One Good Man

The room was empty but for us, and yet he kept his voice low, as if the whole town of Isla Vista—or all of greater Santa Barbara—were there, listening in and snickering that the only daughter of the wealthy, upper-crust owner of Alato Winery & Vineyards wasn’t the good girl everyone thought she was.

“Do you have any idea what you’re done to the family these last few weeks? Never mind your poor mother. She couldn’t even get out of bed when Sergeant Hollis called tonight.”

“I didn’t do anything but take pictures. They saw me—a college student, looking like a protester—and grabbed me too.”

“They wouldn’t have, if you didn’t get so damn close,” my father said. “Why do you have to get so close?”

“Because I’m tired of writing puff pieces on the university debate tournaments, or yet another article on the swim team’s ‘hopes for a good season.’” I shrugged. “I wanted to find a big story and get right to the heart of it.”

“Is the heart of the story inside a jail cell?”

“It’s not in a locker room or out on a track,” I said.

He stared me down and I did not blink.

Finally, he folded his hand on the table, and put on his deep, I-mean-business boardroom voice. “I’ve made a decision. You’re not covering any more protests. And you’re not attending college, not at UCSB.”

I shot up straight. “What? Why? Where am I going to go?”

“You’re going to France, to finish your education away from all this nonsense.”

I gaped, honestly taken aback. And then I laughed. A dry and humorless one, but a laugh nonetheless. “France? You’re pulling my leg.”

“You’ll withdraw from UCSB immediately,” my father continued. “Your grades and your French fluency will be enough to get you into the Sorbonne, and if not, I’m prepared to pull some strings or line a few pockets if that’s what it takes. You’ll fly to Paris. I will arrange an apartment for you, and you’ll finish out the school year, then resume your studies in September.”

“So that’s how it goes? You just declare how it’s going to happen and so it does? I’m not one of your business ventures.” I shook my head incredulously. “And the Sorbonne? There is no Sorbonne. Haven’t you been paying attention? The revolution two years ago? The old buildings aren’t even usable.”

“The school is still operating, and you are going there to finish your degree.”

I gave my head a shake. “Dad…you can’t. There’s no story there. Not any more. In ‘69, sure. But now—”

“Now, no one is getting shot,” my father said, his voice heavy, his eyes heavier.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “One arrest and you totally freak out.”

My father’s folded hands tightened. “A month ago, a college student just like you, was shot and killed at one of these protests, Janey. And there was that terrible shooting at Kent State just last week. Four young people, dead.” He shook his head. “If you keep covering the war, something might happen to you…Your mother and I are afraid.”

“You don’t have to worry about me—”

“Clearly, we do,” my father said, loudly.

“There’s nothing in Paris for me. No story…”

My father slammed his closed fist on the table, making Helen and I jump. “Your story, Janelle, is that you stay safe.”

“Safe,” I spat. “For you or me? Tell the truth, Dad. You and your fancy, rich clientele don’t want to see what this war is doing to us. To the boys who are called up to go and die. You don’t want to look at the photos I take, do you?” I shook my head, crossed my arms. “I’m not a helpless little girl you can ship overseas, like some kind of fragile piece of glass. Not gonna happen.”

“It is going to happen,” my father said. “To keep you out of jail. My friendship with Ted Hollis is the only reason you haven’t been booked already. But I don’t have to pull that string. I can set you up in a nice apartment in Paris, or you can sit in a prison cell in Chowchilla. Your choice.”

My heart clanged dully in my chest. “You’d let me go to prison?”

“What else can I do?” My father’s stern expression cracked to reveal the worry beneath.

Helen cleared her throat, reminding us of her presence.

“Might I have a word alone with Janey, Mr. Martin?” she asked in her timid, fluttery little voice that had never been lifted in protest.

My father gave me a final, thick look, almost pleading, and left the room. Helen waited until the door clicked shut, and then smiled at me sadly from behind her horn rims.