by Martin Brown
Grant was annoyed by Ethel Landau’s suggestion, quoted in the following paragraph, that it might be time for the commission to "reconsider Mr. Randolph’s participation.”
“I’ll quit before they ever have the chance to ask me to step aside!” Grant said, as his face reddened in anger.
But what most angered both Grant and Barbara was Warren’s claim that at press time, neither of the Randolphs were available for comment.
“That’s complete bullshit!” Grant said as he slammed the paper down on the table.
Barbara grabbed it off the table and reread the story in silence. When she had finished, in a soft voice she said, “This is awful, just awful!”
After a few moments of silence, Ray, the only one of the three of them not intimidated by Grant’s anger, said, “I don’t like that little gnome any more than you do, Grant, but we all know what he wrote isn’t a total fabrication.”
“I don’t mean what he said about the fight. That was mostly true—although I think he deliberately over-dramatized Barbara’s condition. What ticks me off is this bullshit about neither of us being available for comment at press time,” Grant explained.
“In other words,” Ray said, “you think the SOB was avoiding you because he didn’t want your comments, knowing you’d at least try to explain what happened.”
“Exactly! He wanted to put our situation in the worst light possible, right down to his wisecrack, making it sound as if we just arrived here off the set of Gangs of New York.”
“I do not doubt that. With my having the last name of Sirica, Bradley would gladly imply that I’m a retired Chicago mobster! In truth, he’s lucky my dad was in the pajama game, and not in the Cosa Nostra. Otherwise, Warren would be on his way right now to the bottom of Richardson Bay in cement pajamas.”
With that, the four of them shared a much-needed laugh. Afterward, each imagined how much better a place their community would be if Warren Bradley was entombed in cement and deposited into the quiet waters between Sausalito and Tiburon.
Barbara tried to take this latest social setback in stride. “Between the hatchet job Bradley did on me for turning down the league’s invitation, and now our knock-down, drag-out fight, maybe I should get fitted for a burqa for when Debbie and I take one of our walks through town.” Barbara's suggestion broke the tension, to Ray and Debbie’s relief.
At that moment, the four close friends looked up as they heard the gate on the white picket fence open and shut. Oscar and Clarice Anderson were walking toward them. Clarice was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. After exchanging greetings and an introduction to Ray and Debbie, Oscar said, “Clarice and I just read what that awful man, Bradley, wrote about the two of you. We never read The Standard, and we didn’t even know about his column.”
“How’d you find out?” Ray asked.
“A friend called us to tell us that our names were in the paper!” Clarice explained. “So, we fished the paper out of the recycling bin. That’s what happens every week—it comes in the mail, we look at the front page to see if there’s any news that concerns us—street repairs, bond measures and such—then we put it in recycling.”
“Do you even know Warren Bradley?” Grant asked.
“Oh, sure. We’re on the library volunteer committee with him,” Oscar said.
“When he showed up at our house with a plate of brownies we, of course, invited him in,” Clarice explained. “We were both surprised to see him. He’s never done anything like that before.”
“When we saw his column today, we realized why he had been so nice,” Oscar added with a scowl.
“I’m so sorry about all this,” Clarice sobbed. “I’m even sorry that we called the police! But when we heard Barbara scream, we didn’t know what was happening.”
Barbara, tearing up, stood up and embraced Clarice. “Don’t cry, dear. This all started over a stupid misunderstanding; both of us had way too much to drink, and everything from that point on got out of control.”
Grant’s face reddened with feelings of both anger and embarrassment.
After hugs were exchanged, the Andersons left. Clarice was still dabbing away tears as they sauntered back toward the white picket fence.
As Ray and Debbie got up to leave, Grant declared, “If I ever see Bradley again at a meeting of the arts commission, I’m going to wring that wicked little man’s neck.”
“Don’t do anything to make things worse, pal,” Ray warned him. “This will all die down in a week or two. Until then, if you should run into Bradley, do yourself a favor and keep your hands in your pockets.”
Every Saturday evening in spring, The Sausalito Opera Society, SOS, holds an outdoor performance at Gabrielson Park, which is within steps of the ferry landing and the Sausalito Yacht Club.
The mild evening air and that evening’s performance, featuring selections from Verdi’s La Traviata, brought out what was likely the event’s biggest opening night crowd ever.
Almost all the town’s residents—especially those who served on various governmental and social committees—were in attendance: the five members of the city council, members of the city’s numerous commissions: planning, design review, historical, parks and recreation, and fine arts.
Also present were most of the Sausalito Women’s League members, several of whom served on the committee that arranged refreshments for the night.
Most notably Alma, and her Ladies of Liberty, who sat at one of the several tables reserved for distinguished guests and local officials.
Grant decided not to sit at the table reserved for the arts commission, choosing instead to join Barbara, Ray, and Debbie on a blanket spread on the park’s thick green grass. At first, Barbara resisted the suggestion of attending. It had only been three days since Warren’s column had appeared, and Barbara dreaded the curious stares that most certainly would come at them from all directions.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to be seen in public. I’m still waiting for that burqa I ordered to arrive,” Barbara explained to Grant, only half-jokingly.
Debbie had also been ambivalent about attending the event, but like Grant, Ray had countered, “People like Warren Bradley are not going to spoil this, or any night in Sausalito, for us.”
Now that they were there and the evening air was so pleasant, and the wine and covered dishes they had brought were so delicious, the four friends relaxed. Barbara noticed a few raised eyebrows, mostly coming from Robin Mitchell and others seated at the Ladies of Liberty table. There were a few whispers into cupped ears and nods aimed in their direction, but Barbara disciplined herself to focus on the music and the setting, pushing every other thought aside.
During intermission, the four friends noticed Warren buzzing from table to table like a busy bee pollinating half-truths, smiling, laughing, and greeting those he considered his social set. With each of Warren's extended chuckles, Barbara suspected that she and her husband were the targets of most, if not all, of his quips. Again, she pushed aside her irritation and willed herself to ignore a nagging sense of humiliation.
It wasn’t until later, after the final aria of the evening when everyone was packing up their blankets and picnic baskets, that Grant walked over and tapped Warren Bradley on the shoulder. If Barbara, Ray, or Debbie knew what Grant was about to do, they would have made every effort to stop him.
Perhaps his original intent was, as he explained later, to say hello to a few of his fellow arts commission members. But when he passed so close to Warren, he could feel his anger rising like a force of nature desperately seeking release. Grant could not hold back.
Warren’s look of feigned innocence and barely disguised delight added to Grant’s fury. The social gadfly reasoned he was safe while surrounded by so many of his fellow citizens and devoted admirers. Grant’s right hand formed into a fist. How easy it would be to permanently wipe that smirk off Bradley's face. But inside, he could hear that controlling half of his mind shouting, No, you cannot, must not, do that!
; Instead, Grant settled for dressing down his nemesis: “That was a cheap shot you took at me in your column!”
Sausalito’s core group of busybodies scattered around the two of them, hoping to appear as if they were looking away while desperately trying to hear every word and witness every action.
“Now, Grant, calm down!” In truth, Warren was thrilled that Grant had risen to his bait. All night long he’d whispered this mantra to any ear open to hearing it: "Grant Randolph is a dangerous, reckless hothead, who should take his ill manners and questionable breeding back to New York City."
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Grant growled. “You knew what you were doing when you wrote that bullshit about my not being available for comment. You didn’t want to hear what I had to say because the truth would have damaged your snide, slanted little story.”
At this point, Grant’s voice was loud enough for fans of both opera and local drama to hear. Given an audience, Warren said in a raised voice, “Would someone please tell a police officer that I’m feeling threatened by this man?”
Ray walked over and took Grant’s arm. Instinctively, Grant jerked it away.
Everyone held their collective breaths just as Chris Harding stepped in. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Bradley?”
Warren, much relieved to have the tall, muscular, young police officer at his side, used the opportunity to pour a little salt into Grant’s profoundly wounded reputation. “Officer, Mr. Randolph seems to be agitated about my column in The Standard this week. I’m beginning to fear for my safety!”
If looks could kill, Grant’s anger would have dispatched Warren to a better—or perhaps a far worse place, at that very moment.
Nonchalantly, Harding declared, “Okay, well if we’re done here, let’s just pack up and move along.”
Anxious to get his friend away from Bradley as soon as possible, Ray put his arm around Grant. “Come on, let’s get out of here. This is enough excitement for one night.”
For a few moments longer, Grant stood his ground. Finally, he turned his back on Warren and walked away, aware that the muscles in his arms were twitching and his fists clenching.
As Grant moved along, he scanned the people around the small park, all of whom were staring back at him. But it was Barbara and Debbie’s horrified expressions that validated what he already knew: he’d taken a bad situation and made it worse.
Grant was still steaming the next day when he and Ray made their daily pilgrimage to Gold’s Gym. Again, he thanked Ray for taking hold of him. “I so wanted to wipe the smirk off that idiot's face. Thanks for coming over and saving me.”
“Nothing you wouldn’t have done for me. Listen, if you want to step on this knucklehead’s throat and you’ve got a few bucks lying around, talk to a lawyer. Find out if you can sue him and the newspaper that prints his column.”
It was an idea that Grant, in all his anger, hadn’t seriously considered.
Later that night, he went online to Martindale.com and checked the reviews of several local attorneys. Finally, he chose one to call to arrange an appointment. He decided to keep mum about it to Barbara, though, because he wanted to present her with the possibility of taking a civil approach to beating that irksome, mean-spirited man.
“But look what this guy did to my wife and me!” Grant retorted. He pushed the article under the nose of attorney, Bob Ivan.
Bob’s credentials were impeccable. He was revered at the county courthouse for being wise, considerate—and best of all, someone you never wanted to go up against in a courtroom. With bright blue eyes that did not look possible for a man in his mid-seventies, Ivan had the quiet demeanor of a country lawyer, which belied the savvy of a top-flight attorney with an unmatched string of courtroom victories.
“Don’t get me wrong, Grant,” Ivan explained patiently. “If I were you, I’d want to wring the SOB’s neck as well. But the courts are loath to sit in judgment of a free press.”
“Why should this character get a free ride because he writes for a newspaper?”
“Simple. Because local judges, who are elected officials, are not anxious to get into cases in which press rights are challenged in the absence of strong facts. And from what you told me, nothing he wrote in his column was factually inaccurate. I do not doubt that he put the story in the worst light possible, but in no way does this rise to the legal definition of libel.”
“But he lied when he wrote that we were not available for comment!”
“I’m sure you’re right about that as well. The problem is that’s all but impossible to prove.” With his right hand, Ivan brushed away a cowlick of chalk-white hair from his forehead. “I have absolutely no doubt that this Bradley fellow is a loathsome character; that he cherry-picked facts and is not playing fair. A judge might think that as well. Still, no judge is going to hold him to account as to whether or not he dialed the right number when calling you for a comment.”
As reluctant as Grant was to admit it, he knew Bob was right.
The next day at the gym he shared with Ray the story of his meeting with Bob Ivan.
“Sounds like a stand-up guy,” Ray conceded.
Grant nodded. “I got that impression, too. I just wished there was something he could do about Bradley!”
Ray snorted. “This is why people take matters into their own hands. In the neighborhood I grew up in, Warren Bradley would have been taken for a ride a long time ago. And I’ll promise you this—no one would have missed him.”
Chapter Thirteen
Warren was experiencing a season of good fortune. First, there was the domestic upheaval at the Randolphs, followed by Grant’s Saturday evening confrontation at the conclusion of Sausalito’s Night at the Opera. That the incident was witnessed by all the people Warren attempted to please was an unanticipated bonus.
It was in this state of bliss that Warren sat down Monday morning to write his next piece, which began with the headline: “New Concerns Surface Regarding Arts Commission Chair Grant Randolph.”
After setting the scene—reporting on every detail of the event from the arias performed to what Alma Samuels, Robin Mitchell, Ethel Landau and Bea Snyder wore—Warren arrived at his fourth paragraph and delivered his intended message:
Suddenly, the magic of this perfect evening was shattered when Mr. Grant Randolph accosted this columnist over a story shared in last week’s column, detailing an act of domestic violence.
Randolph, who chairs the city’s prestigious fine arts commission, was booked and spent the night in San Rafael at the county’s prison facility one week before the opera event. As Randolph was taken away in handcuffs, Mrs. Barbara Randolph was rushed to Marin General Hospital, where she was treated and released after having been assaulted by her husband.
It's easy to understand why Randolph would prefer not to see such truths displayed in print, but a peaceful community is built on a foundation of civil behavior.
Since this latest incident, new concerns are being raised among Sausalito's vibrant corps of citizen volunteers. “Do we have a right to expect community leaders to be held to a higher standard of behavior?” Alma Samuels asked after witnessing Grant Randolph's latest fit of anger.
“It's time our arts commission takes a serious look at the individual they have chosen to lead their group,” Ms. Samuels concluded moments after Sausalito police officer, Chris Harding, stepped in to calm the highly agitated Mr. Randolph.
We all value the arts, but the peace of our community we value above all else.
The following morning, Rob read Warren’s latest salvo, which once again targeted Grant Randolph. Wincing, he declared, “Holly, get in here and tell me what you think of Warren's latest."
After reading the piece, Holly shrugged, "If I were this Randolph guy, I’d want to take a swing at Bradley as well.”
Rob was tempted to call Warren and tell him to rework the piece before press time but then hesitated. If he merely suggested that Warren tone down his article, he would undoubtedly go
whining to the Ladies of Liberty, claiming that Rob Timmons was preventing him from reporting his entire story. One way or another, Alma’s army would try, yet again, to make life difficult for him and his small community newspaper. Previously, they had started a quiet campaign, urging Sausalito merchants to curtail their advertising in the paper because of a series The Standard had done on the shortcomings of the Sausalito Police Department. The campaign fizzled because several of the merchants had been victims of overnight robberies.
On that occasion, timing had worked in his favor. This time Rob might not be so lucky.
“You want me to run something in place of his column this week?” Holly asked.
“I think I've got a better idea. Didn't you say you got a couple of letters in yesterday, one from Randolph's wife and one from a friend of his?”
“Yep. Grant's friend, a guy named Ray Sirica wrote a strong letter. So did Randolph's wife, Barbara.”
“Okay. Let's slide them in alongside Warren's column. Put them on top of this week's letters and feature them with a headline, something like ‘Speaking up on Behalf of Grant Randolph.’”
“Good thinking, Rob. I'll slot them both into the layout right now,” Holly said with a smile as she hurried back to her workstation.
Barbara’s letter emphasized that their argument was a “Shakespearean series of tragic misunderstandings,” and in no way reflected the actual character of her husband, Grant, who, in reality, “is the most loving and supportive partner any woman could ever hope to have.”
Ray’s letter was stronger in its approach. “As a longtime friend of Grant and Barbara Randolph, I have known them to be a loving and mutually supportive couple. We all have moments when we’re not at our best—times that we would not want a local busybody going through our garbage or deceptively teasing information out of our neighbors. Additionally, Bradley was dishonest in claiming that he had reached out to Barbara and Grant Randolph to get their side of the story. He did no such thing. Neither of the Randolphs’ phones showed a missed call or a phone message from Mr. Bradley.”