Page 44 of Small Sacrifices

The protesters disappear out of sight as they drive into the parking lot behind the building. Reid is momentarily confused. What little he saw of the facade made it seem quite majestic. Columns and white-washed walls gave the impression that the thing may even be a few hundred years old. The back, however, looks very different. Small windows are set deeply into thickly insulated stucco walls. They're sparse and unevenly placed in a way that leaves the impression that every expense was spared where people can’t see it.

Reid smirks to himself. This is the sort of thing that Marisol would make a snide comment about. Something about rich white people and keeping up appearances.

As the rest of the cars file into the parking space behind them, one of the PPOs—Holland?—leaves the car. Reid isn't sure what he's doing. But everyone stays seated until the man is back a short while later. Probably-Holland opens the door for the governor to exit first, and then Reid has the dubious pleasure of seeing the governor escorted to the back door of this two-faced building by two security officers while Everett trails behind them, unprotected.

Somewhere along the way, Everett is sent off with someone who seems to be an old politician friend.

"Can't be bragging with my son when we're supposed to be talking abouttheirchildren," the governor says jokingly. "Not to their faces. Take a few nice pictures, will you?"

The smile on Everett's face looks forced as he nods towards both the new guy and the photographer, who has apparently been deputized to document his steps for the next hour or so.

Entering the mediation room, Reid notes that the parents are already seated. They form a half-circle facing an empty chair in the center, with a few more empty chairs behind it. The arrangement, with its clear planning, stands out in stark contrast to the disorganized feeling of the rest of the day.

While Governor Mackenzie goes to shake everyone's hands, Reid is maneuvered into one of the cohort of chairs by Mr. Wright, who then makes a complex series of gestures. If Reid understands correctly, he is being asked for complete silence. It's a relief. He can't even imagine facing each of those people individually, much less the entire group.

Still, he makes the effort to look at each face. Some of their expressions are neutral, while others speak of barely contained rage. There is one thing they have in common: Exhaustion. It's more apparent in some than others, but as the governor makes a sweeping gesture and introduces each one of them by name, Reid can feel the weariness radiating off them.

"And this is Mr. Maxwell," Governor Mackenzie announces. "Most of you have probably spoken with him, so we wanted to ensure he's here as well." To Reid's surprise, his introduction elicits a few smiles.

It's only when the governor sits down and faces all the parents at once that Reid realizes there is no mediator. When he looks around their little group, everyone else on his side seems unconcerned by this. Reid doesn't understand. If this is a mediation, then who’s mediating it? Don't they need an impartial third party to make sure that everyone stays fair?

But Reid doesn't need to see the nervous glances some parents aim at the cameras behind him and to their side to know this isn't fair. Even Reid, who usually prides himself on his rationality, keeps giving the man the benefit of the doubt. He's self-aware enough to realize that he wouldn't be so quick to believe anyone else.

"Alright!" Mackenzie slaps his hands on his knees, which rips Reid out of his thoughts. "I'm sure it’s already been explained to you, but essentially, I'm here to listen. Your children are hurt. You have questions. I wanted to make sure that you had a forum in which they would be answered. City Hall tomorrow is likely to be pandemonium. Here, your concerns will definitely be heard. I'm listening."

His declaration is followed by nervous shuffling. No one speaks up. This is the environment in which Reid makes his second strange discovery of the day: Ms. Greene isn't here. At least he thinks so. He's not great with faces, and he wasn't close enough to hear any of them introduce themselves. But in the pictures he remembers of her, her hair was firetruck red. Among the parents in attendance, Reid only sees 'natural' hair colors.

As the parents sit and stare at the governor, Reid can't help but think that Ms. Greene would have said something by now, had she been here. Which brings up the question: Why isn't she? He can't imagine that the answer is good.

In the end, it's not even that one parent builds up the courage. It looks like she loses her patience.

"Why didn't you do something earlier?" she asks. Her voice is hushed in a way that sounds deliberate to Reid. It fits the way she sits—her feet tucked between the legs of her chair, hands gripping each other in her lap. Despite her apparent exhaustion, her eyes are sharp and focused.

"I wish I could have," the governor says. "But I only found out about it when theTimespublished their article. And then, thereare procedures for that sort of thing. My hands were bound. But I'm here now."

Reid can only see the back of the governor's head. But he doesn't think he'd like to see his face right now. Something about this feels wrong. He just doesn't know what it is.

"But the article said you refused to comment! They reached out to you.Wereached out to you!"

"You blocked me on Twitter," says a man in the first row. He looks unassuming in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, but the way he raises a single bushy eyebrow makes it clear he knows what he just said. Someone read his tweets and blocked him so that he could no longer tag the @CALgov account. Unease trickles down Reid's spine.

The governor raises a hand to his face. From Reid's vantage point, it looks like he's rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry to say that I don't have the time to run my social media accounts. I'm also not the first person who would have read the email theTimessent. I've seen it now, but I think we can all agree that was too late. It's people like Reid here—" he points over his shoulder without ever looking back "—who filter through these things and tell me what's important. Rest assured that the people who did not pass along those messages have been terminated. I agree that this was unacceptable."

For a moment, all eyes are on Reid. They're gone before the stress stomachache can even start—but too late.Dear Lord.Reid takes a deep breath. Briefly, he thought that was why he was here—as a scapegoat. It's not a nice thought. And it makes him wonder. Who did they terminate? Reid can’t remember any colleague in their department leaving at any time in the last two weeks.

"How did you not know?" asks a woman on the far right of the half circle.

"What do you mean?" Mackenzie asks.

The look on the woman’s face is one of incredulity. Reid has rarely seen such a visceral reaction. "You worked with that company for years. When they donated this land where they'd produced pesticides, you thought it'd be a good place for a school? How did you not know that could be dangerous?"

Next to Reid, Mr. Wright shifts in his chair and huffs out a breath. Reid keeps his face blank and presses the tips of his fingers into his pen. His pulse beats against the hard plastic as the governor clears his throat.

"I suppose I was swept up in my own enthusiasm." The room is quiet except for the occasional gurgling noise from a nearby radiator. It serves to make Mackenzie's voice sound much louder than it actually is. Or maybe that's just in Reid's head. Much like something else—the perception that the man sounds like he's lying.

"We'd been looking for land to build a new school. And the parcel they donated was right next to a new development. It was a perfect fit. I wanted to help our community."

There are huffs and eye rolls all around. Reid can empathize. The governor, in his expensive cashmere sweater and crisp shirt, doesn't exactly fit in with their little group.Ourwas perhaps the wrong word to use. Yet Mackenzie soldiers on.

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