Chapter Three: Hizzoner
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I don’t know if Sierra Myers plans a long career in public relations but she experienced the full gamut of the profession in the next 20 minutes.
Within about five minutes of my live shot that included her sound bite about hearing the fatal shots, first Veronica Peter of Channel Four, then Gary Benjamin of Channel Seven, then a couple of seconds later Cynthia Ito of Channel Five got calls on their cells. Within seconds of that they were searching the crowd for Sierra.
A camera from Channel Eleven actually found her first, still sitting on the bench where I had left her smoking and staring out at Treasure Island. A few things happened in rapid succession after that. First, the cigarette was gone. Second, she stood up and pulled out a hair brush. By the time Sierra had finished with the third thing, getting presentable for the TV cameras, Channels Four, Five, and Seven had all arrived creating an honest to goodness media event. Since I had already enjoyed a little tete-a-tete with Ms. Sierra, I just hanged back and watched.
It appeared to me that everyone got the money sound bite, the one about hearing the gunshot and the moan but whatever Sierra may have wanted to tell the world about the perils of oil tankers or the imminent destruction of the planet at the hands of evil Homo Sapiens was left in mid-air because with a shout of “Hizzoner” from a truly dastardly domesticated primate, mayoral toady Guy O’Bannon, the entire pack picked up in mid-sentence and rushed over to where John Jacob Smith, Mayor of the City and County of San Francisco stood with his back to the bridge, not to the sculpture whose recent embellishment we were all there to talk about.
Smith, known as “Mayor J.J.” to his sycophantic admirers and “Jingleheimer” to the rest of us, stood about five foot six and weighed barely 135 pounds. He wore a dark black suit complete with vest and a tie that suggested he was serious and somber all at the same time. He shifted from side to side on his Oxfords while he waited for the TV cameras to get into position. At the age of 40, Smith fancied himself destined for higher office, maybe Governor or even a candidate for President of the United States. If Mr. and Mrs. Smith every actually went to Washington, I would rent a kayak from the vendors at McCovey Cove and start paddling towards New Zealand.
For this, I joined the media circus, grabbing a small mic stand from my bag and positioning my big microphone flag front and center of the TV shot on the wooden podium O’Bannon had already set up.
O’Bannon affixed the seal of the city and county to the front of the podium and then arranged the visuals for the news conference as if he was a florist preparing a mob funeral. The aide held out his hand to indicate where Police Chief Catalina Gonzalez should stand just to Jingleheimer’s right shoulder. Vincent tried to hang back but Gonzalez was having none of it. The chief ordered him into the frame much to the displeasure of O’Bannon who didn’t want anyone looming over the Mayor. With a six inch height differential, it would be hard for Vince not to overshadow most people, let alone the scrawny Smith. My old friend saw my smirk at the dance and gave me one of those dark gazes that used to accompany a loss in our drinking games in the Sonoma State dorms. I tried to look serious but I’m sure I failed.
O’Bannon didn’t have to worry about either the height or stature of the man standing to the mayor’s right shoulder. District Attorney Michael Eisenberg was even shorter than the diminutive mayor. San Francisco prosecutors are notorious for their inability to win major cases. It’s a problem that’s gone on for years over the tenures of several D.A.’s. Even so, Eisenberg’s office had set records for futility, losing nearly two-thirds of all felony cases put before a jury. Sure, juries in the city are often filled with liberal do-gooders who would rather see a bad guy given a chance at rehabilitation than good, old fashioned punishment but even these citizens will render a guilty verdict if they’re overwhelmed with evidence.
There is one crime that will see the full fury of the law come down on you if you commit it in the D.A’s presence or that of his minions. If you use the “M” word, you know the one that’s often used to describe “little people” whose employment possibilities once consisted merely of circus or carnival sideshows. Saying the world that rhymes with “Gidget”, especially in relation to the Chief Prosecutor might see you facing hate crime enhancements on top of whatever else Eisenberg’s people could concoct.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the mayor raised his arms as if he was the ringmaster at a circus that would have, in another era, featured Eisenberg in a clown’s get up and Chief Gonzalez doing summersaults off the back of a black stallion.
Smith’s next words may have announced the coming of the lion tamers for all we knew because as soon as he started speaking, the loud beeps from the descending fire truck basket drowned out whatever he had to say. The TV news photojournalists pressed a hand to their earpieces and turned to scowl at the offending sound.
Qion Fang pulled the evidence gloves off his hands as he enjoyed what must have been a most scenic ride from the top of the span to the grassy park below. His van was waiting for him at the bottom and the M.E.’s assistants had a stretcher ready for the return ride to pick up the body. I was sure that before that happened, Vince’s dicks were going to want to ride to the top to take a look for themselves followed by the crime scene specialists. We were in for a heap of beeps before this thing was over.
O’Bannon rushed over to the Battalion Chief to tell him to put a kibosh on the beeping until Hizzoner was finished.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, and Children of All Ages,” okay, the mayor didn’t really say the last two thirds of that except in my twisted imagination which I tried to turn off as a professional and just pay attention to what he really was saying.
“We come to you today despite these tragic circumstances to announce a major crackdown on crime in our fair city,” Smith beamed with pride as he paused in turn to gaze into each of the cameras in front of him. “I have directed Chief Gonzalez and District Attorney Eisenberg to put together a task force to come up with a new strategy for preventing crime, targeting our worst offenders, and bringing them to justice.
“San Francisco is a great city, a world-class city, whose citizens have the right to enjoy our nightlife, our culture, and our vibrant business environment free of fear, free of danger, and free of failure.”
Jingleheimer droned on for another five minutes in this vein before wrapping it up with a kicker that none of us really understood until much later.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Smith fingered the gold timepiece dangling from the chain attached to his black vest and put on his most serious expression. “Communication is the key to making this city the safest in the country and eventually the safest in the world. This task force will be looking at new ways to communicate with our citizens and more importantly listening to what they have to say. San Franciscans are the smartest, most well-educated, and most civic-minded people I’ve met anywhere. Getting them even more involved in the community will help us all stay safer. I believe in San Francisco and I know you do too. Thank you for coming today.”
I felt like shouting, “We didn’t come out for you asshole, we came because some poor schlub took his last breath while climbing on a fake bow and arrow.” I didn’t say that out loud of course.
“Chief Gonzalez,” I did say not just out loud but louder than all of the TV reporters could shout their questions, “what can you tell us about the victim today? Any indication of how he got to the top of the span?”
The chief started to answer but O’Bannon cut her off. He wasn’t going to let me derail the message his boss had come all the way down Market Street to deliver.
“Cynthia,” O’Bannon fingered his yellow polka-dotted bow tie then pointed to the Channel Five reporter. “I believe you had a question about the task force.”
“Mayor J.J.,” Ito gushed. “Where did you get the idea for this new innovative new initiative?”
“Well Cynthia,” Smith turned his smile up about 3.5 megawatts as he beamed into the Channel Five camera, “as you know, I recently visited Japan and China. In Japan, I saw a society built on tradition and respect and with very little violent street crime. It inspired me to see what we could do to build on that success right here in the gateway to the Pacific.”
“But Mayor,” I couldn’t resist, “isn’t part of the reason for the lack of random street violence in Japan the total hold on the underworld of organized crime like the Yakuza? Is that the model for San Francisco?”
“Certainly not, Mr. McKay,” the mayor and I are clearly not on a chummy first name basis like J.J. and Cynthia. “I believe we can learn from the Japanese experience and improve upon it.”
The other TV reporters and a scribe for the Chronicle each took turns throwing out softball questions for their friend J.J. although to be fair the newspaper guy did ask about new strategies to improve Eisenberg’s winning percentage.
When the news conference came to an end, I joined the TV shooters at the podium where we went through the ritual of untangling our microphone cords and I collected my recorder. As I turned away, O’Bannon was at my side.
“I’ve had about as much as I can take of your know-it-all attitude, McKay,” the weasel hissed in my ears. “But that’s okay, because before very long, I have a feeling you’re going to be out on the streets looking for new work. You’ll sure wish you had friends in this town then.”
“They say a dog’s a man’s best friend, Guy,” I laughed in the mayoral aide’s face, “and I would take a rabid pit bull’s companionship over yours any day.”
“You’re laughing now, McKay,” O’Bannon wagged his finger at me. “We’ll see how you act by the end of the week.”
“You know why I’m laughing now, O’Bannon?” I covered my mouth with my hand to hide a mock giggle. “It’s the bow tie. Yellow polka-dots, really? On a man of your age?”
The aide stomped off, then returned to the podium to collect the seal and then trotted behind Jingleheimer back to the mayoral limousine for the ride to City Hall.
I found Mira and got an update from her on what Qion had found including confirmation of the single gunshot wound to the forehead. The fire truck started its loud beeping again, this time taking Vince and his detectives up for a close look at the victim.
I returned to my car where I did a live shot on the mayoral appearance and then cut up more sound bites to send in to the station.
As I worked, I thought about O’Bannon’s threats. He might have been an insufferable asshole, but a fool he’s not, yellow polka dots notwithstanding. I wondered if there was a connection between his taunts and what I might learn at tonight’s mandatory station meeting. The mayor’s remark about communication, about listening to the citizens of the city also tickled my subconscious.
I knew I had some ammunition with which to fight this battle. I just didn’t suspect then that the most powerful weapon I had was sitting folded up in my bag next to the polemics of the Earth Defender’s Front.
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