Half Moon Bay: A Novel (Clay Edison Book 3)

Dr. Judy Bronson said, “This was a terrible idea.”

In the basement green room of Zellerbach Hall, we hunched around a CCTV monitor, watching the auditorium fill to capacity.

Gary Lopez, Jr., elder of the Muwekma Ohlone tribe and local liaison to the Native American Heritage Commission, said, “You didn’t realize that before?”

“It’s seeing them,” Bronson said. “How many there are.”

The fourth panel member—Dana Simon, VP of operations for Siefkin Brothers, Builders—sat in an armchair, sipping tea and tweeting.

Leticia Stroh, Berkeley city councilmember for District 8, would moderate.

The assistant to UC Berkeley executive vice chancellor George Greenspan, whose name was Denali, and who had a shaved head and a bushy beard, as though he’d gotten up that morning and accidentally put his hair on upside down, said, “Everyone’s been checked for contraband on the way in.”

Greenspan himself was not present. After greeting and thanking us, he’d left to take his seat, up in the light booth.

Denali touched his headset. “Copy, two minutes. Shall we?”

We filed out.

You’re used to performing under the microscope Greenspan had said, and it was true that I could run, pass, and shoot in front of five thousand people without choking. I could kneel in the street to examine a body and not become distracted by hecklers.

Answering questions—prescreened or not—was another matter.

I felt worse for Judy. Pathologists tend not to be the most social creatures. As we neared the wings, and the rumbling grew louder, she began to murmur, “Oh, oh, oh.”

We stepped into the light and found our seats.

Stroh welcomed everyone, briefly introduced us, and laid out the format. Each panelist would be allotted five minutes before the floor was opened to questions. Topics had been chosen to cover as many of the issues as possible. If you had not submitted your question in advance, you could do so now. Use the slips of paper provided. Hand it to one of the ushers. Q&A would be limited to sixty minutes. Be aware we might not get to yours.

“Dr. Bronson,” she said. “Let’s begin with you.”

The blood drained from Judy’s face. “Yes. Yes. The—uh—process of—uh—dating human remains is, uh.” She pushed up her glasses with shaking hands. “Multifactorial…”

Soon enough she stopped stammering and found her groove. Perhaps too well: She failed to notice Denali cuing one minute left, and eventually Stroh had to cut her off, leaving me less than three minutes to explain what a coroner’s judgment of origin means. Dana Simon’s talking points stressed that Siefkin Brothers, Builders, had always prided itself on working with the community and responding to user input. They were committed to honoring the historical presence of indigenous peoples. To that end, their award-winning design team had drawn up new plans for the lobby interior that incorporated traditional Native elements.

Gary Lopez, Jr., did not react to this announcement. When his turn came he said simply that the tribe did not have sufficient grounds to object. To be sure, they regarded the park the same way they did the East Bay as a whole: as Ohlone land. But be practical. People dug everywhere, constantly, and with three permanent staff members, the Heritage Commission was already struggling to keep up. They had to focus on the locations where scholarly consensus fell on their side, such as the West Berkeley Shellmound.

I scanned the audience for Chloe Bellara.

“Thank you, everyone,” Leticia Stroh said. “We’ll move on to Q and A. Microphones have been set up in each seating section. If I call your name, please come up. State who you are and who your question is for. Sam Thiele.”

A gangly kid loped down the balcony aisle. “Uh, I’m Sam Thiele.”

“Your affiliation, I mean,” Stroh said.

“Oh. Yeah, okay. I’m a sophomore. My question is for the construction company. How are the dorm rooms going to be connected to the supportive housing, and will people in supportive housing have access to the dorm?”

Dana Simon smiled. “Great question, Sam. Thank you. If you look closely at the plan, which is available for download at our website…”

The next few were softballs as well. Small local business owner Arvind Singh ran a restaurant on Telegraph Avenue. He wanted to thank the university for finally moving the process forward and doing what it could to keep the neighborhood livable and safe. Gayle Boyarin, a professor at the UC Berkeley School of Public Health, asked what was being done to identify the deceased child. I told her the investigation was ongoing.

“We encourage anyone with information to get in touch with our office,” I said.

Speaking of the West Berkeley Shellmound, what was its status? Was there going to be an apartment building put up? Larissa Dupree, massage therapist, wanted to know.

Gary Lopez, Jr., was pleased to announce that the city council had rejected yet another attempt to ram the approval through. But the fight wasn’t over. Already the developer was preparing an appeal. Over his dead body, Lopez said, would condos stand on sacred land.

“When there’s something worth protecting, you can bet we’re ready to go to bat.”

I wondered if the hall was packed with confederates—a Potemkin audience.

“Trevor Whitman,” Stroh said.

A man in his midtwenties approached the mezzanine mike. Khakis, a blue button-down, hair in a sharp side part. He looked like the president of the local Junior Rotarians. With a flourish he drew a piece of paper from his breast pocket.

“I have in my hand a copy of a map showing the locations of known Native burial grounds,” he said. “You can clearly see that these areas fully encompass the current park boundaries.”

From that distance I couldn’t clearly see anything. Nobody could, except for the people sitting within a five-foot radius of the microphone. He could have been waving a take-out menu.

“Did you have a question, Mr. Whitman?” Stroh asked.

“I do,” Trevor Whitman said. “It’s for Mr. Lopez. And it is this, sir: Are you aware of the existence of this map?”

“Am I aware?” Gary Lopez, Jr., said. “What am I supposed to be aware of?”

“You’re saying you’re not aware.”

“I’m saying I don’t know what that is.”

“In that case—”

“Mr. Whitman,” Stroh said.

“I haven’t gotten to my main question yet.”

“Okay, well, please move it along.”

“My question, sir, is this: If you are not in fact aware of the existence of this map, how can you claim to knowledgeably represent the interests of the tribe? And, as a follow-up, if you are aware, and you’re ignoring this evidence—”

“I told you,” Lopez said.

“—excuse me. Excuse me, I’m not done. If you are aware, then does it not bother you, sir, to sit up there and lie to our faces?”

“Mr. Whitman,” Stroh said.

“How much did the university have to pay you to do that? Or maybe—”

“Excuse me. Mr. Whitman.”

“—since you’re basically a political puppet, you did it for free.”

“Listen, asshole,” Lopez said.

“And, as a follow-up, was it worth it, sir—”

“That’s enough,” Stroh said.

“—to sell not just your soul—”

Two ushers began hurrying up the mezzanine aisle.

“—but the souls of your ancestors, your people, and—”

I could barely hear the end of his sentence—generations to come—because, for one thing, the audience had begun to cheer and clap and hoot and shout, and also because at that moment the booth operator cut sound to the mike. Trevor Whitman spun around, slapped back the hand of an usher, and strode toward the exit.

Gary Lopez, Jr., clawed at his armrests, ready to jump from the stage and give chase. Judy Bronson’s forehead glistened with flop sweat. VP of operations for Siefkin Brothers, Builders, Dana Simon refused to stop smiling.

Stroh rapped the lectern, calling for quiet, please.

“I am going to ask that individuals please stick to the questions that were submitted,” she said. “Please refrain from using inflammatory language. This is a dialogue.”

Bullshit someone yelled.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. The next…Desmond Poland. Is there a…Okay. Thank you. Can we turn the micr—thank you. All right, Mr. Poland. Who’s your question for.”

“For you, actually, Councilmember.”

“All right, go ahead, please.”

“So, I live near the park, and first what I want to know is, is that your district?”

Stroh appeared momentarily befuddled. “You’re asking if the park falls within my district?”

“That’s correct.”

“Not technically, no. That would be District Four.”

“Right, yeah. So that’s Councilmember Davies.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Poland, but I have to ask you to stick to the topic.”

“This is the topic,” he said. “What I want to know is, if you don’t represent me or the people who live in the neighborhood that’s being affected by this, how come you’re up there, instead of her? Where’s she in all this?”

“It’s true that we represent individual districts, but when it comes to issues facing the city as a whole—”

“Well, but hang on a second, cause what matters to me isn’t the same as what matters to your constituents. You work for rich people.”

“I think we can all agree that People’s Park—”

“I don’t know that we can,” Desmond Poland said. “I voted for Jodi Davies, and one of the reasons I did is she promised to take the pulse of the people before making major decisions. I want her to know, I don’t support this decision, and I don’t remember her asking my opinion.”

“If you’d like to communicate that to Councilmember Davies, you can go to her office hours—”

“I tried that and she didn’t show up. I also sent her an email. So I’m challenging her here to keep her word, or else I think we need to start talking about impeachment: her, and you, and all of you.”

The room once again erupted. It took Stroh a good three minutes to regain control.

“Ladies and gentlemen—”

What about the rest of us someone yelled.

“And everyone,” Stroh said. “Now, I value your perspective, Mr. Poland, and I’m glad that we’re getting to hear a diverse range of opinions. Obviously I can’t speak on behalf of Councilmember Davies—”

Then get her someone yelled.

“What I can tell you is that part of our job, every one of us, is to listen to a lot of different voices, because we have a lot of stakeholders, and as a community we need to ensure that everyone feels heard.”

Answer the question.

“And, and, speaking for myself, let me add that I have consistently supported the rights of Berkeleyans to demonstrate their values, and my voting record reflects that.”

Answer the fucking question.

“When we had white supremacists parading in front of City Hall, I was the one—”

Boos and cheers and general rumpus.

“I have consistently called for greater police accountability, and—”

You could almost see her digging the hole.

“Excuse me. Please. Let’s remember, this is not a referendum on—if we can’t adhere to the format…Sarah Whelan,” Stroh bellowed. “Sarah, please come up.”

A woman in her early forties slid out of the back row of the orchestra section. She approached the mike, yanked it off the stand, and gripped it in two hands.

“My name is Sarah Whelan,” she said. “I’m a proud Berkeley resident for twenty-six years. I have one question, and it’s for the audience.”

She faced the crowd. “Whose park?”

The response was instantaneous, but dim: scattered voices, awaiting this moment.

Our park.

Had she stopped there, the gesture would have read as sad and tepid. But of course she didn’t stop there. The first stab was just that—meant to puncture the inertia, to kick-start the mechanism lying dormant in the hearts and minds of so many present.

“Whose park!” Sarah Whelan yelled.

Now dozens of voices came echoing.

Our park!

“Excuse me—” Stroh said.

“Whose park!!”

Our park!!!

“Ms. Whelan—”

“Whose park!!!!!”

Our park!!!!!!

Sarah Whelan climbed onto a seat, and the others began rising, too, fists pumping and feet stamping, drowning out Leticia Stroh’s pleas for order.

Whose park, our park, whose park, our park.

The mike had once again been turned off. It didn’t matter. Someone handed Sarah Whelan a megaphone.

So much for confiscating contraband.

Whose park! Our park!

Crumpled question slips rained from the upper sections. The floor shook. To my eye, the shouters and clappers were a minority, but their fervor dominated the room, becoming the only relevant factor as the rest of the audience began filing toward the exits.

To my left, an ashen Judy Bronson was pinned back in her chair.

Dana Simon, VP of operations for Siefkin Brothers, Builders, got up and ducked through the curtains.

Gary Lopez, Jr., crossed his legs, grinning angrily and shaking his head.

“Ladies and gentlemen—” Stroh yelled.

Her mike cut out, too, as someone disconnected the cord.

Whose park!

Our park!

Sarah Whelan swung an invisible lasso. “Let’s take it back!”

Within seconds, the trickle erupted into a full-on stampede, elbows and screams and bodies clambering backward over seats. I was sure someone would get killed. Small local business owner Arvind Singh had his palms up, mouthing pardon me, pardon me over and over again as he flailed, unable to escape his row.

I stood, ready to dive into the fray. I felt the peacekeeper’s instinct as well as the rubbernecker’s. And in fact I did start toward the stage right steps.

Amy’s voice in my ear: Don’t even think about it.

I turned to ask Stroh what we were supposed to do now. She was gone. I caught a glimpse of Gary Lopez, Jr.’s broad shoulders as he swished through the curtain, leaving Dr. Bronson frozen up there like a character out of Beckett.

I went back to my seat and joined her, and we watched the room clear, the roar growing muffled and fading as, outside, the mass of protesters—led by Sarah Whelan and Trevor Whitman, co-founders of a direct action group later identified as “Defenders of the Park”—spilled into Lower Sproul Plaza. There they rendezvoused with the third member of the Defenders’ triumvirate, Chloe Bellara, along with a hundred-fifty-person flash mob. Everyone had been instructed to bring along a heavy object. Bats, pipes, hockey sticks, two-by-fours. There were reports of a man toting a broadsword. The two crowds merged and began marching south down Telegraph.

Take our park. Take our park.

Along the way they broke the windows of Walgreens and Bank of America. The smell of spray paint filled the air. Trash bins were overturned, hydrants opened, newspaper dispensers torched, windshields obliterated. Fortunately for Arvind Singh, Mumbai Kitchen survived relatively unscathed but for a few streaks of graffiti above the door. Everyone liked to support small local businesses, and besides, the restaurant was known for having the best potato dosas in town.

Rounding the corner at Haste, the crowd rushed toward People’s Park, smashing through the fence and sweeping across the lawn, attacking construction vehicles, slashing tires and seat cushions, knocking out glass. Down came the work lights. They kicked in the door to Nestor Arriola’s trailer and ransacked it. They scaled the remaining trees to take up residence.

I didn’t witness any of it.

I was sitting onstage in the silent auditorium, squinting in the direction of the light booth. The glare made it impossible to tell if UC Berkeley executive vice chancellor George Greenspan was in there. Just in case, I waved and gave him a thumbs-up.

Judy Bronson shifted to face me. The creak of her chair leather carried clear to the back of the room. Zellerbach Hall has world-class acoustics.

She said, “What just happened.”

I said, “Berkeley.”