mien drop. I left him my card. Casey and I walked back out into the noise of city traffic, heads together, trying not to burst out laughing at the smooth of Mr. Schuyler Smith.
We had filled in some blanks, learned a few questions to ask. It was time well spent.
Casey was in no mood to waste the last night without homework at home. She came with me to my office in Burbank to help me get settled in. Sounds boring, but we were having fun, cataloguing video tapes before shelving them, taking turns with the TV, fifteen minutes of Satellite Network News, then fifteen minutes of MTV, with a few seconds of token groaning to serve as segue between sets.