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,”
