But his delight was mixed with some caution. He knew that for a time it would be ill-advised for him to drive or walk down Bulkley Avenue, attend a meeting of the Sausalito Fine Arts Commission, or an open house at the Gate Six Artists’ Cooperative—all proof that, as he told himself repeatedly, good investigative journalism often comes at the price of one’s personal safety.
“Are you at all concerned that you have most likely enraged a very dangerous man?” Bea asked Warren breathlessly.
“Reporting the facts is part of any journalist’s job; you have to take certain risks if you’re ever going to be true to your mission,” Warren proclaimed as he pouted his lips forward and stood with an air of resolve worthy of a general.
Bea, admiring his determination, felt deeply moved to be in the presence of such a fearless individual.
Three days before Warren’s column rocked Sausalito, the Randolphs sat down together for the first time. It occurred before noon on Sunday, two hours after Ray suggested to Barbara that he go up to the jail to bring Grant back home.
Debbie, having returned from her Saturday overnight trip to Sonoma County, went directly to check on her friend Barbara. She winced when Barbara opened her front door. The mid-morning light caught the discoloration and swelling along her friend’s jawline.
Debbie put out her arms, and for a while, the two women hugged and held each other in silence.
“What happened?” Debbie asked in a soft, but urgent, tone.
“It was so fast, it seems like a blur now. To be honest, it doesn’t make a lot of sense!” Barbara admitted.
She recalled expecting to find Grant at home Saturday night when she returned from the city. He wasn’t. Far worse, she suspected he had been in their home earlier with another woman, undoubtedly when she was working in the city. Barbara then told Debbie about Kitty Collins and her suspicions regarding Grant’s attraction to her.
It occurred to Debbie to say that Grant would never do such a thing, but she held back, deciding it would be wiser to quietly listen.
Barbara explained that she had made herself a margarita, followed by a second and a third. Afterward, she drifted off on the couch, waking near midnight to find Grant still not home. “By that point, I was very angry and very disappointed.”
Debbie held her hand and continued to listen.
“I looked at the clock, and then I looked at the front door. The longer I sat there, the angrier I got,” Barbara added. “When Grant came home, I just flew into a rage! It wasn’t what I thought I would do, but all this anger just came out. I went at him or threw something at him. I don’t remember exactly what. Then, bang! I’m on the floor. I must have blacked out for a bit because the next thing I know, this Sausalito cop is standing over me.”
Debbie squeezed Barbara’s hand as her eyes welled up again. In a soft voice, Barbara continued. “Then there were more of these guys standing around me. They placed me on a stretcher. I wanted to ask where the hell they were taking me, but my throat just seemed to swell shut, and it swallowed my voice. Before that, I looked over and saw Grant with his arms behind his back and a police officer walking him out the front door! I thought this must be a nightmare.” She wiped tears away. “It was all so unreal. Nothing like this has ever happened to Grant or me. Never!”
“I know nothing about Saturday night other than what I heard from Ray,” Debbie admitted. “But I can tell you this. Grant and Ray went to the gym in the late afternoon, and then they went back to our house, cooked out, and both had, as Ray told me, way too much to drink.”
“Why didn’t Grant come home after the gym?”
“I asked Ray that. He said Grant told him you were staying late at the gallery for an open house.”
“That’s next Saturday night. I was home before seven and wondering why he wasn’t here. I called his cell, three times at least. He never picked up,” Barbara explained, relieved that at least some of what happened Saturday night was beginning to make sense.
Ray picked up Grant after a bondsman posted his bail.
On the twelve-mile drive back from San Rafael to Sausalito, Ray could not resist the overwhelming temptation to ask, “What the hell happened? If I realized you were going to go home last night and coldcock your wife, I would have told you to stay in one of our guest rooms and sleep it off!”
Grant, who had spent a sleepless night thinking about Barbara, wondered how, in a matter of minutes, he’d gone from a respected name in the art world to sitting in a jail cell charged with assaulting his wife.
“I spent the night trying to figure out what happened. I know we both got hammered. I know I came home, and Barbara came at me like I was an ax murderer who just broke into the house, but the rest of it doesn’t add up!”
Ray winced. “It sounds like a big mess to me. Debbie is over at your place right now. Maybe together we can figure out what the hell happened.”
“I know one thing. As I walked through the door, my head was buzzing. I heard Barbara scream out something; I looked up and saw her coming at me with one of those oversized art books we have all around the house. I swung my arm out in the dumbest move of my life to avoid getting whacked over the head and caught her right on the jaw. She screamed, went down, and everything else after that happened
