“Please, call me Caitlin.”
“Caitlin, I’m Mary. Welcome to our home.” This was his wife, several decades younger, round cheeked with a pixie cut and eyes set in a permanent twinkle. She was originally from China and they’d met when she’d worked at Johannsen’s firm as a new hire out of Harvard Business School. Her family had ties to the Chinese leadership, Michelle recalled.
Wonder how that affects his investments, Michelle thought.
“This is Michelle,” Caitlin was saying. “If you need anything from me or the group later, just get in touch with her, and she’ll make sure it happens.”
“What can we get you ladies to drink?” Mary asked. A server in white and black had appeared next to them-Chinese? Michelle wondered.
It looked to be another gathering where most of the guests were white.
“Just water, thank you,” she said.
The next half hour passed in a blur of introductions and handshakes as she trailed Caitlin, collecting business cards and making notes. The guests were bankers, business owners, wealthy retirees, a police chief from a nearby city, a representative from the state prison guards union, one of the few non-white faces here, aside from Mary Johannsen and the serving staff.
Caitlin was good. She’d stuck to the one glass of wine, but it was more than that: she was focused, charming, on her game.
Well, she’d need to be, tonight.
The guests had started to settle in the living room, where Caitlin was to speak. You could see the remodeling here, too, Michelle thought: floor-to-ceiling windows had been installed for the ocean view she’d figured the house would have on this side. She couldn’t see the ocean because of the fog, but she could hear the boom of the waves through the double-paned glass.
“Well, look who’s here,” Caitlin said.
Michelle turned to Caitlin, who was smiling like she meant it.
Coming across the living room was Troy Stone, excusing himself a few times as he worked through the crowd on his way to her side.
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.