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Meg
October
Two Weeks before the Election
The Uber drops me at Terminal 2 at LAX. I’d returned my Range Rover to the dealer yesterday, told them I was moving out of the country and needed to cancel my lease. So sorry about that bumper! As the driver pulls my luggage from the trunk, I check my watch, hoping I can get through security quickly and find a TV.
The place is mobbed with late-afternoon commuters. As I wait in line to pass through the X-ray machine, I imagine Kat arriving at my house and finding what I left for her. Then I think about Ron, dealing with the chaos I’ve created, and let myself relive the moment I told him what I’d done.
***
It hadn’t been hard to find him. He was where he always was at 3:30 in the afternoon on a weekday, jogging through Santa Monica’s Palisades Park. Gravel paths winding through stands of trees, with the cliffs dropping down into the ocean beyond, it was well populated with other runners, parents or nannies pushing strollers, and power walkers deep in conversation. But I knew Ron would come. He tended his figure with the committed energy of an insecure woman creeping up on middle age, using the lull between lunch meetings and cocktail hour to do it.
I steadied myself, having imagined this moment for most of my adult life. For many years, I’d fantasized about Ron in handcuffs, the police raiding his company and closing it down. Ron being prosecuted for fraud. But then I grew up and realized there were two different legal systems in this country—one for wealthy white men like Ron Ashton and another one for everyone else.
I pretended to stretch against a tree until I saw him in the distance, then pushed off and began my slow jog toward him. His eyes lit up with recognition. “Meg,” he said as I pulled to a stop. “Just the person I want to talk to. Did you get any of my messages?” he asked. “I need the keys to the Mandeville house. My contractors need to get started if we want it to be ready by election night.”
I swiped my forehead and said, “That’s not possible.”
He looked confused. “Has something happened on the seller’s end?”
In all the years I’d been doing this, I never got to stick around and see the instant when realization hits. When misperceptions and assumptions about me crumbled. “There is no house,” I told him. “No escrow. The money is gone.”
He looked confused, but not panicked yet. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You didn’t buy the Mandeville Canyon house. If you look it up, it’s still for sale. If you call the listing agent, she’ll tell you they haven’t had an offer on it in over a year.”
I could see him trying to make sense of my words. “How is that possible?” he asked. “The money was wired to Orange Coast Escrow this morning. Steve confirmed it.”
“The money was wired to an account I control, and from there, it was transferred to the Los Angeles Homeless Cooperative. They’re a wonderful organization running shelters, providing counseling and medical care. They even hold job fairs.” I squinted into the late afternoon sun. “As a major donor, you should consider participating in one.”
There was a breath—a moment—when everything hung in the air between us. One second, then two, and then it clicked into place. “That’s impossible,” he whispered.
I checked my watch. “In about twenty minutes, the story is going to hit. The press release has already been sent to all the major outlets. ‘State Senate Hopeful Ron Ashton Donates $7 Million for the Homeless.’” I lowered my voice. “Though we both know not all of it was your money. A good chunk of it belonged to your donors.”
People were beginning to recognize Ron. One young man had his cell phone out, and I gestured toward him, saying, “Careful. You’re being recorded.”
“How could you—”
“You might be asking yourself ‘Why the homeless?’” I interrupted. “I’m sure your base will be wondering.” I took a breath, cementing the details of this moment in my mind—the afternoon air with just a hint of salt in it. The distant sound of waves crashing on the beach below. “Do you remember a woman named Rosie Williams? You dated her about fifteen years ago.”
He looked confused.
“Rosie was my mother,” I continued. “In 2004 you lied your way onto the deed of our house—the one I just sold for you. She was terminally ill, and yet you kicked us out. Do you remember what you told her?” When he didn’t answer, I delivered the words from so long ago. “‘There are winners and losers in life. You’re the loser here. Take the loss and be smarter next time.’”
Ron looked around, suddenly realizing we had an audience as more people gathered. “That’s a lie,” he said. “That never happened.”
“I think evicting people from your properties is a critical part of your business model.”
I lifted my phone and hit play on the voice memo I had ready. Ron’s voice floated into the air around us. My dream scenario is to find something in need of repair—I’m a developer and contractor at heart—evict the welfare queens and drug addicts, do a quick and cheap rehab, double the rents, and rent to college students too dumb or drunk to know better.
I stopped the recording and said, “The major outlets should be reporting on your surprise announcement very soon. Your statement is excellent. ‘Many years ago, I took advantage of a family’s trust,’” I recited from memory. “‘My actions then have always haunted me, and I’ve regretted them for years. My donation to the Los Angeles Homeless Cooperative is my way of repairing that mistake.’”
Ron’s face twisted into a sneer. “What you’ve done is illegal. You stole my money.”
I gave a tiny shrug. “The problem is, you stole it first. Which puts you in a real bind,” I said. “If you let the donation stand, you’ll lose your base and, likely, the election. I suppose you could report the money as stolen, claim that it was given to the homeless against your wishes, but how will you explain your business manager transferring campaign money into an escrow account?” I decided to give him one final nudge. “When police investigate someone, I imagine they’ll want to look at all their financials. Personal and business. Probably going back many years.” I stepped back, signaling the end of our conversation. “It’s been a pleasure working with you,” I said. “Best of luck on the election.”
I turned and began jogging up a side street. A glance over my shoulder showed Ron, standing there in his bright white running shoes and overpriced track suit, soft and sagging around the edges.
