The Barbarian Nurseries A Novel - By Hector Tobar Page 0,145
wrong. The perceptions of the people counted, their collective fears and wants, what outraged them and what did not. In this case, the law-abiding sensibilities of many an Orange County resident had been offended by the suspect’s unauthorized arrival in the United States of America. It made them skeptical and suspicious of her actions with the boys, and eager for punishment. In nonlegal terms: they would not cut her any slack. So he couldn’t either. Goller found himself more or less obliged, therefore, to dive into the unpredictable waters of a politically necessary but potentially tricky prosecution.
Once he took such a plunge, however, Goller needed to make sure he could reach the other side. In other words, he needed to make sure he didn’t lose. And for that, he needed to clean up the image and stiffen the resolve of the victims.
“Have you read the newspaper this morning?” Goller asked Scott.
“This has been a really trying time for my family,” Scott said slowly, pinching the space between his eyes, while resisting the temptation to reach across the table and serve himself another glass of wine.
“I understand. But you should see this.” Goller placed the local news section of the Orange County Register on the dining room table. The headline in question ran on the lower half of the page, incongruously below a photograph of children at a public swimming pool in Santa Ana.
CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES
TO INVESTIGATE PARENTS
IN MISSING BOYS SAGA
Goller allowed this piece of unpleasant information to settle in as Scott slumped back in his chair, pushing it away from the table as he did so, adopting a pose of aggressive nonchalance in which the sky-blue fade of his jeans stretched out into view. Peter Goldman thought that Scott looked just like his son Brandon when he did this.
“What happened to you and your sons is being twisted by certain people,” Goller said, with an expression of fatherly concern. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe just the pressure: whatever it was, Scott was having trouble paying attention.
“Scott. Can I call you Scott?”
“Sure.”
“I take it you’re a native Californian, Scott. Right?” Goller said, though he already knew the answer.
“Uh-huh.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“South Whittier. St. Paul High.”
“Ah, I went to Mater Dei, in Santa Ana. And I think we’re about the same age.”
“Probably. But what does that have—”
“I want you to understand what’s happening around you,” Goller interrupted. “Let’s be blunt: there’s a lot of people taking a certain perverse pleasure in what’s happening to you.”
Scott had no answer to this statement, no observation. He wanted to say he didn’t care what people thought, he didn’t care about Araceli or the newspapers or the television. But he did.
“So why is it happening?” Scott asked with a teenager’s skeptical insolence.
“It’s because California’s changed. Because it’s not the same place it was when we were growing up.”
“It’s not?”
“No. Think of the way people respected certain things. In the past, no one would have questioned the good intentions of two good American parents like you and your wife.”
“Probably not.”
“Now they do. And why? Because you’re being accused by a woman with thousands of defenders. Fine: it’s their right to stand up for her, to say she’s being victimized by the system. But these people, they see me, and you, as their enemy. It’s totally whacked that they think that way, but that’s how it is. And now they see in this case a chance to make all of us look silly.”
“I really don’t mind looking silly,” Scott said, without completely meaning it. He was confused by the direction Goller had taken their conversation.
“Well, it’s more than looking silly, isn’t it?” Goller continued. “Really, these people want to humiliate you, so that they can make the Mexican woman the hero. And why? For an idea.” Goller was going to go abstract, and back in time, because he had learned that Scott was a programmer, and sensed the man needed to see a robust architecture of ideas before he took any action. An outline for this talk had come to Goller as he drove to the Laguna Rancho Estates, through undeveloped marshes and hill country, past towering eucalyptus trees and the bare breasts of yellow hills. In general, being a DA in his hometown was a daily assault on Goller’s childhood memories, but this place by the sea, with its open vistas and untainted, orderly neighborhoods, transported him back in time, to his Orange County youth of puka shells and Op summer shirts. Certain