3. Elsa / Trial and Error

THE ONE TASK Elsa truly despised was soliciting political support from liberals. But here she was riding the bus to Union Street to visit a lawyer involved in “San Franciscans for Criminal Justice,” since somebody had to do it, and everyone else was busy.

Most political activists put Elsa on edge with their suave manners, their excessive self-confidence, their high-borne liberalism. Not only these professionals, but the jeans-and-backpack leftists, too. Why was it so many leftists had college degrees never had to worry about where their next meal was coming from? Most of the ones she had met were the kind of people who would at most, support a rent strike but would never consider going on one themselves.

Elsa had gone to three groups so far: a co-op store, a “broad-based coalition” that published a newspaper, and an organization for fair housing in San Francisco. The co-op already had its tenant-support credentials by going to demonstrations and handing out literature for the International Hotel. They agreed to distribute leaflets but would not give any money or time to the Grove Street Tenants’ Association. The newspaper said they took all submissions before their editorial board and would have to have “basic agreement” with the politics of the Tenants’ Association before supporting it; they had taken leaflets from Elsa and invited her to their next meeting in two weeks, but had added that usually they focused their support on third world groups. The fair housing group did no practical work; they gathered statistics and held study groups, so there was not really anything they could do for the Grove Street tenants.

Maybe the whole idea of going to these groups was ridiculous. Not much had come of it so far. The only publicity given to the rent strike had been in the Berkeley Barb, hardly a bastion of the community. They had also been able to get stories on two local AM radio stations, but no ongoing coverage.

She stared gloomily out the window as the bus climbed from the Fillmore into the hills of the Marina. There were hardly any people walking outside up here. Tall apartment buildings stalked up and down the hills, while shops and restaurants thinned into oblivion. At the top of the hill she was provided with a stupendous view of the Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman’s Wharf, and the sparkling blue bay. The day wouldn’t be a total loss, anyhow.

Maybe this lawyer, Russ Latimer, would be easier to talk to. At least he wasn’t claiming to be a revolutionary; if anything, he’d accuse her of being too radical instead of not radical enough. From what she knew of San Franciscans for Criminal Justice, they were mainly professional people working in law, city government, or the media who were more or less civilian watchdogs of the police department, the courts, and the district attorney’s office.

She got off on Union Street and walked the block to his office, which was in a large flat above a French restaurant. Latimer specialized in drug cases. It must pay well because his place was furnished with heavy mahogany desks and chairs, beautiful Persian rugs, abundant and eclectic artwork, and secretaries in the latest Joseph Magnin casuals. One woman steered Elsa into Russ Latimer’s private office. Numerous plants and a cluttered desk lent a casual atmosphere, and he had hung High Times centerfolds next to his wood-framed law degrees. He was around 35 with a haircut designed to look permanently tousled; he wore a sporty three-piece suit; and a mustache completed his liberal young attorney style. He stood, smiled, shook Elsa’s hand, offered her coffee, and explained that he had another appointment in twenty minutes. “You said on the phone you’re involved in a rent strike.”

“Yes. I live in a building on Grove Street, and we’ve been on rent strike about two months now. There are a couple of ways I think San Franciscans for Criminal Justice could help. First let me explain our situation.” Briefly she ran down the chain of events starting with the fire. He interrupted once to say he knew of Bergman, and again to ask who the Grove Street Tenants’ Association attorney was. Elsa concluded: “We’re all set to file this suit for damages against Bergman, after this meeting in ten days between him and the Tenants’ Association. We’re gonna make him this proposal for settling out of court and want to go to the meeting with some written support for the proposal. There are four points. That he stops the unlawful detainer suit; that he doesn’t try any more illegal evictions or harassment of the tenants; that we do the repairs whenever possible and get paid for it; and that he doesn’t make any more profit at our expense – we’re willing to pay his costs every month, but nothing over.”

“And why do you think Bergman would consider this?” asked Latimer. He gave her a look of sympathy for her naivety. 

“Oh, he won’t want to. But we know he doesn’t want to be sued and have to go to court, he won’t want to spend all that time and money fighting us. And he doesn’t want a lot of bad publicity. He got quite a bit of attention a couple years ago over the tenement he built in the Western Addition.”

“Yes, I remember,” nodded Latimer.

“If we can let him know there are prominent people, lawyers and city officials and people like that, who are watching what he does in our building, well, he just might back down. He might not agree to all four points right off, but if he’ll agree to even one we’ll know he might go farther, if we keep the pressure on. Now, I don’t know how your group operates–”

“SFCJ has meetings every three weeks and sets policy at these meetings, decides what issues we’ll take action on.” Latimer leaned back in his big leather chair, hands locked behind his head. “Between meetings we have several committees to carry out those decisions. Unfortunately, we don’t have another meeting for two weeks so there’s no way SFCJ could endorse your proposal in time for your meeting with Bergman.”

Elsa sank back, disappointed. “We really need the support. Could we at least get some of the people to personally endorse it? That would mean something, too. I know there are a lot of professional people in the group. You could tell me the people most likely to support us, or better you could call them and set up a meeting for us. If you called, wouldn’t they be more prone to support our proposal?”

Latimer tilted forward again and lit a cigarette. “Of course, as far as I’m concerned a letter is no problem. But I’d like to hear a little more about the Tenants’ Association. For instance, what is your ultimate goal in this rent strike? What do you hope to accomplish?”

Elsa frowned, not fully comprehending. “We don’t want to be kicked out of our house.”

“No, no, I realize that, of course.” Latimer arced the air with his cigarette smoke. “What I mean is that quite a few San Franciscans have similar problems with their landlords, but don’t go on rent strike. They might not pay rent and simply live in their apartment until forced to leave. But you people decided to stay and fight openly. You formed a tenants’ union and you’re trying to get outside support.”

Elsa swallowed her rising resentment. “I guess I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“Several things,” he replied, softening his voice somewhat. “One thing I’m curious about is what outside encouragement you may have received to form the Tenants’ Association. Also, I’d be interested in discussing how you’re prepared to deal with the situation if you lose in court. Your chances of winning the lawsuit in front of any San Francisco judge and jury are slim, as I’m sure you realize.”

She flushed, and spoke slowly to control her voice. “Well, we have some trust in juries since they’re just people like us. We’re regular poor people, that’s all. No one’s been conned into the rent strike by some organization. We just decided ourselves to do it. We’ve already given Bergman, in the last eight months, over one-fourth of the money he paid for the building. We got sick of paying all that money and never getting anything fixed and not having security from month to month, and having men sent over to the building threatening people. You don’t have to be a communist to know when you’re getting ripped off.”

Latimer grinned. “I know people who would disagree with you on that point.”

“I have to say, it seems to me a communist would be more alert to spotting injustices like this one. And I guess we’re doing more to fight injustice than some of the groups calling themselves socialists, even though we aren’t as well-read. No one in the Tenants’ Association has any great attachment to the present economic system, but most of us haven’t been actively political, up until now.”

“But you realize that a rent strike is a deeply political action.”

“Of course. But maybe the word ‘political’ means something different to you than it does to us.” Latimer looked doubtful and Elsa added: “You meant it about affiliations. We haven’t any. But we still decided to fight.”

He put out his cigarette. “Most tenants on rent strike have some kind of connection with a political organization. The International Hotel, for one example. It’s unusual to find a group of tenants who independently decided to fight. And it’s refreshing.”

“We want to show other people in our situation that they can do something about it, not just roll over and play dead.”

“The housing situation in the Haight Ashbury is becoming atrocious. I’ll be frank with you, Elsa.” He spoke confidingly. “I don’t have any problem with what you’re saying. I think it’s great to see people doing something like this. But most of the people in SFCJ aren’t so tolerant of this method of fighting injustice. They’re more liberal than radical. You may have some trouble raising support among our members. But I’ll certainly be glad to give you a list of the other members, and to write a letter myself. As for calling them myself, setting up meetings for you, I don’t see how I could possibly do that this week. I have to be in court every day, I have a trial coming up.”

She handed him a copy of the Tenants’ Association proposal. “You can keep that, and draft a letter from it.”

He skimmed it, nodded, and pressed a button on his phone. “Loretta, will you bring me the list of SFCJ members? And is Joseph here yet? All right, tell him I’ll just be a few more minutes.” He stood, signifying the end of their meeting. “You can pick up the letter any time after today. I’ll draft it tonight and have Loretta type it first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks a lot,” Elsa said, standing up also. “There’s one more thing I wanted to ask you.” He paused politely. Damn, she thought, why did I wait so long for this, the toughest thing to ask? “We’re printing up leaflets and we have legal costs, and none of us has too much money. We’re trying to get donations to pay for it. Do you think you could help us out there, too?”

“I’m afraid this week it’s impossible,” he said regretfully, and grinned, “None of my clients has paid me for a while. But if you call me next Thursday or Friday, I think I could manage something.” His secretary came in. “It’s been nice talking to you, Elsa.”

On the way home she mulled over the meeting as the bus lurched back downhill toward the slums. What had gone wrong was that she’d allowed herself to be put on the defensive. She felt uncomfortable remembering the conversation. Latimer had probably taken her defensiveness to mean she herself thought the rent strike was hopelessly idealistic. Actually, she’d been out-manipulated once again by a smooth-talking liberal. She grimaced, remembering how she’d practically agreed with Latimer that it would be terrible if any of the tenants belonged to a political organization. Worse, she’d helped him to create a justification in his own mind for not actively supporting the rent strike. Instead of sticking to the exploitation and illegal actions by Bergman, Elsa had let Latimer twist the focus to the credentials of the tenants’ union members. She thought: I should have brought him to a deep enough understanding of what it is we’re up against, so that if we do lose in court, he’ll still back us up when we refuse to leave the building. If we don’t have a lot of attention focused on our situation, there’s no telling what might happen.

But on the plus side, he’d agreed to publicly support the tenants with a letter and had half-promised to give some money next week. Now a week remained in which to convince the 30 or 40 other members of SFCJ to do the same. There wouldn’t be any point in having the meeting with Bergman without a lot of public pressure to apply to him. Elsa would have to split up this list among the tenants tonight and impress upon them all the urgency of getting these letters. She’d have to explain the mistakes she’d made with Latimer so they wouldn’t repeat them. 

If only she didn’t have so much to do! But someone had to make sure everything got done, and got done right. Elsa, Michelle and Jimmy took on the most responsibility and had become the leaders, albeit unofficially, of the Tenants’ Association. Because of her warmth, outgoing nature, and alertness to the moods of others, Michelle was close to almost everyone in the building. She was always spotting potential problems and nipping them in the bud. She knew when Alix and Jimmy needed childcare so they could be alone for a while; and seeing Sue’s nervousness over a medical problem, Michelle found a good doctor and went with Sue to her office. She brought Sue and Kenny over to get high when Loren and Mitch were already over, so that the four could come to know one another better, thus becoming more comfortable and developing trust. Michelle paired tenants for door to door work whose skills would be complementary. When Paul and Karen argued, it was to Elsa and Michelle’s apartment that Karen came for understanding. And it was Michelle who talked at length with Lucky and Kenny about their attitude toward her relationship with Elsa, working through some of the resentments and prejudices of the two men.  

Jimmy and Elsa were not so personable or likeable as Michelle. Jimmy was quiet, untalkative; Elsa did not develop friendships easily, though she was not shy. However, Jimmy and Elsa were respected for their willingness to work more than anyone else and because their perspectives had usually been proven correct. When opinions were being sought, or someone was needed to do some work, or when a development in the rent strike occurred, it was to Elsa or Jimmy that the other tenants went.

To some extent, areas of responsibility had been established. The neighborhood mobilizing, or door-to-door effort, was primarily the job of Michelle and Karen. Elsa and Kenny had been chosen to deal with the police, should they continue putting in appearances; they were, with Jimmy, generally responsible for security. Building and financial matters – such as maintaining the Grove Street Tenants’ Association bank account and making any necessary repairs – were taken care of by Mitch and Paul. Legal affairs were overseen by Elsa and Loren, who were also in charge of organizing outside support from groups and the media.

But in reality, if Elsa or Jimmy or Michelle did not consistently check up on, remind, and push, things didn’t get done on time or correctly far too often. Like the time Loren was supposed to make copies of ten different code sections at the law library, only four blocks away, and forgot to do it until after 11:00, by which time the library was closed.

There weren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done. Elsa’s job consumed six precious hours, and after that she was usually busy until late at night. Or else she fell into bed early from exhaustion. The past couple weeks she and Jimmy and Michelle had been getting together eve night to talk things over. Tonight she was to go out with Sue, who was dispirited; she was trying to handle her relationships with Lucky and Loren not too successfully, and her part-time cashier job at the Wax Museum on the Wharf depressed her. Last night Elsa had watched Juliet and Jasmine so Michelle could spend some time with Alix, whose past problems with drugs and alcohol haunted her. Someone needed to go to Paul and Karen’s to make sure their morale was not running low and that they weren’t becoming alienated from the others; they tended to shut themselves into a cocoon at times, despite their frequent arguments. She would ask Michelle to visit them.

If only, for a change, she and Michelle could spend an evening alone and free of work. Before the rent strike their nights had been special – long walks through the never-dull city streets, stopping for coffee when the fog had penetrated to their bones, or catching a movie at the Times on Stockton Street. They had even gone to the Wharf once in a while, riding the cable cars like tourists. They had wandered through the morbid, deserted Financial District at midnight; spent hours in a pool hall; drank Irish coffees in North Beach; walked along the cold beach at night and warmed up at the VFW bar over a drink, or at the Cliff House over a cup of coffee.

Elsa and Michelle had both known what a rent strike would do their private lives. They’d gone into it fully aware, but still, there were times when Elsa resented the other tenants for allowing so much of the burden to fall on her and Michelle. Like today. She was tired and downhearted and what she really wanted to do was go home, cook a big dinner, take a long hot bubble bath with Michelle reading her items from the newspaper and Juliet splashing in the water; later, to lay side by side in bed, talking for hours, then to make love, long delicious love. That never happened anymore. These days they made love in the early morning, before Juliet got up and before Elsa went to work. But neither woman was particularly amorous or energetic at that time of day.

But other than this, Elsa regretted nothing about the rent strike. For the first time in her life she felt centered; she felt worthwhile as a person, not just in the eyes of a man, or a lover, or a friend, but in her own eyes. She was doing something that mattered.

She had not grown up unaware of the harsh lines dividing rich from poor, that was for sure. Her father was a logger in Susanville, a small town deep in the northern Sierras. He’d always had a tough time earning a living but particularly during the 1960s and after, when environmentalists had begun making survival difficult and existence questionable for loggers. She had been raised to face reality, to know that certain things were not open to her, and barring a miracle never would be. Her parents had told her she had strikes against her early in the game: she was female, she was a workingman’s daughter, she was from the country and rural people didn’t often escape. She could never be a lawyer, doctor, or merchant. For that matter, she would not in all likelihood be a nurse, executive secretary, or teacher. She would probably not marry a man who was any of those things; she would end up marrying a man like her father, who labored with his hands and body, and did not use his mind as the tool with which to earn a living. If she was lucky, her husband would be a carpenter or plumber or electrician – the blue collar elite.

Not that Elsa’s mother did not dream for her daughter. If only her children could reap the benefits of the American dream, have lives not so filled with drudgery as her own had been, and her mother’s before her. To find a man who was good, warm, and did not beat her; hopefully one she loved and was loved by in return; and what good fortune if he happened to be a doctor or businessman.

Elsa still recalled one conversation she’d had with her mother when she was around sixteen. Her mother was a hard-working woman, resentful of the upper classes yet terribly envious of their lives. Like Elsa’s father, she had come from Oklahoma during the ‘30s when she was a toddler and had learned the hard way that California was not paradise. But at least they didn’t have to worry anymore about having enough food on the table. If only– “I want you kids to have it different,” her mother had said, gripping her cup of coffee, her eyes far away. “With you, I always worried you wouldn’t finish school or you’d get into trouble. When you were babies we lived in that shack outside town with no heat and your daddy couldn’t find work – you were hungry half the time. We used to go all the way to Sacramento to the clinic–“

“I remember,” Elsa murmured. How she’d hated those long, hot, tedious drives!

“We couldn’t afford a doctor up here so we’d load you all up and go. Now we got this nice house, but I want you kids to be able to live nice right off after you get married, not have to wait twenty years. You enjoy things so much more when you’re young. I never knew any rich people I liked, it’s true; but I want my kids to have it good. Elsa, I look old now, but I remember when I was 18 how pretty I was. But once you start having babies and have to make ends meet when you can’t even find ‘em, you get old fast.” She stroked the lines extending from her eyes. “If you didn’t have to worry about all that stuff – paying the bills, not having work, getting clothes for your kids at the Salvation Army, not being able to afford the doctor or dentist, having a car that don’t run half the time, worrying about your kids getting pregnant or running around in a gang…”

It was the only time her mother had ever spoken to her like this, and Elsa found tears welling up in her eyes and throat. She said fiercely: “Mama, I’m not ashamed of who I am, or of you and Daddy. I don’t care what kind of man I marry so long as I love him. I ain’t even sure I want to get married anyway. Not going to college doesn’t bother me.”

Their conversation had begun over the question of college. “But if you went to college,” her mother persisted, “you could meet a man that has a future. Maybe a professor or a lawyer, someone with – someone that could provide you with an easier time.”

“Don’t you understand what I’m saying, Mama? You and Daddy always told me what you thought of rich people. How can you want me to marry a rich boy? It’d be marrying the boss.” The boss, the main enemy in her parents’ lives. “And have a bunch of snotty little kids like the Deerings and go to some dumb country club. I never want to be like that!”

Her mother sighed. “I just figured if more people like us went to college and became doctors and lawyers, we wouldn’t be like they are. We know what it’s like. We’d be different. I don’t think you kids would ever forget how it was for us. It’s so awful being poor, Elsa, and so easy to never be anything else.”

She had not been back to Susanville for a long time. After writing her mother about herself and Michelle, she had not heard from her family. There were some things her parents could not accept. 

And ever since leaving home she had been learning the truth in what her mother had said. She’d never been anything but poor. But she’d never felt that personal ambition was worthwhile, at least not economic ambition, and even if she had, she’d never had the opportunity to be anything but a low-level worker. Now, finally, she was doing something important. Something her mother and father had never done. She was saying “no more” to someone rich.

THE NEXT DAY at work, Elsa had a hard time concentrating on her tasks. She and Sue had stayed out pretty late, then this morning Juliet woke her and Michelle at 6:30.  Consequently Elsa was a little spaced out and allowed the shrimp-salad sandwich mix to run out. 

The boss, Kris, was working today. Elsa was the only one who called him “the boss”; the others refrained from mentioning Kris’s status. After all, it was a “hippie” restaurant and since you could wear jeans to work and smoke dope in the kitchen, they said “it’s not like a regular job.” “It sure isn’t,” Elsa said once, “you’d get paid better somewhere else!” Kris came to work like everyone else and made a point to be on time. He usually discussed hirings and firings with the other workers, but his decisions were final. Elsa was not fooled into believing this job was progressive. The restaurant was legally and economically controlled and owned by Kris. That was what counted. 

He was short-tempered today. Noting the empty shrimp salad container, he suddenly turned on Elsa, visibly upset. He called to her sharply, “Elsa, come here, will you?” and proceeded to lecture her. “You know we never let these things get so low. Why did you do this? Make sure it gets made before someone comes in and wants a shrimp sandwich, all right?” He ran his hand over his hair and tossed it back. “I don’t know why you should have to be reminded of this, Elsa. You’ve been here a long time now.”

She just stood there silently, trying to keep any expression from her face and thinking that she probably wasn’t succeeding. Kris finally caught himself in the middle of a sentence, perhaps hearing himself, and turned a little pink in the face. He muttered “I gotta chop some onions for the soup” and walked away. 

She watched his departing backside, shaking her head. Nothing could ever change what a boss was, long hair and jeans and dope in the kitchen or not.

Later that day Kris griped at one of the other workers for not bussing tables fast enough. Elsa was disgusted with the man, his pretenses at casualness toward the business, but still coming down on them for little mistakes. But she was surprised to find herself becoming depressed. It wasn’t that Kris was bumming her out so much as the situation was. Whatever he said, she had to let him say it. Her life was a seesaw: on the one hand, resistance, refusal to be exploited, strength; on the other, this job, this daily six hours of boredom, uselessness, being told what to do and when to do it. How much longer could she stand it?  What else could she do to survive, since dealing dope was not an option? The only alternative was to live on Michelle’s welfare check, but how could three people make it on $280 a month?

THE AFTERNOON OF the meeting with Bergman, Elsa hurried home eagerly after work. Sue, Kenny, Mitch and Jimmy had gone go the meeting, bringing seven letters and some 50 signatures from neighbors supporting the Tenants’ Association proposal. Marty Singleton had also gone to the meeting, and Sue and Kenny had secretly brought their tape recorder in Sue’s handbag.

When she arrived home Juliet and Jasmine were riding tricycles on the sidewalk, while Michelle sat in the hot sun smoking a cigarette, her bare feet rubbing the dog’s stomach. He was Jimmy and Alix’s dog, a fluffy mutt, and lay sleeping on the sidewalk, not even moving while the two children nearly ran over his ears. Michelle seemed to glisten in the sun and Elsa felt a rush of joy at the sight of her. Their hands touched.

“Have they come back from the meeting yet?”

Michelle shook her head. “They’ll be here any time. Sue called a few minutes ago to say they were just leaving downtown.”

“What did she say happened?”

“Not much, just that he wouldn’t go for any of it.”

They arrived shortly, and everyone who was home gathered in Jimmy’s apartment for a report.

Mitch ran it down. “Mrs. Taylor was there, Bergman, and two of his boys. They didn’t say anything the whole time, the goons, they just watched us.”

Sue laughed. “And Jimmy and Mitch didn’t say anything, they just watched.”

“Kenny gave Bergman copies of the letters and petitions and told him our four conditions for not filing the suit. He looked pissed off but he just said he didn’t care whether we had a thousand signatures on something, that wouldn’t make up his mind. We went through each point and he told us why they were all too outrageous. Especially the point about him not making a profit off us, he couldn’t believe that one. He started telling us how America’s a free country and property rights are practically sacred, and he’s not ashamed of being a capitalist. So then he made us an offer to settle out of court, five hundred bucks a piece if we all move out and don’t file any lawsuits, and he’ll drop the unlawful detainer.”

“What a scumbag!” Michelle exclaimed.

Jimmy spoke up. “Kenny asked him why we should consider that anything more than a bribe. He said he wasn’t admitting any wrongdoing by making the offer, it was simple economics. It would cost more in time and money for him to bring his lawsuit and defend against ours, just to prove we’re wrong, and that he’d rather sacrifice a few grand. He said he’d rather lose a little money than all that time.”

Elsa chortled. “Funny how he never said that on the first of the month.”

“Ain’t it?” agreed Mitch. “Well, that was about it. I don’t think he expected us to take him up on the offer, he was probably feeling us out to see if there were any conditions we’d give in on.”

“That lawyer must have thought he was plea bargaining for us,” Jimmy said. “He wanted to go into all the particulars of the offer. He didn’t think it would make us look eager for a settlement if he started asking the conditions.”

“How bad was it?” asked Michelle. She had a well-known aversion to lawyers and felt no better about Marty Singleton than any other barrister. She called them legal pimps. “They sell your ass like street pimps. Only they sell it to the law and take your money too.”

“He cooled it after a few minutes because Jimmy leaned over and told him to stop right there.”

“Ah, I don’t think it’s going to work out with him if we keep getting into these hassles,” sighed Elsa. “He wants to make all our decisions.”

“You should call him up tomorrow,” Jimmy suggested. “He was a little miffed. Anyway, this money offer is significant. Bergman’s obviously reluctant to go to court and have to explain things. Plus, his whole reputation will be publicly exposed. He knows the damage suit will get into some pretty heavy stuff – his tactics with tenants, his past. He doesn’t want any attention focused on him or his buildings.”

Elsa turned to Kenny. “Let’s listen to the tape.”

His face reddened. Sue shifted in her chair. Kenny said, “We had a little problem with that, Elsa. Sue and me got our wires crossed. I thought she was bringing a blank cassette and she thought I was.”

“You mean you didn’t record the meeting?!” Elsa jumped up from the rug, ignoring the hand Michelle laid on her to cool her down. She couldn’t believe it. How could they have spaced out something so simple, yet so important? She went to the window and stared out at the darkening street. Her anger boiled up but what good would it do to direct it at Sue and Kenny? Obviously they knew they’d screwed up. An argument would only cause friction in the building.

“I know we made a mistake,” Sue was saying. “But by the time we realized what had happened, we were already in Bergman’s office. Elsa, I really am sorry–”

“Why tell me you’re sorry? It wasn’t a personal favor to me to tape that meeting. I’m tired of being talked to like a supervisor because I try to make sure we get our work done, live up to our commitments. None of you has to answer to me; we all have to answer to each other. Every time someone makes a mistake it’s like stabbing everyone else in the back. It betrays the trust each of us has with everyone else in the building. Until everyone really believes that, really feels it, then we’re going to keep making mistakes. And it’s getting more dangerous to make them.” She walked to the door.

“Don’t leave, Elsa,” Karen said, looking upset.

“It’s not because I’m mad. I’m not. But these kinds of discussions shouldn’t focus on individuals, they should focus on the situation, on the circumstances. You should talk about why it was a mistake and about what we’re doing.”

Jimmy followed her out. She heard him telling the others that he didn’t want her to walk around alone. They went to the Panhandle in silence, past the old men drinking wine on their bench and the teenagers playing a rough game of basketball. Finally Elsa said, “Well, what do you think? Am I expecting too much?”

“Yes, you are.” He took her hand. “But someone has to.”

“Why aren’t you bothered as much by that kind of thing?”

“I am. I just don’t show it.”

She smiled at him and he smiled back and they were both thinking of his time at Folsom. 

“I almost blew my cool today, though,” he went on. “We were in the waiting room at Bergman’s office when we realized they didn’t have a tape. I felt like throwing Kenny out the window. But at least the lawyer was there so we have another witness to the whole thing besides ourselves.”

Elsa laughed morosely. “Great witness. He’s trying to get us to take the deal. Well, I guess we should draw up affidavits for him and our people to sign, saying what Bergman offered and what he said. So we’ll have some record, anyway.”

They walked in silence again. It was that beautiful time of day when the sun has gone down but darkness has only begun to creep up on the daylight and everything seems tinged a faint bluish pink. 

“Jimmy, I think I’m gonna quit my job. Someone has to take on these details full time. It’s as much my fault as Sue and Kenny’s, because I should’ve been at that meeting.”

“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses about that job,” Jimmy grinned. “I was getting set to ask you to do just that. There’s been too much spacing out around here lately.”

“I know. Why do you think that is?”

“Everyone’s finally realizing how serious this thing is, and they’re getting scared.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being scared. It keeps you on your toes.”

“But the difference is, you and me and Michelle and Alix, we’ve been scared from the beginning. Everyone else is just now realizing what they’ve got themselves into.”

Elsa shook her head ruefully. “The middle of the game is kind of late to realize it’s not a scrimmage.”

“But it’s better than not realizing it at all.”