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/*
SPDX-FileCopyrightText: 2015 Martin Flöser <mgraesslin@kde.org>
SPDX-FileCopyrightText: 2018 David Edmundson <davidedmundson@kde.org>
SPDX-FileCopyrightText: 2020 Vlad Zahorodnii <vlad.zahorodnii@kde.org>
SPDX-License-Identifier: GPL-2.0-or-later
*/
#include "waylandclient.h"
#include "screens.h"
#include "wayland_server.h"
#include "workspace.h"
#ifdef KWIN_BUILD_TABBOX
#include "tabbox.h"
#endif
#include <KWaylandServer/display.h>
#include <KWaylandServer/clientconnection.h>
#include <KWaylandServer/surface_interface.h>
#include <KWaylandServer/buffer_interface.h>
#include <QFileInfo>
#include <csignal>
#include <sys/types.h>
#include <unistd.h>
using namespace KWaylandServer;
namespace KWin
{
enum WaylandGeometryType {
WaylandGeometryClient = 0x1,
WaylandGeometryFrame = 0x2,
WaylandGeometryBuffer = 0x4,
};
Q_DECLARE_FLAGS(WaylandGeometryTypes, WaylandGeometryType)
WaylandClient::WaylandClient(SurfaceInterface *surface)
{
setSurface(surface);
setupCompositing();
m_windowId = waylandServer()->createWindowId(surface);
connect(surface, &SurfaceInterface::shadowChanged,
this, &WaylandClient::updateShadow);
connect(this, &WaylandClient::frameGeometryChanged,
this, &WaylandClient::updateClientOutputs);
connect(this, &WaylandClient::desktopFileNameChanged,
this, &WaylandClient::updateIcon);
connect(screens(), &Screens::changed, this,
&WaylandClient::updateClientOutputs);
updateResourceName();
updateIcon();
}
QString WaylandClient::captionNormal() const
{
return m_captionNormal;
}
QString WaylandClient::captionSuffix() const
{
return m_captionSuffix;
}
QStringList WaylandClient::activities() const
{
return QStringList();
}
void WaylandClient::setOnAllActivities(bool set)
{
Q_UNUSED(set)
}
void WaylandClient::blockActivityUpdates(bool b)
{
Q_UNUSED(b)
}
QPoint WaylandClient::clientContentPos() const
{
return -clientPos();
}
QRect WaylandClient::transparentRect() const
{
return QRect();
}
quint32 WaylandClient::windowId() const
{
return m_windowId;
}
pid_t WaylandClient::pid() const
{
return surface()->client()->processId();
}
bool WaylandClient::isLockScreen() const
{
return surface()->client() == waylandServer()->screenLockerClientConnection();
}
bool WaylandClient::isLocalhost() const
{
return true;
}
double WaylandClient::opacity() const
{
return m_opacity;
}
void WaylandClient::setOpacity(double opacity)
{
const qreal newOpacity = qBound(0.0, opacity, 1.0);
if (newOpacity == m_opacity) {
return;
}
const qreal oldOpacity = m_opacity;
m_opacity = newOpacity;
addRepaintFull();
emit opacityChanged(this, oldOpacity);
}
AbstractClient *WaylandClient::findModal(bool allow_itself)
{
Q_UNUSED(allow_itself)
return nullptr;
}
void WaylandClient::resizeWithChecks(const QSize &size, ForceGeometry_t force)
{
const QRect area = workspace()->clientArea(WorkArea, this);
int width = size.width();
int height = size.height();
// don't allow growing larger than workarea
if (width > area.width()) {
width = area.width();
}
if (height > area.height()) {
height = area.height();
}
setFrameGeometry(QRect(x(), y(), width, height), force);
}
void WaylandClient::killWindow()
{
if (!surface()) {
return;
}
auto c = surface()->client();
if (c->processId() == getpid() || c->processId() == 0) {
c->destroy();
return;
}
::kill(c->processId(), SIGTERM);
// give it time to terminate and only if terminate fails, try destroy Wayland connection
QTimer::singleShot(5000, c, &ClientConnection::destroy);
}
QByteArray WaylandClient::windowRole() const
{
return QByteArray();
}
bool WaylandClient::belongsToSameApplication(const AbstractClient *other, SameApplicationChecks checks) const
{
if (checks.testFlag(SameApplicationCheck::AllowCrossProcesses)) {
if (other->desktopFileName() == desktopFileName()) {
return true;
}
}
if (auto s = other->surface()) {
return s->client() == surface()->client();
}
return false;
}
bool WaylandClient::belongsToDesktop() const
{
const auto clients = waylandServer()->clients();
return std::any_of(clients.constBegin(), clients.constEnd(),
[this](const AbstractClient *client) {
if (belongsToSameApplication(client, SameApplicationChecks())) {
return client->isDesktop();
}
return false;
}
);
}
void WaylandClient::updateClientOutputs()
{
QVector<OutputInterface *> clientOutputs;
const auto outputs = waylandServer()->display()->outputs();
for (const auto output : outputs) {
if (output->isEnabled()) {
const QRect outputGeometry(output->globalPosition(), output->pixelSize() / output->scale());
if (frameGeometry().intersects(outputGeometry)) {
clientOutputs << output;
}
}
}
surface()->setOutputs(clientOutputs);
}
void WaylandClient::updateIcon()
{
const QString waylandIconName = QStringLiteral("wayland");
const QString dfIconName = iconFromDesktopFile();
const QString iconName = dfIconName.isEmpty() ? waylandIconName : dfIconName;
if (iconName == icon().name()) {
return;
}
setIcon(QIcon::fromTheme(iconName));
}
void WaylandClient::updateResourceName()
{
const QFileInfo fileInfo(surface()->client()->executablePath());
if (fileInfo.exists()) {
setResourceClass(fileInfo.fileName().toUtf8());
}
}
void WaylandClient::updateCaption()
{
const QString oldSuffix = m_captionSuffix;
const auto shortcut = shortcutCaptionSuffix();
m_captionSuffix = shortcut;
if ((!isSpecialWindow() || isToolbar()) && findClientWithSameCaption()) {
int i = 2;
do {
m_captionSuffix = shortcut + QLatin1String(" <") + QString::number(i) + QLatin1Char('>');
i++;
} while (findClientWithSameCaption());
}
if (m_captionSuffix != oldSuffix) {
emit captionChanged();
}
}
void WaylandClient::setCaption(const QString &caption)
{
const QString oldSuffix = m_captionSuffix;
m_captionNormal = caption.simplified();
updateCaption();
if (m_captionSuffix == oldSuffix) {
// Don't emit caption change twice it already got emitted by the changing suffix.
emit captionChanged();
}
}
void WaylandClient::doSetActive()
{
if (isActive()) { // TODO: Xwayland clients must be unfocused somewhere else.
StackingUpdatesBlocker blocker(workspace());
workspace()->focusToNull();
}
}
void WaylandClient::updateDepth()
{
if (surface()->buffer()->hasAlphaChannel() && !isDesktop()) {
setDepth(32);
} else {
setDepth(24);
}
}
void WaylandClient::cleanGrouping()
{
if (transientFor()) {
transientFor()->removeTransient(this);
}
for (auto it = transients().constBegin(); it != transients().constEnd();) {
if ((*it)->transientFor() == this) {
removeTransient(*it);
it = transients().constBegin(); // restart, just in case something more has changed with the list
} else {
++it;
}
}
}
void WaylandClient::cleanTabBox()
{
#ifdef KWIN_BUILD_TABBOX
TabBox::TabBox *tabBox = TabBox::TabBox::self();
if (tabBox->isDisplayed() && tabBox->currentClient() == this) {
tabBox->nextPrev(true);
}
#endif
}
bool WaylandClient::isShown(bool shaded_is_shown) const
{
Q_UNUSED(shaded_is_shown)
return !isZombie() && !isHidden() && !isMinimized();
}
bool WaylandClient::isHiddenInternal() const
{
return isHidden();
}
void WaylandClient::hideClient(bool hide)
{
if (hide) {
internalHide();
} else {
internalShow();
}
}
bool WaylandClient::isHidden() const
{
return m_isHidden;
}
void WaylandClient::internalShow()
{
if (!isHidden()) {
return;
}
m_isHidden = false;
addRepaintFull();
emit windowShown(this);
}
void WaylandClient::internalHide()
{
if (isHidden()) {
return;
}
if (isMoveResize()) {
leaveMoveResize();
}
m_isHidden = true;
addWorkspaceRepaint(visibleRect());
workspace()->clientHidden(this);
emit windowHidden(this);
}
QRect WaylandClient::frameRectToBufferRect(const QRect &rect) const
{
return QRect(rect.topLeft(), surface()->size());
}
QRect WaylandClient::requestedFrameGeometry() const
{
return m_requestedFrameGeometry;
}
QPoint WaylandClient::requestedPos() const
{
return m_requestedFrameGeometry.topLeft();
}
QSize WaylandClient::requestedSize() const
{
return m_requestedFrameGeometry.size();
}
QRect WaylandClient::requestedClientGeometry() const
{
return m_requestedClientGeometry;
}
QRect WaylandClient::bufferGeometry() const
{
return m_bufferGeometry;
}
QSize WaylandClient::requestedClientSize() const
{
return requestedClientGeometry().size();
}
void WaylandClient::setFrameGeometry(const QRect &rect, ForceGeometry_t force)
{
m_requestedFrameGeometry = rect;
if (isShade()) {
if (m_requestedFrameGeometry.height() == borderTop() + borderBottom()) {
qCDebug(KWIN_CORE) << "Passed shaded frame geometry to setFrameGeometry()";
} else {
m_requestedClientGeometry = frameRectToClientRect(m_requestedFrameGeometry);
m_requestedFrameGeometry.setHeight(borderTop() + borderBottom());
}
} else {
m_requestedClientGeometry = frameRectToClientRect(m_requestedFrameGeometry);
}
if (areGeometryUpdatesBlocked()) {
m_frameGeometry = m_requestedFrameGeometry;
if (pendingGeometryUpdate() == PendingGeometryForced) {
return;
}
if (force == ForceGeometrySet) {
setPendingGeometryUpdate(PendingGeometryForced);
} else {
setPendingGeometryUpdate(PendingGeometryNormal);
}
return;
}
m_frameGeometry = frameGeometryBeforeUpdateBlocking();
if (requestedClientSize() != clientSize()) {
requestGeometry(requestedFrameGeometry());
} else {
updateGeometry(requestedFrameGeometry());
return;
}
QRect updateRect = m_frameGeometry;
if (m_positionSyncMode == SyncMode::Sync) {
updateRect.moveTopLeft(requestedPos());
}
if (m_sizeSyncMode == SyncMode::Sync) {
updateRect.setSize(requestedSize());
}
updateGeometry(updateRect);
}
void WaylandClient::move(int x, int y, ForceGeometry_t force)
{
Q_ASSERT(pendingGeometryUpdate() == PendingGeometryNone || areGeometryUpdatesBlocked());
QPoint p(x, y);
if (!areGeometryUpdatesBlocked() && p != rules()->checkPosition(p)) {
qCDebug(KWIN_CORE) << "forced position fail:" << p << ":" << rules()->checkPosition(p);
}
m_requestedFrameGeometry.moveTopLeft(p);
m_requestedClientGeometry.moveTopLeft(framePosToClientPos(p));
if (force == NormalGeometrySet && m_frameGeometry.topLeft() == p) {
return;
}
m_frameGeometry.moveTopLeft(m_requestedFrameGeometry.topLeft());
if (areGeometryUpdatesBlocked()) {
if (pendingGeometryUpdate() == PendingGeometryForced) {
return;
}
if (force == ForceGeometrySet) {
setPendingGeometryUpdate(PendingGeometryForced);
} else {
setPendingGeometryUpdate(PendingGeometryNormal);
}
return;
}
const QRect oldBufferGeometry = bufferGeometryBeforeUpdateBlocking();
const QRect oldClientGeometry = clientGeometryBeforeUpdateBlocking();
const QRect oldFrameGeometry = frameGeometryBeforeUpdateBlocking();
m_clientGeometry.moveTopLeft(m_requestedClientGeometry.topLeft());
m_bufferGeometry = frameRectToBufferRect(m_frameGeometry);
updateGeometryBeforeUpdateBlocking();
updateWindowRules(Rules::Position);
screens()->setCurrent(this);
workspace()->updateStackingOrder();
emit bufferGeometryChanged(this, oldBufferGeometry);
emit clientGeometryChanged(this, oldClientGeometry);
emit frameGeometryChanged(this, oldFrameGeometry);
addRepaintDuringGeometryUpdates();
}
void WaylandClient::requestGeometry(const QRect &rect)
{
m_requestedFrameGeometry = rect;
m_requestedClientGeometry = frameRectToClientRect(rect);
}
void WaylandClient::updateGeometry(const QRect &rect)
{
const QRect oldClientGeometry = m_clientGeometry;
const QRect oldFrameGeometry = m_frameGeometry;
const QRect oldBufferGeometry = m_bufferGeometry;
m_clientGeometry = frameRectToClientRect(rect);
m_frameGeometry = rect;
m_bufferGeometry = frameRectToBufferRect(rect);
WaylandGeometryTypes changedGeometries;
if (m_clientGeometry != oldClientGeometry) {
changedGeometries |= WaylandGeometryClient;
}
if (m_frameGeometry != oldFrameGeometry) {
changedGeometries |= WaylandGeometryFrame;
}
if (m_bufferGeometry != oldBufferGeometry) {
changedGeometries |= WaylandGeometryBuffer;
}
if (!changedGeometries) {
return;
}
updateWindowRules(Rules::Position | Rules::Size);
updateGeometryBeforeUpdateBlocking();
if (changedGeometries & WaylandGeometryBuffer) {
emit bufferGeometryChanged(this, oldBufferGeometry);
}
if (changedGeometries & WaylandGeometryClient) {
emit clientGeometryChanged(this, oldClientGeometry);
}
if (changedGeometries & WaylandGeometryFrame) {
emit frameGeometryChanged(this, oldFrameGeometry);
}
emit geometryShapeChanged(this, oldFrameGeometry);
addRepaintDuringGeometryUpdates();
}
void WaylandClient::setPositionSyncMode(SyncMode syncMode)
{
m_positionSyncMode = syncMode;
}
void WaylandClient::setSizeSyncMode(SyncMode syncMode)
{
m_sizeSyncMode = syncMode;
}
} // namespace KWin
|
Q:
Exclude files from Play framework production build
I'd like to use sbt-web to process my client-side assets. I have some source files that are going to be fed into sbt-web, and sbt-web is going to output some distribution files.
Is there a way to tell Play framework to exclude these source files (e.g. unminified javascript, etc) from the deployment build when building for production?
A:
Sbt-filter is what you are looking for. You can follow description at the Github page but basically you have to enable the plugin in your build.sbt, add it to the pipeline and write filter configuration.
lazy val root = (project in file(".")).enablePlugins(SbtWeb)
pipelineStages := Seq(filter)
For example to exclude a unminified javascripts you use:
includeFilter in filter := "*.js"
excludeFilter in filter := "*.min.js"
|
Are you an Explorer ?
Travels
THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE ADVENTURE
Travel intro – EN
Where do you want to go today?
Where do you want to go today? Here you can choose: Patagonia? Mongolia? Turkey? Take a look at our videos and you’ll feel as if you’ve been instantly transported to the other side of the world, to spectacular, unforgettable places. We’re working hard to upload all the videos and photos we have (There are quite a few!), and we’ll continue to add updates. Each filmed story is, in itself, exciting to watch; but most of all, they’re all meant to be sources of inspiration for new destinations, new trips you’re thinking of taking. That possibility hadn’t crossed your mind?
These videos will make you want to pack up and take off… and without even giving it a thought. |
The first time I heard of this still-without-US-distribution German sci-fi indie was casually browsing through Facebook and the image of a scantily clad teenage girl protectively clutching to a little extraterrestrial in neon-fluorescent blue and red colors was destined to get my attention. After finally tracking down and viewing the Euro-music video infused “student film” however, I’m quickly realizing it’s better to keep scrolling past numbers like these on social media no matter how inviting the posters and premise appear to be.
Before unveiling the opening title cards, a series of inter-titles warn the viewer of stroboscopic effects potentially causing seizures in some viewers appears before then suggesting that the film be played loud. Starting out by ripping off of Gaspar Noe’swith its epileptic foreshadowing before closing on copying Abel Ferrara’s, the cinematic debut of visual artist AKIZ (Achim Bornhak) and reportedly the first entry in a plannedis among the most shamelessknockoffs to surface since. It is also arguably the most aggravating look-at-me demonstration of “experimental visual technique” since Jonas Ackerlund’s misbegotten
While many are quick to read Der Nachtmahr (The Nightmare) as a teenage coming of age science fiction horror psychodrama about a young girl who after a hallucinogen filled rave party starts to see a Gollum like creature monkeying about her home, I saw a wannabe eager to display the influences hanging far from it’s sleeves. When it isn’t blatantly stealing high watermarks from Spielberg’s 1982 classic, right down to the girl and creature feeling each other’s feelings with the Gollum being poked and prodded in plastic wrapped hospital rooms, it gives neither the poor girl nor her special friend much of anything to do but muck about in back alleyways or raiding the fridge leaving a mess echoing (again Spielberg’s) Close Encounters of the Third Kind .
received special attention for being made in Germany without the support of public broadcasting or film financing groups as well as going the Dogme 95 route of using natural lighting and set pieces without much additional dressing. Fine and dandy, but the results here when they don’t look like a YouTube video with many blocky looking nighttime scenes like Ackerlund’s aforementioned misfire don’t have anything substantive to say about the experimental techniques being used other than ‘aren’t they cool?’.also arrives on the heels of the equally troubling yet comparatively infinitely better coming of age teen shock-horror fest, a film I don’t necessarily recommend either but will take over the prospect ofa second time.
Every now and again a unique cinematic diamond-in-the-rough appears out of nowhere that can’t help but draw out my insect-like cinephile antennae searching for something truly unique. From the outset, Der Nachtmahr appeared to be this experimental and surrealist cinema junkie’s cup of tea. Upon actually sitting through it, I watched so much promise for offbeat provocation, technical innovation and sensory assault get all but completely squandered. It isn’t so much that it nakedly rips off all of the right people, which it does seemingly with relish in scene after scene. My problem with Der Nachtmahr is that once all the pieces taken from various sources are all in place, the film ultimately does absolutely nothing new with them. |
Plus Size Ruched Front Midi Skirt Marl Grey
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Joss wears a UK size 16 and her height is 5'10"
Product number: V3770118
Machine Washable
Size:
Adding to Bag...Item Added!Oops, the requested quantity of this product has just gone out of stock!Add to BagPlease select garment size to add to your basket. |
This invention relates to the field of medicine, and more particularly to external urinary catheters for men.
Loss of continence may be embarrassing and is inconvenient. Prior inventors have proposed a variety of solutions to this problem. To collect urine from people who have diminished or no bladder control, a variety of absorbent pads and catheters have been developed. Pads are uncomfortable when wet, and may leak. Internal catheters also cause discomfort and may reduce the patient's mobility.
Some external urine collection devices have been designed for men. Typically, with such devices, the penis is placed in a urine receptacle leading to a remote disposal container. We refer to such devices as “external urinary catheters”.
This invention provides an improved solution to the incontinence problem for men. |
“I went to PT for my shoulder and it didn’t work.” We have all heard a version of this story from a friend, family member or acquaintance. The next part of the story typically involves one of two things: a long-winded explanation of the current status of the shoulder pain complete with live demonstrations of all movements that make the offending limb hurt, or a recollection of splints, slings, expenses and time off associated with the surgery that followed the failed course of physical therapy.
What is not usually verbalized is the belief underlying the initial statement: all physical therapy is equal. Somewhere between its humble beginnings at towards the end of the 19th century and today, the physical therapy profession absorbed a generalized identity. Unlike the field of education, where we readily accept that there are both varying degrees of quality of educators and potential of relevance of those educators to the student, Physical Therapists are not often differentiated from physical therapy. We, as a society, seem to believe that physical therapy for a shoulder injury will essentially look the same whether it is delivered by the Physical Therapist at the clinic across the street or the one closer to home. In short, there is an expensive – both in terms of dollars spent and unnecessary, ongoing pain – misunderstanding out there: a PT is a PT is a PT.
As a 15-year veteran of the profession, I can assure you that this is far from true. With over 300 accredited physical therapy doctorate level programs in the U.S. alone, thousands of institutes providing continuing education courses and 35 unique practice settings, the physical therapy profession is far from uniform. But, most importantly, advances in postgraduate clinical training are currently widening the gap between the Physical Therapist across the street and the one closer to home.
Sara Winder OPT Kent Easthill
After earning their license to practice, Physical Therapists can but are not required to choose from a variety of rigorous clinical specialization tracks. Physical therapy residencies and fellowships are in-clinic, structured training programs designed to significantly advance skills in specialties such as sports and orthopedics. Residencies and fellowships include one year of ongoing mentoring with an experienced therapist and post-professional coursework.
“Participating in the orthopedic residency program helped me learn to streamline my examination and treatment to get to the problem faster, and target each client’s specific needs. For athletes, this means I can get them back to their sport as safely and quickly as possible,” says Sarah Winder, PT, DPT at Outpatient Physical Therapy in Kent.
Adam Turley OPT Covington
Physical Therapists can also choose to earn Board Certifications in eight specialty areas, including orthopedics and sports. To be eligible to sit for the rigorous examination, a Physical Therapist must complete at least 2,000 hours of direct patient care in their specialty area. When you see the letters “OCS” and “SCS” after a Physical Therapist’s name, you can be assured of two things. First, they have relevant clinical experience. Second, they are part of an elite group of Physical Therapists: Less than 10% are Board Certified in the United States. Because of the Board Certification process, Adam Turley, DPT, SCS, OCS, CSCS at Outpatient Physical Therapy in Covington says he has a better understanding of return to sports concepts in rehabilitation. “It’s not the letters after your name that make you a better therapist. It’s the passion about your profession that drives you to pursue those letters and the ongoing commitment to staying up-to-date with research and practice management of athletes.” Adam and Sarah are Physical Therapists who chose the less traveled path of ongoing, rigorous training and testing after graduating from PT school. Because their clinical experience and education are unique, their patient care is too. So, the next time physical therapy comes up in conversation, or you have a need for it yourself, remember Adam and Sarah. Ask your potential Physical Therapist questions such as, “Are you residency trained?” or “Do you have any Board Certifications?” Because now you are in the know: A PT is not a PT is not a PT. |
#!/usr/bin/env bash
mvn package
docker build -t febs-server-test . |
Food and nutrition security and the economic crisis in Indonesia.
Indonesia has been afflicted by an economic crisis since July 1997. The economic crisis was preceded by a long drought associated with El Nino. The result has been a decline in food production, especially rice. In the eastern part of the country, especially in Irian Jaya, there was food insecurity during the early stages of the economic crisis. When the crisis escalated to become an economic, social and political crisis in 1998, food insecurity spread to other provinces, especially to urban areas in Java. The crisis led to increasingly high inflation. unemployment, poverty, food insecurity and malnutrition. The official figures indicate that poverty in Indonesia increased from 22.5 million (11.3%) in 1996 to 36.5 million (17.9%) in 1998. Food production decreased by 20-30% in some parts of the country. Compared with prices in January 1998, food prices had escalated 1.5- to threefold by August/November 1998 when acute food shortages occurred, especially in urban Java. Coupled with a drop in purchasing power, the higher food prices worsened health, nutritional status and education of children of urban poor and unemployed families. Despite social and political uncertainties, the Indonesian Government has taken prompt action to prevent a worsening of the situation by massive imports of rice, instituting food price subsidies for the poor and launching social safety net programmes to cope with food shortages and malnutrition. The present paper attempts to highlight the impact of the economic crisis on food insecurity and malnutrition in Indonesia. |
---
abstract: 'A transfer matrix function representation of the fundamental solution of the general-type discrete Dirac system, corresponding to rectangular Schur coefficients and Weyl functions, is obtained. Connections with Szegö recurrence, Schur coefficients and structured matrices are treated. Borg-Marchenko-type uniqueness theorem is derived. Inverse problems on the interval and semiaxis are solved.'
author:
- 'B. Fritzsche, B. Kirstein, I. Roitberg, A.L. Sakhnovich'
title: 'Discrete Dirac system: rectangular Weyl functions, direct and inverse problems'
---
MSC 2010: 34B20, 34L40, 39A12, 47A57.
[*Keywords: Discrete Dirac system, Szegö recurrence, Weyl function, inverse problem, $j$-theory, Schur coefficient.*]{}
Introduction {#intro}
============
In this paper we deal with a discrete Dirac-type (or simply Dirac) system: $$\label{0.1}
y_{k+1}(z)=(I_m+ {\mathrm{i}}z
j C_k)
y_k(z) \quad \left( k \in \BN_0
\right),$$ where $\BN_0$ stands for the set of non-negative integer numbers, $I_m$ is the $m \times m$ identity matrix, $"{\mathrm{i}}"$ is the imaginary unit (${\mathrm{i}}^2=-1$) and the $m \times m$ matrices $\{C_k\}$ are positive and $j$-unitary: $$\label{0.2}
C_k>0, \quad C_k j C_k=j, \quad j: = \left[
\begin{array}{cc}
I_{m_1} & 0 \\ 0 & -I_{m_2}
\end{array}
\right] \quad (m_1+m_2=m, \, \, m_1, \, m_2 \not= 0).$$ Discrete systems are of great interest and their study is sometimes more complicated than the study of the corresponding continuous systems (see, e.g., [@AbC1; @AbC2; @AG0; @BoSu; @FaMoL] and references therein). The subcase $m_1=m_2$ of system (satisfying ) corresponds to the self-adjoint Dirac-type systems, which were studied in [@FKRS08] (and the subcase $j=I_m$ of system corresponds to the skew-self-adjoint Dirac-type systems, an important subclass of which was investigated in [@KaSa; @SaA8]). The analogies between system and continuous Dirac-type systems are also discussed in [@FKRS08; @KaSa; @SaA8] in detail. Here we follow the paper [@FKRS12] on the continuous case, where $m_1$ does not necessarily equals $m_2$ and the $m_2 \times m_1$ Weyl matrix functions are, correspondingly, rectangular.
It is essential that Dirac system , is equivalent to the very well-known Szegö recurrence (see, e.g., [@DFK; @Si2]). This connection is discussed in detail in Section \[SzRc\]. Inverse problems for the subcase of the scalar Schur (or Verblunsky) coefficients were studied, for instance, in [@AG2; @Si2] (see also various references therein), and here we deal with the rectangular matrix Schur coefficients.
In this paper $\im$ denotes image of a matrix (or operator), $\s(A)$ stands for the spectrum of $A$ and “span” stands for the linear span.
Dirac system and Szegö recurrence {#SzRc}
=================================
The next simple proposition is essential for our future research and could be of independent interest in the theory of functions $($and powers, in particular$)$ of matrices, which is developed in a series of works $($see, e.g., [@BiI; @VeS] and references therein$)$.
\[PnC\] Let an $m\times m$ matrix $C$ satisfy relations $$\label{0.2'}
C>0, \quad C j C=j \quad (j=j^*=j^{-1}).$$ Then the following relations hold for all $s\in \BR$: $$\label{0.2!}
C^s>0, \quad C^s j C^s=j.$$
. Since $C>0$, it admits a representation $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C2}&
C=u^*D u,\end{aligned}$$ where $D$ is a diagonal matrix and $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C3}&
D>0, \quad u^* u=u u^*=I_m .\end{aligned}$$ We substitute into the second equality in to derive $$\begin{aligned}
\nn &
u^*D u j u^*D u=j,\end{aligned}$$ or, equivalently, $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C4}&
D J D=J, \quad J=J^*=J^{-1}:=u j u^*.\end{aligned}$$ Formula yields $D^{-1}=J D J$ and, taking power $s$ of the both parts of this equality, we obtain $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C5}&
D^{-s}=J D^{s} J, \qquad D^{s}J D^{s}= J.\end{aligned}$$ Finally, using – we have $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C6}&
u^*D^{s}u j u^*D^{s}u=j.\end{aligned}$$
We substitute $s=1/2$ and apply Proposition \[PnC\] to matrices $C_k$ in order to obtain the next proposition.
\[Rkgb\] Let matrices $C_k$ satisfy . Then they admit representations $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C1'}&
C_k=2\bt(k)^*\bt(k)-j, \quad \bt(k)j \bt(k)^*=I_{m_1}, \\
\label{C1}&
C_k=j+2\g(k)^*\g(k), \quad \g(k) j \g(k)^*=-I_{m_2},\end{aligned}$$ where $\bt(k)$ and $\g(k)$ are $m_1 \times m$ and $m_2 \times m$ matrices given by and , respectively.
. We note that matrices $C_k$ satisfy conditions of Proposition \[PnC\] and so holds for $C=C_k$. Next we put $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C7'}&
\bt(k):=\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}C_k^{1/2}\end{aligned}$$ and take into account the equality $$C_k=C_k^{1/2}\Big(2
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix} ^*
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix} -j \Big)C_k^{1/2}.$$ Now, representation is apparent from taken with $s=1/2$. In a similar way, formula and equality $I_m=j +2
\begin{bmatrix}
0 &
I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix} ^*
\begin{bmatrix}
0 &
I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix}
$ imply representation for $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C7}&
\g(k)=\begin{bmatrix}
0 &
I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix}C_k^{1/2}.\end{aligned}$$
Now, we will consider interrelations between Dirac system , and Szegö recurrence, which is given by the formula $$\label{C8}
X_{k+1}(\la)={\cal D}_k H_k \left[
\begin{array}{cc}
\la I_{m_1} & 0 \\ 0 & I_{m_2}
\end{array}
\right] X_k(\la),$$ where $$\label{C9}
H_k= \left[
\begin{array}{cc}
I_{m_1} & \rho_k \\ \rho_k^* & I_{m_2}
\end{array}
\right], \quad {\mathcal D}_k= {\mathrm{diag}}\Big\{
\big(
I_{m_1}-\rho_k \rho_k^* \big)^{-\frac{1}{2}}, \, \,
\big(I_{m_2}-\rho_k^*\rho_k\big)^{-\frac{1}{2}}\Big\},$$ and the $m_1 \times m_2$ matrices $\rho_k$ are strictly contractive, that is, $$\begin{aligned}
&\label{C9'}
\|\rho_k\|<1.\end{aligned}$$
\[SzRec\] When $m_1=m_2=1$, one easily removes the factor $(1-|\rho_k|^2)^{-1/2}$ in to obtain systems as in [@AG1; @AG2], where direct and inverse problems for the case of scalar strictly pseudo-exponential potentials have been treated. The square matrix version $($i.e., the version where $m_1=m_2)$ of Szegö recurrence, its connections with Schur coefficients and applications are discussed in [@DGK1; @DGK2] $($see also references therein$)$. For the rectangular matrices $\rho_k$ see, for instance, [@DFK]. We note that $\cld_k H_k $ is the so called Halmos extension of $\rho_k$ $($see [@DFK p. 167]$)$, and that the matrices $\cld_k$ and $H_k $ commute $($which easily follows, e.g., from [@DFK Lemma 1.1.12]$)$. The matrix ${\cal D}_k H_k$ is $j$-unitary and positive, that is, $$\begin{aligned}
& \label{C10}
{\cal D}_k H_k j H_k{\cal D}_k=H_k{\cal D}_k j {\cal
D}_k H_k=j, \\
\label{nov0} & {\cal D}_k H_k>0.\end{aligned}$$
According to [@Dy0 Theorem 1.2], any $j$-unitary matrix $C$ admits a representation, which is close to Halmos extension. More precisely, partitioning $C$ into blocks $C=\{c_{ik}\}_{i,k=1}^2$ we see that the $m_1 \times m_1$ block $c_{11}$ and the $m_2\times m_2$ block $c_{22}$ are invertible. Then, putting $$\begin{aligned}
& \nn
\rho=c_{12}c_{22}^{-1}=(c_{11}^{-1})^*c_{21}^*, \quad u_1=\big(I_{m_1}-\rho \rho^*\big)^{1/2}c_{11}, \quad u_2=\big(I_{m_2}- \rho^* \rho\big)^{{1}/{2}}c_{22},\end{aligned}$$ we have the respresentation: $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nov1}&
C= {\cal D} H\begin{bmatrix} u_1 & 0\\ 0 & u_2 \end{bmatrix}, \quad u_i^*u_i=u_iu_i^*=I_{m_i}; \quad H= \left[
\begin{array}{cc}
I_{m_1} & \rho \\ \rho^* & I_{m_2}
\end{array}
\right],
\\ \label{nov2}&
{\mathcal D}= {\mathrm{diag}}\Big\{
\big(
I_{m_1}- \rho \rho^* \big)^{-\frac{1}{2}}, \, \,
\big(I_{m_2}- \rho^* \rho\big)^{-\frac{1}{2}}\Big\}, \quad \rho^*\rho <I_{m_2}.\end{aligned}$$ Although relations - are well-known, we could not find in the literature a statement, which is converse to , . Hence, we prove it below.
\[novHE\] Let an $m\times m$ matrix $C$ be $j$-unitary and positive. Then it admits a representation $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nov3}&
C= {\cal D} H,\end{aligned}$$ where $ H$ and $ {\cal D}$ are of the form and $($i.e., the last factor on the right-hand side of the first equality in is removed$)$.
. Recall that $C$ admits representation . We fix a unitary matrix $\wt U$ such that $ \cld H= \wt U \wt D \wt U^*$, where $ \wt D$ is a diagonal matrix, $ \wt D>0$. Then, relations $C=C^*$ and yield the equality $$\wt U \wt D \wt U^* \begin{bmatrix} u_1 & 0\\ 0 & u_2 \end{bmatrix} =\begin{bmatrix} u_1^* & 0\\ 0 & u_2^* \end{bmatrix} \wt U \wt D \wt U^*,$$ which we rewrite in the form $$\begin{aligned}
& \label{nov3'}
\wt D \wh U=\wh U^* \wt D, \quad \wh U:=\wt U^*\begin{bmatrix} u_1 & 0\\ 0 & u_2 \end{bmatrix}\wt U.\end{aligned}$$ According to , $\wt D \wh U$ is a selfadjoint matrix, and so $\wt D^{1/2}\wh U \wt D^{-1/2}$ is a selfadjoint matrix too, that is, there is a representation $$\begin{aligned}
& \label{nov4}
\wt D^{1/2}\wh U \wt D^{-1/2}= \breve U D_1 \breve U^*,\end{aligned}$$ where $\breve U$ and $D_1=D_1^*$ are unitary and diagonal matrices, respectively. The definition of $\wh U$ in implies that $\wh U$ is unitary. Therefore, in view of , $D_1$ is linear similar to a unitary matrix, that is, its entries are $\pm 1$. Moreover $D_1>0$, since $C>0$ and formulas , and yield $$\begin{aligned}
& \label{nov5}
C=\wt U \wt D \wt U^* \begin{bmatrix} u_1 & 0\\ 0 & u_2 \end{bmatrix}=\wt U \wt D \wh U \wt U^*=
\wt U \wt D^{1/2}\breve U D_1 \breve U^* \wt D^{1/2}\wt U^*.\end{aligned}$$ From the inequality $D_1>0$ and the fact that the entries of $D_1$ equal either $1$ or $-1$, we have $D_1=I_m$. Thus, the last equality in implies $C=\wt U \wt D \wt U^* $, that is, holds.
Proposition \[novHE\] completes Propositions \[PnC\] and \[Rkgb\] on representations and properties of $C_k$. Taking into account , and Proposition \[novHE\], we rewrite Szegö recurrence in an equivalent form $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C8'} &
X_{k+1}(\la)=\wt C_k \left[
\begin{array}{cc}
\la I_{m_1} & 0 \\ 0 & I_{m_2}
\end{array}
\right] X_k(\la), \quad k \in \BN_0,
\\ \label{nov6} &
\wt C_k>0, \quad \wt C_k j\wt C_k=j.\end{aligned}$$ Using we see that the matrix functions $U_k$, which are given by the equalities $$\label{C11}
U_0:=I_m, \quad U_{k+1}:={\mathrm{i}}U_k\wt C_k j=\prod_{r=0}^k({\mathrm{i}}\wt C_r j)
\quad (k \geq 0),$$ are also $j$-unitary. From and we have $$\begin{aligned}
\nn &
({\mathrm{i}}+z)U_{k+1}(I_m+{\mathrm{i}}z j)\wt C_k \begin{bmatrix}
\frac{z-{\mathrm{i}}}{z+ {\mathrm{i}}} I_{m_1} & 0 \\ 0 & I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix}(I_m+{\mathrm{i}}z j)^{-1}U_k^{-1}
\\ \label{C12} &
=I_m+ {\mathrm{i}}z U_{k+1} j U_{k+1}^{-1} .\end{aligned}$$ In view of , the function $y_k$ of the form $$\label{C13}
y_k(z)=({\mathrm{i}}+z)^k U_k (I_m
+ {\mathrm{i}}z j)
X_k\left(\frac{z-{\mathrm{i}}}{z+ {\mathrm{i}}}\right)$$ satisfies , where $y_0(z)=(I_m+{\mathrm{i}}z j)X_0(z)$ and $C_k=jU_{k+1}jU_{k+1}^{-1}$. Since $U_{k+1}$ is $j$-unitary, we rewrite $C_k$ as $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C14} &
C_k=jU_{k+1}U_{k+1}^*j,\end{aligned}$$ and so holds. Because of , and $j$-unitarity of $U_k$, we have $jU_k^*C_kU_k j=\wt C_k^2$, that is, $$\begin{aligned}
\label{C15} &
\wt C_k=(jU_k^*C_kU_k j)^{1/2}.\end{aligned}$$ The following theorem describes interconnections between systems and .
\[TmSzRc\] Dirac systems , and Szegö recurrences , are equivalent. The transformation ${\mathfrak M}: \, \{\wt C_k\} \rightarrow \{C_k\}$ of Szegö recurrence into Dirac system, and the transformation of their solutions, are given, respectively, by formulas and , where matrices $\{U_k\}$ are defined in . The mapping ${\mathfrak M}$ is bijective, and the inverse mapping is obtained by applying $($and substitution of the result into $)$ for the successive values of $k$.
. It is proved already above that the formulas and describe a mapping of Szegö recurrence and its solution into Dirac system and its solution, respectively. Moreover, the mapping ${\mathfrak M}$ is injective, since we can successively and uniquely recover $\wt C_k$ and $U_{k+1}$ from $C_k$ and $U_k$ using formulas and , respectively.
Next, we prove that ${\mathfrak M}$ is surjective. Indeed, given an arbitrary sequence $\{C_k\}$ satisfying , let us apply to the matrices from this sequence relation (and substitute the result into ) for the successive values of $k$. In this way we construct a sequence $\{\wt C_k\}$. Since the matrices $jU_k^*C_kU_k j$ are positive and $j$-unitary, we see, from and Proposition \[PnC\], that the matrices $\wt C_k$ are also positive and $j$-unitary. Next, we apply to $\{\wt C_k\}$ the mapping ${\mathfrak M}$. Taking into account and , we derive $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nov7} &
jU_{k+1}U_{k+1}^*j=jU_k\wt C_k^2U_k^*j=jU_k(jU_k^*C_kU_k j)U_k^*j=C_k,\end{aligned}$$ that is, ${\mathfrak M}$ maps the constructed sequence $\{\wt C_k\}$ into the initial sequence $\{C_k\}$. Recall that we started from an arbitrary $\{C_k\}$ satisfying . Hence, ${\mathfrak M}$ is surjective.
Weyl theory: direct problems {#gcdp}
=============================
In this section we introduce Weyl functions for matricial discrete Dirac systems (\[0.1\]). Next we prove the Weyl function’s existence and, moreover, give a procedure to construct it (direct problems). Finally, we construct the $S$-node, which corresponds to system , and the transfer matrix function representation of the fundamental solution $W_k$. (See, e.g., [@SaL1; @SaL2; @SaL3] on the $S$-nodes and the transfer matrix functions in Lev Sakhnovich sense.)
The fundamental $m \times m$ solution $\{W_k \}$ of we normalize by the condition $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.1}&
W_0(z)=I_m.\end{aligned}$$ Similar to the continuous analog of in [@FKRS12; @FKRSp12] (see also canonical system case [@SaL3 p. 7]), the Weyl functions of system on the interval $[0, \, r]$ (i.e., system considered for $0 \leq k \leq r$) are defined by the Möbius (linear-fractional) transformation: $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.6}&
\vp_r(z, \clp)=\begin{bmatrix}
0 &I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(z)^{-1}\clp(z)\Big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(z)^{-1}\clp(z)\Big)^{-1},\end{aligned}$$ where $\clp(z)$ are nonsingular $m \times m_1$ matrix functions with property-$j$. That is, $\clp(z)$ are meromorphic in $\BC_+$ matrix functions such that $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.7}&
\clp(z)^*\clp(z)>0, \quad \clp(z)^*j\clp(z) \geq 0\end{aligned}$$ for all points in $\BC_+$ (excluding, possibly, a discrete set). The first inequality in means non-singularity (non-degeneracy) of $\clp$ and the second inequality is called property-$j$. Since $\clp$ is meromorphic, property-$j$ almost everywhere in $\BC_+$ and the first inequality in at some $z_0 \in \BC_+$ suffice for the conditions on $\clp$ to hold.
It is apparent from and that $$\begin{aligned}
\label{Z3}&
W_{r+1}(z)=\prod_{k=0}^r(I_m+{\mathrm{i}}z jC_k ).\end{aligned}$$ In view of and we obtain $$\begin{aligned}
\label{Z9}&
W_{r+1}({\mathrm{i}})=(-2)^{r+1}\prod_{k=0}^r \big(j\g(k)^*\g(k)\big).\end{aligned}$$ Hence, $\det W_{r+1}({\mathrm{i}})=0$, and we don’t consider $z={\mathrm{i}}$ in this section.
\[zi\] We note that the behavior of Weyl functions in the neighborhood of $z= {\mathrm{i}}$ is essential for the inverse problems that are dealt with in the next section. Therefore, unlike the Weyl disc case $($see Notation \[cln\]$)$, in the definition of the Weyl functions on the interval we assume that $\clp$ is not only nonsingular with property-$j$ but has also an additional property. Namely, it is well-defined and nonsingular at $z={\mathrm{i}}$. We don’t use this additional property in this section, though, in important cases, it could be obtained via multiplication by a scalar function.
The lemma below shows that transformations $\vp_r(z, \clp)$ are well-defined.
\[det\] Fix any $z\in \BC_+$ such that the inequalities $\det W_r(z) \not=0$ and hold. Then we have the inequality $$\begin{aligned}
\label{Z1}&
\det\Big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(z)^{-1}\clp(z)\Big)\not=0.\end{aligned}$$
. Using and we obtain $$\begin{aligned}
\nn&
(I_m+{\mathrm{i}}z jC_k )^*j (I_m+{\mathrm{i}}z jC_k )=(1+{\mathrm{i}}(z- \ov{z})+|z|^2)j+2{\mathrm{i}}(z- \ov{z})\g(k)^*\g(k)
\\ & \label{Z2}
\leq (1-2\Im(z)+|z|^2)j, \qquad (1-2\Im(z)+|z|^2) >0 \quad {\mathrm{for}} \quad z\not= {\mathrm{i}}.\end{aligned}$$ Since the equality holds, formula implies that $$\begin{aligned}
\label{Z4}&
\big(W_{r+1}(z)^{-1}\big)^*jW_{r+1}(z)^{-1}\geq (1-2\Im(z)+|z|^2)^{-r-1}j \quad (z\in \BC_+, \,\, z\not={\mathrm{i}}).\end{aligned}$$ Because of and , we see that $\wt \clp:= W_{r+1}(z)^{-1}\clp(z)$ satisfies the inequality $\wt \clp^* j \wt \clp \geq 0$. It is apparent that the same inequality holds for the matrix $\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}^*$. In other words, $\im W_{r+1}(z)^{-1}\clp(z)$ and $\im \begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}^*$ are maximal $j$-nonnegative subspaces. Therefore, the inequality follows in a standard way from $j$-theoretic considerations (see, e.g., the proof of or the proof of [@FKRS08 inequality (5.6)] for such considerations).
\[CyW-1\] The following inequalities hold for the fundamental solution $W_{r+1}$ of $($where $\{C_k\}$ satisfy $):$ $$\begin{aligned}
&\label{Z5}
\det W_{r+1}(z)\not=0, \quad W_{r+1}(z)^{-1}=(1+z^2)^{-r-1}jW_{r+1}(\ov{z})^*j \qquad (z\not= \pm {\mathrm{i}}).\end{aligned}$$
. Relations and imply that $$W_{r+1}(z)^*jW_{r+1}(z)=(1+z^2)^{r+1}j, \qquad z=\ov{z}.$$ Hence, using analyticity considerations, we obtain $$\begin{aligned}
\label{Z6}&
W_{r+1}(\ov{z})^*jW_{r+1}(z)\equiv (1+z^2)^{r+1}j,\end{aligned}$$ and is apparent.
\[cln\] The set of values of matrices $\vp_r(z, \clp)$, which are given by the transformation where parameter matrices $\clp(z)$ satisfy , is denoted by $\cln(r,z)$ $($or, sometimes, simply $\cln(r))$.
Usually, $\cln(r,z)$ is called the Weyl disk.
\[Cyj\] The sets $\cln(r,z)$ are embedded $($i.e., $\cln(r,z)\subseteq \cln(r-1,z))$ for all $r >0 $ and $z \in \BC_+$, $\, z \not= {\mathrm{i}}$. Moreover, for all $\vp_k$ $(k \geq 0)$ we have $$\begin{aligned}
\label{Z8}&
\vp_k(z)^*\vp_k(z)\leq I_{m_1}.\end{aligned}$$
. It follows from Corollary \[CyW-1\] that the matrices $W_{r+1}(z)$, $W_r(z)$ and $(I_m+{\mathrm{i}}z jC_r )$ are invertible. Hence formulas and imply that $\wt \clp:=(I_m+{\mathrm{i}}z jC_r )^{-1}\clp(z)$ satisfies . Therefore, we rewrite in the form $$\begin{aligned}
\label{Z7}&
\vp_r(z, \clp)=\begin{bmatrix}
0 &I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix}W_{r}(z)^{-1}\wt \clp(z)\Big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r}(z)^{-1}\wt \clp(z)\Big)^{-1},\end{aligned}$$ and see that $\vp_r(z)\in \cln(r-1,z)$ ($r>0$). Inequality is obtained for the matrices from $\cln(0,z)$ via substitution of $r=0$ into .
Weyl functions of system on the semiaxis $\BN_0$ of non-negative integers are defined in a different and more traditional way (in terms of summability), see definition below. We will show also that the definitions of Weyl functions on the interval and semiaxis are interrelated.
\[defWeyl\] The Weyl-Titchmarsh $($or simply Weyl$)$ function of Dirac system $($which is given on the semiaxis $0\leq k < \infty$ and satisfies $)$ is an $m_2\times m_1$ matrix function $\vp(z)$ $\, (z \in \BC_+)$, such that the following inequality holds: $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.3}&
\sum_{k=0}^\infty q(z)^k
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & \vp(z)^*
\end{bmatrix}
W_k(z)^*C_k W_k (z)
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} \\ \vp(z)
\end{bmatrix}<\infty,
\\ & \label{1.5}
q(z):=(1+|z|^2)^{-1}.\end{aligned}$$
\[inta\] If $\vp_r(z)\in \cln(r,z)$, we have the inequality $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.3'}
\sum_{k=0}^r q(z)^k
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & \vp_r(z)^*
\end{bmatrix}
W_k(z)^*C_k W_k (z)
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} \\ \vp_r(z)
\end{bmatrix} \leq & \frac{1+|z|^2}{{\mathrm{i}}( \ov{z}-z)}
\\ \nn & \times
\big(I_m-\vp_r(z)^*\vp_r(z)\big).\end{aligned}$$
. Because of (\[0.1\]) and (\[0.2\]) we have $$\begin{aligned}
\nn
W_{k+1}(z)^*jW_{k+1}(z)&=W_{k}(z)^*\Big(
I_m -
{\mathrm{i}}{\ov z} C_k j \Big)j\Big( I_m
+{\mathrm{i}}z j
C_k \Big)W_{k}(z)
\\
\label{1.2}&
=q(z)^{-1}W_k(z)^*jW_k(z)+{\mathrm{i}}(z-\ov{z})W_k(z)^*C_k W_k(z).\end{aligned}$$ Using and , we derive a summation formula, which is similar to the formula for the case that $m_1=m_2$, see [@FKRS08 formula (4.2)]: $$\label{1.4}
\sum_{k=0}^r
q(z)^k W_k(z)^*C_k W_k (z)=\frac{1+|z|^2}{{\mathrm{i}}( \ov{z}-z)}
\Big(j- q(z)^{r+1}W_{r+1}(z)^*jW_{r+1}(z)\Big).$$ On the other hand, it follows from that $$\label{1.4!}
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} \\ \vp_r(z)
\end{bmatrix} =W_{r+1}(z)^{-1}\clp(z)\Big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(z)^{-1}\clp(z)\Big)^{-1},$$ and so formula yields $$\label{1.4'}
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & \vp_r(z)^*
\end{bmatrix}
W_{r+1}(z)^*j W_{r+1}(z)
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} \\ \vp_r(z)
\end{bmatrix} \geq 0.$$ Formulas and imply .
Now, we are ready to prove the main direct theorem.
\[Tm3.8\] There is a unique Weyl function of the discrete Dirac system , which is given on the semi-axis $ 0\leq k < \infty$ and satisfies . This Weyl function $\vp$ is analytic and non-expansive $($i.e., $\vp^*\vp \leq I_{m_1})$ in $\BC_+$.
. The proof consists of 3 steps. First, we show that there is an analytic and non-expansive function $$\begin{aligned}
\label{Z10}&
\vp_{\infty}(z)\in \bigcap_{r \geq 0} \cln(r,z).\end{aligned}$$ Next, we show that $\vp_{\infty}(z)$ is a Weyl function. Finally, we prove the uniqueness.
[**Step 1.**]{} This step is similar to the corresponding part of the proof of [@FKRSp12 Proposition 2.2]. Indeed, from Corollary \[Cyj\] we see that the set of functions $\vp_r(z,\clp)$ of the form is uniformly bounded in $\BC_+$. So, Montel’s theorem is applicable and there is an analytic matrix function, which we denote by $\vp_{\infty}(z)$ and which is a uniform limit of some sequence $$\begin{aligned}
& \label{Z11}
\vp_{\infty}(z)=\lim_{i \to \infty} \vp_{r_i}(z,\clp_i) \quad (i \in \BN, \quad r_i \uparrow, \quad \lim_{i \to \infty}r_i=\infty)\end{aligned}$$ on all the bounded and closed subsets of $\BC_+$. Clearly, $\vp_{\infty}$ is non-expansive. Since $r_i \uparrow$, the sets $\cln(r,z)$ are embedded and equality is valid, it follows that the matrix functions $$\begin{aligned}
& \nn
\clp_{ij}(z):=W_{r_i+1}(z)\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} \\ \vp_{r_j}(z,\clp_j)
\end{bmatrix} \quad (j \geq i)\end{aligned}$$ satisfy relations . Therefore, using we derive that holds for $$\begin{aligned}
& \label{pizphi}
\clp_{i, \infty}(z):=W_{r_i+1}(z)\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} \\ \vp_{\infty}(z)
\end{bmatrix},\end{aligned}$$ which implies that we can substitute $\clp=\clp_{i, \infty}$ and $r=r_i$ into to obtain $$\begin{aligned}
& \label{Z12}
\vp_{\infty}(z)\in\cln(r_i,z).\end{aligned}$$ Since holds for all $i\in \BN$, we see that is fulfilled.
[**Step 2.**]{} Because of , the function $\vp_{\infty}$ satisfies condition of Lemma \[inta\]. Hence, holds for any $r \geq 0$ and $\vp_r=\vp_{\infty}$, which implies . Therefore, $\vp_{\infty}$ is a Weyl function.
[**Step 3.**]{} It is apparent from that $$\label{Z13}
W_k(z)^*C_k W_k(z)\geq W_k(z)^*(-j) W_k(z).$$ Using we derive also $$\label{Z14}
q(z)^k W_k(z)^*(-j) W_k(z)\geq q(z)^{k-1}W_{k-1}(z)^*(-j) W_{k-1}(z).$$ Formulas , and yield the basic for Step 3 inequality $$\label{Z15}
q(z)^k W_k(z)^*C_k W_k(z)\geq -j.$$ Therefore, the following equality is immediate for any $g\in
\BC^{m_2}$: $$\label{Z16}
\sum_{k=0}^\infty g^*[0 \quad I_{m_2}]
q(z)^kW_k(z)^*C_k W_k(z)\left[\begin{array}{c}
0 \\ I_{m_2}
\end{array}
\right]g =\infty .$$ It was shown in Step 2 that $\vp = \vp_{\infty}$ satisfies . According to (\[1.3\]) and (\[Z16\]), the dimension of the subspace $L \in \BC^m$ of vectors $h$ such that $$\label{Z17}
\sum_{k=0}^\infty
h^*q(z)^kW_k(z)^*C_k W_k(z)h <\infty$$ equals $m_1$. Now, suppose that there is a Weyl function $\wt \vp
\not= \vp_{\infty}$. Then we have $$\im \left[\begin{array}{c} I_{m_1} \\ \vp_{\infty}(z)
\end{array}
\right] \subseteq L, \quad
\im \left[\begin{array}{c}
I_{m_1} \\ \wt
\vp(z)
\end{array}
\right] \subseteq L .$$ Therefore, $\dim L>m_1$ (for those $z$, where $\wt \vp(z) \not=
\vp_{\infty}(z)$) and we arrive at a contradiction.
Finally, let us construct representations of $W_{r+1}$ $\, (r \geq 0)$ via $S$-nodes. First, recall that matrices $\{C_k\}$ generate via formula a set $\{\g(k)\}$ of the $m_2 \times m$ matrices $\g(k)$. Using $\{\g(k)\}$, we introduce $m_2(r+1) \times m$ matrices $\G_r$ and $m_2(r+1) \times m_2(r+1)$ matrices $K_r$ $\,(0 \leq r < \infty)$: $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.8}&
\G_r:=\begin{bmatrix}\g (0)\\ \g(1) \\ \ldots \\ \g(r) \end{bmatrix}; \quad
K_r:=\begin{bmatrix}\vk_r (0)\\ \vk_r(1) \\ \ldots \\ \vk_r(r) \end{bmatrix},
\\ \label{1.9}&
\vk_r(k):={\mathrm{i}}\g(k)j
\begin{bmatrix}\g(0)^* & \ldots & \g(k-1)^* & \g(k)^*/2 & 0 & \ldots & 0 \end{bmatrix}.\end{aligned}$$ It is apparent from and that the identity $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.10}&
K_r-K_r^*={\mathrm{i}}\G_r j \G_r^*\end{aligned}$$ holds. The $m_2(r+1) \times m_2(r+1)$ matrices $A_r$ are introduced by the equalities: $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.11}&
A_r=\{a_{p-k}\}_{k,p=0}^r, \quad a_n=-\left\{\begin{array}{l}
0 \quad {\mathrm{for}} \quad n>0, \\
({\mathrm{i}}/2) I_{m_2} \quad {\mathrm{for}} \quad n=0, \\
{\mathrm{i}}I_{m_2} \quad {\mathrm{for}} \quad n<0.
\end{array}
\right.\end{aligned}$$
\[PnSym\] Matrices $K_r$ and $A_r$ are linear similar$:$ $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.12}&
K_r=E_rA_rE_r^{-1}.\end{aligned}$$ Moreover, the similarity transformations $E_r$ can be constructed so that $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.13}&
E_r=\begin{bmatrix} E_{r-1} &0 \\
X_r & e^{-}_r
\end{bmatrix} \quad (r>0), \quad E_r^{-1}\G_{r,2}=\Phi_{r,2}, \quad \Phi_{r,2}:=
\begin{bmatrix}I_{m_2} \\ \ldots \\ I_{m_2} \end{bmatrix},
\\ \label{1.14}& E_0=e^-_0=\g_2(0),\end{aligned}$$ where $\G_{r,p}$ are $m_2(r+1) \times m_p$ blocks of $\G_r=
\begin{bmatrix}\G_{r,1} & \G_{r,2} \end{bmatrix}$ and $\g_{p}(k)$ are $m_2 \times m_p$ blocks of $\g(k)=
\begin{bmatrix}\g_{1}(k) & \g_{2}(k) \end{bmatrix}$.
. It follows from , , and that $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.15}&
K_0=A_0=-({\mathrm{i}}/2)I_{m_2}, \quad \det \g_2(0)\not= 0, \\ \label{1.16}&
\vk_r(r)={\mathrm{i}}\begin{bmatrix}\g(r) j \g(0)^* & \ldots & \g(r) j \g(r-1)^* & -I_{m_2}/2 \end{bmatrix}.\end{aligned}$$ We see that and imply for $r=0$. Next, we prove by induction. Assume that $K_{r-1}=E_{r-1}A_{r-1}E_{r-1}^{-1}$ and let $E_r$ have the form , where $\det e^-_r \not=0$. Then we obtain $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.17}&
E_r^{-1}=\begin{bmatrix} E_{r-1}^{-1} &0 \\
- (e^{-}_r)^{-1}X_r E_{r-1}^{-1} & (e^{-}_r)^{-1}
\end{bmatrix},\end{aligned}$$ and, in view of , , , , it is necessary and sufficient (for to hold) that $$\begin{aligned}
\nn &
\Big(\begin{bmatrix} X_rA_{r-1} & -({\mathrm{i}}/2)e^-_r
\end{bmatrix}-{\mathrm{i}}e^-_r
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_2} & \ldots & I_{m_2} &0
\end{bmatrix}\Big)
\begin{bmatrix} I_{rm_2} \\ -(e^-_r)^{-1}X_r
\end{bmatrix}E_{r-1}^{-1}
\\& \label{1.18}
=
{\mathrm{i}}\g(r) j \begin{bmatrix} \g(0)^* & \ldots & \g(r-1)^*
\end{bmatrix}.\end{aligned}$$ We can rewrite in the form $$\begin{aligned}
\nn
X_r\big(A_{r-1}+({\mathrm{i}}/2)I_{rm_2}\big)=&{\mathrm{i}}\g(r)j
\begin{bmatrix}\g(0)^* & \ldots & \g(r-1)^*
\end{bmatrix}E_{r-1}
\\\label{1.19}&
+{\mathrm{i}}e^-_r
\begin{bmatrix} I_{m_2} & \ldots & I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix}.\end{aligned}$$ We partition $X_r$ ($r>1$) into two $m_2\times m_2$ and $m_2\times (r-1)m_2$, respectively, blocks $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.19'}&
X_r=\begin{bmatrix} x_{r}^- & \wt X_r
\end{bmatrix},\end{aligned}$$ and we will need also partitions of the matrices $A_{r-1}+({\mathrm{i}}/2)I_{rm_2}$ and $E_{r-1}$, which follow (for $r>1$) from and : $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.20}&
\big(A_{r-1}+({\mathrm{i}}/2)I_{rm_2}\big)=
\begin{bmatrix} 0 & 0 \\
\big(A_{r-2}-({\mathrm{i}}/2)I_{(r-1)m_2}\big) & 0
\end{bmatrix}, \quad
E_{r-1}
\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\ I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix}=\begin{bmatrix} 0 \\ e_{r-1}^-
\end{bmatrix}.\end{aligned}$$ Using and we see that is equivalent to the relations $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.21}
e_r^-=&-\g(r)j
\g(r-1)^*
e_{r-1}^-
\quad \mathrm{for} \quad r \geq 1;
\\ \nn
\wt X_r=&
{\mathrm{i}}\Big( \g(r)j
\begin{bmatrix}\g(0)^* & \ldots & \g(r-1)^*
\end{bmatrix}E_{r-1}
+ e^-_r
\begin{bmatrix} I_{m_2} & \ldots & I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix}\Big) \\ \label{1.23}&
\times \begin{bmatrix} \big(A_{r-2}-({\mathrm{i}}/2)I_{(r-1)m_2}\big)^{-1} \\ 0
\end{bmatrix} \quad \mathrm{for} \quad r>1.\end{aligned}$$ Hence, if $e_r^-$ and $X_r$ satisfy and , respectively, and $\det e_r^- \not =0$, the similarity relation holds. The inequalities $\det e_r^- \not =0$ are apparent (by induction) from , and the inequalities $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.24}&
\det (\g(r)j
\g(r-1)^*)\not=0,
\end{aligned}$$ and it remains to prove . Indeed, let $\g(r)j
\g(r-1)^*g=0$, $\, g \not=0$. Then, the subspaces $\im \g(r)^*$ and $\spa \g(r-1)^*g$ are $j$-orthogonal. The second equality in (taken for $k=r$ and $k=r-1$) implies that these subspaces are also $j$-negative, have zero intersection and have dimensions $m_2$ and $1$, respectively. Thus, $\spa \big( \g(r-1)^*g \cup \im \g(r)^*\big)$ is an $m_2+1$-dimensional $j$-negative subspace, which does not exist. Therefore, the relation , and so also equality , is proved.
Formula shows that the second equality in holds for $r=0$. Now, we choose $X_r$ (for $r=1$) and $x_r^-$ (for $r>1$) so that the second equality in holds in the case that $r>0$. Taking into account , and using induction, we see that this equality is valid when $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.25}&
X_1=\g_2(1)-e_1^{-}, \qquad x_r^{-}=\g_2(r)-e_r^{-}-\wt X_r\Phi_{r-2,2} \quad (r>1).\end{aligned}$$
We note that inequalities, which are similar to and , are often required in the study of completion problems and Weyl theory. Therefore, the next proposition, which is easily proved using the same considerations as in the proof of , could be of more general interest.
\[Pn!\] Let the $m \times m$ matrix $J$ satisfy equalities $J=J^*=J^{-1}$ and have $m_1>0$ positive eigenvalues. Let $m \times m_1$ matrices $\vt$ and $\wt \vt$ satisfy inequalities $$\begin{aligned}
\label{prop!} &
\vt^* \vt >0, \quad \vt^* J \vt>0, \quad \wt \vt^* \wt \vt>0, \quad \wt \vt ^*J \wt \vt\geq 0.\end{aligned}$$ Then we have $$\begin{aligned}
\label{ineq!} &
\det \vt^* J \wt \vt \not= 0. \end{aligned}$$
Let us substitute into to derive $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.26}&
E_rA_rE_r^{-1}-\big(E_r^*\big)^{-1}A_r^*E_r^*
={\mathrm{i}}\G_r j \G_r^*.\end{aligned}$$ Multiplying both sides of by $E_r^{-1}$ and $\big(E_r^*\big)^{-1}$ from the left and right, respectively, we obtain the operator identity $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.27}&
A_rS_r-S_rA_r^*={\mathrm{i}}\Pi_r j \Pi_r^*={\mathrm{i}}(\Phi_{r,1}\Phi_{r,1}^*-\Phi_{r,2}\Phi_{r,2}^*),\end{aligned}$$ where $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.28}&
S_r:=E_r^{-1}\big(E_r^*\big)^{-1}, \quad \Pi_r:=E_r^{-1} \G_r=\begin{bmatrix} \Phi_{r,1} & \Phi_{r,2} \end{bmatrix}.\end{aligned}$$
\[DnSnd\] The triple of matrices $\{A_r,\, S_r, \, \Pi_r\}$ forms a symmetric $S$-node if the operator (matrix) identity holds, $S_r=S_r^*$ and $\det S_r\not=0$.
The transfer matrix function $($in Lev Sakhnovich form$)$, which corresponds to the $S$-node, is given by the formula $$\label{1.37}
w_A(r, \lambda)=I_{m}-{\mathrm{i}}j \Pi_r^*S_r^{-1}\big(A_r-
\lambda
I_{(r+1)m_2} \big)^{-1} \Pi_r.$$
\[RkSn\] A symmetric $S$-node corresponding to Dirac system $($which satisfies $)$ on the interval $0 \leq k \leq r$ is constructed using formulas and , where $\G_r$ is given in .
Recall that $S$-nodes, transfer matrix functions $w_A$ and the method of operator identities are introduced and studied in [@SaLopid1; @SaL1; @SaL2; @SaL3] (see also references therein).
For $r>0$ introduce projectors: $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.29}
& P_1:=\begin{bmatrix}I_{r m_2} & 0 \end{bmatrix},
\quad P_2= P:=\begin{bmatrix}0 &
\ldots & 0 & I_{m_2} \end{bmatrix}.\end{aligned}$$ Since $E_r^{-1}$ is a block lower triangular matrix, we easily derive from and that $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.30}
& P_1S_r P_1^*=E_{r-1}^{-1}\big(E_{r-1}^*\big)^{-1}=S_{r-1}, \quad P_1\Pi_r=\Pi_{r-1}.\end{aligned}$$ It is apparent that $$\begin{aligned}
&\label{1.31}
\det S_{r-1}\not=0, \quad P_1 A_rP_1^*=A_{r-1}.\end{aligned}$$ In view of and , the factorization Theorem 4 from [@SaL1] (see also [@SaL3 p. 188]) yields $$\begin{aligned}
\nn
w_A(r, \lambda)=& \Big(I_{m} -{\mathrm{i}}j
\Pi_r^*S_r^{-1}P^*\big(PA_rP^*- \lambda I_{m_2}
\big)^{-1}\big(PS_r^{-1}P^*\big)^{-1}P S_r^{-1}\Pi_r \Big)
\\ \label{1.38}
&\times w_A(r-1, \lambda).\end{aligned}$$
\[FundSol\] The fundamental solution $W$ of the system , where $W$ is normalized by the condition and the [potential]{} $\{C_k\}$ satisfies , admits reprezentation $$\label{1.36}
W_{r+1}(z)=(1+ {\mathrm{i}}z)^{r+1}
w_A \big(r, (2z)^{-1}\big).$$
. Formulas and imply the following equalities $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.32}
& W_{r+1}(z)=(1 + {\mathrm{i}}z)\big(I_m+2{\mathrm{i}}z(1 + {\mathrm{i}}z)^{-1}j\g(r)^*\g(r)\big) W_r(z) \quad (r \geq 0).\end{aligned}$$ On the other hand, we easily derive from , , and that $$\begin{aligned}
\label{1.33}&
\big(PA_rP^*- \lambda I_{m_2}
\big)^{-1}=-\big( \lambda + {\mathrm{i}}/2\big)^{-1} I_{m_2}, \quad S_r^{-1}=E_r^*E_r, \\
\label{1.34} &
PS_r^{-1}P^*=(e_r^-)^*e_r^-,
\quad PS_r^{-1}\Pi_r=PE_r^*\G_r=(e_r^-)^*\g(r).\end{aligned}$$ We substitute and into to obtain $$\begin{aligned}
&\label{1.35}
w_A(r, \lambda)= \Big(I_{m} +\frac{2 {\mathrm{i}}}{ 2 \la+{\mathrm{i}}} j\g(r)^*\g(r)\Big)
w_A(r-1, \lambda) \quad (r \geq 1).\end{aligned}$$ In a similar way, we rewrite (for the case that $r=0$) in the form $$\begin{aligned}
&\label{1.35'}
w_A(0, \lambda)= I_{m} +\frac{2 {\mathrm{i}}}{2 \la+{\mathrm{i}}} j\g(0)^*\g(0).\end{aligned}$$ Finally, we compare with and (and take into account ) to see that $W_1(z)=(1+ {\mathrm{i}}z)
w_A \big(0, (2z)^{-1}\big)$ and iterative relations for the left- and right-hand sides of ) coincide.
Weyl theory: inverse problems {#gcip}
==============================
The values of $\vp$ and its derivatives at $z={\mathrm{i}}$ will be of interest in this section. Therefore, using we rewrite in the form $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nc-1}&
\vp_r(z, \clp)=-\begin{bmatrix}
0 &I_{m_2}
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(\ov{z})^{*}\clp(z)\Big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(\ov{z})^{*}\clp(z)\Big)^{-1},\end{aligned}$$ where $\clp$ in differs from $\clp$ in by the factor $j$ (and so this $\clp$ is also a nonsingular matrix function with property-$j$).
\[defWeyl2\] Weyl functions of Dirac system $($which is given on the interval $0 \leq k \leq r$ and satisfies $)$ are $m_2\times m_1$ matrix functions $\vp(z)$ of the form , where $\clp$ are nonsingular matrix functions with property-$j$ such that $\clp({\mathrm{i}})$ are well-defined and nonsingular.
It is apparent that is equivalent to $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nc-1'}&
\begin{bmatrix}I_{m_1} \\ \vp_r(z, \clp)\end{bmatrix}=jW_{r+1}(\ov{z})^{*}\clp(z)\Big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(\ov{z})^{*}\clp(z)\Big)^{-1}.\end{aligned}$$
\[LaI\] Let $\clp$ satisfy conditions from Definition \[defWeyl2\]. Then we have the inequality $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nc0}&
\det\Big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(-{\mathrm{i}})^{*}\clp({\mathrm{i}})\Big) \not= 0.\end{aligned}$$
. First note that in view of we obtain $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nc}&
I_m+C_kj=2\bt(k)^*\bt(k)j.\end{aligned}$$ Formulas and imply $$\begin{aligned}
\nn
\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(-{\mathrm{i}})^{*}\clp({\mathrm{i}})=&2^{r+1}\big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}\bt(0)^*\big)(\bt(0)j \bt(1)^*)\ldots
\\ \label{nc'}& \times
(\bt(r-1)j \bt(r)^*)(\bt(r)j \clp({\mathrm{i}})).\end{aligned}$$ Using Proposition \[Pn!\] (and the second equality in ) and putting, correspondingly, $\vt = \bt(k)^*$ and $\wt \vt=\bt(k+1)^*$ or $\wt \vt=\clp({\mathrm{i}})$, we derive inequalities $$\begin{aligned}
&\label{btp}
\det (\bt(k)j \bt(k+1)^*)\not=0 \quad {\mathrm{and}} \quad\det (\bt(r)j \clp({\mathrm{i}}))\not=0,
\end{aligned}$$ respectively. In the same way we obtain $\det\big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}\bt(0)^*\big)\not=0.$ Now, inequality follows from .
Our next proposition is proved similar to Corollary \[Cyj\].
\[Pnwtr\] Suppose $\vp$ is a Weyl function of Dirac system on the interval $0 \leq k \leq r$, where the potential $\{C_k\}$ satisfies . Then $\vp$ is a Weyl function of the same system on all the intervals $0 \leq k \leq \wt r$ $(\wt r \leq r)$.
. Clearly, it suffices to show that the statement of the proposition holds for $\wt r=r-1$ (if $r>0$). That is, in view of Definition \[defWeyl2\], we should prove that $\wt \clp(z):= (I_m-{\mathrm{i}}z C_r j)\clp(z)$ has property-$j$, that $\wt \clp({\mathrm{i}})$ is well-defined and that the first inequality in written for $ \wt \clp$ at $z={\mathrm{i}}$ always holds (i.e., $\wt \clp({\mathrm{i}})$ is nonsingular), if only $\clp$ has these properties.
Indeed, since we have $$\begin{aligned}
\label{vst1}&
(I_m-{\mathrm{i}}z C_r j)^*j(I_m-{\mathrm{i}}z C_r j)=(1+|z|^2)j+{\mathrm{i}}(\ov{z}-z)jC_rj \geq (1+|z|^2)j,\end{aligned}$$ the matrix function $ \wt \clp$ has property-$j$. The non-singularity of $\wt \clp({\mathrm{i}})= (I_m+ C_r j)\clp({\mathrm{i}})$ is apparent from and .
\[Tm2.2\] Suppose $\vp$ is a Weyl function of Dirac system on the interval $0 \leq k \leq r$, where the potential $\{C_k\}$ satisfies . Then $\{C_k\}_{k=0}^r$ is uniquely recovered from the first $r+1$ Taylor coefficients of $\vp\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)$ at $z=0$.
If $\vp\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)=\sum_{k=0}^r\phi_k z^k+ O(z^{r+1})$, then matrices $\Phi_{k,1}$ are recovered via the formula $$\begin{aligned}
\label{ncip1}&
\Phi_{k,1}=-\begin{bmatrix} \phi_0 \\ \phi_0+\phi_1 \\ \ldots \\ \phi_0+\phi_1+ \ldots + \phi_k \end{bmatrix}.\end{aligned}$$ Using $\Phi_{k,1}$ we easily recover consecutively $\Pi_{k}=\begin{bmatrix} \Phi_{k,1} & \Phi_{k,2} \end{bmatrix}$ $($where $\Phi_{k,2} $ is given in $)$ and $S_k$, which is the unique solution of the matrix identity $A_kS_k-S_kA_k^*={\mathrm{i}}\Pi_k j \Pi_k^*$. Next, we construct $$\begin{aligned}
\label{ncip2}&
\g(k)^*\g(k)= \Pi_k^*S_k^{-1}P^*(PS_k^{-1}P^*)^{-1}PS_k^{-1}\Pi_k, \quad P=\begin{bmatrix} 0 & \ldots & 0 & I_{m_2}\end{bmatrix}.\end{aligned}$$ Finally, we use $\g(k)^*\g(k)$ to recover $C_k$ via .
. Put $$\label{nc1}
{\cal A}(z):=|1+z^2|^{-2(r+1)}\begin{bmatrix}I_{m_1} & \vp(z)^* \end{bmatrix} W_{r+1}(z)^*jW_{r+1}( z)\left[
\begin{array}{c}
I_{m_1} \\ \vp(z)
\end{array}
\right].$$ According to and we have $$\begin{aligned}
\nn
{\cal A}(z)=& \Big(\Big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(\ov{z})^{*}\clp(z)\Big)^{-1}\Big)^*\clp(z)^*j\clp(z)
\\ \label{nc2} &
\times \Big(\begin{bmatrix}
I_{m_1} & 0
\end{bmatrix}W_{r+1}(\ov{z})^{*}\clp(z)\Big)^{-1}.\end{aligned}$$ From (\[nc0\]) and (\[nc2\]) we see that ${\cal A}$ is bounded in the neighbourhood of $z={\mathrm{i}}$: $$\label{nc3}
\|{\cal A}(z)\|=O(1) \quad {\mathrm{for}} \quad
z \to
{\mathrm{i}}.$$ Let us include into considerations the $S$-node (corresponding to Dirac system), which is constructed in accordance with Remark \[RkSn\]. Substitute (\[1.36\]) into (\[nc1\]) to obtain $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nc4}
{\cal A}(z)=&\big((1-{\mathrm{i}}z)(1+{\mathrm{i}}\ov{z})\big)^{-r-1}\begin{bmatrix}I_{m_1} & \vp(z)^* \end{bmatrix}
\\
\nn &
\times
\Big(j- \frac{\Im(z)}{|z|^2}\Pi_r^*\Big(A_r^*-\frac{1}{2\ov{z}}I\Big)^{-1}S_r^{-1}\Big(A_r-\frac{1}{2z} I\Big)^{-1}\Pi_r\Big)\begin{bmatrix}I_{m_1} \\ \vp(z) \end{bmatrix},\end{aligned}$$ where $I=I_{(r+1)m_2}$. Here we used the important equality $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nc5}
w_A(r,\la)^*jw_A(r, \wt \la)=j-{\mathrm{i}}(\wt \la - \ov{\la})\Pi_r^*(A_r^*-\ov{\la}I)^{-1}S_r^{-1}(A_r-\wt \la I)^{-1}\Pi_r,\end{aligned}$$ which follows from and (see, e.g., [@SaAEx; @SaL1]).
Notice that $S_r>0$. Hence, formulas , (\[nc3\]) and (\[nc4\]) imply that $$\label{nc6}
\left\|
\Big(A_r-\frac{1}{2z} I\Big)^{-1}\Pi_r\begin{bmatrix}I_{m_1} \\ \vp(z) \end{bmatrix}
\right\|=O(1) \quad {\mathrm{for}} \quad
z \to {\mathrm{i}}.$$ Using the block representation $\Pi_r=\begin{bmatrix}\Phi_{r,1} & \Phi_{r,2} \end{bmatrix}$ from and multiplying both sides of by $\left\| \Big(\Phi_{r,2}^*\Big(A_r-\frac{1}{2z} I\Big)^{-1}\Phi_{r,2}\Big)^{-1}\Phi_{r,2}^*\right\|$ we rewrite the result: $$\begin{aligned}
\nn &
\left\|
\vp(z)+\Big(\Phi_{r,2}^*\Big(A_r-\frac{1}{2z} I\Big)^{-1}\Phi_{r,2}\Big)^{-1}\Phi_{r,2}^*\Big(A_r-\frac{1}{2z} I\Big)^{-1}\Phi_{r,1}\Big)^{-1}
\right\|
\\ \label{nc7} &
=O\left(\left\| \Big(\Phi_{r,2}^*\Big(A_r-\frac{1}{2z} I\Big)^{-1}\Phi_{r,2}\Big)^{-1}\right\|\right) \quad {\mathrm{for}} \quad
z \to {\mathrm{i}}.\end{aligned}$$ In order to obtain we applied also the matrix (operator) norm inequality $\|X_1X_2\| \leq \|X_1\| \|X_2\|$.
The resolvent $(A - \la I)^{-1}$ is easily constructed explicitly (see, for instance, formula (1.10) in [@SaAtepl]). In particular, we derive $$\label{nc8}
\Phi_{r,2}^*\Big(A_r-\frac{1}{2z} I\Big)^{-1}=
-\frac{2z}{1+{\mathrm{i}}z}\begin{bmatrix}\wh q(z)^r & \wh q(z)^{r-1} & \ldots & I_{m_2}\end{bmatrix}
, \quad \wh
q:=\frac{1
-{\mathrm{i}}z}{1 +{\mathrm{i}}z}I_{m_2}.$$ From we see that $$\label{nc9}
\Phi_{r,2}^*\Big(A_r-\frac{1}{2z} I\Big)^{-1}\Phi_{r,2}={\mathrm{i}}\Big(1-\Big( \frac{1
-{\mathrm{i}}z}{1 +{\mathrm{i}}z}\Big)^{r+1}\Big)I_{m_2}.$$ Partitioning $\Phi_{r,1}$ into $m_2 \times m_1$ blocks $\Phi_{r,1}(k)$ and using - we obtain $$\begin{aligned}
\nn &
\vp\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)+\frac{1-z}{1-z^{r+1}}\sum_{k=0}^r z^k\Phi_{r,1}(k)=O(z^{r+1}) \quad {\mathrm{for}} \quad
z \to 0,\end{aligned}$$ which can be easily transformed into $$\begin{aligned}
\label{nc10} &
\vp\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)+(1-z)\sum_{k=0}^r z^k\Phi_{r,1}(k)=O(z^{r+1}) \quad {\mathrm{for}} \quad
z \to 0,\end{aligned}$$ and follows for $k=r$. Since $\s(A_r) \cap \s(A_r^*)=\emptyset$ the matrix $S_r$ is uniquely recovered from the matrix identity . Finally, for the case, where $k=r$, is apparent from . From Proposition \[Pnwtr\], we see that $\vp$ is a Weyl function of our Dirac system on all the intervals $0 \leq k \leq \wt r$ $(\wt r \leq r)$ and so all $C_{\wt r}$ are recovered in the same way as $C_r$.
The next corollary is a discrete version of Borg-Marchenko-type uniqueness theorems. The active study of such theorems was triggered by the seminal papers by F. Gesztesy and B. Simon [@GS; @GeSi].
\[CyBM\] Suppose $\vp$ and $\wt \vp$ are Weyl functions of two Dirac systems with potentials $\{C_k\}$ and $\{\wt C_k\}$, which are given on the intervals $0 \leq k \leq r$ and $0 \leq k \leq \wt r$, respectively. We suppose that matrices $\{C_k\}$ and $\{\wt C_k\}$ are positive and $j$-unitary. Moreover, we assume that $$\begin{aligned}
\label{bm1} &
\vp\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)- \wt \vp\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)= O(z^{p+1}), \quad z \to \infty, \quad p\in \BN_0, \quad p \leq \min(r, \, \wt r).\end{aligned}$$ Then we have $C_k=\wt C_k$ for all $0\leq k \leq p$.
. According to Proposition \[Pnwtr\] both functions $\vp$ and $\wt \vp$ are Weyl functions of the corresponding Dirac systems on the same interval $[0, \, p]$. From we see that the first $p+1$ Taylor coefficients of $\vp\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)$ and $\wt \vp\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)$ coincide. Hence, the uniqueness of the recovery of the potential from Taylor coefficients in Theorem \[Tm2.2\] yields $C_k=\wt C_k$ $(0\leq k \leq p)$.
Taking into account , we derive that the first $r+1$ Taylor coefficients of $\vp_r\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)$ at $z=0$ (for any Weyl function $\vp_r$ of a fixed Dirac system) can be uniquely and in the same way recovered from the matrix $\Phi_{r,1}$, which, in turn, can be constructed as proposed in Remark \[RkSn\]. Therefore, the next theorem is apparent.
\[TmStr\] Let Dirac system , where matrices $C_k$ satisfy , be given on the interval $0 \leq k \leq r$.Then all the functions $\vp_d(z)=\vp_r\Big({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z}, \clp\Big)$, where $\vp_r$ are Weyl functions of this Dirac system, are non-expansive in the unit disk and have the same first $r+1$ Taylor coefficients $\{\phi_k\}_0^r$ at $z=0$.
Step 1 in the proof of Theorem \[Tm3.8\] shows that the Weyl function $\vp_{\infty}$ of Dirac system on the semi-axis can be constructed as a uniform limit of Weyl functions $\vp_r$ on increasing intervals. Hence, using Theorem \[TmStr\] we obtain the following corollary.
\[Wfonax\] Let $\vp(z)$ be the Weyl function of some Dirac system , which is given on the semi-axis and satisfies . Assume that $\vp_r$ is a Weyl function of the same system on the finite interval $0 \leq k \leq r$. Then the first $r+1$ Taylor coefficients of $\vp\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)$ and $ \vp_r\left({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z} \right)$ coincide. Therefore, the system can be uniquely recovered from $\vp$ via procedure from Theorem \[Tm2.2\].
Operator identities and interpolation problems {#OpIC}
==============================================
One can easily derive (see, e.g, [@FKSELA p. 474]) that the equality $$\begin{aligned}
\label{id1} &
s_{k+1, p+1}-s_{kp}=Q_{kp}+Q_{k+1,p+1}-Q_{k+1,p}-Q_{k,p+1}, \quad -1 \leq k,p \leq r-1\end{aligned}$$ holds for the blocks $s_{kp}$ and $Q_{kp}$ of the block matrices $S_r=\{s_{kp}\}_{k,p=0}^r$ and $Q_r=\{Q_{kp}\}_{k,p=0}^r$, respectively, which satisfy the operator identity $$\begin{aligned}
\label{id2} &
A_rS_r-S_rA_r^*+{\mathrm{i}}Q=0,\end{aligned}$$ where $A_r$ is given by . Here we add sometimes commas between the indices of blocks and put also $$\begin{aligned}
\label{id3} &
s_{-1, p}=s_{k,-1}=Q_{-1,p}=Q_{k,-1}=0.\end{aligned}$$ For the case that $S_r$ corresponds to Dirac system, we rewrite below in an equivalent form and obtain the structure of $S_r$.
\[PnStr\] Let $S_r$ satisfy , where $A_r$, $ \Phi_{r,1}$ and $\Phi_{r,2}$ are given by , and the last equality in , respectively. Then $S_r$ has the following structure: $$\begin{aligned}
\label{id4} &
s_{00}= I_{m_2}-\phi_0\phi_0^* \quad {\mathrm{and}} \quad s_{k+1, p+1}-s_{kp}=\phi_{k+1}\phi_{p+1}^* \end{aligned}$$ for $ -1 \leq k,p \leq r-1, \quad k+p+2>0$.
The following statement is immediate from Theorem \[TmStr\] and Proposition \[PnStr\].
\[TmStr1\] Let Dirac system , where matrices $C_k$ satisfy , be given on the interval $0 \leq k \leq r$.Then all the functions $\vp_d(z)=\vp_r\Big({\mathrm{i}}\frac{1-z}{1+z}, \clp\Big)$, where $\vp_r$ are given by , matrix functions $\clp(z)$ in have property-$j$ and matrices $\clp({\mathrm{i}})$ are non-singular, are non-expansive in the unit disk and have the same first $r+1$ Taylor coefficients $\{\phi_k\}_0^r$ at $z=0$. The matrix $S_r$ determined by these coefficients via is positive.
On the other hand, if we assume only that the coefficients $\{\phi_k\}_0^r$ are fixed and $S_r$ given is positive, two related interpolation problems appear.
[**Interpolation problem I.**]{} Describe all the analytic and non-expansive in the unit disk matrix functions $\vp_d$ such that the coefficients $\{\phi_k\}_0^r$ are their first $r+1$ Taylor coefficients.
[**Interpolation problem II.**]{} Describe all the positive continuations of $S_r$, which preserve the structure given by .
[**Acknowledgements.**]{} The research of I. Roitberg was supported by the German Research Foundation (DFG) under grant No. KI 760/3-1. The research of A.L. Sakhnovich was supported (at different periods) by the German Research Foundation (DFG) under grant No. KI 760/3-1 and by the Austrian Science Fund (FWF) under Grant No. P24301.
[AGKS]{}
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, *Orthogonal polynomial matrices on the unit circles*, IEEE Trans. Circuits and Systems, **25** (1978), 149–160.
, *Schur parametrization of positive definite block-Toeplitz systems*, SIAM J. Appl. Math. **36**:1 (1979), 34–46.
, *Matricial version of the classical Schur problem*, Teubner-Texte zur Mathematik \[Teubner Texts in Mathematics\] **129**, B.G. Teubner Verlagsgesellschaft mbH, Stuttgart, 1992.
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L. Faddeev, P. Van Moerbeke, and F. Lambert (eds.), *Bilinear integrable systems. From classical to quantum, continuous to discrete*, Springer, Dordrecht, 2006.
, *An extension problem for non-negative Hermitian block Toeplitz matrices,* Math. Nachr., Part I: **130** (1987), 121–135; Part II: **131** (1987), 287–297; Part III: **135** (1988), 319–341; Part IV: **143** (1989), 329–354; Part V: **144** (1989), 283–308.
B. Fritzsche, B. Kirstein, I.Ya. Roitberg, and A.L. Sakhnovich, *Weyl matrix functions and inverse problems for discrete Dirac type self-adjoint system: explicit and general solutions*, Operators and Matrices **2** (2008), 201–231.
B. Fritzsche, B. Kirstein, I.Ya. Roitberg, and A.L. Sakhnovich, *Recovery of Dirac system from the rectangular Weyl matrix function*, Inverse Problems **28** (2012), 015010, 18pp.
B. Fritzsche, B. Kirstein, I.Ya. Roitberg, and A.L. Sakhnovich, *Weyl theory and explicit solutions of direct and inverse problems for a Dirac system with rectangular matrix potential*, arXiv:1105.2013, Operators and matrices (to appear).
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, *Toeplitz matrices with an exponential growth of entries and the first Szegö limit theorem*, [ J. Functional Anal.]{} **171** (2000), 449–482.
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*B. Fritzsche,\
Fakultät für Mathematik und Informatik,\
Mathematisches Institut, Universität Leipzig,\
Johannisgasse 26, D-04103 Leipzig, Germany,\
e-mail: [fritzsche@math.uni-leipzig.de ]{}\
$ $\
B. Kirstein,\
Fakultät für Mathematik und Informatik,\
Mathematisches Institut, Universität Leipzig,\
Johannisgasse 26, D-04103 Leipzig, Germany,\
e-mai: [kirstein@math.uni-leipzig.de ]{}\
$ $\
I. Roitberg,\
Fakultät für Mathematik und Informatik,\
Mathematisches Institut, Universität Leipzig,\
Johannisgasse 26, D-04103 Leipzig, Germany,\
e-mail: [i$_-$roitberg@yahoo.com ]{}\
$ $\
A.L. Sakhnovich,\
Fakultät für Mathematik, Universität Wien,\
Nordbergstrasse 15, A-1090 Wien, Austria\
e-mail: [al$_-$sakhnov@yahoo.com ]{}*
|
At some point over the weekend, as a result of a facility move, the Neopets moderation and filter system went off line. During this period, our moderation team was not able to access and appropriately manage the Neopets community and inappropriate comments that were being made. Jumpstart has since taken down the boards and other areas affected as we work to get the moderation teams and filters functioning properly. This was an unfortunate incident due to a facility move related to our servers and not the result of any changes to our moderation teams and we apologize to the users that were affected. We will keep all users updated during the day. This was not a staffing issue, but a technology issue related to a move in facilities and our servers that control our moderation. Rest assured that we are taking this seriously and putting fail safe solutions in for the future. |
Sharing the news the mainstream media won't.
Israeli authorities on Wednesday morning intercepted material used to manufacture explosive devices hidden inside spools of medical material at the Erez Crossing, the Shin Bet announced in a statement.
The material was located during the security check at the crossing in the luggage of two sisters who are residents of Gaza. The two Arab women had been approved to enter Israel for the purpose of receiving medical treatment for cancer, which one of the two sisters suffers from.
An initial Shin Bet investigation indicated that the explosives were sent by Hamas and that the terror group was planning to carry out terror attacks in Israel in the near future, the statement read, adding that the material was destroyed by a sapper of the Southern District police force.
“The terrorist organizations in the Gaza Strip, including Hamas, continue to exploit the humanitarian and medical assistance provided by Israel to the residents of Gaza in order to perpetrate terrorist attacks in Israel.”
Unfortunately, if they are placed in the Israeli prison for this, she will receive her cancer treatments for free. If I were the judge I would simply bar her from crossing over from Gaza in the future. |
About Vaidya Sukumar Sardeshmukh
Dr Sukumar Sardeshmukh comes from a long lineage (11+ generations) of Ayurvedic Physicians who are specifically acclaimed for their capacity to diagnose illness and dis-ease through pulse diagnosis. Alongside his father and grandfather, Dr Sukumar has created India’s first ‘integrated cancer research hospital’ which has been recognized both nationally and internationally for its success in the comprehensive treatment of cancer. In addition they have multiple panchakarma centers around the country which host patients from around the globe for a process of total regeneration and healing. A visionary, Dr Sukumar travel more than 15 Countries to share the ancient science of Ayurveda in accessible and practical ways that bring benefits to so many lives. With an Aim to take Ayurved one step forward he Introduces “Ayurvedgram”. Ayurvedgram “One stop shop-Heal and Health” is conceptualised to bring all the facets of Ayurved under one roof. It can be labelled as “Ayurved Mall” where all the pros and cons of Ayurved are available.
Recent Updates
Dr Sukumar Sardeshmukh comes from a long lineage (11+ generations) of Ayurvedic Physicians who are specifically acclaimed for their capacity to diagnose illness and dis-ease through pulse diagnosis. Alongside his father and grandfather, Dr Sukumar has created India’s first ‘integrated cancer research hospital’ which has been recognized both nationally and internationally for its success in the comprehensive treatment of cancer.
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I'd really love to hear from you so why not drop me an email and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. |
Learning to Manage Screen Time with Your Child
As a follow-up to our recent community presentation about social media use among children and teens, our Director of Student Services, Mr. Christopher Brown, has written a brief article with a great deal of helpful information about managing screen time, please see article below:
Learning to Manage Screen Time with Your Child
Media can be delivered to us at any time of day or night on devices that fit in our pockets, or on screens that fill our walls. We are immersed with sound from nearly invisible earbuds, or from booming 8-channel speaker systems that make the multiplex sound engineers envious. The media comes from Hollywood studios and world-class music labels or from the fourteen-year-old down the street with an iPhone and a good imagination. This was the stuff of science fiction 30 years ago when the Internet was just being created and over the course of a single generation, the future arrived or rather bombarded us on screens.
We are still adjusting to this never ending access to videos, music, games, memes, and messages. It is a challenge to find a way to manage this flood of entertainment and to juggle immediate contact with family, friends, co-workers and even strangers. It is hard enough for adults who have vague memories of a time when there was a TV in only one room of the house and an “instant message” meant a parent yelling out the window to call you inside for supper. Children growing up as we approach the year 2020 need guidance from adults to learn how to manage media on screens from the virtual world while also forming strong social connections in the real world.
Guidance from the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that the best first step is limiting screen time and access to media for children and youth of all ages. Pediatricians also recommend that when children and young people do access media it is best when it supports learning and is viewed with parents present or that parents are aware of the media that older children are watching. The American Psychological Association echoes these recommendations while also emphasizing that young people need time away from screens so that they can develop healthy relationships with friends and adults which will not fully develop through social media posts or video games when communicating over headsets. The American Speech-Language-Hearing Association has reported noteworthy concerns that access to smartphones and tablets among infants and toddlers can delay language development and socialization skills.
The Watertown Public School community values the guidance from these professional associations. We recognize that we can work together and partner with families by sharing information about how media and screen time impacts children. Children learn best when they hear consistent messages about responsibly using technology in school and at home. All teachers, principals, and related service providers are available to answer any questions you might have about working to help your child use technology in a way that is productive and does not limit the development of healthy language, emotional and social skills.
We recommend that you make your own family media use plan. Media should work for you and within your family values and parenting style. When used thoughtfully and appropriately, media can add to the quality of your family life. When screen time is not monitored, media can displace many important activities such as face-to-face interaction, family-time, outdoor-play, exercise, unplugged downtime, and sleep. Please follow this link and develop a media use plan just for your family. |
Temporal change in microdosimetry to bone marrow and stromal progenitor cells from alpha-particle-emitting radionuclides incorporated in bone.
The microdistributions of the alpha-particle-emitting bone surface-seeking radionuclides (239)Pu, (241)Am and (233)U in the mouse femoral shaft have been studied using computer-based image analysis of neutron-induced and alpha-particle track autoradiographs, prepared from femora of CBA/H mice which had been injected with 40 kBq kg(-1) of radionuclide (as citrate solution) at times from 1 to 448 days previously. Employing dosimetric methods, radiation dose rates and cumulative radiation doses to regions of the bone marrow thought to contain hemopoietic and stromal progenitor cells susceptible to neoplastic transformation to leukemia and osteosarcomas have been calculated. It has been shown that the three radionuclides differ in their relative deposition on the bone surfaces, and that patterns of changing redistribution with time are also varied. For stromal progenitor cells, which are thought to be targets for induction of osteosarcoma and are found in proximity to the bone surfaces, cumulative doses showed the trend (239)Pu > (241)Am > (233)U, correlating well with incidences of osteosarcoma observed in mice. Cumulative doses to the primitive hemopoietic stem cells, concentrated in the central marrow and thought to be susceptible to neoplastic transformation to myeloid leukemia, were considerably lower and also showed the trend plutonium > americium > uranium. |
Q:
Java Jar Combining several jars into one executable Jar
I am aware that to combine several jars and create one executable jar, I would need to use a tool like OneJar if I don't want to unpack the dependent jars. OneJar has its own custom class loader which can find the required classes in the associated jars and load them.
My question is : Why is the default class loader not able to load classes from within the attached jars. Is it because of Security ?
I would appreciate a clear explanation of the reasons behind the need for a custom class loader when creating a single executable jar which holds other dependent jars (without unpacking them).
Thanks,
A:
The technical reason is that the uri specification for jar: does not support nesting.
You could write a URI handler that addresses this need, but performance will start to hit as you nest down inside each jar file.
With a single jar file, random access is possible as the index gives file system offsets and you can seek each offset and read only the file you want
With a nested jar, you can seek the inner jar, but to pull a file out of that jar you have to unzip the inner jar from the outer before you can seek.
I would look at solutions such as those offered by either OSGi or by the Maven Shade Plugin if you don't want to extract the jar files to a temporary directory and build your own classloader from the resulting classpath
|
As the Catholic Church battles to stem their continuing exposure of clerical pedophilia, detectives have uncovered an “unprecedented” amount of child pornography including images, videos and other explicit content discovered within the walls of the Vatican.
The Vatican Promotor of Justice, Gian Piero Milano, released a report in response to the allegations which he read in full to Catholic Church officials during a judicial ceremony.
Due to the Catholic Church’s internal investigations protocol, Milano claims he is under no legal obligation to actually name names of people accused of pedophilia and possessing child pornography.
However, Federico Lombardi, spokesman for the Holy See, showed a rare display of openness and named Archbishop Josef Wesolowski as one of the accused that had triggered the investigation.
Although this may seem like a forthcoming gesture by the Vatican, reports of Wesolowski not only possessing more than 100,000 images and videos of children being forced into sex acts but also of him sexually abusing multiple children in Poland and the Dominican Republic have already previously been exposed in 2014.
Due to the Vatican’s internal policies, Wesolowski was investigated but escaped jail for “his own protection”.
In an unusual move by the church, the high-ranking Catholic official was facing trial from the Vatican’s prosecution for his crimes and had been placed under “protective” house arrest, but mysteriously died before the case even reached a “courtroom”.
Archbishop Josef Wesolowski died while living in the Vatican under house arrest.
He was never prosecuted for his crimes.
The lack of justice following his death left many of his victims frustrated with suggestions that the only reason for the house arrest is the fact that word got out that he was allowed to roam free after he was quietly whisked away from the Dominican Republic and back to the Catholic city-state by Vatican officials in order to avoid prosecution there.
According to Church and State, the descriptions of what was actually found on Wesolowski’s computer were more than a little stomach-churning:
There were more than 160 videos of teenaged boys being forced to masturbate for the camera and perform sex acts on one another.
In addition, the boys were raped and forced to perform sex acts on adults, as well.
Wesolowski was tedious and protective of his child porn collection, filing more than 86,000 images into categories in locked folders.
In addition to the images and videos present on the computer, at least 45,000 others had already been deleted.
Further, the good Archbishop wanted to make sure he wasn’t without a stash of child porn while traveling, so he took a laptop along on his trips containing, even more, images and videos.
It seems fairly typical that the only accused party to be named in this latest child porn discovery case in the one that has already been exposed and passed away, with the identities of the other accused kept confidential.
According to the Guardian, beyond the child pornography cases, Vatican authorities are battling an array of crimes including drug trafficking and money laundering.
Three drug deliveries addressed to the Vatican were intercepted in 2014, including a packet containing cocaine-filled condoms.
The drugs were discovered at Germany’s Leipzig airport and handed to the Vatican in the hope of ensnaring the buyer, but no one came forward to claim the package.
Pedophilia and the Catholic Church Go Hand in Hand: |
Cell swelling stimulates cytosol to membrane transposition of ICln.
ICln is a multifunctional protein that is essential for cell volume regulation. It can be found in the cytosol and is associated with the cell membrane. Besides its role in the splicing process, ICln is critically involved in the generation of ion currents activated during regulatory volume decrease after cell swelling (RVDC). If reconstituted in artificial bilayers, ICln can form ion channels with biophysical properties related to RVDC. We investigated (i) the cytosol versus cell membrane distribution of ICln in rat kidney tubules, NIH 3T3 fibroblasts, Madin-Darby canine kidney (MDCK) cells, and LLC-PK1 epithelial cells, (ii) fluorescence resonance energy transfer (FRET) in living fibroblasts between fluorescently tagged ICln and fluorochromes in the cell membrane, and (iii) possible functional consequences of an enhanced ICln presence at the cell membrane. We demonstrate that ICln distribution in rat kidneys depends on the parenchymal localization and functional state of the tubules and that cell swelling causes ICln redistribution from the cytosol to the cell membrane in NIH 3T3 fibroblasts and LLC-PK1 cells. The addition of purified ICln protein to the extracellular solution or overexpression of farnesylated ICln leads to an increased anion permeability in NIH 3T3 fibroblasts. The swelling-induced redistribution of ICln correlates to altered kinetics of RVDC in NIH 3T3 fibroblasts, LLC-PK1 cells, and MDCK cells. In these cells, RVDC develops more rapidly, and in MDCK cells the rate of swelling-induced depolarization is accelerated if cells are swollen for a second time. This coincides with an enhanced ICln association with the cell membrane. |
Everything tagged
Latest from The Spokesman-Review
NOTE: This post was updated at 6:25 p.m. Feb. 6, 2013 to reflect that the Public Disclosure Commission provided the Spokane Firefighters Union with incorrect information about when it needed to file campaign spending reports.
Thanks to Proposition 2, Spokane’s special election on Feb. 12 is heating up.
Each side is accusing the other of stealing signs. One side is accusing the other of campaign reporting violations. The other is crying pettiness.
Accusations of sign stealing are hard to pin down and are so common that we don’t typically investigate them. Though there are notable exceptions.
We at Spin Control will make an attempt, however, to sort through the potential of campaign finance violations.
Former Mayor Mary Verner and the leadership of the city's fire union tentatively agreed to a new contract in the final days of Verner's term.
But the deal still will need to be ratified by the union's membership and the new City Council.
Former City Administrator Ted Danek confirmed Friday that a deal was struck, but said under an agreement with the union, details can't be released until membership ratifies it and it's ready for City Council consideration.
Union President Mark Vietzke said the deal was reached on Dec. 29. Negotiations started on April 1. He said membership was presented the contract this week. Voting will close next week.
Last month, Mayor David Condon and some incoming City Council members protested Verner’s decision and the City Council's approval of a three-year contract extension for the city’s largest union, Local 270 of the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees. Even though members of that union will get no cost-of-living increases in 2013, 2014 and 2015, Condon noted that Local 270’s contract wasn’t set to expire until the end of 2012 and said the deal allowed the union to forgo working with him as the newly elected mayor.
The firefighters' contract, however, expired on Dec. 31 and Condon and newly elected City Council members will get a say on the deal reached by the Verner administration.
"This council and this mayor get to see it and decide it," Vietzke said. "This is not a 9th-hour decision whatsoever."
City spokeswoman Marlene Feist said Condon currently is reviewing the proposed contract.
Firefighters with the highest level of medical training will be on duty 24-7 at two more of Spokane’s 14 fire stations under an agreement approved Monday by the Spokane City Council.
Under the deal between city administrators and the city’s firefighters union, the city will spread its paramedics among 10 stations, instead of eight. It will cost the city an additional $60,000 a year.
“If you vote yes, you’ll save somebody’s life, without a doubt,” Assistant Fire Chief Brian Schaeffer told the City Council before it voted 5-1 in support.
The city had been scheduling two paramedics to be on duty at eight stations, though because of vacations or sick leave, sometimes only one would be on duty. Starting Aug. 1, it will guarantee at least one paramedic on duty at ten stations all the time.
The stations with the enhanced service are:
∙ Station 2, 1001 E. North Foothills Drive
∙ Station 17, 5121 W. Lowell Road
Schaeffer said the West Plains fire station that will open next year after the city annexes 10 square miles, including the Spokane International Airport, also will have a paramedic on duty. |
[Tetrodotoxin effect on spontaneous and evoked impulse activity of leech Retzius neurons].
Investigation into the Retzius neuron response to synaptic low-, medium-, and high-frequency stimulation under the block of the TTX-sensitive sodium inflow channels, was performed in leeches. The TTX block affected the spontaneous unit activity and not the evoked activity, it altered the responses to low-frequency stimulation (sensitisation) and eliminated the responses to high-frequency activation (habituation). The findings suggest the fundamental plastic properties of the Retzius neurons to depend on functional characteristics of the TTX-sensitive sodium channels. |
Tag: conflict
The Nyamjang Chhu dam will inundate Zemithang valley, the winter home of the Black-necked Crane that’s sacred to Buddhists. Can development override nature and faith?
This month, an Australian court declined environmental clearance to industrial group >Adani for coal mining in Queensland, Australia. The reasons for this have been made clear by the court: the proposed project is likely to harm a skink and a snake species found in the area.
That a skink, a shy, skittering reptile, could stop a mega project may appear unbelievable to many people, particularly those who believe in rapid industrial growth. But the court has, in fact, squarely put out a message that a country needs to take care of its species. More than morphology, glamour or specification, the emphasis is on the very existence of the species.
There is something similar playing out in India’s North-east for the vulnerable black-necked crane. Magnificent, wild, flamboyant and territorial, the black-necked crane is a central force in Buddhist mythology.
Found only in China, Bhutan and India, one of the crane’s few global wintering sites is in Arunachal Pradesh, and it has chosen two places here for its winter migration: Sangti and Zemithang Valley. Zemithang, a remote area, nurtured and conserved by the Buddhist community for years, will get submerged by the proposed Nyamjang Chhu dam.
Black-necked Cranes at the project site
Case against the project
There is an ongoing case in the National Green Tribunal against the project. The legal team that is arguing in favour of the hydroelectric project claims that the numbers of the >black-necked crane are too low to merit stopping the project. On the other side of the argument is not just the existence of the crane at Zemithang, but also the belief in its presence and in its wilful choice of Zemithang as a wintering site.
The case brings to light several dilemmas: one, whether the presence of black-necked cranes and other biodiversity at Zemithang is ‘good enough’ to stop a project. Two, whether projects need to be appraised in the light of spiritual, altruistic and religious concerns. Three, whether the environment impact assessment (EIA), which lead to environmental clearances, need to be re-conducted after these concerns come to light. The EIA has been scrutinised by the local group, ‘Save Mon Region’, and it does not mention the black-necked crane.
The bird is a restricted species, which favours cold, high-altitude spots, overlapping with countries and regions that follow Buddhism. In Buddhist lore and mythology, this elusive but magnificent crane is a companion to the lamas.
In ecology, the crane has been recorded in just three places in India: it breeds only in Ladakh (about a hundred birds), and it has only the two wintering sites in Arunachal Pradesh, which are themselves part of less than 10 global wintering sites.
In court, the lawyers for the project team argue that the crane “perhaps” visited the site “years ago” but that this is an insignificant point to stop the project. Meanwhile, the Buddhist community that lives in and around Zemithang as well as organisations such as WWF-India have photographic evidence of the crane’s visits. Only about 5-7 birds visit Arunachal Pradesh each year, and their visits are eagerly awaited by local communities.
“Apart from the black-necked crane, the area also has other endemic bird species, such as the Satyr tragopan, the Mishmi wren-babbler and the Beautiful nut-hatch ”
In a sense, then, the case of the dam site in Arunachal Pradesh is similar to that of the Carmichael mine. The Yakka skink, the conservation of which the Australian court upheld, is a restricted-range species, found only in Queensland. Like the black-necked crane, the species is still visible, but only due to the conservation of a few and spatially small sites.
EIAs, a precursor to environmental clearances, are meant to give details of flora and fauna at the site of the proposed project, as well as the impact on that flora and fauna by the project in question. In the case of the Nyamjang Chhu dam, which proposes to generate 780 MW of power, the primary impacts will be the submergence of the crane’s habitat in a biodiversity hotspot. This is not acknowledged in the EIA.
Wonders of nature
In the late 1980’s, a tiny group of Siberian Cranes still visited India, in a small dot of a sanctuary, Keoladeo in Rajashan, which spreads over a modest 29 square kilometres. Amongst very many other wetland habitats India had to offer, the Siberian Cranes chose Keoladeo to repeatedly winter in each year. Scientists can only guess why birds, especially rare birds, choose certain areas over others. The right ecology, absence of human disturbance, places to both feedas well as and hide in, are all determinants. Like people choosing a certain colony or favourite watering-hole, territorial and choosy cranes select certain spots they return to year after year. For India, the Siberian Cranes were both a tourist attraction, as well as an enigma. Through mysterious migratory clockwork, a clock run by nature, they came around the same time each year, and India could call itself part of the Siberian Crane’s range. In the early 2000’s, the Siberian Cranes stopped coming, and have not returned since. The memories of the birds, and the hope that they will return, have however not abated.
The spirituality associated with the black-necked crane is not just because of its impressive beauty and its call, but also because of its very elusiveness and the anticipation built around its appearance, ideas that seem to be a metaphor for the wonders of nature.
A monk living in Arunachal’s Tawang Valley told me that it was not the number of cranes visiting Arunachal that was important, but the very fact that they came to the State. If Arunachal Pradesh and Ladakh had not been inaccessible, high-altitude areas, many more people would see the bird and hear of its associated mythology, he said.
Which leads us to the final question: how does belief and faith inform our planning and development decisions? For Buddhists, the black-necked crane visiting their remote, snowy home is living proof of their belief and faith. For conservationists, birds that traverse long migratory distances to transform landscapes in winter are part of a more secular belief system, one that valorises Nature and its surprises.
Whether a major dam gets built on Nyamjang Chhu river is not the only question. The question is also whether such a project can go ahead without taking into account certain complex realities.
EIAs that conceal facts should not be the only bulwark for deciding what to do with our landscapes. And, finally, questions of faith certainly should not be just a numbers game. The numbers of black-necked cranes in Arunachal Pradesh might be small, but faith has never relied on numbers.
In human-animal conflicts, there is little reflection on the role of people in inciting a wild animal
Anyone scanning the headlines for the past month would conclude that India is in the throes of irrevocable human-wildlife conflict. In this time period, a tiger was crushed by a JCB machine near Corbett while a mob screamed on, a leopard was burnt in Sariska by a crowd which also stoned forest department personnel, and a 33-member herd of elephants is being teased daily by a mob in Athgarh, Odisha.
Close encounters
In the encounters between a wild animal and a group of people, there are casualties on both sides. The question is, is conflict truly irrevocable? In several cases of conflict this year, it has been noted that groups of people have prevented the forest department from carrying out its duties. Rather than only focussing on a wild, snarling animal, a greater understanding of crowd dynamics is also called for.
A group of people is often defined as a mob if the group becomes unruly or aggressive. One must also consider if the mob has a collective conscience or whether it simply follows the cues by leaders within it. How it gets composed, and what it wants are also important.
After a leopard entered a school in Bengaluru last year, a group of about 5,000 people surrounded the school. The fact that it is dangerous to be in the vicinity of a panicked leopard is belied only by the absurdity of the fact that most wanted to see the animal and take pictures. In the case of elephants in Athgarh, conservationists have documented a mob of people attacking the elephants almost daily. Activists say this is a form of entertainment for the people concerned, as the elephants are not always harming people. While there is potential for serious conflict or injury, the mob also feels safe in its numbers.
Other mobs that have gathered around wildlife have clamoured for instant ‘justice’, gratification or resolution — in the form of killing the animal, beheading it, or parading it after its death. In Sariska last month, a leopard, blamed for killing a man, was burnt alive; the mob also hurt forest department officials. In a case last November, a leopard was bludgeoned to death in Mandawar, Haryana. The symbolic control of an animal by killing it and then parading the carcass has not escaped judicial attention. A December order of the Uttarakhand High Court said that if animals were (legally) put down, their dead bodies could not be displayed or shown in the media.
But in perhaps the most visceral and tragic human-wildlife conflict of recent times, a tiger was crushed by a JCB near Corbett after a mob demanded ‘justice’ for deaths. Two people from a labour camp working in forests near Corbett died after being reportedly attacked by the tiger. The forest department was caught in a human conflict situation — a crowd of people did not allow officials to do their difficult job of catching the tiger. The terrain was undulating. In its haste, the forest department brought in a JCB to capture the animal. The JCB attempted to ‘pick up’ the tiger, akin to sandpaper being used to snatch up a protesting butterfly. The results were gruesome — the tiger was hit repeatedly by the JCB, and crushed to death, all part of its ‘rescue’. In a video made documenting this, one can clearly hear a group of people around the animal, with a voice shouting “dabao, dabao” (press it down).
Human-human conflict
The Corbett story is telling. When going into an area inhabited by an obligate carnivore like a tiger, very few precautions are taken. Most labour camps are not provided with protocol, proper toilets, or monitoring to avoid work in the early morning or late night, and to move about only in groups.
Many cases of conflict or aggression towards animals are exacerbated by carelessness and existing human-human conflict or tensions. The question is also linked to control and which groups or classes are interested in being dominant. In 2012, when a tiger was spotted near Lucknow, members and volunteers of the Samajwadi Party declared they would catch it. This was framed as ‘public interest’. Needless to add, one needs training, not bravado, to catch a wild tiger.
The discourse around a wild animal, especially as it comes closer to people or human habitation, is that it is a criminal, a rogue, a stray, or a killer. There is, however, very little reflection on the role of people in inciting a wild animal.
We need proper cordoning off of areas when wildlife comes close to people, with animal capture being done with full police involvement and not just with a helpless forest department. We need investigations and action against groups that deliberately incite a panicked wild animal. To not do so would be to allow future situations to become even more dangerous; and to privilege revenge over solutions.
A general mob mentality is on the rise in India. Mobs are involved in attacks related to race, food preferences, and various forms of moral policing. In the face of such ‘mobocracy’, does wildlife stand a chance?
There is perhaps no large wild animal that dies unnaturally in such large numbers in single events as do elephants due to collisions with trains. Most of the deaths are in Central and Eastern India. Thirty elephants were killed after being hit by trains between 2013 and 2017 in West Bengal. One of the worst incidents was in Jalpaiguri in 2013, when six elephants were killed in a rail collision. In December 2017, five elephants died in Assam while crossing a railway track. An elephant and a fortnight-old calf also died in a similar way near Ranchi in 2016. On the last day of 2012, five elephants (including one that was pregnant) were killed in Ganjam in Odisha after being hit by a train.
One reason why elephants die en masse is that the herd tries to save other members from the train.
Young elephants die very often on collision with trains and vehicles on highways. Here: forest department elephant in Central India
The National Board of Wildlife recently announced that all projects in sanctuaries, national parks and eco-sensitive zones around these sanctuaries should have a funded mitigation plan to prevent mortality due to linear projects such as roads and railways. However, a more immediate need is to identify mitigation measures in all conflict hotspots, not just near protected areas.
A letter drafted in February 2018 by the Sanctuary Nature Foundation (to which the author is a signatory) to Piyush Goyal, the Union railway minister, states, “Elephants are impacted in the East-Central India belt of Odisha, Jharkhand and Chattisgarh because of devastation of elephant habitat and corridors by iron ore and coal mining and industrial development.”
As a mitigation measure, the letter suggests levelling steep mounds along railway lines, which can otherwise hinder escape attempts, and clearing vegetation around bends so train drivers and guards can see elephants moving.
There is evidence that this kind of mitigation can work. It takes two forms: built mitigation, such as underpasses or tunnels, and preventive mitigation, such as patrolling and clearing escape routes. A railway line through Rajaji National Park in Uttarakhand had killed several elephants until some basic measures were installed. A patrolling team looked out for elephants, warning signs were erected, embankments were made less steep and vegetation was cleared.
Mortality hotspots can also be identified; this is important because the presence of a hotspot indicates that trains might be moving faster through that area. A study published in 2017 noted that “broad gauge allows trains to reach higher velocities, making it harder for elephants to avoid a moving train,” and that, “after gauge conversion, the maximum speed of trains increased from about 60 kph to over 100 kph.” Apart from hotspots, the study found that most accidents happened at night, suggesting that limiting train operations after sunset and making underpasses or tunnels for crossing could reduce casualties in the area.
In practice, however, the only institutions paying attention seem to be the courts. The National Green Tribunal had directed the Assam government to curb highway roadkills, and the state recently said it had dedicated Rs 11 crore for mitigation in Kaziranga. Among other measures, a sensor system installed in the park now throws down a barrier in the path of a train when a large animal like an elephant is crossing.
However, the real danger lies in elephant passageways outside protected areas. This month, the Supreme Court asked the Centre to find a solution to reduce elephant deaths in corridors. “We cannot tell the elephants where they should go… they must have a corridor,” an apex court bench observed.
The other immediate challenge is posed by the fact that the number of railway lines and other linear infrastructure is set to increase in the country. On the question of built mitigation to help animals cross railway tracks, we need to build build overpasses and/or tunnels as well as install monitoring systems to see if such mitigative measures actually work.
The upcoming Sevoke Rangpo line in Sikkim will go through Mahananda sanctuary and elephant corridors in the area. So this line should not be built without accompanying mitigation efforts, and hotspots for elephant activity will need to be identified beyond protected areas.
Linear projects also take a toll on other wildlife. ‘Roadkill’, a new crowd-sourced citizen’s science project, documents wildlife deaths due to linear projects. In the last 100 days, apart from elephants, as many as 25 leopards and one tiger have been reported killed after being hit on roads and railway tracks.
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Bollywood actor Salman Khan was recently convicted by a Jodhpur court for poaching two blackbucks, a protected antelope species, in 1998. He has been sentenced to five years in prison and fined Rs 10,000. Before this, Khan had been acquitted for poaching chinkara in two separate cases, both for lack of evidence.
For many of his fans and other commentators, the Jodhpur court verdict is confusing. The most common argument has been that if people get away with murdering people in India, then it is ludicrous that a person should be jailed for killing blackbucks.
There are two fatal flaws in this argument. First: much of the frenzy is because Khan is a superstar. It seems the power of celebrity has lent a plasticity to the subject. Despite what this person, a certain power is arrogated to them through society granting some leeway or making the crime appear to be glamorous and creative.
The second flaw is in assuming that a blackbuck’s death can’t bring such a star down to his knees. This is even more problematic. It is a false equivalence to assume that poaching a wild animal is not ‘good enough’ to send a person to jail for five years, even if people kill people and get away with it – as Khan did in the hit-and-run case against him.
Blackbucks sparring in Etawah. Photo by me
For example, the journalist Rajdeep Sardesai had suggested Khan should be assigned community service instead of being sent to jail, as have others. Is this because poaching is not considered a crime of public interest, or because the accused is a celebrity? At the heart of it is the fact that the focus of the crime is a non-human subject. For those rooting for celebrity poachers such as Khan, the fact that a non-human was killed – even if illegally – makes it an ‘acceptable crime’.
Salman Jailed: Maybe community service and hefty fine for wildlife protection is a better idea
Perhaps a tough message has been sent out to the rich and powerful that they cannot get away on the weight of their star appeal when the law explicitly prohibits killing an endangered species. But…
indiatoday.in
Siddhartha Basu
✔@babubasu
I believe active animal welfare & community service by a public figure sets a far better example to society than singling someone out for harsh retributive punishment simply because “people look up to him”, or gossip & speculation anyway condemns him as a “habitual offender” https://twitter.com/sardesairajdeep/status/981908747567190022 …
So it is important to unpack what poaching means. Poaching is not just the killing of an animal; it also stands for an attempt to kill. According to the Wildlife (Protection) Act, 1972, “The killing or wounding in good faith of any wild animal in defence of oneself or of any other person shall not be an offence” – but making the deliberate attempt to kill wildlife is illegal.
“Even if a person attempts to kill a wild animal protected under the WPA unsuccessfully – for instance, if he shoots at the animal and the animal escapes unharmed – this is considered poaching,” wildlife lawyer Saurabh Sharma told The Wire.
If you’d set out to kill an animal, you’d have prepared. You’d have acquired a snare trap, a gun, etc. You’d also have the intent, you’d make the attempt and you’d execute the killing itself, which may injure or murder of the animal.
Poaching a Schedule I animal (including blackbuck and chinkara) with chase and attempt will merit a higher level of punishment than animals in other Schedules, if convicted.
However, the conviction rate for poaching in India is poor, at least if the tiger data is anything to go by. The manner in which evidence is to be presented is tedious, especially when it’s easy to destroy the evidence (animal parts, corpses, weapons, etc.). So the question then morphs into whether Khan was caught because he was famous.
This is unlikely. Khan has been accused of multiple poaching attempts. He was spotted when he drove his vehicle close to a Bishnoi community settlement, where the vegetation cover was fairly open. Further, the Bishnoi community has shown enormous will in following through with the case. A Bishnoi man chased Khan down (Khan apparently attempted to knock him over while trying to flee) while the community hired a lawyer to represent them in court.
Finally, we need to address the question of what is to be done for an animal like the blackbuck, which has a stable population today. India is currently discussing whether certain animals, mostly those that appear populous and eat/damage agricultural crops, should be culled. While the blackbuck is not yet on the list of animals to be culled, another antelope is: the nilgai.
It’s unclear if public opinion about hunting blackbuck and chinkara would be different if these species were less visible. Both inhabit fairly open habitat, and the blackbuck is found in several Indian states. However, it is not rarity or restriction of range alone that engender protectiveness. For example, no one can hunt a tiger and get away with looking like a ‘hero’, and it’s not likely that tiger poaching in India will be seen as the killing of ‘just another animal’.
But the same doesn’t hold true for other Schedule 1 species in the WPA. The leopard, for example, is killed quite often by people or the state in an attempt to mitigate human-wildlife conflicts. But the political ecology, glamour and public sympathy surrounding select wild species such as tigers, lions and elephants is certainly more than for other wildlife.
If we have to differentiate, it needs to be between offenders, not species. Natural justice should connote that there is a difference between people who kill a wild animal for self-defence or food and those who deliberately stalk and kill an animal for pleasure or trade. The Jodhpur court judgment mentions how Khan was accused of hunting just for pleasure.
On the other hand, several people poach animals for bushmeat or trap them to protect crops and livestock. Such offenders, usually eking out a meagre living, do not have influencers and society rushing to defend their ‘good hearts’ nor is any creativity attributed to what they have done.
Khan has tried to defend himself on the basis of his conduct after the incident, and his professional and financial clout. The judgment mentions how Khan’s defence argued that a soft stance should be because he suffered for 20 years after the incident, that he has always appeared in court on time, and because several families depend on him for their livelihoods.
But it is precisely because the convict is a popular star, and certainly not because he has a “good heart”, Khan should be punished according to the law to show that all are equal in its eyes – especially if this equality is about just two blackbucks.
Mind-boggling or not, all tableaux have one thing in common each year: they showcase what defines the state/agency best. A lot of this is vitally regional symbolism: arts and craft (like Uttar Pradesh’s rich zardosi showcased as a giant tableaux this year); a particularly fine custom (Bihar in the past has showcased a village that plants trees when girls are born); economic achievement (Kodagu’s coffee production shown this year); and occurring with great regularity: wildlife. This year, while many states showcased forests, Gujarat presented lions; and Madhya Pradesh showed off white tigers.
The fact that Madhya Pradesh showed its tigers as white, not golden, is an interesting choice, a choice tied to a statement the state is trying to make.Tigers are not normally white, and their colours vary from amber-orange to deep yellow. But regional exceptions – with more or less melanism – do exist. Thus, certain tigers in Odisha’s Satkosia area are blacker than others, and many tigers from Madhya Pradesh’s Rewa are a pale, bony white. Similar to Gujarat using the lion as badge of state honour – and an honour it refuses to share with any other Indian state-Madhya Pradesh is asserting its own “brand” of tigers.
This leads us to an important issue. It is clear that wildlife is symbolically important; and it informs our citizenship.
If wildlife is part of the way we perceive our natural and regional pride, then a related question is: are wild animals citizens? As essential as they are to our nation’s experience, could you think of a tiger as Mr Khan, or a lioness as Miss Gir?
And then: do animals have citizen-based rights?
The courts have been trying to answer, at least partly, this second question. The Gujarat High Court has said that birds have the “Right to Fly” and thus should not be kept in cages. Similarly, this year, Supreme Court decreed that Jallikattu entailed cruelty to bulls and has put an interim ban on the practice. In 2013, the Supreme Court in its “Lion judgment”, said that we need to act in the best interest of species, particularly endangered species.
Thus, at least according to the courts and certain laws, wildlife appears to have rights; this implies they could also have some sort of recognition or allied citizenship. Perhaps then, tigers and lions are akin to second-class subjects, catered to when human needs are not so pressing. But like other human disadvantaged groups, not all animals are equal.
Many are more threatened or fragile than others; they need special attention, conservation action, and budgetary outlays. The Red List of species, which identifies critically endangered, threatened and vulnerable species is the basis of action on many wild species. The Red List for wild speciesflags off which “subjects” or “citizens” need more action than others, some requiring affirmative action and creation of new protection regimes, others getting by without much help.
Animals’ rights can’t be neglected any longer at the altar of human-centric development.
But within this understanding, a huge stumbling block is vision.
Most vitally, the manner in which development and wildlife is consistently positioned is antagonistic. “Development” and “wildlife” are pitted, teeth gritted, against each other. A case in point is the Supreme Court’s recent observation that roads are more important than tigers (the case was regarding the widening of National Highway 7 through the Pench-Kanha tiger reserve corridors). There are scores of other examples, wherein environmentalism – even if while voicing clearly, the ecological needs of an animal – is shown as obstructionist and downright stupid in much of public decision-making.
Whether animals are citizens, or even second-class citizens, is a matter of further understanding. Perhaps it is even a question that is only rhetorical. But in reality, we need to stop pitting wildlife against development, as our overarching understanding. Instead of assuming hostile, antagonistic positions, we need answers that are case-specific.
Animals do not ask for charters of independence, voting rights, or parliamentary representation. Tigers are too otherworldly and cool for that, even if they do end up as pulp under railway lines, and as prisoners in jail. While animals can’t be expected to fulfil responsibilities against humans (even if granted rights), the opposite is true for us. An Argentinean court, for example, said chimpanzees are non-human persons. Within our complex democracy, the fact that animals have only occasional rights, could either be folly or fool-proof. Because ultimately, it is up to voting humans to act for the non-voting.
Whether we want to extend citizenship, or second-class citizenship, to animals or not; whether we laugh at this or will give it a think; at least we can agree on this: animals deserve more than the battle-lines that speak only and repeatedly from the “environment versus development” trenches.
In short, a tiger or lioness deserve more than being decorations on tableaux. |
Ai invitation challenge
Hello Ai Fans !!!
Today’s challenge was to create an invitation , I am using the amazing Winter Penguins set SKU #CS3217 (I told you I was going to make several cards from this set , it’s oh so stinkin cute if you ask me ) .my thoughts are if you are making several invites they should be cute and easy to mass produce , so this is what I came up with
bottom layer is in dark turquoise 4 1/4″ by 5 1/2 “next layer is lt pool party blue 4″ by 5 1/4″white layer is 3 3/4″ by 5″
and I stamp my scene using the tree and penguins and small sliding penguin and snow flakes from the Winter Penguins set , I colored them with my Copics and added shimmer to the scarfs and hats with Clear star glitter pen and inked the edges in SU pool party ink, next I typed on the computer in word my invite and then print out on snowflake vellum as a cover sheet and cut it to 3 3/4″ by 5 1/4″ , I then punch two holes at the top and slide ribbon thru to hold the cover on , I added a layered snowflake to the top left and sugar-coated the top snow flake using glossy accents and diamond dust , whalaha .. what a cute invite .. now who’s coming over to set up my trees ..lol ..really I love to have ya, we could even scrap up some Christmas cards .. see ya soon ; )SUPPLIES :Winter Penguins set sku # CS3217, Copic markers , clear star glitter pen , McGill highland snowflake punch and an EK snow flake punch , snowflake vellum , SU pool party ink , shimmer sheer ribbon , crop a dial hole punch , glossy accent , diamond dust
Thx for stopping by to see how I created this simple but sweet invite ,I hope I have inspired you to get scrapin today : )
Love your invitation card Crystal! It turned out absolutely FABULOUS! Love the vellum over the top of the card. LOVE everything about your card. Great Ai challenge this week for everyone on the Ai team. |
<?php
declare(strict_types=1);
namespace atk4\ui\demo;
/**
* Counter for certain demos file.
*/
class Counter extends \atk4\ui\Form\Control\Line
{
public $content = 20; // default
protected function init(): void
{
parent::init();
$this->actionLeft = new \atk4\ui\Button(['icon' => 'minus']);
$this->action = new \atk4\ui\Button(['icon' => 'plus']);
$this->actionLeft->js('click', $this->jsInput()->val(new \atk4\ui\JsExpression('parseInt([])-1', [$this->jsInput()->val()])));
$this->action->js('click', $this->jsInput()->val(new \atk4\ui\JsExpression('parseInt([])+1', [$this->jsInput()->val()])));
}
}
|
Here are my fifty choices for The Best Web 2.0 Applications For Education In 2013 (in the past, I’ve published a list ranked from top-to-bottom. This year, however, it was harder for me to make that kind of selection. Instead, I’ve posted a “top ten” — not in order — and then a second tier of thirty sites that I’ve divided into specific categories):
The Top Ten (not in order of preference)
Mosey lets you pick a location, easily choose places in the area that you’d like to “visit,” grab images off the web, shows the places on map, and lets you add notes. You’re then give a unique url address to your creation. It’s a good tool for geography class or for planning a real field trip.
EDpuzzle is a new innovative site that lets you take just about any video off the web, edit it down to the portions you want, add audio notes and questions for students, and create virtual classrooms where you can monitor individual student work. For free. Though I’m not a big fan of the flipped classroom (see The Best Posts On The “Flipped Classroom” Idea), I would imagine the site might be an ideal tool for that strategy.
You can see a quick example I created here (unfortunately, the videos are not embeddable).
For my own classroom, I see it less useful as a creation vehicle for me, and potentially much more useful as a tool that students can use for creation. For example, I think both my mainstream and English Language Learner students could watch a video and annotate them using the same kind of reading strategies they use with a “regular” text (ask questions, make connections, evaluate, etc.). Common Core talks about “multimodal texts” and videos, especially if they’re subtitled, would certainly fit into their category.
UTellStory is sort of a streamlined VoiceThread that I think is easier for both teachers and students to use. You can make slideshows with your own images or grab ones off the web and easily add a audio you record, as well as text, to it. You can make them private or public, and they’re embeddable. You can also let your slideshows be re-used and mixed by others.
buncee lets you easily create simple multimedia creations — almost like an extended virtual postcard. You can grab media off the web and add text.
emaze is a new slideshow creation tool that looks neat and pretty darn easy. TechCrunch says it hits the “Sweet Spot Between PowerPoint And Prezi.”
Sketchlot lets students…sketch and draw online. Teachers sign-up and can create a class roster letting students log-in, and drawings are embeddable.
The Rest (Not in order of preference)
VIDEO SITES:
MashMe TV lets you create a free video conference with up to ten people. In addition, you can all watch a video and/or draw together.
HapYak lets you annotate any YouTube or Vimeo video with text (including url addresses) or freestyle drawing. The Adventures With Technology blog has an interesting lesson plan using HapYak with second language learners.
Reflap is a free tool for online video chats. You can have up to five people on the same chat.
COLLABORATIVE ONLINE WHITEBOARDS:
RealtimeBoard is an online whiteboard that is a good tool for real-time collaboration. It’s easy to use, and lets you upload images from your computer or by its url address. They’ve had a limited free plan for everybody, but they recently announced a free “Pro” account for educators. It’s easy to register for it here.
COLLABORATIVE ONLINE WORD PROCESSING:
Quip is a new online word processing tool that is free to non-business users, adapts its look to the kind of device you’re using (tablet, desktop, smartphone), and lets you collaborate with others on your document. You can read more about it at TechCrunch.
On my The Best Online Tools For Real-Time Collaboration list, I have quite a few tools that let you create documents with others, including some that allow instant text chat. Notepad is a new tool that has both of those features and, unlike most other sites, also provides an audio chat feature. No registration is required to use all its features.
Draft is a new free collaborative word processor that looks pretty useful. You can read a lengthy post about it at TechCrunch.
Quizdini is a simple and free tool for creating multiple-choice or “drag-and-drop” quizzes. There is no way right now to monitor student results, but they are working developing such a system.
I learned about BrainRush from Eric Sheninger. Right now, it only lets you create flash card activities, but it has plans in the near future for several other learning activities. What’s really nice about the site is that you can create virtual classrooms and monitor student progress. You can assign students activities you or other users create. I personally prefer to also have students make their own interactives on sites like this and then have classmates try them out
Image Quiz lets you easily grab images off the web (or upload your own) and create quizzes with them. No registration is required to create or take them, and there are quite a few already there.
Escape The Room games are one of my favorite game “genres,” where players have to…escape from a room by clicking on objects and using them in a certain way and/or order. Most of these games also have a text component.
Now, a new free tool has come online, the Room Escape Maker, that lets anybody create their own….escape the room games. It requires a little more of a learning curve than I would like, but I think it has some potential.
PHOTOS:
Phrase.it lets you easily add speech bubbles with your text to photos. You can upload your own, or choose a random image from the site. You’re then given a link to your creation.
Brainscape is a flashcard-creating site that lets you add images and allows you to record sound simply by clicking on the “Advanced Editor.” It’s easy to add both, and those features make Brainscape stand out a bit from some of the other flashcard sites out there.
Presenter is a new free online tool for creating online presentations, animations and — at least in my mind — most importantly, infographics. Most of the options on Presenter all look impressive but, for my technologically incompetent tastes, are just slightly more complicated than I would like (though I’m sure they all would be fine for most readers of this blog). I, though, particularly like their infographic tool. Once you register and sign-on, you have the option to click on the Presenter tool or a tool to create websites. The Presenter tool is free, and the website one costs money. After you click on Presenter, you’re offered different features within it, including infographics. They only offer a few templates now, but I’m sure more will become available soon.
I Wish You To lets you easily draw and create your own Ecards, which you can post, embed, and/or send to someone — and no registration is required.
Map Tales is a pretty cool application that lets you create “map-based stories.” Students can easily use them to document historical eras, literary journey, even their own immigration saga. It’s very easy to use.
Dio is a new interactive tool from Linden Labs, the creators of Second Life (which, apart from hearing from people with physical disabilities that it was very helpful to them, I have yet to figure out its usefulness). Dio, on the other hand, allows you to create what is basically a public or private network that has a lot of interactivity. There is no shortage of social network sites that teachers can set up for their students to use (see Not “The Best,” But “A List” Of Social Network Sites), but Dio seems to have a lot more engaging features.
Russel Tarr has created lots of great online learning tools, and I’ve blogged about many of them. His latest is called Brainy Box, and it lets you easily create a 3-D animated cube with any content you want to include in it. Students will love it.
Mighty Meeting is a free site that lets you create free online meetings where a slide presentation or documents can be shared. It seems to work quite simply, which is always a plus.
Related
One Comment
Add Sparticl.org, the new, free interactive collection of the best STEM on the web, launched 10/1/2013. Designed for teens in grades 7-9, but open to all. Registered users rank, share, comment, earn points toward badges and status. 5000 curated pages and growing!
My Second Book On Student Motivation!
My Second Book On Teaching ELLs
My book, "The ESL/ELL Teacher's Survival Guide: Ready-to-Use Strategies, Tools, and Activities for Teaching English Language Learners of All Levels," (co-authored by Katie Hull Sypnieski) was published in the Summer of 2012 |
F. W. Hutchinson
Francis William Hutchinson (1910–1990) was an engineer, and a pioneer in HVAC research.
Hutchinson graduated from the California Institute of Technology in 1931, and received an M.S. and M.E. from the University of California, Berkeley in 1937.
He was a professor of engineering at Berkeley and at Purdue University. At Purdue, he established a solar energy research program in which two experimental solar houses (one with large double glazed windows) were built on the Purdue campus in the summer of 1945. By analyzing this experiment, Hutchinson concluded that the solar gain through the double glazed house was greater than the excess heat loss.
This study led to the manufacture of Thermopane glass in 1946, which is widely used in modern architecture.
Hutchinson was the author or co-author of 178 papers & articles and 14 books on industrial topics.
He was a member of ASHRAE Hall of Fame.
References
The Solar Home Book - heating, cooling and designing with the sun, by Bruce Anderson with Michael Riordan, Brick House Publishing, 1976
Design of heating and ventilating systems, Hutchinson, Industrial Press, 1955
Panel Heating and Cooling Analysis, by Raber & Hutchinson, Wiley, 1947
Category:1910 births
Category:1990 deaths
Category:20th-century American engineers
Category:California Institute of Technology alumni
Category:UC Berkeley College of Engineering alumni
Category:University of California, Berkeley faculty
Category:Purdue University faculty |
Destiny 2's Luke Smith on PC features, PvP, new subclasses, and more
We asked game director Luke Smith all our burning questions about the PC version and what's changed since Destiny.
Release date confirmed
We knew Destiny 2 would release on PC later than on consoles, but it wasn't clear if we were talking weeks or months. Now we know: Destiny 2 will be out on PC on October 24, a little under two months after the console release.
We spent some time with Luke Smith on the show floor at the Destiny 2 reveal event in May, but didn’t have time to ask all the questions PC gamers want answered. Luckily, we were able to arrange a much longer, more in-depth discussion a few days after the event. Read on to learn what Smith had to say about Destiny 2’s biggest influences, the game’s post-launch support, its central storyline, weapon and PvP balance, new and updated PvE activities, plus a surprising day at Blizzard.
You were a hardcore WoW raider back in the day. I know you can’t talk to me about the raid going forward, but can you talk to me about how your PC background has informed your approach to Destiny?
I think for me, as a hardcore World of Warcraft player and a Scarab Lord of all things, when I set out with the team back in 2012 to create the first raid for Destiny, it was about the translation of feeling. It was about thinking back to the memories that I had raiding places like Blackwing Lair, not the mechanics—something like Chromaggus wouldn’t be very fun in a shooter—but the moment of “oh, we did it!” And then how do you translate that set of feelings into an action shooter like Destiny? That led to a bunch of exploration and, I think ultimately, the birth of raiding in the first-person shooter which, you know, huge credit to the team. It’s one of the things I’ll probably forever be genuinely proud of.
It’s an experience that I love. It’s an experience that, as a player, is one of my favorite things to do in videogames. I play the game just like a player, so I’ve thrown my controller, I’ve had people in my group threaten to push Atheon off the ledge back in the day—and we didn’t. I love these things. To me, the raid translation from an activity previously only experienced with clicks and spells, to bring it to an action game, it was about the translation of feelings and emotion. How do we want players to feel? How do we make them feel that way? A section like the gorgons from Vault of Glass would be pretty shit in an MMO, but it’s pretty amazing in an action game where all you want to do is run, jump and shoot, for just a few minutes to have discipline and communication.
For PC gamers who are looking at this series potentially for the first time, what is the pitch that you would give them for Destiny? What’s the vision you would hit them with?
In not playing the first Destiny game from 2014, you haven’t really missed anything.
Luke Smith
In not playing the first Destiny game from 2014, you haven’t really missed anything. We’re setting up the world for you at the opening of Destiny 2. We have a cool world intro that we’re going to work through. We have basically treated Destiny 2 wholescale like a fresh launchpad for players. So for people who’ve never checked this game out for any number of reasons, we wanted Destiny 2 to be a game that you could look at and pick up off the shelf and open up and understand what’s going on and have a great time.
From a fictional perspective, Destiny 2 and Destiny’s world are hopeful places. You have humanity pushed basically back up against the wall, ushered into this last safe city, protected by heroes. And the players of our world are these heroes. I think that’s pretty universal; you don’t need to understand the specifics of what happened in Destiny 1 to appreciate that universal theme of being a hero in this world that needs heroes. It’s a great time for people to jump in and find out, in Destiny 2, what happens with Dominus Ghaul, the Red Legion, but also to take your first steps into the Destiny franchise and see where we’re going.
With the PC version coming after the console version, there’s the risk of other players on other formats spilling all the raid secrets before we have a chance to go in blind. Is that something you’re thinking about?
That is something that is a non-trivial amount of pain to me as a player. But it’s also, in this case, sort of a necessary pain. We want the PC build and the PC version of the game to get all the time it needs to be a thing that we are, as Bungie, excited to ship. And that means taking the time to get it right and, unfortunately, to take the hit on—you lose some of the zeitgeist and that sort of emotional momentum. I will say we will be working tirelessly to unify those two communities as quickly as possible.
I got a strange email from someone purporting to be a deep-throat at Bungie, whose credentials we’ve been unable to verify thus far. And they claimed that the reason for the delay was Sony wanting an exclusivity window on the console version, so that the PC version doesn’t arrive and look miles better and risk sales of the PS4 pro and stuff. Is that something you can debunk?
That’s categorically false. That is not true.
On a more positive note, can you tell me some stuff you can do with Destiny 2 now that you couldn’t do with Destiny due to having to support PS3 and Xbox 360?
It lets us make larger worlds—larger play spaces, more AI, we have more activities running. That whole existence layer technology which we shared a little about at the presentation, and we may have spoken about on the last day, it’s really possible because of shedding the previous gen. The ability to walk up and launch an activity from the world that has more experienced gameplay than something like a patrol.
Adventures, I think, we’ve undersold in a bunch of ways. They’re like mini missions, in many cases, with more interesting mechanics. You’re able to launch those, and when you’re playing an adventure you’ll almost always start in a public bubble—sorry, that’s our terminology. When you start an adventure you’ll almost always begin playing that adventure in public where other players will see you, so maybe you’re like summoning a boss and they can chip in and fight, and after that initial objective you’ll be ferreted off into a location where you’ll just be by yourself to achieve a bunch of the meat of the activity. There’s a rhythm and a cadence to these things that’s pretty cool, and I think that we have not really described them well enough for players to realize what these are.
Are you able to describe one of those now?
I can probably do that. So, a sample adventure. There’s one on EDZ, the European Dead Zone. You discover early in the adventure that there are these Cabal, these psions, who are casting invulnerability shields on another creature. So you have these encounters out in the open in the public zone, in the shared zones of our world, where you have psions who are making characters invulnerable. You kill the psions, the character’s no longer invulnerable, you can kill the character.
This then leads you into a place like a dark forest. In here, you’re going to learn more about these psions, you’re going to face more of these psions, and of course there’s this encounter rhythm where we’re teaching you that “kill the psion” is the key that you unlock to kill the bad guy. Then we play this note for you throughout this adventure, and it culminates with you fighting an [ultra-class enemy] with a giant gun and waves of ads in a big open forest where psions are continuously reinforcing the fight, making them vulnerable, etc. There’s usually one central mechanic in a bunch of these that you repeat to sort of, again, understand mastering. And there are a number of mechanics like this throughout the game.
Do you see them being really replayable?
This is a good example. Originally we saw these as not being replayable. We initially envisioned these as things you would clean off of your map and be done with it, much like [how] you can’t really replay quest lines and you can’t really replay activities in games like Skyrim or whatever. But this is one of our things with being an action game. Being an action game, you want players to be able to continue to kick the content that they love kicking over and over again.
A lot of this came from the team itself. We recently greenlit a replayability feature for the adventure content, and while it won’t be random access like Destiny 1 where you could just replay stuff whenever you want all the time, there will be a way for you to chew through replaying through adventures if that’s how you want to spend your time.
Is it true that prior to Taken King, some Blizzard guys helped out with some consultancy on loot and leveling systems?
I think consultancy is a dramatically overblown term for it. Here’s some of the backstory: Josh Mosquiera, who’s the game director on Diablo 3, and Mark Noseworthy worked together at [Relic Entertainment], so they have been friends for a long time. Because of that friendship, we reached out to them and said, “hey, do you guys want to come up and do this talk,” that we saw them put together for Gamescom a few years ago.
We sort of had a summit, like a Bungie-Blizzard summit where we met with a bunch of their leaders, their teams.
Luke Smith
They came up and did the talk to a broad audience of designers here at the company. It was a killer talk about, you know, transforming Diablo 3 for Reaper of Souls. It was awesome, a great talk. And then they hung out with us the day afterward, basically just a super small group of folks. Myself—mostly myself, really, and Mark a little bit, but it was me and a couple of their systems designers and Josh just talking all day about philosophy, how they think about games, how we think about games. It was more like knowledge sharing.
I mean, there have been—I don’t know if we’ve talked about this yet. We took a trip down there in December of 2015, a group of senior creative leaders here—Jason Jones and myself, a number of other folks—went down to Blizzard for a day. We sort of had a summit, like a Bungie-Blizzard summit where we met with a bunch of their leaders, their teams. We went around and we were talking to the Hearthstone team and [director Jeff Kaplan] from Overwatch, and it was awesome. But it wasn’t like consultancy, you know, it was just game developers getting together and hanging out—like a little private [Game Developers Conference] where no one’s presenting and everyone’s just sitting around tables sharing their experiences. And it was amazing.
I think our audience would love to hear that! I think it’s interesting to us to think of these kinds of minds, who are working on these games that we love, just interacting. I’m not trying to find something suspicious; I think it’s cool to hear that.
Oh no, oh my gosh, I don’t think you’re trying to find anything suspicious at all. We went down there and it was a blast. I mean, I’m an old, old World of Warcraft head. You know, I’ve done a lot on that game, it’s one of my proudest gaming moments—Scarab Lord from World of Warcraft. So we went to lunch—it was Jones and I, Jeff Kaplan, Tom Chilton, Josh Mosquiera, you know, a bunch of their game directors—and Jeff Kaplan and I rode in his car together, he drove me to lunch. So I just got to pick his brain about Warcraft, which was awesome. Jeff was one of the first people to send me congratulations mail. And we also have been talking to Jeff and the Overwatch team, you know, he volunteered to talk to us about the PC and learning from Overwatch on PC settings and functionality. We’ve been having those conversations with them.
We recognize that Blizzard is a leader in the PC space, and we are taking sort of our first steps out into this space, and what better guides to have in that space than Blizzard’s expertise knowledge? And now we’ve got the awesome Battle.net partnership so we’re going to be there in their launcher alongside a bunch of games that we all really respect and admire. For me, as a fan of Blizzard games, I got to enjoy a lot of this. And then as a developer here at Bungie, the knowledge sharing has been awesome.
Do you think the PC audience will approach the game differently? Do you expect to discover and learn different things from the way they play it?
Yeah, I do expect to. I completely expect to learn different things from the way they’re playing the game. They’re going to have, just by the nature of the input, a different way of playing the game on [keyboard and mouse]. They’re going to have different weapon preferences; I expect to see things like the optimal weapons being different on the two platforms just because of the precision that the keyboard and mouse is providing versus the tactile, controller-in-hand feedback experience on a console.
I played some of the PC build at the reveal event using a scout rifle—and I’m a scout rifle guy anyway—and it seemed like scout rifles had almost been heavily buffed just because I was using a mouse. Assuming you’re going to balance unilaterally, do you think that will pose any issues for balancing the game across platforms?
I wouldn’t be so quick to make the assumption that we’re going to balance unilaterally. I think that we want to have one design build of Destiny, and the one design build means that we have exotic A and exotic A, and they’re both the same exotic across the builds for the game. But with the specific tunings and the way the guns play in each ecosystem, those are two consumer types with very different needs.
We are treating recoil in a custom way, we’re treating aiming and bullet accuracy custom for the PC.
Luke Smith
On a controller where you have rumble and rich tactile feedback, you want the controller response to feel like the weapon response—recoil, etc. When you’re playing with mouse and keyboard you don’t want to constantly be playing with this game of like dragging your mouse back down to counter recoil. So our team, working with our partnership at [Vicarious Visions], has been working tirelessly on the PC control scheme because we really take a lot of pride here at Bungie in our games playing extremely well.
Going here into PC for the first time, we want to make sure that the PC game plays as well as the console game with respect to the audience’s desires. So that means custom: we are treating recoil in a custom way, we’re treating aiming and bullet accuracy custom for the PC. We want to have a game that plays amazingly on the PC for what the PC audience expects.
With the PC version coming out a bit after the console version, will there be any way for people to migrate to PC? To bring their account over or anything like that?
No, there’s no plans to do that currently. That is not something players should expect to have for Destiny 2 launch. Sorry, I just don’t want to say that in a way that leaves hope.
On the next page, Smith details changes to PvP, how the Guided Games system will work, whether Destiny 2 will have swappable loadouts, and more. |
Turner earnings drop
Turner Broadcasting System’s fourth-quarter and year-end earnings were undercut by a one-time charge for unplugging its Checkout Channel, a news show tailored for display in grocery stores (see related story).
Fourth-quarter earnings fell 30% to $ 30 million (4 cents per share) in 1992 from $ 43 million (11 cents) in 1991 after the company took a one-time $ 16 million hit for shutting down the network.
Full-year net income fell to $ 78 million (30 cents) in 1992, from $ 86 million (24 cents) in 1991.
Absent the one-time charge, fourth-quarter and full-year 1992 net income would have totaled $ 46 million and $ 96 million, respectively.
Fourth-quarter revenues totaled $ 538 million, up 33.8% from $ 402 million in the year-earlier period. Revenues for the year rose 20% to $ 1.8 billion from $ 1.5 billion in ’91.
Operating profit dropped to $ 85 million in the fourth quarter from $ 98 million the year before, while full-year operating profit slid to $ 289 million from $ 297 million (the 1992 figures again reflected the one-time charge).
TBS chairman Ted Turner said the 1992 results reflect heavy investment in new businesses, including the startup of the Cartoon Network, featuring shows from the Hanna-Barbera animation library, which Turner acquired in 1991.
“This (investment) is the best way to ensure long-term growth, and we will continue this practice in 1993,” Turner said. “Some of the results already are apparent. For the first time, international business has generated over 10% of consolidated revenue and the Cartoon Network is beginning to show some very promising viewership and advertising trends.”
Comfortable results
Analyst Tom Wolzien of Bernstein Research said he was comfortable with the results.
“The Checkout Channel wasn’t clicking, so they were smart to cut their losses ,” he said. “Their long-term growth lies in the Cartoon Network — which is doing very well — and international expansion as the domestic services start to mature.”
Advertising revenue for the segment increased 16% to $ 495 million, primarily due to an increase in the rates charged per thousand viewing homes, an increase in the amount of national inventory sold on TNT and an increase in the viewing audience.
Operating profit of CNN, Headline News and CNN Intl. advanced 8% over 1991 results; however, operating profit for the entire News Segment — which was affected by the writedown of the Checkout Channel — decreased 8% to $ 155 million.
Revenue for the segment totaled $ 536 million, an increase of 12% from the prior year primarily due to increased advertising and subscription revenue from CNN and Headline News and to the growth of CNN Intl.
Syndie revenue totaled $ 259 million, a 35% increase over 1991 primarily due to a $ 64 million increase in domestic and international homevideo revenue and an $ 11 million increase in theatrical revenue (primarily the international release of “Tom and Jerry: The Movie”). Even so, the segment posted an operating loss of $ 16 million.
Sports segment revenue increased 57% over the prior year, to $ 83 million, primarily due to the performance of the Atlanta Braves, who for the second straight year won the National League pennant. |
NOTICE: All slip opinions and orders are subject to formal
revision and are superseded by the advance sheets and bound
volumes of the Official Reports. If you find a typographical
error or other formal error, please notify the Reporter of
Decisions, Supreme Judicial Court, John Adams Courthouse, 1
Pemberton Square, Suite 2500, Boston, MA, 02108-1750; (617) 557-
1030; SJCReporter@sjc.state.ma.us
SJC-12328
WORLDWIDE TECHSERVICES, LLC vs. COMMISSIONER OF REVENUE
& another1 (and three consolidated cases2).
Suffolk. November 7, 2017. - February 22, 2018.
Present: Gants, C.J., Gaziano, Lowy, Budd, Cypher,
& Kafker, JJ.
Taxation, Abatement, Sales and use tax. Practice, Civil,
Abatement, Intervention. Administrative Law, Intervention.
Due Process of Law, Intervention in civil action.
Appeal from a decision of the Appellate Tax Board.
The Supreme Judicial Court on its own initiative
transferred the case from the Appeals Court.
Edward D. Rapacki for the intervener.
John A. Shope (Michael Hoven also present) for the
taxpayers.
1
Econo-Tennis Management Corp., intervener, doing business
as Dedham Health and Athletic Complex.
2
BancTec Third Party Maintenance, Inc. vs. Commissioner of
Revenue & another; QualxServ, LLC vs. Commissioner of Revenue &
another; and Dell Marketing L.P. vs. Commissioner of Revenue &
another. Banctec Third Party Maintenance, Inc., is now known as
QualxServ Third Party Maintenance, Inc.; and QualxServ, LLC, is
now known as WorldWide TechServices, LLC.
2
Daniel J. Hammond, Assistant Attorney General (Daniel A.
Shapiro also present) for Commissioner of Revenue.
Ben Robbins & Martin J. Newhouse, for New England Legal
Foundation, amicus curiae, submitted a brief.
KAFKER, J. Fifteen years and three Supreme Judicial Court
decisions ago, this protracted case commenced regarding taxes
imposed on computer service contracts. The litigation began
when purchasers of the service contracts filed a putative class
action against the sellers,3 claiming under G. L. c. 93A that the
imposition of these taxes was unlawful and an unfair and
deceptive practice. The sellers successfully moved to compel
arbitration pursuant to the terms of the computer service
contracts, and a judge in the Superior Court eventually
confirmed the award. The next chapter in this tax saga, and the
one we are required to decide today, then ensued.
For the sole and express purpose of hedging their bets in
response to the class action, the sellers had applied for tax
abatements from the Commissioner of Revenue (commissioner)
beginning in 2004. The commissioner denied the applications,
and the sellers petitioned the Appellate Tax Board (board). The
appellant, Econo-Tennis Management Corp., doing business as
Dedham Health and Athletic Complex (Dedham Health), one of the
consumers who purchased these service contracts, moved to
3
We refer to BancTec Third Party Maintenance, Inc.,
QualxServ, LLC, and Dell Marketing L.P., the corporate appellees
in the present litigation, collectively as the "sellers."
3
intervene in the proceedings, which the board allowed.
Thereafter, the board, with certain exceptions, reversed the
decision of the commissioner and allowed the abatements,
ordering the parties to compute the amounts to be abated. Taxes
totaling $215.55 were imposed on the service contracts purchased
by Dedham Health.4 After the class action litigation on the
claims under G. L. c. 93A ended in the sellers' favor, the
sellers withdrew their tax abatement petitions with prejudice.
Dedham Health moved to strike the withdrawals. The board denied
the motion to strike the withdrawals and terminated the
proceedings, deciding that "any pending or further motions . . .
[were] moot" and that it would "take no further action on these
appeals." Dedham Health now appeals from that order. We
transferred Dedham Health's appeal to this court on our motion
and now conclude that although the board did not err as a matter
of law in allowing the sellers' withdrawals, the board's
termination of the proceedings in their entirety, after
permitting Dedham Health to intervene and allowing the
abatements, was an error of law. After the sellers' withdrawals
were allowed, Dedham Health should have been allowed to proceed
4
The sellers note that the evidence in the record before
the Appellate Tax Board (board) only reflects that Dedham Health
paid a total of $45.60, not $215.55. For the purposes of this
opinion, we need not address this issue.
4
as an intervener on its own claim to recover the taxes imposed
on the service contracts it purchased.5
1. Background. The instant cases arise out of the same
tax dispute at issue in Feeney v. Dell Inc., 454 Mass. 192
(2009) (Feeney I); Feeney v. Dell Inc., 465 Mass. 470 (2013)
(Feeney II); and Feeney v. Dell Inc., 466 Mass. 1001 (2013)
(Feeney III). As we summarized in Feeney I, supra at 194, "Dell
Catalog Sales Limited Partnership (Dell Catalog) and Dell
Marketing Limited Partnership (Dell Marketing), wholly owned
subsidiaries of Dell Inc. (formerly Dell Computer Corporation),
sold computers and related products to consumers and businesses
and, in connection with such sales, also sold optional computer
hardware service contracts under which [the sellers] agreed to
provide onsite computer repairs to the purchasers." Dell
Catalog and Dell Marketing collected tax on the optional service
contracts from their customers and remitted the tax to the
Department of Revenue. Id. at 194 & n.6. Under these service
contracts, "BancTech, Inc. . . . ; QualxServ LLC; or Dell
Marketing agreed to provide onsite computer repairs to the
purchasers."6 Id. at 194. Dedham Health was one such consumer
who purchased Dell computer hardware and the accompanying
5
We acknowledge the amicus brief submitted by the New
England Legal Foundation in support of the sellers.
6
As noted in note 2, supra, the names of two of these
companies have since changed.
5
service contracts. Id. Dedham Health asserted that the tax on
the optional service contracts was improper. Id. at 193.
Dedham Health and one other plaintiff who bought Dell
hardware and service contracts7 commenced a putative class action
against Dell Computer Corporation (Dell Computer) in 2003,
alleging that it had improperly collected and remitted tax on
the service contracts that the plaintiffs purchased, and that
collecting the tax violated the Massachusetts consumer
protection act, G. L. c. 93A. Id. at 193, 196. "The 'Dell
Terms and Conditions of Sale' . . . in effect at the time of the
plaintiffs' purchases contain an arbitration clause compelling
arbitration of any claim against Dell . . . and mandating that
any such claims be arbitrated on an individual basis" (emphasis
in original; footnote omitted).8 Id. at 194-195. In July, 2003,
7
The other plaintiff was John A. Feeney, now deceased, who
is not a party to the present litigation.
8
The relevant portion of the "Dell Terms and Conditions of
Sale" provides:
"ANY CLAIM, DISPUTE, OR CONTROVERSY (WHETHER IN
CONTRACT, TORT, OR OTHERWISE, WHETHER PREEXISTING, PRESENT
OR FUTURE, AND INCLUDING STATUTORY, COMMON LAW, INTENTIONAL
TORT AND EQUITABLE CLAIMS) AGAINST DELL, its agents,
employees, successors, assigns or affiliates (collectively
for purposes of this paragraph, 'Dell') arising from or
relating to this Agreement, its interpretation, or the
breach, termination or validity thereof, the relationships
which result from this Agreement (including, to the full
extent permitted by applicable law, relationships with
third parties who are not signatories to this Agreement),
Dell's advertising, or any related purchase SHALL BE
6
Dell Computer moved to compel arbitration, and a judge in the
Superior Court allowed the motion. Id. at 196-197. "[The
plaintiffs] each filed a claim of arbitration 'under protest' in
November, 2004." Id. at 197. The arbitrator denied the
plaintiffs' request for class certification, and ruled in favor
of the defendants on the merits in 2007. Id. at 198.
"In February 2008, the plaintiffs moved in the Superior
Court to vacate the arbitration award," but their motion was
denied and the case was dismissed with prejudice. Id. The
plaintiffs appealed, and we granted their application for direct
appellate review. Id. In Feeney I, this court held that the
arbitration clause was void as against public policy, and
reinstated the Superior Court action. Id. at 205, 214. Less
than two years later, the United States Supreme Court ruled in
AT&T Mobility LLC v. Concepcion, 563 U.S. 333, 351-352 (2011),
that the Federal Arbitration Act precludes invalidating class
waiver provisions in arbitration clauses on the basis of State
public policy favoring class actions. In response to
Concepcion, we held in Feeney II that "a court may still
RESOLVED EXCLUSIVELY AND FINALLY BY BINDING ARBITRATION
ADMINISTERED BY THE NATIONAL ARBITRATION FORUM (NAF) under
its Code of Procedure then in effect (available via the
Internet at http://www.arb-forum.com, or via telephone at
1-800-474-2371). The arbitration will be limited solely to
the dispute or controversy between Customer and Dell. Any
award of the arbitrator(s) shall be final and binding on
each of the parties, and may be entered as a judgment in
any court of competent jurisdiction."
7
invalidate a class waiver" post-Concepcion where, as here,
"class proceedings are the only viable way for a consumer
plaintiff to bring a claim against a defendant." Feeney II, 465
Mass. at 501-502. One week later, the United States Supreme
Court held in American Express Co. v. Italian Colors Restaurant,
570 U.S. 228, 238-239 (2013) (Amex), that an arbitration
agreement's class waiver is enforceable even if the class waiver
effectively precludes the plaintiff from vindicating his or her
Federal statutory rights. In light of the Supreme Court ruling
in Amex, we held in Feeney III that the class waiver in the
present case could not be invalidated for effectively denying
the plaintiffs a remedy, and remanded the case to the Superior
Court. Feeney III, 466 Mass. at 1003.
On remand, the Superior Court granted the sellers' motion
to confirm the original arbitration award dismissing the
plaintiffs' claims. Feeney vs. Dell Inc., Mass. Superior Ct.,
No. 2003-01158 (Middlesex County Oct. 24, 2013). The Appeals
Court affirmed in a memorandum and order pursuant to its rule
1:28, 87 Mass. App. Ct. 1137 (2015), and this court denied the
plaintiffs' application for further appellate review in October,
2015, ending the putative class action litigation.
While the putative class action was still ongoing, the
sellers brought abatement claims against the commissioner for
the taxes collected on the service contracts. The sellers
8
indicated in their abatement filings that they only sought
abatement in the event that the class action litigation resulted
in a judgment requiring the sellers to refund the taxes to their
customers. The sellers' filings stated that if they prevailed
in the class action, they would withdraw their abatement
applications.
The commissioner denied the sellers' abatement requests.
The sellers filed timely petitions with the board challenging
the commissioner's denial of their abatement requests, and the
petitions were consolidated. In their petitions to the board,
the sellers again emphasized that they sought abatement to
protect against a possible judgment against them in the putative
class action litigation.
Dedham Health filed motions to intervene in the sellers'
petitions before the board, arguing that it and "other similarly
situated customers" were the "real parties in interest" because
the customers were entitled to be refunded in the amount of any
abatement paid out to the sellers. Dedham Health also asserted
that the commissioner prohibits customers from pursuing
abatement claims themselves "where the challenged 'tax' was paid
to, and remitted by, the seller." However, Dedham Health did
not ask for class action certification before the board because,
as it conceded in its motion, "there is no procedure for
certifying a class action to the [board]." The board granted
9
Dedham Health's motions to intervene, concluding that it had
alleged "sufficient facts . . . to support its claims that the
parties may not be adequately representing Dedham Health's
interests" and that Dedham Health had "a substantial interest in
the subject matter of this litigation." In allowing Dedham
Health's intervention, the board noted that it "in no way
extends or expands the limitations contained in G. L. c. 62C,
§ 37," the statute that sets forth the procedure for pursuing
abatement.
The parties submitted a joint statement of facts and a
joint evidentiary record to the board. The board ruled in
December, 2013, that, with certain exceptions, the transactions
did not fall within the statutory or regulatory framework for
taxation and thus the sellers had not been required to collect
the taxes at issue, and were therefore entitled to an abatement
of all such taxes they had remitted. The board directed the
parties to "compute the amounts to be abated based on the
foregoing findings and rulings." Because computing the
abatement amounts would be a complex and expensive task, the
board granted the sellers' motion to stay the board proceedings
until all appeals in the putative class action litigation had
been exhausted.9
9
As grounds for their motion to stay, the sellers cited the
significant expenses they would incur to compute the abatement
10
After the final dismissal of the putative class action in
favor of the sellers, the sellers withdrew all of their
petitions before the board. Dedham Health filed a motion to
strike the sellers' withdrawals, arguing that allowing the
withdrawals would leave consumers without a forum to pursue a
tax refund. In July, 2016, the board denied Dedham Health's
motion to strike. Instead, the board ordered the proceedings
closed in light of the sellers' withdrawals, ruling that "any
pending or further motions and discovery are moot." The board's
ruling did not include a rationale for its decision. Dedham
Health did not request findings and a report, available pursuant
to G. L. c. 58A, § 13.10
amounts, particularly in light of the sellers' anticipation that
the Superior Court litigation would be resolved in their favor,
at which time they intended to withdraw their petitions.
10
The relevant portion of G. L. c. 58A, § 13, provides:
"[T]he board shall make such findings and report
thereon if so requested by either party within ten days of
a decision without findings of fact and shall issue said
findings within three months of the request . . . . Such
report may, in the discretion of the board, contain an
opinion in writing, in addition to the findings of fact and
decision. If no party requests such findings and report,
all parties shall be deemed to have waived all rights of
appeal to the appeals court upon questions as to the
admission or exclusion of evidence, or as to whether a
finding was warranted by the evidence. . . . The decision
of the board shall be final as to findings of fact.
Failure to comply with the time limits, as outlined above,
shall not affect the validity of the board's decision."
11
On appeal, Dedham Health argues that the board (1)
improperly denied Dedham Health's motion to strike the sellers'
withdrawals, (2) incorrectly ruled that the withdrawals rendered
all pending and future motions moot, and (3) violated Dedham
Health's right to due process by terminating the proceedings.
We examine each of these arguments in turn.
2. Discussion. Pursuant to G. L. c. 58A, § 13, when the
board issues a final order without findings of fact, within ten
days a party may request that the board issue findings of fact
and a report. By failing to request findings and a report here,
Dedham Health has "waived all rights of appeal . . . upon
questions as to the admission or exclusion of evidence, or as to
whether a finding was warranted by the evidence." G. L. c. 58A,
§ 13. See Assessors of Lynn v. Zayre Corp., 364 Mass. 335, 338
(1973). Our review of the board's decision is therefore limited
to pure questions of law that were not otherwise waived. See
Supermarkets Gen. Corp. v. Commissioner of Revenue, 402 Mass.
679, 681-682 (1988). Thus, we can only rule in Dedham Health's
favor if the board erred as a matter of law. See id. We review
the board's conclusions of law de novo. Regency Transp., Inc.
v. Commissioner of Revenue, 473 Mass. 459, 464 (2016).
"However, because the board is an agency charged with
administering the tax law and has 'expertise in tax matters,' .
. . we give weight to its interpretation of tax statutes, and
12
will affirm . . . if [the board's] interpretation is reasonable"
(citations omitted). AA Transp. Co. v. Commissioner of Revenue,
454 Mass. 114, 119 (2009).
a. Withdrawal. Dedham Health contends that the board
erred in allowing the sellers to withdraw their petitions for
abatement. Dedham Health interprets the board's final order as
being predicated on the board's assumption that it was required
as a matter of law to accept the sellers' withdrawals and thus
had no discretion to strike them. On the basis of this
assumption, Dedham Health asserts that the board did have
discretion to strike the withdrawals, and that the board's
failure to recognize its own discretion constituted an error of
law.
As discussed, the board's final order did not include an
explanation for its ruling. Because Dedham Health chose not to
request findings of fact and a report, we do not know the basis
for the board's decision. The board may have either (1) decided
it had discretion to accept or reject the withdrawals, and
chosen in the exercise of that discretion to accept the
withdrawals; or (2) decided it had to accept the withdrawals as
it lacked discretion to reject them as a matter of law. We
cannot assume, in the absence of such findings and report, that
the board's decision was made on the latter basis, rather than
the former, as Dedham Health contends. Having failed to request
13
findings and a report, Dedham Health is left only with the
argument that the board's decision to accept the withdrawals was
improper as a matter of law in these circumstances. See
Supermarkets Gen. Corp., 402 Mass. at 681-682.
The board's rules expressly provide for withdrawals in
certain circumstances:
"When notice of the settlement of a pending appeal is
received by the clerk from either party, unless a
withdrawal of the petition or agreement for decision is
filed forthwith, the clerk shall inform both parties or
their attorneys by mail that the appeal should be disposed
of by filing a withdrawal of the petition or agreement for
decision according to the terms of the settlement"
(emphasis added).
831 Code Mass. Regs. § 1.21 (2007) (rule 1.21). Thus, at least
where formal settlements are reached, the board expects that
withdrawals be filed to formally dispose of the petition. While
no such formal settlement has been reached and the withdrawals
here were not filed pursuant to rule 1.21, the sellers
effectively accepted the tax liability in its entirety, and
thereby withdrew their petitions for abatement. Rule 1.21 thus
provides support for the allowance and the board's acceptance of
the withdrawals in the instant matter.
Prior decisions by this court have also recognized
taxpayers' ability to withdraw and the board's ability to accept
such withdrawals at various stages of administrative tax
proceedings. See D'Errico v. Assessors of Woburn, 384 Mass.
14
301, 309 (1981) ("plaintiff's remedy was to pursue his appeal
from the decision of the [board], but he withdrew that appeal.
This withdrawal . . . was perhaps an unfortunate tactical
decision but not one which this court can undo"); O'Brien v.
State Tax Comm'n, 339 Mass. 56, 61 (1959) ("Two of these [buses]
were garaged in Massachusetts but these are not here involved
for the applications for abatement of the excises with respect
to them have been withdrawn"). See also AA Transp. Co., 454
Mass. at 117 n.5. Nor does Dedham Health argue otherwise; it
contends only that the board had the discretion to strike the
withdrawals, and did not recognize that it had such discretion.
As explained above, Dedham Health waived that argument by not
requesting findings and a report.
Without such findings and a report, we cannot conclude as a
matter of law that the board abused its discretion in allowing
the sellers' withdrawals in these circumstances. See O'Connor
v. Director of the Div. of Employment Sec., 384 Mass. 798, 799
(1981) ("In the absence of either such a request or an
indication from the District Court judge that he felt
constrained to dismiss the notice of appeal because he thought
such action to be mandatory, we conclude that the judge
considered the dismissal to be a matter of discretion and
further conclude that, if such dismissals are indeed
discretionary, the challenged dismissal would not have amounted
15
to an abuse of discretion"). The proceedings had already gone
on for thirteen years at that point; the putative class action
lawsuit had ended in the sellers' favor; there were limited
amounts of money at stake for individual purchasers; and only
two plaintiffs had been identified in the class action, one of
whom had died in the interim.11
Finally, the board's prior decision allowing Dedham Health
to intervene on its own behalf lends further support to the
board's discretion to accept the sellers' withdrawals. As an
intervener, Dedham Health had rights separate from the sellers'
rights. Thus, the sellers' withdrawal, by itself, did not leave
Dedham Health without a right or remedy. We address those
rights below.
b. Independent right to abatement. Dedham Health asserts
that, as an intervening party, it had an independent right to
continue to litigate the abatement proceedings even after the
sellers' withdrawal. To determine Dedham Health's rights before
the board, we look both to the statutory scheme of the tax in
question and the rights the board provided Dedham Health as an
intervener. Commissioner of Revenue v. A.W. Chesterton Co., 406
11
We also conclude that it would have been within the
board's discretion to deny the withdrawals, given the sellers'
over-all responsibility for collecting and abating the tax,
which, according to one filing by the commissioner, involved as
much as $50 million and as many as 7 million to 10 million
purchasers.
16
Mass. 466, 467-468 (1990) (abatement is created by statute, so
board only has jurisdiction to extent prescribed by governing
statute). This task is made somewhat more complicated by the
fact that the board never made an explicit finding as to whether
the taxes at issue were sales taxes, under the purview of G. L.
c. 64H, or use taxes, under the purview of G. L. c. 64I.12 We
conclude that in these circumstances both statutory schemes
place the legal responsibility for collecting and paying the
taxes and seeking abatement on the sellers, leaving only limited
rights to Dedham Health as an intervener.
i. Statutory rights. In Massachusetts, sales and use
taxes are designed as "complementary components of a unitary
taxing program created to reach all transactions . . . in which
tangible personal property is sold inside or outside the
Commonwealth for storage, use, or other consumption within the
Commonwealth." Boston Tow Boat Co. v. State Tax Comm'n, 366
Mass. 474, 476-477 (1974). The sales tax is imposed on retail
purchases made inside the Commonwealth. See G. L. c. 64H, § 2.
The use tax, "designed to prevent loss of sales tax revenue from
. . . out-of-State retail purchases," is imposed on retail
purchases made outside the Commonwealth that are stored, used,
or otherwise consumed in Massachusetts. D & H Distrib. Co. v.
12
The interlocutory order of the board concluding that the
taxes were unlawful refers to the taxes collectively as "sales
and use taxes."
17
Commissioner of Revenue, 477 Mass. 538, 540 (2017). See G. L.
c. 64I, § 3. The sales tax and the use tax are mutually
exclusive, and the tax rate is identical. Regency Transp.,
Inc., 473 Mass. at 462.
Vendors are responsible for collecting and remitting the
sales tax and therefore are the party entitled to seek
abatement. See G. L. c. 64H, § 3; First Agricultural Nat'l Bank
of Berkshire County v. State Tax Comm'n, 353 Mass. 172, 179
(1967), rev'd on other grounds, 392 U.S. 339 (1968). By
contrast, purchasers are generally responsible for payment of
the use tax. See G. L. c. 64I, § 3. However, in practice
purchasers "seldom remit use tax of their own volition, and are
not likely even to be aware of the requirement." D & H Distrib.
Co., 477 Mass. at 540. Rather, for applicable purchases outside
Massachusetts from a vendor who conducts business in
Massachusetts, the vendor is required to collect and remit the
use tax, as it would a sales tax. See G. L. c. 64I, § 4.13 See
also G. L. c. 64H, § 3. More specifically:
13
General Laws c. 64I, § 4, provides, in relevant part:
"Every vendor engaged in business in the commonwealth
and making sales of tangible personal property or services
for storage, use or other consumption in the commonwealth
not exempted under this chapter, shall at the time of
making the sales, or, if the storage, use or other
consumption of the tangible personal property or services
is not then taxable hereunder, at the time the storage, use
or other consumption becomes taxable, collect the tax from
18
"Vendors 'engaged in business in the commonwealth' who sell
tangible personal property or services 'for storage, use or
other consumption in the commonwealth' are required to
collect the tax from the purchaser and give the purchaser a
receipt, unless the 'storage, use, or other consumption' is
not 'taxable' at the time of sale, in which case vendors
are required to collect the tax when storage, use, or other
consumption 'becomes taxable.'"
Town Fair Tire Ctrs., Inc. v. Commissioner of Revenue, 454 Mass.
601, 606 (2009), quoting G. L. c. 64I, § 4. In such instances
where the vendor is required to collect the use tax, if the
vendor fails to do so, the tax is "owed by the vendor to the
commonwealth." G. L. c. 64I, § 4. See Town Fair Tire Ctrs.,
Inc., supra.14
the purchaser and give the purchaser a receipt therefor in
the manner and form prescribed by the commissioner. The
tax required to be collected by the vendor shall constitute
a debt owed by the vendor to the commonwealth. Such vendor
shall collect from the purchaser the full amount of the tax
imposed by this chapter, or an amount equal as nearly as
possible or practicable to the average equivalent thereof;
and such tax shall be a debt from the purchaser to the
vendor, when so added to the sales price, and shall be
recoverable at law in the same manner as other debts."
14
Under both tax schemes, when added to the sales price,
the amount taxed becomes a "debt from the purchaser to the
vendor." See G. L. c. 64H, § 3; G. L. c. 64I, § 4. Both
schemes include a "bad debt" provision, wherein "any vendor who
has paid to the commissioner a tax for a sale on credit is
'entitled' to reimbursement if the account 'is later determined
to be worthless.'" Household Retail Servs., Inc. v.
Commissioner of Revenue, 448 Mass. 226, 229 (2007). However,
this provision is a mere "statutory courtesy," as the vendor is
still legally responsible for paying the tax. Id. at 230. See
Continental-Hyannis Furniture Co. v. State Tax Comm'n, 366 Mass.
308, 309 (1974) (prior to enactment of bad debt provision,
vendor remained liable for sales tax even in instances where
purchaser did not tender payment for tax).
19
Thus, where the vendor has collected and remitted the use
tax, such that it mirrors the implementation of the sales tax,
the vendor is legally responsible for the tax and becomes the
party entitled to seek abatement.15
Here, the taxes at issue were collected and remitted by the
sellers, not Dedham Health. Therefore, regardless of whether
the taxes at issue were sales taxes or use taxes, the sellers
were the party statutorily responsible for the payment of the
tax and statutorily entitled to seek abatement, not Dedham
Health. This is true even though the economic burden of the
taxes at issue were passed along to Dedham Health. See First
Agricultural Nat'l Bank of Berkshire County, 353 Mass. at 180
("There is no necessary inconsistency between imposing the legal
incidence of a tax upon the vendor, yet recognizing a statutory
right in the vendor to shift the tax to the purchaser").
Placing the legal responsibility for the tax on vendors is also
in accord with the purpose of the tax scheme. By making the
vendors responsible, the Legislature adopted "what it believed
to be the most efficacious method of ensuring the payment" of
the tax. Baker Transport, Inc. v. State Tax Comm'n, 371 Mass.
15
When abatement is sought for either tax, the vendor who
collected the tax cannot, however, receive a refund until he or
she demonstrates that "he [or she] has repaid to the purchaser
the amount for which the application for refund is made." G. L.
c. 62C, § 37.
20
872, 875-876 (1977) (Legislature's decision to require tax
payment prior to issuance or transfer of vehicle registration
was intended to ensure taxes paid on all taxable sales of motor
vehicles). See First Agricultural Nat'l Bank of Berkshire
County, supra at 178 ("practical considerations necessitate its
collection and remission to the State by the vendor"). Because
the vendor is already collecting the tax from the purchasers,
placing the legal responsibility for collecting, paying, and
abating the tax on the vendor is a logical way of administering
the tax burden, such that the State does not have to pursue
individual purchasers for payment.
ii. Intervener rights. Although Dedham Health was not
statutorily entitled to seek abatement here, the board allowed
Dedham Health to intervene in the proceedings before the board.
The sellers argue that such intervention violated the statutory
scheme. See A.W. Chesterton Co., 406 Mass. at 467-468, quoting
Assessors of Boston v. Suffolk Law Sch., 295 Mass. 489, 492
(1936) ("Since the remedy by abatement is created by statute
[the board] has no jurisdiction to entertain proceedings for
relief by abatement begun at a later time or prosecuted in a
different manner than is prescribed by the statute"). We
disagree.
The board properly allowed the intervention in accordance
with its own procedures. Under 831 Code Mass. Regs. § 1.37
21
(2007), the "practice and procedure before the [b]oard shall
conform to that heretofore prevailing in equity causes . . .
prior to the adoption of the Massachusetts Rules of Civil
Procedure."16 Prior to the adoption of the Massachusetts Rules
of Civil Procedure in 1973, an intervener needed a "substantial
interest in the subject matter of the original litigation" to
intervene in an equity claim. See D.J. Doyle & Co. v. Darden,
328 Mass. 288, 290 (1952); Check v. Kaplan, 280 Mass. 170, 178
(1932). Here, the board determined that "Dedham Health has
alleged sufficient facts relating to the subject matter of these
appeals to support its claims that the parties may not be
adequately representing [Dedham Health's] interests and
therefore [Dedham Health has] a substantial interest in the
subject matter of this litigation." The board also correctly
cited controlling authority in its order allowing Dedham Health
to intervene. See Check, supra.
In these circumstances, where the board ordered an
abatement, but where the sellers indicated they would withdraw
from the abatement proceedings if the putative class action were
dismissed, allowing Dedham Health to intervene was appropriate.
The board correctly recognized that Dedham Health, as the
purchaser whose money was used to pay the tax, had a substantial
16
This provision of the Code of Massachusetts Regulations
also states that "substance and not form shall govern" in these
proceedings. 831 Code Mass. Regs. § 1.37 (2007).
22
interest in the abatement and that the sellers had no intention
or incentive to protect that interest. Intervention was an
appropriate means of protecting Dedham Health's substantial
interest, while also respecting the statutory structure and the
expertise of the board. See Raytheon Co. v. Commissioner of
Revenue, 455 Mass. 334, 337 (2009); French v. Assessors of
Boston, 383 Mass. 481, 482 (1981) ("We have long recognized the
board's expertise in tax matters").
As an intervener, Dedham Health became a party to the
abatement proceedings entitled to protect its interest in the
abatement. See Spence v. Boston Edison Co., 390 Mass. 604, 611
(1983); American Hoechest Corp. v. Department of Pub. Utils.,
379 Mass. 408, 410 (1980); Check, 280 Mass. at 178. Cf. Mass.
R. Civ. P. 24, 365 Mass. 769 (1974); Massachusetts Fed'n of
Teachers, AFT, AFL-CIO v. School Comm. of Chelsea, 409 Mass.
203, 205 (1991) (specifying conditions under which party has
right to intervention); May v. Commissioner of Internal Revenue,
553 F.2d 1207, 1208 (9th Cir. 1977) (per curiam) ("Intervention
in a proceeding before [the Tax Court] has been held to be
within the sound discretion of the Tax Court"). Indeed, the
board expressly rejected attempts to limit Dedham Health's role
to that of an amicus allowed only to brief and argue before the
board.
23
Both the sellers and the commissioner contend that Dedham
Health has no right to recover the taxes it paid, as an
intervener or otherwise, because Dedham Health did not file a
request for abatement on its own. They make this argument
despite recognizing that such a request would have been denied
and was thus futile. See Sullivan v. Brookline, 435 Mass. 353,
355 n.1 (200l) (where no administrative remedy exists, plaintiff
is "not subject to any exhaustion requirement"); Massachusetts
Bay Transp. Auth. v. Labor Relations Comm'n, 425 Mass. 253, 258
(1997) (exhaustion not required where it would be futile).
Indeed, the commissioner concedes that he would deny any such
application, as would the board, because neither the
commissioner nor the board recognizes a purchaser's right to
seek abatement independently. In other words, Dedham Health's
other avenue of relief was to chase a separate ostensible
"remedy" that would be denied as soon as it was pursued. We do
not find this argument compelling.
The commissioner also suggests that Dedham Health could
instead sue the sellers, relying on G. L. c. 64H, § 3 (a). The
commissioner's interpretation of G. L. c. 64H, § 3 (a), however,
runs contrary to the plain meaning of this provision. General
Laws c. 64H, § 3 (a), requires the purchaser to reimburse the
vendor for the sales tax that the vendor is statutorily required
to remit to the Commonwealth. It is designed to protect the
24
vendor by imposing a reimbursement requirement on the purchaser.
As explained by the amicus: "Nowhere does G. L. c. 64H, § [3
(a),] mention or even suggest any right of action by the
purchaser against the vendor."
We recognize that Dedham Health's rights as an intervener
were limited. It did not have the same statutory powers and
responsibilities as the sellers, and thus could not seek to
displace the sellers or play an equivalent role in the abatement
process. The intervention order itself expressly stated that it
"in no way extends or expands the limitations contained in G. L.
c. 62C, § 37." Dedham Health's rights were appropriately
limited to defending its own interest in the abatement that
applied to its own transactions. It was not allowed or entitled
to step into the sellers' shoes or to intervene, as Dedham
Health suggests, as to the entirety of the sellers' tax
abatement claims.
Although these rights were limited, we conclude that their
existence could not be entirely contingent on the sellers'
decision whether to continue the abatement process, once it had
begun. In the instant cases, the board made this exact legal
error. It decided Dedham Health had a substantial interest in
the abatement and a limited right to intervene to defend that
interest, but as soon as the sellers filed their withdrawals,
the board terminated the proceedings, eliminating both the
25
interest and the right. In these circumstances, where the board
had already found that the taxes were improperly imposed, it
could not simply terminate the proceedings and leave Dedham
Health without a remedy. See Spence, 390 Mass. at 611; American
Hoechest Corp., 379 Mass. at 410; Check, 280 Mass. at 178. Cf.
Mass. R. Civ. P. 24. Dedham Health should have been permitted
to proceed after the sellers' withdrawal to recoup the tax
payment the board found had been unlawfully imposed on Dedham
Health. We therefore conclude that the board erred as a matter
of law by instead choosing to terminate the proceedings after
the sellers' unilateral withdrawal.
c. Due process. Dedham Health also contends that
terminating the abatement proceedings over its objection
violates its constitutional right not to be deprived of property
without due process of law. Because we conclude that the board
erred as a matter of law where it allowed Dedham Health to
intervene and then took away that right and remedy when the
sellers filed their withdrawals, we need not address this
argument. Cf. Commonwealth v. Disler, 451 Mass. 216, 228 (2008)
("It is, of course, our duty to construe statutes so as to avoid
such constitutional difficulties, if reasonable principles of
interpretation permit it [citation and quotations omitted]);
Textron Inc. v. Commissioner of Revenue, 435 Mass. 297, 307
(2001), cert. denied, 535 U.S. 986 (2002) ("As head of the
26
agency charged with administering the corporate excise tax
statutes, the commissioner has lawful discretion . . . to
interpret a statute in a manner that avoids potential
constitutional issues").
3. Conclusion. For the reasons discussed above, we
reverse the final order of the board and remand for further
proceedings consistent with this opinion.
So ordered.
|
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#:startdoc: |
_For my father_
_"Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy,_
_"I want to be a gentleman."_
—Great Expectations
**Table of Contents**
___________________
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Acknowledgments
About Nina Revoyr
E-book Extras
Excerpt from _Southland_
Copyright & Credits
About Akashic Books
CHAPTER ONE
It started for the same reason that so many other things did then, because of my need for money. I was a graduate student in history at USC, two years past my final seminar, lost somewhere in an unwieldy dissertation whose end was still nowhere in sight. I'd met my friend Janet at a café near campus—she was moving to San Francisco the next week with her architect girlfriend—worrying aloud, as I often did, about how to stretch my funds for the month.
Janet's hazel eyes lit up and she leaned across the table. "I have a job for you, if you want it," she said.
I paused for a moment before I answered. Theoretically, I had it good. Besides the $12,000 stipend I got from the university, I'd won a prestigious $10,000 fellowship from a foundation that supported research in American history. This had freed me from having to work as a teaching assistant, which was—although no one said so—the only money-making effort that was sanctioned by our advisors, who believed that anything besides teaching or scholarship was beneath our intellectual station. But the truth was, it was hard to live in Los Angeles on twenty-two grand a year—hard not only practically, but also emotionally, when guys I'd gone to college with were making huge salaries in law or finance; and the Westside was crawling with twenty-six-year-old tech millionaires; and the real estate boom had pushed prices to dizzying heights, making those who couldn't afford to go along for the ride feel worthless and embarrassed. My small apartment ran me $1,500 a month—a much harder nut to swallow after Chloe moved out—which left another three hundred and change for food, gas, car insurance, utilities, and anything else I needed to live. And unlike some of my classmates, I didn't have parents who could help.
"Well, what is it?" I asked finally, surprised by the eagerness I felt. It was like I'd suppressed pangs of hunger until an unexpected offer of food made me realize how ravenous I was. The day before, I'd spent two hours going through my old books, trying to figure out what I could get for them on Craigslist or eBay, and whether it would be enough to make up the money I needed for rent.
"It's _my_ job," said Janet, grinning. "With the lady in Bel Air. She just asked me to help her find a replacement."
I vaguely remembered that Janet had done something, maybe secretarial, for some rich woman up in the hills. I hadn't paid attention because it was so far outside of my realm, and because Janet didn't really talk about her gig. She was in the history department too, but more cheerful and well-adjusted than any other graduate student I knew. Maybe that was why it wasn't surprising that she was leaving the USC orbit to complete her dissertation in a more glamorous locale. Her departure had been received with the mixture of wonder and envy that an escapee always elicits from those still trapped in the asylum. The fact that her dissertation—about some obscure counterrebellion movement during the French Revolution—seemed to be going well just made the rest of us more jealous.
"Well, what do you do?" I asked. Then, remembering my manners: "Thanks for thinking of me."
"It's typing, mostly," Janet answered, but her tone was so enthusiastic that she might have said _swimming with dolphins_. "Mrs. W— kept journals for decades, and she hired me to transcribe them. Over a thousand pages, all handwritten. I just got to page two hundred a couple of weeks ago."
"W—," I repeated. The name sounded familiar. I realized that I'd seen it on a building on campus. It might also have been on a wing at the Natural History Museum.
"Yes, Marion W—," Janet said, sipping her coffee. "She's in her seventies now."
"Is it the same W— as the science building?"
Janet nodded. "Yup, same one. Her family was prominent in the early days of Los Angeles. Her grandfather came out to California in the late 1800s. He helped found a couple of the fancier suburbs, so she's actually one of the street people."
"The street people?" I said, picturing men in torn jackets on sidewalks during the Depression, holding tin cups out unsteadily to passersby.
"You know—Canfield, Whittier, Doheny, W—. The streets in Beverly Hills, which were named for the original families."
"Oh," I said, feeling utterly stupid. "How did you find her?"
" _She_ found _me_. She asked the dean for a reference, and I guess he mentioned my name. She's really attached to USC—her family's had a seat on the board for three generations, and I have a feeling she still gives a lot of money. According to the dean, Mrs. W— wanted a history grad student specifically. She says we have a greater respect and understanding of how the world works than the flakes in the English department."
"Well, that's true," I agreed, trying to take this all in. A rich lady who'd kept a thousand-page journal by hand. This sounded about as exciting as watching a car get an oil change. Plus I didn't like the idea of what amounted to secretarial work. But the truth was I needed the money.
"You should totally do it, Rick," Janet said brightly. "The work is easy. Twenty-five dollars an hour, ten hours a week. It's not great, but it beats working in the dining hall, and the stories are kind of interesting. Only . . ." A shadow passed over her face, a single small cloud in her otherwise sunny demeanor.
"What?"
"Well, she's kind of _particular_. She keeps herself busy—she's involved with a couple of museums and hospitals, a fancy women's group. But she seems isolated just the same. Her husband died like forty years ago, and I'm not sure she sees her kids much. She's a strong personality, and yet there's something nice there too. I don't know. All that time alone . . . it's not good for anyone, you know?"
I nodded absently, not really paying attention. In my mind, I was doing calculations. Twenty-five dollars times ten hours was two hundred and fifty a week, or another thousand a month. If I started next week, I could make my rent this month. And the work itself did sound easy—I was a fast typist, could read all kinds of writing from the work I'd done for my father's business in high school. Sure, this woman's life was totally foreign to me, but that might make it interesting. Maybe I'd learn something about LA history—I was, after all, an historian—although stupidly, with what I realize now was the particular arrogance of the overeducated and underemployed, I didn't believe that there was anything the wealthy could teach me. This easy dismissal, this lack of openness to nuance and possibility, might have had something to do with why I wasn't a better scholar. It definitely had something to do with my failure to hear the hitch in Janet's voice, the warning about Mrs. W— being _particular_. Given Janet's general optimism, I should have taken notice of her sudden concern. But I didn't; all I thought about was my own burden being lifted.
* * *
The next morning, when I called the number that Janet had given me, I was surprised by the voice on the other end.
"2732," a young woman said cheerily, as if she were operating an old-time switchboard.
"Uh, could I speak to Mrs. W—, please?"
"Who is this?"
"This is . . . She doesn't know me. This is Rick Nagano. I got her name and number from—"
"Oh, yes!" she broke in. "You're Miss Janet's friend! Mrs. W— is expecting you. Please come at two o'clock."
It took me a moment to answer. "Two o'clock—today?"
"Yes, she's anxious to get back to work; she's been upset because Miss Janet is leaving." The voice had a hint of an accent. Was this a maid? A personal assistant? If so, then why did Mrs. W— need me?
"But I was thinking . . . I wasn't expecting . . . today, I have to . . ."
"Do you have the address?" she pressed on cheerfully, as if I hadn't spoken.
"No, Janet . . . Miss Janet said that—"
"Okay, well here it is." She recited a house address and a woman's first name. She gave detailed directions to help me navigate the winding Bel Air streets. "When you get to Jessica Street," she said, "you'll see a big gate with a _W_ on it. Press the buzzer and we'll open the gate. Once you drive through, there will be houses on either side. They all belong to Mrs. W—." She paused to make sure I got it. "Just keep going on the same road until it winds to the top of the hill. The big house set back with nothing around it, that's where Mrs. W— lives."
"And will you be there?" I asked, still not knowing who _you_ was, just latching on to what seemed like a friendly presence.
"I'll be there at some point. I'm Lourdes, by the way. I'll help you fill out the necessary paperwork."
I wondered, but didn't ask, what the paperwork was. "How will I know I've found the right place?" I asked.
Lourdes laughed brightly. "Oh, you'll know."
* * *
At twelve forty-five I left my apartment and drove to Bel Air. It was a gorgeous January day—the sky was clear and blue, the temperature was in the sixties, the warmth undercut by a slight delicious chill, the heart of LA winter. I'd had to rearrange my schedule—I was supposed to have lunch with another grad student to mark the start of the new semester, and then meet with my advisor, Professor Rose. Theoretically, I had planned to give my advisor the next draft chapter of my dissertation, but in reality I had nothing new, not a single line worth showing. In two years I'd produced about forty usable pages—two chapters—but then had lost my way. I'd like to claim that this slowdown had something to do with my other loss of that time, but the truth was that Chloe had left me in the middle of this dry spell and couldn't be blamed for it. My problem wasn't writer's block, which implies that something's there that just needs to be released. It was simpler than that. I had nothing to say. Nothing new or important, anyway, because there certainly was something _there_ , maybe not ideas or content or logical thought, but the specter of the project itself, which lay frustratingly out of reach during the day when I sat at my desk and tried to grasp it, but awoke at night and seemed to fly all around me, as mysterious and elusive and vaguely threatening as a group of circling bats.
When I had my infrequent but uncomfortable meetings with Professor Rose, I felt the weight of her disappointment. She was the best-known scholar in the history department—the preeminent historian of twentieth-century California, author of several books that had achieved a measure of popular success, and frequent guest on the cable news channels when they needed an expert to place a current incident in a larger historical context. Getting her to chair my committee had been somewhat of a coup, a cause for envy among the other grad students. But when month after month passed and the seeming brilliance of my initial research ideas fizzled into nothing, I could feel that I'd become a burden to her. That morning, when I called and pleaded a family emergency, she didn't sound disappointed. She seemed a bit relieved, and so was I.
I headed north on Fairfax to Sunset, and then drove west on that winding boulevard through the clubs and restaurants of West Hollywood, the eight-story-tall advertisements on the sides of hotels, past the palm tree–lined streets of Beverly Hills. At the appointed intersection, I turned right into the mouth of a canyon. Immediately I was enveloped in green—the bushes and trees here were so abundant and full that it was as if I'd driven into a forest. The temperature dropped five degrees. The properties close to Sunset were bigger than any I'd ever stepped foot in, but as I wound my way through the narrow canyon and up into the hills, they got even more ornate, so that at some point they stopped being houses—at least by any definition I understood—and instead became estates. The walls of vegetation hid some of the homes entirely, but others were on display, built imposingly on overlooks, including one that had, in its own designated space, a futuristic-looking silver helicopter. I passed over the first set of hills and found even more behind them, a wide, complex range with little valleys and peaks, much of it undeveloped. I'd had no idea, looking at them from their base, that the Hollywood Hills were so vast. My only real experience of them had been the hike up Runyon Canyon, two miles up on the front part of the range. But farther back in the hills was an entirely different world, a private, lush, green LA hidden from the rest of the city. At the designated street, I turned left, and now I could see the ocean. The winding road grew narrower and seemed to go on forever, and I was just starting to think that I might have gone too far when I saw the gate that Lourdes had mentioned. This was definitely no regular iron gate. It was made of some expensive metal—could it really be gold?—and anchored in heavy stone pillars on either side, which in turn were encased in ten-foot walls. There was a _W_ in curling cursive on the front of the gate. To the left, a small box with a speaker and number pad. I punched the button, heard a buzz, and the gate drew open.
Within the gate I saw more houses, set farther apart along the rolling hillside. But it felt different now, like I'd driven into a new country. All the way up the canyon, the hills had been green from the winter rains, but inside the gates, everything was even brighter, cleaner, as if the ever-present filter of LA smog was not permitted on the premises. The most colorful flowers I'd ever seen—orange, purple, yellow, red—lined the road on both sides. Here were two waving men on bicycles—residents? employees?—and then huge trees overhanging either side of the road. A peacock strutted out in front of me and spread his glorious tail; then he drew himself in and continued on his way. There were other animals grazing in the distance—llamas? goats?—as well as a rabbit that scurried alarmingly right in front of my car. The road narrowed and the trees drew closer together, and then finally I was in the open again. In front of me now, set off by itself on a little rise, stood the biggest house I'd ever laid eyes on.
In articles about the W— family, and in Mrs. W—'s own journals, the house—formally known as Casa del Cielo—is described as a mansion. In my mind, it was more like a castle. Built of white stones that had been imported from Italy, layered with turrets and parapets that might have hidden armed sentinels, it looked impenetrable, unapproachable; I half-expected it to be surrounded by a moat. The gardens—which even in mid-January appeared to be in full bloom—were expansive and lush, and reminded me of the Huntington Gardens in Pasadena; later I'd learn they'd been designed by the same man. In the open garage, itself bigger than most houses, I spied two large, expensive-looking cars—a Bentley, I learned later, and a Rolls Royce. To the right of the house, there was a dark-blue pool that was fed by a stone fountain with an angel atop it. Water poured from the angel's mouth, and the angel itself, in her muteness, looked at me with bright, desperate eyes.
For perhaps the first time, taking in all of this splendor, I felt self-conscious about my appearance. I was dressed in the nicest of my casual clothes—khakis ironed to the best of my limited ability, a blue button-down shirt from the Gap, and brown loafers I hadn't taken the trouble to shine. At USC, I'd never thought about my clothes. Sure, there were a few rich kids who wore expensive threads (it was, after all, the University of Spoiled Children), but they were outnumbered by students trying to stretch every dollar, and there was a certain cache to grad student poverty, casual outfits put together from items scavenged from secondhand shops, mixed with a few new things from the Gap or J.Crew. But suddenly, my clothes seemed completely inelegant, as did my car, a ten-year-old Honda passed down from my family.
But there was nothing I could do about this now, so I took a deep breath and got out of the car. I approached the front door determined to knock with as much confidence as I could muster, but when I reached the steps, I noticed that the door—made of honey-colored, heavy, ornately carved wood—was ajar. "Hello?" I called out tentatively, and my voice echoed through what I could see from the stoop was a cavernous front hall. "Hello!" I said again, more loudly, when there'd been no response. This time, an answer, a woman's voice, different from the one I'd heard on the phone that morning.
"The door is open, young man. Come in."
I pushed the door open, stepped into the front hallway, and stood there, not sure what to do. Everything in the entrance hall—including the floor—appeared to be made of marble. The space was huge—bigger not only than my apartment, but probably also the house I'd grown up in. Doors on either side led to what looked like sitting rooms, and a long, winding staircase hugged the wall to the right. Other than a large chandelier, I didn't see any lights, and yet the entire space was suffused with brightness because of the broad rectangular windows near the top of the double-high ceilings. There was hardly any furniture except a tall side table that might have held mail or keys, and a hard-backed chair against the wall halfway down on the right, placed as if for visitors who needed a breath as they made their way across the large room. The only piece of art was a colorful painting, maybe eight feet across, that hung on the wall to the left. It depicted a garden maze, a series of rectangular bushes, with a cheerful, bright town visible in the distance. A boy was walking through the maze, still close to the outer edges; near the center was a girl in a bright red dress, looking the other direction.
I must have stood there for two or three minutes, but there was no further greeting. This was very strange—no Lourdes, no butler, no person of any kind. I had a feeling that Mrs. W— was hidden somewhere, watching—a feeling that turned out to be true. My eyes followed the staircase; I expected her to descend dramatically like some movie star of old, but this was not—I learned quickly—her style. When the voice came again, it startled me so much that I jumped. She'd come in silently through a door on the left.
"A magnificent house, is it not?"
I turned to the source of the voice, a slender, silver-haired woman standing fifteen feet away. It took me a moment to gather my wits. "Yes ma'am," I finally managed.
"My grandfather had it built in the 1940s. We used to own this entire hill."
My heart was racing as I considered the woman in front of me. Janet had said she was in her midseventies, but she looked like no other seventy-something woman I'd ever seen. She stood about 5'4"—six inches shorter than me—and had perfect posture, as erect as a young girl who'd just left her manners lessons. Her shoulder-length silver hair was combed back perfectly off of her face, the edges slightly curled. There were wrinkles at her eyes and mouth, but also a tremendous liveliness to her face and expression. Her clothes—gray slacks, white blouse, and a long blue sweater with gray accents—were expensive-looking and elegant. The diamond earrings she wore were probably worth more than I lived on in a year. As she gestured with her hands to speak of the house, I saw the fineness of her bones. I had never known a woman of this age could be so beautiful.
"It looks . . ." I began, not knowing the proper thing to say. "It looks like you still own a lot of it."
She turned toward me now, her eyes passing over my face, my body, my clothes. I felt as exposed and scrutinized as I did when I stood naked at the doctor's. "You're a friend of Janet's?" she asked.
"Yes, we're in graduate school together," I replied, glad for a question I could answer.
"You're not her boyfriend, are you?"
"N-no," I said. Apparently the conversations between Janet and Mrs. W— had not been very personal. "She and I are just friends."
"That's good. You're too handsome for her. And she's probably too much of a handful for you. You look like an earnest young man."
I didn't know how to reply to this, so I awkwardly shrugged my shoulders.
Mrs. W— didn't seem to notice. "Janet's a smart girl," she continued. "She surpassed my expectations. But she told me that she thinks you're even smarter."
I blushed. Janet couldn't have meant this; she was the one who was almost done with her dissertation! Maybe she was just trying to put Mrs. W— at ease. "I don't know about that," I said.
"What is your name again?"
"Rick."
"Rick what?"
"Nagano."
"Nagano," she repeated. "Japanese?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's all right," she said. Then, looking at me more closely: "Funny, you don't look Japanese."
"My father's Japanese," I said, launching into the familiar explanation. "And my mother's Polish."
"I wouldn't have been able to tell." I was never sure what people expected me to say to this. _Thank you? Really? What exactly did you think?_ But Mrs. W— considered me more closely, and surprised me. "Yes, I would have. I know quite a few mixed-race Japanese, actually. I spent a lot of time in Japan. The bustle and energy of Tokyo are interesting, but I prefer the history and culture of Kyoto. The art there, and the buildings, have been very well preserved. Of course, the countryside is beautiful too. Especially Nagano Prefecture, where your people are probably from."
Actually, my family roots were in Okayama Prefecture—not that I'd know the difference. "I've never been," I said.
"Never? How old are you?"
"Thirty-two."
"Thirty-two," she said. "And still a student."
I tried not to feel defensive, but I couldn't help myself. There were plenty of grad students over thirty, I wanted to say. And some who were even further behind than me.
"Married?" Mrs. W— asked me now.
"Excuse me?"
"Are you married?"
"Um, no."
"Well. That's good. People shouldn't tie themselves up too young. Married is married forever."
I didn't point out that she thought me too young for marriage after suggesting I was lagging in other areas. Either way, I didn't want to talk about my own romantic affairs. Instead, I just stood silently until my new employer said, "Well, come on then. Let's get you to work."
With that, she turned and led me through the door at the back of the entrance hall, which opened into a large, dark room. It was filled with a mishmash of heavy furniture, antiques that looked more suitable for display than for use. On the tables and walls were various pieces, presumably from Asia and Africa—porcelain and ivory carvings, block-print paintings, a mournful oblong mask. A huge wardrobe of sorts—or something like it—stood in one corner, an ominous presence looming over the rest of the room. There seemed to be no design or theme to the room, other than as a receptacle for someone's expensive souvenirs from their far-ranging, adventurous travels.
And in a way I was right, for when Mrs. W— saw me looking, she said, "Useless, isn't it? All of it. These are from my grandfather's trips abroad. I never even sit in this room."
"It's all beautiful," I said.
"It is not. _Some_ of it is. That bureau over there—" she pointed to a massive wooden piece, as big as a mantle in a hunting lodge, with carved heads of hawks and wolves, "that bureau is from England, the mid-1600s. That mask is from Nigeria, 1872. And _that_ —" she pointed toward a strange upholstered piece, which looked like a chair bent backward, its arms pointed up in the air, "that's a _siège d'amour_ , from France, the 1700s. So heavy men—like Prince Edward VIII—could make love without crushing their lovers."
Now I noticed the two sets of gold or brass stirrups, one for the person lying back, one, presumably, for the person bending over. I must have laughed in surprise, because Mrs. W— chuckled. "Oh, so you _do_ have a sense of humor. That's good. I was starting to worry."
From there we passed into a kind of open throughway, with a sliding glass door that led to a garden. At the door, two Lhasa apsos were barking to be let inside.
"That's Pinot and Chardonnay," she said. "They're ten years old and a pain in my behind. Hello, you little monsters!" she called out in a singsongy voice. "I'll be right there! Hold your horses!"
"Pinot grigio or pinot noir?" I asked.
"Pinot noir. We _are_ in California."
"They're cute," I said, although I wasn't fond of small dogs.
"They're all right for lap dogs," Mrs. W— said, as if she'd read my mind. "I prefer sporting dogs myself. My father used to breed Brittany spaniels, and we'd take them up north to hunt pheasants and grouse. I loved those dogs, but they need so much exercise. They wouldn't be practical for me anymore."
"You hunted?"
"Yes, I was a very good shot!" she said, as if offended I hadn't known. "I was better than the boys my age, which was sometimes a problem. Men don't like to be bettered by women." She looked back at me, and turned into a hallway, where we passed what appeared to be another living room, and then another. "I rode horses too, competitively, but also sometimes to help my father out on his ranch in Santa Barbara. I wasn't one of those useless rich girls, you see, staying at home with my dolls. I liked to be outdoors _doing_ things. And I spent as much time as I could with my father. I was the apple of his eye, you see. Everybody said so."
"I'm sure you were." I would have liked to say that I was the apple of my father's eye too, and I had been once. My father was an electrician, as his father had been before him. I was "the smart one," the son who got a scholarship to Stanford; the one expected to do great things with my fancy degrees. Except he'd been asking for several years now when I was going to get a job; when all the hard-earned money he'd put toward making me the first in my family to go to college (the scholarship, it turned out, didn't pay for housing or incidentals) was finally going to start paying off. It's the blue-collar parents' nightmare, I suppose, to work so hard to give their children opportunities, only to have their kids fall backward financially. My older brother, who'd become an electrician like our father and would someday take over the business, already had a house, a wife, and two kids.
"You'll read all about that, and all about him too," said Mrs. W—. She stopped outside a doorway. "Well, here we are."
The room we entered had once been a bedroom; there was still a daybed against one wall. A large wooden desk was set up by the window, which had a nice view of the back garden. There were four bookcases along the wall, opposite the daybed, but otherwise the room was quite bare. I wondered what had been here before, and if Mrs. W— had set it up as an office specifically for her project.
"My notebooks are in that bookcase," she said, pointing to a lower shelf of the bookcase closest to the desk. "Janet got through two of them, so you can start fresh with the third. You may use the computer—it is in the top drawer there. She left a folder, she said, with what she'd transcribed already. I don't know how those things work, but I trust that you do." She considered me again, and nodded. "Well, that will be all. You may begin."
"I may . . . what? I'm sorry, but . . . I have to go in a bit. I didn't realize I was starting today."
"Didn't Lourdes instruct you to be here at two o'clock?"
"Well, yes, ma'am." I couldn't believe I was calling this woman _ma'am_. "But I thought it was just to meet you."
"You could have done all of that and started your work too. You need to think ahead, young man."
I resisted the urge to defend myself. Who the hell did this woman think she was? And yet part of me felt properly chastised. She was right, I should have thought ahead. Again, I was too slow, too untuned to nuance to respond correctly to the situation at hand. And there was nowhere else I really needed to be.
Mrs. W— furrowed her brow. "Well, perhaps you can stay long enough to get a sense of the project. You can start looking through my journals—they can't leave the premises, of course. And you shouldn't have a problem reading them—my handwriting is impeccable—but if you have any questions, Lourdes can help. The terms of employment are the same for you as they were for Janet: ten hours a week, twenty-five dollars an hour, on days you arrange with Lourdes. She will pay you by check every two weeks. If anything changes in your schedule, we will need a week's notice. And I need you to sign the agreement."
"The agreement?"
"Yes, the confidentiality agreement. Any material information about my family you might find in the journals must remain private. Many people are curious about us, Mr. Nagano. And my enemies are always looking for information."
I couldn't imagine who her enemies might be, nor what they could possibly want to know. But scanning the one-page contract she put in front of me, I didn't see a problem with agreeing. I leaned over the desk and signed, then gave her back the document.
"Very good," she said. And then she was gone.
The sudden silence, after Mrs. W—'s stream of talk, was startling. For a moment I stood near the middle of the room, not moving. I felt strange, almost criminal, left alone in this house, in this room where her memories were housed. And now, looking around, I realized it wasn't as empty as I'd thought. There were several paintings on the walls, portraits of three blond people—two young men and a woman—in their late teens or early twenties. On another wall the three figures appeared again, this time in two group portraits. The paintings were oil, heavy, old-fashioned. Was this Mrs. W— in her youth? Were the two young men her brothers? If so, they all seemed flat and lifeless, and I wasn't sure if the effect was the result of an unskilled hand, or some essential dullness in the subjects themselves.
I pulled out the chair and sat down at the desk. When I took the laptop out of the drawer, I found a sticky note from Janet. _There's a folder on the desktop with the first two notebooks, saved as separate files. It totals about two hundred pages. Have fun!_
The bookcases were just to my left. They were empty except for an old printer wrapped in its cords and three stacks of Mrs. W—'s notebooks. Notebook, though, is a misleading term. These were books for writing, yes, but clearly handmade, with hardbound leather covers and heavy cream-colored paper, beautiful as objects in themselves. _Peabody & Dutton, 1922,_ said the nameplate on the inside cover of one of them. _Stationers, Boston_. I wondered how much each of these books had cost, where they had originally come from, and how old they were. I was almost afraid that what I'd find inside would disturb their beauty.
There were two brown books on the right of one of the lower shelves, and I assumed these were the ones Janet had finished, but I had no way to know until I could check against the files on the laptop. It occurred to me that I should read through what Janet had already transcribed, but that would take time, and already it felt like I'd fallen behind. I needed to start from wherever Janet had left off. So I picked up the top notebook from the left-hand pile, laid it flat on the desk, and carefully opened the cover.
Inside was writing—printed writing, which was medium-sized and exact, blue ink from a fountain pen, as legible as Mrs. W— had promised. Her lines were perfectly straight even though the paper itself was not lined. There were also sketches, clippings, photographs pasted in—this was an album of her life. Flipping through, I saw pictures of an orange grove in what was now the San Fernando Valley, framed by the San Gabriel Mountains. There was a picture of the coastline of Malibu with just a few scattered shacks, not the glut of oversized modern houses there today. There was a photo of four young women at some kind of party; one of them looked vaguely like the girl in the oil painting. Each of the pictures had arrows pointing out certain features, with written explanations on the page. _One of Father's orange groves. The oranges were sour that year,_ was one. _1952, before the riffraff took over Malibu_ , said another.
I turned back to the front of the notebook, where the writing on the first page picked up in midscene. _Just like I told Clara, John was already there, making cow eyes at that hussy, Evie Johnson._ This was her account of a night at the Cocoanut Grove, where John—who had apparently broken off an engagement with Clara—was visibly courting the new _hussy_ , and our heroine, young Marion, approached him on the dance floor and called him a horse's ass right in front of all their friends.
That this minor social escapade should be recorded in a journal seemed trivial to me, but as I went on, there was more of the same. For an hour I read accounts of other nights on the town—and once, of a wedding shower where Elizabeth Taylor had apparently had too much to drink. Mrs. W—'s accounts were documentary in tone, with little flashes of wit, but she seemed largely absent from them herself. What I mean is, she was in them, usually causing some sort of trouble, but the entries themselves were rather mundane.
At four o'clock, I closed the notebook and replaced it on the shelf. I shut down the laptop and pushed it to the back of the desk. This would be tedious work, but easy, and I was looking forward to the money. Silently I thanked Janet for hooking me up. Then I wandered out to the hallway and into one of the living rooms, calling out to Mrs. W—. She didn't appear, but another woman did. This woman was pretty, Latina, probably in her thirties, wearing a crisp black dress.
"Mrs. W— is taking her afternoon rest," said the woman. "Was everything all right? I'm Lourdes."
I wanted to ask her a thousand questions—how long had she been there? What was it like? Was she afraid to touch things, as I was? How did she keep from getting lost in the vast expanses of this house? But I held my tongue and said that I had everything I needed. In a friendly but no-nonsense way, Lourdes led me to the door. Then I stepped outside, and heard the door shut behind me. I was alone. I tried to reflect on what had happened in the last few hours, but it was all too much, too new. Instead, I just stood there for a minute. The entire city was laid out before me—Hollywood below, Downtown to the east, Santa Monica and Venice to the west, Palos Verdes and Catalina far off in the distance. The sun was gleaming off the ocean and the traffic was already clogging the freeways. But up here, Mrs. W— was above it all. I sighed, took one last look at the house, walked out to my car, and drove back down into the city.
CHAPTER TWO
That night I treated myself to dinner at my favorite Cuban restaurant—a big, noisy place on Venice Boulevard that served huge plates of pork, black beans, rice, and plantains. The food was cheap—ten dollars a plate—but I still wouldn't have sprung for it if I hadn't known a check was coming, and as it was I just drank water to save money. But I was feeling celebratory, the best I'd felt in weeks—not only at the prospect of making some money, but also because a door had opened to a new experience. Sitting there by myself, eating pork so tender and savory it almost brought tears to my eyes, hearing laughter and conversation all around me, I realized how narrow my life had become. For several years it had revolved around only two places—the apartment I shared with Chloe, and campus. But now that I was done with classes and didn't teach anymore, I had no reason to go to campus except the occasional torturous meeting with Professor Rose; and my place, without Chloe, was depressing and claustrophobic. I'd been treading water, trapped in a holding pattern. Days followed days that were so indistinguishable I lost track of what month it was.
Working on the dissertation more or less full-time had only made things worse. It wasn't just that I'd lost interest in my topic. I was starting to question the study of history itself. Mine was not the usual complaint of the underrepresented: that history is written by the victors, stories of everyday people are lost, etc. No, my problem was different. It was more that I didn't know where the past ended and the present began. I didn't know when something was _over_ enough to isolate, capture, make statements about. If events of the 1800s affected the early twentieth century, and the results of that, in turn, led to changes fifty years down the road, then who's to say that it was ever really done? That we weren't, even today, simply playing out another chapter in a story that was nowhere near complete? And how could I, from some undefined middle part of the narrative, step back and make any kind of declaration? Especially when I didn't know how the events I was studying had any relevance to the present? History was taking shape all around us, in ways big and small, and it seemed fruitless, even arrogant, to try to capture it. It would be like pinning a butterfly into a specimen box while it was still alive and wriggling.
At least that's what I told myself. I could have been full of shit. It could have just been that I was looking for a reason not to do my work, and this line of thought sounded respectably existential. The truth was, I was going slowly nuts by myself in that apartment. And while the fact that I wasn't teaching did free up more time, that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Teaching had given me structure, something to get up and prepare for, and that had made me use my time carefully. But even more, it had given me a reason to interact with people. For all my tendencies toward solitude and self-pity, I loved to be in the classroom. I had the ability to entertain and amuse, as unasked for and inexplicable and unrelated to the rest of me as other people's talents for juggling or wiggling their ears. The intellectual exchange—but even more than that, the students' curiosity and hopefulness, their _energy_ —had been stimulating and sweet and exciting enough to make me forget—at least for the hours I was there—about my own problems.
Now, I'd go two or three days at a time without leaving the apartment, living off cold pizza, not shaving, and only showering when it seemed indecent not to. Not that the world outside was so enticing. I lived in Jefferson Park, about two miles from campus, in a neighborhood of blue-collar workers, retirees, USC grad students, and a sprinkling of folks with no discernible profession. Our street was a mix of two- and four-unit apartments, a few Spanish-style homes, and lovingly maintained Craftsman houses. One end was anchored by a noisy twelve-unit building, the other by a moss-green, three-story Victorian beauty. There was no cohesion whatsoever—it was like the overflow buildings from more architecturally unified neighborhoods had been gathered and deposited here. The only common features were the burglar bars that covered every first-floor door and window, a nod to the area's enduring grittiness. The cars in the driveways were mostly worn sedans, with a couple of Beamers mixed in, and one classic, restored Chevy pickup. The yard of one house, occupied by a teenager taking care of his grandmother, was guarded by an old, tire-less Buick propped up on cinder blocks.
My building represented polyglot LA all by itself. The back unit was occupied by the owner, a black sixty-ish accountant, a widower. Above him was a quiet, middle-aged Mexican couple who always regarded me suspiciously. Directly below me was a white thirty-something USC law student and his Korean American wife; their seven-year-old daughter was the only child on our end of the block. Chloe and I were a mixture of mixes—me Japanese and Polish, her Japanese and black. And directly across from me was my old high school friend Kevin—the grandson of black sharecroppers from Arkansas who had made their way west—and his Dominican girlfriend Rosanna. Kevin, who worked as a paramedic with the Los Angeles Fire Department while he was studying to be a nurse, would try to get me to come over and watch the Lakers with him, but I usually begged off due to work. He was worried about my solitary, decrepit, woman-less state, but I insisted that I wanted to be left alone—and the truth was, his happy coupledom just rubbed salt in my hermitous wound.
Being alone, though, didn't mean I was productive. I avoided the pile of books on my desk as if they were a lover with whom I'd split but still shared an apartment. I might engage with them half-heartedly for an hour or two, but then I'd give up, choosing instead to thumb through a novel I lacked the attention span to read; or to watch the endless loud cycle of _SportsCenter_. I canceled my social media accounts when I caught myself checking on Chloe's pages, torturing myself with images of her looking happy at work, or with her friends, without me. I skipped meetings with my advisor and my dissertation support group. And I avoided seeing my family, even missing—it pains me to write this—my father's sixty-fifth birthday. There's not much I can say to account for my time between June of 2010 and January 2011. I watched more reality television than anyone should ever admit.
* * *
I drove back up to Mrs. W—'s house two days later. This time, I was greeted by Lourdes, who led me to the office and offered iced tea, which I declined, and said to call if I needed anything. She told me that Mrs. W— was out with her women's group and would probably not be back while I was there. She clarified that she, Lourdes, was Mrs. W—'s "personal assistant"—i.e., she took care of all her scheduling, shopping, and personal needs—and I was her "research assistant." There was also a housekeeper, the gardeners, two cooks, a chauffeur, and a butler. This seemed a bit much for one person.
"Mrs. W—, she's very attached to that book," Lourdes said, and it took me a moment to realize she meant the project I was working on. "She wants to make sure that things get remembered right. Especially about her father and grandfather."
"Well, why wouldn't they?"
Lourdes smiled indulgently. "People don't know much about the W— family. They've kept a low profile, and the things that have been said about them haven't always been true."
Something about the tone of her voice made me wonder what those people had said. It also made me wonder how long she'd worked for the W—s. Had she known Mrs. W— for much of her life? I wasn't sure it was acceptable to ask.
I settled down in the office, fired up the laptop, and opened the notebook I'd looked at two days before. It didn't take long to get through what I'd already read, about the party at the Cocoanut Grove. This was followed by accounts of other parties, and of a hunting trip to Jackson Hole. There, Mrs. W— went for a horseback ride with the son of one of her father's friends, whose name I'd also recognized from buildings in town _. Lars S— just would not stay away from me with his hairy hands and putrid breath,_ she'd written. _I should have shot him in the woods and called it a hunting accident._
I'd been working steadily for two and a half hours—I'd typed twenty pages—when I felt a presence behind me. Turning around, I saw Mrs. W— standing in the doorway. I had no idea how long she had been there. She was dressed in a honey-colored pantsuit, cut fashionably at the neckline, with an orange scarf, small pearl earrings, and a thin necklace to match. It was a simple outfit, yet nothing like the suits that businesswomen wore—more unique, most likely individually tailored, clearly something not off any rack. "Interesting stories, aren't they?" she asked, ignoring my surprise.
"Yes," I said. "I just read about your father's going on the board of the County Art Museum and how one of his business rivals tried to keep him off." Then I stopped, suddenly afraid it might not have been proper to comment. But she didn't seem to mind.
"Yes, Travis Jones," she said. "That backstabbing crook. He kept a whore in Tijuana—who would go to Tijuana anyway, except to find a whore? He eventually died of syphilis."
She asked how many pages I'd typed that day, and when I told her, she seemed pleased. "You're fast," she said approvingly. Then: "I'm tired from talking to old windbags. Come to the garden and have some iced tea."
I left my things and followed her to an outside seating area paved with blue polished stones and surrounded by a river rock wall. In the center was an iron and glass table and a matching set of chairs; around the edges, flower beds with flowers in spectacular bloom. The lawn extended out in every direction, lush grass not native to the chaparral hills. From the patio you could see the entire city—Downtown in the distance, the San Gabriel Mountains rising behind, the vast spread of Los Angeles in every direction. You could sit here and watch the sun rise over the mountains in the morning and see it set over the ocean at night. It was like the homestead of a conquering ruler—which, I supposed, is exactly what the W—s were.
We sat at the table and I kept rearranging myself, unsure of whether to sit up straight or lean back, cross my legs or keep both feet on the ground. Outside, I was reminded of the sheer scale of Mrs. W—'s home—from our spot, I couldn't see either end of it. Another young woman, whom Mrs. W— addressed as Maria, came out with a silver platter holding a pitcher and tall glasses. She set the glasses in front of us and poured the iced tea, being careful not to look us in the face. Mrs. W— smiled and thanked her. Now she sat drinking, back still straight, looking very much in her element. She'd put on a shawl that looked more fashionable than warm; I myself felt a bit of a chill. The moment before she slipped on her dark glasses, I caught a glimpse of her eyes, which were the blue of the ocean, the blue of the earth from space.
"Those women," she started midsentence, and I didn't know at first whom she was speaking of, "they sit around all day talking about parties and clothes, or where their families will summer this year. No interest in the larger world, in politics, in art. No wonder all their husbands have mistresses."
I lifted my glass with a shaky hand, praying I wouldn't spill it, and took a sip. It was like no iced tea I'd ever tasted. As if the herbs had been plucked straight from some heavenly garden and transported directly to my glass. "The women's group?" I ventured.
"Yes. We meet monthly to talk about raising funds for the children's hospital. When the group started fifty years ago, it had the very best girls in the city." And she named several names I recognized: governors' wives, names from department stores and international corporations, even one president's wife. "But now all of that's changed, and the younger girls just aren't the same caliber."
I didn't know what to say to this, and instead looked down at the Lhasa apsos, who'd shuffled over to a nearby patch of grass and were now rolling on their backs, wriggling and grunting with joy.
"They're ridiculous, aren't they?" Mrs. W— said. "I've always thought they looked like Winston Churchill."
"They're pretty funny," I offered.
"This is the third Pinot. The first two were eaten by coyotes. One they carried off right in front of me. A big coyote came and plucked him like a dandelion."
"That's terrible!" I said. "How'd it get in here?"
"They're crafty. Even six-foot-high fences can't keep them out. Now I resort to a rifle."
"You shoot them?"
"I told you already. I'm a very good shot."
We were silent for a moment, and I turned to take this all in—the land, the view, the coyote-bait dogs, the image of Mrs. W— with a gun. In an outer circle of the yard, I could see two of the llamas; at night they were brought into an outbuilding, and now I knew why. I picked up my drink again. The glass had left a ring of water on the cut-stone coaster, and I brushed it off hurriedly, and then didn't know what to do with my wet hand. Surreptitiously I wiped it on my pants. Now Mrs. W— looked at me and asked, "And what about you? What are you studying?"
Haltingly, I tried to describe my research, my classes, the subjects I'd taught.
"Have you enjoyed USC?" she asked.
I paused. Had I enjoyed it? I didn't really know. "Yes, I've had some very good professors," I said.
"Good. Every now and again we have to go through that place and clean out all the Commies."
I thought she was kidding. "Excuse me?"
"Those left-wingers that rule the universities now. But _you_ ," she said, tipping her glass at me, "you seem very sensible."
I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted to be distinguished from the left-wing Commies.
"Those academics wouldn't recognize history if it bit them in the ass," she continued. "History doesn't happen in books. It happens _out here_." She tapped the table with her bony finger. "It bends to the will of important people."
She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket—it was embroidered with _MW_ —and delicately patted her lips. I noticed her hands then—thin and graceful, no age spots or beauty marks, and while I did see a few delicate lines, they had the effect of making the skin look more lovely, the way that tiny cracks in porcelain can make one aware of the delicacy of the clay.
"My journals tell more of the history of Los Angeles than all those boring scholarly books put together," she said. "My grandfather Langley _made_ this city. And yet so few people are even aware of it." Then: "You were talking about the County Art Museum. Well. This Sunday, the new north wing is being dedicated. Waverly Stone, that insufferable fool, donated her family's sculpture collection, but the building itself was funded by a fifty-million-dollar anonymous gift."
I didn't know what to say. What does one say about fifty million dollars? I could barely scrounge up fifty.
"You should come with me," Mrs. W— said. "It will help you understand the world you're reading about."
I sat up straight. "Mrs. W—, I've got things to do—my dissertation, and . . ." I stopped. What did I have to do, really? And besides, I was curious. Mrs. W— must have known this, because she said, "Come here at five o'clock. My driver will take us." Looking me up and down with an expression of distaste, she added, "We shall have to arrange to get you better clothes."
* * *
The next day, I found myself at a men's store on Robertson Boulevard, being tended to by Rafael, a tall, refined shadow of a man with sleek brown hair.
At first, Mrs. W— had planned to send me to Rodeo Drive, but after conferring with two of whom she called the "younger girls" in their forties about where they shopped for their husbands, she decided I needed clothing more appropriate for my age. She had waved off all protests by explaining again that this was related to my work. "It's no different than a job that requires a uniform," she said. "And the employer provides the uniform."
And so I turned myself over to Rafael, and watched in bewilderment as he brought over jackets, shirts, pants made with material I'd never heard of, things so soft and fine and pleasing to touch I was afraid to put them on. I owned a couple of jackets and a pair of decent trousers, but they seemed like ratty gym clothes compared to this finery. Rafael's ability to choose clothes that might suit me was utterly mysterious, like someone who could walk through a forest and see signs of animal life that were invisible to the untrained eye.
"Such a good-looking man," he said, not trying to butter me up, or to flirt, for that matter, but in a slightly chastising tone that suggested I wasn't doing very well with what I had. "You don't think very much, do you? About your clothes."
I had to admit I didn't, but when I tried on the outfits he brought in—nervous at first about tearing or soiling them—I was amazed at the transformation. The clothes that had appeared so untouchable on their hangers now seemed like they'd been made just for me. Looking in the mirror, I saw someone well-dressed and confident, a man of a certain standing. I didn't recognize who I was looking at.
At Mrs. W—'s instruction, we settled on two outfits—a dark-gray pinstripe suit with a white silk shirt and lavender tie, and tan trousers and a navy-blue jacket with a light-blue tie. Italian leather shoes to match each outfit, as well as pocket squares and two new leather belts.
I made a show of trying to pay for at least part of the purchase, which embarrassed us both. There was no way I could have afforded even a single shoe. With the accessories, the total bill was equal to about six months' rent.
Rafael slipped the clothes into a garment bag; then he handed me another bag that held the shoes and the belts. "Take care of these," he said, as if I couldn't be trusted with them. I muttered thanks and escaped to my car.
* * *
On Sunday afternoon, I drove up to Mrs. W—'s house, wearing the gray pinstripe suit. I felt self-conscious from the moment I stepped out my front door—first because of my neighbor, Mrs. Hernandez, who stared at me in shock, the water from her garden hose spilling onto her shoes; then because my beat-up Honda seemed inadequate for the occasion. Suddenly I understood why people cared about cars—they were the ultimate accessory, the first impression you created. An ugly car could nullify whatever was inside, like precious jewels encased in a layer of mud.
But luckily I wasn't going to the museum in my car. I was going to Mrs. W—'s. When I drove up, the Bentley was parked out front, and a driver in suit and cap was polishing the headlights. Mrs. W— came to the doorway, looked me up and down, and made a sound of general approval. "Rafael did very well," she said, after she'd made me turn a full circle. "I will have to send him a tip."
She herself looked marvelous in an elegant silver-green pantsuit and silver flats. She carried a small purse and shawl, and when I got a bit closer, I saw the subtle makeup, the perfectly styled hair. I also saw that she was holding a cane. It had a small round mirror attached to the bottom, and when she saw me notice this, she lifted the cane and shook the end of it. "For looking up women's dresses," she said. "You can always tell how classy someone is by the cut of her underwear."
When I helped her down the stairs, her grip on my arm was surprisingly firm. The driver opened the door and helped her in, and then I got in the other side. Other than a few times taking a cab, I'd never been in a car with a driver. I didn't know what to say, or where to hold my hands. But Mrs. W— and the driver, a fifty-ish black man named Dalton, talked a blue streak about, of all things, baseball. Mrs. W— was a very knowledgeable fan, with an attachment to the Dodgers. As much as she hated Rupert Murdoch—"a crook and a blowhard," she called him—she also said that the ownership of the McCourts was proving to be a failure, because they'd structured the purchase of the team with so much debt. He would lose the team soon, she predicted. "If you can't buy something outright, you can't afford it at all," she said.
"Mrs. W—," said Dalton, chuckling, "the price was four hundred million dollars. Not too many people can afford four hundred million dollars."
"That's right!" she said. "And those who aren't rich have no business pretending that they are."
"Do you ever go to games?" I asked. I couldn't imagine her eating a Dodger dog and drinking a beer.
"Certainly not!" she replied. "I wouldn't subject myself to all of those loud, unruly people. They sweat. They fight. Really, the team should post immigration officers at the entrance gates and intercept all the illegals!"
I turned to the window to cover my surprise, but Dalton just chuckled. "Now, now, Mrs. W—. No need to be like that. They pay for their tickets like everyone else."
"Not their ticket into America," she said.
I wanted to say something, to counter, but I didn't have the easy rapport with her that Dalton did, so I sat in shameful silence. I wondered if Mrs. W— spoke this way in front of Lourdes and Maria. But I didn't have much time to think about it because we'd arrived at the museum, where Dalton pulled up in front, jumped out, and opened the door. He helped Mrs. W— out and I scrambled after her; when she gathered herself, she hooked her hand around my elbow. She lifted her head to the curious people, the cameras and lights, as if toward a warming sun.
* * *
What can I say about that night at the museum, the first of many events I attended with Mrs. W—? It was both daunting and thrilling, all the more surreal because it happened in a place I knew. I'd been to the museum before, to see major exhibits when they came through town, usually at the prodding of Chloe, who was always dragging me to cultural events I wouldn't have attended on my own. Yet I had never seen the museum like this, shut off from the public, reserved for a private party. And the other guests were not your typical weekend museum-goers dressed in sweaters and jeans and casual skirts. The people that night were in attire that I had never seen before, except in movies—the women in gorgeous cocktail dresses, the men in fine suits, and so many fancy necklaces and bracelets and earrings and watches that all the jewelry stores in Beverly Hills might have been raided for the occasion. Everyone looked somehow not just dressed up but untouched, like models of humans that seemed real but weren't quite; these were beings who never exerted themselves, never sweated, never dug in their gardens, never sullied themselves with laundry. Almost all of them had drinks in their hands—champagne or wine or cocktails—and they stood around small, raised tables with plates of hors d'oeuvres, served by young men and women in black suits and white shirts weaving through the crowd with their trays. Other than myself and a few of the servers, everyone in attendance was white. I followed Mrs. W—, who was stopped every few steps by someone who proclaimed how happy they were to see her—although many more saw her and looked away, in avoidance or what seemed like fear. Eventually we made our way up the concourse and into the courtyard of a new steel-and-glass building. There, maybe twenty human-size stone sculptures stood like sentinels in front of the windows. These, I was made to understand, were the donated sculptures, the occasion for that night's event. They were lovely, but my eyes were drawn past them to the building, which was lit from within, the three-story glass windows inviting one to enter.
Mrs. W—'s appearance stirred the crowd—people turned, cameras flashed, the clamor of voices dipped, then rose again. Through it all, Mrs. W— smiled grandly, and even though she was not particularly tall, her presence dominated the space. Two middle-aged couples appeared out of nowhere, blocking our way. They greeted Mrs. W— with an effusiveness that she did not return.
"Richard, dear," she said, when they turned their curious eyes to me, "this is Mr. and Mrs. Steve Birkhall, and Mr. and Mrs. John Grant. This is Richard Nagano. He's a graduate student finishing up his PhD in history at the university."
"A graduate student!" said one of the wives. They all seemed to know what Mrs. W— meant by _the university_. "I thought you were an actor!"
I blushed.
"Yes," Mrs. W— said, rescuing me. "Well, as we always knew, youth and beauty are wasted on the young." Then into my ear, a whisper that was loud enough for others to hear: "John Grant's business partner went to jail on an insider-trading scandal. If you ask me, Grant's as guilty as he was."
At that moment, someone from the museum pulled her over to an actual red carpet on the side of the courtyard with a large white backdrop that bore the museum's name and logo, as well as the names of two of the largest banks in town. Mrs. W— posed with one person, then another, including a couple of people who looked vaguely familiar, like actors in a well-received series on cable that hadn't been renewed for a second season. And while the other person in the shot always smiled at the camera, Mrs. W— looked into the lens with a sardonic expression, lips barely upturned, indulging the photographer and all the people who might view the photographs but not deigning to enjoy the attention.
I wandered over to the food tables, which were overflowing, lavish, laden with platters that held wheels of baked brie, slices of salmon, dollar-coin-sized white bowls of caviar. One skill I'd developed as a graduate student was a nose for free food, and this spread was the most extravagant I'd ever seen. There were plates of various meats sliced paper-thin, and skewers of delicate-looking vegetables and meat. There were mini-quiches, and bits of beef wrapped in arugula and bacon; and tiny bowls of lobster bisque. There were white popsicle sticks with round bits of cake on the end of them, frosted, and small glasses of colorful viscous fluid that the stand-up label identified as _fruit shots_. All of this was framed by a village of gingerbread houses, so large they could have been homes for the Lhasa apsos. They were decorated with colored frosting in curlicues around the windows and doors, disks of candy lining the roofs, waves of green frosting denoting shrubbery around the bottoms. Beside the tables on either side, two giant ice sculptures, which—when I looked more closely—were replicas of pieces in the sculpture collection. I stood in front of the table feeling slightly overwhelmed, not sure whether I should touch anything.
"It's a bit much, isn't it?" a voice said from near my left shoulder.
I turned to face a woman of about my age. She was standing so close I couldn't really see her. I fought the urge to pull away—her face was inches from my own—and answered, "Well, no one should go hungry."
"Except they will. Have you noticed? None of the women are eating."
I turned and scanned the long table, and it was true: the only people hovering over the food trays were men. I looked out at the crowd and watched the waiters and waitresses with their platters of passed hors d'oeuvres; they seemed not to have many takers.
"Maybe they're waiting for dinner."
The woman laughed, throwing her head back a little, exposing her long, fine neck. This gave me a chance to move back just a little. "We could only hope," she said. "There's always so much waste at these things, it's shameful. I've tried to get the committee to donate the leftover food, but they won't do it. The caterer doesn't want to be associated with giving handouts."
"The committee?"
"The events committee. The brilliant minds who put this together."
With the bit of space between us, I was able to look at her now. She was nearly my height—5'10"—but a good three inches of that was heels. She wore a sleeveless, champagne-colored dress that would have hugged her nicely, except there wasn't much figure to hug. For all her talk of women not eating, it didn't look like she ate much herself. There was some kind of brown pattern sewn into her dress, and her shoes and purse matched it perfectly. The whole getup was expensive and classy; I didn't know that women of my general age group could dress like this. Her face was made up impeccably, but not overdone; she'd worked hard to make herself look natural. She had fine patrician features, smooth planes of cheek and an aquiline nose, a forehead that was entirely free of wrinkles. Her blond hair had been swept back from her face and gathered by some device I couldn't see. She wore dark, almost blood-colored lipstick on lips surprisingly full for such a wisp of a woman. Her look was completed with a string of pearls and hard, bright earrings. Everything about her made me want to keep looking. And yet I couldn't really say if she was pretty.
"I'm Fiona Morgan," she said, holding out her hand, but with her elbow still bent at her side. The hand was long and bony and her skin was silk-soft, but her grip surprisingly strong. Her posture was perfect. It made me want to stand up straighter myself.
"I'm Rick—Richard—Nagano," I said.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Richard. It's nice to see some new blood at these things. I can't tell you how tired I am of seeing all the same faces. That man over there—" she pointed at someone, but I couldn't tell which of several blue-suited men she was referring to, "that's Paul Wilkensen. I've seen him at three events just this week alone." She leaned in. "That's wife number three, and number two is also here, with his former business partner."
A waiter appeared behind us with a big platter of meat; he somehow held it aloft while lifting the old one, which was only half-empty, and then placed the new one down.
"You must go to a lot of events," I said. I was noticing the curve of her cheekbone, the line of her elegant jaw.
She sighed. "Yes, well, my family's been involved with just about every major institution in town. The museum, Los Angeles Music Center, USC, the Huntington, blah blah blah. It's funny. I don't even _like_ art. Or museums, anyway. They seem so oddly stilted." She was quiet for a moment, and when she tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear, I saw the huge diamond ring she wore and the platinum-and-diamond wedding band. Then she turned back to me, head tilted, chin jutting, looking at me cockeyed. "But that's all boring. What about you? What are you doing here tonight?"
"I came as a guest of Mrs. W—'s," I said. I wasn't sure how much to reveal.
"Marion, of course! So you're her latest walker."
"Walker?"
"Escort. Platonic escort. For ladies who need a date. Most of the older widowed ladies have gentlemen walkers their own age. But Marion likes to bring young men—usually ones she knows through her art and fashion worlds, fabulous gay boys who properly worship her. You don't strike me as that type."
"None of the above."
"Well, lucky for us," Fiona said. She gave me a bright, exaggerated smile. Was she flirting? Being sarcastic? The norms here were so different that I couldn't tell.
"I'm actually doing some work for her. Research, you could say."
"Really. Are you involved with a think tank or a policy institute?"
"No, I'm a graduate student."
"A graduate student," she repeated. And now she gave me a look I couldn't quite decipher. "You seem so put-together for a student. What's your field?"
"Twentieth-century California history," I said. I didn't tell her that I looked so _put-together_ because of Mrs. W—. "I'm ABD. No classes anymore, or teaching either. I'm just trying to finish my dissertation."
"And what's your topic?"
"Oh," I said, feeling self-conscious, "it's a bit obscure. You wouldn't find it interesting."
"Yes, I would!" Fiona exclaimed, with such enthusiasm that a man looked over from in front of the salmon plate, spatula of fish in his hand. "I'm a bit of a history nerd myself. Try me."
"Well, okay," I began, feeling the dread I always did when I had to talk about my work with a stranger. "I'm writing about Japanese prefectural associations called _kenjinkai_ and their role in the early Japanese American community here in LA. People would come to the States and feel isolated, and then form these groups with other people from their home prefectures in Japan. Prefectures are kind of like states in America."
"Are you half Japanese?" Fiona asked.
"Yes."
"I thought so! That particular mix always seems to turn out well."
I blushed and stammered a thank you, which made her grin. "I'm writing specifically about the revolving credit mechanism that some of them established. Because banks wouldn't let Japanese immigrants open accounts, these guys would pool their money and advance capital for business and personal needs." I didn't mention that this was how my grandfather got his start.
"That's fascinating," Fiona said. "Really, what an interesting subject."
"Well, not really, but thank you." I felt a bit exposed, though also, in truth, more than a little flattered by her interest.
"But how did you connect with Mrs. W—?"
"I was recommended by the person who was working for her before. And I needed the job." I felt embarrassed to admit my financial straits in these opulent surroundings. But if Fiona registered the huge gulf between this setting and my reality, she didn't show it.
"You work out of her house in Bel Air?"
"Yes, three days a week. I've only just gotten started."
"She's quite a character, isn't she? I've always appreciated her lack of bullshit. It's such a rare quality in my circle."
I didn't know what to say now, so I turned toward the crowd, which was milling about the courtyard, some people looking at the statues, others standing around holding cocktails and admiring the new wing and its lit-glass entrance.
"Funny that Marion should come to _this_ , though" Fiona said. "She despises Waverly Stone."
"Who?"
"The woman who donated the sculptures."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "Who knows? It goes way back; I think their fathers hated each other. Probably their grandfathers too—they battled over oil and land a hundred years ago. There's only so much room for the truly important in LA. It's really more like a small town in that way, with so few established families." She paused. "Not that there's anything to like about Waverly Stone."
"Mrs. W— mentioned something about a new wing being dedicated too."
"That's right. The modern art wing. No one knows who the donor is. That's probably why Marion came tonight—to see Waverly Stone get upstaged."
"Are you keeping some hungry young artist from his dinner?" someone asked in a booming voice. We both turned to face a tall, blond, broad-shouldered man with a thin, drawn-in woman at his side.
"I'm doing nothing of the sort," Fiona said, smiling. "We're talking about history. And art."
"Bryson Rutherford," said the man, thrusting his hand toward me. I took it, and felt the bones in my own hand crush together. "This is my wife Michelle."
"Hello. Richard Nagano," I said, shaking the wife's much gentler hand. I wasn't sure of the proper way to greet these people, and watched with interest as Fiona and Bryson kissed each other cursorily on the cheek, and then as the women touched cheeks and fussed over each other's dresses and hair, like two bright butterflies fluttering together in some strange elaborate dance.
Rutherford looked me up and down, and it was not a friendly assessment. His skin was blotched red with anger or alcohol; his lips were set in a slight grimace; his small eyes had a coldness that his fine blue suit and gold cuff links could not disguise. "So you are an artist, aren't you?" he said. "You look like that type."
I wasn't sure what he meant by this, but it didn't improve my stock in his eyes when I responded, "No, I'm a graduate student."
"A graduate student!" he snorted. "Graduate school is a holding tank for people who can't make it in the real world. Except for business school and law school, of course."
"Bryson, don't be such an ass," Fiona said. "Rick's working on really interesting things. It's been fun to talk to someone who actually has a brain instead of having the same old conversations with _these_ people."
Rutherford narrowed his eyes and glared at her. I remembered the time that Chloe had taken one look at a sportscaster when we were watching a ball game and said, _That is a man who beats women_. She'd been right—he was arrested a few months later for domestic battery. This guy had the same air of incipient violence, the same tension behind the veneer. Beside him, his wife seemed to shrink further. I was scared for Fiona but she just grinned up at him, charming, and his shoulders lowered an inch.
"Very funny, Fiona. You always did have quite a sense of humor."
Just then, Mrs. W— turned from the group she'd been standing with. I saw her looking for me, saw her eyes settle on my face. She gestured for me to come over, and I did, Fiona a step behind.
"I thought I'd lost you, young man," she said pleasantly. Then, in a different tone, "Hello, Fiona."
"Hello, Marion," Fiona replied, bowing a bit; her cocksureness and defiance of just a moment before was gone; there was a hesitance I couldn't decipher. But then again, Mrs. W— seemed to inspire that in people. "You look lovely this evening."
"As do you," said Mrs. W—. "The color suits you. Is your husband with you this evening?"
"No, he's working," said Fiona. "They're trying to close a new deal. You know Aaron. I can't tear him away from his job."
"He's done very well for himself," Mrs. W— remarked. "And so have you."
"Yes, indeed," said Fiona. She blushed.
"Well, Richard and I are going to move along. Please give my regards to your mother."
"I will," said Fiona. And then, waving to me, she disappeared back into the crowd.
The ceremony was dull and went on for too long; three stuffy-looking men in dark suits made speeches, followed by a woman in a remarkable blue hat, a wide, veil-trimmed creation that might have been worn by a film diva in the 1930s. She appeared to have something to do with the committee that Fiona had mentioned, and it was she who presented the award of thanks, a miniature of one of the sculptures, to Waverly Stone, who looked—just as Fiona had advertised—highly unpleasant. She was underdressed for the occasion, wearing slacks and a flowing brown top of the type favored by women who are a bit too heavy, which she was. Yet it was her face that was truly unattractive, not because anything was wrong with the features especially, but because the expression—despite her fleshy cheeks—was somehow pinched, her lips curled slightly, as if she smelled something bad. This impression of distaste was magnified by the way that she stood—her head drawn back and in defensively, looking out with suspicion. She accepted her acknowledgment without a smile, and did not make eye contact with the presenter, or anyone in the crowd for that matter, and when someone tried to bring her to the microphone, she said, "No, absolutely not. I _told_ you I wasn't speaking!" loud enough for her protest to be picked up by the mic.
"That Waverly Stone," said Mrs. W— beside me, rather loudly. "Well, no one ever accused her of being classy."
Then the same fancy-hat lady came back to the mic and talked about the new wing, the architecture, the anonymous donor, and as she spoke the lights of the courtyard went out, leaving only the new building and its grand three-story lobby in lights, like a beacon in the darkness; like a brilliant new planet. The effect was dramatic, and there were gasps.
". . . and the fact that this was made possible by the generosity of an _individual_ ," the lady said, "someone who is driven not by a need for recognition, but by a love of art, and a commitment to social institutions in Los Angeles, well, that is truly remarkable. We cannot know who this donor is, or if he or she is even with us tonight. But whoever it is, please know that the museum, our patrons and members, and indeed the entire city, are forever in your debt."
It was a bit over the top, and I could see why Waverly Stone might be annoyed. Who wouldn't be if they donated something worth untold millions only to be upstaged by some invisible rival? These games were beyond my ability to understand—competitions of an entirely different world.
Mrs. W— was nodding through all of this; she seemed pleased by the proceedings. Though when the ceremony was over and people were invited to tour the new building, she declined.
"I've seen what I came to see," she said. "I can tour the building later, when all these damned people are gone."
* * *
On the ride back to Bel Air, Mrs. W— was quiet at first. She gazed out the window, serene. I didn't know what to say and so chose to say nothing, until she turned and asked, "What did you think?"
"Of the event? It was nice," I said stupidly. "The sculptures were impressive, and the new building was beautiful." I wondered if I'd said the wrong thing by complimenting the sculptures, but she didn't seem to care.
"When they turned the lights out and all you could see was the new building, that was lovely, don't you agree?"
"I do." Then, because I wanted to know, because I couldn't help myself: "Who is that young woman I was talking with? Fiona Morgan?"
"Fiona," Mrs. W— repeated, still looking out the window. "I've known her all her life. Her last name is really Harrington. Morgan's her married name. She married a highly successful commercial real estate developer who's responsible for many of the new buildings in town. I don't think they see each other much. He's always working, and she flits about to lunches and events. She has a child, a nervous young thing. I'm not sure she sees him much, either."
"She mentioned that her family has something to do with the museum?"
"Indeed. Her mother's a board member, and served as president for a while. Fiona comes from very good stock, you know. The Harringtons are amongst the oldest families in the city. They owned the company that supplied steel to build tracks for the railroads, and they used to own much of Pasadena. Her grandfather was one of President Reagan's closest friends."
"Really."
"Yes, they've always been very involved in politics and the arts. Fiona herself was a talented dancer, but she gave that up to go into investment banking. She simply wasn't cut out for finance, though. For the last several years she's been tending to family concerns."
I sensed that by _family concerns_ she didn't mean her husband and home life. "She seems to share your opinion of Waverly Stone," I said.
"She's a sensible girl. Always has been—there was a time . . ." She trailed off for a moment. "There was a time when I would see her quite often."
I was filing all this information away, trying to make sense of it. "It was nice to talk with her. I think she enjoyed the speculation around the anonymous donor."
"I enjoyed it too."
"Do you have any guess as to who it was?"
"I don't _have_ to guess. I know." She turned from the window to face me; the passing streetlights illuminated her eyes. "It was me."
"It was— _what_?" I almost fell forward out of the bench seat and onto the floor of the car. " _You_ gave that money?"
"Why, yes. Several years ago. No one there has any idea. They all think I'm a stingy old bitch."
I let this news sink in. Of course she had given it. That was the reason she'd wanted to attend. "But . . . why would you do that? Why wouldn't you want people to know?"
"I have no use for all this fuss," she said. "People groveling and then wanting more. It's better they think that you won't give them anything." She paused. "Plus it was a hoot to see Waverly so tortured, don't you think? She was beside herself, and didn't know who to be mad at. Ha ha ha ha ha!"
There was genuine pleasure on her face; I wasn't sure whether to admire her act or to find it slightly mad. Now I turned and looked out the window myself, watched the lights on Wilshire, then on Sunset, as we headed back west. We wound up through the dark streets of Bel Air and back to the house; there Dalton helped Mrs. W— out of the car and we both walked her to the door.
"Good night, gentlemen," she said just before she disappeared. Then the door closed in our faces and she was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning I drove to campus to meet with my advisor, Professor Victoria Rose. I was feeling a bit groggy. I hadn't slept well; all night my mind was buzzing with images from the night before. I'd been tempted to postpone the meeting again, but knew it wouldn't be smart. We'd already tried to reschedule a couple of times after I'd canceled for my first day at Mrs. W—'s, and I hadn't tried very hard to find a new date. But she'd pressed it—it had been more than three months by this point; we hadn't met since mid-October—and I knew that when we did talk, the conversation wouldn't be easy. In an effort to account for the months I'd been out of touch, I'd spewed out twenty pages which I'd sent ahead of time, but they were sloppy, not deeply reasoned out, the research jammed in sideways. I knew Professor Rose would not be pleased; I entered her dark, cavernous office and sat in the heavy hard-backed chair—known to students as the Throne of Pain—as if offering myself up for punishment.
The room felt like an intimidation chamber. The floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves were stuffed with perfectly arranged books, and there were sliding wooden ladders on both sides. The massive wooden desk, with its thick claw feet and intricately carved edges, looked like it had been commandeered from some castle. The Throne of Pain itself had been preserved, students whispered, from the home of the first governor of California after statehood. On the two walls without bookcases, there were framed posters of various academic conferences that listed Professor Rose as a keynote speaker, and not a few photos of Professor Rose herself—with past mayors of both political parties, receiving awards; with three different governors and a senator. Everything here seemed designed to emphasize both her prominence and your own insignificance.
I watched Professor Rose furrow her brow as she looked at my pages and wondered how bad it would be. She was better dressed than most professors; in her silk blouse, gray blazer, and bright but tasteful accessories, she looked like she'd just stepped off the set of a morning cable show, which in fact, that day, she had. Her rectangular-framed glasses slid down her nose a fashionable inch; a few loose strands of her auburn hair, which was tied into a ponytail, fell onto her cheeks, where they tangled with the pen she was forever trying not to chew. The tip of it would hover at her lips, and then—maybe when she came across some particularly offensive line—she'd lose the battle and bite down on the end of it, hard.
"This connection, between the rise of German nationalism and the racial covenants in the US? I'm not sure I buy it. The covenants did come into existence after World War I, but I don't know that they had any relation to what was happening in Europe. What are you basing this on?"
I looked at her, trying to keep a straight face, feeling the hard wood on my ass. The truth was, I had based it on nothing. I'd just written it because it sounded like a plausible theory. "The Ottenheim papers," I struggled. "They suggest that such covenants were being formalized in Germany, and it's possible that German immigrants brought the idea to Los Angeles."
She tilted her head just slightly, looking at me down her nose, as if wondering if I was trying to pull one over on her or if I really was that stupid. "Rick," she said, "I _know_ the Ottenheim papers. I don't know how you'd draw that conclusion." She sighed, bit her pen again, and then set it down on her desk rather hard. "Is this all you've produced since the last time we met?"
A chill formed inside me, an ice cube melting at the bottom of my gut. "Well, Professor Rose, I've been toying with a number of theories. I keep taking steps in one direction and then moving into another. I—"
"It worries me, Rick. Your initial idea and even the first couple of chapters of this project were original and strong. But it seems like you've just petered out."
"I . . ." I didn't know what to say. Through the window, I could hear students out on the quad, playing Frisbee and blasting music and just enjoying the kind of late-winter day—seventy degrees in early February—that made the rest of the country hate California.
"It's not uncommon for grad students to hit a bump when they're ABD. The loss of structure with the end of coursework, and even being freed from teaching, gives students more time than some of them can handle."
"It's been a bit of an adjustment, but I don't think it's that."
"I don't think so either, Rick, and that's why I'm worried. You seem truly _stuck_ —like you've lost interest in the project."
"Well, that's not it, exactly."
"And these things can take on their own momentum, you know. Like a death spiral. Once you get sucked downward, it's almost impossible to pull out. I've seen this happen with several of my most promising students."
The ice cube had grown into a full-fledged iceberg, and was now moving up through my gut and chest, chilling me and cutting up my organs.
"The other problem," Professor Rose went on, and now she put the pages down and tapped her fingers on the surface of the desk, "is your Blain fellowship. It's supposed to be for two years, and the second year is contingent upon your performance during the first. But based on your work thus far this academic year, I don't think I can recommend you for a renewal."
Now I sat up straight, alarmed. "Professor Rose, it's not as bad as all that. There's more I can show you—this isn't all that I've done. I've written quite a few more pages." Quickly I calculated how long it would take to draft another chapter. If I really motored, I could hustle something up in a week.
She shook her head and waved her hand as if batting away a fly. "If this is the best of what you've got, then I don't think additional pages will help."
Outside, a delighted shriek from a female student. There was a splashy thud, and then another, the sound of water balloons breaking. Now a male voice shouting, "I'll get you! I'm going to get you back!" And then more laughter, fading as the students moved farther down the quad. Inside me the iceberg was sinking now, and I felt my shoulders sag. What would I do if I lost my funding? Would I lose the stipend from the university too? How would I be able to finish my dissertation? How the hell would I support myself?
Professor Rose closed her eyes and sighed. She reached under her glasses to rub her eyes, and in the moment that her eyes were uncovered, I could see that she was tired. She wasn't trying to be a hard-ass. I'd just royally fucked up. Now she pulled a piece of paper out of another pile and wrote something on it. I tried to read it upside down without being obvious. Did it have to do with the fellowship?
"Rick, what have you been doing for the last few months? For this whole year, really?"
"I don't know, Professor Rose. There's been a lot going on."
"I'm sure there has, but we _all_ have a lot going on. There's just no excuse for this lack of productivity. My assessment to the Blain Foundation is due in two weeks, and I'm sorry, but you've given me no reason to recommend a renewal."
Panic rose up within me now. "But Professor Rose—"
"I'm sorry, Rick. It's nothing personal. It's just that there are so many other students, _productive_ students, who could really use this support."
"Can you give me those couple of weeks?" I asked frantically. "You said it was due in a couple of weeks."
She sighed again. "Yes, but as I just explained, if what you're doing is along the same lines as what I've just seen, it isn't going to make any difference."
Her pronouncement fell between us like a sandbag. I lowered my eyes. Outside, I heard another burst of laughter on the other side of the quad, over closer to the science building. The W— science building. I raised my head.
"Actually, I'm working on something totally different." I hadn't known I would say this until it was out of my mouth.
Professor Rose looked at me with a weary expression. She had heard so many excuses. "What?" She sounded impatient. "What are you talking about?"
"Something new, _completely_ new, and no one's ever done it." I leaned toward her now, grabbing onto a line of hope, pulling myself up, fist after fist. "A different angle on the history of early LA." I peered right into her skeptical eyes. "I recently got access to some very interesting papers. The private papers of Marion W—."
Professor Rose furrowed her brow again, with mild interest now. "Marion W— of the W— family?"
"Yes! You know, the W— wing at the Natural History Museum. The W— Science Hall right here at USC! She's the granddaughter of Langley W—. And she's an important figure in her own right too."
Professor Rose tilted her head and looked at me intently. I wasn't sure she'd ever really looked at me before. "And what are these . . . papers you've found?"
"Her private journals. From when she was a girl, all the way until the present day. She writes about her father and grandfather, and some of their business dealings. She writes about other important LA people too."
"And how did you happen to come across these journals?"
"I . . . know the family," I said, not sure of how much to reveal. Janet would never have mentioned her job with Mrs. W— to her professors at USC, and with her focus on Renaissance France, she had no dealings with Professor Rose or any of the other Americanists. I saw no reason why I should disclose it, either.
"And they've granted you access to them?"
"Yes, I have full access, but they never leave her house. I mean, she isn't sharing them with anyone else."
Professor Rose leaned back in her chair. She took off her reading glasses and set them on the table; I saw in her hazel eyes the stirrings of excitement. "That _is_ interesting," she said. "The W—s have not cooperated with any attempts to document their story. They won't talk to the media, and they've never authorized any biographies. There's very little in terms of primary source material. Everything about them in historical accounts of LA is taken from public record, a few interviews with people who knew them, and a lot of speculation. Even the buildings you mentioned were named decades ago, in Langley's time. Marion W— has been almost totally under the radar."
I nodded, and gulped; it occurred to me that Professor Rose knew much more about the W—s than I did. Of course she did; I should have anticipated that. She had the advantage of three decades of reading and writing about California. But I had Mrs. W—.
"Langley W—," Professor Rose mused, more to herself than to me, "was one of the biggest oil and land barons of the early twentieth century. He helped found some of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Los Angeles. He handpicked several mayors. His oil holdings extended from LA to Kern County to Riverside." She crossed her legs and swiveled a quarter-turn in her chair, brought her hand up to her chin and tapped it with one finger. She was looking past me now, over my shoulder, out the door, out at history.
"It's highly irregular, of course, for a student to change topics altogether at this juncture of his graduate career. But this is an extraordinary circumstance." Now she dropped her hand and brought her leg down and leaned over the desk. "If you could find something, if you reveal new information about the family and their early dealings in the city, now _that_ would be historically significant. It could unlock new truths about the legacy of the W—s, about the origins of Los Angeles!"
I sat back just a little. "I'm not sure, Professor Rose. I'm not sure there will be anything in the papers I have that would refer to early LA. I mean, these are Mrs. W—'s papers. You're talking about her grandfather."
She waved me off. "I know, I know, but maybe there's _something_. And if Marion W— kept all her papers, maybe there are other papers. Maybe her grandfather kept records or letters. Maybe her father did too."
That was possible—but it didn't mean I'd ever have access to them, or that Mrs. W— would ever tell me about them. "Maybe. But right now I only have _her_ papers."
I could see Professor Rose making an effort to contain herself. "Well, it's a place to start. And it sounds like much more than we've ever had access to before."
I noted the _we_ —the entitlement of historians, the co-opting of a student's findings by the professor who oversees him, the assumption that private records are naturally the province of a waiting and interested public.
"Well, I can see," I said. "I can see if there's anything in her writings. And maybe that will lead to something else."
"Maybe it will. Maybe it will." Professor Rose was alert now; her straight posture, her eyes, even the tapping of her pen, all betrayed her excitement, that historian's bloodlust, like a hunting dog that's just picked up a juicy scent. It occurred to me that any new insights into the W—s might benefit her as well. She held a distinguished professorship, but maybe she longed to become a dean, and maybe her student's accomplishment could help.
"Listen," she said, leaning farther over the desk, "if you figure this out, if you find something about the early fortunes of the W— family, this goes beyond just a dissertation. This would be the most exciting new development in the history of Los Angeles that we've had for many years."
"So . . ." I started stupidly, "does that mean you might still be willing to recommend me for the fellowship?"
She looked at me, blinked quickly, then laughed. "The fellowship! Yes, of course, with this lead, if you can pull it off, I'd recommend you for a renewal of your fellowship. But this is much bigger, Rick. That's what I'm trying to tell you. This could be a _book_. And the ticket to a job. Hell, we might even hire you here at USC!"
My heart was pounding and my hands were sweating; I was feeling a bit of whiplash. I'd gone from losing my fellowship to practically being offered a job in the space of ten minutes. "Well, what do you want to see before you write the recommendation?" I asked.
"You've got two weeks," she said. "Bring me something. Bring me something interesting about the W—s. Just a piece of information that hasn't been out there before—an anecdote, a quote, a bit of history—and that'll be enough to give me the confidence that you'll produce something special over the next year."
I gulped and thought for the first time about what I had done. Instead of just typing up Mrs. W—'s journal, I'd be trying to convince her to let me write about her family. For a second I felt a wave of guilt for bringing the W—s up with Professor Rose. But then I thought of the alternative—losing my fellowship, losing everything. Living on Top Ramen and grocery-store bagels, and the shame of admitting failure to my family. Mrs. W— was my only way out.
And besides, maybe I didn't really need to go down this path. I could give Professor Rose an interesting tidbit or two right now, to prove that I had access to the papers. But then, I could just pretend to look into Mrs. W—'s family. Doing that would at least buy me another year of funding, and in that time I could get back to work on my _real_ topic. I wouldn't really be violating a confidence, I told myself. I was just playing the card that I had.
* * *
Over the next few days, I found out everything I could about the W— family. I started on the Internet, where a search returned only about forty references to Mrs. W—'s grandfather, Langley, and fewer about Robert, her father. As Professor Rose had said, very little had been written about the family directly; most of what I found were references in the biographies of other men. I found these books deep in the archives of the USC library, as well as old, yellowed copies of the _Herald-Examiner_ and the _Los Angeles Times_. From these various sources, I learned that the W—s were an old New Hampshire family—mostly farmers, including Langley's father, James, who'd hired himself out to work on other people's property and never owned land himself. Langley had come to California in 1898 to join a distant cousin who had a position on a ranch near Fresno. After two years of chasing ranch jobs up and down the state, he settled in Southern California, where he worked as an oil driller for a couple of established companies, and then managed to buy, in those early preboom days, a small plot of land in Los Angeles. That plot did produce some oil—but it was the duller, brown, unscenic land he purchased in Kern County that led to the explosion of Langley's wealth, for on that Central Valley land, 130 miles north of Los Angeles, a massive new oil field was discovered—oil to fuel the burgeoning industries of automobiles and trains; oil that helped spur the growth of Southern California and the western half of the United States. With investment capital from a pool of donors, Langley bought more oil-rich lands, invented and distributed a new kind of drill bit sharpener, purchased a stake in a company that built a pipeline to the ocean—and quickly became one of the richest men in the state. He bought property in what eventually became Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, Palos Verdes, and Newport, quintupling his investment when those areas were developed. At the age of thirty, he built a huge estate just off of Sunset Boulevard, in what were then the outskirts of the city.
He was also, at least according to these accounts, a decent man—he hired other young men who'd traveled out from his hometown, and was known, even after he'd grown unimaginably rich, to grab a shovel at a work site and join his men. He gave prodigious amounts of money to various causes, particularly orphans and veterans, and eventually became a board member and large donor of the university where I was now languishing. In the two pictures I found of him in the _Los Angeles Times_ , he looked handsome and like a bit of a swashbuckler—hair surprisingly long, sweeping mustache, and a glint in his eye that suggested there was either a bottle of whiskey or a pretty and possibly unclad woman just outside the camera's range. He'd suffered from heart problems, though, and had finally succumbed to a heart attack at sixty-eight, as if so much life, lived so intensely, had overwhelmed his system.
His son Robert had been cut from a different cloth. The heir to a fortune he'd had no part in creating, he made savvy, self-serving decisions—subdividing and selling off parts of the family's coastal properties, and continuing the development of several of the family's Westside holdings. But he'd had a conflict with his father over the oil business—he'd wanted to take it public rather than keeping it in the family—and more personal differences too. Whereas Langley was big-spirited, down to earth, and gregarious, Robert was calculated and reserved. Langley took plenty of risks and failed as often as he succeeded, and the wealth that resulted from his better bets seemed like a bonus, not the point. But for Robert, the inheritor, preserving and expanding wealth was his life's occupation, and there was nothing fun or adventurous about it. Several articles—old, yellowing _Los Angeles Times_ pieces I was thrilled to hold in my hands—described Robert as _merciless_ or _a ruthless businessman_ , _unconcerned with human consequence if a profit was at stake._ In his pictures—and there were more of them than there had been of his father—he was clean-cut and straight-backed, dark hair combed severely off his forehead. He was always posed formally, in a suit and tie, unsmiling. He looked, to tell the truth, like a stick in the mud.
And yet this was the man that Mrs. W— adored, and in whose eyes she'd been the proverbial apple. Their bond must have been even more intense because of the other thing I learned from my research—that Robert's other child, and only son, had died at eighteen.
This was news to me; Mrs. W— hadn't mentioned a sibling. But she'd had a brother, named Langley after his grandfather, three years older than her. Langley had died his freshman year at USC of unexplained causes, leaving fifteen-year-old Marion in effect an only child, living with her parents in their mansion in Bel Air. Her mother, Barbara, was the daughter of another oil family; other than two references to her charity work, there was nothing of her in the books or the papers. I wondered if the closeness with her father Mrs. W— spoke of was largely forged from this time. It occurred to me that I should read the first two hundred pages of Mrs. W—'s memoir, which must have included these sad events.
There was plenty of mention of Mrs. W— herself in public record, where she was identified as her father's only heir when he died, and some news stories connected her to the sale of her family's oil holdings, which had made her a billionaire. But most accounts of her were in the old society pages of the _Los Angeles Times_. The first reference was from 1952, when she was sixteen, announcing her debutante party. The girl in this picture stunningly resembled the woman I'd meet more than fifty years later. The face was a girl's face, fresh and more open—but the haughtiness was the same, as well as a quality in her expression, something sardonic and more than typically self-aware. This expression stayed consistent through her early twenties, as she was escorted to various social events by a succession of wealthy young men, some of whose family names I recognized, before marrying—in 1960—Baron J—, himself the heir of another of California's royal families, the son of an timber magnate, and also a decorated pilot in the Second World War. I recognized Baron's family name—it graced a number of buildings around town. There was a series of photographs of the J—s looking young, handsome, and untouchable, attending various functions. They had three children in eight years—two boys and a girl—and Baron was brought into the W— family business. All seemed to be going well until 1968, when Baron, who was sixteen years older than Mrs. W—, contracted a rare form of brain cancer and was dead within months. And there was Marion, a widow at thirty-two, with three small children to raise by herself.
There was little mention of Mrs. W— in the press for several years, except in the obituaries of her parents, who died just months apart, where she was listed as the sole surviving child. Then there was a rather salacious story from 2002 involving her youngest son, who'd been caught in some kind of after-hours club, much to the clucking of the _Times'_ society editor, in the company of a disreputable woman. When Mrs. W— did appear again, she'd resumed using her family name, which caused a stir in itself, and the tone of the stories was different. They were mostly about her appearances at charity functions, or her fashion sense, or her growing collection of expensive modern art. There was an article about a commercial real estate development in Malibu in which she was a partner, and another about her family foundation. But anything remotely personal or revealing was wiped clean—an erasure or obfuscation that was aided by the demise of the society section.
Staring at my computer late at night, or sitting hunched over a desk at the library, I felt both full and unsatisfied, glad to be sorting through this trove of information, but unsure of what exactly it meant. As with all written history, what intrigued me the most was what was left out of the record. What had it been like for young Marion to grow up with such a humorless father? How had her brother died? Why did she never remarry? And why, after the one article about her youngest son's debacle, was there no mention of her children?
I wanted to talk to someone, but there was no one to approach: no scholar who had insight into the W—'s story, no journalist who'd written an account. Of course, the one person I could have asked was Janet, who'd introduced me in the first place—but given the dangerous territory I was venturing into, I didn't want to involve her.
Janet had been my best friend at USC. We'd met our first semester at a poker game, where I'd been dragged by a classmate from Stanford. He'd just started at the law school, and we went to the apartment of a couple of other first-years—where, he promised, the stakes were high, the liquor flowed, and a cute girl named Sylvia would be mixing cocktails. I wasn't much of a poker player, and was uncomfortable around all those grunting alpha types, but I immediately liked Janet—a college friend of one of the law school guys, and the only woman playing. She dealt and grinned slyly, occasionally raising her beer in my direction like I was in on a secret. In the end, she outplayed the guys, took the cash, and went home with the girl—Sylvia, the architect, with whom she now lived in San Francisco. After that night, I ditched my college friend in favor of Janet. She was the one grad student I could stand to hang out with, my other constant besides Chloe—and now, like Chloe, she too was gone.
* * *
The next Tuesday, at Mrs. W—'s house, I returned to her journals with new purpose. As I slogged my way through the monotonous pages, I started to read about some of the happenings I'd seen in the clippings—the parties that were mentioned in the paper, her early years with her husband. But there was little mention of her grandfather. Even if there had been, I wasn't sure it would be much help. The truth was, her prose was dull. Because this was her life, the only life she knew, she didn't see it as extraordinary; she couldn't place it in any context. She didn't accord it the wonder that other people did. But even if her writing had been the most engaging in the world, it was clear it wouldn't get me what I needed—something that would convince Professor Rose that there was fresh new information about Langley W— and the origins of the city. I needed to find out if her father or grandfather had left papers themselves—and I needed a way to get to them.
The written accounts were no substitute, either, for the woman herself. Each day, after I had finished my work, she'd invite me to join her for iced tea or lemonade—sometimes, when it was warm enough, out on the patio; sometimes in one of the sitting rooms, where she'd show me some new abstract sculpture or painting she'd bought, whose meaning I couldn't surmise. By this point she'd taken me to see more of the house—the various living rooms, each with a chandelier and fireplace; the wood-paneled library; the theater room with a full screen and large stuffed chairs; the laundry room with five industrial-strength washing machines. There were bars built into nooks after every few rooms, in case you needed a drink on your travels. This was a place built for parties, though the guests were all gone—if they'd ever been there at all. Now it was like a museum, a remnant of a different age. I didn't know how Mrs. W— made the decision of where to sit each day—but she did, and I followed her lead. Although she was always dressed in some impeccable outfit—she didn't seem to believe in casual—she'd sit with one of the dogs on her lap and ask how far I'd gotten that day. Then she'd offer commentary more interesting than what I'd just seen on the page.
"That Cecil Biscott," she began, about the man from whom she'd purchased a huge real estate holding in the South Bay, "he was married to the biggest slut in Beverly Hills, and he was so busy trying to keep other men's hands from up her skirt that his business fell apart."
Or, about an overdemanding artist whose show she sponsored at the museum: "He wanted a separate truck to ship each of his individual pieces, including one petrified tree stump he called 'The Root of the World.' I could have pulled a better stump out of my own backyard. Can you believe it? I wasn't going to pay for that turd."
Or, about a gentleman who'd courted her after her husband died: "He wanted me to see him exclusively, but I wasn't going to commit. Remember: multiple choice is always better."
On Thursday, during my last visit for that week, it was just warm enough to sit outside. I finally ventured the nerve to ask, "Mrs. W—, when I'm finished typing your journals, are you going to make them available to the public?"
She looked at me as if I'd suggested cutting the dogs up to eat with our crackers. "Make them available? Why, of course not. We'll have them printed and bound to keep here at the house, in case my children ever care to learn about their mother."
"That's all? They'll just be for the family?"
She placed her teacup down with a violent clank, and I couldn't tell if she was caught off guard or angry. "That is plenty. And it's in keeping with how my family has always done things. My father's letters to my mother are bound and boxed in this house. My grandfather kept only a few of his papers—although some of his friends at the Colonial Club did put together a collection of remembrances. You'll see, as you get further along, that I do write more about his life and accomplishments. But that is all for the benefit of my children and grandchildren. It isn't meant to be part of the public record."
"Well, that's a shame, don't you think?" I glanced at Mrs. W— and then looked out at the canyon, where a red-tailed hawk flew across our line of vision, harassed by a small, persistent bird. "I mean, your family has been integral to the formation of the city. But the Dohenys and Chandlers and Otises have gotten all the credit. It's like you said a couple of weeks ago—more people should know _your_ story."
Mrs. W— shook her head and shifted in her chair, enough that the dog jumped off her lap. "We have never been the sort to self-aggrandize. Even when I sold my grandfather's business, people were surprised by the extent of our holdings. They had no idea we were so immensely rich."
This was true. The news accounts of the sale were breathless; it was one of the largest transactions ever involving a privately held company—an enterprise whose size and scope had previously been obscured.
"Why did you decide to sell?" I asked.
She hesitated; I knew I was taking a risk by pushing her. "The time was right; the demand for oil was so great." Now she emitted a disgusted huff. "Besides, oil is not a business for women."
I let this sit, half-curious and half-amused. Whatever Mrs. W— thought of oil, she certainly hadn't shied away from business.
"But having a written record of your family wouldn't be self-aggrandizing," I argued. "It would be filling in a crucial part of our city's history. If you don't mind my saying so, I think it would be hugely valuable."
Mrs. W— was quiet for so long I wasn't sure she'd heard this last part. But finally she asked, "And why are you so interested, young man?"
I worked to keep my voice steady. "I'm an historian. This is an untold story. And I'd enjoy seeing your family's contributions get the recognition they deserve."
I realized my mistake when Mrs. W— boomed, "Recognition! All the people who matter in this city know who the W—s are!" But the storm passed quickly and she resumed her normal voice. "I don't trust anyone, Richard, to have our best interest at heart. That's why I no longer have events at the house, or even many visitors. People don't come to see me, you know, unless they want something."
I didn't know what to say to this; right then, it hit a bit too close to home. Finally Mrs. W— said, "I'll think about it." Then she sighed and looked as weary as I'd ever seen her. "At least _you_ show some interest. That's more than I can say for my children."
Her children. Through all of our conversations over iced tea and lunch, she rarely mentioned them. Nor did they appear much in her journals. Looking ahead, I'd seen that her writings slowed dramatically after her third child was born and were sparse for the next two decades. Even when she started writing regularly again, there were few passing references to them. _I bought the beach house the year Bart turned twelve_ , she wrote at one point. And: _Jessica married a complete nitwit and gave me idiotic grandchildren._ But she didn't, either in conversation or in the pages of her journal, speak of their personalities or what they were doing; I didn't even know where they lived.
I asked Lourdes about this one rainy afternoon when Mrs. W— was out. I had brought back an empty juice glass into one of the kitchens and found her unloading groceries, still wearing her yellow slicker. Lourdes was cordial but always a bit reserved with me—she'd probably seen her share of overeager young men, walkers spending time with Mrs. W— for their own entertainment, not giving much in return. But I was determined to keep working on her. After we'd exchanged casual references about our plans for the President's Day weekend—she, her husband, and their young daughter were going to Griffith Park after Sunday Mass—I asked, "Do Mrs. W—'s children ever come to visit?"
Lourdes gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. She looked toward the window, where water was running in rivulets down the glass. Lourdes was a consummate household staffer and never aired her own opinions. But maybe the bad weather had gotten to her. "Mrs. Jessica and Mr. Steven, they only contact Mrs. W— when they need money," she said.
I let that sink in for a moment. "Where do they live?"
"Mr. Steven—he's the youngest—lives up in Carmel. Mrs. Jessica and her husband live in Santa Barbara with their children, in Mrs. W—'s other house. Mr. Bart, the oldest, he lives on a ranch outside of Bakersfield. He's different—he comes to visit sometimes."
"Do they call?"
Lourdes allowed herself what sounded like a disapproving grunt. "Well, maybe for Mother's Day. But not Mr. Steven anymore. He and his mother haven't spoken since the accident."
"The accident?"
Now something shut down in Lourdes's face and she turned toward the food she was unpacking. She brushed raindrops off a milk carton, a package of spinach. "I shouldn't have mentioned it," she said. "But it was bad, very bad. Mr. Steven was hurt. Others too."
"What happened?"
She was silent for a moment. Then: "I don't want to say any more. You shouldn't ask Mrs. W— about it. She'll talk about the children if she wants to, I suppose."
I stood staring at her, waiting for her to say something else, but she was finished; she placed the last of the groceries into the refrigerator, took her raincoat off, and left the room without another word. Finally I turned and went back to the office.
What rifts had occurred between Mrs. W— and her children? What was the accident? And why would Mrs. W— not want to speak to her son now? Certainly I could see that Mrs. W— could be difficult, but not visiting at all? That seemed a bit extreme to me.
Yet who was I to judge? It had been months since I'd seen my own parents, and they were just a few miles away, in Westchester. I'd avoided them out of simple embarrassment—there was no progress to report in terms of my schoolwork, and the paralysis was inexplicable. Why see them if all I could tell them was no, the dissertation isn't finished, not even close; no, I'm not teaching or doing anything else that might be filling my time; no, this certainly does not bode well for my future prospects in academia or anywhere else for that matter. Even when my brother called, saying my father needed cheering up because the business was struggling, I'd said no, I was busy, I couldn't. There was absolutely nothing I could do to help anyway, and I didn't need to make that more plain.
Maybe Mrs. W—'s children were similarly embarrassed—I'd seen no reference to any of them accomplishing anything of note. The only things I'd found were the daughter's wedding notice and the article about the youngest son being caught with the questionable woman. It had to be hard to be the offspring of the rich and successful. The second and third generations paling in comparison to the first, whose grit and mettle were diluted through the years. That is something that the children of the wealthy and the children of immigrants actually had in common, I suppose.
I finished up a bit of work—an account of a dinner party with then–Governor Reagan in Santa Ynez—and closed down the laptop for the day. By the time I went out to my car, the rain had stopped. The air still felt unsettled, though, and as I drove off the grounds and wound my way through the hills, huge, dramatic clouds lingered over the city, their bottoms lit pink from the setting sun. Out over the ocean, concentrated rays of light shot through the clouds and hit the water, illuminating bits of blue in the churning black. The sun lit up parts of the city too, highlighting neighborhoods and trees that looked washed clean. Toward Palos Verdes gray streams trailed from the billowing clouds; there, they were still getting rain. I pulled over to the side of the road to gaze out at the show. A stormy sky is so much lovelier than a clear one.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next week, I accompanied Mrs. W— to a lunch at the Polo Lounge. I'd never been inside the Beverly Hills Hotel, had only driven by on Sunset, but I'd always been amused by its pink-layered extravagance, which made me think of a birthday cake. Dalton pulled the car into the driveway and up to the front entrance, where a dozen blond bellhops in pink polo shirts and white pants all jumped to action like a flock of busy birds. One of them held the door open for Mrs. W— and guided her to the walkway, where she exchanged his elbow for mine and the two of us went into the lobby. It was marvelously overdone—green and pink everywhere, with stuffed chairs and love seats circling a planter that sprouted birds of paradise. Men strolled by in white hats and floral-print shirts. We passed a woman with teased-out curls and huge dark glasses, wearing a cream-colored coat with a fur collar. She was carrying a tiny dog of the same hue; I looked twice to make sure the dog wasn't part of the collar. I had on the second of the outfits from my shopping excursion—the trousers, jacket, and tie—and Mrs. W— was dressed in a cashmere turtleneck sweater and pants of gray material so fine it looked like it had been woven from clouds.
We made our way across the lobby, around the corner, and into the dark-green space of the Polo Lounge, passing a black-and-white photo of the hotel from 1912, when it was the only structure in the area. There was garden seating, but Mrs. W— preferred to stay out of the sun, and so we took a booth in the corner that gave us a view of the rest of the room. Across from us, in the opposite corner, was the wood-paneled bar, where even now, at eleven thirty a.m., men in jackets and ties drank martinis and sidecars. We were meeting the head fundraiser for a children's hospital, a place where Mrs. W—'s father had contributed significantly. She herself, she said, had made the mistake of giving a gift a decade before. We sat there for ten minutes, and then fifteen, and I took the time to look around, noticing the tall mirrors spaced every few feet apart—built, I suppose, so the famous clientele could surreptitiously examine themselves without having to leave their seats. With the velvet-backed booths, the decor, the piano, I felt like I'd wandered into a scene from 1952. All that was missing were the cigars. Finally, a nervous-looking, paunchy, middle-aged man with an alarming shock of dark hair approached the table, hand extended.
"Mrs. W—!" he said too enthusiastically.
She took his hand, not standing, and shrank back from his aborted attempt to kiss her cheek. "You're late," she said.
He looked so comically hangdog that I feared he might cry. "I'm, I'm sorry, Mrs. W—. I apologize. Traffic on Sunset was awful."
"It's always awful. You should have allowed for it. We did, didn't we, Richard?" I was caught off guard and didn't reply, but she kept talking: "Please seat yourself, Mr. Hathaway."
After an awkward bit of shuffling, he slid in next to Mrs. W— in the semicircular booth. "I'm Tim Hathaway." He reached out to shake my hand.
"This is Richard," said Mrs. W— before I could speak. "He's here to make sure you don't try to pull anything funny on me."
He looked confused for a moment, and then laughed. "Ah, yes! I'd forgotten about your wonderful sense of humor!"
Hathaway took a deep breath, visibly trying to settle himself down. He was dressed in a blue suit that was slightly too large, and I wondered if my own clothes looked incongruous on me; if my common background was evident despite the new expensive threads. When Hathaway talked, which he did nervously, earnestly, he'd pause dramatically for effect; twice, Mrs. W— turned and gave me an obvious look.
A black-suited waiter came over to take our order, and Hathaway resumed talking. He was filling her in on the happenings at the hospital—the new wing they'd completed, some research that was being done in conjunction with USC. He mentioned that the president, Dr. Cheryl Clarkson, had been at a press conference with the county supervisor that day. Mrs. W— interrupted.
"Is that why Dr. Clarkson isn't here?"
Hathaway was out of sync now; it was like a needle had been picked up from a record player and he didn't know where to put it down again. "She . . . excuse me. She had to meet with the county supervisors."
"Usually, when an organization wants something from me, the director comes to meet with me personally," said Mrs. W—. "She must not really want my support if she sent the second string."
A bit of color came up in Hathaway's cheeks and he seemed to shrink three inches. "It's no measure of how much the hospital values your support," he explained, "that you're seeing me today and not Dr. Clarkson. If we were making a solicitation, then of course she'd be the one here to meet with you." He paused, recovering. "But we're not asking you for anything today, Mrs. W—. This is strictly an _informative_ lunch. To let you know, as we let _all_ of our major donors know, about the latest happenings at the hospital."
"Well, if that's the case," she said, "you could have just sent me a newsletter."
Just then our lunches arrived—three McCarthy salads, served in amphitheater-shaped bowls. We turned our attention to the food—the bacon, chicken, cheese, and beets tossed with greens right there at the table. Mrs. W— must have gotten her point across, or perhaps she was just bored; whatever the reason, she let Hathaway chatter on about all the wonderful things at the hospital. I watched him—talking, gesturing, flashing an odd smile midsentence before his thought was complete; doing everything, in fact, besides performing backflips—and knew that there must have been dozens of him, hundreds, people and organizations who wanted something from Mrs. W—; who did everything they could to make her notice. For a moment I actually felt bad for Mrs. W—. How could you trust what anyone said when they were all trying to get you to give money? No wonder she didn't tell people when she did something good.
I ate about half the salad, barely tracking the conversation, sneaking glances at the other tables. The woman with the cream-colored coat and elaborate hair sat in one corner; I suddenly realized she was a vaguely familiar starlet. She still held her dog, which was more discernable now that she'd taken off her coat, and fed it little scraps from the table. The starlet was as thin and lanky as a baby giraffe; her dark glasses, with their coaster-like lenses, had the effect of drawing the attention she was pretending to avoid. Everyone worked studiously not to notice her; I think the only one who really didn't was Mrs. W—.
After our plates were collected and coffee was on its way, I excused myself to go to the restroom. The hallway was lined with photographs, old black-and-white pictures of young couples at the hotel pool, men in their tennis whites, all taken in the twenties and thirties. There were the predictable photos of Clark Gable, Bette Davis, Lana Turner, and others. I pushed my way into the men's room and found the nicest facilities I'd ever seen, wooden doors on the stalls all the way up to the ceiling, framed paintings illuminated with display lights above the urinals, and marble counters with cloth hand towels embroidered with _BHH_. There was also hair gel, razors, little bars of deodorant, even tiny samples of cologne. I pressed the dispenser on a ceramic bottle that I thought held soap, but it appeared to be mouthwash instead. After rinsing off the minty substance and finding the real soap—a small fresh bar for every person—I used one of the towels and deposited it in a wicker basket next to the counter. For a moment I thought about taking one to keep as a souvenir, but I suppressed the urge and went back out into the hallway.
As I made my way through the lobby and toward the Polo Lounge, a voice called, "Richard? Richard Nagano?"
I turned and saw Fiona Morgan, flanked by two other women. My heart jumped at the sight of her. I'd been thinking about her ever since the night at the museum, and it took me a moment to realize that she was really here—that I hadn't imagined her. She wore a blue sheath dress that clung to her figure, and carried a silvery purse that sparkled with jewels. The women on either side of her were dull in the face of her radiance. I took a step in their direction, and Fiona came toward me, gliding, as if her feet did not tread on the ground. Her carriage was perfect, and I remembered what Mrs. W— had said, that Fiona had been a dancer. Everything else in the room seemed muted, leaden, mere backdrop to her elegance.
"Hello," I said. I tried to control my face but felt it break into a grin.
"Hello! I was wondering when I'd see you again!" She leaned close and I wasn't sure of the proper protocol. A hug? A kiss on the cheek? She placed a hand on my shoulder and, holding her body away, turned her face toward my cheek for a sideways kiss. I don't think her lips actually touched my skin; it was more like a mutual cheek rub.
"Are you here with Mrs. W—?" she asked.
"Yes, she has a lunch meeting with some fundraiser from the children's hospital."
"Is it a middle-aged guy with too much hair? Tim Hathaway?"
"Yes."
"Oh, poor man. We deal with him too, for my family foundation. He means well but he's no match for her. I'm sure she makes his testicles shrivel."
"Yes, I think I actually heard them," I said. A passing hotel staffer gave us a disapproving look, which Fiona ignored.
"Did you drive with her? Because if not, I'd ask you to join us for lunch. Or at least a drink. I'm with a couple of girls who are planning a fundraiser for a children's charity. Foster care," she whispered, as if it were a dirty term. She turned toward her friends and they waved at us, offering pinched, uncomfortable smiles. Now she leaned in close. "They're a bore, to tell you the truth, but I've got to do it, you know? They'd be totally lost without me."
"I'm sure you must be very helpful."
"Well, helpful or bossy. But in this case bossy may be helpful. These particular girls can't cross the street without asking their husbands."
In the daylight, she looked different, her skin paler, light freckles visible on her arms and shoulders. Her eyes were pale blue, I saw, and her hair a more complex blond, shot through with a bit of honey that might have been caused by the sun. Her features looked thin and almost severe, except for the full red lips; her bare shoulders were bony and I wanted to cover them, cup my hands over her skin. I still couldn't tell if she was pretty or just put together nicely. But I could not get enough of looking at her.
"It's nice running into you," I said, "but I need to get back to Mrs. W—. No telling what Hathaway has done to her while I've been gone."
"Or what she's done to _him_ ," Fiona said. Then: "You always get pulled away just as we're starting to talk. How will I ever get to know you?"
I shrugged. "I'm a busy man."
"I know. You're working for Marion, plus you have your dissertation. I've been thinking about that ever since we met."
"Really?"
"Really. I told you, I think it's fascinating. What I didn't have a chance to mention, before we were interrupted by that awful Bryson Rutherford, is that my family foundation has been leading an effort to support alternative-financing mechanisms for minority-owned businesses. We're especially interested in the areas of East LA and South LA. We've looked at creating incentives for more favorable bank loans, but banks aren't biting, so we're trying to figure out what else might work. Your example of the Japanese prefectural association was really intriguing, and I'd love to hear more about it." Now she rested her hand on my arm, just above the wrist; her movements were controlled and graceful. "Would you like to have lunch with me sometime?"
Her touch sent a jolt through my body and paralyzed my tongue. "I'd love to," I said finally, trying to sound casual. "When?"
"How about a week from next Monday? At the Colonial Club? Twelve thirty?"
"Sounds good." I had no idea what the Colonial Club was, though I remembered Mrs. W— had mentioned it.
"Perfect! I look forward to it! It'll be great to spend some time together, just the two of us." She squeezed my arm and leaned in close again. "I want to know everything about you."
* * *
After Mrs. W— had sent Hathaway off with his tail between his legs, Dalton drove us back to the house. I hadn't done any work on the manuscript that day, so I went into the study while she retired for her afternoon rest. I noticed a book on the desktop that hadn't been there before, bound in fine brown leather. _Memories of Langley W—_ was embossed on the spine and front cover. Pulse quickening, I opened the cover. The same words were repeated on the title page, followed by, _Recollections of his friends_. The book was published by the Colonial Club—where I was set to meet Fiona—in 1948. On the bottom, written in ink: _Copy 1 of 20._
I closed the book and placed it back on the desk. My heart was beating madly. Mrs. W— must have left it here for me to read. She was trusting me with the only known personal accounts of her grandfather. What would I find here? Would some key to the family's wealth, to the history of the city, be hidden within? And most pressingly and selfishly, was there anything here that I could use to show Professor Rose that I had access to the W—'s papers?
A quick perusal convinced me that this volume—despite its obvious intrigue—would not work for my immediate purposes. My head spun at the identities of the contributors—two other city fathers who'd made their fortunes in oil, the then-president of USC, the head of the US Geological Survey, three mayors of Los Angeles, and several men whose names I didn't recognize, who appeared to be fellow club members.
I started to read a few of the contributions, but they were mostly second- or thirdhand accounts, and it was hard to believe the stories were true. There was a tale, related by the head of the USGS, of Langley camping out in the field during a survey in Colorado and encountering a bison. _Langley faced down the big beast, staring him right in the eye from no more than twenty paces: and lo and behold, the animal grunted, turned, and wandered away. He knew he was no match for old Langley!_ There were accounts of his fishing expeditions at Yosemite and Shasta, with descriptions of hard-fighting rainbow trout that made them sound roughly the size of dolphins. There was a story of Langley single-handedly dragging a two hundred–pound drill bit from a truck to a drill site—and then dragging the old, broken, three hundred–pound drill bit out. There were descriptions of his generosity—from the founding of a school for orphaned boys, to his work with the Red Cross for soldiers returning from the World Wars, to his buying cords of wood for every family in his New Hampshire hometown during a particularly cold winter, to his assistance to an old friend from the early oil days, a man who'd helped him engineer a pipeline, who was destitute and blind in his later years. _It occurred to me that I didn't sufficiently compensate you for your work at the time,_ he was quoted as saying. _And so I have decided now to provide you with back pay._ There were several accounts of his funeral, which was held at the First Congregational Church. Amongst the tributes and decorations had been a ten-foot replica of an oil derrick made entirely of flowers. So many mourners turned out for the service that the church had to close its gates.
These all seemed like affectionate but overblown portrayals, fellow men of influence who nostalgically inflated the memory of one of their own. There was nothing here I could easily lift, no convincing event; it would be far too risky to commandeer the whole book, and I was afraid even to take a picture with my phone in that too-dark room, as if the book's fine paper—and even its leather cover—would disintegrate if exposed to a flash. So I placed it on the top left corner of the desk and tried to think of something else.
I pulled the most recent volume I'd been working from off the bookcase, but glancing through it, I knew it wouldn't give me what I needed. It was nearing desperation time—I was due to meet Professor Rose on Tuesday, and this was Thursday. What could I possibly find? Then something occurred to me. The volumes I'd been working on chronicled Mrs. W—'s early adulthood; she was already nearly twenty when they started. But Janet had typed up the pages from the earlier volumes, the ones I hadn't looked at. When Mrs. W— was younger, when she was a girl, her grandfather still alive.
I picked up one of the two earlier volumes that lay on a lower shelf. The notebook was leather-bound like the rest, but smaller, to fit a child's hand. I carefully opened the front cover and found the words _Marion W—: Her Life and Times_ written in ornate childish cursive on the front page. On the next page, her account began: _I was born in Los Angeles in 1936, into the happy home of Robert and Helen W—. Robert is the only son of Langley Stuart W—, one of the most important men in California._
My heart jumped. Even though this was nothing earth-shattering, just the mention of Langley made me hopeful that I'd find something good. Yet the first few pages were again disappointing. There was a lengthy description of their house in Hancock Park and of the meals prepared by their cook. She referred to her parents as _Father_ and _Mother_. It appeared that Father was often away, and even when he was home, he was usually offstage. Father was in his study while her big brother Langley opened presents on his tenth birthday. Father took a telephone call while the family sat at dinner. If he was there, it was as a looming or slightly threatening presence: _Father was cross at Mother for taking us to the beach without his permission. He did not want us playing in the sand like common urchins._
About thirty pages in, the story took a turn, when young Marion, her big brother, and her parents moved in with her grandparents while the new estate in Bel Air was being built for her family. They were staying at the family home off Sunset, the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion on four secluded acres that I'd read about in my earlier research. This sounded like a happier time. The narrative described Easter egg hunts and games of hide-and-seek as well as a two-room treehouse. There were three dogs—two Brittany spaniels and a German shorthaired pointer—four cats, a pair of peacocks. There was a stocked fishing pond where Marion would sit for hours, listening to the songs of birds. And central to all of these stories was the figure of Grandpa Langley, the self-proclaimed Captain of Mischief. He took Marion fishing, he taught her how to climb a tree, he would jump out from behind corners during hide-and-seek and hold Marion tight and tickle her. He'd appear in the bedroom where she and little Langley had been confined for misbehaving, and smuggle in bowls of ice cream. In all of these accounts, her grandparents, and especially Langley, were described as boisterous and happy. Her father was a void of silence.
Things changed when Marion's grandfather departed sometime in late summer, for an extended trip to Mexico for business. Since her parents' new house was still under construction, they stayed on at her grandparents' home. Without Langley in the narrative, the pages grew dull again. There were accounts of a visit to a new school for her brother, of a long and silent family dinner. I leaned back in my chair and tilted the book up so I could read it from this inclined position.
Then I turned another page and something slid out and hit the desk. It was a postcard. From the blank space on the page and the dark marks on the corners, it was clear that it had been glued to the paper. But time had loosened the adhesive and released the card, which I picked up cautiously and read.
_Baby girl bear_ , it started. And as I read on, the card seemed to come alive in my hand:
_I'm so sorry to miss Thanksgiving with you. Business isn't half as fun as fishing with you and Langley, but I do it for you, do you know that? I hope you eat double your usual amount of turkey, cranberries, and stuffing. Grandma loves to see you both eat. Where I am, the little boys and girls are so skinny and sad. Not rosy and round-cheeked like my babies. I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving Day. And if Papa Bear is grumpy again, tell him to go sleep in his den. I'll be home in two more weeks, by Christmas for sure, and then we will play and play._
_With love and a big warm furry embrace,_
_Grandpa Grizzly (aka Langley the Furriest Bear)_
I turned the card over and looked at the front: a faded color drawing of the Zócalo in Mexico City. Then I turned it back over to the written side. It had been addressed to _Ms. Marion J. W—_ , at the address I recognized from my reading. The date was November 2, 1946. Mrs. W— had been ten years old.
I slowly lowered the postcard back onto the book and pressed my hands to my head. My heart was pounding wildly; I couldn't believe my luck. This was a postcard in Langley W—'s hand. Dated, stamped, and sent to Marion W—, and at his own address. And it was loose, separated from the notebook. I leaned to my right, pulled my own hardbound notebook out of my shoulder bag, and placed it on the desk. I looked out the window again, swung around in my chair to make sure the door was closed. Then I picked the postcard up and slipped it into my notebook.
* * *
Three days later, in Professor Rose's office, I sat on the Throne of Pain and cut right to the chase. I placed the hardbound notebook on her desk, opened it, and pulled out the postcard, which I had since put into a protective plastic sleeve. Then I turned the postcard around so that the writing was facing Professor Rose and slowly pushed it across the desk.
Professor Rose leaned over and looked at it—silent, curious, intent. Her red hair, which wasn't tied back today, hung loose on either side of her face. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed again; her lips opened slightly. Then she carefully picked the card up within its plastic sleeve and turned it over to peer at the front. Finally she placed it back down and looked up at me. Her eyes were animated, though I couldn't read her expression.
"This is . . ." she began. "This is extraordinary."
I almost collapsed with relief. For the last three days I had hardly slept, afraid that a fire or earthquake or theft would divest me of my quarry. Afraid that Mrs. W— would realize the card was missing, or that Professor Rose would not believe it was real. "It is something, isn't it?" I said.
"Up to now, I figured that nothing written by Langley W— survived. It was thought that his widow burned his papers."
"Not all of them."
"Well, maybe not _any_ of them. Who knows? The family's always been so private, it would be just like them to say that things are gone when they aren't." She smiled now, and her cheeks were flushed. I had never seen her quite this worked up. Maybe it was the nerdy glee that all historians feel over previously undiscovered material. Or maybe she was thinking of her own ambitions.
"There's more where that came from," I said.
She pushed the card back toward me, as if afraid to be responsible for it—or as if she didn't trust herself not to take it. "What's your theory about him?" she asked.
I was caught off guard. "What?"
"What's your theory about Langley W—? What will your thesis be? I'm wondering what the key to his success was—how he found the oil. Did he bribe the government? Turn a geologist to his side? Take advantage of Native lands?" She leaned forward so far I thought she might grab me by the collar. "And where are the bodies buried?"
"I—" I wasn't sure how to address this. "I'm not quite at that point yet, to tell you the truth. I've just now gotten access to these other materials. I'm sorry, Professor Rose, it's just early. For today, I was only trying to establish that I do have access to primary sources."
She leaned back and put her hands up. "Of course, of course. I don't want you to rush to conclusions when you haven't had a chance to review the materials. Urgency is no excuse for sloppy scholarship. But yes, this is more than enough to prove to me that you have access. Thank you, Rick. I'm very excited about your project!"
"Me too," I said, trying to sound more enthused than I felt. My immediate concern was different. "So, would this be enough to make you feel comfortable writing the letter for the fellowship renewal?"
Professor Rose looked at me as if she'd forgotten all about the fellowship and its relevance to my immediate life. "Of course, of course, I'm sorry. I'll definitely write the letter. I do want you to continue being supported. This possibility, this project . . . it could really be something remarkable."
After agreeing on next steps—I'd have to write a summary of the materials I found within a month, and formulate a thesis by May—I slid the postcard back into my notebook, put the notebook in my bag, and got out of there. I was giddy as I drove back home. I'd have funding for another year; I wouldn't be out on the street. And Professor Rose was on my side again. This was all cause for celebration—as long as I didn't think too hard about what I'd just done—and so as soon as I got home, I decided to go get a drink. It was just after five, when people were leaving their offices and school, released into the rest of their lives. But whom could I call? Janet, the most logical choice, was gone; she'd texted several pictures of herself, looking happy, in front of San Francisco landmarks. There were a couple of other students from my dissertation support group, but they weren't really friends—and besides, I couldn't tell any of them what had saved my ass with Professor Rose. I could go next door and grab a beer with Kevin, but he wouldn't understand the reason for my joy; he was a practical, in-the-world guy, a cowboy paramedic with a physician's-assistant girlfriend, and the study of history was esoteric and irrelevant to him, removed from the everyday work of helping other people, not to mention the task of making a living.
With a pang I thought of Chloe, the evenings we'd spend having drinks and nachos during happy hour at the closest Mexican restaurant. She would have been happy for me, or at least relieved. Suddenly I missed her with an intensity that cut through the general malaise and loneliness I'd felt since her departure. What an ass I'd been. When we first started dating, I'd condescendingly treated her studies at a teacher credentialing program as somehow less important than mine. She was preparing to be a third-grade teacher; I was engaged in serious scholarship. But somehow she'd gone from that program to actually teaching third grade, to continuing on to an administrative credential, to now serving as a vice principal for an elementary school in Crenshaw. The next principal position that opened up would probably be hers. And here I was, still in graduate school, still playing around with history. No wonder she'd lost patience with me.
I didn't really feel like staying home. So I put on another outfit Mrs. W— had bought me—a Tom Ford jacket-and-pants combo from my second appointment with Rafael—and went back out to my car. There was a place on Beverly that I'd driven past a couple of weeks earlier—one of those high-end gastropubs that had sprung up all over the city. I didn't go to these kinds of spots very often—the twelve-dollar burgers and eight-dollar beers had put me off—but now, with a wallet full of cash and fancy new threads, it seemed as good a time as any to do so.
I parked in a spot around the block, forgoing valet, since the Honda would negate the effect of the clothes. Through the windows, the place looked lively, crowded, bright, and for a second I felt a surge of doubt. But I pushed my way in, and was hit by a wall of sound. Everyone was talking, laughing, all in loud voices. Something metallic and alternative was playing over the sound system, and the flat-screens over the bar had the Lakers game on. "Welcome to Beer Lab!" chimed the two identical-looking blondes behind the front desk. Then they seemed to say in unison: "Would you like to sit at one of the group tables, or wait for a more intimate one?"
There were large, rectangular communal tables that held ten or twelve people, surrounded by smaller two- and four-person tables. All were filled with loud-talking people in their twenties and thirties, with plates full of huge burgers and fries, and pints of blond or amber or earth-colored beer.
"Can I just sit at the bar?" I asked.
"Sure!" the blondes said, and then one of them led me to the only empty seat. The barkeep was a nondescript middle-aged, block-headed guy with a beard maybe a centimeter long; I thought I recognized him from a recent commercial for something embarrassing, laxatives or erectile dysfunction.
He handed me a single-sheet menu printed on light cardboard and said, "Let me know when you're ready."
I looked at the selection of beers—all Beer Lab varieties—and the food items, the salads and nachos and fried calamari. The house burger here was fourteen dollars. Still, I was hungry, so I ordered a burger and an IPA.
I glanced around, trying to be subtle. To the right of me was a couple in their thirties, talking about the commercial real estate market. To the left were three young women who seemed to work together at a talent agency; they complained about a bad-tempered boss and a particularly difficult client. The brunette of this threesome made eye contact with me and I smiled. Looking at them, in their blouses and simple skirts, I felt a bit overdressed. Most of the guys were in button-down shirts, with just a few wearing jackets. But better overdressed than underdressed, I thought, as I took a swig from the beer the barkeep had placed before me. And I was proven right when the brunette from the talent agency said, "Is anyone joining you? Or are you here by yourself?"
I turned toward her, trying to give her a knowing, sophisticated smile. "I'm all on my own," I said.
"Well, _that's_ a shame," the girl replied. "Or maybe not. Not for me, anyway."
She wasn't unattractive, not at all, and now she slipped past her friend, who moved over a seat, and placed herself right next to me. When she stood, I saw that she had a nice figure, more curvy than the usual self-starving Westside girl.
"Well, what brings you here all by yourself?" she asked, looking directly in my eyes, making her intentions clear. For a moment the image of Fiona Morgan flashed before me, her elegance and height, the skin of her shoulder. But I shook it off—tonight I was in this bar, with this woman, whose bare knee now pressed against my thigh.
"I just finished a business meeting and needed a drink," I said. "I'm a lawyer in Century City."
CHAPTER FIVE
The next Monday, I met Fiona Morgan for lunch at the Colonial Club. I'd learned, from the Internet, that it was one of the original private clubs in Los Angeles, a bastion of the city's elite. Langley W— was a member in the early 1900s, and it had been exclusively male for more than a hundred years. It had only admitted women for the last two decades, and Mrs. W—, not surprisingly, had been one of the first. Rumor was it still wasn't welcoming to Jews or people of color—there were references to lawsuits and protests, as well as conflicts with the state, which at one point had prohibited public officials from holding business meetings there. Reading all of this, I wondered how I would be received.
I arrived at the Colonial Club just after noon. I'd been so worried about finding it that I'd allowed too much time, and now, to save the embarrassment of being there so early, I circled the block a couple of times and then returned and pulled into the driveway at twelve twenty. Although I went downtown frequently to do research at the public library, or eat in Little Tokyo, or see exhibits at the art museums, I had never noticed the Colonial Club. Now I wondered how I'd overlooked it. It was an anomaly of ivy-covered brick walls and stone windows and doorways, like what I imagined East Coast establishments to be, as if a building had been plucked from nineteenth-century Boston and placed, incongruously, on the streets of modern LA. When I pulled into the garage—which was off the street and around a corner, to shield the members' comings and goings—I surrendered my car with a pang of self-consciousness and told the attendant I was the guest of Ms. Morgan.
"Who?"
"Fiona Morgan," I said, fearing I was in the wrong place.
"Oh, Mrs. Aaron Morgan," he said, and then ushered me into the front entrance, where an older black gentleman in a full crimson suit and white gloves gave me a once-over and said, with a slightly disapproving air, "Mrs. Morgan is waiting for you in the fifth-floor dining room."
The decor of the front entrance was expensive and old-fashioned—heavy furniture, floral rugs, and paintings of pastoral scenes. The elderly gentleman guided me to a small elevator and deposited me inside, repeating, "Fifth-floor dining room," as the heavy doors drew shut. My heart was beating nearly out of my chest—not only because I was about to see Fiona, but because I felt like an interloper who'd wandered onto royal grounds, who might be discovered and escorted out at any time. When the door opened, I walked out into more plushness. In front of me was a giant oil painting of a mountain region, maybe somewhere in the Sierra. On the table beneath it was an iron statue of a cowboy on a horse, corralling a bull. To the left there was a sitting area, where several men in their sixties wearing jackets and ties were gathered around low wood tables. To the right was the dining room—a huge, high-ceilinged, wood-paneled space with square tables arranged diagonally all the way to the end. There must have been fifty or sixty of them, as well as more tables tucked in nooks along the windows. They were covered with plain white tablecloths and utensils I didn't need to be told were real silver. About half of the tables were occupied, all by people older than my parents. I was the youngest person in sight, and the only one who wasn't white—except for the servers, who were all black and Latino, and who moved gracefully among the tables holding platters. Again, I felt like I had walked into a scene from another era—an excursion not just through class, but through time. An older gentleman—the maître d'?—approached and asked if I was there for Mrs. Morgan. When I said I was—how did he know, did I look that out of place?—he led me to her table, about two-thirds of the way back on the right side. Along the walls were more paintings of mountains. I recognized, at one table, an LA city councilman, and at another, a prominent philanthropist whose picture appeared regularly in the paper.
"Richard! Hello, darling!" Fiona called out as we approached. She stood for a cheek-kiss greeting, which I proffered more smoothly this time, and I took in the form-fitting light-blue suit she wore, the softness of the fabric. I felt self-conscious in my own clothes—the same jacket I'd worn to the Polo Lounge, but a cheap pair of slacks, and a tie I'd bought that morning at Nordstrom. Most of the clothes that Mrs. W— had bought me were at the dry cleaners, but I'd needed to fancy up to meet the dress code.
"You look lovely," I said, and then regretted it. Was this out of line?
"Oh, please," Fiona responded, "I look like hell. I just dug this suit out of my closet because I couldn't fit into anything else. I've gained a few pounds with all of these luncheons."
"That's hard to believe," I said as I took my seat. "You seem very fit."
"Well, thank you. It's not easy being a woman, you know. We have to work so much harder for our beauty."
We were seated, not across from each other, but on either side of a corner, so that as I moved my right arm and she moved her left—I hadn't realized she was left-handed—our hands touched. I felt a jolt run through me; there was more heat in this one chaste touch than in all the sweaty acrobatics with the girl from the talent agency. I was sitting alone with Fiona Morgan, in a place that felt as unreal and inaccessible to me as King Arthur's court, and I had not the first clue of how to conduct myself. But this void was filled by Fiona, who immediately started talking about a benefit she'd been to the night before, her friends' struggles to choose the right schools for their children, the meeting she had scheduled for later that afternoon with the director of the Music Center. I only caught about half of what she was saying, partly because I knew so little about the topics she addressed, partly because I was mesmerized by her presence. Her blond hair was again pulled away from her face and gathered into a perfect bun; everything about her appearance was glamorous, untouchable. When she smiled—which she did often—she revealed perfect white teeth; when she threw her head back in laughter, I admired the lines of her neck.
A waiter appeared with a bottle of white wine; he was wearing a dark jacket with a white pin affixed to it. He looked about the age of my father, and he smiled at Fiona and gave a respectful nod.
"Hello, Ricardo!" she enthused in return. "Meet another Ricardo—my friend Richard Nagano."
"Hello," I said, thrilled to be called her friend. Was I supposed to shake his hand?
But he kept his distance and nodded politely and said, "Welcome to the Colonial Club."
"Get whatever you want, Richard," Fiona said. "Everything's delicious."
I hadn't really had a chance to look at the menu, and now I was filled with anxiety. Everything sounded extravagant. Chilled poached salmon on a bed of organic greens. Filet mignon with a red wine pepper sauce and mushroom risotto. And no prices were listed anywhere. Fiona may have sensed my hesitation, because now she said, "Go ahead. You're my guest."
I tried to protest but she'd have none of it, and so I ordered pasta primavera—it seemed the least expensive—while she asked for the salad with salmon. After the waiter filled both our glasses generously with sauvignon blanc, she said, "Tell me, Ricardo, what does your pin mean?"
The man looked uncomfortable, shifted under the platter he held. "We're trying to unionize, miss," he said quietly.
Fiona had been leaning in, and now she frowned. I wondered whether she'd come out with flat disapproval or a polite word of noncommitment. Instead, she straightened up and said, "Good for you! It's about time these bastards paid you properly." When he shuffled off looking relieved, she added, to me, "I hope they ream this place."
I laughed, surprised, not sure how to react.
"You think I'm kidding? These guys need to be paid a living wage. Running around after all of us and keeping all our secrets."
"Well, I agree. I'm just surprised. Your sentiment is so—"
"Liberal? I know. My family can't stand it. As you can imagine, I come from a long line of Republicans."
"So how did you end up . . ." I wasn't sure how to complete the thought, "feeling differently?" I somehow overlooked the fact that she herself was one of those bastards; she and her family were longtime members.
"I just opened my eyes and started noticing things," she explained. "But my parents, they thought they'd done something wrong in raising me when I started paying attention to issues of inequality. They went through deep grief when I told them I was voting for a Democrat. I think they would have had an easier time if I'd told them I was a lesbian."
"Were you?"
"No. Well, briefly. In college." She grinned and took a sip of her wine and I laughed with her, not sure what to say. Then she leaned closer and looked into my eyes. "I've been doing all the talking. Now it's your turn. So tell me, what's your story?"
"Oh, I don't really have much of a story."
"We all have a story, whether we share it or not. Where did you grow up? Where's your family?"
I felt a twinge of self-consciousness, followed by guilt. "I grew up in Westchester. My dad's an electrician, just like my grandfather. My dad's office is on Jefferson, near Crenshaw. My mother works in a pharmacy."
"Really!" said Fiona, with an enthusiasm that seemed out of proportion to what I'd said. "Did your family used to live in Crenshaw?"
"Yes, my grandparents had a house there, and then my parents did too, until my brother and I were school age. Then they moved us to Westchester, for the schools." Ah, Westchester: the not-quite-Westside. Near the beach, so people could boast that they lived by the water. Yet no one would mistake Westchester for Santa Monica or the Palisades. For one thing, it was racially mixed—the escape hatch for blacks and Japanese who'd come from grittier areas. It was also so close to the airport that when planes took off, you could read the fine print on their bellies.
"Well, _that_ makes sense," Fiona said, straightening up. "The schools in Crenshaw are just awful. There are a couple of decent charter schools now. We support the Inner City Education Foundation, mostly because Mayor Riordan did, and my mother does whatever he says. But there couldn't have been much of anything when you were growing up." She took a large sip of the wine that Ricardo had just poured. "We send a group of fifth-graders from South LA to summer camp each year. They go for two weeks to this lovely camp in Malibu, where they fish, ride horses, and go on nature walks. Sometimes I drive out to watch their final culmination. It always breaks my heart that they have to go back to South LA."
I didn't point out that I'd spent part of my childhood in South LA, or that I lived there now.
"And where did you go to college?" she asked.
"Stanford. Class of 2001."
"Really!" And now she looked at me in a different way. "Well, you're younger than me, not surprisingly. I was Wellesley, class of '96."
"Really?" I said, genuinely surprised. "You must have graduated when you were, what, fourteen?"
She laughed. "You flatter me, Richard. Really. I'm several years older than you."
"I don't believe it." It _was_ hard to believe. "And where did you go to high school?"
"Marlborough. Of course. Like my mother. And her mother. And hers. When you were at Stanford, did you know Parker Ludlow or Christian Wade? I think they might have been in the same class."
"No, they don't sound familiar."
"Well, I suppose they wouldn't. They were probably off drinking and playing golf all the time. They wouldn't have graduated—or gotten in, for that matter—if they hadn't been legacies. And neither of them has accomplished anything since, unless you count massive summer parties in the Hamptons and Europe and a couple of stints in rehab." She took another sip of her wine. "But we're getting off track here. So your father's an electrician, and your grandfather was an electrician—were they just thrilled that you got into Stanford?"
"Well, yes. But my parents . . . it's hard for them to understand why I'm still in school. They'll be happy when I get a real job. My brother's been working with my father for years, and he'll take over the business when my father retires." That was, I thought, but didn't say, provided there was still a business to take over.
"And yet your dissertation is related to your family's business, right?"
I paused for a moment and drank some wine. Which dissertation should I talk about? The one I'd just proposed to Professor Rose? Or the one I was actually working on? "Yes, exactly."
"How far into it are you?"
"Oh," I said, embarrassed, "it's coming along. It's just that, since I'm not teaching anymore, I'm living off a fellowship, which is great, but not quite enough. That's why I took the job with Mrs. W—."
"How long is the fellowship?"
"Hopefully through next year. I'm not sure, though, if it's going to be renewed."
"Do you want me to talk to the president?"
"The president?" I looked at her blankly. "Of the Blain Foundation?"
"No, silly. Of USC. He's a good family friend. He'll make sure your funding's extended if I ask him."
"Oh. No. But thank you," I stammered. "I'm sure I'll find out soon."
"Anyway, tell me more. You said your work centers on the revolving group credit mechanism that provided the early capital for your family's business."
With the prospect of someone actually being interested in my topic, I probably told her far too much. I told her of my grandfather's joining the Okayama kenjinkai in 1928, the monthly picnics and excursions to the beach or the mountains, Tuesday bowling nights. I told her of him meeting my grandmother at a coffee shop in Crenshaw, and how her father was one of the original contributors to the revolving fund. I told her of my grandfather opening his business, and how he could only find work amongst other Japanese, and later the African Americans who moved into Crenshaw, but never the whites. I told her of how, when my grandparents were sent off to the internment camp during the war, their black neighbors kept watch over their house and business; and how my family's loyalty to their clientele had made them keep the business in Crenshaw, even when their rising income and the changing racial tides would have allowed a move to a fancier area. I told her of the other loans the kenjinkai made possible—to the Japanese language school, to several gardening ventures, to a nursery, even a funeral home. And I told her of how the members pooled their money too, to help families of members who'd died.
Through all of this, Fiona looked at me attentively, seriously, as if hearing about the workings of a different country, which in some sense I suppose it was. "It's a lovely concept," she said.
Our lunches arrived, on china plates with decorative flowers. I released the silverware from the napkin; it looked too fine to dirty with food. And then Fiona told me more about what her foundation was trying to do: team up with a few other family foundations to create a pool of capital for small businesses in the inner city. Some of the major banks had promised loans to minority businesses, she said, but then set the credit expectations prohibitively high. As she spoke, she'd put some food on her fork and hold it above her plate, then raise it to her mouth, and lower it again, never putting it in. She would do this three or four times with each forkful, and I watched first with interest and then growing frustration as the fork made circles in the air, since I didn't want to eat unless she did. Finally I decided I had to go ahead—I was starving—and tried not to be too distracted by her.
" _Our_ idea" she continued, waving a forkful of greens, "is that _any_ business owner would qualify as long as there was proper collateral." She smiled and took another sip of wine. "So what do you think?"
What did I think? I thought it sounded well-meaning but completely naïve. Honest people like my father would never trust someone like her or take what they perceived as a handout. And dishonest people—and there were plenty of those—would fleece these people blind. But I wanted to keep her talking, and smiling, so what I said was, "That's a very interesting idea."
I felt a twinge of guilt now, thinking about my father. Growing up, I'd rarely seen him in daylight. By the time I'd wake up at six fifteen, he was already gone for the day, driving to his office off Crenshaw before he headed out to job sites. After he and his crew finished their work for the day—at a house, an apartment complex, an office building, or hotel—he'd go back to the office, where he'd return messages, process invoices, and order supplies before coming home for the evening. It was almost always dark when he turned into our driveway. My mother would sit with him while he ate dinner, a warmed-up version of whatever she'd made for my brother and me that night, after her own shift at the pharmacy was over. She'd always held the family together. My mother was from Polish stock, dark-haired and gray-eyed, and in pictures of my parents from the early days of their courtship, they're good-looking and fresh, a mixed-race couple in a time when such unions weren't common. If there was any protest to their marriage on either side, I never heard about it. My mother would have shut it down anyway.
I didn't talk much with my father those evenings. After he ate, he would settle into his recliner and watch his beloved Dodgers, sometimes followed by the late-night news. By the time he'd settled in, I was already in my room for the night—doing homework, or talking on the phone, dreaming of the world beyond Westchester. When I wandered out to the kitchen to get a drink, he'd wave at me wearily. And on Sundays, his one day at home, the only time I saw him in daylight, he'd smile at my brother and me, delighted, surprised, as if he couldn't quite believe that he'd made us.
Suddenly I felt a large, hostile presence at the table; I looked up to see the unpleasant man from the museum event. He was wearing a blue jacket with some kind of insignia; he looked like an overgrown frat boy.
"Fiona," he said gruffly, with an irritated edge to his voice.
"Oh, hello, Bryson," she said, smiling up at him brightly. "You remember my friend Richard Nagano."
"Sure. You're the artist," he said definitively, in a way that allowed no room for correction. He didn't offer his hand, and neither did I.
"You weren't at the Performing Arts Center dinner last night," he said accusatorily, as if she'd stood him up for a date.
"I had another event," Fiona replied, still smiling. "For John Thomas Dye. Fanny Halstead was the committee chair, so I really wanted to support her. Otherwise I wouldn't have missed it."
"Your husband was there," Bryson thrust at her, and this struck home. She blushed—was she surprised?—but regained her composure quickly. When she looked up at him this time, though, her smile was different, tighter.
"Aaron's very invested in the center's success, you know. Especially since his company did the initial design."
"That's why I was surprised you weren't there."
"Well," she rejoined, and now her smile was radiant again, "now that I know that _you_ were, I'm glad I stayed away!"
A red flush crept up Bryson's face, and once again, I got the sense of violence barely contained. "Have a nice lunch with your friend, Fiona. Maybe we'll see you at the Country Club."
When he was gone, Fiona downed the rest of her glass in a single gulp.
"Who _is_ that guy?" I asked. "What an asshole!"
"Keep your voice down," Fiona said, but she was giggling, and she covered my hand with her own. "And pour me more wine." When I complied, she took another sip and then told me about Bryson Rutherford. He was the heir to a major insurance magnate from the early twentieth century. He had a beautiful but quiet wife, whom I'd met at the museum, and two large but meek sons.
"What does he do?" I asked.
"He plays golf."
"No, I mean for work."
"So do I."
I paused, letting this sink in. I understood she didn't mean professionally. "He's rather aggressive with you," I remarked.
"Yes. He wants to sleep with me."
"Really? He has a funny way of showing it."
"That's how it is with so many of these men," she said. "They're used to steamrolling everyone to get what they want, and they're befuddled when someone resists."
"Is your husband like that too?" I ventured. The wine had given me courage.
"No," she said wistfully. "My husband is a gem. A good father. Commanding and assertive at work, of course, but kind with his family. It's a pity I don't appreciate him more." She was quiet for a moment, then looked up brightly, clearly finished with the subject. "Mrs. W— knows Bryson's family well. Her grandmother was a cousin of Bryson's uncle on his father's side."
I tried to untangle this in my mind but quickly gave up. "She's never mentioned him," I said.
"She wouldn't. He's a tool. And she has too much of a sense of decorum to talk about anything unpleasant."
I wasn't sure this was actually true—she talked plenty about unpleasant things, and people she didn't approve of. But I didn't push it. I was learning that Fiona spoke often with absolute certainty regarding things she knew nothing about.
"How do you like working for her?"
"It's fine," I said. "It's interesting."
"What are you doing, exactly?"
I was hesitant to answer, but decided it wasn't giving too much away. "I'm typing up some papers for her—old documents that were written in longhand."
"Really!" Fiona exclaimed, with a bit too much interest. "Family documents?" She cocked her head slightly. "She must really trust you."
"I guess so."
"She hasn't always had it easy, you know," Fiona said thoughtfully. "I mean, she's always been rich. But she lost her husband young—in her thirties—and never remarried. And her brother died when she was a teenager. It's strange—people call them overdoses or accidents now. Back then you knew what it really was—a suicide."
"That must have been tough on her."
"I imagine, but you'd never know—she's always carried herself like nothing touches her. Probably something she learned from that father of hers, who was apparently a real bastard."
"Was he? She always speaks so fondly of him."
"Yes, I know. But from what my parents say, he was terrible to do business with, and drove his wife to drinking. He'd leave Marion all alone in that big mansion of theirs while he went off on trips, and was mean to her when he was around. He was nothing like his father, and maybe he knew it. Everyone thought the world of Langley. Everyone."
I didn't know how to react to this. Nothing was as simple as it seemed. Mrs. W— had all of life's advantages, and yet they hadn't shielded her from heartbreak.
"She's got this hard shell," Fiona continued. "But then she surprises you. You've heard her talk about undocumented immigrants, right? Or as she calls them, _illegals._ "
"I have, yes."
"She pretends to be so hard-line, but you know her housekeeper Maria?"
"Yes."
"Well, Maria used to work for Donovan and Carly Ford."
"Donovan Ford . . . the guy who ran for the state assembly maybe five, six years ago?"
"Yes, he's a son of Beverly Hills who's on a bunch of boards and was also a city councilman. Well, it came out that he and Carly had some undocumented immigrants on their household staff, and he's a Republican, you know, and it wouldn't stand."
"So . . ."
"So they made a big fuss of being surprised, and of publicly saying they would report their staff to immigration officials—including Maria, it turned out. Then Marion W— stepped in and hired Maria away, and she must have pulled some other strings too, because—as you see—Maria was never deported."
"But how did Mrs. W— do that, and why?"
Fiona shrugged. "Who knows? The Fords entertained a lot, and maybe Marion came across Maria and was impressed with her. Or maybe she just wanted to stick it to the Fords—she never liked Donovan."
"Wow." I didn't know how else to reply.
"You work out of her house?"
"Yes, and what a place! It's like an oasis up there. I can't believe it's part of the city."
"I know," Fiona said. "I've been there. Marion used to host the most spectacular parties—beautiful black-tie affairs, with live music and dancing, waiters balancing trays of drinks through the crowd. They were magnificent, like how you'd imagine parties in the 1920s. It was tradition mixed with modern style. Like Mrs. W— herself, I suppose."
"It's hard to imagine a party up there. The house is totally empty except for her and her servants."
"How often do you go?"
"Three times a week."
"And she never has visitors?"
"Not that I've seen."
"Not even her children?"
I snorted. " _Especially_ not her children. Her assistant said they never come to visit. Except for the oldest one, sometimes. Bart."
"Bart," Fiona said, making a sound between a scoff and a sigh. "Nice guy, but a bit of a bumpkin. He lives somewhere in the Central Valley."
"So I heard."
"He runs a cattle operation. And he's really into it. He's not just a gentleman rancher. He does a cattle run every spring and fall, takes his herd up into the mountains for summer grazing, and then back down again. It's rather quaint. I mean, have you ever heard of such a thing?"
Actually, it sounded pretty cool to me, but I didn't say so to Fiona.
"Does she talk about them?" she asked now, pointedly.
"What? Who?"
"Her children. Does she talk about them much?"
"No, she's hardly mentioned them."
This seemed to satisfy Fiona somehow. "It's strange, no one sees them anymore," she said, looking away. "Especially since Steven's accident."
"What happened with that anyway?" I asked cautiously. "No one will tell me anything. Not just about that—about any of Mrs. W—'s kids."
Fiona drew back, her face taking on a serious expression I couldn't quite read. It didn't occur to me to wonder why she'd had so many questions. I had too many questions myself. "It was terrible," she said, leaning forward again. "Really tragic." She paused, and in the silence I heard the din of voices, a hundred of Los Angeles's wealthiest people enjoying their lunches, far above the streets of the city. "Have you heard of Cliffhaven?"
"Cliffhaven . . . I'm not sure."
"It's a big estate up along the Central Coast. About twenty thousand acres. It's the property of the Larson family down here in LA. Ben Larson founded Larson Oil around the same time that Langley W— got started. Their family is richer than God."
I nodded. If someone of Fiona's set referred to a family as richer than God, then their wealth must have been unimaginable.
"Anyway, the original mansion's mostly closed now, just used for special events, but there's still a large house on the property, and an airstrip. This generation's Larson, Charles, spent a lot of time there with his family and friends. He didn't have to work—he just managed the family money—and he would go up there with his friends and their families to drink. Well, two years ago they were there for Steven's fortieth birthday party, and someone got it into their head that they wanted to see how fast Charles's Porsche would go. So all these men—these grown, drunk men—got into Charles's car—with his twelve-year-old son!—and drove it high speed down the landing strip. No one knows quite what happened, but the car went over a cliff past the end of the runway. Later they said that the skid marks suggested it was going well over a hundred. At any rate, Charles was thrown and killed, and so was his little boy. Another man was terribly hurt. And Steven—he survived, but he broke his collarbone, his leg, and several ribs. Somehow he made it out of the wreckage and crawled back to the house. I hear he'll limp the rest of his life."
"Jesus."
"I know. What a waste. Charles's poor wife and daughter are still a mess to this day. And I have no idea how the other man is doing."
I shook my head, immediately understanding why Mrs. W— didn't speak of this. "Did Steven come home to recuperate?" I asked.
Fiona shook her head. "No. He was in a hospital in Santa Barbara for several months, but Mrs. W— wouldn't see him. People said she was furious—she couldn't believe he'd been a part of something so tragic and stupid. She'd had to get him out of jams before, and she was probably tired of his misbehavior."
"That seems kind of harsh."
"Oh, I wouldn't feel too sorry for Steven. He's caused more than his fair share of damage."
We were both quiet for a moment as I tried to digest the story. "So who was the fourth person?" I asked. "The other survivor?"
"I'm not sure. He wasn't part of our circle." She paused. "It's _strange_ , you know, that no one knows who he is." And now she leaned closer and put her hand on my wrist. The warmth of it, the slight caress she gave me with one finger, made it hard to focus on what she said next: "Like maybe there's more to the story."
"You could be right," I responded, trying to gather myself. "Was there ever anything in the paper?"
"The paper?"
"The _Los Angeles Times_. Or the _San Francisco Chronicle_. Or whatever paper they get up on the Central Coast."
Now Fiona sat up straight again and gave me an indulgent smile. "Oh, Richard. Nothing important ever gets into the paper."
After a strong cup of coffee, which I needed to counteract the wine, I left Fiona, who stayed behind to speak with a group of delighted older men who were bent over a game of backgammon. I made my way back down to the garage and tried to pay the head valet, but he shook his head and said, "Mrs. Morgan has paid. And our drivers do not accept tips."
I put my money away, embarrassed, and stood in the waiting area with several men in business suits and an elegantly dressed older couple. The woman wore a jacket and skirt that seemed too heavy for the season, dark glasses, and expensive-looking jewelry. I was so caught up in staring at them that I didn't notice that my Honda had already arrived and had apparently been sitting there for some time.
"Ma'am? Is this your car?" one of the valets asked the older woman.
Her eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. "Certainly not!"
CHAPTER SIX
In the top drawer of my desk, in a cheap manila folder, I keep a collection of invitations and programs—from the openings, parties, luncheons, and dinners I attended in the months I worked for Mrs. W—. There is a rectangular menu, printed on thick card stock, from a luncheon in a private home, detailing in blue, engraved ink the progression of courses: charred kumquat salad, roasted Hancock Farms quail with black garlic miso, triple-chocolate miniature cake with bourbon-raspberry garnish. There are square, embossed invitations—works of art themselves—to charity functions or galas at the Beverly Wilshire, the Ludlow, and the Beverly Hills Hotel, which never include a printed address because, of course, such information wasn't needed. There were printed price sheets for pieces at art exhibits—no item less than $50,000—as well as glossy programs for high-end fashion shows, at which the world's top designers revealed their designs for the new season.
I remember with a touch of disbelief some of the more extravagant moments of these events—the dinner where Omar Santiago, the famous designer, auctioned off a week on his private island in the Caribbean, complete with a concert by Placido Domingo; the time that François DeLorme, the French celebrity chef whose restaurants dot the Westside, arranged to cook for a wealthy bidder and his twenty closest friends in the winner's private home. And the evening at Tiffany's on Rodeo Drive, where tall, sinewy models slithered around the store showcasing pieces of jewelry, each of which cost more than the current model of my car.
The people who attended these gatherings were people I had only read about in magazines. There was Betty Baker, whose family owned all the Baker department stores. There were descendants of the founders of Beverly Hills. There were several Delaneys, of Delaney Steel, a couple of Hearsts, and members of the Price and Jameson families. Carly Ransom, the granddaughter of the founder of Perennial Pictures, was part of this set, as was Hattie Clark, whose father had founded Clark Pacific Railways. Being around them was like rubbing shoulders with history. There were a few families of more recent vintage too—Mr. and Mrs. Hal Westbrook, of Westbrook Aviation; Ben Laughlin, the head of Bluestone Wealth Management, now in jail for securities fraud. The Mr. Ernest Bestharts, of Best Heart Builders, would sometimes attend, and Mr. Jay Calchinek, the head of Starlight Finance's California operations.
The one thing all these people had in common, of course, was wealth—wealth of the unimaginable variety; wealth that could only be whispered at; wealth that made them feel, to me, like members of a different species. And yet, as I learned, wealth alone did not earn membership in this exclusive group. The old historical families—those with roots in the late 1800s or early 1900s, or those whose families hailed from the East—were of the innermost circle. The next level out were the venture capitalists and their wives, who were tolerated but not embraced, privy only to the less exclusive events—because of the suspicions regarding how their fortunes had been obtained, or simply because they were, as Mrs. W— once sniffed, "new money." None of the tech millionaires ever attended these events—which were formal and square—and the dot-com kids were too young, anyway. And only on occasion would we see movie and television stars, because "street people," as Mrs. W— explained, "do not mix with show people." Strangely, the second- and third-generation heirs seemed to look down on people whose wealth was self-created. And it goes without saying that all of these recipients of inherited wealth were white.
Mrs. W— always drew attention at these events. People would come over to pay their respects, and she'd smile at them ironically and entertain their effusive greetings and then, often with a mildly cutting remark, send them on their way. I saw the fear in people's eyes as she approached; I saw them trip over themselves to be polite.
"What did you think of that speech?" one woman asked, about a powerful testimony at a charity function.
"Who cares?" countered Mrs. W—, yawning loudly. "I'm just here for the inedible lunch."
Or: "Here comes the insufferable Waverly Stone. Richard, do you have my antacid?"
Or, at a table that also included Cardinal McCloud from the archdiocese: "I'd consider attending church, you know. If the priests would stop buggering little boys."
Or, at a table of ladies so proper that they barely seemed to speak: "My grandfather was one of the first men to climb Mt. Whitney, you know. But if he did it now he'd have to carry out his own poo."
And yet people circled her, came to her, watched her from afar. She did not want them, and so they couldn't get enough of her. Or at least it seemed she didn't want them—I didn't think to ask why, if she found these people so tiresome, she continued to grace their events. But I understood why she needed accompaniment, for I served as her escort, her confidant, her bouncer. Me, the kid from Westchester, the son of an electrician. Me, the dapper mixed-race man, dressed in Canali suits that had been picked and purchased for me; by now I'd made several more trips to Rafael's store, and had a personal shopper at Neiman's. Mrs. W— would hold onto my arm, using me like a shield. And when she was ready, usually well before the event had come to a close, I would lead her through the crowd so she could leave.
At all of these events, always, was Fiona—giving air kisses to everyone she saw; throwing her head back in exuberant laughter; touching people lightly and complimenting their clothes; floating through the room like a perpetual hostess, or a politician trying to win votes. I thought of what she must have looked like in her dancing days, gliding gracefully across the stage. She was always dressed—as were all of the women—in spectacular clothes, form-fitted dresses and suits; the women would hold their heads up perfectly, profiles always visible, as if they knew they were going to be photographed. Which—thanks to the step-and-repeats, the photographers from society magazines—they almost always were. Fiona would pay her respects to Mrs. W—, and after their strange, almost wry exchange, she would throw her hands up happily and greet me. I wanted to believe that there was something there beyond her usual ebullience, some response that was reserved for me alone.
"My friend Sherry can't keep her eyes off you," she whispered thrillingly in my ear. "But I told her I found you first."
"You'll have to come say hello to my table," she said another time. "Though the girls might not ever let you leave."
These whispers would be accompanied by a touch on my hand or shoulder that felt more than just casual. I didn't know whether to believe in them, yet I enjoyed them anyway. After each of these events I'd return to my desk at Mrs. W—'s, or my couch at home, and lose myself in my imaginings of her.
* * *
I wanted to gain Fiona's attention, to be with her alone, but how? She didn't offer a second lunch invitation, and I knew it would be improper for me to suggest we meet again. I was at the mercy of the luncheon circuit, but those luncheons only afforded me a few moments with her in public company—no time for private conversation, for studying the finer points of her face. I kept remembering the feel of her hand cupped over mine at the Colonial Club, when we talked about Steven J—'s accident. She thought there might be more to the story. If I helped her figure it out, would she touch me like that again? I didn't know. But because I wished to please her, because I needed a place to focus my energy, and because my curiosity about Mrs. W— now extended beyond her notebooks, I decided to find out more about the accident. I wanted to figure out who the fourth passenger was, and why his name—and even the accident itself—was not in the public record. I told myself that this was no more questionable or intrusive than showing Langley W—'s postcard to Professor Rose.
So one afternoon, when I got home from a luncheon, I sought out Kevin. I found him at the back of our complex, working under the hood of his Ford Explorer, massive arms streaked with oil. Kevin's family had lived next door to my grandparents in Crenshaw, and he'd been my classmate at Westchester High, another South LA transplant whose parents had moved him for school. But he, like me, had never felt at home there; the old neighborhood had called him back. He was a football player, and after high school he'd been a linebacker for USC. Then he'd bounced around for a couple of years before getting a job as a paramedic, and now he was just a few months away from finishing his nursing degree. Kevin and I had stayed in touch through our families, and he and Rosanna had told Chloe and me when the apartment had opened up in their building. We'd all been friendly, and during that awkward period in which one couple figures out how to adjust to the other half being broken, both Kevin and Rosanna had watched out for me. They'd made sure I ate in those first lonely months, invited me over to watch ball games on the weekends, their laughter and banter in Spanish—hers fluent, his choppy but trying—a salve for my wounds.
Kevin had been urging me to get back out there. He'd also tried to set me up a couple of times, an offer I'd declined—and when he saw me standing there in my blue jacket and yellow tie, brogues shined to the point of reflecting, he stood up straight and whistled.
"Look at you, Mr. _GQ!_ And where have _you_ been this afternoon?"
Kevin was big—6'2"—and almost always cheerful, which had struck me as a strange temperament for a frontline paramedic. But maybe his good-naturedness was exactly what injured, maimed, and frightened patients needed in their moment of trauma. Or maybe he was just trying to stay sane.
"I had to go to a charity luncheon," I answered.
"Ohhh," he said, dragging out the syllable and standing delicately with his toes together, in imitation of a lady. "A _charity_ luncheon. And since when has my starving grad-school buddy had the bucks for a charity luncheon? Or those threads you have on? I thought you were kind of a charity case yourself."
I paused, suddenly self-conscious. Even for dressy occasions, neither Kevin nor I had ever dressed like this. And only once had I seen my father in a suit, at my college graduation. I was so used to him in his workingman's clothes—the black pants and blue work shirt, with _American Electric_ in yellow script across the pocket—that the sight of him in dress clothes had been startling. The gray suit fit him loosely, like he'd purchased it a size too big to take advantage of a sale. And he shifted in it uncomfortably, looking down at his cheap, unpolished shoes whenever someone greeted him. My father, who could create and uncouple mysterious electrical connections, could not converse with these fancier parents. He could not get past the first introductions. The other students' parents were doctors and financiers, attorneys and public officials; some of them did not work at all. And yet here he was, and my mother too—who despite her simple clothing and Target-bought handbag did not believe she was lesser than anyone.
I remember feeling exposed somehow, like something essential and previously disguisable about me had suddenly come to light. I saw the curious looks in my classmates' eyes, the patronizing smile of a girl I was trying to flirt with. And seeing this, I felt a sinking sense of embarrassment. It didn't occur to me then how awkward and uncomfortable that weekend must have been for my parents, despite their pride in my accomplishments. It didn't occur to me that it was a burden for them to pay for two nights in a cheap hotel—nothing close to campus was affordable—and to miss two days of their jobs. All I was aware of was how they reflected on me.
"I went as someone's guest," I explained to Kevin now.
"The guest of some young lady, I presume."
I hadn't told Kevin much about my job—it was too strange and complicated. So he'd come to the conclusion that I was involved in a new, intriguing, slightly scandalous romance—which I let him believe, maybe because I wanted to believe it myself.
I tried to smile mysteriously. Then I brought up the business at hand. "So this young lady," I said. "She was telling me about a bad accident that happened a couple of years ago."
I gave him the broad outline of the accident up the coast, the deaths and the unknown fourth passenger. I told him I'd tried to find an account of it in the media, and had come up empty. By this time Kevin had walked around the front of his car and was leaning back against the driver's door, his muscular arms crossed and brow furrowed. With his light-brown skin, square jaw, and cool green eyes, he'd been a total lady magnet—not just for the many women who wanted to date him, but also for those who sought a protective big brother. He listened, engaged, as if my problem was his own.
"So you can't figure out who the fourth guy was?" he asked.
"It's not just him. It's the whole thing. I can't find _anything_ —not even a record that the accident really happened."
"Are you sure it _did_ happen?"
"I'm sure."
He didn't ask how, and I was grateful for that; Mrs. W—'s affairs, and Fiona's story, were more than I wanted to get into.
"My hunch is that the fourth guy is from some other powerful family," I continued, "and that they didn't want word of his involvement reported in the press."
Kevin nodded thoughtfully. "Could be."
"So . . ." I ventured, "do you think the hospital up there would have a record?"
Kevin shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? There's nothing on the Central Coast itself, you know. And I'm not sure that San Luis Obispo has a trauma center."
I felt deflated. What had I been thinking, anyway? That a hospital would reveal confidential information about its patients?
"But one thing I'm pretty sure of," Kevin said now, "is that the paramedics would have been called. And I've got a buddy who works for the fire department up in SLO, and maybe he could look into it if I asked him."
My heart surged. "Really? Kev, that would be amazing."
He grinned. "Your girl will be pleased with you, huh?"
I blushed and didn't respond to this.
Kevin asked, "When did you say the accident was again?"
"I'm not sure, exactly. About two years ago. It was at a big estate, and there was an airstrip they drove off of, and two people died. The property owner and his son. There couldn't have been too many accidents like that."
Kevin slapped the car with his big right palm like a play had been called and he was ready to run it. "All right, I'll ring Chris. Bastard owes me anyway—I covered for him a few months ago when he came down here to see his secret lady. He's a fireman, and you know how it goes for them—he can't fight them off. He played right tackle for UCLA, but he's all right."
* * *
It didn't take Kevin long to get back to me. Two days after we'd talked in the carport, I came home from Mrs. W—'s to find a yellow Post-it stuck to my front door:
_R—_
_Where are you, man? Text me when you're home._
_—K_
I did as instructed, and within two minutes there was a heavy knock that would have scared the hell out of me if I hadn't expected it.
"Jesus, Kev," I said, pulling the door open, "you don't need to knock it down."
"I can't help it if we live in a place with cheap-ass construction." He stopped short as soon as he'd made his way inside. The place was a mess. There were papers and books scattered across every flat surface, a couple of bags from El Pollo Loco and McDonald's, a greasy pizza box, which would have revealed, if he'd lifted the lid, one piece of days-old dough and colored material that had once been a slice of Supreme. The sad thing is that it actually looked better than it had four months ago, before I'd gone to work for Mrs. W—. But Kevin hadn't been inside, I realized, since Chloe, whose design flair, kitchen appliances, and general extreme neatness had made the small apartment feel homey.
"Uh, I guess your new girl hasn't been here yet."
I ignored this. "What did you find?"
Now Kevin met my eyes again, mess forgotten, and grinned—I knew, and he probably did too, that without Rosanna, his place would have looked much the same. As it was, he was at-home casual—tan cargo shorts and a yellow Lakers T-shirt with a conspicuous tear at the shoulder, a USC cap atop his head.
"My man Chris called me earlier," he said. "And he knew exactly what you were talking about. Big accident, fatalities, up at some rich people's spread on the coast. They had to speed up Highway 1 from SLO to get there."
My stomach catapulted up into my throat. "And the time frame sounds right? Two years ago?"
"Yeah, exactly. Chris remembered because he'd always wondered about the property and had never expected to see it. He said it was a weird scene—stupid-ass rich guys totally wasted, a bunch of women crying. The car crushed like a beer can, and all the passengers thrown. And then, he said, the accident wasn't reported. Usually so little happens up there that it's front-page news when an elephant seal makes it up to the road. But there was nothing on this accident on the news or in the paper. Nada."
I tried to keep my breathing steady and moved my messenger bag from one chair to another, to keep from looking at him so he wouldn't see my face. "And does he remember who was in the car?"
"He remembered the father and son who died—the Larsons, I think—because their family owned the property. But he didn't remember the others. Had to call his buddy in the ER at San Luis Obispo Hospital, and he remembered. Some dude named Steven J—."
"That's what I thought." It amazed me that this name, this son of a family that took up so much of my waking hours, should be totally unfamiliar to Kevin.
"And the other was a guy named Jimmy Castillo. He remembered 'cos one of his teammates, a lineman, was a Jamie Castillo."
I let this settle, let our voices be still and this name take life—gave it space to breathe in the room and in my mind, new and unexpected.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure. Chris said so, and what he says, you can take it to the bank."
"Do you know what happened to them?"
Kevin shrugged. "I don't know, man. Chris never heard word of them again. He said both the guys who were still alive that night were messed up pretty bad. J— broke some bones—his legs, I think he said, and a bunch of ribs, some internal bleeding. The other guy was even worse. Had a head injury, and broke his back. Chris isn't sure that he even survived."
I'd moved over to the window now, my back to the room, and I felt Kevin looking at me. "Dude, what's this about?" he asked gently.
I tried to laugh, but it sounded strangled to me, and I'm not sure my nonchalance was convincing. "Just trying to figure something out for a friend," I said.
"That girl, right? She must be something else. I hope you know what you're doing, man. I hope she's worth it."
* * *
When Kevin left, I opened a beer and sat at the dining room table. The accident that his friend told him about was clearly _the_ accident. But who was Jimmy Castillo? I'd assumed he was one of the men of Steven and Fiona's set, but the name threw me. Sure, there were a couple of Latino surnames among the people I'd met over the last few months—but they tended to be the married names of women who'd hooked up with rich Spaniards or Argentinians, or, in one case, the name of a wealthy white Cuban. And that first name: Jimmy. Maybe he was Spanish or Argentinian—or Chilean, or Cuban—too. He couldn't be Mexican. It just wasn't possible. There _were_ no Mexicans, Chicanos, Central Americans, Puerto Ricans, or anyone else who could remotely be conceived of as brown, or black, or Asian, in Fiona's or Mrs. W—'s world. The only person of color was an ambiguous half-breed: me.
I wanted to share the news with Fiona, of course. I wanted to tell her what I'd discovered and then accept her pleasure and gratitude—like a schoolboy who'd found a girl's lost, beloved kitten; like a kid bringing home a report card full of As. She had given me her cell phone number before we met for our lunch, but while I'd brought up her contact information on my phone several times, I'd never actually used it. Now I picked up my phone and tapped out a text: _It's Richard. I found out who the fourth person was._ For a moment I thought of typing Jimmy Castillo's name, but that felt too stark, too revealing—I had no idea where she was or who she was with. I set the phone back down on the coffee table, expecting a wait, but it buzzed almost immediately with her reply: _Can't talk now but the fundraising luncheon for the children's charity is tomorrow. Want to come? The Randall_ _estate in Beverly Park. 11 a.m. XOXO_
And so, a little after ten a.m. the following day, I drove over to Sunset, turned into one of the canyons, and worked my way up the meandering streets of the Hollywood Hills. Mrs. W— had been invited to the luncheon too, but was feeling under the weather, and so—for the first time—I was attending alone. The massive estate was in a gated complex, a half-mile in from the guard station on Mulholland. A suited valet opened my door and kindly ignored the make and condition of my car as he wrote me up a claim ticket.
There was already a sea of ladies on the cobblestone outside of the enormous house—women mostly in their thirties and forties, dressed in lunchtime finery. I knew from Fiona that a few of them were in finance or law—members, she said, of the working class, by which she meant they had to work. Many of them wore floral patterns of pink, light blue, orange, or yellow. I swooned at the combined effect of pastels, perfume, and tinkling laughter. This group made the gatherers at the LACMA event look as casual as the crowd at Coachella.
A table was set up on one side of the driveway where six young women appeared to be checking people in. These were clearly staff—either of the household or, more likely, of the children's organization that was benefitting from the event. Unlike the champagne-sipping crew, several of these women were Latina, Asian, and black.
"Oh, you're a guest of Mrs. Morgan's," one of them said, finding a handwritten place card with my name on it. "Your table number's on the back."
"Where do I go until lunch?" I asked, though she was already on to the next guest.
I turned back to the crowd, which had swelled again; I'd learn later there were over three hundred people. Where was Fiona? I resisted the urge to text her. Without Mrs. W— as my cover, I was free-floating, unmoored; I felt totally invisible. There were a few other random men, unlucky husbands or boyfriends who were huddled together off to the side of the crowd, as if they were foreign bodies expelled from the main organism. I took a step in their direction before realizing that I'd have nothing to say to them. They were the Bryson Rutherfords of the world, the men of the leisure class. To those men—and in reality—I had more in common with the charity employees, or the staff. A server walked by with a tray of champagne glasses and I took one; maybe getting drunk would help me make it through.
Suddenly both halves of the front door opened, and the ladies poured in, like sheep rushing through the gates and to their pens. I hung back so as not to get crushed, drafting off of a group that moved less urgently.
Inside the house, a group of women were clustered around a small raised stage where four tall, almost inhumanly beautiful models stood mannequin-like, swiveling occasionally, their eyes trained above the heads of the crowd. Young men in tuxedos whisked through with platters of hors d'oeuvres—raw salmon in delicate pastry cones; asparagus wrapped with beef; tiny round quiches; miniature Chinese food boxes filled with a bite or two of noodle.
The front hall opened to what looked like three different living rooms, all decorated with plush furniture and a mix of tasteful but uninteresting art. Through one of the rooms and down the hallway, I heard someone say, was the ballroom. It was hard to imagine the kind of life that required a private ballroom.
"Is that where the lunch is?" I asked a cluster of ladies, who looked confused that I'd addressed them.
"Oh, no. It's a _spring_ luncheon, dear," one of them said. "Spring luncheons are held _outdoors_."
I continued past the stage and outside, where a second structure sat behind the first, with one wall entirely open to the yard. Here, there were more long tables, which held items for a silent auction. There were one-of-a-kind handbags; there was a weekend in Napa at a luxury hotel, including a round-trip flight on a private jet; a diamond necklace whose first bid outpaced a year's worth of my rent; a trip for four to a castle in Scotland.
I turned back toward the main building and finally saw Fiona. She was wearing a bright red dress that clung inspiringly to her figure. Her sunglasses were dark, large, and round, Audrey Hepburn style; the jeweled watch on her wrist accentuated the fineness of her bones. My heart fluttered despite itself.
"Richard!" she cried out cheerfully, flinging her arms open, glass in hand, managing not to spill a drop of her drink. "I'm so glad you were able to come!"
She gave me a cheek-to-cheek air kiss and then introduced me to several women, two of whom I recognized from the Polo Lounge. "These are the ladies who did the _real_ work," she said, in a way that made it clear that in fact they hadn't done much. "Our poor destitute children in the foster care system are so lucky to have them."
She kept her hand on my arm as she talked, and it felt like that was the only thing holding me in place. Her friends did not know what to say to me, and so they talked amongst themselves.
"Is that a Valentino?" one of them asked the other, noting her dress.
"No, Oscar de la Renta."
"Oh, it's lovely. Even better than the Nanette Lepore you wore last year."
"Well, _your_ outfit is fabulous. Geoffrey Beene?"
"Yes. Don't tell anyone, but it's actually from a couple of seasons ago. I got it in '08 after the market crashed, when all the stores were marking things down."
"I remember how bad it was. I mean, the parking lot at Saks was almost empty!"
Fiona squeezed my arm and gave me a dazzling smile. "I have to sit with my friends at lunch, since I'm part of the host committee. I'm sorry. But please sit with me now, for the fashion show."
"The fashion show?"
"Yes, Le Farrier is debuting his fall collection here today. It's the talk of Beverly Hills. Can you believe it? That's why so much of the fashion press is here."
Not only could I believe it, I had no idea who Le Farrier was. The crowd was now moving again. I let Fiona guide me, hand still curled around my arm, through the second structure and out to another part of the property, which featured the loveliest swimming pool I'd ever seen. It was set in cream-colored marble, and the water was a dark cerulean blue; at one end was a terraced structure of stone, a kind of fountain that fed a steady stream of water into the pool. Laid across the entire length of the pool was a sleek black path, as thin as a carpet, that had been rolled out over the water. "That's the runway," whispered Fiona incredulously. At the other end of the pool was a line of shrubbery behind which the models must have been dressing; draped on the wall behind the terraced waterfall was a huge black banner with _LF_ printed in silver. There were white, cushioned folding chairs lined up on either side of the pool, and we found seats about three rows back; directly across from us, in the front row, sat two former First Ladies. I mean, of the United States.
When all the ladies had taken seats, the music began—loud, pulsating beats from an invisible sound system. From behind the hedge emerged the first model, whom I recognized from the stage in the entry hall. It looked like sections of several unrelated dresses had been sewn together to create her outfit. She sashayed toward the pool and then—almost miraculously—onto it, gliding over the thin black walkway and above the blue as if walking on water. The crowd let out a collective "Oooohh!"; I held my breath, expecting her to sink. But she didn't. Then a second model followed, in a pantsuit that looked slightly military. How did the runway hold them up? How did water not splash on their shoes? Were they so weightless that their presence didn't register?
It went on like this, models in elaborate, impractical clothes, walking back and forth across the pool, the thumping club music on a continuous loop. Next to me, Fiona and her friends dissected each outfit, deciding which ones might be considered for purchase, and which ones simply admired. I watched the First Ladies shade their eyes with the programs, which listed the names and prices of each outfit. I thought for a moment about taking a picture with my phone, but noticed that nobody else was taking pictures. Apparently the event was so commonplace that it did not require documentation.
Finally the show concluded, and all of the ladies clapped and cheered. Fiona leaned over and repeated her apology for not being able to sit with me at lunch; she suggested we meet afterward for a drink. Then she was off, moving in her effortless way, blending into the crowd.
I stepped out of my row and away from the pool, approaching a tall brunette who was standing back from the others, observing her surroundings.
"That was quite something," the woman remarked, smiling. "Have you ever been to a fashion show?"
"No. This is my first."
In her simple white suit, this woman seemed a little underdressed for the occasion. And yet there was a sense of ease about her, a kindness in her eyes, that immediately made me feel less out of place.
"Are you enjoying the event?" she asked.
I paused. "I've never felt more at home."
Now she laughed out loud, with real delight. "It's over the top, I know," she said. "But it's the only way to shake any money out of these ladies. And I do care about this organization. My husband and I have two foster kids ourselves. Once you have any experience with these kids and that system, no amount of giving is enough." She looked troubled for a moment, and then the smile was back. "I'm Caroline Randall, by the way."
I racked my brain wondering why this name sounded familiar. And then I realized—the Randall estate. This woman was the hostess.
"I'm . . . Richard Nagano," I stammered, embarrassed by my earlier sarcasm. "I . . . I work for Marion W—."
"I know. Good to meet you, Richard." She offered her hand for shaking. "I'm so glad that Marion found you. She pretends to be such a hard case, you know, but she's nicer than you think."
"I'm learning that," I said. "And thank you, ma'am, for having me today."
"Oh, please, don't call me _ma'am_. It's Caroline. Now let's get to the best part of this party: the food."
I followed Mrs. Randall down the stone walkway and into yet another yard. This new space was spotted here and there with huge, beautiful old-growth trees; it had once been, she told me, a park. Set between the trees were dozens of round tables, as well as a small raised stage, all of this framed by an expansive view of the San Fernando Valley, the San Gabriel Mountains beyond.
My handwritten place card indicated that I'd be at table 27, which turned out to be so far off to the side that it was almost in the bushes. When I made my way over, there was only one spot left, between a forty-ish too-thin society blonde and a normal-seeming woman of thirty or so, who worked for the charity. There was a printed menu on heavy card stock, and from that I learned that the meal—and hors d'oeuvres—had been prepared by the famous French chef François DeLorme. In addition to his restaurants, he'd created a line of products that took up entire sections of Whole Foods, and his cable TV show was one of Chloe's favorite diversions. Mrs. W— ate at his restaurants often; for a moment I wished she were there. The preset salad, with farm-to-table ingredients, was the best I'd ever had; the crusty, rosemary-tinged bread was like heaven. And I was glad for the culinary distraction, because the anorexic blonde—whose name was Alexa—could not stop complaining about the terrible view from our table, when it was clear that what really bothered her was being seated with miscellaneous unattached guests and employees of the charity. It could not have helped that the charity staffer, a perfectly pleasant young woman named Sarah, was lovelier in her natural, unaltered state than most of these fancier ladies.
There were speeches—by Caroline Randall, who gave the greeting; by the head of the event committee; by a B-list actress. They described the children served by the charity beneficiary: kids in abject poverty, kids shuffled between multiple foster homes; horrid accounts of abuse. I realized with a jolt that the actress was _genuine_ ; she'd been a foster child too, she said, and had endured unspeakable treatment. As she spoke, her voice wavered a couple of times, and I found myself quite moved. Yet throughout her speech, which included a story of her brother being burned with cigarettes, I heard the clink of silverware on plates and the continuing buzz of voices, saw waiters dipping down to place or pick up dishes. No one was paying attention.
I made small talk with my tablemates and savored my fish—arctic char so tender it might have just been pulled from an Alaskan stream. But when one of the speakers shifted from describing families who lived off of less than $15,000 a year to announcing winning auction bids of twice that much, I had to step away. There was a break in the hedge right near us, through which servers had been moving silently with trays. I excused myself and slipped through.
I felt something of the relief of having escaped a burning house; now, standing outside, I could breathe. Here, away from the tables of ladies, servers whisked back and forth from yet another building on the property, where the food was being prepared. I glanced at the activity and then simply stared at the building, trying to gather myself. Maybe the path around the side of the building led out to the street. Maybe I could continue past it and leave.
"Quite an event, isn't it?"
I looked up and saw that the person speaking to me was none other than François DeLorme. He was slightly shorter than me, smaller than he looked on TV, with windblown gray-black hair. He was wearing gray pants and his ubiquitous chef's smock. I couldn't speak for several seconds, but finally eked out some words.
"Yes, it's . . . the food is delicious." For all the A- and B-list stars I'd seen in the months I'd worked for Mrs. W—, all the members of important families, this was my first moment of being truly awed, acting like a tongue-tied fan. I kind of admired this guy—he had come from a humble background to achieve worldwide fame; he'd gone from a rural village in France to a mansion in Holmby Hills. And it was true, his food was delicious.
"Thank you," he said, and then I realized that this wasn't what he'd meant; he hadn't been fishing for compliments. "I've lived in Beverly Hills for more than twenty years," he said, "and these spectacles never cease to amaze me."
"Yes, these ladies are something." He'd immediately pegged me as not belonging. Was it that obvious? "But some of them are nice."
"They're awful," he said.
I didn't know how to respond to this, and so we stood silently for a minute, watching servers go by with trays of plates full of half-eaten fish, expensive food that went straight to the dumpster. It occurred to me that the famous chef's smock was quite dirty, smudged with food stains, and I realized that he didn't just leave the cooking to minions, that he still did the actual work.
"Well, I think . . . these ladies are lucky to have you. They must know that. I mean, you're _famous_. More famous than all of them put together."
"Caroline Randall is always respectful to me and my staff, that is true. The rest of them are not."
"I can't believe that."
The chef laughed. "Young man, let me tell you a story. That second woman who spoke, the head of the events committee? She and her husband are regular customers of my first restaurant in Brentwood. They come in at least once a week, and sometimes my wife and I have a drink with them after dinner."
A server walked by with a plate of desserts, and the chef stopped him, readjusted a mint leaf on a slice of cake, and then sent him on.
"Well, last month I was visiting my new restaurant in Paris. It was packed; it had only been open for a couple of weeks—this is my first restaurant in my home country, you see. That same man and his wife are there, on their annual vacation to France. Only I didn't know they were coming and was delighted to see them. I have a bottle of champagne sent to their table, gratis, because it's busy and they are having to wait. But when I go over to say hello, you know what he does?"
"What?"
"He looks at me, and in front of everyone, in my home country, he says, _Where's my fucking food?_ "
* * *
The luncheon broke up a half an hour later and I finally made my escape. I texted Fiona and let her know that I would be in the bar of the Pinnacle Hotel, a couple of miles down the hill off Sunset. It was only two thirty, but what else did I have to do that day?
I had mixed feelings about the Pinnacle. It was a gorgeous old hotel, built in the 1920s, all grand archways and intricate molding and sleek marble floors. I'd gone to the wedding of a Stanford classmate there, and had loved stopping off at the classic old bar. The beauty of the place, though, was undercut by two other experiences. My father had once done some electrical work for the hotel—he'd been hired as a subcontractor by a big Westside company—and the management had haggled over the invoice. Then later, when my parents, in an indefatigable mixture of immigrant and blue-collar pride, had wanted to have formal pictures taken there to mark my twentieth birthday—coming-of-age day in Japan—we had been escorted away from the front of the building by an overzealous security guard. My mother, in a fit of admirable pique, had decided the photos would be taken just over the property line—which they were, with the hotel visible in the background, the security guard keeping watch.
But today I walked into the lobby with no interference and took the winding marble stairs up to the main floor. I made my way to the bar and found a seat, glad to blend in with all the anonymous people who happened to be at the Pinnacle that day. Most of them were guests, I figured, and maybe a few, like me, were stopping by after events, enjoying a drink and a bit of elegance before heading back home or to work. The place was dark and beautiful, straight out of some classic movie, with elaborate chandeliers, gold fixtures, and velvet lampshades. There was a shield flanked by matching centaurs over the mantel of the bar, and figures of Neptune and winged, bare-breasted nymphs were carved into the stone columns. The bar itself was long and sleek, dark wood encrusted with gold. There were big enveloping chairs, and love seats, and several low tables; couples and groups of four or five sat in these more private areas, heads bent over cocktails and nuts. I found a seat at the bar and glanced up at the incongruous flat-screen above the shelves of liquor; the Dodgers were playing a preseason game.
I ordered a pint of Sam Adams and settled in, glad to be away from the people at Fiona's luncheon, who gave such money and wielded such influence over matters about which most of them knew little. Once, twice, a burst of laughter from the other end of the bar—a group of young women, unfittingly loud for the venue—but I ignored them and turned to the screen.
I'd downed two-thirds of my beer when someone slid into the chair next to me. I knew who it was from the heightened energy in the air; I turned to find Fiona, looking as close to self-conscious as I'd ever seen her.
"Was it unbearable?" she asked.
"Hi," I said. Despite my earlier irritation, I was happy she was there. "No, it wasn't unbearable. Sorry—I had to get out of there."
"No, _I'm_ sorry. I had to stay and talk to some people. I was hoping you'd still be here, and now here you are. I'm in need of a drink myself."
She ordered a martini, dry; when it arrived and she took her first sip of it, she visibly relaxed. Then she took another, bigger sip, and half the drink was gone.
"Tell me the truth, you hated it, didn't you? It was a bit much, I know. The speakers droned on for too long."
I smiled, amused that Fiona believed it was the speakers I was reacting to. "Mrs. Randall was surprisingly nice."
"Oh, Caroline," said Fiona, rolling her eyes. "She married into that money, you know."
I took a sip of my beer and didn't reply.
"You're not saying much. You didn't say much at the luncheon either. It makes me nervous when people don't talk."
"I was just observing," I said.
"You do that well."
There was a shout to the left of us, someone cheering a Dodgers hit; then an unrelated squeal from the girls at the end of the bar. Fiona flinched at both sounds, and it occurred to me how completely out of place she was here, out amongst regular people. This wasn't a dive or pickup joint, or even some trendy West Hollywood night spot; it was a classic, lovely bar, in a hotel that was once one of the most famous in LA. But even so, it was open to anyone, you didn't need a membership or a trust fund to get in the front door, and Fiona, in her custom-made $3,000 dress, looked as incongruous as a Bengal tiger in a dog pound. I liked seeing her off balance like this, and maybe I enjoyed it even more because of the lunch I'd just endured—though as soon as I was aware of this, I was quickly ashamed; I suddenly felt tender and protective.
"I don't know," she said now. She twisted the stem of her glass in her hand, and then turned in her seat to face me. "I keep thinking that by raising money for good causes, it's going to make a difference, it's going to _mean_ something. My father tells me that we should only bet on winners—the established organizations, the museums and colleges. But it all feels so stodgy, so . . . _indirect_. Maybe he's right, though." She sighed. "I don't know what all this money and effort really amount to. He told me to quit dancing too, when I hit twenty-five—he said it was hurting my chance to get married and have kids. And I missed it, you know, I missed it terribly, and hated him. But it turns out that he was right."
I finished the last gulp of my beer and called the barkeep back over, ordering another martini for her and a bourbon, neat, for me. I swiveled in the stool to face her; we were almost knee to knee. "It was good, what you did today. It's good you're trying to make a difference."
But I knew that her reasons were different than the hostess's reasons; Caroline Randall's intentions were genuine and clear. And so what if she had married into her wealth? At least she knew what to do with it.
"You're sweet," Fiona said, then leaned forward, her knee brushing mine. "You know what? Janice, Kerry, and I are going to the Huntington on Thursday. You mentioned before that you like the Huntington—want to join us? No lectures, no fashion show, just enjoying an afternoon out."
I smiled. "Thanks, but I can't. Thursday's one of my scheduled days at Mrs. W—'s. I don't think she'd like it if I canceled."
"Do you always do what Mrs. W— says?"
"Do you always do what your father says?"
She leaned back and I couldn't read the look on her face. "Touché."
"I'm sorry," I said. "That was out of line." I refrained from saying the rest of it, which was that I didn't exactly have a perfect track record myself when it came to fathers. Just that week my mother had called to say my father was in bad spirits, his business was really taking a hit with the growth of the bigger companies. She didn't say—but I knew—that there were other worries behind that worry; her salary alone wasn't enough to cover their mortgage. She asked if I could visit, but I was too busy, I'd said, buried in dissertation work, although I hadn't touched those pages in weeks. In fact, I'd gathered them up and shoved them into the bottom of a file cabinet so they wouldn't be out and visible, taunting me.
Fiona shook her head and waved me off, eyes lowered. "No, you're absolutely right. I _have_ done everything he's said. Went to Wellesley. Went to Julliard. Became a dancer. _Stopped_ being a dancer. Married Aaron. Had a baby. And look where it's gotten me. Nowhere."
"You're not nowhere. You've got everything going for you."
And she did. Everyone loved her. She was attractive. She had an Ivy League degree and interesting work to do. And of course there was all that money. But suddenly I remembered something my mother had said after that awkward graduation weekend at Stanford: _You're too impressed with people whose greatest accomplishment was being born lucky._
"Well, thank you, Richard, but it's hard to see what all of it adds up to. I want to _do_ something. Useful. I want to have some impact on somebody."
"You do."
She smiled wryly. "You're nice," she said. And now she shifted in such a way that her knee brushed my leg again; I felt the heat of it shoot through my body. "You know, I was really glad you were there today. I'm glad you're here now."
"Me too."
There was another burst of laughter from the women at the end of the bar, enough to break the spell. Suddenly I remembered why I had come that day.
"So, I found out who the fourth person was," I said. "The other man in the accident."
Fiona drew back and looked at me intently. "Who?"
"A man named Jimmy Castillo. Do you know him?"
She looked perplexed. "Jimmy Castillo. No—never heard of him. I don't know anyone named Castillo."
My heart sank—so this news wasn't as revelatory as I'd hoped.
"Are you sure?" Fiona asked. "How'd you find this out?"
"A friend of a friend who works up there, who knew about the accident."
"And this person's dependable?"
"I think so. He's one of the paramedics who responded to the call."
She was silent for a moment. "I just don't know a Castillo. He must have been a friend of the Larsons, maybe visiting from someplace else. But he's definitely not from LA."
I wondered how she could be so confident about this, so certain that, just because he wasn't part of her circle, he was from someplace else entirely. And her circle, I knew, was small—she and her peers not only lunched together, but traveled together, sent their children to the same exclusive schools.
"Maybe he was a friend of Steven J—'s," I ventured.
Fiona shook her head decisively. "No, I would have known." She turned the full force of her attention on me, light-blue eyes looking deep into my own, undoing me. "But this is wonderful, Richard. Thank you so much for finding out. I just wish . . ."
"What?" I leaned forward.
"I just wish we could figure out who this man _was_."
She looked at me searchingly, and I realized that this was the one thing I could do for her, the one area where her considerable resources and power didn't seem to be serving her much. It didn't occur to me to wonder why she wanted to know.
"Do you want me to keep looking around?" I asked.
"Yes. Could you?" She curved her hand over my knee and squeezed, then ran her fingers just a bit up my thigh. Our eyes met again. And it felt like the entire room tilted an inch, like everything had shifted. The man still nursed his beer behind me, the girls still laughed at the bar. But everything was different, and my breath caught in my throat and I couldn't think of a thing to say. Fiona smiled. She knew what she was doing to me.
I finally broke the eye contact and turned back to my drink. "Sure," I said, "I'll see what else I can find."
We finished our drinks, our conversation venturing back to the safer ground of the luncheon, only occasionally meeting each other's eyes. Eventually the check came, and she allowed me to pay; we walked out of the bar together.
"I'm downstairs," Fiona said. "I'll text my driver so he can pull around in front."
"Okay, I'll see you out."
"That's silly, go get in line for your car—it'll probably take half an hour."
I didn't tell her that I'd opted for the six-dollar parking across the street rather than the twenty-eight-dollar valet. "Well, at least to the elevator," I said. "If I have to wait anyway, I might as well walk you that far."
She shrugged, and sent her text, and then we walked together on the plush Oriental carpet, just a few people passing now, through the cavernous hall, under the ornately carved ceiling. I wasn't sure whether to offer my arm and decided against it, though I could feel her presence next to me, feel her warmth, and my heart beat a mile a minute. We turned into the elevator bank, which overlooked the bottom lobby; from below, the sounds of jazz floated up to us. We went over to the railing and looked down at that lovely space, and Fiona leaned against me, shoulder to shoulder, and covered my hand with her own. She smiled up at me now, and her look was unmistakable. Even through my disbelief, I knew that her signals were clear.
And so why didn't I lean over and kiss her? I had thought about it so many times, had ached with desire, and now here she was, presented to me, and I did nothing. Uncertain in other areas of my life, I usually wasn't hesitant with women. But looking at Fiona at that moment was like walking into a jewelry store whose goods I knew I couldn't afford. I wanted badly to handle the jewels, to feel their fineness in my fingers. But I was too afraid to touch. I had no right to them.
Then the metallic tone of the elevator arriving. I took a step back from her and said as calmly as I could, "Well, goodbye."
She stepped toward me again—she always stood too close—and quickly lifted her head up and kissed me. Her lips were warm and shocking; she kissed me gently, and then hard, her teeth sharp against my bottom lip. I heard the elevator door open as she reached up with her hand and touched my cheek and jaw. I lifted my own hands to hold her but she was already away from me and into the elevator. It was empty—how had she known it was going to be empty?—and she stepped to the very back of it and turned toward the front. The door began to slide shut again. "Goodbye," she said, smiling. And then she was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was moving quickly through Mrs. W—'s journals. By now she was in her early thirties; she'd married Baron J— and had given birth to two of her children. The descriptions of events hadn't gotten much more interesting, although her voice stayed consistently sassy. I had the odd sense that I was relating to two women: the Mrs. W— of today, and the one of her youth, whom I might know, at this point, better than she did. I'd gone through nine notebooks already, nearly seven hundred pages, and there were only three to go. Peeking ahead, I'd discerned that much of the final notebook was a history of her grandfather, an account of his life and career. But I didn't let myself skip forward. I wanted to read the journals in order, to reserve that story until I'd earned it. It occurred to me that the end of the project was in sight, which meant the end of everything that came with it—the afternoons at Casa del Cielo, the charity events, the reasons to see Fiona. I didn't want any of this to come to a close. I purposely slowed down my typing.
We had settled into a routine: I would read and transcribe for two hours or so, then break for lunch with Mrs. W— before working for another hour. Sometimes she would walk me through other wings of the mansion and talk about the paintings and sculptures she'd collected. Her tastes were eclectic, and ranged from classic to modern—van Gogh and Baldessari; Monet and Ruscha—and I slowly came to understand that she owned one of the finest collections in the city. She didn't seem to mind my near total ignorance of art; maybe I was indulging her in a way her children hadn't. And I drank up the attention, the education, which was all part of my improvement; which was preparing me to move more smoothly in her world.
One afternoon, as we sat on the patio and dined on shrimp salad, I presented her with a small wrapped package.
"A gift?" she asked, genuinely surprised. "For me?"
"Open it," I said, grinning. It was hard to find an appropriate gift for someone who had everything, but I thought she might enjoy this one. She tore open my barely competent wrapping and pulled out two costumes for her dogs—one designed like a bottle of white wine, the other a bottle of red.
"For Chardonnay and Pinot," I explained.
She laughed delightedly, and then I helped her gather the dogs, who stared up at me as I wiggled the costumes over their heads and then sat tolerantly on the patio to be admired. They looked ridiculous, and when Maria came out and saw them, she covered her mouth with her hand and giggled, which made Mrs. W— laugh all over again. I snapped a couple of pictures on my phone, so I could print one and have it framed.
Eventually we got back to eating lunch, and I described what I'd read that morning: her account of a fundraiser she'd attended for Richard Nixon in 1967, including her observation—several years before Watergate—that he seemed _sly and uncertain. Not a confident man. And unconfident men can be dangerous._
"I'm a good reader of people," she explained, clearly pleased with herself, and with me for finding this.
"Apparently so!"
"But if you're up to 1967," she remarked, "you're two-thirds of the way through. I mean, not in my life, but in the notebooks."
"Your journal slows down in the late sixties," I acknowledged. "Why did you start writing less?"
She poked at her salad without looking up; for a moment I thought she hadn't heard me. "It was difficult, you know," she said finally, "when my children were young. I didn't have time for writing."
I left this alone, although I was aware of all the things she didn't mention—the death of her husband followed not long afterward by the loss of her parents; the quiet bearing of her burdens alone. It suddenly occurred to me that I'd never seen a picture of Baron J—. Maybe she kept one upstairs in her private quarters; maybe she stored all his likenesses away. Neither would have surprised me. By now I'd realized something about Mrs. W— and her ilk: the WASPs, like the Japanese, did not discuss their feelings.
"How long do you suppose it will take to finish?" she asked.
I thought about this. "Probably not more than three or four weeks."
"You'll have to stay on until the Founders' Luncheon," she said. The next month, on her birthday, she was going to be honored by the USC Founders Club, at the Ludlow Hotel in Beverly Hills. Clearly this was not just in recognition of her grandfather's gifts, but also for what they hoped she'd leave the school from her estate. She was looking forward to it, though, and her claims not to care about the honor were belied by how often she brought it up.
"I will," I promised. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"There's something else I'd like to discuss," she said, patting her mouth with a napkin. "Do you think . . . I wonder . . . What I mean to say is, I may have some other projects. Would you want to stay on here?"
I was caught off guard—not just by her question, but by what it implied. Whether it was out of affection, or the need for work to be done, or sheer loneliness, she wanted to keep me around.
"And I've been thinking," she continued. "You're such a bright young man. You could do anything, and yet you're stuck in that useless PhD program." She said _PhD_ as if it were a mild disease. "Have you ever thought of doing something more practical? Like business or law?"
"I have," I said, although that wasn't really true. Or maybe it was true, as of that moment. "But it's a bit late to change course now. And I'm not really in a position to take out more loans."
"There's no need for loans. I could help, don't you see? And it's never too late—you're still very young. You could start at the law school or the business school in the fall!"
I sat up straight, startled, but also intrigued. I didn't bother to ask which school she meant. "That's very kind of you, Mrs. W—" I managed, truly touched. "But I couldn't. Besides, it's just not practical. Even if I wanted to go, applications were due last November."
She waved this away. "That doesn't matter. I could talk to the president."
"Mrs. W—, I know you have a lot of influence, but—"
"There are always special circumstances. And I'll simply remind him that I am the university's largest donor."
"I'm not sure that would help, Mrs. W—. I mean, I appreciate your offer, I really do. But money can't solve everything."
"Of course it can."
I sat thinking about this, sipping from my glass of iced tea. Mrs. W— softened now, and looked at me with an expression I hadn't seen before. "You've been such good company, Richard. I've enjoyed your being here."
"I've enjoyed it too," I said, afraid to meet her gaze. I looked around, my eyes falling on the second-story windows. I imagined Mrs. W— up there, in one of the many bedrooms, looking down at the patio, the garden, the spread of the city, entirely alone. Other than her staff, I realized, I was her only company.
"At any rate," she went on, sounding breezy again, "I just want you to live up to your potential. You could do so much more—don't you think?—than what you're doing."
* * *
During my next couple of sessions at Mrs. W—'s, I didn't get much work done. I kept thinking about the imminent end of my project and the prospect of losing all that came with it. Then I thought about her offers—of continued work, and of help shifting careers—and I would get overwhelmed, unable to contemplate either changing my life or going back to what it had been. Filing my dissertation away hadn't lessened its hold on me; I couldn't muster the will to get back to it, yet its presence seemed to grow, evidence of my lack of persistence. If I failed to complete it, I would be letting down my family—but turning away the chance for a better career might be worse.
One afternoon I sat, literally spinning in my leather chair, and found myself looking at the portraits on the wall, the paintings of the three young people. I'd assumed they were likenesses of Mrs. W— and her brother, and maybe a third relative, a cousin, because of how strange and old-fashioned they seemed. But now I realized they were paintings of her children. The eldest boy, Bart, looked stolid and decent, if a bit subdued. The girl was rather plain—not at all unpleasant, but without the beauty or self-possession of her mother. It must have been hard, I understood, to be Mrs. W—'s child, and especially her daughter. The younger boy—this had to be Steven—had an expression that seemed resentful and just short of angry. There was a flatness to his eyes that came across through all the years between now and when the paintings were done. It occurred to me that these were the only likenesses I'd seen of Mrs. W—'s children. They were locked in this room with only the company of her journals, as if already confined to her past.
I'd been sitting with the information Kevin had found about Steven's accident, not knowing what to do. I had no lead on Jimmy Castillo. Though as I began transcribing the tenth notebook under Steven's cold gaze, I wondered if I could find something related to _him_ that might help shed light on the story. I already knew there was nothing in the house that hinted at his adult life. But maybe I could find out where he lived; maybe I could track down someone who knew him. I couldn't ask Maria or Lourdes, of course—that would be too suspicious. And when I googled his name, I found very little—just a record of the incident from the after-hours club many years ago, and a couple of mentions of him in connection to his mother. The only way to get more information was by snooping. And I needed more information. I told myself that I wasn't really prying too much, that finding out more about Steven was just filling in some blanks, fun sleuthing to complement my hired task. Yet I understood that Fiona probably wouldn't see me alone again until I had something more to tell her. And I could not stop thinking about her. I tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep, tortured by unspent desire. I kept imagining our kiss at the Pinnacle; I should have followed her into the elevator and pressed her up against the wall.
And so I found myself, one Thursday afternoon, lingering in the hallway outside of Mrs. W—'s office. Mrs. W— was out at a gallery, shopping for art, and Lourdes was tidying up in the smallest of the three sitting rooms, the one that Mrs. W— actually used. I could hear her running the vacuum cleaner and that provided me cover as I gently turned the knob on the office door. I held my breath as if about to jump underwater, and dove in.
I'd been in this office once before, when Mrs. W— had gone in to retrieve some paperwork, but that time I had stayed in the doorway. I was there long enough, though, to realize that all her household and family matters were handled, tracked, processed, and documented here. In the top drawer of the desk, I knew, was the large accounting book where she kept track of household expenses; I'd seen her write out the regular check to me. She didn't lock the drawers or the door to the room—why should she? She had no reason to believe that anyone in her house had less than the best of intentions.
I also knew, because of Lourdes, that Mrs. W— kept family items here, and as I ventured farther into the room I was greeted with holiday cards and photographs of five different young adults, presumably grandchildren, all with variations of the high, broad cheeks and narrow jaws that marked them as members of the W— clan. There were two photographs of a grown man in a ranch setting, wearing a cowboy hat and plaid shirt. I recognized him as her first son, Bart. There were pictures, as well, of a middle-aged woman who shared certain features with Mrs. W—: the cheekbones and jaw, a certain tilt of the head. Yet this woman seemed a diminished version of her, as if made from leftover material. So, Bart and Jessica were here, and all of their children. But there were no pictures of a third adult child. No pictures of Steven.
I listened to make sure that the vacuum was still going and then ducked down, suddenly aware that someone working in the garden might see me through the window. I sat hurriedly in Mrs. W—'s hard-backed chair to get out of the line of sight. What was it like to sit in that chair, and to contemplate and distribute such wealth? I couldn't begin to imagine. Carefully I opened the bottom file drawer, wondering if this was where she kept records of her children.
The drawer held a dozen or so hanging files that were filled with individual folders, all neatly labeled with names of financial institutions and funds. I pulled out one of these and looked at a quarterly statement; just this one account contained more than enough to pay for USC's most recent building renovation. I replaced that folder and rifled through the others. Nothing personal or family-related here.
There was an accordion folder lodged in the back of the drawer; I gave it a tug and pulled it out. Inside were envelopes, maybe three or four dozen. I assumed they were for Mrs. W—, sent from banks or business associates, but when I tipped the folder open and the envelopes scattered on the desk, they were older than I'd thought. Much older—dated 1911, 1905, 1921. Addressed not to Mrs. W—, but to Langley. The envelopes were in good shape despite being a century old; when I opened them, I saw the letters were too.
_Mr. W—,_ one said, written in a shaky, unlearned hand, _thank you for paying off the note on our farm house. You say the wool from our sheep helped your mother make clothes last winter, but we was just being good neighbors to one whos always been good to us. You are a true gentleman._
_Dear Langley,_ said another, _I simply cannot get over your generosity, and neither, truth be told, can the rest of this town. It's one thing to purchase enough wood for the people to make it through winter. It's another to tell me that I was charging too low a price and to pay nearly twice what I asked. Your generosity not only helped the townsfolk get through the season, it saved my logging operation and mill, and thus dozens of jobs._
_Sir,_ one of them said simply, _when I came back from the war and lost my leg, I did not know how I would manage. Thank you for giving me a job with your company. It has made it possible for me to stay home in Bakersfield, and to care for my wife and young son._
_To Langley W—,_ said one from 1921, _I grew up in the Magnolia Home for Boys. I met you when you came out to the home to donate land for our new football field. Some other boys were teasing me because I didn't want to play. You told me not to despair, that every man had a purpose, and that those of us who'd lost our parents must be particularly strong for God to have placed upon us such a burden. You have no idea how much your kindness meant to me. I went to college and then law school at the University of Southern California, and now I am an attorney in Los Angeles. Had it not been for the Magnolia Home and your encouragement, sir, I shudder to think what would have become of me._
_Mr. W—,_ said the last one I read, written in pencil, _I know it is of no use to write you now that you're gone. But when I went to pay my respects at your funeral, they turned me and other workingmen away. So let me thank you in the only way I can and hope the message reaches you or your family somehow. You gave me a chance years ago on a drill site in Kern County, when others thought I was too scrawny to work. That was the first step that led to my own business, manufacturing drilling cable. You wouldn't remember me anyway, but I will always remember you. I remember you sitting down next to me one day when I was eating lunch, when I was tired and discouraged and didn't think I could keep on. And you told me it was always hard at first, but that I should buck up, because you knew I could do it, you saw something in me, and that helped me see something in myself._
These letters struck me differently than the self-serving accounts in Langley's book, the one compiled by the Colonial Club. They described a man consistent with the grandfather in the postcard—which I'd safely returned to Mrs. W—'s journal. I was now about ready to transcribe the final notebook, which documented more of his story, and I was eager to learn about the contours of the world in which this larger-than-life figure had moved. It occurred to me that part of Langley's decency, which I believed was real, was due to his having been poor and, more importantly, to his remembering what being poor had been like. He lived well, yes, but he never forgot. His descendants, on the other hand, had never known.
I spun around and looked at the small bookshelf, searching for more documents, but it didn't yield what I sought. It held more photographs, and books on artists and history, a picture book of garden estates. I listened to make sure the vacuum was still going—it was. I turned back to the desk and opened the top drawer now, the one that held the checks, and pulled out a photo album–sized ledger. There were records of checks written out to me, and to Lourdes and the other household staff; doing some quick calculations, I saw that Lourdes made more than most teachers or cops. There were some other checks that appeared to be made out to insurance companies on behalf of the staff; then a large check—$36,000—marked, _Blakely School, Virginia._ I wondered at this; none of Mrs. W—'s grandchildren went to school in Los Angeles, so why would she be paying tuition to the swankiest girls' school in the city? Then I realized: Lourdes's eight-year-old daughter was named Virginia. Mrs. W— was full of surprises.
Beneath the first ledger there were two others, leather-bound and smaller. I lifted them out and opened the cover of the one on top. It was a record of Mrs. W—'s charitable donations—some that I recognized, including one to the children's hospital in Santa Monica, but many more I didn't. Scanning through the record, I saw a number of six-figure donations, as well as a couple at seven figures, to children's charities, arts organizations, research centers, schools, as well as animal and wildlife organizations, a few conservation efforts, and—most surprisingly—a legal aid organization for immigrants. This last, I realized, was the place that helped Maria. All of these donations had been unknown to me—and, I understood, to everyone else as well.
I put this ledger aside and opened the last one, where I found handwritten records of particularly large payments, earnings, and transfers—2.3 million dollars in dividends here, a payment of 10.4 million for a property there. This seemed to be the record of even bigger–ticket items, not charity-related, which was borne out by the other items I saw: a deposit of eight million from another account; a payment of four million for a house in Montecito. There were not many entries, and the dates were far apart—there'd been fewer than thirty entries since 2005.
Then I saw something that caught my eye—a payment of twenty million dollars to something called _First Quarter_ , dated May 24, 2009. That was a month after the accident at Cliffhaven. And just a few weeks later, on July 2, a transfer to the account of Steven J— in the amount of two hundred and fifty million dollars.
Why such huge amounts of money? I wondered. I knew Steven had been severely injured, maybe paralyzed—but still, this seemed like more than it would have cost to nurse him back to health, to sustain him as he recovered. Was First Quarter some kind of rehabilitation facility? And how, given his mother's almost unthinkable generosity, could Steven fail to be in touch with her now? I didn't know, and yet I knew I had _something_ —that there was meaning here I couldn't yet see. And so I took out my phone and snapped pictures of both of the entries. Then I put the ledgers back in the drawer and slipped out of the room.
* * *
That night, I spent two hours searching the Internet and found next to nothing. There were several sporting goods shops called First Quarter throughout the country, even a coin-collecting operation. But the First Quarter I was looking for wasn't either of these. All I could determine was that there was some kind of business called First Quarter in Paso Robles. That had to be the place. There was nothing but a PO box listed as an address, no indication of what it did or whom it belonged to.
Still, I knew I was on to something, and the more I contemplated that check as well as the huge transfer of money to Steven, the more I was convinced it was not a coincidence. I was starting to think I needed to take a trip to the Central Coast. But first I wanted to tell Fiona.
I was vaguely aware that sharing what I'd found was venturing further into questionable territory, yet I was too caught up in Fiona to care. It didn't register then that I was also acting against my own best interests. I should have remembered what Janet, the card shark, had said about why she avoided solitaire: when you play yourself, she told me once, you almost always lose.
The next afternoon I texted Fiona around two o'clock, figuring she'd be done or nearly done with whatever luncheon she had that day. _I have something_ , I wrote cryptically. And this time, instead of the buzz of a text, the music of an incoming call.
"What is it?" she asked without identifying herself.
"Hello, Fiona," I said. "How are you doing?"
"Oh, come _on_ ," she said, laughing, "don't be a tease. What did you find?"
"A couple of money transfers around the time of the accident. Big ones. One of them to Steven."
"Are there records? Did you get copies?"
"No—I took pictures of them, though."
"On your phone?"
"Yes."
"Send them to me."
I hesitated. Letting them out of my possession didn't feel right; giving them to Fiona would be a bigger violation than the one I'd already committed. "I'd rather show them to you."
She didn't miss a beat: "Okay, why don't you come meet me?"
My heart started pounding. "Now?"
"Yes, now!" She laughed again.
"Where are you?"
"At the Beach Club," she said, naming another private club that I'd never known existed until a few months before and now had been to several times. "But don't come here. Meet me at the Bismarck, in the bar."
I put on a dress shirt and a pair of gray pants and headed over to Santa Monica. The traffic on the 10 was already sluggish, and it took me an hour to get there. The hotel was on a bluff overlooking the beach; it was huge, stately, and ornate. It stood like a castle, surrounded by greenery and iron fences, and after I turned into the gated driveway, I relinquished my old car to the suited valet. As soon as I could, I promised myself, I'd get a better car.
I followed the signs for the bar, scanning the indoor seats and the spacious outdoor patio. No sign of Fiona. I asked a waitress if there was another bar, which there was, and I checked there too—a darker, more private place—though she wasn't there either. Finally I texted: _I'm in the bar now, where are you?_
And my phone lit up with the answer: _In the bar in the presidential suite. Twenty-fourth floor._
Of course she'd be in a more removed location, separate from the public. I took the elevator up to the twenty-fourth floor, imagining a tiny, private space of three or four tables, as I'd now seen in several other posh hotels. Yet when I disembarked from the elevator and approached the door of the suite, it looked like a regular hotel room, and there was no doorman stationed in front. I knocked, and Fiona answered, smiling. She was wearing a blue-green sundress that clung to her body and set off the blue of her eyes. Her hair was down, flowing over her shoulders; her arms and legs were totally bare.
"Come in," she said. "It's a beautiful day." She took my arm and ushered me into a huge set of rooms that probably occupied half the floor. There were windows on three sides, and a patio that looked out at a gorgeous view of the ocean.
"Where's . . . ?" I started.
She led me over to a high counter with a couple of stools and ceremoniously sat me down. "The bar," she said. "At the presidential suite."
I still wasn't sure what to make of this—there were several other rooms, and through an open doorway I saw a cool, spacious bed, covered with a light white comforter. Maybe some of her girlfriends were here, or somebody else. As if she read my mind, she said, "I'm alone. I took the suite for the night. Sometimes I sneak away and spend a night in a hotel, when everything gets to be too much."
"And your family?" I asked.
"They're understanding. I can be a royal bitch when I get stressed or overtired, so my husband is _very_ supportive of me going off by myself to recharge."
She smiled at me, and there was something in the way she lifted one side of her mouth, the way she held my eyes, that suddenly made me aware that we were alone in a hotel suite together, hidden away and unaccounted for. My heart began to thump so hard I was sure she could see it through my shirt. I was afraid to move, and afraid not to, and she gave a small, flirtatious laugh, as if she knew exactly what kinds of knots she was tying me up in.
"Want a drink?" she offered, and before I replied she'd poured me a bourbon and herself a glass of wine. We toasted each other across the bar. I took two midsized gulps, the burning sensation dulling my nerves a bit, before she asked, "Why don't you show me what you've got?" I must have looked startled, because she threw her head back and laughed. "The pictures, silly. The records of the payments."
I took my phone out of my pocket, opened up the photo of one of the records, and handed it to her. She leaned over the bar, revealing enough for me to see she wasn't wearing a bra, and held the phone like a piece of precious evidence.
"What the hell is First Quarter?" she asked.
"I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."
"Never heard of it. But twenty million dollars. And then . . . my God!" She'd just scrolled over to the picture of the payment to Steven. She looked up at me, then back at the phone again. "Two hundred and fifty million dollars?"
"I know. Can you believe it? The only thing I can think of is that it's all related to his care. He was badly injured, right?"
"Yes. But that doesn't explain it. And it's not like he really needs this money—he's already got a trust fund."
"Well, I don't know, but I think there's something there." And then, loosened by the alcohol and the proximity of Fiona, I said, "Maybe I should take a trip up to the Central Coast."
She put the phone down on the bar and took my hand. "Really?"
"I'm thinking about it," I said. The warmth of her touch moved up my arm and radiated through my body. "Between those payments and figuring out who Jimmy Castillo is, it might make sense to go there in person." Did it really? Maybe. But what else did I have to do? I was a graduate student with no real commitments, beyond my few hours a week with Mrs. W—; no one would care or even notice if I was gone. It would probably do me good to get away for a couple of days. I was so caught up in Fiona that I couldn't get my own work done, anyway. "I'd have to rearrange my schedule, but I don't think I can get much further without going up there and digging around. Cambria's probably the best bet, since it's the closest town to Cliffhaven."
She stroked my hand, not acknowledging what I knew we both knew: that she could never go to a public place and be inconspicuous. "You did well, Richard." And now she smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "This is fun."
It _was_ fun. I loved pleasing her. I loved making her smile. And I loved unearthing information that was related to present-day events, rather than obscure but useless facts to be examined, analyzed, and stuffed into a boring dissertation that no one except my advisors would ever read.
It became more fun when Fiona poured us another round of drinks and we ventured out to the patio. It was a beautiful afternoon—midseventies, the sky still April-clear. The entire coast of Southern California was spread out before us—the land curving out along the Palos Verdes Peninsula and again to the north toward Malibu; Catalina Island green and welcoming in the distance. On that patio we were well above the next-highest buildings; we were alone with the wind and the birds. I loved how the breeze played with Fiona's blond hair; the way the sun shone on her skin. We pointed out seagulls, a boat sailing on the horizon, an airplane trailing an advertisement. With each new sighting Fiona grabbed my hand or pressed her bare shoulder against my arm, and finally, when the sea and the sun and the bourbon were all mixed up together, I turned her toward me by the shoulders and kissed her. She drew back, giggling, and then kissed me in return, all laughter gone now as our bodies bent toward each other and the air around us changed.
So what was it like to make love to the woman I'd dreamed about for months? I wish I could say it was earth-shattering, transcendent—that it lived up to my most precious imaginings. But as we moved from the patio to the bed with its white-white covers, I felt a resistance in Fiona, a holding ground, even as her body gave way; even as she—with seeming fervor—undid my shirt and my pants and pulled me down on top of her. The heat of our bodies couldn't dislodge the undercurrent of cold; it was like making love to an ice floe, frozen and unreachable. When it was over—which happened quickly—it was almost a relief, and we didn't look at each other for several moments. I had no business being there, I thought again; she was way beyond my reach. But then we started again, slowly and much more in sync, and I took the time to linger.
At one point, Fiona stopped me and held my face in both her hands. "You are beautiful," she said huskily.
"So are you."
Two, three hours afterward we lay tangled in the sheets, the ocean breeze coming in through the open windows. The sun had started its inexorable lowering, casting a golden light on the dark-green hills, and for a while I watched Fiona's face as she slept, unbelieving of my luck. It was amazing that this woman was lying here beside me. Had I found myself sharing a bed with a princess or a movie goddess, I would not have felt more wonder or reverence.
As I looked at her, out of nowhere I remembered a conversation I'd had with Kevin and Rosanna. After Kevin had seen the condition of my apartment a couple of weeks before, they'd invited me over for a home-cooked meal. As Rosanna worked over a pan of chicken and onions, Kevin cajoled me into showing him a picture of, as he put it, my "new lady." He didn't have to push very hard. I'd wanted to show her off, and with a slight feeling of self-consciousness, of claiming too much, I called up a picture from one of the photograph services that always came to society functions. In it, Fiona wore a shimmery black dress, and she posed with one hand on her hip.
Kevin whistled. "Very nice," he said, mock-punching me on the shoulder. "Very classy."
"Let me see!" Rosanna called out from the kitchen, demanding the phone. Kevin snatched it from my hand and took it over to her, ignoring my protests. She stared at the image, spatula still suspended over her pan, then leaned in for a closer look. "She's had a lot of work done, huh?"
"What do you mean?" I said.
"To her face. Botox, her lips, maybe some tucking around the eyes."
"Really?" I was genuinely surprised, thinking Rosanna was just jealous. "How can you tell?"
She snorted. "How can you _not_?"
But watching Fiona now, as she lay still, I saw no signs of what Rosanna was talking about. She must have made it up, I decided. Fiona looked perfect to me.
We ordered room service and lounged around in our robes, feeding each other filet mignon and strawberries. We drank a bottle and a half of champagne and watched the sunset, took a long, sloppy bubble bath, and then made love again until we passed out.
When I finally awoke the next morning, Fiona wasn't in bed; I stumbled out to the main room to find her fully dressed, completely put back together, as if the last afternoon and night had never happened.
She smiled and came over to give me a kiss. "Look at you, you sleepy bear. You're very cute. But I have to go. A meeting in Century City at ten o'clock."
She couldn't stay for breakfast, not even a cup of coffee. I tried to suppress my disappointment.
"Thank you for the wonderful, wonderful night," she said, kissing me, flicking her tongue between my lips. Then she walked out the door, not bothering to look back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Central Coast has long been my favorite escape, ever since I went there the summer after high school. My friends and I had stayed in a busy campground in Big Sur, and after that I'd returned almost every year—sometimes back to Big Sur, but more often, especially with girlfriends, to one of the modest, low-key inns in the artsy little tourist town of Cambria. It was close enough that I could take off on a Friday afternoon and arrive in time for dinner, far enough that it felt like we were really getting out of Los Angeles. The coast was wilder north of Santa Barbara, moody and untamed, devoid of the sun bunnies who choked the wide, bland beaches of Southern California. I'd gone up to Big Sur or Cambria at several key moments in my life—when I had to decide whether to leave California for grad school; when I finally told my father that I wasn't interested in the family business. And last year I'd come up to spend a weekend with Chloe, supposedly to celebrate my birthday, but really as part of a last-ditch effort to save our faltering relationship.
It had been overcast most of the weekend, foggy and haunted-feeling; when Chloe and I walked along the boardwalk on Moonstone Beach, we couldn't even see the water. We ventured down the rotting wooden stairs and onto the sand, and as the fog began to lift, we scanned the beach for the colorful stones it was famous for, and the wet black cliffs for mussels, all under the eye of an imperious sea lion, who sprawled on a rock just off shore. Later we drove up the coast to see the elephant seals, the huge, obese, Jabba the Hutt–like creatures that congregated at this particular beach by the hundreds every spring—massive piles of dark flesh protecting their young, most of them lying motionless on the cliff-enclosed beach, completely still except for the flicking of their dexterous fins, which sent sprays of cooling sand over their bodies. The males engaged in loud and spectacular battles, lifting their elongated snouts and slamming their necks together. It was impressive and somewhat comical to watch them in action, and I loved to bring people who'd never seen them.
But when I took Chloe that weekend, the always-rancid smell of the giant beasts was particularly bad, and when we looked directly below us from the edge of the cliff, we saw a huge, bloated, light-colored corpse, well into the process of decay, with three seagulls perched on its barrel chest and feasting on the flesh of its belly. Its intestines and organs were mixed in a gruesome colorful stew; one determined bird pulled on a string of purple innard until it snapped free. Chloe covered her mouth and let out a cry, and I led her down the walkway to our car. On the way back to our hotel room, and long afterward, the stench still filled our nostrils. We went to bed that night without eating dinner. When we got back to LA, she moved out.
* * *
I hadn't been to the Central Coast since Chloe and I had split, and so it was with a sense of dread and heaviness that I started my trip, leaving LA around ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning to avoid commuter traffic. I'd told Mrs. W— on Monday that I had some unavoidable commitments at school, and she'd been fine with me missing a day; I'd go to her house, as scheduled, on Friday. As I drove north and west on the 101, the browning hills and wide valleys of Southern California gave way to greener and wilder land; the cities receded to reveal small, far-flung enclaves of houses; and the highway stretched directly beside the ocean. Somewhere north of Santa Barbara I looked left and saw half a dozen shiny crescents, which I realized were dolphins. Despite my thoughts of Chloe, I felt the relief and lightening that I always felt when the concrete dropped away and the landscape changed. This sense of calm only deepened as I continued north through sprawling farmland, where the last of the California poppies and lupines of spring still dotted the hillsides orange and purple; as the dramatic bluffs and rocks of the Central Coast came into view; as I saw the first groupings of dark, lush Monterey pines, which didn't grow in the warmer climate to the south. I made it to Cambria in just over four hours and checked in at a hotel along Moonstone Beach, purposely avoiding the nicer place where Chloe and I had lodged in favor of the cheaper one I'd often stayed in on my own.
After I dropped off my overnight bag, I walked across the street to the boardwalk and stood looking out at the gorgeous beach and churning blue ocean, the sun glinting brightly off the water. I closed my eyes and breathed in the fresh sea air. For a moment I fantasized about Fiona being there with me, her hair loosened—as I had now finally seen it—and blowing in the wind. I remembered cupping my hands over her shoulders; I remembered the taste of her skin. But she would never, I realized, stay in a place like the one I was staying in, just like she'd never visit me in Jefferson Park, and so I pushed the thought out of my mind. It was close to three o'clock. If I went into town I'd have time to ask around at several places before dinner.
I got in my car and drove back across Highway 1 to the west part of the village, one of two separate mile-long strips of restaurants, galleries, and tourist shops, many in cottage-style buildings, that were choked with tourists on the weekends. But it was quiet on this Tuesday. I went first to the local market that carried organic, high-end fare, fresh seafood and meat; if Jimmy Castillo was part of some established wealthy family, they might shop here—if they did their own shopping at all. I asked the aging, bearded hippie at the first register if he'd heard of him. I was, I said, a friend from high school just passing through town. The guy shook his head and suggested a couple of other places—the fancy pet store, an art gallery, the one auto repair place in town, where everyone—homeowner or worker, wealthy or poor—had no choice but to take their cars. I went to those places and was met with a succession of no's, accompanied by confused, uncomprehending looks or glares of suspicion.
Finally I got a coffee and sat down on a bench in front of a store that carried goods that no one needed, kitschy beach-related decorations and home furnishings. The people who lived in Cambria or who had the kind of money the Larsons did would never shop here, I realized. It was too expensive for the workers who made the restaurants and businesses run, too cheesy and clogged with tourists for the wealthy.
Still, I had no other way of tracking down the man I sought, and so I tried some different places—the gas station, an ice cream parlor. No luck. Eventually, close to six o'clock, I was lured into the barbecue joint I always visited when I was in town; its kitchen opened wickedly onto the street and expelled the irresistible smell of cooking meat. There was a large outdoor patio area, but the inside was cavernous too, with the added benefit of large-screen TVs that were always set to sports stations. I decided to buy a rack of barbecued pork ribs and watch whatever game was on TV. It struck me, as it always did, that the place didn't know whether it wanted to be a sports bar or a surfer hangout. The walls were decorated both with surfboards and framed jerseys of pro baseball and football players. The huge menu display behind the counter offered only a few items: a variety of meat and a couple of sides. I placed my order with a shaggy-haired kid whose quick, precise movements and self-possessed air suggested he was a local.
When he handed me my change, I asked, "Hey, do you happen to know a guy named Jimmy Castillo?" A cloud came over his face—pay dirt—and I quickly explained, "We have a mutual friend who went to high school with him, and she wanted me to ask after him."
"She went to Paso High?" the kid asked. His name tag said _Craig_. "What was her name?"
"Pamela Erickson," I responded, glad that I hadn't told this kid what I'd told the others—that it was I who'd gone to high school with Jimmy. My lack of knowledge of the area would have been quickly obvious. "I think you're too young to have known her."
"She doesn't know then, does she?" the kid said, sounding troubled. "She doesn't know about what happened to Jimmy."
"No," I said, trying not to sound too interested. "What happened?"
"He was in a bad accident." Another customer came up behind me, but when he saw the look on Craig's face, he moved on to another register. "Up at Cliffhaven. A couple of people died, but Jimmy survived, and he's pretty messed up now. No one really knows much about it. I only know because my dad works on a ranch near where Jimmy used to work. He says Jimmy was the best horse trainer he'd ever seen."
"He's a horse trainer?" I asked, forgetting I was supposed to know who he was.
"Yeah," the kid said, now looking at me funny. "Didn't Pamela tell you? That's why he was living on the Larson estate. He trained their horses."
I glanced away from the kid—back at the men laboring in the open kitchen, all Latino, in white cook's clothing—trying to cover my surprise. So Jimmy Castillo had _worked_ for the Larsons. Of course—I should have known.
"Does he still live in the area?" I asked.
Craig nodded. "He lives with his parents over near Paso—they take care of him. No one's seen him since the accident. But you might be able to find out more from his sister Lorena. She works down at the Anchor Café, on Moonstone Beach."
"Lorena," I repeated. "At the Anchor Café." Now my heart was racing. I had an actual lead, a person to talk to. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it." I turned and walked away, intent on going to the Anchor immediately.
"Hey!" Craig shouted as I was halfway to the door. "Hey, don't you want your food?"
* * *
I drove back across Highway 1 and over to Moonstone Beach, along the same string of restaurants, inns, and hotels where I was staying. The Anchor Café was one of the first places on the main part of the drive, about four doors down from my motel. Leaving my bag of takeout on the passenger seat—I was too worked up to eat—I parked and went inside. It was one of those casual beachfront restaurants you might find anywhere along the coast, dark, weathered wood on the outside and decorated with ocean themes within—fishing nets draped from the ceiling, three-and four-foot taxidermy fish attached to the walls and swimming between wooden ships wheels, sand stars, and crabs. There was an eight-foot-tall replica of a lighthouse dominating one corner, facing a stone fireplace that at the moment held no fire. But the tables were full, occupied by families and groups who were speaking loudly, adding to a general sense of liveliness. A young blond woman in a short-sleeve blue uniformed top appeared at the front desk, asked if I was dining alone.
"Actually, I'm looking for someone," I said. "Is Lorena working tonight?"
"No, it's her night off," the girl answered. Her name tag read _Paula_. "But I promise Justine will take good care of you!"
"Oh, no, thanks. I was just coming in to say hi to Lorena. When is she working again?"
"I think tomorrow. Let me check." And she pulled up something on a computer screen in front of her, clicked the mouse a few times. "Yup, breakfast through lunch. She'll be here from seven to three."
I thanked her and drove back to my motel. When I finally got into my room, I realized how tired I was—the drive, the asking around about Jimmy Castillo, the excitement and anticipation of learning about his sister, the disappointment of not immediately finding her. But it was probably for the best. In the morning, I'd be less exhausted and more clear-headed. I went to bed and slept a dreamless sleep.
The next morning I woke up at nine—I'd slept eleven hours—with the unfamiliar urge to go for a run. I'd used to run and bike regularly, but my body had gone to shit in that long post-breakup era of total inertia; of too much beer and unhealthy food. It had been so long since I'd exercised that I'd almost forgotten the high that physical activity could bring, the relief and sense of well-being. But there was something about waking up to the sound of the ocean, the cool fresh air, that made me want to get up and get moving.
And so I did—improvising with my sneakers and the sweats I'd brought to sleep in, jogging slowly up Moonstone Drive. At the inlet I left the road and scrambled down to the beach and kept running on the wet packed sand. There was no one out there except for the seagulls, and the fresh air washed me clean. To my left the ocean crashed dramatically. In front of me lay the Big Sur coast, the green mountains jutting up against the sea. I struggled on, winded, yet feeling alive. A half-mile up the beach I saw three gray pelicans, huge prehistoric things, flying low over the water. They flew single file, in perfect synchronized movement, dipping and rising with the waves. It was gorgeous here. The hills extended into the ocean like the tide in reverse, waves of land pushing out into the water. What secrets this land must have held. A few miles to the north stood Cliffhaven, where Steven J— and Jimmy Castillo had nearly been killed, where Charles Larson and his son had lost their lives. I squinted and tried to discern a structure on one of the hills, but the tops of them were obscured by the morning fog, and I saw nothing but the land itself, immovable and silent, folding endlessly into the distance.
At twelve thirty I walked down to the Anchor Café. A middle-aged man was at the front desk now, and he led me to a table at the window. The place looked different than it had the night before, all the decorations a little more dusty and worn, a bit tacky, in the daylight. Only four of the tables were occupied, and the diners were quieter than the previous night's bunch. One waitress seemed to have responsibility for the whole floor now, and when she passed by I looked at her name tag: _Lorena._
I'd planned to ask about her brother right away, but suddenly it was obvious that doing so would be startling, unkind. Plus I wanted to get a sense of who Lorena was. She looked young, midtwenties. She was of average height, with skin the color of wet sand, and black hair pulled back into a ponytail that flicked one way and then another whenever she switched directions. She was sturdily built—not heavy or even stocky by any means, but not skinny either—no-nonsense, ready for sport or work, no artificial gym-sculpted body. As she delivered plates and picked up empty ones, she was efficient and polite, but not overly so. When she finally came over to my table I got my first look at her eyes—lovely liquid-brown eyes—which seemed a decade or two older than the rest of her.
"Are you ready to order?" she asked, not brusquely, but not messing around either. "Or do you still need a minute?" She had a surprisingly even and resonant voice, no girlish trill, and I sat feeling the significance of having tracked her down and almost forgot to reply.
"Uh, yes," I managed finally. "A burger please."
"Would you like something to start? A salad or some chowder? The chowder is our specialty."
"Sure, a cup of chowder, please," I said, and then she was gone.
She brought the chowder shortly with the same businesslike efficiency, and the burger ten minutes later, allowing a tiny smile as she set the plate down. A middle-aged couple was seated at the table behind me and they engaged her in conversation—yes, she was from the area, she told them; she'd grown up near Paso Robles; her family still lived there and worked on a ranch. She'd gone off to college—Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo—and had come back after graduation; she lived down in Morro Bay with some friends from school.
I ate my burger quickly—I was hungry from my run—and ordered coffee to prolong my stay. Soon Lorena brought me my check. I could say something now or I could let her walk away without her knowing I'd come there to see her. For just a second I wondered if it might be better that way—sometimes, even now, I still wonder. But I'd driven all the way up there to find out about her brother, and so I touched her on the arm as she was turning away, and said, "Excuse me, I'm sorry. But are you Jimmy Castillo's sister?"
She pulled back as if she'd been burned. "I might be," she answered suspiciously. "Who wants to know?"
"My name's Rick Nagano," I said stupidly, as if this would explain anything. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to startle you. But I wanted to talk with you about his accident."
Her mouth twisted into a grimace and I saw the pain in her eyes; all the carefully built artifice, the stalwart defense, had crumbled at the mention of her brother. "Why do you want to talk about that?" She almost spat it at me. "Nothing can be done to change it. Besides, _no one_ wants to talk about the accident."
I didn't know what this meant, but sensed an opening. "There's someone who's very interested in finding out what happened."
"You mean what _really_ happened?"
So there _was_ something more, something worth finding out. I leaned forward now and looked her in the eye; I spoke in a low and confidential tone. "Yes, what really happened. Can we talk?"
She glared at me. A red flush had come up on both of her cheeks and covered her neck and chest. "Why the hell should I talk to _you_?"
"Because I want to know. Maybe . . . maybe I can help." This was blatantly false—there was nothing I could do that would be of use. But that was all I could think of to say.
She snorted. "Help. Jimmy's had just about all the help he can take."
I didn't say anything, but I noticed people from a couple of other tables looking over at us—either because they heard the tone of her voice, or because they needed service.
Lorena sensed this too. She came back to herself and looked at me. "I get off at three," she said, standing up straight again. "Meet me at the Sand Bar."
* * *
The Sand Bar was another restaurant about a half-mile farther up Moonstone Drive—a place, I knew from previous trips, of mediocre food and indifferent service. What it boasted, though, was a large patio overlooking the ocean. There were twenty or twenty-five tables set up outside, though the real attraction was the bar-like counter that stretched the entire length of the patio, facing west. I'd spent several evenings there, over the years, watching the sun set over the horizon. But on this day, I chose a table set back from the counter so Lorena and I could look at each other. I settled in one of the chairs that faced the water, in a bit of shade provided by an umbrella.
I realized almost immediately why she'd suggested we meet there. The place was busy, even at what should have been the outer edge of lunch. The crowd and the noise would provide more privacy than some quieter place, where our conversation might be overheard. Three o'clock came and went, and then three fifteen, and I started to wonder if maybe she'd decided not to come. But then, just after three thirty, I saw her walking toward my table. She'd changed out of her short-sleeve work shirt and was now wearing a black button-down top. As she sat, I again felt the incongruity of how young she looked physically and how old she seemed.
"I almost didn't come," she said by way of greeting.
"I'm glad you did."
A waiter appeared, a guy about my age who, surprisingly, for such a small town, didn't seem to know Lorena. I'd been nursing a beer and now she ordered one too; we both declined the offer of food.
We sat in awkward silence, our own quiet somehow magnified by the din all around us. There was a particularly loud burst of laughter from the group of six seated just to our left. I stole a peek at her. Sitting down, she seemed smaller than she had when she was working.
"I overheard you talking with another table at the Anchor earlier," I eventually said. "So, your family's from Paso Robles?"
But if I'd thought that her family origins were a safer topic to begin with, or a good distraction, I was wrong.
"Yes, and I'm never moving back. Why do you want to know about my brother?"
I felt a bit assailed, put back on my heels, but I leaned forward, as if into the wind. For all of Lorena's understandable suspicion, she had some kind of knowledge, some information I needed, and the thought of unearthing it, of bringing it back to Fiona, gave me the strength to withstand her resistance.
"Well, first of all," I asked, "how is he doing?"
Lorena looked at me, confused, a bit incredulous. "How is he doing? He's paralyzed from the neck down, and he's in his bed most of the day, except when my mother and his nurse decide to lift him into a wheelchair. He needs to be fed and bathed and wiped. And his brain was scrambled too, so he doesn't know what's going on half the time. So I'd have to say he's doing pretty shitty."
Just then the waiter reappeared with Lorena's beer, and we sat in silence until he was gone. She took a big gulp of it—downing a third all at once—then glanced at me, and looked away.
I deserved this anger, I knew. My question had come from obligatory politeness, not real concern. I had to do better. "That's awful," I said, more gently now. "He's living with your parents?"
Lorena nodded. "Yes. He's married, you know. With a son and a daughter. But Ana's still so messed up about it that she can't see him without crying, and it's hard to have the kids around him. My parents have a whole setup in their new house—a room for him, a special bed, a full-time caregiver. Ana and the kids visit him every weekend. Sometimes he can have a normal conversation, and sometimes he doesn't even know who they are. It's pretty fucking sad, to tell you the truth."
I didn't know what to say to this. What could I say? Above us, a seagull flew perilously close, and then landed on the wall of the patio, staring at us. Lorena didn't seem to notice. She reached into her purse and pulled out a photograph. "This is why I was late," she said, placing it on the table. "I went home to get this."
It was a picture of a man on a horse. Although I knew nothing about horses, or the people who loved them, I understood immediately that to say this man was "riding" would have been an understatement, even an insult. It was more like the man and this magnificent animal—for I could tell that the horse was like no horse I'd ever seen—were conducting some kind of elaborate dance, a coordinated expression of grace. The horse's front feet were lifted slightly off the ground, which accentuated the muscles of its haunches and shoulders; its coat was a deep chestnut brown and its mane and tail were shiny and black. Looking at the photograph, I could almost see the movement. And moving with it was the man, clad in jeans and a cream-colored button-down shirt, a wide-rimmed cowboy hat. He held the reins with firm but easy strength, and he sat in the saddle as if he'd sprung to life there. He had the same smooth, broad face as Lorena, yet there was an openness to it, an expression of utter joy. This was a man, I thought, who was doing what he was supposed to be doing in life. This was a man whose normal state was motion.
"Your brother?" I asked needlessly.
"Yes. From three years ago. With Alfonso, his favorite horse."
"Does he still have him?"
" _Have_ him? Please. Alfonso wasn't his. None of them were. Those horses cost at least a hundred thousand dollars."
I pushed the photograph back over to her, afraid it would get splashed with beer; afraid that if anything happened to it, something else would befall the man it depicted.
"He was the best horse trainer on the Central Coast," she said. "He loved riding horses. Just loved it."
"How did he get into it?" I asked.
Lorena took another drink. "Our father was a ranch hand and we grew up on the Leary ranch. My mother worked for the Learys too, around the house. The family kept cattle but their real love was breeding and training quarter horses. For shows, I mean, not ranch work—for reining competitions, and Jimmy was riding almost before he could walk. I was always bookish—always the nerdy student—but Jimmy couldn't be kept inside."
Another seagull flew overhead, letting out a shrill cry, and this time Lorena looked up. When she lowered her eyes again I saw the sadness there. "He apprenticed with the Learys' trainer and then started to train himself," she continued. "He'd travel with them to shows all over the West—Idaho, Montana, Colorado. Then about five years ago Mr. Leary died, and his son wasn't interested in keeping up the operation. My parents moved into a small place in Paso, and Jimmy started hiring himself out. Then the Larsons found him and brought him on full-time. Charles Larson fancied himself a horseman, and was getting serious about competing. He offered more money than Jimmy could make on his own, even a house on the property. Jimmy and Ana had the kids by then, so it made perfect sense."
And now her eyes filled with tears. One fell, and she angrily wiped it away.
"I'm so sorry about what happened to him," I said. And I was.
"What is it to you?" she demanded. "Why are you here?"
I took a sip of beer, trying to gather my nerve. "It's like I said. Someone down in Los Angeles wants to find out what happened. They've got a sense that maybe things weren't handled the way they should have been."
"Oh really," she said sarcastically. "Do they really? Who the hell is it? Are they connected to the Larsons?"
"No," I said, relieved to be telling the truth. "It's actually a totally uninvolved party. They just want to find out the full story. Make people do the right thing."
"And what would that be, at this point?"
"I don't know." I was treading on dangerous ground, not sure where the land mines were. "You tell me."
She took the glass of beer in her hand but didn't lift it; instead she squeezed it so hard I thought it might break. "You know what would be good? You know what I'd really like? If someone would just do what they're _supposed_ to do and punish the person responsible."
"But Charles Larson is dead. His son too."
She looked at me with much the same expression Professor Rose had worn when she returned my chapters with their weak, half-hearted arguments. "Charles Larson was pretty useless, but he wasn't a jerk. He respected my brother. He was good to his kids. And he never would have been driving at high speed, drunk, with his son in the car."
"But . . . but that's what was reported," I sputtered, realizing again that actually _nothing_ had been reported. "If Charles Larson wasn't driving, then who was?" Yet even as I asked the question, I thought of what I already knew: the check from Mrs. W—, and the injuries to her son. Those injuries included broken ribs, consistent with what happened when a driver was thrown against a steering wheel.
"Someone who was visiting the Larsons," Lorena said. "Some asshole from Bel Air. I don't know his name. I just know that he nearly killed my brother. And on some days, to tell you the truth, I almost wish he had."
Her eyes filled with tears again, and I looked away, past the edge of the patio, out toward the cars driving by on Moonstone Drive, and at the trees, the beach, the ocean. She didn't know who the other man was. But I did. And it took every bit of self-control I had to keep my composure.
When I trusted myself to speak, I asked, "If people know this, why didn't they tell anyone?"
Lorena took a moment to answer. "I don't know that anyone _does_ know, except my brother. He was in a coma for a couple of weeks after the accident, and the other survivor told the police that Charles Larson was driving." She paused, gripping her drink again. "Jimmy told us different, though. He told us the truth: that the other guy was driving, and Charles was too drunk to know what was going on, and Jimmy went with them to try and keep things under control. But when the cops finally questioned him, it was already too late, because by that point the money had come."
I tried not to seem overinterested, though I felt my pulse quicken. "The money?"
"The hush money. The bribe. From the driver, I guess, or his family. I never found out the exact details because I was so disgusted by it. But my parents and Ana decided to take it. In Jimmy's name, through his business."
"His business?"
"His horse-training business. First Quarter."
I held her eyes for a moment, then had to look away. First Quarter. So that's what it was.
" _Think of the care he needs_ , they said," Lorena went on. " _Think about the future of his children._ And so both my parents and Ana bought new places in Paso Robles, and Jimmy has a full-time caregiver, and everyone's happy. Except for me. And Jimmy. And of course the Larson family, who still believe that Charles caused the accident."
I took this all in, with a sense that I'd just stepped into a land much vaster and more frightening than I'd imagined. "Couldn't you go to the police?" I asked.
Lorena laughed bitterly. "For what? You don't think that someone who's rich enough to buy off my family has power over them too? And the Larsons—they kept the whole thing out of the paper. They control too much of the business and government around here for anyone to cross them. Suddenly they make big gifts to the Police Protective League, the Fireman's League. So if I go to the police, I'll be laughed at or ignored, and then my family gets cut off from the money. I don't approve of them taking it, but I don't want to be the reason they lose it, either. And so I just keep going on, and mind my own business. And dream about getting out of here."
I just sat there staring at the remnants of my beer, a half-inch of piss-colored liquid. It was a dirty business, what she'd told me, and yet I knew it was true. I thought of Mrs. W—, her haughty carriage and deep pride, and couldn't help but feel differently about her. I thought too of what Fiona would say when I told her that her suspicions had been right. Steven J—, who everyone acknowledged was a ne'er-do-well, had actually done real damage—damage beyond forgiving or repair. And this young woman sitting with me had to bear, along with her grief, the lonely burden of a truth that no one wanted to act on, or even to hear.
* * *
We finally left the Sand Bar a little after five thirty, just as it was starting to fill up for dinner. I was supposed to head back to LA, but on a whim I turned left onto the highway and drove farther up the coast. I passed the outer boundaries of Cambria, the few restaurants and private houses. I passed the tacky motels of San Simeon and the driver-trap greasy restaurants. I passed the cove where the elephant seals were sleeping on the beach, dozens of cars expelling tourists to watch them. I drove another fifteen, twenty miles, and when I saw the giant, leaning rock in the water that Lorena had described, I looked to the inland side and, within another mile, saw the driveway that she'd told me to watch for. It was nondescript, not even marked by a number, but paved and clearly cared for. It bent to the right and up a rise so suddenly that you couldn't tell where it went. I drove on for another half-mile, and found the turnoff that Lorena had mentioned, a gravel cutout on the ocean side of the road. I got out of the car and stared back across the highway.
The Larsons owned something like twenty thousand acres, and I was probably seeing just a couple hundred of them. It was beautiful land, the small steep bluff at the bottom giving way to gentle rolling slopes, and beyond that a broad expanse of lush green mountain. A few low clouds hung over the land, obscuring the gentle peaks. I stood there, the ocean crashing below me, feeling the wind at my back, and stared up at this wild, pristine piece of California; it seemed odd that anyone could claim it was theirs. And yet the Larson family owned this land, and had owned it for decades. Somewhere up there, above the clouds, was a mansion whose grandiosity was beyond imagining. And below it, on the gentler terrain closer to the road, was the airstrip where Jimmy Castillo had been horribly injured; where Charles Larson and his son had died. It seemed unreal that something so tragic and avoidable had occurred in this grand, gorgeous place. But it had, at the cost of men's futures and lives, and the costs were still being exacted. I stared up at the hills for another fifteen or twenty minutes, but I saw no sign of the house or human activity. The land would not yield its secrets. So I got back into my car and headed home.
* * *
I wish I could say that I thought about Jimmy Castillo on my drive back to Los Angeles. I wish I could say I considered his family—his wife and children, his heartbroken parents, his tough, pained sister. This is what I'd rather believe of myself: that when I learned the actual story of the accident and the death and grief it had caused, when I understood who was really responsible, I empathized with the Castillos—as well as the Larsons—and felt a deep, healthy anger at Steven J— for his stupidity and carelessness. But that wasn't where my head was, or more truthfully, my heart. That would have been giving myself too much credit.
What I really thought about was Fiona. I pictured her face when I revealed what I'd learned; how she'd throw her arms around me, grateful and impressed. I saw us leaning our heads together, coconspirators. And as the winding two-lane highway curved in from the ocean and met up with the 101, my hopes ventured further, onto my life and hers, and how they might intertwine.
The first thing I had to do was change my career. There was no way a woman like Fiona would be satisfied with a mere academic, and truth be told, my studies were feeling musty and useless. I needed a career that placed me in the world of tangible accomplishment; that allowed me a sizable living; that gave me entrée to mingle with the kinds of women and men who made up Fiona's world. And shifting gears in this way might also make me able—at last—to provide some support for my family. I swung back and forth between business and law; from the time I left San Luis Obispo until I hit Santa Barbara, I had changed my mind three or four times. But by then I had a general plan. I'd drop out of the history program, and enter business or law school; between student loans and the assistance that Mrs. W— had offered, I could find a way to swing the tuition. It's some measure of my delusion that this plan depended on the help of the woman I was about to betray.
The rest of it was tricky, since Fiona had a family. But clearly she wasn't in love with her husband. She'd have to leave him, maybe not immediately, but sometime soon, and it would be messy for a while, but that would pass. Her family money would ensure that she'd be all right financially, and then we would be free. And her son—although she rarely mentioned him, I'm sure she'd want custody. That was fine—I'd always wanted kids, and as I contemplated living with a six-year-old, I felt a little jolt of excitement at remembering she was still young enough to have another child. I imagined taking her to meet my family, how reserved and suspicious my mother would act before she warmed up; how dazzled my father would be. I imagined walking on the beach with her, hand in hand; I imagined leisurely mornings in bed. I imagined all sorts of things on that long, late night, driving through the dark to Los Angeles.
* * *
I waited until morning to call her. When I finally did, around ten, she told me to come to her house—everyone was gone, and her housekeeper was off that day. She lived in a white Colonial in the flatlands of Beverly Hills—a large home to be sure, but not as outsized as some I'd seen, and this comforted me somehow, made her and a possible life with her seem less out of reach. She opened the door as I was coming up the walkway, and as I took in the vision of her, in another pastel dress, I looked forward to a lifetime of moments like this, me coming home, her greeting me at the doorway. She pulled me inside and shut the door and gave me a long, slow kiss.
"I've missed you," she said.
"I've missed you too," I answered. And everything—the trip, the expense, the digging up of information—was worth it.
She took my hand and pulled me into the house, so fast I could barely glance at the space around me. In a short hallway there were photographs, only one of which I got a good look at—a school picture of a young, dark-haired boy who must have been her son, in a jacket and tie, looking out at the camera with a polite, subdued expression. His image stayed with me as we entered the bright kitchen. I don't think I'd quite believed he was real.
The kitchen was larger than my living room, a light-filled, expansive space that actually felt used and lived in. Fiona led me to a chair at a large wood-and-steel table and poured us both some coffee. She sat at the end, perpendicular to me, close enough to touch, and I told her what I had found. When I described the young man in the restaurant reacting to Jimmy Castillo's name, her lips parted slightly; when I related the moment of first seeing Jimmy's sister, she sat up in anticipation. And when I told her what Lorena had revealed to me, that Steven J— had been the driver, she thumped her fist on the table and exclaimed, "I _knew_ it!" Her eyes were churning with what I took to be the satisfaction of solving a puzzle. But I didn't have time to think about it because she got up, shoved my chair back, and straddled me, and all thoughts of accidents and secrets escaped me.
She unbuckled my belt and unzipped my pants, shoving them down just far enough to pull me out of them. She wasn't wearing panties, and when she ground down against me, I thrust myself inside her. We grasped and bucked together, urgent and strong, and she pulled my hair so hard I was sure she'd come away with a handful. I picked her up, still inside her, and laid her down on the table, pushing the cups aside and barely noticing when they crashed to the floor. She pulled me into her and exhorted me, harder, harder; reached up and wrapped her hands around my throat. The sounds that came out of her were deep, primal sounds, and her eyes were filled with fire. I felt something like an earthquake inside of me, a fundamental shattering. This was totally different—not only from our first time together, but from any sex I'd ever experienced. I hadn't known that Fiona was capable of such urgency, such passion. And I was naïve and enraptured and stupid enough to believe it was directed at me.
CHAPTER NINE
The next Monday, I drove up to Mrs. W—'s estate. It had been a week since I was last there—I'd taken Tuesday off to go up to Cambria, and then Lourdes had called Friday morning to say that Mrs. W— couldn't see me that day. Although I'd tried to put it out of my mind, I was feeling increasingly guilty about what I'd taken off to do, and worse about what I'd discovered. I tried to justify this by telling myself I'd had no idea what I would find. Besides, Fiona and I weren't going to _do_ anything with the information about Steven J—. It was just interesting to have. Yet the truth was, I felt shitty. Whatever Mrs. W— had done to cover up for her son's actions, she'd been generous, even caring, with me.
When I knocked on the door, no one answered. As I stood on the doorstep, looking out at the property, I noticed that it was strangely quiet. No one was taking care of the plants or lugging food for the animals. There were no voices or laughter coming out of the garage, where often someone was tending to the cars. This was strange—was everyone off today? I knocked one more time, and finally the door was pulled open. But instead of Lourdes I was greeted by an unfamiliar middle-aged man, who considered me suspiciously. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Richard Nagano," I said. "I'm here to see Mrs. W—. Is she around? Or Lourdes?"
The man looked me up and down, as if trying to figure out my scam. "They're not here," he said. "I'm Bart J—. Marion's son."
I looked at him more closely now, and recognized the man from his picture. He was probably fifty, but looked older. His thick hair was almost entirely gray, and his skin was sun-darkened and ruddy. But he had the high, prominent cheeks of his mother, the same firm and steady jaw. He wore jeans, a blue plaid shirt, and work boots, and although his head was bare, I could envision the cowboy hat that I knew was usually affixed there; I discerned a faint line across his forehead.
"I've been doing some work for your mother," I explained. "I'm a graduate student at USC, and she hired me for a project."
Now a light of recognition came to his face. "Oh, oh, yes. I know who you are. I'm sorry. Nice to meet you, Richard." With that he extended his hand, and I shook it. His grip was firm and his skin work-toughened. "My mother's in the hospital."
" _What_?"
He lifted his hand as if holding me back. "She's okay. Or she will be. She has a heart condition, and sometimes it weakens her enough that she has to be hospitalized. I'm sorry, Lourdes did mention that this was one of your days. I just forgot to call you."
With that he ushered me in, took me into the dining room, and brought us both glasses of water. The two Lhasa apsos circled our legs, hopeful and confused. I noticed, with a pang, that the framed picture of the dogs in their wine-bottle costumes—which I'd brought a couple of weeks before—was sitting on the cabinet.
"How long has she been in the hospital?" I asked when he sat down, feeling terrible that I hadn't known.
"Since Thursday. Lourdes called the paramedics when she was having trouble breathing. This happens every once in a while, and I keep telling her she needs a live-in nurse. But she refuses the help. She's a tough old woman," he said, with clear admiration.
Thursday. On Thursday I'd gone to Fiona's house, and we'd had sex in the kitchen. That day I hadn't even thought about Mrs. W—.
"She's coming home tomorrow," Bart continued. "She's determined to be fully recovered by the Founders' Luncheon. You should stop by, she'd be happy to see you. I know how much she's enjoyed your company."
I took all of this in without comment; I don't think I could have felt any worse than I did. "Well, I enjoy her company too," I said finally.
"This project of hers . . . I'm sure it's worthwhile, but it's caused her stress too. She's trying to finish it now because she thinks she's dying."
I gulped and held myself steady. "Is she?"
"I don't think so, but no one knows when it comes to the heart. I get the sense she thinks she's living on borrowed time. Anyway," he said, more brightly now, "thank you for spending time with her. She gets lonely, you know. And I don't get down here nearly as often as I should."
"The project's almost done," I assured him. "And it really has been wonderful to work with her. I've learned so much." I paused. "She must be thrilled you're here. It's got to be tough for you to leave your ranch, I imagine. And don't you do a cattle run or something about now?"
He cocked his head, surprised, and gave a broad smile; I could see the genuine warmth there. "Actually, it's not for another couple of months. But my mother told you that? She doesn't usually deign to discuss my work. She wishes I'd trade in my ranch clothes for a tuxedo and expensive shoes. Thinks I should be doing something that doesn't involve horse manure and cow pies."
"I'm not sure she did tell me," I said, trying to remember. "It could have been Lourdes. Or Fiona."
"Fiona?" He sounded surprised. "Fiona Harrington?"
"Yes," I said after recalling her maiden name. "Fiona Morgan now. I've gotten to know her a bit, through events I've gone to with your mother. It sounds like you know her too?"
"You could say that. She was engaged to my brother."
I had brought the glass of water up to my mouth but now my throat clenched tight. My hand was shaking as I lowered it back to the table. "She was _what_?"
"She was engaged to my brother Steven. For five or six years. He destroyed their relationship, as is his fashion, in spectacular style."
My heart, which had been riding up in my chest for days, almost shot up through my throat. It was a warm day, but a chill shook my body. "She never mentioned that," I managed feebly.
Bart sighed and laid one weathered hand on the table. "It doesn't surprise me. She was humiliated. Steven drank and played around, and it all came to a head when he brought another woman to a wedding. _That's_ how he broke it off with her, by parading a new girlfriend—and _girlfriend_ is being generous—in front of all their friends. My mother was furious—she liked Fiona, but even more, she was enraged at how Steven's behavior reflected on the family. She won't let anyone talk about it, even now. Steven married a completely different girl a few months later, and then divorced her to marry another. I'm not even sure who he's with now, or what he's up to—he was involved in a bad accident a couple of years ago and he pretty much stopped talking to us all." He paused, and I wondered what he knew or didn't know about the circumstances of the accident. "But we were all so glad for Fiona when she married Aaron Morgan, who's a straight shooter, and successful, and very good to her, I hear. A much better man, sadly, than my brother."
As Bart talked, I felt myself shrinking. The room simultaneously expanded and started to spin. The significance and magnitude of my time with Fiona, of the events of the last few months, bore down on me and ground me into nothing. She hadn't wanted to know about the accident at Cliffhaven, I realized now, out of simple, prurient curiosity. She'd wanted to know because she had something at stake. Fiona needed information on Steven, and now she had it. Thanks to me.
I realized how convenient I must have been for her—how useful my access to Mrs. W—and her house. I realized how easy I'd been to play. She'd been so brazen—pushing me to get what she needed, trusting that the shame of Mrs. W—, and the code of silence amongst her peers, would keep me in the dark about her past. As this understanding came over me in waves, I felt a welling anger, and shame, and finally horror, at what I'd allowed myself to be party to. No, not party to; it wasn't that passive—in what I had done of my own free will.
"How long ago did all of this happen?"
"Oh, maybe nine, ten years ago," Bart said, waving it off. "It's ancient history now."
I couldn't meet his eyes, and so I turned out toward the entrance hall, where the painting of the maze looked bright and green in the late-morning sun. The boy lingered as always toward the edge of the maze; the girl was ensconced in the middle. But gazing at the picture now, in this light and from this angle, I noticed that the path the boy was on never actually led to the center. The neat trim of the shrubs and the beauty of the landscape made the center seem accessible, but the path circled and led back out of the maze. There was no way the boy would ever get to the girl. He would wander in circles, the girl visible, tempting, but always just out of his reach.
* * *
Later, much later, I'd learn more about Fiona and Steven. How they had known each other since they were children; how their grandfathers, who'd been business partners, had practically promised them to one another. They'd each been raised appropriately in their separate, gendered spheres—he attending Harvard-Westlake when it was still a boys' school, she attending Marlborough. They saw each other regularly at family events; at the Colonial Club and various weddings—always with other people around, always chaperoned. They were allowed—even encouraged—to date other people, with the understanding that it was all rehearsal for their eventual bonding. Finally, after Steven graduated from Stanford Business School and Fiona from Wellesley, their formal courtship had begun. They'd dated for a year before they got engaged, and then—breaking with protocol—they decided to live together, buying a condominium in Pacific Palisades while they both established their careers. Neither Fiona's parents nor Mrs. W— were happy with this arrangement, yet they put aside their disapproval in light of the obvious larger good—the planned union of two of the city's most illustrious families; the perpetuation of their influence and wealth.
But then trouble started, first Steven's travails at his brokerage house, then his drinking; it was not clear which was the cause and which the result. He started to disappear on days-long benders and was seen with other women, including the high-end prostitute with whom he was famously caught at the after-hours club. The collectors of gossip did not record how Fiona responded, but there were accounts of her being subdued and quiet, of unexplained bruises, and suggestions of discord, maybe violence. All of this was swept aside, though, when they announced a wedding date; there was a notice of their engagement, I found later, in the _Beverly Hills Courier_ , a local weekly I'd never thought to look at. But then came the friend's wedding that Bart had referred to, involving another society family. Steven had gone missing from the condo he shared with Fiona, probably on another bender. So she'd attended the wedding solo, where she ran into Steven, who was drunk and unshaven, accompanied by an underage girl rumored to be yet another prostitute. Stunned and heartbroken, Fiona had tried to avoid a scene, but he'd yelled at her during the reception, thrown a glass or two, announced that he'd rather sleep with a new whore every night than spend another evening with a frigid bitch like her.
Steven was sent to a dry-out facility at the behest of his mother, who also cut off access to his trust; she must have compensated for her own embarrassment by coming down on him with swift, public harshness. She paid Fiona for Steven's share of their condo, and with that, the ties between the families were broken. Fiona had been twenty-eight when the engagement fell apart; Steven was thirty-four. She disappeared from view for more than a year, Bart later told me, and when she reemerged, she was engaged to Aaron Morgan.
* * *
This was the story I eventually heard; this was what happened almost a decade before I first drove to Mrs. W—'s gate. But I knew none of it when I went to see Fiona the following day, wanting, hoping for some different explanation.
I'd texted her as soon as I'd driven down the hill after talking with Bart, writing simply, _I need to talk to you._ But maybe she sensed my distress, or maybe she understood that the game was up, because she didn't reply, to that first text or to the six or seven others that followed.
By evening I understood that I wasn't going to hear from her, and so early the next morning I drove to Beverly Hills and parked my car across the street from her house. It was seven forty a.m., but I knew her husband had already left for work. At seven fifty, a woman I didn't know—probably the nanny or housekeeper—emerged from the front door with a boy in tow. He was a gangly thing, brown-haired and awkward, but unconsciously handsome, with an air of decency and sweetness that I immediately understood must have been inherited from his father. I saw the sharp angles of Fiona's jaw line, the fineness of his rosy skin. I saw him look up at the woman with uncertain, hopeful eyes, and I felt a pang of sadness for this boy, who brought no joy to his mother; who had done nothing wrong besides get himself fathered by a man who was not the man his mother still loved.
When they had driven off, I got out of the car and knocked on the front door. For a moment I wondered what would happen if someone other than Fiona answered; then I realized I didn't really care. After a second knock Fiona pulled the door open. She was wearing a crisp gray suit, and her face was rigid, impenetrable.
"I can't see you right now, Richard. I'm already late."
I raised my hand to keep her from shutting the door in my face. "You didn't tell me that you were _engaged_ to Steven."
For a moment a flash of guilt came over her face, but it was quickly subsumed by something slyer and colder. "You never asked," she said. "You never asked how I knew him."
"Don't you think that might have been useful for me to know?"
"Why? What good would it have done?"
"What good? No good, I guess, except it would have explained why you were so damned _interested_ in what he was up to. It might have given me second thoughts about what I was doing."
"Oh, please," she said disdainfully. "It's not like I forced you. You were _eager_ to help. Besides, what are you complaining about? You got what you wanted."
This was a kick in the gut, and I looked at her incredulously. But the face of the woman before me was so different from the smiling and encouraging face I'd known over the last several months that I might have been confronting a stranger. I wanted to say, _You took advantage of me, you played on my emotions._ But she was right—I wasn't some innocent boy; I'd gone along with her happily, willingly.
And now her face darkened even more. "Besides, you did something useful, Richard. That man is a _monster_. He throws his money and his cars around and smashes everything in his path. Steven _destroyed_ me, and then he destroyed Charlie Larson and his son, and he always seems to weasel out of it. But there's no getting out of this one—I'm going to make sure that people know what he did. I'm going to make sure that he's ruined!"
"Why the hell would you _do_ that? I understand that he hurt you. I get it. But why would you want to do that to Mrs. W—?"
"Oh, please," she said again. "She's as bad as he is."
"I don't believe that," I said. And I didn't. I just then realized I didn't.
Something shifted in Fiona's eyes; it was like the crust of the earth had opened and I could see the roiling inferno beneath. "You say he hurt me. Yes, he _hurt_ me, all right. He abused and humiliated me and laughed when I cried. You don't think he learned that from somewhere? You think he was just _born_ evil? That Marion didn't have any effect on shaping who he became?" She paused and her expression grew more bitter and cold. "I _hate_ that man," she spat out. "You have no idea, Richard. You have no idea how much I've suffered."
I heard the depth of the anger in her voice; I saw the twisted look of vindication. I understood that this rage was more entrenched and real than the facts of her present life.
"I feel bad for you, Fiona," I said. And I didn't mean about Steven. She must have realized that, because she drew herself up to her full height now, into the comfort of her wealth and history.
" _You_ feel bad for _me_?"
She was right, of course. She was going to be fine. She always would be, no matter how much she claimed to suffer. But then I thought of Charles Larson and his son, of his wife and grieving parents. I thought of Jimmy Castillo and his family, his unbendable sister, and of how Fiona hadn't even mentioned them in her account of lives destroyed. I shook my head, disgusted with both of us, and turned and walked away from the house.
CHAPTER TEN
The USC Founders' Luncheon where Mrs. W— was being honored took place on the second Tuesday in May, Mrs. W—'s actual birthday. Because it was a milestone birthday—seventy-five—and because Mrs. W—, for once, was giving a gift that bore her name, it was a particularly illustrious affair. Mrs. W— pretended not to care about it, but it was clear that she did; she'd brought it up often as the day approached, wondering who would come, and what outfit she should wear.
I'd spent the last two weeks waiting anxiously for something to happen—a piece in the paper maybe, or an unexpected call to Mrs. W—. I couldn't anticipate what Fiona would do, though I saw her clearly enough now to know she'd do something. She'd carried her grudge for far too long to be satisfied by keeping her hard-won information to herself.
During this period I went up to Mrs. W—'s house a half a dozen times. She'd come back from the hospital the day after I met Bart, and waved off any attempt to discuss her health or offer sympathy. My transcription of her journals was almost complete, ending with her story of Langley W—: his early years in New Hampshire, his move to the West, the triumphs and travails of his business. Some of it was consistent with the remembrances of the Colonial Club; much of it was totally different. Reading this account, I knew I'd been given a view into history that no one else outside the family would ever see. But whatever pleasure I might have had in this privilege, or in being in that storied house, was gone; it was tainted now, and I had done the tainting. Even the knowledge that she'd let an innocent man take the blame for his own death—the awareness of her manipulation and dishonesty—could not overcome my sense of guilt. I couldn't bring myself to tell Mrs. W— about what had happened, yet I couldn't make myself leave her, either. I moved through the great front entryway and high-ceilinged rooms with the sense I was already a ghost.
On the day of the luncheon, as was our custom, I drove up to her place so that Dalton could take us down together. When I arrived, I slipped off to the room where I'd worked the last few months, came back, and presented Mrs. W— with a wrapped package. I placed it on the dining room table, which was decorated with bouquets of flowers and baskets of goodies from Jessica, Bart, and several entities with whom she did business. I felt a twinge of sadness that her children weren't there—Jessica would never participate in such events, I'd come to learn; Bart sent what seemed to be honest regrets.
"What is this?" she asked, almost suspiciously.
"Open it."
She sat down and pulled the paper apart, confused even when she saw the brown ring binder inside, until she opened it and looked at the pages.
"It's all there," I explained. "Your entire journal. Eight hundred and twenty-seven typed pages."
Her mouth opened slightly as she flipped through the pages—she looked like she was in disbelief.
"I know you'll want a fancier binding," I said. "But I thought you'd enjoy seeing it all printed out." It was not an elaborate presentation, to be sure—I'd bought the nicest binder I could find in an art supply store, used the printer in the office, and snuck a hole puncher in to punch and bind the pages. But from Mrs. W—'s expression, you'd have thought I'd presented her with a rare first edition, some treasure that had long been thought lost.
"Thank you, Richard." She smiled and stood up, and then gave a polite, formal bow. "Thank you very much."
Dalton drove us down to the Ludlow Hotel, where the luncheon was taking place. It was relatively small for this type of affair, about two hundred people—but that seemed appropriate for what was essentially a public birthday party. All of Mrs. W—'s friends and acquaintances were there—Betty Baker, the Delaneys, the Westbrooks, the Bestharts—representatives from LA's most important families. Caroline Randall, whose house I'd gone to in Beverly Park, came over and gave Mrs. W— a genuine, smiling embrace. I saw Fiona's mother out of the corner of my eye, and I knew Fiona would be arriving soon too.
Mrs. W— looked amazing, of course; she wore an emerald-gray long jacket with some kind of peach-colored sash, over smooth gray dress pants. Her hair was perfectly arranged in curls that framed her face. There were journalists from all the major fashion and society magazines— _Town & Country_, _Vanity Fair_ , _W_ , _Angelino_ , _Vogue_ —and everyone wanted to photograph her, so she spent almost twenty minutes at the step-and-repeat. _Town & Country_ was doing an entire spread on her, for what was apparently the third time.
We made our way to the head table, where everyone was polite enough not to mention the absence of her children. We were seated with several of Mrs. W—'s oldest friends—Betty Baker, Lydia Fehringer, Margaret Delaney—as well as the head of the USC Medical Center—the recipient of her gift—and the president of the university. It was a little heady for me to be seated with him, especially when Mrs. W— began to tell him what an exceptional talent I was and how the school would be lucky to have me in its law or business school. "If you like having my donation," she said to him, "you will make sure that this young man is accepted." I picked nervously at the preset salad, and a plate of miso-glazed salmon with quinoa was served in quick order. Chef François DeLorme had catered, and he came out himself to present Mrs. W— with a chocolate birthday cake, ceremonious and smiling. If he remembered me from the luncheon in Beverly Park, he didn't show it.
The formal program began as soon as dessert was served—the president of the Founders' Club welcomed the crowd and talked about the hospital, and about what Mrs. W—'s gift would mean for its research and treatment efforts. Then Mrs. W—'s longtime acquaintance Hattie Clark took the stage and introduced a slide show of Mrs. W—'s life. There were photographs of Mrs. W— as a young girl, with her grandfather; in one, they sat happily on a staircase surrounded by three Brittany spaniels. There was a picture of her on a horse, carrying a shotgun. There were photos of her in her twenties and thirties, wearing elaborate gowns; and other pictures from later, where she was in more reserved suits, at openings and groundbreakings. There was a picture of her in perhaps her late twenties, dancing with a dark-haired tuxedoed man whose image I hadn't seen before. She leaned over and whispered, "That's Baron, right after we were married. He was my dreamboat." There was a shot of her maybe a decade later, on a clay court in tennis whites; and another in which she wore an old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit with a skirt and posed at Santa Monica Beach. And then an image of her in her thirties with her three small children, who ranged, it looked, between two and eight. Bart already had a frank, practical expression, and Jessica looked like any normal four- or five-year-old girl with ribbons and curls. But Steven, who was just a baby, was staring off camera almost spacily, as if his attention had already wandered.
Except for the photograph of her children, during which she tensed, Mrs. W— seemed to enjoy the display immensely. She kept commenting on where this or that picture was taken, which was fun for me too, since I knew so many of the places and players from her journal. The audience laughed at some of the more amusing shots—like one of her and her girlfriends dressed up as lady vampires for Halloween—and there were sounds of recognition and remembrance. It was a wonderful tribute, and when the lights went back up, I helped Mrs. W— to the front, where a bulky, suited Ludlow staffer offered his arm and escorted her up to the stage.
She did not approach the microphone—she disliked public speaking—but stood beside the podium as the head of the Founders' Club handed her a crystal award. The audience clapped politely, and there was even a single "Yes!" shouted enthusiastically by a young male designer, perhaps a previous walker. Mrs. W— nodded to acknowledge the applause, and smiled for a photograph, then quickly made her way off the stage. I went to retrieve her again, and as she reengaged my arm, I felt the joy in her grasp.
But I couldn't shake the sense that something was off, and I'd felt it as soon as we arrived. People were somehow reserved—not the usual politeness because of Mrs. W—'s standing, but something else, a holding back, an assessment. The women who usually clamored to be photographed with her seemed to hesitate this time; I saw several people notice us and turn away. Her tablemates were less effusive than usual, and as the slide show played, I'd felt a kind of questioning, of judgment. And there was no mistaking the titter that had gone through the crowd when the picture of her children was shown.
When Mrs. W— was seated again, I excused myself and found my way to the restroom. Since the men's room was past the women's, and the women's inevitably had a line, I overheard the women standing outside the door and even—when the door opened—some conversation from within.
"Can you believe," I heard someone say, "that they'd actually show a _picture_ of that man?"
"She always did clean up after him," said someone else. "I guess it's no different this time."
"But poor Marjory," came a third voice as the door was swinging closed. "To think that for two years Marion let her believe it was Charles . . ."
I froze. Were they talking about what I thought they were talking about? It couldn't be. But then the door swung open again and somebody said, ". . . to think it was _Steven_ who survived." And I knew that it was.
I felt my face flush. My heart began to pound, and I had the sensation that my anger and incredulity were making my hair stand on end. Of course this was what Fiona would do. She would never, as I'd feared, give a tip to the papers; she didn't care about conventional publicity. And she would never confront Mrs. W— directly; that was not her style, and besides, what could Mrs. W— do for her? No, what mattered to Fiona was what their own friends thought—their reputations in society. And that mattered to Mrs. W— too. The worst thing Fiona could do, I understood, was reveal what Steven—and his mother—had done, to the people within their own circle. And so she'd engaged in a whisper campaign, planting a seed of gossip here, a tidbit there. She probably told a few key friends—demanding their secrecy, of course—and then waited for human nature to work.
I managed to get in and out of the restroom, checking the mirror to make sure I was presentable. By the time I got back to the ballroom, it was already half-empty—and the weird pall over the crowd, their hurry to leave, just confirmed what I already suspected.
I made my way through the current of departing women like a salmon fighting its way upstream. And at the end of it, waiting for the crowd to dissipate, I found Fiona, sitting alone at a table and calmly reapplying her lipstick.
"You had to tell people, didn't you?" I accused. "And you couldn't have waited, at least until after today?"
Fiona looked up at me impassively. This made my pulse jump: despite everything, she was still beautiful to me, and the exorcising of her rage only made her more so. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"Oh bullshit," I responded, my voice a bit too loud. "I know what you've done. I heard people _talking_ about it."
Fiona stood up and faced me directly. She looked half-bored, half-amused. "If you're referring to the accident, well then, yes, I may have mentioned to Marjory Larson that her son had been unfairly blamed for the accident. I may have mentioned it to Charles's wife too. I thought they deserved to know."
I was breathing hard, as if I'd just run up a flight of stairs. She was right—they _did_ have a right to know. But so much else about this was wrong, and in my jumble of confusion, all I could do for a moment was shake my head and glare. "That's not _all_ you told them, though, is it? You told them about Mrs. W—."
She smiled. "Well, that _is_ a rather integral part of the story."
"And they're not the only ones you told, either. Other people seem to know."
Fiona laughed, a sound without mirth. "I may have mentioned it to one or two of my closest friends. But what happened after that, Richard, is out of my control."
I just stared at her, finally taking a couple of steps back to try to control my anger. "You're disgusting," I said. "And to think that I ever . . ."
"Wanted me? Jumped at the chance to fuck me? Thought that I gave a shit about you? Well, that was _your_ mistake, darling. You believed what you chose to believe."
"What's going on here?"
Both Fiona and I turned to find Mrs. W— standing ten feet away. Almost all of the guests had filtered out, and only the hotel staff, clearing plates away, remained. She had made her way over to us, leaning on her cane; now she stood looking at us, concerned.
I felt like a kid caught in a school-yard fight, yet I was so angry that I couldn't think or speak coherently. _She did wrong_ , I wanted to say, and that's essentially what I did say: "Why don't you tell her, Fiona? Why don't you tell her what you've done?"
Fiona's expression changed from that of a caught child to something more complex and self-satisfied. She had no reason to fear Mrs. W— anymore, and she knew it; she held the upper hand. "I've just happened to get some interesting information, Marion. Information about your son."
Mrs. W— looked at her, impatient, annoyed.
"I know it was Steven who caused the accident at Cliffhaven. And I know you paid off the other survivor."
Mrs. W—'s expression didn't change, and Fiona flushed and went on: "You and Steven have let everyone believe that Charles Larson was driving. But now I know the truth, Marion. I know what you and Steven have done!"
Her voice wavered at the end, sounding triumphant, a bit hysterical. But if Fiona expected Mrs. W— to react with shame or fear, she must have been sorely disappointed. Mrs. W— just continued to look at her—calm, unmovable. "Yes," she said. "What of it?"
Fiona stared at her, incredulous. "What _of_ it? Your son _killed_ people, Marion. He killed one of _us_! And you used your money to get him out of it, and to silence the only other witness."
Mrs. W— looked at her with the same measured expression. "I tried to compensate a family who was hurt by his actions," she said calmly. "And as for the money to Steven, that wasn't to help him. That was to make sure he stayed away. To make sure he had enough that there would never be a reason to ask anything of me again."
"What about the Larsons? What about compensating them for how _they_ were hurt by his actions?"
"They don't need money," Mrs. W— said. "Besides, there's nothing that can bring Charles and his son back."
"Oh, you're _unbelievable_." Fiona leaned forward and clenched her fists; for a moment I thought she would attack Mrs. W—. "You're just as arrogant as Steven. Well, I'm not just going to sit with this, Marion. I'm going to make sure that everyone knows!"
And now Mrs. W— did something unexpected. She laughed. It was not a bitter laugh, or even an unhappy one. It was a laugh of some belief or suspicion being confirmed; a laugh of someone who was untouchable. "Go ahead, foolish girl. Tell everyone. What do you think you'll accomplish? That you'll reveal that my son is worthless? Well, everybody already knows that. That I gave money to the family of a poor crippled man? They are grateful for the help. All I should have done differently is apologize to the Larsons—you're right—and I will do so today, as soon as I get home. So yes, go ahead, Fiona. Tell whomever you want. All you'll reveal is your own desperation."
Fiona stood there speechless, fuming; she looked like she might combust. For Mrs. W— was right. Even this horrible truth about her son, about her own efforts to protect their name, would—with the right set of actions and the passage of time—fade away into a mildly interesting story that people might or might not remember. The more telling aspect of it all was Fiona's own resentment, which she had nurtured for nearly a decade—and which, it turned out, wasn't entirely spent.
"Let's go, Richard," Mrs. W— said, and I stepped forward to join her.
"You should be careful, Marion," Fiona said now, her voice thin with anger, "about who you let into your house."
Mrs. W— ignored her and I kept closing the space between us.
"How do you think I found out about Steven?" Fiona continued. "I didn't do this on my own—I had help. The help of a very skilled researcher, who had access to your records."
And now, finally, Mrs. W— reacted. She looked at Fiona, who was wearing an ugly smirk, and then turned and searched my face. And what she saw there must have told her that what Fiona said was true. Her mouth opened slightly, and she took an almost imperceptible step backward, as if hit by an invisible blow. The color rose in her cheeks and her eyes appeared brighter. I saw the tiny tremors of disbelief and anger pass over her face; I saw her control and contain them. She lifted her cane an inch or two and then placed it back down, as if unsure what to do with her body. But when she spoke, turning away from me, she looked impenetrable and beautiful, and her voice was clear and strong. "I think you'd better leave now," she said.
I started to reply, to try to defend myself, but she lifted a hand to stop me, still facing away, as if the mere sight of me would cause her harm. I knew I could not reach her, and I couldn't bear to look at Fiona. Already they both seemed very far away. I lowered my head and said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. W—." Then I turned and walked out of the hotel.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Eighteen months later, I remember the rest of that day with the clarity of some inescapable nightmare. When I emerged from the Ludlow, blinking in the too-bright light, I realized that my car was still at Mrs. W—'s. I did not have the patience to flag down a taxi, so I walked all the way home to Jefferson Park, a distance of about six miles. It took me almost two hours, and I was slowed the last few miles by the blisters that were forming from my dress shoes. But I didn't go into a drugstore to buy Band-Aids; I didn't even stop to rest. The shoes cut and chafed through my thin cotton socks, yet I welcomed the pain. I deserved it.
By the time I rounded the final corner to get to my building, my car was already parked in front. Tucked under one of the wiper blades was a yellow carbon receipt. The car had been towed there, arranged by the sender. A note indicated that my landlord had signed for it.
Not long after I went inside, someone buzzed at the gate, and it was a messenger, bearing a package from Mrs. W—. It contained the few personal items I'd left at her house—a couple of pens, a notebook, a sweater. Included without comment was my final paycheck—to which she'd added a thousand dollars. I half-resented the gesture—it felt like a kiss-off—but I needed the money. I knew I would cash it.
At the very bottom of the package was the picture of the dogs, Pinot and Chardonnay, the frame wrapped in their wine-bottle costumes. I laughed when I saw this, and then the pain hit my gut, and once my tears began, I couldn't stop them. Mrs. W—, for all her complexities, had given me so much, taught me more than I could have imagined. Those silly costumes were the only things I'd ever given her. Of course she was angry with me, but sending the picture and costumes back seemed unnecessary. I thought she was just being punitive, spiteful. It didn't occur to me until much later that I'd broken her heart.
* * *
I spent the long, unbearable months of summer in a haze of regret. I tried to get back to work on my dissertation—the real one—but my mind kept wandering to luncheons and glamorous evenings; to Fiona Morgan's face; to the quiet grandiosity of Mrs. W—'s mansion. It seemed implausible that I had ever experienced such things; after a week or two it was hard to believe they'd been real.
In mid-August, I decided to give up on my dissertation—I just didn't care about it anymore. Once I knew for sure that my writing efforts were over, I made two difficult but necessary phone calls: I informed Professor Rose that I was dropping out of the PhD program, and I told the Blain Foundation I was renouncing their funding. It was more than a bit scary to know I was giving up my livelihood, but it didn't feel right to accept the money. Besides, I wanted to be free of it all—I no longer wanted the weight of expectation.
Luckily a few classes opened up at USC, and so I taught a couple of intro history courses. It wasn't much money, but I enjoyed the feeling of earning it, and it was good for me to get out of the house and interact with students; it helped me forget my own troubles. I took in a roommate out of necessity—Corey, a friend of Kevin's, a guy from the fiscal side of the fire department. The four of us spent quite a bit of time together, barbecuing and watching ball games, sitting out on Kevin and Rosanna's patio until late in the evening, laughing until our landlord asked to us to please keep it down. It had been a long time, I realized, since I had laughed like that.
The next spring I applied for a bunch of jobs, mostly with research firms and think tanks, a couple of education-related nonprofits. When I had something solid, I told myself, when I was onto a respectable career, then I'd reconnect with my family. I reached the point of second interviews with the Stanley Research Group and the Student History Project. In both cases, the enthusiasm of the executive directors led me to believe that an offer was imminent, save for a few formalities. But then weeks of silence, and when I called to inquire, some nervous assistant informed me that they had gone with someone else. Was there any feedback? I asked. It would help me with future applications. No, one of the assistants said, just some further information that had come to light. I couldn't imagine what information they meant. Then, on a whim, I looked more closely at both organization's websites, their annual reports and 990 tax forms. Both places received funding from the Harrington Foundation. It turned out that Fiona's reach continued to affect me long after I'd last seen her in person.
I sent out thirty, forty job applications, with discouraging results. Finally, one of my old mentors at USC, who was now a dean at Pasadena City College, offered me a teaching position.
I've just finished my first semester there, teaching four classes, busier than I ever was as a graduate student. It's a lot of work, for not much money, and the junior college students are less prepared than the kids at USC. But I like them better. They're the first in their families to make it past high school; they're the children of gardeners and housekeepers, of welders and garbage collectors, of civil servants and secretaries. They're hardworking and polite and take nothing for granted, and my work with them actually means something. I try to teach them what they need to know about the history of California. I don't tell them that most of the real stories have never been captured in books.
* * *
A few months after that last scene at the Ludlow, I wrote Mrs. W— a letter. It was an unforgivable delay, I knew, but it had taken me that long to get my head around all that had happened. I apologized for having violated her trust. I told her how deeply I admired her, how grateful I was for all she'd done for me, how much I'd truly valued her company. I assured her that I would not make use of anything in her journals, but hoped that she was still moving forward with having them printed and bound. I signed the letter, _With regret and humility,_ and sent it by certified mail to her house.
It came back two days later, unopened.
One evening around the holidays, when I was feeling especially low, I drove up to Mrs. W—'s house. I couldn't get past the front gate, of course, but I could just make out the grand mansion in the distance, tucked behind a curve. The grounds were decorated for Christmas, strung with beautiful, festive lights; the house itself was done up too, with potted poinsettias in front of the door and a grand, living Christmas tree. I knew that Mrs. W—, like me, was spending the holidays on her own. The decorations were mostly for the people who worked there. I felt an intense loneliness and drove back down the hill, passing several other mansions I'd visited in the endless procession of luncheons and parties. All of these places were closed to me now. They always had been, even when I was in them.
* * *
Just a few weeks ago, I was flipping through the _Los Angeles Times_ when I came across a picture of Fiona. She looked the same as she had the last time I saw her—beautiful, cold—and the radiance of her smile could not disguise, for me, the essential hardness. The caption announced that Fiona Morgan, head of the Harrington Foundation and cochair of the Council of Family Foundations, had just been named chairperson of the County Art Museum. Fiona, the woman who claimed to be tired of such commitments. Fiona, who did not care for art. She was pictured with the former chair, the museum director, and the mayor, at a dinner celebrating her appointment.
* * *
Mrs. W— once told me that the most important history never made it into written accounts; that she, and people like her, _were_ history. She was right, of course. People like her, like the Harringtons, the Bakers, the Fehringers—they're the ones who make the world run. The rest of us might see some small result of their machinations—in decisions made by supposedly independent officials; in laws favorable to their interests; in the buildings and institutions that bear their names. But these signs are mere tips of an iceberg whose breadth and influence stay well out of sight. The historians, the researchers, have no idea of how much they miss. They simply can't _see_ the Mrs. W—s of the world. To those who might study their influence, they are more than inaccessible. They're as invisible as phantoms, as gods.
* * *
There was one other loose end that I wanted to tie up—so last May, about a year after I'd gone to dig around, I drove back up to Cambria. On the morning I left, a bad accident was clogging the 101; my navigation app directed me to stay on the 5, through the Grapevine and into the Central Valley. Per its instructions, I got off near Buttonwillow and headed west. The land there, away from the irrigated fields, was barren as the moon. Even as Los Angeles was bursting with spring flowers, even as the Sierras were still covered with snow, the Central Valley looked like the desert it was. The brown earth was cracked and dry, and swirls of dust moved across the endless flat earth like apparitions risen from the ground. Nothing grew there, nothing broke up the relentless drab, except the falling-down gas stations I passed every forty miles or so, which looked like they'd been forgotten in time.
After a while I started to see shapes on the horizon—trees? No. As I got closer, I realized they were oil pumps—the long-necked, heavy-headed things I'd heard called _nodding donkeys_ , stretching north and south as far as I could see. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, with their heads bowing up and down: like a field of grazing beasts. As I got closer I saw that many of them were painted bright colors: yellow and pink, lime green and teal blue, mixed in with the gray or black pumps that were common in LA. Maybe this was the oil company's attempt at humor, or at making the scene less bleak. But bleak it was. This field, which stretched for miles, was surrounded by a fence, littered with stacks of pipeline and discarded machines; there was not a person anywhere in sight. I couldn't help but think of the pumps as living things, sucking the oil from deep in the earth. I moved through the nodding creatures, which now surrounded me on either side, with awe and a bit of fear. Finally I pulled over and got out of the car. I covered my nose with my shirt against the dust and fumes, and gazed out at the endless spread of them, listened to the eerie creaking of the pumps. It felt like the apocalypse, or at least the Twilight Zone; it felt like a place beyond man.
And yet fields like this had made the W—s rich. This very field might have been one of Langley's. I thought how strange it was that Mrs. W—'s beautiful Bel Air mansion, her exclusive couture and expensive art, all the fineries of her existence, had been made possible by what happened—was still happening—here. This desolate place, where men's lungs filled with petroleum fumes and their hands were slicked with oil and dust blew into in every sun-cracked wrinkle. Her grandfather had spent much of his life in such places. Mrs. W—'s life was shiny and clean, and this world was so dirty. I had never thought this through until now.
* * *
I found Lorena Castillo at the Anchor Café, and my timing was lucky—she had just given notice. She'd been accepted into graduate school at UC San Diego, in environmental studies, and she'd saved up money so she could take three weeks to hike the John Muir Trail before she moved to San Diego. We went back to the Sand Bar and I told her what I'd found—that she was right about the identity of the driver in the accident; that the Larsons were now aware that Charles was not at fault; and that Steven's family was so disgusted they had disowned him. I told her that she was also right in thinking that if she pushed things any further, her brother's family, and her parents, might lose the rest of the hush money. I did not tell her how I had found this all out; I didn't mention Mrs. W— or Fiona. Part of this was shame about my own role, the way I'd let myself be used. But it also felt so futile, so ridiculous. I did not want her to know that her brother's story, his paralyzing injury and the Larsons' deaths, had been reduced to gossip, fodder for machinations of the wealthy. I did not want any of them to suffer that final indignity.
"So that bastard's going to get away with it, isn't he?" she asked.
"Yes, he is," I said.
"And there's nothing I can do to try and hold him accountable—at least, not without risking my family's situation."
"No."
She sat in silence for a moment, staring out at the beach, the seagulls gliding over the sand. Despite this disappointing news, she seemed calmer somehow. The fact that things had happened the way she said they had, this acknowledgment of the truth, appeared to give her some comfort.
"I can't wait to get out of here," she said, taking a long gulp from her beer. "I can't wait to be away from this and get on with my life." She tucked a strand of wind-loosened hair behind her ear, and I noted again her smooth, unblemished skin, the determined jaw, the burden that seemed to weigh on her shoulders.
"I'm so sorry for what you and your family have had to go through," I said, and meant it.
She turned toward me, and I saw now how tenuous her grip was on her emotions, how hard-fought and fragile her strength. "Thank you," she said, meeting my eyes. "Thank you for giving a shit."
I walked with her out to the parking lot, and as we turned the corner, we saw something on the ground—a dead bird. My stomach lurched. It was in an awful, awkward position, sitting on its rump with its wings half-spread, shoulders hunched, its face to the sky. The body was gray, lined with white stripes, a bit of yellow on its back. I sucked in my breath and averted my eyes, but Lorena said, "Oh," and walked toward it. "He's just a baby. I've got to move him so he doesn't get run over."
I stared off at nothing, contemplating this horrid end to an already bad afternoon.
"He's alive," she said, as she crouched down over him. And this seemed even worse somehow, that we'd come upon this grievously injured bird and would have to watch it die. Gently, Lorena cupped her finger over the tiny, fig-sized thing and lifted him by the shoulders, her other hand sliding under him for support.
"Should I get a box or something?" I asked, feeling useless.
"Yes," she said evenly. She walked over to a low wall that bordered the lot and sat with the bird in her palm.
I dug around in a garbage bin and found a cardboard container the size of a shoe box. When I got back to where Lorena was sitting, the bird was standing up and perched on her finger. Lorena smiled at the surprise on my face.
"I think he was just stunned," she said. "Nothing seems broken. He moved his wings and his neck's okay, and look how tight he's holding on."
The bird's grip was so firm that I could see the indentation on Lorena's finger. He managed to stay upright, a pretty little thing, dazed but in one piece. We sat there, the three of us, the bird's face not more than two feet from my own. Lorena was at ease, and her calmness calmed the hurt creature.
"How did you . . . ?"
She shrugged. "I think he flew into that window there." She nodded toward a plane of glass at the back of the restaurant. "Poor baby. He's still just getting his wings."
The bird considered me dully, and I saw the beauty of his head and wings, the harsh effectiveness of his feet. He seemed content on Lorena's finger. Then he suddenly blinked twice and his eyes grew bright and wide, as if, looking at me, he realized he was staring at a monster. He shrugged his shoulders and then off he flew, as sudden and effortless as if nothing had happened.
Lorena smiled. "We did good."
" _You_ did good," I said. And it seemed to me that I was looking at someone who possessed both calm and magic. Every time I've felt especially down these last months, I remember that scene: how Lorena knew what to do in a moment of crisis; how she gathered death and turned it into life.
* * *
I made one other change after I gave up on my dissertation—last fall, I started to exercise again. I'd drive over to Baldwin Hills, through my parents' old neighborhood, up to the calm, expansive park at the top. There, I'd hike or run the trails, past the lake near the entrance, and smile at the middle-aged ladies walking through the Japanese garden, the old men trailing their dogs. I'd make a couple of loops around the park, enjoying the views, before heading back down to the flats.
One day in November, after the first big storm of the season, I drove to the park, made my way to the overlook, and stared back down at the city. The view from Baldwin Hills is my favorite view of Los Angeles. There, you can see the complex lay of the land, the way the plains jut up against the mountains. That day, the downtown buildings gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the mountains were covered with snow. To the left were the Hollywood Hills, sprinkled with houses, stamped with their indelible sign. In those hills, and in others that extended westward to the ocean, the wealthy of the city retreated.
Standing there, gazing over the city, I imagined what it had looked like in Langley W—'s time. By the time my grandfather immigrated from Japan in the early 1920s, the contours of the city were already set—as were the parameters within which he could move. But Langley arrived from New Hampshire in 1898, a workingman, but white, when Los Angeles was still a tiny enclave. None of the neighborhoods I saw below had even been imagined; just a few dirt roads traversed the wide basin; and there were stretches of open fields as far as the eye could see. I wondered if he had looked out at the untouched land and planned to bend it to his desires. I wondered if he knew that he'd be shaping a city. From where I stood, I could see the region's vastness and beauty, the particular West Coast drama of mountains, valley, and sea. And yet a thousand feet away, just across from where I stood, there was a giant oil field: dusty and barren, full of rusted machines, the metal donkeys perpetually nodding.
* * *
Despite Professor Rose's encouragement, I never made use of the W—s' history. It wasn't just that I no longer had access to the original source material, or that I was restricted by Mrs. W—'s agreement. There was also my sense, quite simply, that Mrs. W— didn't want their story told. On the one hand, I could not understand this. While other founding families had volumes written about them, the W—s were fading. None of Mrs. W—'s children bore the family name or even lived in the city, and she would be gone soon too. Even the two buildings that Langley had named were just that, buildings; they blended in with the countless other named structures. That Mrs. W— would not want her family's contributions acknowledged was beyond my comprehension. But maybe it is the error of the likes of me—the unrecorded and invisible—to assume that others want to be known. Maybe this desire, which Mrs. W— clearly didn't share, was what had driven me to the study of history.
And maybe Mrs. W— was right. For while other family histories are preserved in public lore, many of those family patriarchs came to sad ends, their careers marred by tragedy and scandal. Edward Doheny, like Langley W—, made his fortune in oil, but was implicated in a government bribery scandal and lost his son to a murder-suicide. William Mulholland brought water to the city—but drained a once-fertile region of the state, and designed a faulty dam whose failure killed hundreds. That was the kind of notoriety the W—s managed to avoid. They'd had no scandals, no real tragedies from Langley's time down—not until Steven, at least. No wonder Mrs. W— wanted no part of publicity. No wonder she'd gone to such lengths to suppress the truth of her son's accident.
If Langley W—'s story remains unknown, his discoveries changed the world. When he was a young hired hand in the Central Valley, he could hardly have imagined that the substance he drew from the earth would alter human dealings, sway elections, spawn endless cycles of war, and change the quality of the air, the contours of the land. So much of modern life, both terrible and good, has risen from the discovery of oil. Even if Langley lacked the proper recognition in history books, his legacy has already been written.
* * *
As for me, I've curtailed my ambitions. My life, with its lectures and office hours, its humble, striving students, may be modest—but at least it is mine. If my trips to the Central Coast have reminded me of anything, it is how transient we humans are. Looking up at the hills, or out over the ocean, I know they'll be here longer than I—that the fog will roll in, the waves curl and crash, long after everyone now living is gone. Maybe that's what Steven J— lost sight of as he sped down the airstrip that night—that we are ephemeral, not indestructible. Charles Larson and his son learned this the hard way. They were only here for a moment, despite what their families controlled, and their wealth could not protect them.
Only when I think of Mrs. W— does my equilibrium break. A year and a half after the last time I saw her, she still haunts my memory and conscience. I spent four months working for her, and had no better understanding of who she was at the end of that time than I did at the beginning. She was a misanthrope who gave generously to causes she claimed to despise; an aesthete who welcomed people who didn't share her sensibilities; a professed hater of the social niceties that she performed with such grace; a harsh mother who bailed out her wayward son at his moment of greatest need, at the cost of another family's peace. One day I'll make sense of how I could have betrayed a woman who, for all of her airs and idiosyncrasies, had been nothing but kind to me. One day I'll understand what my time with her meant, and if that's the most I can do, I will have to be satisfied.
But this, this incomplete chronicle, is the closest I'll get to telling the W—s' story. I can isolate—as I've done here—small snapshots of their lives, incidents and tales that are sifted through with the doings of more public families. I can recognize, as few others can, the W—s' part in the making of Los Angeles. But that's as far as I'll ever go. I have done enough damage already, by allowing Mrs. W—to believe that I had her best interest at heart; by accepting her generosity; by becoming the instrument for uncovering her family's deepest shame. I'm grateful for the experiences I gained with Mrs. W—, but I will not—due to what little is left of my sense of decency—disclose what I learned of her family's past. I won't make use of the journals and letters that the historians so desire. I won't even acknowledge her name.
**The End**
**Acknowledgments**
My deepest thanks, as ever, to Kyoko Uchida, Jennifer Gilmore, and Felicia Luna Lemus for their careful readings of this book. And to the whole team at Akashic Books for their tireless work and support—again.
**NINA REVOYR** is the author of five previous novels, including _The Age of Dreaming_ , which was a finalist for the _Los Angeles Times_ Book Prize; _Southland_ , a _Los Angeles Times_ best seller and "Best Book" of 2003; and _Wingshooters_ , which won an Indie Booksellers Choice Award and was selected by _O, The Oprah Magazine_ as one of "10 Titles to Pick Up Now." Revoyr lives and works in Los Angeles. _A Student of History_ is her latest novel.
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PROLOGUE
NOW, THE old neighborhood is feared and avoided, even by the people who live there. Although stores wait for customers right down on the Boulevard, people drive to the South Bay, or even over to the Westside, to see a movie or to do their weekly shopping. The local places sell third-rate furniture and last year's clothes, and despite the promises of city leaders in the months after the riots, no bigger businesses, or schools, are on their way. A few traces of that other time remain—a time when people not only lived in the neighborhood, but never chose to leave it. And if some outsider looked closely, some driver who'd taken a wrong turn and ended up on the run-down streets, if that driver looked past the weather-worn lettering and cracked or broken windows, he'd have a sense of what the neighborhood once was. The grand old library's still there, and the first public school, with a fireplace in each of the classrooms. The Holiday Bowl's still open—although it closes now at dusk—where men came in from factory swing shifts and bowled until dawn. There are places where old train tracks still lie hidden beneath the weeds, and if the visitor knelt and pressed his ear against the dulled metal, he might hear the slow rumble of the train that used to run from downtown all the way to the ocean.
Now, the children feel trapped in that part of the city, and because they've learned, from watching their parents' lives, the limits of their futures, they smash whatever they can, which is usually each other. But then, in that different time—the neighborhood even had a different name—Angeles Mesa was a children's paradise. It was table land, flat and fertile, and the fields of wheat and barley made perfect places for young children to hide. The older children borrowed their fathers' guns and hunted rabbits and squirrels, because the Mesa was part of the growing city only in name; everybody knew it was country.
The children's parents loved the neighborhood, too. The ones who grew up in cities—either there in California, or in the dark, damp states of the Midwest and East—loved the space of the Mesa, and the fresh air that carried the scent of jasmine in spring and oleanders in the summer. The ones from the South couldn't believe they'd found a place with the ease and openness of home, but only a train ride away from their downtown jobs. It was a train that had brought them in the first place. The Chamber of Commerce sent an exhibit train to tour around the country, passing out oranges and pictures of palm trees to anyone who'd take them. Hopeful newlyweds, coughing factory workers, old sharecroppers with hands hardened by years of labor, all bit into the sweet juicy oranges and thought they tasted heaven. And the oranges were magical, because instead of quenching people's appetites, they fed them. That yearning and anticipation started out in their taste buds, and worked down into their hearts and stomachs until they grew teary-eyed with want. In Ohio, Mississippi, in Delaware and Georgia, you could see people trailing "California on Wheels," stumbling down the track after the slow-moving train as if they'd follow it all the way across the country. And they did. Maybe not that day, not that season, not that year, but they did. Packed up their things and arranged for someone else to send them on. Gathered the family and headed out to California.
Some of them went to Long Beach, seeking work in the bustling shipyards, or to Ventura, to draw their livings from the sea. Some went to San Fernando to be closer to the oranges that first seduced them, and some to the Central Valley to pick lettuce or grapes. And a few of them, after living someplace else for a year or several, after starting out in Little Tokyo or South Central or following the crops around the state, bought a plot of land in Angeles Mesa. The price was good, and what you got for it!—rich land nestled by wild hills. And if their neighbors spoke a different language, wore a different color skin, here—and only here—it didn't matter. Whatever feelings or apprehensions people had when they came, they learned to put them aside. Because their children played together, sat beside each other at the 52nd Street School. Because it was impossible to walk through the neighborhood without seeing someone different from you.
Now, even the All Are Welcome Church has steel bars over its windows, and half the storefronts stand empty and deserted. The strawberry fields and orchards are all buried under concrete, and lifelong residents won't leave their houses after dark. Those with the money but not the heart to leave the neighborhood completely cross the Boulevard and move into the hills. They never come down now, never stop at Mama's Chicken and Waffles or Otis's Barber Shop, which is closing, in its fortieth year, for lack of business. But then, in that other time, which wasn't really so long ago, the corner market could not keep its shelves stocked, or the Kyoto Grill cook enough food, or the Love Lifted Me Church on Crenshaw (which is actually on Stocker) make enough space to accommodate the faithful. And even as the area changed and grew—even as the Boulevard burst with commerce and people— the flavor of the Mesa didn't change. It was always country-in-the-city, but with a central place to gather. And since the Mesa had everything—food, bowling, church, and friends; not to mention trees, game, and a backdrop of hills—there was never any reason to leave. If a visitor had come through in 1958, he might have closed his eyes, and, listening to the voices around him, thought he'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in Texas. He might have walked into Harry's Noodle Shop and mistaken the town for Little Tokyo. He might see a group of men just released from the Goodyear plant, crowded around a radio and listening to a ball game. They'd be sitting on milk crates in front of a market owned by a young Japanese man, a veteran, who'd worked there since he was a teenager; who hired local boys himself; and who'd heard so many of his customers' stories he could almost forget his own.
The people who lived there, the people who laughed and drank and listened to the Dodgers, didn't know they were unusual. They didn't know that their disregard for rules observed outside the Mesa made them exceptions, and their example did not stand.
Now, if that lost driver went through certain parts of the neighborhood, he would still see a few of the elderly residents— Japanese and black—in a place the rest of the city dismisses as ghetto. But their children and grandchildren, and their friends' children, too, have moved elsewhere to build their own lives. In the city where history is useless and the future reinvented every day, no one has any need for game you hunted and cooked yourself; for berries stolen off the vine; for neighbors in pairs and threesomes sitting on stoops with cups of coffee, faces lifted to accept the morning sun. No one thinks about the neighborhood, its little corner market. No one, including the children of the people who lived there.
CHAPTER ONE
1994
TEN DAYS after her grandfather died, Jackie Ishida pulled into the entrance of the Tara Estates, the apartment complex where he'd lived with her aunt and uncle. It was eleven a.m. on a Saturday, February, 1994. Normally at this time she'd be studying already—she was in her third year of law school at UCLA—but Lois had called the night before, voice rough with cigarettes and tears, and asked her to come over this morning. And since her aunt Lois was, hands down, her favorite person in the family, she'd decided that the library could wait. It was a beautiful day, she noticed, but Los Angeles always looked best in winter—free of smog, crisp and green, cradled by the mountains. She stared out the window at the snow-capped peaks and waited for the security guard to write her a guest pass, wondering, as always, why she had to complete this particular formality. The two shootings and numerous hold-ups that had scared the residents lately had all occurred _within_ the Estates, not outside of them, so she didn't see why the guards were so concerned with visitors. Jackie, who'd grown up on the quiet, tree-lined streets of Torrance, could never get used to this haphazard clump of dingy, tan, threatening buildings. Some clever developer had named the complex after Scarlett O'Hara's plantation—which was, it turned out, not in Georgia at all, but instead had been built right there in Culver City, on the old RKO Studios lot just a mile away.
The security guard was a bulky young Latino man, and as he leaned down out of his parking hut, he stared at the pass he'd just filled out himself as if seeing for the first time what was written there.
"You're visiting Miss Sakai?" he asked, sitting back up in his chair. "Lois Sakai in 3B—Frank's daughter?"
"Yes," Jackie answered, holding her arm out the window. "I'm actually her niece. And his granddaughter."
"Aw, man," the guard said, clutching the pass. "Mr. Frank...It's just...See...Aw, man."
And as she watched him, her hand still extended to receive the blue pass, she saw that he was struggling not to cry. His name tag read "Tony," and he was about twenty-five—Jackie's age—but suddenly he looked like a child. "Hey," she said. "Hey, are you all right?"
He nodded, and then pulled himself together, finally giving Jackie her pass. "I'm sorry. I mean, you're family. And Miss Sakai, too. I guess I have no right. But it was just a surprise is all, and Frank..." He trailed off.
"It's OK," she reassured him again. "He had a good long life, you know? And we were all really lucky to have him."
Her words sounded empty and false to her, but they seemed to work for Tony. He nodded resolutely, gave his condolences, and then raised the gate so she could drive into the complex. And Jackie thought, not for the first time, that her ability to comfort people revealed a deficiency on her part, not a virtue. It is only those who aren't totally shattered by a loss who can comfort the others, who are. Lois, who'd stopped a mugging the previous fall by telling the three young would-be thieves that they were shaming their families; who'd once pulled a dying child out from under the wheel of a bus and held him while his mother fainted, had completely fallen apart at the death of her father. She'd collapsed in on herself—she wouldn't eat, would hardly talk, and she shivered no matter how warm it was. For the first time in her life, someone else—mostly Ted—had to watch after her and make sure she ate. All of this while Jackie made continual check-up phone calls, and while her mother Rose, Lois's sister, took care of all the funeral logistics.
Tony was right—her grandfather's death had been completely unexpected. At seventy-one, he'd still been in seemingly perfect health—he walked every day, ate lightly and well, and did repair jobs all over the neighborhood. With his tight, lean body, handsome grin, and just-graying hair, he'd looked twenty years younger than he was. The day he died, he walked a mile to an old widow's house to cut her overgrown front lawn. It was she who placed the call to 911 an hour later when she found him, laid flat out behind the idling mower.
Jackie parked her Accord in a visitor's spot, and then, sighing heavily, she walked up to her aunt's apartment, the last place she'd seen her grandfather alive. They had been close once, when she was much younger and had needed watching because her parents were so busy—her father practicing medicine and teaching at Cedars-Sinai; her mother going to medical school and then vanishing completely into her internship and residency. He'd lived in Gardena then, with her grandmother and sometimes Lois too, and Jackie had spent whole weeks with them when her parents were especially swamped. But then Jackie had gotten older, and her softspoken grandfather had been no competition for the excitements of the social world at school. He'd tried to stay involved in her life, right up until the end—he'd sent her clippings about women lawyers; he'd called her twice a month and pretended not to notice how she rushed him off the phone; he'd even sent her frequent e-mails on the computer her parents had bought him. But more often than not, Jackie hadn't answered, hadn't thanked him, hadn't noticed him much at all. By the time of his death she hardly knew him, and so her sense of loss now seemed shallow and unearned.
When Lois answered the door, she had the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, and she was shaking out a section of the newspaper. She beckoned for Jackie to enter, which Jackie did, taking a seat on the couch. Lois held the paper in one hand now, and gestured as if whomever she was speaking to were standing right in front of her.
"You're being silly, Cal," she said. "If someone tells you she's prepared to spend a whole lot of money, it's not in your best interest to try and stop her." She paced silently for a moment, listening. Then, "Listen, don't mess with me. My dad just died, my cat has hyper-thyroid, and one of my students just got arrested for robbing a bank. If one more bad thing happens, I'm likely to snap. I'm a woman with nothing to lose."
Jackie was glad to hear her talk like this, even if her aunt's firm words were undercut by the fact that she was still in her blue plaid pajamas. Jackie had been worried about Lois these last ten days. Her aunt, a strong, brash, stout, stone lion of a woman, had been unusually subdued since Frank died. For the first time in years, she'd even taken time off from her job as head guidance counselor at Culver City High School. She'd lost weight, had to be forced to come to the phone, had been dazed and barely audible when she managed to speak at all. This return to her usual attitudinal self suggested that she was starting to recover.
"All right, then. Three o'clock." She hung up the phone. "Ted?" she called out in the direction of the kitchen. "We've got a date. Cal said three o'clock."
A vague sound of acknowledgment came from the kitchen. Ted was doing the dishes—Jackie heard the clinks of silver against stoneware, smelled the ghosts of burned eggs and onions—and she was sure he wasn't happy about it. "What's happening?" she asked, when her aunt turned toward her.
"We're getting out of here," Lois said. She pulled a cigarette out of a half-empty pack and lit it; she'd started smoking on the day of the funeral. "Ted and I are finally going to buy a house."
Watching her aunt cough a few times, lower the cigarette, and then take another pained drag, Jackie thought that maybe she wasn't improving after all. "A house?" she repeated, and then she noticed what her aunt had been holding—the real estate section, spotted with circles of red ink, question marks in blue, indecipherable notes in dark green. Lois had put the paper down on the coffee table and now her cat, Winston, jumped on top of it, circling and batting at the billowing corners.
"It's actually a great time to buy," Lois informed her, sitting in the armchair that was opposite the couch. "Prices have been plummeting because of the quake."
Jackie nodded. Not quite a month before, the Northridge earthquake had struck the city, destroying or damaging thousands of buildings, killing fifty-seven people, and terrifying everyone. Since then the aftershocks had been appearing like unwelcome guests, brazenly and when you least expected them. Frank, Lois told her later, had been oddly unperturbed by the quake, by the frequent aftershocks, as if he knew he wouldn't be taken by _that_ catastrophe, but by one of a more personal variety. But Jackie wondered now if the heart attack hadn't been some delayed reaction to the trauma of the quake. The week before he died—just after the buildings on campus had been declared safe and classes had started up again—she'd come home to find her floor soaked, her carp wide-eyed and lifeless at the bottom of the empty aquarium. The tank's corner seam had been weakened by the quake; had finally given nine days after it. Maybe some seam in Frank's heart had been weakened as well, some internal fault line which waited two weeks, until the panic had lessened, to write its own smaller disaster.
"But isn't it kind of soon?" Jackie asked. She didn't press her on the rest of what she wondered, which was why they were doing this now. For six years, Lois, Ted, and her grandfather had lived in this small, cramped apartment, in this increasingly dangerous complex. It had never seemed strange that Frank had stayed here—when her grandmother died, it was a given that her grandfather would move in with Lois and not with Rose, even though the Ishidas had a huge place up in Ojai now, a four-bedroom house on a lovely five-acre lot. Lois was closer to Frank, always had been, and Rose had been closer to their mother. Now, with Frank gone, she and Ted would have more space—yet Jackie understood immediately why they had to leave. It was strange and awful to sit in this apartment, even for just a few minutes. She kept expecting her grandfather to enter the room, grinning when he saw her.
"I've just got to get out of here," Lois said, crushing out, to Jackie's relief, her half-smoked cigarette. Then suddenly Jackie was afraid that Lois, too, would leave her, move someplace where they couldn't see each other regularly. Her parents' departure she hadn't minded—they'd moved out of the house in Torrance and up to Ojai while she was going to school at Berkeley. And it was their absence, partly, that had made her spend more time with Lois when she moved back down to Los Angeles three years ago. That, and the fact that she _liked_ her aunt—as opposed to how she felt about her parents, who were too much like herself. All of their major faults, all the things she'd spent her adolescence railing against—their tension, their rigidity, their inability to deal with strong emotion—she'd inherited right along with her mother's thin nose and hazel, light-for-a-Japanese-girl's eyes; and to avoid the reflection, she saw them as little as possible. Lois, on the other hand, was easier to be around—more generous, more interesting, both more intense and also somehow more relaxed. And if Lois was going to leave now, she didn't know what she'd do. There'd be no one in her corner, no relief.
Lois seemed to sense Jackie's fear, and she reached out and patted her niece on the arm. "We're sticking close by, don't worry. Culver City or West L.A. I just don't want to be _here_ anymore—I'll never get used to Dad not being around, and I don't really want to. I mean, the day he died, all I could think was that I had to hurry home from the hospital so I could make him dinner in time for him and Ted to go out bowling. He told me that morning that he wanted black bean chili, and I took the cans down out of the cupboard before I went to school. They were still sitting there on the counter when we got home." She began to tear up at this, and Jackie looked away. "And I keep missing the stupidest things," Lois continued. "I mean, like the toilet flushing at two in the morning. Or the coffee grinder waking me up at five."
"At five?"
"Every day, including Sunday. Drove me fucking crazy, to tell you the truth. But I think it was something left over from when he used to have the store. Even after all these years, he always lived like he had to be at work by six-thirty."
The store. It was one of the many parts of her family's past that Jackie's mother had never discussed. Before Jackie, before marriage, before medical school, Rose and the rest of the family had lived in the Crenshaw district, where Frank owned and managed a little corner market. Jackie didn't know very much about that era—just that they left sometime in the sixties, after the riots down in Watts. As for Crenshaw itself, Frank's boyhood home, she'd only driven through it—by mistake mostly, and once or twice on purpose, when she was trying to avoid the traffic on the freeway. It was pretty much a black ghetto, as far as she could tell—an image that had only been confirmed by the funeral.
The service was held in Culver City at her grandparents' church, which she hadn't entered in six years, since her grandmother died. _That_ funeral had been uneventful, attended mostly by family and a few long-time neighbors from Gardena. But when Jackie walked into the church for her grandfather's service, she was surprised to see that half the people in attendance were black. She was even more startled, and then slightly embarrassed, when, during the service, the black mourners—who were mostly clumped together on the right side of the room—began to answer the pastor, to shout "Amen" after each of his supplications. Jackie had only been to this church once or twice, but she was sure this call-and-response wasn't a usual part of the proceedings. She learned later that the one thing Lois had managed to do in the days after her father's death was to put a notice in _The Sentinel_ , the local black newspaper. Lois still seemed attached to the old neighborhood, unlike Jackie's mother, who always grimaced when she spoke of it. And it was Lois, mostly, to whom the mourners expressed their condolences—although some of them smiled at Jackie, too, or spoke to her warmly, gestures of reflected sympathy she knew she didn't deserve. One thing they made her realize, though, and she was seeing it more and more: Frank had had an existence outside of her, outside of the whole family. All the strangers at the church knew Frank Sakai not as an aging old grandfather, but as an individual with a story, as a man.
Jackie was about to ask her aunt why Frank had given up the store when Ted Kanda appeared, his booming voice filling the room. "Hey, gorgeous," he said to Jackie. "What's cooking?"
"Breakfast was, I guess," Jackie replied. "Not that you saved me any."
"I'm sorry," he said, and sounded it. Ted was a big man, shaped exactly like Lois although a good foot taller, and it was funny to see his strong, wide shoulders fall into an exaggerated slump of remorse.
"You didn't miss much, believe me," Lois said. "He burned the omelet so badly I had to throw half of mine out."
"I'm a _good_ cook, usually," he insisted to Jackie, who knew differently. "I've cooked for some very important people."
Lois rolled her eyes. "He served some pasta to Jerry Brown once in the dining hall in college. To hear him tell it, he made a ten-course gourmet meal for heads of state."
He turned toward Lois, his ponytail swinging. "You be quiet. Or next time I'll slip some rat poison into the food."
"Well, at least it would improve the taste."
Again, Jackie thought her aunt was doing better; Lois almost smiled at this last exchange. But Ted could do that for her, only Ted. He wasn't really Jackie's uncle—he and Lois had never married—but they'd been together for almost twelve years now. And Jackie, after not knowing what to make of Ted at first, had grown to adore him, although her parents still regarded him with a kind of half-benign suspicion. Rose acted like he was a grunting, dirtcaked cowboy, swinging his lasso in their living room, endangering their lamps, and her father, Richard, was more friendly, but still bewildered. The fact that Ted was an engineer for TRW did nothing to improve their opinion of him. They were also displeased with Lois's living situation, especially after Frank moved in (presumably he'd be offended by his daughter's scandalous domestic arrangement), although Jackie couldn't imagine that they'd like Ted much better if he and Lois ever got married.
Now he turned to Jackie and asked, "So did Lois tell you that we're looking at houses?"
"Yes, she did. You have an appointment for today?"
"Yeah, you wanna come? It's a three-bedroom place off of Braddock. We don't know if we can afford it, though. I just bought a computer program that's supposed to help us figure out what we can borrow and what kind of mortgage we should get. I have to install it later. Which reminds me."
"Oh, right," Lois said, pulling the scattered paper out from under the cat, and sounding somber again. "Jackie, can you cancel Dad's online account? Ted couldn't figure it out."
"Sure," she responded, shrugging. "I can try. But I don't know if I can do any better." It amused her that Ted, who understood the inner workings of engines and robots, could hardly find his way around a personal computer. Now, suddenly, she thought of a part of the past she _did_ know about and remember. "If you're looking for a house, what about Grandpa and Grandma's old place? What ever happened to that?"
"I'm not crazy about Gardena," Lois said. "Anyway, it's gone—he sold it right after Mom died."
"But the money from the sale..." Jackie didn't want to ask what had happened to it, because it brought up, awkwardly, the question of the will, which was going to be read that coming Tuesday.
Lois clearly caught the drift, though. "I don't think he left much, but we'll find out on Tuesday." Now she and Ted exchanged a glance, which Jackie caught.
"What?"
"Actually," Lois said, "the reason I wanted you to come over today has something to do with all that."
Oh, God, Jackie thought. There's going to be a problem. She and Rose disagree about something as usual, and it's all going to explode over the will.
Lois stood and walked over to her desk, where she picked up a spiral notebook. Carefully, she pulled out a folded piece of paper, and then came back over and sat across from Jackie. "I'm wondering about the validity of a will," she said, "written in 1964."
"Whose?"
"Dad's."
"Is that what the lawyer's going to read on Tuesday?"
"No," Lois said. "This is a different one."
Jackie wanted to ask her what exactly she meant, but Lois was acting so strange, looking at Ted again, that she decided to sit tight and wait.
"This one," Lois continued, lifting the paper, "mentions things I'm sure the other one doesn't. And I'm afraid there might be a conflict. Here—I think you should read it." She handed it across the coffee table, and as Jackie took it, she watched the edges dip and rise. The paper was so thin that, even folded, she could make out the dark shapes of her fingers beneath it. The typed words were light, as if the ribbon had been running out of ink. She read:
_September 22, 1964_
_I, Franklin Masayuki Sakai, being of sound mind and body, do bequeath the following items upon the event of my death:_
1. _My house and savings shall go to my wife, Mary Yukiko Sakai._
2. _My car shall go to my wife._
3. _All of my late father's possessions, including his great-grandfather's_ kimono _and_ katana _, shall go to my mother, Masako Sakai._
4. _My books and photographs shall go to my daughters, Rose and Lois._
5. _My baseball cards shall go to John Oyama, Jr._
6. _My jazz record collection will go to Richard Iida._
7. _My store, located at 3601 Bryant St., shall go to Curtis Martindale._
When she finished reading, she kept staring at the page. This will, this random list, was the kind of thing someone threw together in a panic and then forgot once the moment had passed. Lois, who was afraid of planes, made one every time she had to fly, earnestly telling everyone for days beforehand what she'd bequeathed them in the latest version.
"This stuff has already been dealt with, hasn't it? I mean, I don't know about the smaller things, but you just told me there's no house. And I know that there isn't a store."
"Right," Lois said. "He actually gave the cards to John years ago. And Richard Iida died, so Ted and I are going to keep the records."
Ted, behind her, winked and gave a thumbs-up sign.
"You have any idea why he wrote this?" Jackie asked. "He wasn't about to get on a plane, was he?"
But her teasing comment missed its mark entirely. "I just figured this out," Lois said. "He was having an operation to get his appendix removed and, you know, he never trusted doctors after the way they handled his foot." Jackie thought of the smooth, shortened end of her grandfather's right foot; it looked as if the toes had been filed down. She remembered his slight limp, the hitch in his step, which might have passed for a jerky strut if he'd been younger.
"Well, I don't think you have to do anything. Everything in the will is taken care of."
"Not quite," Lois said, and then she gestured in the direction of the bedrooms. "See, I found this will in a box of papers Dad kept in his closet. I was looking for the poem he read at Mom's funeral, because I thought we might read it again. Anyway, there was a lot of stuff in it—old pictures and articles, even his war medals. I mean, all kinds of things I'd never seen before. And there was another box, too, which had 'store' written on it with a marker." She looked at Ted, who turned and disappeared down the hallway. Jackie heard a door open and shut; then Ted reappeared, holding a stone-colored box which was big enough for a pair of boots or a hat. He set it down on the coffee table, and Lois nodded for her to open it. Which she did. And saw more money than she'd ever seen before, so much that her first impulse was to put the lid back on. But then she looked at it again, at all that green, all those Andrew Jacksons. "What the hell?" she finally said. "What's this from?"
"The store, I guess, according to how he marked it."
"How much is in here?"
"Almost $38,000."
" _Excuse_ me?"
"Thirty-eight grand," Ted repeated, shaking his head. "Can you believe it?"
"Just sitting in the closet?"
"Yeah."
Jackie put the lid back on, stood up, and walked across the room. At the entrance to the kitchen, she turned around. "But Lois, I can't believe he would have just hidden this money for, what, twenty-nine years? Are you sure it's from the store?"
"I'm not sure, but it seems to be."
"Do we know if it's mentioned in the current will?"
"I don't think so. Like I said, as far as I know, he didn't have much to leave. And to answer your question from before, the money from the Gardena house is gone. He gave that and the redress money to Rose a few years back, in order to pay for your law school." Jackie hadn't been aware of this arrangement. And it was more evidence of what she had taken from Frank—his attention, his money, his time. He was always there to fix her heater, or to build her a set of shelves. She had given him so little in return.
"Well, this is great," she said, trying to shake her guilt. "You want to buy a house, right? So here's your down payment."
"You're missing the point," Lois replied. "He left the store to someone else. And this looks like it's the money from the store."
"Wait. You think the money should go to—" She looked down at the paper again. "—Curtis Martindale? Who _is_ Curtis Martindale, anyway?"
"I don't know." Lois leaned back against Ted, who was standing behind her, his big hands draped over her shoulders. "Someone from the neighborhood, I think. The name sounds vaguely familiar. I'm guessing he's pretty young—or that he _was_ pretty young back then. Dad _got_ the store from someone in the neighborhood, you know, before he married Mom. Old Man Larabie practically gave it to him, almost as a gift. He was probably just trying to pass on the favor." Ted began to rub her shoulders, and she closed her eyes and leaned back. And Jackie remembered how interested Frank always was in her friends and their lives; how good he was with all young people. She thought about mentioning Tony, the security guard, but decided against it; his strong response to Frank's death made her muted one seem even less defensible.
"Anyway, there's no Curtis Martindale in L.A. County," Lois continued. "I checked information."
"Does my mother know who he is?"
"I haven't asked her. I didn't tell her about this."
Jackie nodded. Rose had always seemed a bit resentful of the store; one thing she _had_ told Jackie was that Frank had spent most of his time there. Jackie knew her mother would want to invest the money or put it in the bank, and she, for once, would have to agree with her.
"Lois," she said, "you could _use_ this money. Why do you want to give it away?"
"Because _he_ wanted to. And if he meant it for someone else, it's not mine."
Jackie shook her head; she couldn't believe this.
"I'm wondering," Lois said now, opening her eyes, "if _you'd_ be willing to track this guy down."
Jackie stared at her aunt. "Me? Why me?"
Lois frowned. "Because I'm a mess," she answered in a measured voice, "and I don't want to deal with this shit right now. There's so much to do, with the legal will and all of Dad's things, and the business with the house. Curtis Martindale is one loose end I don't really have the time for."
Jackie tried not to pout, or to remind her aunt that she herself was creating the business with the house. It was bad enough that Lois wanted to give away this money, which was sitting in her apartment, in her closet. But to ask Jackie to be a part of it? No thanks. Not that it would be difficult to make a few calls, to check some records. With this kind of money involved, she'd have Curtis Martindales coming out of the woodwork. It was just the principle of the thing, the idea of throwing away that kind of cash. "Well, if I did do this—which I'm not saying I will—do you have any ideas about where I would start?"
"Actually, yes," Lois said. "A couple of people from the funeral. Especially that woman Loda, who caught us right when we came in. She grew up in Crenshaw and I think she still works there. Do you remember her? The older black lady in that dark green suit?"
Jackie did. The woman Lois referred to had been crying herself, she was so worked up about Frank. She was a tall, black-gloved woman with neat marcelled waves in her hair, and she'd hugged them both as they entered the church. She'd told them Frank had once found and sheltered her child when she'd run away from home; said it made sense the Lord had called Frank home when he was giving somebody a hand. She'd insisted repeatedly that they should get in touch with her if they needed anything.
"Yeah," Jackie answered. "I think so."
Lois reached into her purse, which was sitting on the floor, and pulled out a business card. It was one of many they'd both received that day, from people who wanted to document their presence, or to help. They'd also been deluged with _koden_ , condolence money, in small white envelopes with black and silver ribbons, offered mostly by older Japanese. Over and over, the same routine—the checkbook-sized envelope held out with both hands; the offerer avoiding eye contact, bowing low, saying, "It's nothing. I'm ashamed to give it to you."
Jackie took the card reluctantly. It was white, the print black and gold, and it informed her that Loda Thomas was the Adult Literacy Coordinator at the Marcus Garvey Community Center. She dropped it on top of the shoebox as if it carried a disease. "I don't know," she said. Both Lois and Ted looked at her expectantly, and to escape their gaze, to avoid the question, she returned to an earlier topic. "So, do you want me to take care of Grandpa's AOL account?"
Lois looked startled, and then disappointed. "Yeah," she said, throwing her hands up. "Sure."
Jackie fled down the hallway, glad to leave Lois and Ted and the box of money behind. The door to her grandfather's room was closed. It had never been closed when she'd come over before, and she paused now, standing in front of it, fighting the urge to knock. The cat stood at the end of the hallway, swishing his tail, staring at her accusingly, as if he, too, was aware of how much she'd taken Frank for granted. She wanted to shut him out, along with the questions her aunt had raised and the project she'd been given, so she pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it again behind her.
It was strange to be in here, and she wasn't sure that she could stay for very long. The room was small and, as always, impeccably neat. The single bed, pushed up under the window, was carefully made. There was a dresser against one wall and a desk against the other, on top of which sat the Macintosh computer. There were two pieces of art in the room—a large painting of a feudal Japanese home with a garden and carp pool in front of it, and a smaller, simpler painting of a single tree, its branches drooping gracefully like the arms of a tired dancer. Both paintings were the work of Frank's grandmother, Jackie's great-great grandmother, who had been a minor artist in Japan. Jackie's eyes passed over these things without really seeing them, but then she noticed something hanging off the back of the desk chair. It was a blue Dodgers cap, well-worn, the lid bent slightly in the middle. Jackie remembered when he bought it—at a Dodgers game he took her to when she was seven. He'd bought her one, too, but she'd outgrown it; she had no idea now where it was. She walked over to the chair and took the cap off carefully, bringing it up to her nose. It smelled like him—soap and grass and Old Spice, with a touch of stale tobacco. Jackie felt a strange sensation in her chest and stomach—a combination of the warmth she got from a shot of whiskey and the pang she felt when she hadn't eaten all day. What caused this, more than the smell of her grandfather, or even the cap itself, was the casual way it had been thrown on the back of the chair. Everything else in the room was neat and orderly. But the cap had simply been tossed there, as if her grandfather had just stepped out and would return at any moment.
She sat down in his desk chair, thinking again about the funeral—about all the mourners, like Loda Thomas, and her sense that the man they were paying respects to was different than the one she'd grown up with. Or maybe he _wasn't_ different with everyone else; maybe she'd just never bothered to know him. Not once had she asked him a meaningful question—about his thoughts or experiences, successes or failures, anything. And not once had she asked about the people in his life, so that the men and women she'd seen in the church that day, black and Japanese, had been totally new to her, as mysterious and undelineated as the acquaintances of a stranger. And yet they all knew _him_ , and his family. She remembered sitting in the crematorium after the funeral, the strange intimacy between all the people there. It was the same room she and her family had waited in six years before, when her grandmother died. On that occasion, the staff had brought out a tray like a giant baking sheet full of still-hot ashes, dotted here and there with small charred bones, the perfect white kernels of teeth. Frank had started the ritual passing of bones, picking the larger fragments out with a pair of special chopsticks, passing them chopstick-to-chopstick to Rose, who passed them to Lois—spirit to body to dust. Once, years before in a restaurant, Rose had violently slapped the chopsticks out of Jackie's hand when she'd used them to offer a piece of fish to her father. She never explained why, and when the connection finally hit Jackie, at Mary Sakai's cremation, it was _that_ more than the handling of her grandmother's bones that made her hug herself and rock back and forth. This time, though, there had been no picking through the remains; her mother hadn't wanted it, and Jackie was glad. She sat silently, staring at the wall as if she could see through it, and imagined the glasses melting, the gold wedding band, flames consuming flesh. Her eyes had settled on the odd old man across from her who'd sat through the entire service mumbling to himself, and then, when she and Lois approached him after it was over, had jumped to his feet instantly, spry as a spaniel, and offered a gorgeous, right-angled salute. She'd looked over at Burt Hara, the Buddhist priest from the Tara Estates who Frank sometimes played cards with; he'd just given Lois a thick wooden tablet with Chinese characters, the Buddhist name conferred to Frank upon his death. When the black-tied employee came out and handed Rose a simple bronze urn, Jackie wondered only what had happened to the bones and teeth. Rose handed the urn to Lois, who wrapped it in a purple _furoshiki_ and set it down on the table. Burt Hara stood over it and said a few words in Japanese. And then everyone there, even, shockingly, both of Jackie's parents, began to cry in earnest—everyone, that is, except for Jackie. The odd saluting man exploded with great gulping sobs; her mother just covered her face. She felt awful then—for not feeling more; for not sharing in their sorrow; for having been so distant from Frank, by the end, that she couldn't even properly grieve.
But there was nothing, she thought, as she sat at his desk, that she could do about that failure. One tangible thing she could accomplish right now, however, was to grapple with America Online, and so she reached out and switched on the Mac. AOL, she knew, would keep billing her grandfather endlessly unless she canceled the account; her aunt was smart to want to cut them off now. She double-clicked on the AOL icon, double-clicked again. The dialogue box gave her the user's screen name, "FSakai." Now she needed the password. She paused for a moment. Baseball, his biggest love, was the obvious answer. She tried "Dodger," then "Koufax," then "Drysdale." Who else had he admired? She tried "Dusty," "Fernando," and "homerun." She thought about Japanese ballplayers—would he use a player from the Japanese leagues? She didn't think so. Then she recalled a player that he'd mentioned as being half-Asian, whose name she remembered because she thought it so funny, and she typed "Darling" very quickly and hit "return." The modem dialed, whirred, connected. Something flashed on and off the screen. She was in.
A tinny, cheerful voice welcomed her and informed her, "You've got mail!" She'd just intended to log on long enough to cancel his membership, but now she decided to read the new mail. It must have been written around the time he died, and she wondered who it was from. She felt vaguely invasive. Once, when she'd worked for an accountant in high school, she'd had to go through the checkbook of a woman who'd recently died. The barely dried ink there, the woman's belief, in writing the checks, that she'd be around to cover them, had spooked and saddened her, as Frank's mail did now. When she went to open it, though, she found that it was only something from the people at America Online. She was half-disappointed, half-relieved. Then, since she was there already, she decided to look at his file of outgoing mail. The results were boring—the most recent mail had all gone out to her. She felt another stab of guilt—she hadn't answered his last few messages—so to counteract it, she did something worse. Curious about who her grandfather corresponded with, she opened up his address file—the only addresses there belonged to Jackie, Lois, Rose, and Ted. This couldn't be, she thought; these were probably just the addresses he happened to keep on file. She closed that box and pulled up his older mail. The only messages were from her and her aunt and Ted. And there weren't very many. Not, anyway, in comparison to the number of messages he'd sent to _them_ —she opened his "sent mail" file again and saw that the list of outgoing messages was about four times as long. She couldn't bear to look at this. She hadn't returned his calls; had forgotten his last two birthdays; had only responded to a fraction of his emails. She hung her head for a moment and, looking back at the screen, finally began to sense the loneliness of the man who used to sit where she sat now.
Feeling something strong and definite for the first time since the funeral—shame—she thought that what her aunt wished her to do, while foolish, wasn't really so hard. Maybe Frank _had_ wanted all that money to go to the man in the will; who was she to say? Tracking him down was the least she could do—for everyone. And she could spend the day with her aunt, too, like Lois always wanted her to—she could blow off her schoolwork for once and go look at this house with them. Sighing, she turned off the computer and went back out to the living room, where Lois and Ted, red pens in hand, were circling more ads. The business card was still lying untouched on top of the box of money; Jackie picked it up and slipped it into her wallet.
"So I'll give Loda Thomas a call on Monday," she said, as nonchalantly as she could.
Lois smiled, and Jackie knew that _she_ knew that something had happened in the bedroom. But she didn't ask about it; she just said, "Thank you."
CHAPTER TWO
LOIS—1994, 1963
SHE SAW him everywhere, at different ages, in different incarnations. It was like the soundless scenes played at the end of certain movies, flashing on and off the screen while the credits rolled. Today the scenes starred Jackie as tiny granddaughter, maybe because Lois had spent the whole day with her, like they used to with Frank twenty years ago, afternoons and outings and dinners at home that her niece didn't even remember.
But Lois did. Small snippets of memory, like cut-up film. Frank handing out cigars when Jackie was born, laughing aloud and then suddenly weeping, as if he already knew she'd be his only grandchild. Frank stomping around the house in Gardena, roaring, pretending he was a monster, waggling his sawed-off foot or half-finger in Jackie's face. Frank and Jackie in the bowling alley, he encouraging her as she squatted behind the heavy ball, pushed it with both hands, jumped up and down as she watched it roll right into the gutter. Frank and Jackie a couple of years later, leaning over the railing at the Redondo Beach Pier. She was riding on his shoulders, legs hooked over his chest, fingers trying to get a hold in his crew-cut hair. He with his sun-browned hands wrapped around each of her legs. Lois beside them getting nervous as Frank leaned over the railing to watch a fish flipping on someone's hook, her niece draped over his head, hanging, tipping out over the water. Lois yelled, "Dad!" and then felt silly as he stood up straight, snapped the child back onto the pier, saying, "What?" And then they'd fished, the three of them, sitting in lawn chairs and holding the bamboo poles that Frank had made himself, nodding them up and down, back and forth, like divining rods. Jackie's mother was in medical school then, her father already a doctor, so it often fell to Frank or Lois—who was slowly finishing college—to take care of Rose's child. To try and show her something different from the gilded, tree-lined world they both knew she was going to grow up in.
Lois remembered the day her family had divided. Looking back, she could see that it had been happening for years, but one Saturday morning in 1963, each member of the family had fallen clearly in one direction or the other.
She was twelve years old, and her older sister was playing for the under-fifteen championship of the Japanese Tennis League. Lois—who was in charge of equipment—had accidentally grabbed Rose's practice shoes before running out to the car; they looked the same as the ones her sister wore for matches. And later, as they pulled up to the tennis court in Gardena, Lois knew her whole family was mad at her. Rose would hardly look at her, hadn't spoken since she'd flipped her ponytail in exasperation and cried, "Lo-is! How could you be so dumb!" Her mother had been tight-lipped, informing her, simply, "This is a very important match, Lois. I hope you didn't ruin it for your sister." Even her grandmother Sakai, who never yelled at anyone, still added to the general air of disapproval. Only her father had refrained from scolding her, trying instead to mollify his eldest, telling her the practice shoes weren't really that much older; their traction should be fine on the nice new court.
Although Lois felt bad about the shoes and wished that someone would talk to her, she wasn't worried about how her sister would do in the match. She didn't care much for tennis. She hated the bright white skirts, the pressed blouses, the scrubbed-clean quality of all the girls who played. And she hated leaving Crenshaw to come down to Gardena, where everyone lived in big, bland houses; where all the boys her age were already talking about college and becoming doctors, and all the girls spoke of make-up tips and Barbie dolls. After their father parked the car, Rose ran off to talk to some girls she knew. Their mother's parents lived here in Gardena now—they'd closed the restaurant in Little Tokyo and opened another one over on Western—and the whole family came down to visit often enough for Rose to make some new friends. Her sister wanted to move here, Lois knew; every weekend her Gardena friends would pick her up in their cars, and Rose always returned from these excursions sighing and sad, looking out the window for hours.
Lois, her parents, and her grandma Sakai found seats in the shiny aluminum stands. Frank and Mary exchanged pleasantries with some other parents they knew, including Mr. and Mrs. Ikeda, the parents of Stephanie Ikeda, the girl Rose would be facing in the championship. Mary put the red and white cooler of _sushi_ on the bench between herself and Lois, and Lois looked at it, stomach rumbling. The big Japanese-style picnic which followed these matches was the only thing that made them bearable.
"I wish you would take up tennis," Mary said. "Or bowling. Something where you'd make some good friends."
"I _have_ friends," Lois replied, thinking of Chris, with the gap where his tooth had been punched out, and Janie, with the always-skinned knees.
"Yes, but they're not _nice_ friends."
Lois sighed. She'd heard all of this before. At twelve, she was a tomboy, usually outside and almost always dirty. To her, the greatest joy in life was running loose in the neighborhood. She loved the Crenshaw district, and she loved her father's stories about how much it had changed over the years, since the time it was known as Angeles Mesa. It was filled with houses now, and crowded with all different sorts of families. But Frank described a neighborhood of huge, open spaces; of fewer and heartier people. For Lois, going down to Gardena, which was stiff and all-Japanese, was like going to church—something she knew she should do and appreciate, but which bored her to the point of sleep.
After an interminable warm-up period, a short man wearing a golf visor introduced the two players and everyone in the crowd clapped politely. The match began. Rose seemed nervous at first, and Lois feared she was distracted by the fit of her shoes, but then she settled in, as she always did, placing the ball perfectly on almost every shot. It was so quiet that Lois could hear the creak of a swing set on the other side of the park, chain links shifting and straining. Every time Stephanie Ikeda hit the ball, she emitted a small grunt, like she'd been punched in the stomach, and Lois saw her own mother shake her head a little, glad _her_ daughter didn't make such ugly noises. The whole crowd cheered when a point was won, and Rose took the first set in half an hour.
At the break, the people in the stands started into a quiet chatter, analyzing the first set, debating a questionable call made by one of the judges. Lois saw the gray clouds moving over them, closing and unclosing like fists, and she wondered if it was going to start raining. Her parents exchanged a few words and then fell silent again, and Lois thought, watching them, not for the first time, that she never wanted to marry. Marriage, to her, meant what her parents had—steadiness, like a small efficient business. Her parents never fought, but they didn't hug either, or talk about anything that wasn't related to the family or work. She knew that love could be more than that—more like Christy Hara and John Oyama from high school, who would vanish into Christy's house in the afternoon and come out an hour later looking happy and relaxed; or like Dexter Coleman's parents, who lived together but had never married, and who still cooked for each other, and sang songs together, and yelled, "Hey, baby!" when they met on the street.
Steadiness, in any form, was stifling to her. She liked the extreme, the inexplicable, the ridiculous and evil. She liked her Grandma and Grandpa Takayas' stories of the hustlers and pimps they served in the old days in Little Tokyo; of the gambling house where they wouldn't let Mary make deliveries because of the desperate, devious men and shady women. She liked their stories of nine-month winters and planting rice on early mornings in Japan, and her grandmother Sakai's tales of surviving on locusts, fried for crispness or boiled for soup. They were citizens now, all of them, transformed into Americans at the mass naturalization ceremony at the Hollywood Bowl in '54, but to Lois their stories of old Japan were like the best kind of fairy tales—fantastical, with familiar elements and odd but recognizable characters.
During the second set, Lois's attention wandered. She looked around at all the well-dressed husbands and wives, the tiny grandmothers with their plain, drab Western clothes and their bright, patterned Japanese fans. She watched a couple of bored-looking wives glance over at her father, who she knew was handsomer than any Gardena man. A better father, too, she believed. He was at the store every night until eight or nine, but then he was always at home, telling stories, teasing his daughters, never going out for drinks or card games like the other Nisei fathers she knew. He even took her to baseball games sometimes at Dodger Stadium, and before that, when the team had just moved out from Brooklyn, right over at the Olympic Coliseum. Rose, of course, wasn't interested in baseball, but once or twice a summer, Frank and his friend Victor gathered a big group of kids and drove them all up to a game. Lois loved being around the men, for any reason—the deep sweet smell of Victor's pipe, the easy way her father laughed when they sat on the stoop of Victor's house, always made her feel secure. The two of them together were a sight to see, especially her father's friend—all the women in the neighborhood, from fifteen to fifty, threw more sway in their hips, more spice and honey in their voices, when Victor Conway came around.
At the break between the second and third sets—Stephanie Ikeda had taken the second set 6-3—Lois asked her mother where the bathroom was. Mary pointed at a small tan building about a hundred feet away from the court. "Can't you wait?" she asked. Lois said that she couldn't. "Hurry back," her mother said.
Lois barely made it to the bathroom in time, and when she was done, she had no desire to get back to the stands. So she dawdled, distracted by a game of volleyball; by a picnic; by a particularly proud and vocal robin. Every so often she looked over at the tennis court and saw the slim white-clad bodies flitting around on the sea-green concrete. When she was about thirty feet away, a small golden puppy came up to her, dragging a leather leash. Lois crouched down to greet her. The dog jumped up, put its front paws on her shoulders, and thoroughly washed her face with its tongue. The owner appeared soon after and disengaged the leash, saying that Lois could play with her for a while. So Lois skipped around, leading the dog in a circle, pretending it was hers. She could hear the announcer over at the court saying the set was tied 5-5. Lois knew she should see the end of the match, so she started back over to the court, but the puppy, ignoring its owner, continued to follow her. Then the dog caught sight of the tennis ball. Rose was bouncing it, preparing to serve, and the puppy, following some ancient, blood-deep impulse, took off toward the court at a sprint. "Wait!" Lois yelled after her, but it was Rose who turned, upon completing her serve, and so she completely missed her opponent's return. Worse, the ball skittered off her end of the court and the puppy pounced on it, growling happily. The entire crowd burst into laughter. Rose went after her, but the dog commenced a game of keep-away, getting close to Rose, then jumping back again, Rose lunging in desperation. The crowd continued to laugh, and Rose to chase, until finally the owner appeared and grabbed the dog by the collar. He pried the ball loose from the puppy's jaws and handed it sheepishly back to Rose. She grimaced at the thing, which was now covered with dirt and saliva, and then glared at Lois, who was standing to the side of the crowd, trying hard to disappear. Rose went back to the court, took out a new ball, and attempted to regain her composure, and the crowd's laughter quieted down to a still-amused titter. The last point had put Rose down 30-40, and now, distracted, she double-faulted. It was 5-6. Stephanie Ikeda had serve, and Rose never recovered. She dropped the last game, love-40, and lost the match in three sets.
On the car ride home, Lois slumped in the back seat and suffered yet another berating from her sister and mother. Rose was almost hysterical, complaining to her parents about how Lois was a brat, and a bad student, and she was trying to ruin her life, and Mary scolded Lois for spoiling her sister's day. Lois felt small, the bad daughter. Even her grandmother refused to look at her. But then, in the middle of this barrage, she caught Frank's eye in the rearview mirror. He'd laughed right along with the rest of the crowd when the puppy went after the ball. Now Lois saw that his eyes were still laughing, despite his immobile face. He looked at her in the rearview mirror, not adding to the din of voices. Then he winked. And in that moment, as they drove up Crenshaw and back toward their house, although she didn't say anything or even return the gesture, she felt the weight of everyone else's fury lift off her, and became her father's child.
**End of Excerpt**
**More about _Southland_**
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_Southland_ is available in paperback and e-book editions. Our print books are available from our website and in online and brick & mortar bookstores everywhere. The digital edition is available wherever e-books are sold.
_LAist's_ "20 Novels That Dared to Define a Different Los Angeles
Winner of the American Library Association's Stonewall Honor Award in Literature
Nominated for an Edgar Award
Selected for the _LA Times_ Best Book of 2003 List
Nominated for the _LA Times_ Book Prize
Nominated for a Ferro-Grumley Literary Award
Nominated for a Lambda Literary Award
A Book Sense 76 Pick
InsightOut Book Club Selection
"The plot line of _Southland_ is the stuff of a James Ellroy or a Walter Mosley novel . . . But the climax fairly glows with the good-heartedness that Revoyr displays from the very first page." — _Los Angeles Times_
"If Oprah still had her book club, this novel likely would be at the top of her list . . . With prose that is beautiful, precise, but never pretentious . . ." — _Booklist_ (starred review)
"Compelling . . . never lacking in vivid detail and authentic atmosphere, the novel cements Revoyr's reputation as one of the freshest young chroniclers of life in LA." — _Publishers Weekly_
"What makes a book like _Southland_ resonate is that it merges elements of literature and social history with the propulsive drive of a mystery, while evoking Southern California as a character, a key player in the tale. Such aesthetics have motivated other Southland writers, most notably Walter Mosley." — _Los Angeles Times_
"Fascinating and heartbreaking . . . an essential part of LA history." — _LA Weekly_
"Read this book and tell me you don't want to read more. I know I do." —Dorothy Allison
". . . subtle, effective . . . [with] a satisfyingly unpredictable climax." — _Washington Post_
"An engaging, thoughtful book that even East Coasters can enjoy." — _New York Press_
"Dead-on descriptions of California both gritty and golden." — _East Bay Express_
" _Southland_ gripped my attention and would not let go until I turned the last page." — _International Examiner_
"A remarkable feat." —Susan Straight
" _Southland_ is a simmering stew of individual dreams, family struggles, cultural relations, social changes, and race relations. It is a compelling, challenging, and rewarding novel." — _Chicago Free Press_
Nina Revoyr brings us a compelling story of race, love, murder, and history against the backdrop of Los Angeles. A young Japanese-American woman, Jackie Ishida, is in her last semester of law school when her grandfather, Frank Sakai, dies unexpectedly. While trying to fulfill a request from his will, Jackie discovers that four black teenagers were killed in the store he ran during the Watts Riots of 1965—and that the murders were never solved or reported. Along with James Lanier, a cousin of one of the victims, she tries to piece together the story of the boys' deaths. In the process, Jackie unearths the long-held secrets of her family's history—and her own. Moving in and out of the past, from the shipping yards and internment camps of World War II; to the barley fields of the Crenshaw District in the 1930s; to the means streets of Watts in the 1960s; to the night spots and garment factories of the 1990s, _Southland_ weaves a tale of Los Angeles in all of its faces and forms.
Also available by Nina Revoyr: _Wingshooters_
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_The Age of Dreaming_ is available in paperback and e-book editions. Our print books are available from our website and in online and brick & mortar bookstores everywhere. The digital edition is available wherever e-books are sold.
A _Booklist_ Book of the Year 2011
Finalist for SCIBA's 2011 Fiction Award
Winner of the 2011 Midwest Booksellers Choice Award
Winner of the first annual Indie Booksellers Choice Award
Selected for IndieBound's March 2011 Indie Next List, "Great Reads from Booksellers You Trust"
Featured in _O, The Oprah Magazine_ 's March 2011 Reading Room section as one of _10 Titles to Pick Up Now_
"Revoyr does a remarkable job of conveying [protagonist] Michelle's lost innocence and fear through this accomplished story of family and the dangers of complacency in the face of questionable justice." — _Publishers Weekly_ (starred review)
"Revoyr writes rhapsodically of a young girl's enthrallment to the natural world and charts, with rising intensity, her resilient narrator's painful awakening to human failings and senseless violence. In this shattering northern variation on _To Kill A Mockingbird_ , Revoyr drives to the very heart of tragic ignorance, unreason, and savagery." — _Booklist_ (starred review)
"Hauntingly provocative . . . an excellent choice for book discussion groups as it will force readers to dig deep and look inward." — _Library Journal_
"Gripping and insightful." — _Kirkus Reviews_
"A searing, anguished novel . . . The narration and pace are expertly calibrated as it explores a topic one wishes still wasn't so current." — _Los Angeles Times_
"Much can be said and commended about the book's themes of loyalty and love . . . I'll just say that this author is a big talent. Her book is a little thing of beauty. It's a story with American historical significance; it's a novel with emotional heft; it's a satisfying read in the spirit of what Picasso said about another writer, James Joyce: 'The incomprehensible that everyone can understand.'" — _Brooklyn Rail_
"Revoyr has written a searing portrait of the all-too-recent past, of a place where change comes slowly and painfully, and of a girl just trying to find her own space in the world." — _Wichita Eagle_
" _Wingshooters_ understands what many of us know from experience: that love and hate can spring from the same source, that bigotry can coexist in the hearts of people who have shown us the tenderest of love." — _Hyphen_ magazine
"Nina Revoyr's young protagonist and her searing, skillfully told story are unforgettable. Don't miss it." —Marian Wright Edelman, President, Children's Defense Fund
"Nina Revoyr is one of my favorite writers. What I admire most is the compassion she shows for her often flawed characters. _Wingshooters_ is a gem of a novel—filled with beautiful language, thoughtful observations on life, deep heartache, and determined acceptance." —Lisa See, author of _Shanghai Girls_
Michelle LeBeau, the child of a white American father and a Japanese mother, lives with her grandparents in Deerhorn, Wisconsin—a small town that had been entirely white before her arrival. Rejected and bullied, Michelle spends her time reading, avoiding fights, and roaming the countryside with her English springer spaniel, Brett. She idolizes her grandfather, Charlie LeBeau, an expert hunter and former minor league baseball player who is one of the town's most respected men. Charlie strongly disapproves of his son's marriage to Michelle's mother, but dotes on his only grandchild, whom he calls Mikey.
This fragile peace is threatened when the expansion of the local clinic leads to the arrival of the Garretts, a young black couple from Chicago. The Garretts' presence deeply upsets most of the residents of Deerhorn when Mr. Garrett makes a controversial accusation against one of the town leaders, who is also Charlie LeBeau's best friend.
In the tradition of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , _A River Runs Through It_ , and _Snow Falling on Cedars_ , Revoyr's new novel examines the effects of change on a small, isolated town, the strengths and limits of community, and the sometimes conflicting loyalties of family and justice. Set in the expansive countryside of Central Wisconsin, against the backdrop of Vietnam and the post–civil rights era, _Wingshooters_ explores both connection and loss as well as the complex but enduring bonds of family.
Also available by Nina Revoyr: _The Age of Dreaming_
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_The Age of Dreaming_ is available in paperback and e-book editions. Our print books are available from our website and in online and brick & mortar bookstores everywhere. The digital edition is available wherever e-books are sold.
Finalist, 2008 _Los Angeles Times_ Book Prize
Top Five Books of 2008, _The Advocate_
Best Books of 2008, _January Magazine_
"Rare indeed is a novel this deeply pleasurable and significant." — _Booklist_ (starred review)
"Reminiscent of Paul Auster's _The Book of Illusions_ in its concoction of spurious Hollywood history and its star's filmography, but Revoyr is a more ingenuous writer than Auster, if not as daring and spectacular." — _San Francisco Chronicle_
"Fast-moving, riveting, unpredictable, and profound; highly recommended." — _Library Journal_
"Revoyr conveys in a lucid, precise and period appropriate prose . . . a pulse-quickening, deliciously ironic serving of Hollywood noir." — _Kirkus Reviews_
"It's an enormously satisfying novel." — _Publishers Weekly_
"[Nina Revoyr is] an empathetic chronicler of the dispossessed outsider in LA." — _Los Angeles Times_
"Quietly powerful . . . settles to a close as deftly and beautifully as a crane landing on quiet water." — _LA Weekly_
"Revoyr resurrects the old old Hollywood, from the time before talkies, and dreams it into existence once again." — _Bookforum_
"[Nina Revoyr] is fast becoming one of the city's finest chroniclers and mythmakers." — _Los Angeles Magazine_
"Five stars." — _Time Out Chicago_
" _The Age of Dreaming_ is a brilliant and original novel about Hollywood in the days of silent films. The carefully restrained voice of its narrator, once a famous film star, recalls Ishiguro's _The Remains of the Day_ —but in his past, it turns out, there was also passion, madness, and murder." —Alison Lurie, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of _Foreign Affairs_
"This is a riveting, wise, and gorgeous novel—rich in the social nuances of LA's silent film era and profoundly moving, often heartbreaking, in its exploration of the rise and fall of human lives. Every emotion in this book feels true and fully earned." —Mary Yukari Waters, author of _The Laws of Evening_
Jun Nakayama was a silent film star in the early days of Hollywood, but by 1964, he finds himself living in complete obscurity—until a young writer, Nick Bellinger, tracks him down for an interview. When Bellinger reveals that he has written a screenplay with Nakayama in mind, Jun is intrigued by the possibility of returning to the big screen. But he begins to worry that someone might delve too deeply into the past, and uncover the events that led to the abrupt end of his career in 1922. These events include the changing social and racial tides in California—and the unsolved murder of his favorite director, Ashley Bennett Tyler.
_The Age of Dreaming_ explores the history of Los Angeles, the heady beginnings of the movie industry, and the interplay of race and celebrity. It is part historical novel, part murder mystery, and part unrequited love story—all told through the voice of a forgotten star who must gradually come to terms with his past.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Akashic Books
©2019 Nina Revoyr
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-61775-663-4
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61775-664-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018931227
All rights reserved
First printing
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About Akashic Books
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Akashic Books is an award-winning independent company dedicated to publishing urban literary fiction and political nonfiction by authors who are either ignored by the mainstream, or who have no interest in working within the ever-consolidating ranks of the major corporate publishers. Akashic Books hosts additional imprints, including Black Sheep for Young Readers, the Akashic Noir Series, the Akashic Drug Chronicles Series, Infamous Books, Kaylie Jones Books (curated by Kaylie Jones), Gracie Belle (curated by Ann Hood), the Edge of Sports (curated by David Zirin), Punk Planet Books, Dennis Cooper's Little House on the Bowery Series, Open Lens, Chris Abani's Black Goat Poetry Series, and AkashiClassics: Renegade Reprint Series.
Our books are available from our website and at online and brick & mortar bookstores everywhere.
"As many in publishing struggle to find ways to improve on an increasingly outdated business model, independents such as Akashic—which are more nimble and less risk-averse than major publishing houses—are innovators to watch." — _Los Angeles Times_
"It's heartening that even as the dinosaurs of publishing are lurching toward extinction, nimble independent publishers like Akashic are producing high-quality, innovative content." _—Portland Mercury_
"Akashic fits in that very slight category of publishers, growing slimmer every day, whose colophon is a recommendation on its own." _—Toronto Star_
"Akashic is one of the most impressive of the newer small presses, in part because of editing and production values that rival and perhaps surpass the big houses. We're grateful to them . . ." _—Denver Post_
"Akashic serves as a prime example of the diversity that marks the small press movement." _—Mystery Scene_
"What's great about Akashic is its sense of adventure and its smart eclecticism . . . Anything carrying the logo comes with the guarantee that it's worth checking out." _—Hartford Courant_
"An excellent small press." _—In These Times_
"[Akashic] fully conveys the charms and possibilities of small press publishing . . . placing a priority on the quality of the books, rather than the possible marketing opportunities they offer." _—Poets & Writers_
"Akashic is the brainchild of the charismatic Johnny Temple, the bassist of the rock group Girls Against Boys. Temple set up Akashic to give attention to literary works that are ignored, as well as to prove that publishers don't have to exploit their writers." — _IUniverse.com_
**E-mail: info@akashicbooks.com
Website: www.akashicbooks.com**
|
On the surface, CryptoKitties are a digital version of Beanie Babies, but under the hood, they are a Trojan Horse for educating the masses on blockchain and cryptocurrency. With over $12M in sales, CryptoKitties provides the low barrier to entry that will pave the way for markets featuring more expensive digital collectables and artworks. The rise of trendy crypto collectables like Cryptokitties, CryptoPunks, and Rare Pepe will seed the market with crypto-savvy consumers ready to buy.
Blockchain Democratizes Fine Art Investment
If you fancy yourself a "serious" collector of blue-chip art, perhaps you are thinking the blockchain is only about $11.00 digital drawings and cartoon cats and punks. Think again.
In 2018, the company Maecenas will be launching the first open blockchain platform that democratizes access to fine art. Now people who have always dreamed of owning famous paintings can buy shares in a Picasso, Warhol, Monet, etc. On the flipside, galleries, museums, and collectors can offer up works from their collection for bid on Maecenas to raise money for the purchase of future works (while leaving their collection intact). This may sound like a regular art fund, but remember that blockchain cuts out the middleman, greatly reducing the transaction costs. The transaction cost with blockchain is so low that Maecenas can theoretically let you invest as little as fractions of a penny using cryptocurrency without taking the hit of transaction fees. Maecenas shares the use case below on their website. It does a nice job of illustrating the savings that occur with using blockchain versus traditional transactions.
"A Gallery wants to acquire a $3M piece to expand its Warhol collection. Instead of getting a three-year art-secured loan at 13.5% annual interest, it can raise funds from Maecenus investors by listing some of their artwork at a 6% one-off fee. This represents a saving of over $400k in fees for the gallery."
Great for the gallery, but what about the investors? The investors also benefit from the magic of blockchain. Because fees and the cost of transactions goes dramatically down with blockchain, and cryptocurrency can be infinitely divided, Maecenus can transform artworks valued at tens of millions of dollars into tiny digital units that can be easily bought and sold in real time: essentially a stock market for art, but with far less friction or fees.
I am a huge fan of the model because it capitalizes on so many aspects of what makes blockchain so powerful opens up fine-art investing to everyone. My friends and family should expect fractional shares in blue chip art for many birthdays and Christmases to come.
Blockchain Reduces Art Forgery with Improved Authentication, Verification, and Provenance
Perhaps the most obvious use of blockchain (and closest to my heart) is to fight art forgery through the establishment of better authentication and provenance. Since at its core the blockchain is a distributed ledger, it can provide an unalterable record of provenance starting with authentication and ending with the current owner of an artwork.
Verisart certifies and verifies artworks and collectibles using the Bitcoin blockchain. They are fighting art forgery by providing an "airtight" authentication methodology that allows for real time verification of artworks using distributed ledger and image-recognition technology. Their initial target market is authentication for living, working artists. In the long run, they plan on moving toward authenticating older works by working with artists' estates eventually having the provenance for every artwork in their blockchain. (Shameless self-promotion here: If they are in need of a large database of data from catalogue raisonné, I may know someone who can help them out…)
Beyond fighting forgery and theft, blockchain has the potential to protect and support artists by introducing new methods of monetizing their work. Artlery is building the world's "first currency ever to be explicitly backed by the creation, exhibition, and appreciation of art," which they call CLIO, named after the muse of history. The CLIO is designed to support the creators of art, and artists can secure a spot in the initial offering by uploading their portfolios here: artlery.com/artists
How do I Get Involved with the Blockchain Art Market?
My recommendation would be to start simple. Get your feet wet with something as silly as a CryptoKitty, or better yet, support my new friends at DADA.nyc and buy some affordable, unique digital art - I promise you their gratitude will make you feel good about it and you’ll want to buy more. Once you have your MetaMask and Coinbase accounts set up and have your head around how the transactions work, you will be ready to invest in microshares of a Monet or a Picasso when Maecenas goes live in 2018.
For artists, I'd strongly recommend looking into a service like Verisart or Ascribe to protect and monetize your work. I’ve spent the last three years building an analytical art database of known works for our most important artists because I find the current vulnerability of our artistic record to fakes and forgeries deeply depressing. If current artists leverage blockchain technology to authenticate and track their works, we will have a clean, unalterable record of their artworks and can avoid posthumously piecing together a record of their work in a catalogue raisonné. For this reason alone, blockchain may be the most important technology to ever hit the art market.
Update: Many have asked how to tokenize their own art and launch a blockchain art marketplace. We have outlined this in a new article titled Blockchain 3.0 - How to Launch Your Own Blockchain Art Market.
If you are interested in learning more about art on the blockchain check out my podcast, "Dank Rares" where I interview the pioneers in the blockchain art world. You can find it here on Soundcloud and you can also subscribe on iTunes here.
Have an interesting use case for blockchain in the art market that I failed to address? Hit me up at jason@artnome.com and lets chat! |
How Naysayers See the World Trade Organization
Public Citizen’s Lori Wallach is no fan of the World Trade Organization. But her mischaracerizations of how that body operates require correcting. Wallach published this piece on April 9 on the Huffington Post blog under the title, “WTO Orders U.S. to Dump Landmark Obama Youth Anti-Smoking Law.” Here are some excerpts followed by commentary.
Behind closed doors in Geneva, a World Trade Organization (WTO) tribunal issued a final ruling ordering the U.S. to dump a landmark 2009 youth anti-smoking law.
However, this is what the last paragraph of the WTO Appellate Body report actually says:
The Appellate Body [the highest “court” in the WTO] recommends that the DSB [WTO Dispute Settlement Body] request the United States to bring its measure, found in this Report, and in the Panel Report [the Panel is the equivalent of a lower court] as modified by this Report, to be inconsistent with the TBT Agreement [Technical Barriers to Trade], into conformity with its obligations under that Agreement. (My emphasis.)
The decision – just like U.S. court decisions are made – was made behind closed doors in the sense that the judges probably evaluated the merits of the claims against the texts of the agreements in the comfort of their own offices with their doors closed. The Appellate Body report, though, which includes the rationale for each decision in the report, is available right here, to the public. Likewise, the original Panel report is available here, as is plenty of other relevant information.
Contrary to the characterization that Wallach and other anti-globalistas have been trying to paint for years, the WTO is not some faceless bureaucracy issuing edicts that run roughshod over national sovereignty and local laws. The WTO has no special power to compel any member state to do anything. Contrary to Wallach’s claim that a WTO “Tribunal” (sounds like a military junta, no?) “ordered” the United States to “dump” a “landmark” anti-smoking law, the WTO Appellate Body merely requested (see above) that the United States bring a specific clause of the law into conformity with U.S. treaty obligations. WTO Panels and the AB only recommend or request.
A WTO dispute panel in this case and, subsequently, the Appellate Body, found that the law’s prohibition on sales of certain cigarettes – namely, clove-flavored – but not on others – namely, menthol-flavored – constitutes a violation of the principle of “national treatment,” which is a bedrock principle of the multilateral trading system that asserts that foreign producers must be afforded the same standards and rules as domestic producers.
Wallach continues:
[The] U.S. law was designed to reduce teen smoking by banning “starter flavorings,” since tobacco firms had begun marketing flavors like cola, chocolate, strawberry and clove. The 2009 law forced U.S. firms to cease sales of these products, whether imported or domestically produced (my emphasis).
U.S. firms may have begun marketing cola, chocolate, and strawberry cigarettes, but clove cigarettes, like menthol cigarettes, had been a fixture among U.S. tobacco products since the 1930’s. The WTO did not rule that the United States cannot have an anti-smoking law – only that that law was not being applied evenhandedly to domestic as well as foreign companies. By banning clove cigarettes, which have been sourced principally from Indonesia over the years, but not menthol cigarettes, which are produced primarily in the United States, the U.S. law discriminates against producers from another country – namely, Indonesia.
Wallach:
The WTO’s ruling against banning the sale of flavored cigarettes isn’t the only example of its attack on consumer protection and health laws. The U.S. has filed WTO appeals on two other U.S. consumer laws – U.S. country-of-origin meat labels and the U.S. dolphin-safe tuna label – both were slammed by lower WTO tribunals in the past six months.
Of course, the WTO did not rule against banning the sale of flavored cigarettes. The law could be made WTO compliant by extending the ban to include menthol, in which case it might be more defensible as a measure to protect youth health. Or the law can be changed so that both clove and menthol cigarettes are not banned.
The bottom line is that there are many ways to pursue public health and safety and consumer protection that don’t, coincidentally, punish foreign firms to the benefit of domestic ones (which is the narrow area of concern to the WTO). In the dolphin-tuna and the country of origin cases, mentioned, there are better, WTO-compliant ways to achieve the implicit public policy objectives.
But, as Wallach sees it:
[I]n short order we could see the WTO hating on Flipper, feeding us mystery meat and getting our kids addicted to smoking.
This might be good marketing for Public Citizen and its anti-trade agenda, but it doesn’t advance public understanding of the issues. |
1. Field of the Invention
The present invention relates to an improvement in a scrap melting method, and provides a method capable of melting scrap with reduced consumption of energy.
The above term "scrap" refers not only to iron scrap but also to all other materials containing iron that are used as materials for manufacturing steel together with iron scrap. Therefore, the term also includes such iron-containing materials as solid pig iron, pellet, sponge iron and reduced iron.
1. State of the Art
When manufacturing special steel using an electric arc furnace, scrap is usually melted beforehand in the arc furnace with electricity. It is not advantageous, in terms of cost reduction, to consume expensive electric power as the energy source throughout the procedure of scrap melting. Therefore, it is desired that the energy required to heat the scrap for melting should be supplied by fuel, a cheaper energy source, as a substitute for electric power.
Tests have been carried out heating the scrap with both an electric arc and, for instance, a powdered coal burner simultaneously. By thus substituting part of the scrap melting procedure, and part of the energy supply required therefor, the efficiency with respect to energy consumption can be improved. However, since the energy load (i.e. the maximum quantity of energy which can be introduced into unit volume of the furnace, and per unit time) has a limit, the consumption of electric power cannot be reduced to the desired extent. Further, CO.sub.2 produced by the burning reacts with the graphite electrodes to cause carbon solution, which results in an inferior unit consumption of electrodes.
Since the flame temperature of the powdered coal burner is about 2000.degree. C., while that of the graphite arc heater is about 3000.degree. C., it is considered rational to use the burner and the arc heater in a switching manner wherein the former is used in the lower temperature region while the latter is used in the higher temperature region. In order to increase the proportion of fuel substitution for electric power within the total energy supply required for scrap melting, it is desirable to use the burner to as high a temperature region as possible. However, if the burner is used on the scrap in a temperature region exceeding 1000.degree. C., rapid oxidation of iron takes place, which decreases the yield with respect to the used material.
The present inventors have long been studying methods to substitute powdered coal burner heating for electric arc heating in the first half of the scrap melting procedure, and have already proposed a scrap melting method, as disclosed in Japanese Patent Disclosure No. 59-215427, wherein such substitution can be achieved with high heating efficiency and with a controlled amount of oxidized iron. The proposed method comprises burning the powdered coal mixed with air while the scrap temperature is low, and burning the powdered coal mixed with oxygen or oxygen-enriched air instead of air when the scrap temperature increases above a certain temperature, more specifically, above about 500.degree. C., thereby increasing the flame temperature of the burner, and thus increasing the proportion of the energy substitution.
According to a preferred embodiment of the above proposed method, a pair of furnaces are employed, to alternately heat the scrap with a burner, and melt the scrap. |
Q:
Mathematical research published in the form of poems
The article
Friedrich Wille: Galerkins Lösungsnäherungen bei monotonen Abbildungen,
Math. Z. 127 (1972), no. 1, 10-16
is written in the form of a lengthy poem, in a style similar to that
of the works of Wilhelm Busch.
Are there any other examples of original mathematical research published in a similar form?
A:
A famous example is Tartaglia's solution of the equation of degree 3, which he gave to Cardano (after much discussion) in the following form :
Quando chel cubo con le cose appresso
se agguaglia qualche numero
discreto
trovan dui altri
differenti in esso.
Dapoi terrai questo per consueto
Che'l lor produtto sempre sia eguale
Al terzo cubo delle cose neto,
El residuo poi suo generale
Delli lor lati cubi ben sottratti
Varra la tua cosa principale...
A:
Frederick Soddy, "The Kiss Precise." Nature 137, 1021, 1936. (See, e.g., this
Wikipedia article.)
Celebrating
$$b_1^2 +b_2^2 + b_3^2 + b_4^2 = \frac{1}{2}(b_1+b_2+b_3+b_4)^2$$
where $b_i$ is the i-th "bend":
For pairs of lips to kiss maybe
Involves no trigonometry.
‘Tis not so when four circles kiss
Each one the other three.
To bring this off the four must be
As three in one or one in three.
If one in three, beyond a doubt
Each gets three kisses from without.
If three in one, then is that one
Thrice kissed internally.
Four circles to the kissing come.
The smaller are the benter.
The bend is just the inverse of
The distance from the center.
Though their intrigue left Euclid dumb
There’s now no need for rule of thumb.
Since zero bend’s a dead straight line
And concave bends have minus sign,
The sum of the squares of all four bends
Is half the square of their sum.
To spy out spherical affairs
An oscular surveyor
Might find the task laborious,
The sphere is much the gayer,
And now besides the pair of pairs
A fifth sphere in the kissing shares.
Yet, signs and zero as before,
For each to kiss the other four
The square of the sum of all five bends
Is thrice the sum of their squares.
In response to @TheMaskedAvenger's comment:
The Kiss Precise (Generalized) by Thorold Gosset
And let us not confine our cares
To simple circles, planes and spheres,
But rise to hyper flats and bends
Where kissing multiple appears,
In n-ic space the kissing pairs
Are hyperspheres, and Truth declares -
As n + 2 such osculate
Each with an n + 1 fold mate
The square of the sum of all the bends
Is n times the sum of their squares.
(Nature link.)
A:
Some of ancient Chinese mathematics literatures are written in the forms of poems.(Source from WIkipedia.) Here just outline a few examples:
(1) The Mathematical Classic of Sunzi
孫子定理, 韓信點兵
e.g. 1:
有物不知其數，
三三數之剩二，
五五數之剩三，
七七數之剩二。
問物幾何？
e.g. 2:
三人同行七十希，
五樹梅花廿一支，
七子團圓正半月，
除百零五使得知.
(2) The Nine Chapters on the Mathematical Art 九章算術
composed by several generations of scholars from the 10th–2nd century BCE
How to evaluate AREA?
勾股定理 Gougu theorem (the Chinese version) i.e. Pythagoras' theorem
(3) Book on Numbers and Computation 算數書
witten around 202 BC and 186 BC
(4) Zhou Bi Suan Jing - The Arithmetical Classic of the Gnomon and the Circular Paths of Heaven. 周髀算經
witten and organized in the Zhou Dynasty (1046 BCE—256 BCE), further compilation and addition in the Han Dynasty (202 BCE – 220 CE)
勾股定理 Gougu theorem (the Chinese version) i.e. Pythagoras' theorem
|
* From the Paxton Record…
The Ford County Republican Central Committee met last Saturday and erupted when the legalization of marijuana came up for discussion.
Noting that state Sen. Jason Barickman, R-Bloomington, put out a memo earlier in the week in support of legislation to legalize recreational marijuana, many comments and questions arose among precinct committeemen and the public.
Many voiced their objection to Barickman’s position, stating that marijuana is an addictive gateway drug that will lead to using other illicit drugs. Since its use for medical purposes, many factions have been pushing for legalizing the drug for recreational use.
That caused one participant to ask what such use would do to DUI violations, or the use by teens.
“How accessible will it become for younger people?” the person said.
Already, there is no significant penalty for possession or use of small amounts of marijuana in Illinois. And the court system has not worked well in preventing use.
Barickman postulated that its legalization would raise money for the state. |
Q:
Dividing the large file into smaller chunks after specific character, in python?
I'm trying to read a big file (1.1GB) into python. There will be word 'HERE' in the file. I don't know on which line I'll find the word. I read the file into chunks. My first chunk is data upto word 'HERE'. My code is working fine till here. (that is storing the data before 'HERE' and processing it) However I'm unable to proceed with reading the data after 'HERE' because the data after 'HERE' is too large. Is there any way so that I can read the data after 'HERE' line by line?
I referred to the reference: Reading a file until a specific character in python
My code is:
def each_chunk(stream, separator):
buffer = ''
while True: # until EOF
chunk = stream.read() # I propose 4096 or so
if not chunk: # EOF?
yield buffer
break
buffer += chunk
while True: # until no separator is found
try:
part, buffer = buffer.split(separator, 1)
except ValueError:
break
else:
yield part
def first_chunk(chunk):
.... #my function
def chunk_after(data_line_by_line):
.... #my function
global This_1st_chunk
This_1st_chunk=True
myFile= open(r"C:\Users\Mavis\myFile.txt","r")
for chunk in each_chunk(myFile, separator='HERE'):
if This_1st_chunk:
first_chunk(chunk)
This_1st_chunk=False
elif not This_1st_chunk:
print('*******after 1st chunk*********')
#**I WANT TO READ THE DATA LINE BY LINE HERE.**
chunk_after(data_line_by_line)
A:
It's probably simpler to read the file line by line up to the first chunk (delimited by "HERE"), then gather all the lines, process that chunk, and keep reading the file line by line afterwards.
Something like this:
with open(r"C:\Users\Mavis\myFile.txt","r") as myFile:
chunk = []
first_chunk_found = False
while not first_chunk_found:
line = myFile.readline()
if "HERE" in line:
first_chunk_found = True
line, remainder = line.split("HERE")
line += "HERE" # current line up to "HERE"
chunk.append(line)
chunk = ''.join(chunk)
# do whatever you want with the first chunk here.
# also, the variable remainder has the rest of the line
# that contained the word "HERE", in case you want it
for line in myFile:
# now we process the rest of the file line by line
|
Q:
Android: app runs successfully, but logcat has java.security.cert.CertPathValidatorException: Trust anchor for certification path not found
My Android app makes HTTPS request to remote web service successfully (response code: 200). However, in Android Studio's logcat window, log level Verbose has messages like the following screenshot (log level Error no message)
Here are my code. Any explanation is appreciated. Thanks for your read.
package com.example.apiclient2;
import android.content.Context;
import android.os.AsyncTask;
import android.os.Bundle;
import android.support.v7.app.AppCompatActivity;
import android.view.Menu;
import android.view.MenuItem;
import android.widget.TextView;
import android.widget.Toast;
import java.io.IOException;
import java.io.InputStream;
import java.net.URL;
import java.security.KeyManagementException;
import java.security.KeyStore;
import java.security.KeyStoreException;
import java.security.NoSuchAlgorithmException;
import java.security.cert.Certificate;
import java.security.cert.CertificateException;
import java.security.cert.CertificateFactory;
import java.security.cert.X509Certificate;
import javax.net.ssl.HostnameVerifier;
import javax.net.ssl.HttpsURLConnection;
import javax.net.ssl.SSLContext;
import javax.net.ssl.SSLSession;
import javax.net.ssl.SSLSocketFactory;
import javax.net.ssl.TrustManager;
import javax.net.ssl.TrustManagerFactory;
import javax.net.ssl.X509TrustManager;
public class MainActivity extends AppCompatActivity {
private final Context mContext = this;
private TextView mTextView;
@Override
protected void onCreate(Bundle savedInstanceState) {
super.onCreate(savedInstanceState);
setContentView(R.layout.activity_main);
mTextView = (TextView) findViewById(R.id.textView);
new APIRequest().execute();
}
@Override
public boolean onCreateOptionsMenu(Menu menu) {
// Inflate the menu; this adds items to the action bar if it is present.
getMenuInflater().inflate(R.menu.menu_main, menu);
return true;
}
@Override
public boolean onOptionsItemSelected(MenuItem item) {
// Handle action bar item clicks here. The action bar will
// automatically handle clicks on the Home/Up button, so long
// as you specify a parent activity in AndroidManifest.xml.
int id = item.getItemId();
//noinspection SimplifiableIfStatement
if (id == R.id.action_settings) {
return true;
}
return super.onOptionsItemSelected(item);
}
private TrustManager[] getWrappedTrustManagers(TrustManager[] trustManagers) {
final X509TrustManager originalTrustManager = (X509TrustManager) trustManagers[0];
return new TrustManager[]{
new X509TrustManager() {
public X509Certificate[] getAcceptedIssuers() {
return originalTrustManager.getAcceptedIssuers();
}
public void checkClientTrusted(X509Certificate[] certs, String authType) {
try {
originalTrustManager.checkClientTrusted(certs, authType);
} catch (CertificateException e) {
e.printStackTrace();
}
}
public void checkServerTrusted(X509Certificate[] certs, String authType) {
try {
originalTrustManager.checkServerTrusted(certs, authType);
} catch (CertificateException e) {
e.printStackTrace();
}
}
}
};
}
private SSLSocketFactory getSSLSocketFactory(String keyStoreType, int keystoreResId)
throws CertificateException, KeyStoreException, IOException, NoSuchAlgorithmException, KeyManagementException {
CertificateFactory cf = CertificateFactory.getInstance("X.509");
InputStream caInput = getResources().openRawResource(keystoreResId);
Certificate ca = cf.generateCertificate(caInput);
caInput.close();
if (keyStoreType == null || keyStoreType.length() == 0) {
keyStoreType = KeyStore.getDefaultType();
}
KeyStore keyStore = KeyStore.getInstance(keyStoreType);
keyStore.load(null, null);
keyStore.setCertificateEntry("ca", ca);
String tmfAlgorithm = TrustManagerFactory.getDefaultAlgorithm();
TrustManagerFactory tmf = TrustManagerFactory.getInstance(tmfAlgorithm);
tmf.init(keyStore);
TrustManager[] wrappedTrustManagers = getWrappedTrustManagers(tmf.getTrustManagers());
SSLContext sslContext = SSLContext.getInstance("TLS");
sslContext.init(null, wrappedTrustManagers, null);
return sslContext.getSocketFactory();
}
private class APIRequest extends AsyncTask<Void, Void, String> {
@Override
protected String doInBackground(Void... params) {
try {
URL url = new URL("https://192.168.0.100/api/document");
HttpsURLConnection urlConnection = (HttpsURLConnection) url.openConnection();
SSLSocketFactory sslSocketFactory = getSSLSocketFactory("BKS", R.raw.mybks_cert);
urlConnection.setSSLSocketFactory(sslSocketFactory);
urlConnection.setHostnameVerifier(new HostnameVerifier() {
@Override
public boolean verify(String hostname, SSLSession session) {
return true;
}
});
urlConnection.setDoInput(true);
urlConnection.setDoOutput(false);
urlConnection.setRequestMethod("GET");
urlConnection.connect();
return String.valueOf(urlConnection.getResponseCode());
} catch (Exception e) {
return e.toString();
}
}
@Override
protected void onPostExecute(String response) {
super.onPostExecute(response);
Toast.makeText(mContext, response, Toast.LENGTH_SHORT).show();
mTextView.setText(response);
}
}
}
A:
I have found my mistake. Because of e.printStackTrace() inside getWrappedTrustManagers. Just need to ignore the exception.
|
Alteration of the somatostatinergic system in the striatum of rats with acute experimental autoimmune encephalomyelitis.Neuroscience. 2007 Jul 13; [Epub ahead of print]
PMID: 17630220 [PubMed - as supplied by publisher] |
A process for pulping a lignocellulosic material, for example, wood, straw or bagasse, by using an alkaline sulfide cooking liquor containing, as main components, sodium sulfide and sodium hydroxide at an elevated temperature, is referred to as an alkaline sulfide pulping process. This alkaline sulfide pulping process, which includes kraft process, is a most important chemical pulping process due to its advantage in that the quality of the resultant pulp is higher than that of another pulping processes, for example, a sulfite pulping process. However, in the other hand, the conventional alkaline sulfide pulping process has a disadvantage in that the yield of the resultant pulp is relatively small.
In order to eliminate the above-mentioned disadvantage of the conventional alkaline sulfide pulping process, various approaches were looked into for accelerating the delignification reaction between the lignocellulosic material and the pulping liquor and for preventing the decomposition of the carbohydrates in the lignocellulosic material. In one approach for this purpose, a polysulfide compound, sodium borohydride, hydrazine, amine compound, aldehyde compound or nitrobenzene compound were added to the alkaline sulfide pulping liquor. In another approach, the wood chips were pretreated with hydrogen sulfide. In a further approach, the so-called alkafide method was developed. However, all of the above-mentioned approaches, except for the polysulfide process, have not yet been practically utilized due to the fact that the approaches cause the pulping apparatus to be expensive or complicated, the cost of the pulping operation to be very high, or the processability of the pulping process to be poor, or result in an environmental pollution or exhibit a poor effect in pulping hardwood.
Recently, since B. Bach and G. Fiehn, Zellstoff und Papier, vol 21, No. 1, pages 3 to 7 (1972) and related East German Patent No. 98,549 disclosed that the yield of pulp in the alkaline pulping process could be increased by adding an anthraquinone compound to the alkaline pulping liquor, various processes in which various anthraquinone compounds were used, were developed. For example, U.S. Pat. No. 3,888,727 disclosed a two-stage pulping process which comprised a first soda stage and second oxygen-alkali stage or a first kraft stage and second oxygen-alkali stage, and in which sodium anthraquinone-2-sulfonate (AMS) was added to the treating liquor in the first stage. Canadian Patent No. 986,662 disclosed a pulping process in which the lignocellulosic material was pre-treated with an alkali solution containing anthraquinone-2-monosulfonic acid. Japanese Patent Application Laying-open (KOKAI) No. 51-43403 disclosed a process in which a quinone compound was added to an alkali cooking liquor for a pulping process. West German Patent Application Laying-open (Offengungsschrift) No. 2,610,891 disclosed an oxygen-alkali pulping liquor containing a water-soluble oxygen carrier consisting of a quinone compound or hydroquinone compound. U.S. Pat. No. 4,012,280 disclosed an alkaline pulping liquor containing a sulphur free cyclic keto compound. U.S. Pat. No. 4,036,680 disclosed a soda pulping liquor containing a quinone compound and a nitro aromatic compound. Also, Japanese Patent Application Laying-open (KOKAI) No. 51-112903 disclosed a sulfite pulping process, wherein a cooking liquor contained a quinone compound.
In the above-mentioned prior arts, the quinone or hydroquinone compound alone or a combination of the quinone or hydroquinone compound and oxygen or an oxidizing agent were used for accelerating the delignification reaction and increasing the yield of the resultant pulp.
Furthermore, U.S. Pat. No. 4,036,680, issued to H. H. Holton, disclosed a soda pulping method in which a soda cooking liquor contains both a nitro aromatic compound and a diketohydroanthracene compound selected from unsubstituted and lower alkyl-substituted Diels-Alder adducts of naphthoquinone and benzoquinone. However, this method can not be applied to the pulping process in a reducing medium, such as the alkaline sulfide pulping process. This is because, when the nitro aromatic compound is added to the alkaline sulfide cooking liquor containing, as main components, sodium sulfide and sodium hydroxide, the nitro aromatic compound oxidizes the hydrosulfide ion derived from the sodium sulfide in the cooking liquor as reported by Svensk Papperstid, 71(23), 857-863(1968), so as to cause the sulfidity of the cooking liquor to be decreased. That is, the nitro aromatic compund itself is reduced so as to form a non-reactive compound.
It is already known from U.S. Pat. No. 2,938,913 that the diketohydroanthracene compound is readily oxidized by very mild oxidizing agents, for example, nitro compounds, hydrogen peroxide, chromic acid and air, so as to form an anthraquinone compound. Accordingly, it is evident that in the cooking liquor of the U.S. patent of Holton, the diketohydroantracene compound is oxidized into the anthraquinone compound by the nitro aromatic compound during the soda pulping process. That is, the process of the U.S. patent of Holton in which the combination of the nitro aromatic compound and the diketohydroanthracene compound is used, is substantially the same as the older soda pulping process in which the combination of the nitro aromatic compound and the anthraquinone compound is used. It is clear that the soda pulping process of the U.S. patent of Holton is carried out in an oxidizing condition.
The inventors of the present invention thoroughly studied the U.S. patent of Holton and found the fact that the addition of the combination of the nitro aromatic compound and the diketohydroanthracene compound to the alkaline sulfide pulping liquor which is in a reducing condition, caused the delignification reaction rate and the yield of the resultant pulp to be decreased, and the quality of the resultant pulp to become poor. That is, the combination of the nitro aromatic compound and the diketohydroanthracene compound is effective only for the soda pulping process which is carried out without using a reducing agent. The inventors also found the fact that, in the soda pulping process, the use of the diketohydroanthracene compound alone is not always more effective for increasing the delignification reaction rate and the yield of the resultant pulp than the use of the anthraquinone compound alone.
The inventors also studied in detail the pulping process using a cooking liquor containing a quinone compound. As a result of this study, it was found that Na.sub.2 S and NaHS in the cooking liquor is active as a reducing agent only when the cooking liquor is in a weak alkaline condition or neutral condition and can reduce the quinone compound into the corresponding hydroquinone compound. For example, in the pulping process as disclosed in Japanese Patent Application Laying-open (KOKAI) No. 51-112903, a lignocellulosic material is treated with a sulfite cooking liquor containing a quinone compound at an elevated temperature under a pressurized condition. In this case, before the delignification reaction on the lignobellulosic material occurred, a deacetylation reaction or peeling reaction of the lignocellulosic material occurs. This deacetylation or peeling reaction causes the alkali in the alkaline sulfite cooking liquor to be consumed. As a result of this consumption, the sulfite cooking liquor exhibits a weak alkaline or neutral condition. Under this condition, NaHS can exhibit a high reducing activity and accelerate the reduction of the quinone compound into the corresponding hydroquinone compound.
However, it was also found by the inventors that in a strong alkaline cooking liquor, Na.sub.2 S and NaHS can not exhibit the reducing activity. For example, in the alkaline sulfide pulping process, the cooking liquor containing sodium sulfide (Na.sub.2 S) and sodium hydrogen sulfide (NaHS) and sodium hydroxide can maintain its strong alkaline condition constant over the entire period of the delignification reaction. Accordingly, in the alkaline sulfide pulping process, the sodium sulfide can not exhibit the reducing activity for the quinone compound. Generally, the quinone compound such as naphthoquinone and anthraquinone has a very small solubility in the alkaline sulfide cooking liquor and only a small amount of the quinone compound can be reduced by carbohydrates in the lignocellulosic material into the corresponding hydroquinone compound which is generally soluble in the alkaline sulfide cooking liquor. The above-mentioned pulping process causes the lignin compounds in the lignocellulosic material to be converted into lignin radicals. The small amount of the resultant hydroquinone compound scavenges the lignin radicals so as to accelerate the delignification of the lignosellulosic material and the hydroquinone compound per se is oxidized into the quinone compound. That is, in the conventional delignification mixture, a redox oxidation-reduction system of the quinone compound and the corresponding hydroquinone compound is formed in the presence of the carbohydrates. However, this redox system is very small and, therefore, can not significantly accelerate the delignification of the lignocellulosic material.
As stated above, since the quinone compound can merely be reduced in a very small amount in the alkaline sulfide cooking liquor, it is clear that the quinone compound is not highly effective for accelerating the delignification of the lignocellulosic material with the alkaline sulfide cooking liquor.
It is also known that, in the conventional alkaline sulfide pulping process, an inorganic reducing compound, such as sodium sulfite, is not only ineffective for promoting the delignification but also tends to retard the delignification of the lignocellulosic material and to decrease the yield of the resultant pulp. |
Our Barony
Welcome
The Barony of Marcaster is the Pinellas County branch of the Society for Creative Anachronism‚ a nonprofit, educational organization whose members research and re-create the arts and skills of the Middle Ages and Renaissance.The Barony of Marcaster is located in the Kingdom of Trimaris
(most of FL excluding part of the panhandle)
The SCA is a living history group. Members wear the clothing of earlier eras while practicing the arts and activities of earlier times. If you would like to join us in the Current Middle Ages, please visit our Getting Started section. |
Dioxygen activation by nonheme iron enzymes with the 2-His-1-carboxylate facial triad that generate high-valent oxoiron oxidants.
The 2-His-1-carboxylate facial triad is a widely used scaffold to bind the iron center in mononuclear nonheme iron enzymes for activating dioxygen in a variety of oxidative transformations of metabolic significance. Since the 1990s, over a hundred different iron enzymes have been identified to use this platform. This structural motif consists of two histidines and the side chain carboxylate of an aspartate or a glutamate arranged in a facial array that binds iron(II) at the active site. This triad occupies one face of an iron-centered octahedron and makes the opposite face available for the coordination of O2 and, in many cases, substrate, allowing the tailoring of the iron-dioxygen chemistry to carry out a plethora of diverse reactions. Activated dioxygen-derived species involved in the enzyme mechanisms include iron(III)-superoxo, iron(III)-peroxo, and high-valent iron(IV)-oxo intermediates. In this article, we highlight the major crystallographic, spectroscopic, and mechanistic advances of the past 20 years that have significantly enhanced our understanding of the mechanisms of O2 activation and the key roles played by iron-based oxidants. |
Mayor and Police Chief Announce Drop in S.F. Violent Crime Rate
Mayor Gavin Newsom today joined Police
Chief George Gascón to discuss the first half year accomplishments of
the San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) and the continued drop in the
total violent crime rate in the first six months of 2010.
From January through June of 2010, the total violent crime rate has
dropped 20% from 2008, and 10% from 2009.
“The results demonstrate our commitment to making San Francisco the
safest big city in America,” said Mayor Newsom. “We reduce crime through
the use of innovative strategies and by working collaboratively with
the diverse communities that we serve. I want to commend Chief Gascón
and the men and women in our police force who serve on the frontlines of
crimefighting and prevention every day.” Read more. |
Max Burr
Maxwell Arthur Burr (born 9 January 1939) is an Australian retired politician. Born in Launceston, Tasmania, he was educated at Launceston Business College before becoming an accountant and Secretary of the Tasmanian Farmers' Federation. In 1975, he was elected to the Australian House of Representatives as the Liberal member for Wilmot, defeating long-serving Labor member Gil Duthie. When Wilmot was abolished in 1984, Burr successfully contested its successor, Lyons. He held the seat until his retirement in 1993.
After retirement, Burr was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 2012. In 2019, news coverage documented his use of experimental infrared light therapy as a treatment for his condition, which he believed had significantly alleviated a large number of his symptoms and which had encouraged a number of other people to do likewise. A clinical trial of the system was announced in early 2019.
References
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Category:Liberal Party of Australia members of the Parliament of Australia
Category:Members of the Australian House of Representatives for Wilmot
Category:Members of the Australian House of Representatives for Lyons
Category:Members of the Australian House of Representatives
Category:1939 births
Category:Living people
Category:People from Launceston, Tasmania
Category:20th-century Australian politicians |
Sign Language for Babies
I’ve been hearing a lot about teaching children sign language. What’s the deal? Supposedly baby signing teaches the child to communicate. But can’t my child communicate in other ways? Is teaching my baby to communicate while she is so young pushing her too hard? Is it worth doing or is it some kind of scam?
A few decades ago, researchers began to notice that children whose parents were hearing impaired and who taught their children to sign, were able to communicate before they were nine months old. Children with two hearing parents don’t usually have much to say until after their first birthday. If you think about it, using the hands to communicate makes a lot of sense. After all, babies have a lot more control over their fingers and hands than they do over their tongue and mouth.
Besides giving them a way to communicate earlier, signing improves babies’ motor skills, builds vocabulary and language abilities, reduces tantrums and frustration, and has even been linked with an increase in IQ. Signing with your baby is good for you too. When you understand what your baby wants you’ll have fewer tears to deal with and you (and your partner) will be less frustrated. When you’re feeling relaxed and in-control, parenting is a lot easier and a lot more fun. And that, in turn will bring you and your baby closer.
There are two major baby signing systems out there. They’re similar but there are some important distinctions (there’s more info on both in the Resources section):
Joseph Garcia’s Sign with Your Baby is based solidly on American Sign Language (ASL). Most of the signs your baby will learn are fairly intuitive, such as touching the fingers to the lips for "eat," and hooking the thumbs together and flapping the hands for "butterfly." Others are a little tougher to figure out (touching the thumb to the forehead for "dad" and to the chin for "mom") or may be difficult for little hands (putting the thumb between the first and middle fingers of a fist for "toilet" or holding up your hand as if indicating "five" and lowering the middle and ring fingers for "airplane"). Garcia’s philosophy is that if you’re going to the trouble to teach your baby a language, you might as well go with a real one. A baby who knows some ASL will be able to communicate with babies (and deaf people of any age) anywhere. And if you’re thinking long term, ASL fulfils the language requirement for admission to a growing number of colleges.
Linda Acredolo’s and Susan Goodwyn’s Baby Signs, is also based on ASL but it’s more flexible. Their theory is that since your baby isn’t going to be using sign language all that long, it’s best to make it as easy to learn as possible. So parents are encouraged to modify the ASL signs as they see fit and to invent their own. This could make communication with people outside the family a little tougher. However, most of the signs you and your baby are likely to come up with will be pretty easy to decipher.
Both systems are excellent and both give you and your baby an incredible opportunity to communicate with each other. I like Baby Signs a little better, though, because the flexibility appeals to me. If you go this route, try to use as many of the ASL signs as you can and modify them only as necessary.
However, if you prefer a more systematic approach or, if there are any deaf people in your family, Sign with Your Baby is the way to go. And even though, as I mentioned above, some of the signs aren’t completely obvious, if you practice them enough, you’ll do fine. |
In what seems to be repetition of Vijay Mallya's case in which he fled country after defrauding Indian banks after his LoC was diluted, the Look-out-Circular against C Sivasankaran, accuses of defrauding IDBI bank to the tune of Rs 600 crore, was diluted by the CBI helping him to flee the country.
India Today has accessed the internal notes of Central Bureau of Investigation in which the Investigative Officer (from whom the case was later taken away) had instructed against the dilution of LoC. But the LoC was downgraded and he fled the country.
After reference from CVC, in a major crackdown against bank fraud, the CBI in April this year filed case against Aircel founder C Sivasankaran and three companies -- Axcel Sunshine Limited (British Virgin Islands) and Win Wind Oy (Finland) and 15 IDBI bank officials for defrauding the bank to the tune of Rs 600 crore.
Top officials of CBI had then told India Today that, "In this case, bank never approached us to file a complaint. Top officials of IDBI bank helped the accused to defraud bank of Rs 600 crore."
According the notes accessed by India Today, the plot to allegedly give relief to C Sivasankaran began in August when the case was transferred from Bank Securities and Fraud Cell (BS&FC), Bangalore, to the Anti Corruption Unit 3, Delhi.
In a circular dated August, 16, 2018, the case transferred from Banglore to Manish Kumar Sinha, DIG, CBI and heading the Anti-Corruption unit 3 at Headquarter in Delhi. The circular was later confirmed on August 27, 2018.
C Sivasankaran was questioned by the CBI on August 12, four days before the case was transferred.
Sources say that Sivasankaran later approached the CBI that he wants to go abroad on September, 03, 2018 and requested the agency to dilute the LoC against him to which the then top boss of CBI asked for opinion from the previous Investigative officer who was handling the case in Banglore.
In his opinion, the officer stated that, "The option exercised in the LOC dated May 22, 2018 is to prevent subject (C Sivasankaran) from leaving India and inform originator. As the accused C Sivasankaran has mention that the matter is of national importance, it is submitted that this correspondent and request made by him to travel on 03.09.2018 be immediately informed to the worthy Director, CBI (Alok Verma) and seek immediate instructions to avoid any embarrassment meant or untoward incident on 03.09.2018, which may be caused from any diplomatic impasse."
The officer also warned his own agency that if he is permitted to leave India, he may flee. "He is named accused in the case and it is opined that his presence in India is necessary, till investigation in the case is finalised and chargesheet is filed in court of law. It is clarified, that if the accused is permitted to leave India, there is every possibility for him to escape the process of justice in India," the officer added in his note.
But according to sources, contrary to the opinion, verbal instructions were given to the immigration authorities and C Sivasankaran left the country for ever, escaping from the clutches of CBI after defrauding IDBI of Rs 600 crore.
The officer in his letter also complaint that instead of placing everything regarding investigation, he is getting oral instructions.
"It is submitted that the undersigned has been repeatedly and continuously been receiving oral instruction from the supervisory formation without placing the same oral instruction on record. To take action at the branch level in the case contrary and conflicting to the views of the branch submitted herein. It is humbly requested that the same may kindly be taken to notice of worthy Director, CBI," adds the letter.
Now it raises serious questions that why after clear instructions, the LoC against C Sivasankaran was diluted and how he fled from the country after defrauding Rs 600 crore. Also, why was the case transferred from the Banglore unit to Anti-Corruption Unit 3 in Delhi headed by Manish Kumar Sinha. Was Alok Verma, then CBI director aware of the developments?
Interestingly, Manish Sinha is the same officer who was transferred from the agency on October, 24 hours after CBI Director Alok Verma was sent on forced leave due to growing infighting with his deputy Rakesh Asthana.
Sivasankaran is citizen of Seychelles.
According to CBI, in October 2010, IDBI sanctioned loan of Rs 322 crore to Win Wind Oy, a Finland-based company. The loan went NPA (Non Profitable Asset) in October 2013 after the company went bankrupt in Finland.
Win Wind Oy is an associate company of Siva Investments and Holding Limited, a Seychelles-based company. Inspite of knowing about NPA, in February 2014, the IDBI bank gave loan of Rs 523 crore to Axcel Sunshine Ltd, which is based in British Virgin Island. This company is associate of Siva Group. This loan was used to repay loan of other companies of Siva Group. |
[In vivo 1H and 31P NMR spectroscopy of the developing rat brain].
Postnatal development of mammalian brain is characterized by cell proliferation, migration, and differentiation of both neuronal and glial elements. These development process are accompanied by not only morphological changes but also biochemical changes. Nuclear magnetic resonance (NMR) spectroscopy is unique in its capability in obtaining metabolic information. In particular water-suppressed proton (1H) spectroscopy is a powerful tool that can be used to quantify certain intracellular amino acids and lactate. However, to date, no systematic analysis of the metabolic changes associated with brain development utilizing in vivo proton spectroscopy has appeared in the literature. In this study, we performed a non-invasive systematic investigation of the biochemical changes associated with brain maturation in the rat during the first 28 days postnatal in vivo utilizing both 1H and 31P spectroscopy. Phosphocreatine (PCr) was found to increase linearly during this period of development. Phosphomonoester (PME) was high at birth, peaked around the 10th day birth, and declined thereafter. N-acetyl-l-aspartate (NAA) was low at birth, increased in an approximately linear fashion, and reached adult levels by about day 28 postnatal. Choline was high at birth and showed a two step decline, at approximately day seven and day 20 postnatal. Taurine, a sulfur amino acid abundant in fetal brain, was also present in high levels on the first day postnatal. |
Q:
Silverlight OpenRIA - duplicated requests
I am using Silverlight 5, .NET 4.5.1 and OpenRIA.
A silverlight client calls a long-run OpenRIA operation. The operation is asynchronous. From the client side I can see that the function from a code is being called just once. From the IIS server-side on the other hand, the WCF function is called multiple times.
What I have logged through Fiddler - the operation was finished with an error. It was invoked once, but with a message „NOTE: This request was retried after a Receive operation failed.”
Request:
GET http://localhost:11213/ClientBin/KEEP-Web-Services-PayrollListService.svc/binary/GetPayrollList?payrollListId=efb1df5d-993a-4c4b-9fe6-013561547632 HTTP/1.1
Accept: */*
Referer: http://localhost:11213/ClientBin/KEEP.xap
Accept-Language: pl
Accept-Encoding: gzip, deflate
User-Agent: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows NT 6.3; WOW64; Trident/7.0; rv:11.0) like Gecko
Host: localhost:11213
DNT: 1
Connection: Keep-Alive
Cookie: .KEEP_ASPXAUTH_iPersonel=8673CF25C5650AE86CE77A22B9C9A9D20E7588A077E5EADFFE8F5090F08B48639C9F309B1720BC4AD0D4DE342F149D52234DD8C5F15C0B0CCAD5A074C91E8F14B74FC27D7740A91614DECE034A9F99186375ACEB887E610B32CEA5786BF5EA02D35F144BC49D1E4C254478385EEB4D7E8811959E5494D9D6E9F17D698FCBDC93
Response:
HTTP/1.1 504 Fiddler - Receive Failure
Date: Wed, 28 Oct 2015 13:06:41 GMT
Content-Type: text/html; charset=UTF-8
Connection: close
Cache-Control: no-cache, must-revalidate
Timestamp: 14:06:41.238
[Fiddler] ReadResponse() failed: The server did not return a complete response for this request. Server returned 0 bytes.
The situation occurs in IISExpres and IIS 7.5, locally and remotely.
UPDATE 1.
I have found the reason that causes an operation repeated.
Failed to allocate a managed memory buffer of 134217728 bytes. The
amount of available memory may be low.
What I can do to handle it with OpenRIA (former wcf-ria-services)? I see no custom binding to have any effect to OpenRIA.
A:
The problem was IIS in 32-bit. Using 64-bit version solves the problem.
P.S. Visual Studio has an option to use IIS-Express in 64-bit. You can also add to the registry:
reg add HKEY_CURRENT_USER\Software\Microsoft\VisualStudio\12.0\WebProjects /v Use64BitIISExpress /t REG_DWORD /d 1
12.0 - Visual Studio 2013
|
About This Game
Team/GDD Creator (This team was great, it all went smooth! thanks guys!)
Level/room design
Scene decorator...Does this sarcophagus come in pink??
Prop Master/funding of the little things required to finish
IP rights procurement (License to use music, etc...)
Directed and performed VR playtesting.
Coded extended gameplay features and VR integration.
Textured, modeled, and structured levels in a coherent art style.
Customized, modeled, and polished scene item game objects.
Customized, modeled, and created icons for inventory items.
Directed and staged camera and lighting effects.
Modified/remodeled Logic and UI for VR.
Unity, the editor, the team, and the whole community behind it.
Adventure Creator - ICEBOX Studios
Derek Fietcher - Ancient Egyptian Music - Pharaoh Ramses II
3D Everything - Temple of the Pharaoh, Egypt Tomb 2.0
Next Level 3D - Ancient Modular Tombs
Kiria - Medieval Barrows and Wagons
Matias Romero for the great font.
Jason Booth - Texture Painter tool
Michal - Volumetric Lights
VRTK and TheStoneFox for such a great VR Fundations plugin.
Remember those days long ago when the idea of gaming was only text?Those adventure games that drove you nuts, typing in 2 words "go north", "Take Torch" etc...Frustrating you to no end trying to think of the right combination to just open the freakin door!Well here it is. The chance to actually FINISH one of those games, in true graphical style!No more 2 word commands, just point and click your commands! (OK, this was for the PC version, which is now in VR so reach out, grab that item and use it!)This is a graphical remake of the 1978 Tandy game: Pyramid 2000.(A tribute to the original style games that started it all)We tried to stay as true to the text as possible, but due to not having a graphic artist we had to make do with what we could and it is progressing nicely!Hope to see you at the end!Christopher/Notso :Alvaro Urrutia LunaThanks to:We would appreciate a report on the issue instead of a negative rating so we can have a chance to fix the issue. Also please remember that not all Indie games can afford to create their own assets, we did purchase the majority of ours from Unity Asset Store and gave credit to those artists.3 of us started out on a website called Indieteamup, from 3 different countries. We picked an engine, Unity, a framework, Adventure Creator, and I had the idea for the game. 2 Months later we had a complete game, just needed the set dressing and texturing for release, then along comes the Vive, 2 of us decide to convert it to VR, and here we are. Please enjoy!This was a non-VR game we developed that we converted to VR, so please be patient as we change everything for room space play!This is mainly an exploration game with a few minor puzzles and some treasure to collect. Please enjoy!(This is not in any way meant to be historically accurate so there will be a mix of hieroglyphics and 'god' images unrelated or completely out of context).The final release we might package the PC version with it as well, until then if interested in the PC demo please see our gamejolt page.brought to you by... |
Model Ashley Alexiss on Why Plus Size Lingerie is Empowering
Ashley Alexiss is one of the most prominent plus size models in the world. The curvy size 14 model also appears on the packaging of much of Spencer’s plus size lingerie.
She’s amassed over 2 million followers on her social media channels, puts out an annual calendar, and was a 2019 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue finalist. On her Instagram account, she can often be found sporting all manner of plus size lingerie, from teddies to corsets and beyond, always looking incredible.
In this exclusive interview, we asked Ashley Alexiss why she loves Spencer’s lingerie, how to find the right lingerie for your body type, and how to rock your plus size lingerie like the hot babe you are!
Spencer’s: What’s special about Spencer’s lingerie?
Ashley Alexiss: The great thing about Spencer’s lingerie is that they are actually inclusive, which I think is so important. They go from regular size to plus size and I think it’s really special because everybody deserves to feel sexy. It doesn’t matter your size, it doesn’t matter your body shape. You still deserve to feel like your most beautiful, your most sexy; you deserve to be able to want to show yourself off regardless.
I think that’s super important, and having a brand believe in that, and believe in that with their lingerie that they put forth is something that I really respect, because they’re not just making lingerie. They’re not just taking something and then making it bigger; they’re actually accommodating to your shape and if you are plus size, their plus size lingerie really complements your curves. It highlights the areas that you may find unflattering and it accentuates the things that you really want to accentuate.
It’s all about confidence, and I believe that Spencer’s lingerie definitely has that in the forefront. Just bring out someone’s confidence in the best way that we can. Plus you have great quality which obviously matters. I’ve always been all about quality over quantity, and any brand that does that is something I can fully endorse.
Spencer’s: What does it feel like to wear Spencer’s plus size lingerie?
Ashley Alexiss: With Spencer’s lingerie, there’s all different fun aspects to it, whether you have a nice soft lace—which, lace is always my go-to, especially being plus, because it just sits on your skin. It doesn’t dig in, it doesn’t cause any unsightly lines that you don’t want. It’s very comfortable and it’s a confidence booster. I think that lace is so sexy no matter how you incorporate it.
Then you also have your traditional babydolls. Those are a win/win no matter what. The fact that Spencer’s actually cares about the quality of their fabrics and things that are used in the lingerie that they sell, you can tell. It’s not something that is going to fall apart, it’s not something you have to worry about that’s a one and done. You get your money’s worth out of it and it shows; you can feel it.
Spencer’s: How does Spencer’s cater to plus size women with its lingerie?
Ashley Alexiss: With the plus size lingerie that Spencer’s offers, I think what’s really great is that they really accentuate the curves of a plus body. They don’t try and offer anything that would be unflattering. Sometimes you can have things that dig into you. Sometimes you can have things that don’t necessarily fit a plus body properly, but Spencer’s really does it right—for instance, to have a nice cup, that you can fit and feel supported and pushed up in.
You have some nice cutouts that help draw your attention toward an area that you may want to accentuate. It’s really important that they utilize some ringlets, you have some lace, special, flirty, feminine things that obviously a woman would want in their lingerie, especially a plus woman. Spencer’s doesn’t hold back.
Spencer’s: How can women of any size find the right lingerie for their body type? Are certain pieces of lingerie more flattering on different body types?
Ashley Alexiss: I definitely feel like there are obviously lingerie types that I personally like for my plus size body, but I don’t really think that any person needs to restrict themselves. If it makes you feel good, that’s all that matters. Who cares what anyone else says? My personal favorites for a plus body are seamless, because they don’t dig into you at all.
Some of them are cute dresses, some of them are cute teddies. I don’t believe that a plus size person should restrict themselves to whatever anybody says is a good lingerie for their body. If it makes you feel good, then wear it. I truly believe that whatever brings out your confidence, then that’s what you should wear happily, no matter if someone says it’s right or wrong.
For my plus size body, I believe that what’s most flattering is seamless. They come in dresses, teddies, they’re awesome and they’re usually very affordable, and they complement you so well because there’s no seam and there’s nothing to dig into you. You almost look like you have it painted on and I think that is really, really sexy, especially for someone with some curves. It just shows off every bit of you.
You kind of look in the mirror, like yeah, that’s me, I look frickin’ awesome. That’s my personal favorite, but in terms of what a plus size person should wear in regards to lingerie, whatever makes you feel most confident.
Spencer’s: How does lingerie specifically make plus size women feel sexy?
Ashley Alexiss: I often get questions from women about how to feel better about their body. I’m plus size. How do you wear lingerie and feel good about yourself? And I believe it’s not something that happens overnight. It’s not like you wake up one morning and go, I love myself. It’s something that takes a lot of time, especially in a society that tells you it’s wrong to feel good about your body no matter what size you are.
Their opinions don’t pay your bills and you just have to constantly remind yourself of that. You need to remember that it’s about your happiness. If you feel good in something, then feel good in it. If you feel good in a crop top, just because someone says, for instance, with my size, I can’t believe someone who’s a size 14 is wearing a crop top, how dare she? I didn’t know that what I was wearing is affecting you. You can take that and you can do what you want with it. I’m going to be in what I want to be because I feel good in it. I think it goes for any clothing, including lingerie. It’s really important for women to use trial and error. See what you feel good in. There are lots of different kinds of lingerie. You can start with something a little more conservative. If you’re not comfortable with your body, try something that covers it up just a little bit more, and slowly go from there. There’s even pieces of lingerie that come with different pieces; some have a little cape, or some have a skirt and you can take it off and see how you feel. Eventually you’ll just get to a point where it’s no effs given. You know what? This is my life. I’m going to live it the best that I can. If that means that I’m wearing a crotchless teddy, then that’s what I’m going to do.
It’s hard for me to truly express that because I just want to shake someone. You’re beautiful, it doesn’t matter what your size is. If you want to feel good, then feel good. You can own this, so please do. It’s hard because a lot of women do ask me, how do I feel confident? How do I feel good in lingerie? How do I make myself look better? It’s not about that. It’s about just feel it. Just try. You don’t get anywhere if you don’t try. That’s most important.
Spencer’s: For a lot of women, being naked makes them feel self-conscious. Can lingerie make you feel more confident about your body especially if being naked makes you a little uncomfortable?
Ashley Alexiss: I definitely believe that lingerie is a lot more powerful than people actually realize. It has the ability to allow you to be comfortable in your body by simply having this small piece of clothing that just accentuates the things that you want and hides the things that maybe you don’t really want to be seen. It allows you to become more confident with less clothing and eventually you can get to the point where [you’re in] your birthday suit and you can feel good.
I know that it’s such a struggle because we’re brainwashed to believe that there’s this one perfect body and if your body doesn’t look like that then you’re not worth anything. I’m so blessed to do what I do, and I love what I do, but a lot of times plus size models are my body type. I have an hourglass and a flat stomach. But at the end of the day, that doesn’t mean that if you don’t, that you’re not beautiful.
It doesn’t mean that you can’t be confident in your own skin, your own naked body. You need to stop comparing yourself to what you see on social media, television and magazines, because they’re depicting one kind of woman and if we know anything, we know that women come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Just because they’re not being depicted in the media doesn’t mean that they’re not beautiful.
The same thing goes for being confident in your body. If you look at yourself and you say, okay, I wish I could change this, I wish I could change that, and you wonder why and you’re comparing yourself to the things that you see, you need to sit there and you need take it in and realize that you are you, and that’s something nobody can be. Once you realize that, you’re able to use that to your power.
This is where lingerie can come in, even if it’s just for yourself. You don’t need to wear lingerie for a partner. I mean, there’s plenty of times where I was a little bit younger and I would just buy lingerie because I wanted to learn how to feel better about my body.
I didn’t really understand because my body was never really depicted. Growing up, I never saw anybody that had my body in mainstream [media], and I wanted to feel good about myself. I didn’t want to sulk and feel bad. I wanted to know that I was enough and I felt good and I looked sexy and I was sexy enough to attract a partner. Now that I’m older, I realize that that’s not necessarily important.
Just try things. There’s lots of affordable lingerie, there’s shops such as Spencer’s where you can go in, you can try the quality, you can see how different things fit your body and not break the bank. People think that they have to spend hundreds of dollars on some of these high-end brands to get quality. No, you don’t. Spencer’s does a good job of that. They’re able to give the quality of a higher-end brand without breaking the bank.
Try on styles and figure out what works for you and what doesn’t. You have to realize that no one else has to see that if you don’t want them to. It’s up to you. You create a relationship with yourself, and when you have that relationship and you’re secure in that relationship then you can move forward with sharing that with someone else.
Spencer’s: With lingerie, I know some women are concerned about, what if my partner rejects me or isn’t as into it as I thought they would be. Do you have any advice?
Ashley Alexiss: If you try to be sexy for your partner and they don’t appreciate it, throw the whole partner away. There’s no time for that because I think that it’s not just about being sexy, it’s the effort that you put behind it, it’s the effort of you are being vulnerable and you are taking a chance to try and share this sensual moment with someone and if they’re going to sit there and go, Oh god, why’d you wear that? or Oh, that’s not my favorite color, no normal partner, no supportive partner, no non-toxic partner will do that, and if they do, like I said, throw the whole partner away. And if they do, I’m really sorry for anyone who’s having this issue because I’m telling you basically to [dump them] but in a year’s time it won’t matter you’ll probably be with someone who makes you feel a lot better about yourself.
Spencer’s: Do you have any advice for a woman who’s new to wearing lingerie, she’s excited about it, about how to style it or what to do, how to feel comfortable walking around in it—or lying down in it.
Ashley Alexiss: We’re told all the time that we need to be careful about what we put on our phones, but listen, if you want to feel good about yourself, I suggest getting into some sexy lingerie and taking some photos. That’s kind of a good way to ease it in with your partner. Send some cute sexts in lingerie.
I think that sometimes being in lingerie can be sexier than being naked. If you’re new to it, I think that becoming confident in it is about seeing the reflection of yourself. Use selfies to find out what angles make you feel best in that lingerie. It’s all about exploring yourself and I think that women are so afraid of that aspect because we’re told that we’re not supposed to. But you have no rules. If it makes you feel good then screw what any other opinion is. You should definitely give yourself more credit for trying something new.
Spencer’s has a huge range of affordable sexy lingerie, including plus size lingerie, in every color and style! |
====================
libnids-1.21
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This document is obsolete; read LINUX instead !
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Background
==========
Identification of recombination events and which chromosomal segments contributed to an individual is useful for a number of applications in genomic analyses including haplotyping, imputation, linkage disequilibrium \[[@B1]\], signatures of selection, and improved estimates of relationship and probability of identity by descent \[[@B2]\]. This is particularly true for genomic prediction which has become an important tool in modern livestock breeding programs to predict the merit of individuals by estimating the genome-wide effects of the alleles they inherited from their ancestors \[[@B3]\]. It is expected that the accuracy of prediction will be even higher once it is based on causal variants identified through sequencing \[[@B4]\] instead of the currently used linked markers. In livestock, individuals of high genetic merit, particularly males, are widely used which leads to an overrepresentation of their genetics across the population. This stratification can be problematic for population based phasing algorithms which rely on samples being unrelated to each other and reasonably representative of the spectrum of genetic diversity \[[@B5]\]. On the other hand this high level of relatedness between individuals provides a structure of high linkage disequilibrium which can be used to track chromosomal segments (haplotypes) throughout the population. By sequencing these overrepresented individuals and genotyping their descendants with high density marker panels, their full sequence data can be imputed \[[@B6]\] for around one tenth of current sequencing costs. Availability of sequence data for a large number of samples will increase the power to identify causal variants, which in turn can replace the currently used evenly spaced marker panels with a smaller subset of trait specific variants that are either causal or in perfect LD with the causal variants \[[@B4]\]. This implies the ability to accurately identify and track haplotypes in the population.
Here we present *hsphase*, an R package that implements a fast, deterministic and robust method for half-sib family structures to identify recombination events, phase family groups, impute and phase un-genotyped sires and build a library of haplotypes \[[@B7]\]. The package also makes use of this population structure to evaluate correctness of recorded pedigrees, identify and fix pedigree errors, i.e. reassign individuals with wrong pedigree records to their correct sires; or even reconstruct family groups without pedigree records. If genotypes from candidate parents are available the package can be used for parentage verification.
Additional functions allow identification of genomic mapping errors, evaluation of phasing results generated by *hsphase* or other phasing programs. *hsphase* will also generate a *blocking structure* of chromosomal segments that define which progeny carry segments identical by descent. This can be used to improve phasing of the paternal sequence data \[[@B8],[@B9]\] and allows precise sequence imputation in the offspring. Imputation is important in association studies and genomic prediction to increase accuracy and power since a large number of samples can be genotyped at lower density (and lower cost) and imputed up to sequence level or to denser marker panels, which increases the level of linkage disequilibrium between SNP and causal variants \[[@B10]\].
*hsphase* seamlessly integrates into the R environment for pipelined analyses and provides a range of diagnostic plotting functions that permit rapid visual inspection of results and evaluation of datasets. Functions for pedigree checking, reconstruction and parentage assignment can be used independently or as part of phasing workflow. For phasing purposes, the main advantages of *hsphase* are that is it extremely fast in comparison to population based phasing methods, can be used with small datasets and it is not affected by sampling stratification. It also builds blocks of chromosomal inheritance in the half-sibs which makes it simple to impute when paternal sequence or higher density marker haplotypes are available. The package is sufficiently fast to be used directly on sequence data.
Implementation
==============
The *hsphase* package exploits the linkage disequilibrium found within a half-sib family and the information content of opposing homozygous SNP markers \[[@B11]\]. An opposing homozygote, for any given marker, is defined as one individual being homozygous for an allelic variant and the other individual homozygous for the alternative allele.
Consider, for example, a sire-offspring relationship, opposing homozygotes can be used to identify Mendelian inconsistencies which should not occur in a true relationship apart for genotyping errors or an unlikely mutation. Alternatively, between unrelated individuals the number of opposing homozygotes is much higher. This difference can be used to e.g. exclude a parentage relationship \[[@B11]\]. The same applies to other relationship levels, with half-sibs showing less opposing homozygotes between themselves than unrelated individuals (Figure [1](#F1){ref-type="fig"}). While the relationship between parent-offspring is essentially 100% accurate with a high enough number of markers, the separation between half-sib groups and unrelated individuals is not always so clear cut (Figure [1](#F1){ref-type="fig"}). However the two distributions are still highly separable and can be used to assign relationships. *hsphase* implements four different methods to define the separability between related and unrelated individuals. The first method uses a pre-determined cut off based on the maximum number of expected opposing homozygotes in a family. The second approach uses the regression coefficients (slope and intercept) estimated from a large population of sheep half-sib families genotyped on the Ovine50k Illumina BeadChip; these are the default values based on a simple linear regression of the number of opposing homozygotes, but user defined coefficients better suited for a particular population can also be used. The third approach implements the method proposed by Calus e*t al.*\[[@B12]\] based on the expectation of opposing homozygous loci in half-sib families in contrast to unrelated individuals using population wide allele frequencies. The cut off value used to accept a relationship is 90% of the average difference between the predicted number of opposing homozygotes in unrelated individuals and half-sib families. The last method uses the expected number of recombinations to define relationships; *hsphase* uses opposing homozygotes to build blocks of haplotypic relationships in family groups, if an individual is not truly part of a group it will need a large number of recombinations to maintain Mendelian consistency with the other family members. These recombinations are of course not real but can be used to exclude a relationship (further details in the *block structure* section). To build the pedigree itself, the matrix of opposing homozygotes is used to calculate the Manhattan distance between all pairs of individuals. The algorithm then recursively builds a distance matrix and hierarchically clusters them into two groups using Ward's minimum variance method. At each iteration, the groupings are checked against the separation criterion being used and if all individuals are below the threshold they are assigned to a family group; else the process is repeated.
{#F1}
For parentage assignment a square matrix with the number of opposing homozygotes between all pairs of individuals is calculated. Parent-offspring pairs can then be assigned based on a maximum number of allowable Mendelian inconsistencies (e.g. 1% genotyping error). Figure [2](#F2){ref-type="fig"} illustrates for a cut off threshold of 1% genotyping errors. For small parentage panels (\~100-200 SNP) the maximum number of mismatches allowed should be between 0 and 2. If genotypes from a known pedigree are available they can be used to calculate the *separation value* which is the difference between the smallest number of opposing homozygotes found across all false sire-offspring relations (i.e. all pairwise combinations except the real sire-offspring pairs) and the maximum number of opposing homozygotes in the correct sire-offspring pairs divided by the maximum number of opposing homozygotes found in the dataset (Figure [2](#F2){ref-type="fig"}). The separation value can be useful to design parentage panels or test their efficacy for parentage testing. The higher the value, the better the panel is at resolving parentage assignments and, if the value becomes zero or negative, a perfect separation between true and false sire-offspring relations is not possible.
{#F2}
Opposing homozygotes are also used for phasing and *hsphase* implements the method described in \[[@B7]\]. Briefly, all opposing homozygous loci are identified and these unambiguously identify heterozygous sites in the parent. These are then used to assort individuals into groups according to the paternal allele they received, which in turn provides information about the most likely phase in the ancestor. Blocks of consecutive markers that are co-inherited across groups become obvious at this stage and allow detection of recombination points. These can be visualized as a *block like structure* across the individuals' genome where each block reflects the inherited paternal haplotype (Figure [3](#F3){ref-type="fig"}). Paternal haplotypes are inferred by simply averaging the sum of the genotypes at each marker that inherited a particular strand (block) from its ancestor. Paternal haplotypes in the offspring are identified by matching the inherited blocks in the offspring with the phased haplotypes of the parent. Maternal haplotypes are then obtained by subtracting the paternal haplotype from the individual's genotype. The method does not depend on population parameters and even small datasets give accurate results (R^2^ \> 0.9 for block detection and imputation for families \> = 8 individuals). A detailed description of the algorithm implemented in *hsphase* and an evaluation of its performance is given in \[[@B7]\]. To improve the algorithm's performance most of the code was written in C++ and parallelized.
{#F3}
*hsphase* was implemented as a package for the widely used R statistical programming environment and wrapper functions make it easy to use and facilitate integration with other R/Bioconductor packages. Programs such as *snpQC*\[[@B13]\] output files in a format that can be used by *hsphase*. Source code, compiled package, tutorial and example dataset are available from the project's website (the package is also available directly from CRAN). In the following section, the main components of the package are briefly described.
Main functions in *hsphase*
===========================
Input data
----------
*hsphase* requires a SNP map file (name, chromosome and map positions), a genotype data file (numerically coded as 0, 1, 2 for the three genotypes and 9 for missing data) and a pedigree file (individuals and paternal ancestor). The latter can be generated from the data itself if no pedigree information is available or the pedigree is unreliable.
Pedigree reconstruction and parentage assignment
------------------------------------------------
The function *ohg* calculates a square matrix with the number of opposing homozygotes between all pairs of individuals; these are then used by *rpoh* to reconstruct family groups by iterative hierarchical clustering in the absence of pedigree data. If a pedigree file is available the function *pedigreeNaming* will match the inferred family groups with the most likely parents and can be used to correct pedigree errors or to evaluate efficiency of pedigree reconstruction. The accuracy of pedigree assignment decreases if individuals belong to overlapping generations with common ancestors. Results of pedigree reconstruction can be visualized with the *hh* function which generates a heatmap of the relationships for easy detection of pedigree errors in the original pedigree (if available) and evaluation of pedigree assignment (Figure [4](#F4){ref-type="fig"}). The *rpoh* function calculates a distance matrix from the opposing homozygotes matrix and was written in C++ with multithreaded support to accommodate large datasets.
{#F4}
These functions are not restricted to dense marker panels and can be used to assign parents using small parentage testing panels, for example. Function *pogc* takes the matrix of opposing homozygotes as input and returns a pedigree of parent-offspring assignments based on the maximum number of mismatches allowed (user defined parameter -- default 1% of the number of markers). Function *ohplot* also uses the matrix of opposing homozygotes and a pedigree file to plot the separation value of the dataset and the sorted results of all pairwise comparisons (Figure [5](#F5){ref-type="fig"}). *ohplot* is useful to check pedigrees, evaluate parentage testing panels and guide decisions on acceptable mismatch thresholds. The function can also be used without pedigree information and will simply sort and plot the values of the upper triangle of the opposing homozygotes matrix, the separation value reported is then the maximum separation found between sorted value pairs. It can help to identify the maximum number of opposing homozygotes allowed for pedigree reconstruction (see results section). The function also reports average values for the number of opposing homozygotes expected in full and half-sib families and in unrelated individuals according to \[[@B12]\]; plus the 90% threshold used for pedigree reconstruction.
![**Sorted pairwise numbers of opposing homozygotes with*ohplot.*** The plot is useful to guide decisions for parameter settings to reconstruct the pedigree. The *separation value* is the maximum separation found between sorted value pairs divided by the maximum number of opposing homozygotes. The *cut off* value is the number of SNP at the mid-point of the largest separation (red line). The other lines are the average number of opposing homozygotes expected in full-sib families (cyan -- not shown here), half-sib families (green) and in unrelated individuals (blue) according to \[[@B12]\]; plus the 90% threshold used for pedigree reconstruction (pink). The function can also be used with pedigree information to detect inconsistencies (relations are colour coded according to the pedigree to facilitate visualization). The plot is from 106 Hanwoo cattle from 14 family groups genotyped on the 700 k Illumina BeadChip array.](1471-2105-15-172-5){#F5}
Block structure and recombination events
----------------------------------------
The *bmh* function creates the blocking structure for the half-sibs and splits them into two groups based on the chromosomal segments they inherited from either one of the sire's haplotypes. Blocks for each chromosome are constructed by selecting the first opposing homozygous SNP on the chromosome and partitioning all members of a half-sib family into two groups according to their genotypes (i.e. all individuals with genotype *AA* are placed in one group -- *group 1*, and all with *BB* in the other group -- *group 2*). Starting from this initial grouping the function steps through the SNP according to their map order to allocate individuals into one group or the other one, until the end of the chromosome is reached. At the end of the process each individual at each SNP will have been assigned to one of the two groups; the function returns a matrix of individuals by SNP coded as *1* and *2*. Recombination between two adjacent SNP is an unlikely event, so from the second SNP onwards individuals are assigned to a group by minimizing the number of individuals that have to change groups in relation to the previous grouping (i.e. minimum number of recombinations). Recombinations are identified when an individual moves from one group to the other based on its opposing homozygous status. The *bmh* function performs a validation step for the recombination by checking if during the next steps (SNP) the individual does not return to the previous group. Recombinations occurring on both sides of a single SNP in a single individual are interpreted as a genotyping error and ignored. Group assignment is based on family relationships which makes *bmh* sensitive to pedigree errors \[[@B14]\]. In addition, only a proportion of SNP will be homozygous for any given individual at any particular SNP; family sizes need to be sufficiently large to be able to reliably assign individuals to groups and markers sufficiently dense to correctly detect recombination events. As rule of thumb, families with at least 8 individuals and 50 k panels should yield very accurate results.
If parent-offspring haplotypes are available, the *hbp* function can be used to compare an offspring's haplotypes with its ancestor's haplotypes. The function returns a matrix with the same block structure of *bmh* and can be used to evaluate phasing results of other programs -- a single parent-offspring is sufficient in this case. Combined with the *imageplot* function (plots the block structures -- Figure [6](#F6){ref-type="fig"}) it is straightforward to evaluate results and identify problems. Extreme recombination patterns on the *imageplot* are indicative of incorrect phasing. If individuals are unrelated the *imageplot* will have a chaotic structure (Figure [6](#F6){ref-type="fig"}) which can be also used to check the pedigree.
{#F6}
The function *pm* uses the block matrix as input and returns a matrix of all recombination events per individual and between SNP. Function *recombinations* returns a count of the number of recombinations per individual. *rplot* displays recombination counts per SNP and assists identification of local variation in recombination rates or mapping errors (Figure [7](#F7){ref-type="fig"}).
{#F7}
Phasing and imputation
----------------------
The function *ssp* imputes and phases the paternal haplotypes. The function infers the sires' haplotypes at each SNP by simply averaging the sum of the genotypes of the half-sibs in a blocking group (alleles coded as 0 and 1; genotypes as 0 -- 0/0, 1 -- 0/1 and 2 -- 1/1). Averages are rounded to the nearest integer and assigned to the sire's haplotypes.
The *phf* function phases the offspring and returns their paternal haplotypes. It uses the sire's phased haplotypes as a reference and overlaps the block matrix to select which parts of the haplotypes each individual inherited. Once the paternal haplotypes of the offspring are created, the maternal ones are obtained by simply subtracting these haplotypes from the original genotypes.
The function *impute* imputes the paternal strand of half-sib families from low density genotypes to high density by using the sire's haplotypes as a scaffold. Similarly to the function *phf* it simply uses the blocks to match the haplotypes of the offspring with the correct haplotype of the sire and fills the missing markers with the haplotypes of the denser panel.
For large datasets the *para* function provides a parallelized wrapper to partition the job across multiple CPUs.
Results
=======
To discuss the use of the *hsphase* package, a dataset of 106 brown Hanwoo Korean cattle genotyped on the Illumina 700 k BovineHD BeadChip SNP array was used. Individuals belonged to 14 half-sib family groups with family sizes ranging from 6 to 8. Genotypes for the 14 sires were also available and pedigree records were accurate. For reference purposes the Korean Hanwoo are a pure-bred heavily selected population with a small effective population size (Ne \~100) and there is some ascertainment bias in the chip which was not specifically designed for the breed. Population differences among unrelated individuals is expected to be lower than in populations with large Ne.
Pedigree reconstruction
-----------------------
As previously discussed *hsphase* implements four methods to define thresholds for pedigree reconstruction. Unfortunately no approach is robust across any scenario and the different methods will perform better or worse in different situations. The accuracy of reconstruction will depend on the sample size and genetic diversity in the population. A first look at the data using *ohplot* (Figure [5](#F5){ref-type="fig"}) can provide some indications as to the separability of family groups from unrelated individuals and help define appropriate parameters for the different methods. For this data there is a clear separation between half-sibs and unrelated individuals but this is not always the case, as shown in Figure [1](#F1){ref-type="fig"}. Due to the clear separability of the dataset, the first method (manually defining a maximum number of allowable opposing homozygotes in a family) was able to perfectly reconstruct the pedigree (Figure [8](#F8){ref-type="fig"}, colour bar A) using the cut off value shown in Figure [5](#F5){ref-type="fig"} (31,662). The second method (Figure [8](#F8){ref-type="fig"}, colour bar B) using regression coefficients derived from sheep was unable to split two family groups; i.e. four families were grouped into two. There was no family mixing which suggests that the coefficients are too stringent for this population and probably suboptimal. A wider tolerance would have allowed the final split. We have obtained good results with sheep populations and other cattle breeds using these coefficients (results not shown) but this approach may lack generalization. The third method follows \[[@B12]\] (Figure [8](#F8){ref-type="fig"}, colour bar C) and failed to assign 9 individuals to their correct sires (92% correct). Albeit not perfect, the accuracy is still high and in other scenarios it works well; when we used this approach on the full Hanwoo data (36 sires, 290 offspring) we obtained 100% accurate pedigree inference (data not shown). The lower accuracy here is probably due to the low numbers of individuals and imprecise allelic frequency estimates which suggests the method is better suited for large sample sizes or when population allelic frequencies are available from another source. The last method uses the blocking structures within families to count recombination events and builds groups based on a maximum allowable number of recombinations. Figure [8](#F8){ref-type="fig"} (colour bar D) shows the reconstructed pedigree using chromosome one as a reference with a maximum of 10 recombinations allowed. The method failed to group 5 individuals from one family (95% correct). This approach requires some prior knowledge of recombination expectations per chromosome. If the number of recombinations allowed was increased to 14 the pedigree would be perfect (same as Figure [8](#F8){ref-type="fig"}, colour bar A). Other chromosomes can be used (e.g. chromosome 29 with 4 recombinations is 100% accurate). As a rule of thumb, shorter chromosomes with less recombination tend to yield better results.
![**Comparison of pedigree reconstruction methods.** Left-hand side colour bars for true family relationships, top-side bars for inferred pedigree and pedigree matching. The top colour bars are respectively, A) Manually determined threshold for number of opposing homozygotes in a half-sib family (31,662). The pedigree is 100% accurate and correctly assigned to the sires. B) Regression coefficients derived from a large sheep population. Two families did not separate (yellow and red -- top bar) and were classified as a two groups instead of four. C) The third method based on \[[@B12]\] failed to assign 9 individuals to their correct sire (unassigned individuals shown in white). Method four uses number of recombinations to sort family groups. Here chromosome one was used with a maximum of 10 recombinations allowed. The method failed to group 5 individuals from one family (unassigned individuals shown in white).](1471-2105-15-172-8){#F8}
Generally speaking all methods are quite susceptible to the parameters used. Some care should be taken to define adequate ones for the data at hand and check if the results seem satisfactory (the blocks across the diagonals of the heatmap can be useful to visually identify the families -- Figure [8](#F8){ref-type="fig"}). Another *sanity* check is to inspect the block structures of the families which should not exhibit excessive numbers of recombinations (Figure [9](#F9){ref-type="fig"}A).
{ref-type="fig"}). Data shown is for bovine chromosome 29 with 8 half-sib and an unrelated individual intentionally included. **B)** Putative map error on chromosome 1. A map error has a cumulative effect and causes problems downstream evidenced by chromosome blocks consistently breaking across all individuals.](1471-2105-15-172-9){#F9}
Map errors
----------
Map errors due to errors in the reference assembly can also be identified by visual inspection of the block structures (Figure [9](#F9){ref-type="fig"}B). This is characterized by an individual SNP (or a few SNP in a region) that shows an excessive number of recombinations. Map errors are consistent across families, meaning that the same SNP show excessive recombination across all family groups. With the method used in *hsphase*, a map error leads to downstream blocking problems and individuals start showing patterns of recombination at the same SNP (Figures [7](#F7){ref-type="fig"} and [9](#F9){ref-type="fig"}B). This can be corrected by deleting the region with the map error, provided it is not too long. The difference between map errors, regions of high recombination and SNP genotyping problems are not entirely straightforward, particularly if the marker panel is not very dense.
Accuracy of sire inference and imputation
-----------------------------------------
To test the accuracy of imputation from low to high marker density we selected 46,174 SNP -- the SNP in common with the 50 k bovine panel -- in the Hanwoo offspring and excluded the others. We built the block structures for this subset of SNP and then used the *impute* function to fill the gaps using the sire's phased genotypes as a scaffold. The average accuracy of imputation (proportion of paternal haplotypes correct out of total) for the 106 offspring was 0.981 (comparison of 50 K imputed to 700 k with the true 700 k haplotypes). The worst accuracy was 0.977 and the best 0.993. Note that the accuracies were high but they were probably biased upwards since the sires were phased using *hsphase* and there is some circularity in these values. In the absence of *true* phased sire data this issue cannot be resolved unambiguously. We also evaluated the accuracy of sire inference (comparison of inferred genotypes with the true genotypes of the sires). The average accuracy was 0.992, with the worst sire 0.985 and the best 0.997. Undefined regions were not called (average 16.5% of SNP). A comprehensive evaluation of the phasing method used in *hsphase* is given in \[[@B7]\].
Recombination events
--------------------
The Hanwoo data is too small to reliably identify local variation in recombination rates (Figure [7](#F7){ref-type="fig"}). Instead, for illustration purposes, we used a large population of sheep (14005 individuals in 343 families) genotyped on the Illumina Ovine 50 k BeadChip (Figure [10](#F10){ref-type="fig"} illustrates recombination patterns on chromosome 6). For large datasets analyses can be sped up with the *para* function which allows jobs to run in parallel and acts as a wrapper for the main functions in *hsphase*. Although this population was reasonably large the time needed for the analysis without parallelization was \~55 seconds and with 8 cores this came down to \~28 seconds. The main reason for the nonlinear speed increase is that each individual analysis was fast and there is limited benefit from the parallelization (too much time is spent on communication across nodes \[[@B15]\]). Speed increases are more obvious with denser marker panels (e.g. sequence data).
{#F10}
Conclusion
==========
*hsphase* is an R package for analysis and visualization of genomic structures in small half-sib groups. The package can be used to reconstruct pedigree, assign or verify parentage, impute and phase un-genotyped paternal ancestors, phase the half-sib groups and detect and quantify recombination events. Diagnostic plots assist identification of pedigree, mapping and phasing errors. Whilst designed for high density SNP arrays the algorithm is extremely fast and can be used directly on sequence data as it becomes available. Auxiliary functions to impute from low to high density markers and parse datasets are also included in the package.
Availability and requirements
=============================
The package is freely available (GPL 3) from the Comprehensive R Archive Network (CRAN) or from <http://www-personal.une.edu.au/~cgondro2/hsphase.htm>. Source code, compiled package, a tutorial and example dataset are available from the project's website.
•**Project name:** hsphase
•**Project home page:**<http://www-personal.une.edu.au/~cgondro2/hsphase.htm>
•**Operating system(s):** platform independent
•**Programming language:** R \[[@B16]\] and C/C++
•**Other requirements:** the package depends on the R packages *snowfall*\[[@B17]\], *Rcpp*\[[@B18],[@B19]\] and *RcppArmadillo*\[[@B20]\].
•**License:** GNU GPL 3
Competing interests
===================
The authors declare that they have no competing interests.
Authors' contributions
======================
MF and CG designed the algorithm and experiments to test it. MF wrote the R package. SHL, JHJW and BPK advised on the experimental design to test the package. All authors read and approved the final manuscript.
Acknowledgements
================
CG and SHL were supported by a grant from the Next-Generation BioGreen 21 Program (No. PJ008196), Rural Development Administration (RDA), Republic of Korea. CG and BPK were supported by an Australian Research Council Discovery Project DP130100542. The authors wish to thank SheepGenomics, the Sheep Cooperative Research Centre, The National Institute of Animal Science, RDA and Livestock Improvement Corporation for sharing the genotypes used to test the method developed in this study.
|
Q:
FBSDKShareDialog of Facebook SDK is not working on iOS9?
With Xcode7, I upgrade Facebook SDK to pod FBSDKShareKit (4.6.0). And I have added Facebook scheme to WhiteList as below.
reference: https://developers.facebook.com/docs/ios/ios9
<key>LSApplicationQueriesSchemes</key>
<array>
<string>fbapi</string>
<string>fb-messenger-api</string>
<string>fbauth2</string>
<string>fbshareextension</string>
</array>
However, the following code only show iOS default social dialog on iOS9. The same code with the same binary on iOS8 can open Facebook app and show the Sharing Dialog properly.
FBSDKShareLinkContent *content = [[FBSDKShareLinkContent alloc] init];
content.contentURL = [NSURL URLWithString:[NSString stringWithFormat:@"http://www.example.com"]];
content.contentDescription = @"Test";
[FBSDKShareDialog showFromViewController:self withContent:content delegate:nil];
I guess Facebook app is not found on iOS9 and then show the default social dialog. Even no error message showed.
Do I miss anything? Or, it's an iOS9 bug?
A:
I'm guessing Facebook changed the behaviour because iOS 9 now pops up a dialog asking if you would like to "Open Facebook?" when doing app-switching. Even for FBSDKLoginManager, the app-switching (native) method seems to be less preferred than a modal UIWebView.
However, you can still force the share dialog to switch to the Facebook app (assuming you have your application plist setup as described in https://developers.facebook.com/docs/ios/ios9) by using this method:
FBSDKShareDialog *dialog = [[FBSDKShareDialog alloc] init];
if ([[UIApplication sharedApplication] canOpenURL:[NSURL URLWithString:@"fbauth2://"]]){
dialog.mode = FBSDKShareDialogModeNative;
}
else {
dialog.mode = FBSDKShareDialogModeBrowser; //or FBSDKShareDialogModeAutomatic
}
dialog.shareContent = content;
dialog.delegate = self;
dialog.fromViewController = self;
[dialog show];
|
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And how she fell in love with electronic music
I first met Lauren in 2011 on Twitter because of a Facebook Ad I was running about a SoundCloud initiative I was doing for Silence at the time (I love how convoluted that sounds). As many people as I’ve talked to on Twitter over the years, I’ve never met someone so honest about her love for music. Someone without another agenda. And I see her dedication every day.
I usually don’t start my daily SoundCloud listening until later on in the day, but this girl is up at the butt crack of dawn listening to the shit out of it (she seriously wakes up too early) and she always gets in the comment or reshare before I do. The one thing I’ve given her shit about is what she’s doing to contribute in music, but she’s been doing something about it […]
Listen to the lyrics. They tell a better story than I do.
Here’s a special one for ya. It’s the first story I’ve written on here, at least a personal one. And of course it’s accompanied with a playlist, which tells the story much better. My writing only covers the first night and only 95% of that. Ya gotta earn the rest.
Lighter than deep house, chiller than trop
We first found the horizontal disco name on Zimmer’s Galapagos. And although we categorized Galapagos under the tropical house playlist, Zimmer’s sound definitely circles around the theme we’re going for here. Malinchak, however, is the exact sound we think of.
Horizontal disco is meant for late night discoing on the floor and is on the lighter side of deep house. I just like relaxing to it late night though.
Listened to way too much music this year
I’ve listened to way too much music this year, probably around 12,000 new tracks (I tried calculating it). Most of the music was.. unfinished, to say the least, but we found a lot more songs worth keeping than any year before it.
A lot of new music emerged or reemerged over the year. Deep house was the big thing, but many discredit it because of the hype. It had its bad with itsgood. Our favorite new style goes to what doesn’t seem to have an official name yet. I’ve heard many call it kawaii, but I prefer vapor – this naming shit is more important than you’d think.
We’ve got 30 songs to show off, 11 artists and 20 playlists for you, but if that’s not enough… wait ’til next year.
It's more than the voice
We’ve featured our favorite female vocalists for the past two years, onetwo, but never felt the need to do it for the men. Well, we messed up our indie-pop playlist, so we made something good out of the mess.
Not only can these guys sing, but they put their voices into a sound just as good.
Under the sun (over the pool)
Like the iPhone every year, this is our best playlist yet! It really is.
House has been my obsession for the past few years and my favorite kind is the mid-tempo, upbeat summertime jams. Which may or may not turn out to be called Tropical House. Or Summer House. Or Horizontal Disco. It’s up in the air really.
A few tracks do stereotypically incorporate the steel drums, but we did cover more ground than that. We also decided this should be more comprehensive than our usual playlists because we wanted to get all the trop house personas in one place. There are quite a few interesting characters.
Our 2012 sound may be defining 2014
Malinchak was my man in 2012 with his deeply touching ‘So Good To Me.’ And although his 2013 was far better than most, it took til 2014 for us to realize the massive amount of hits he has. Malinchak supplies some melancholic disco and there’s really nothing we love more right now.
12 independent record labels with a well imagined roster
Independent record labels are sprouting up all over the place — in location & style. And the ones that are doing it right not only have a choice selection in catalogue, but also take the time to artfully craft their image as they do their artists.
Each of these 12 labels sport some of the most well respected producers & musicians that belong on this blog and create a culture with style around their music. On here I may point out a few that lack in proper online presence, but they are all doing it right when it comes to the perception of this era’s evolution in music labels.
Guaranteed at least one goodie or your money back
We’re finally getting our favorite musicians of 2012 out there. Remixes & heavy sampling have made up most of the other best music of 2012, but the rest of these are all originals (at least for the most part).
I also decided to change it from 2012’s best musicians to the most promising. They may be our favorite musicians of 2012, but they’re probably all new to you – except Frank, Madeon & Miike maybe.
Also remember, not every one of these may be your favorite style, but you’ll definitely find a few you’ll enjoy for a good while.
I was in love from the very first listen.
I hardly ever fall in love from the first go, but Malinchak’s ‘So Good To Me’ hit right from the start. It’s one of those tracks you know will stick by you for the rest of your life (yea, it’s that good).
‘So Good to Me’ starts off slow, but keeps you intrigued until the heart of it all. Once the vocals kick in, however, it’s full flavored bliss. Although it’s hard for me to describe exactly what makes this so special, it’s quite clear to see once you listen in.
Make sure to check out the rest of his music as well and let me know what you think. I won’t listen to anything else of his until I’m sure sick of this (it’s gonna be awhile), it’s just something I do. |
The Readercon response has continued to build, which is gratifying and speaks, I hope, to a general shift in con culture, but that’s a post for later. In the meantime, there are some more links happening that I want to address, and a couple of brief updates.
Firstly, the inimitable BC Holmes has been keeping track of an impressive collection of relevant links and screencaps.
Jim Hines has a post on reporting harassment in SF/F., if you choose to do so. Please know that if you have been harassed, your first priority is to secure your own physical safety and peace of mind; there are many reasons why women don’t report harassment, and all of them are legitimate.
The formal Petition to the Board is here, though it’s been maxed out (over 300 signatures on Day One). If you wish to sign, you can do so on this follow-up post. Signatures are open until 6pm Eastern time (USA) today, at which point she’ll send the petition to the Board. She’ll also keep the petition open and send further groups of signatures every 48 hours for so long as there are signatories.
Rose Lemberg has collected some links to other incidents (related by Rachel Elizabeth Dillon, Nora Jemisin, and Cat Valente) that need to be discussed, and which reflect a Board that does not make safe spaces a priority whatsoever.
However, while outrage at the Board is appropriate, the concom is not the Board. The committee has already called a vote to overturn the Board’s decision, and other decisions are still being discussed; thus Farah Mendlesohn explains that what might look like silence from the concom is not so. (For what it’s worth, I believe the concom called for a vote pretty quickly after the initial statement was made, understand the delays involved in making decisions of the magnitude at which they are making them, and believe that they are acting in good faith for the true best interests of the con. I have hope they will be able to effect change here.)
Meanwhile, some discussion about the discussion.
A key part of discussion is this comment: it’s the statement Kate Kligman sent the Readercon concom on July 17, the day after my initial post, detailing her own harassment by Rene Walling (whom she ID’ed via Nick Mamatas). It establishes that the behavior Rene exhibited with me is a pattern. (The Board, though they had it in hand that day, didn’t contact Kate during deliberations, and don’t mention this — or me — in their official statement. They also acknowledge that events are not in dispute, which means the harassment is admitted by all parties. This is another key part.)
Some people, in comments throughout this fine internet, have expressed a deep and touching concern that this has all happened because I have never experienced or encountered any embarrassing social miscues, accidental physical contact, flirting, socially-awkward people, or people on the autism spectrum, and thus I am somehow mistaken, and my harasser, a serial predator, is actually a flirting, socially-awkward, terminally-self-unaware Aspie. (Assuming this last about him is, by the way, particularly offensive to those on the autism spectrum.)
Those commenters are very kind to worry about me, but, having left the house on several occasions throughout my life, I have in fact encountered them all. Luckily, since harassment is none of these things, I am still able to distinguish harassment clearly, as that was what I experienced when Rene Walling chose to harass me. Thank you anyway.
Related, some people (usually occupying a Venn Diagram with the above people), apparently deeply worried about this particular topic in a way that is probably telling, have been asking What Will Happen To Flirting, The Human Race Will Surely Die Out Now, Oh Won’t Jesus Help the Flirters if sexual harassment policies are made and enforced. Anne Leckie gets it in one over here:
If you really think that “speaking to women” is indistinguishable from harassment, there’s a problem and it’s not with the rules. If you really think anti-harassment rules bar flirting, you’ve got an idea of what constitutes flirting that really needs some re-evaluation. I mean, if someone said, “Hey, we should outlaw rape,” and the guy standing next to you said, “But that’s the same thing as saying people can’t have sex!” you wouldn’t say, Wow, good point!. You’d look at him sideways. Or, sweet unconquered sun, I hope you would.
If you speak to women the way you’d speak to someone you respect, someone whose boundaries you respect, you generally won’t have any problems with women accusing you of harassment. End of story.
When you worry out loud that anti-harassment policies might outlaw flirting, you as much as sharpie a sign on your forehead saying “I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU WANT AS LONG AS I GET WHAT I’M AFTER.”
There are other posts I want to make — about rape culture; about what I hope the supportive response to this incident means for con and geek culture; about the vocabulary of harassment and the use of “target” vs. “victim”; about what it means to come forward about harassment, even when response is positive; about what it means when, for any number of reasons, it’s impossible to safely come forward. However, I also don’t want this blog to be All Harassment, All the Time, because one of the things that happens when you come forward even when the response is positive is that, in keeping up with it and talking about necessary and important things, you must give that experience, and by extension your harasser, enormous amounts of time and energy.
Therefore, last night I paid someone thirteen dollars to promise to screen a film for me on Thursday, just so I could write about something terrible that has Colin Farrell in it, rather than me in it.
Let’s end this discussion with an anecdote:
Last night, as I was composing this entry, I saw an ad on television. An Egg McMuffin was telling a container of oatmeal that he loved her. She demurred and said she wasn’t interested. He asked why not, since they had so much in common. She said he wasn’t her type. He demanded to know what her type was. She described someone “tall, dark -” and made an approving noise as a cup of coffee was set beside her. The coffee complimented her. She thanked him.
I'd think real sufferers of Asperger's would resent the use of the condition as an all-purpose rationalization/excuse for douchey behavior.
Joshua Zucker
You write “About the vocabulary of harassment and the use of “target” vs. “victim”” — I want to read that post and learn more!
Small typo: Your “official statement” link is missing an http: in front or something like that, so it tries to point to a page in this blog instead of over to the site.
http://www.facebook.com/endomorphosis Benjamin Barber
I read these other concerns, related by dillon and valentine, and still do not see the offensiveness.
For example: the use of either the mens or womens bathrooms. Does cat valentine expect that the readercon's hotel be the exception to majority of places that follow the gender normative bathrooms? And is her or other transgender psychological needs such that she hasn't in the can't cope with such a bathroom conundrum? I personally don't see why she couldn't cope with it, especially considering the bathrooms in asia (even in malls), consist of a series of holes in the ground sometimes with or without stalls or toilet paper. I think that she felt attacked, that the board ridiculed the ideas as preposterous, especially given the requirement for extra labor and security risk (for those members who have property in the con suite.)
Cat valentine: Does not talk about her experience with the board, so i cannot attest to its validity, but what she does offer as proof is aggressiveness in a thread. The thread was specifically about forming a competing con, specifically because of her unpublished grief with readercon, which if i remember correctly to be hosted near the same vincinity and time as readercon. I don't really know what she was expecting, when you get on a board you are expected to have a fiduciary duty, which it was obvious that she violated.
I suspect that you are all caught up in a classic case of groupthink, where you remain isolated from objective reality, by the emotional content presented as anecdotal evidence. |
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<% admin_form_for :options, @options do |f| -%>
<%= f.select :order_by, @options.order_by_options %>
<%= f.radio_buttons :order_direction, UserSegment.order_direction_select_options %>
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|
unit MediaUtils;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// MediaUtils.pas Modified: 25-Ago-2010
// Utility routines for handling media files Version 1.02
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// This file is unoffical
// Changed by Marcos Gomes
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// Important Notice:
//
// If you modify/use this code or one of its parts either in original or
// modified form, you must comply with Mozilla Public License v1.1,
// specifically section 3, "Distribution Obligations". Failure to do so will
// result in the license breach, which will be resolved in the court.
// Remember that violating author's rights is considered a serious crime in
// many countries. Thank you!
//
// !! Please *read* Mozilla Public License 1.1 document located at:
// http://www.mozilla.org/MPL/
//
// If you require any clarifications about the license, feel free to contact
// us or post your question on our forums at: http://www.afterwarp.net
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// The contents of this file are subject to the Mozilla Public License
// Version 1.1 (the "License"); you may not use this file except in
// compliance with the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at
// http://www.mozilla.org/MPL/
//
// Software distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS"
// basis, WITHOUT WARRANTY OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. See the
// License for the specific language governing rights and limitations
// under the License.
//
// The Original Code is MediaUtils.pas.
//
// The Initial Developer of the Original Code is M. Sc. Yuriy Kotsarenko.
// Portions created by M. Sc. Yuriy Kotsarenko are Copyright (C) 2007,
// Afterwarp Interactive. All Rights Reserved.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
interface
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
uses
Windows, Classes, SysUtils, AsphyreXML;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
{$WARN SYMBOL_PLATFORM OFF}
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// IsArchiveLink()
//
// Validates if the specified link points to Archive.
// Example:
// /data/media/map.zip | test.image
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function IsArchiveLink(const Text: string): Boolean;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// ExtractArchiveName()
//
// Generates a valid archive file name with full path from the archive link.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ExtractArchiveName(const Text: string): string;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// ExtractArchiveKey()
//
// Generates a valid key from the archive link.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ExtractArchiveKey(const Text: string): string;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// ExtractArchiveKey()
//
// Extracts all paths from the specified link leaving only key name.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ExtractPureKey(const Text: string): string;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// LoadLinkXML()
//
// Attempts to load a link pointing to XML file
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function LoadLinkXML(const Link: string): TXMLNode;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// GetWindowsDir()
//
// Retreives Windows System path.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function GetWindowsPath(): TFileName;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// GetTempDir()
//
// Retreives Temporary path.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function GetTempPath(): TFileName;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// MakeValidPath()
//
// Assures that the specified path ends with "\", so a file name can be
// added to it.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function MakeValidPath(const Path: string): string;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// MakeValidFileName()
//
// Assures that the specified file name does not begin with "\", so a path
// can be added to it.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function MakeValidFileName(const FileName: string): string;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// ParseInt()
//
// Parses a signed integer value read from XML. If no AutoValue is provided,
// in case of empty or non-parseable text, -1 will be returned.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseInt(const Text: string): Integer; overload;
function ParseInt(const Text: string; AutoValue: Integer): Integer; overload;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// ParseCardinal()
//
// Parses an unsigned integer value read from XML. If no AutoValue is provided,
// in case of empty or non-parseable text, High(Cardinal) will be returned.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseCardinal(const Text: string): Cardinal; overload;
function ParseCardinal(const Text: string;
AutoValue: Cardinal): Cardinal; overload;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// ParseFloat()
//
// Parses a floating-point unsigned integer value read from XML. If no
// AutoValue is provided, in case of empty or non-parseable text,
// High(Cardinal) will be returned.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseFloat(const Text: string): Real; overload;
function ParseFloat(const Text: string; AutoValue: Real): Real; overload;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// ParseBoolean()
//
// Parses Boolean text representation (true, false, yes, no).
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseBoolean(const Text: string;
AutoValue: Boolean): Boolean; overload;
function ParseBoolean(const Text: string): Boolean; overload;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// ParseColor()
//
// Parses an HTML or hexadecimal color.
// -> For HTML colors (#RRGGBB), alpha is always 255.
// -> If no AutoValue is specified, unparseable text gives opaque white.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseColor(const Text: string): Cardinal; overload;
function ParseColor(const Text: string;
AutoColor: Cardinal): Cardinal; overload;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
// BooleanToString()
//
// Returns string representation of boolean.
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function BooleanToString(Value: Boolean): string;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
implementation
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function IsArchiveLink(const Text: string): Boolean;
var
xPos: Integer;
begin
xPos:= Pos('|', Text);
Result:= (Length(Text) >= 3)and(xPos > 1)and(xPos < Length(Text));
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ExtractArchiveName(const Text: string): string;
var
xPos, i: Integer;
begin
Result:= Text;
// Step 1. Remove "key" part from the link.
xPos:= Pos('|', Text);
if (xPos <> 0) then
Delete(Result, xPos, Length(Result) + 1 - xPos);
// Step 2. Replace "/" with "\".
for i:= 1 to Length(Result) do
if (Result[i] = '/') then Result[i]:= '\';
// Step 3. Trim all leading and trailing spaces.
Result:= Trim(Result);
// Step 4. Remove leading "\", if such exists.
if (Length(Result) > 0)and(Result[1] = '\') then Delete(Result, 1, 1);
// Step 5. Include program path
//Result:= ExtractFilePath(ParamStr(0)) + Result;
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ExtractArchiveKey(const Text: string): string;
var
xPos: Integer;
begin
Result:= Text;
// Step 1. Remove "archive" part from the link.
xPos:= Pos('|', Text);
if (xPos <> 0) then
Delete(Result, 1, xPos);
// Step 2. Trim all leading and trailing spaces.
Result:= Trim(Result);
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ExtractPureKey(const Text: string): string;
var
xPos, i: Integer;
begin
Result:= Text;
// Step 1. Remove "key" part from the link.
xPos:= Pos('|', Text);
if (xPos <> 0) then
Delete(Result, xPos, Length(Result) + 1 - xPos);
// Step 2. Replace "/" with "\".
for i:= 1 to Length(Result) do
if (Result[i] = '/') then Result[i]:= '\';
// Step 3. Trim all leading and trailing spaces.
Result:= Trim(Result);
// Step 4. Remove leading "\", if such exists.
if (Length(Result) > 0)and(Result[1] = '\') then Delete(Result, 1, 1);
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function LoadLinkXML(const Link: string): TXMLNode;
begin
if (IsArchiveLink(Link)) then
begin
Result:= LoadXMLFromASDb(ExtractArchiveKey(Link), ExtractArchiveName(Link));
end else Result:= LoadXMLFromFile(ExtractArchiveName(Link));
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function GetWindowsPath(): TFileName;
var
WinDir: array [0..MAX_PATH - 1] of Char;
begin
SetString(Result, WinDir, GetWindowsDirectory(WinDir, MAX_PATH));
if (Result = '') then Result:= ExtractFilePath(ParamStr(0));
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function GetTempPath(): TFileName;
var
TempDir: array[0..MAX_PATH - 1] of Char;
begin
try
SetString(Result, TempDir, Windows.GetTempPath(MAX_PATH, TempDir));
if (not DirectoryExists(Result)) then
if (not CreateDirectory(PChar(Result), nil)) then
begin
Result:= IncludeTrailingBackslash(GetWindowsPath()) + 'TEMP';
if (not DirectoryExists(Result)) then
if (not CreateDirectory(Pointer(Result), nil)) then
begin
Result:= ExtractFileDrive(Result) + '\TEMP';
if (not DirectoryExists(Result)) then
if (not CreateDirectory(Pointer(Result), nil)) then
begin
Result:= ExtractFileDrive(Result) + '\TMP';
if (not DirectoryExists(Result)) then
if (not CreateDirectory(Pointer(Result), nil)) then
Result:= ExtractFilePath(ParamStr(0));
end;
end;
end;
except
Result:= ExtractFilePath(ParamStr(0));
end;
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function MakeValidPath(const Path: string): string;
begin
Result:= Trim(Path);
if (Length(Result) > 0)and(Result[Length(Result)] <> '\') then
Result:= Result + '\';
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function MakeValidFileName(const FileName: string): string;
begin
Result:= Trim(FileName);
while (Length(Result) > 0)and(Result[1] = '\') do Delete(Result, 1, 1);
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseInt(const Text: string): Integer;
begin
Result:= StrToIntDef(Text, -1);
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseInt(const Text: string; AutoValue: Integer): Integer;
begin
Result:= StrToIntDef(Text, AutoValue);
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseCardinal(const Text: string): Cardinal;
begin
Result:= Cardinal(StrToIntDef(Text, Integer(High(Cardinal))));
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseCardinal(const Text: string; AutoValue: Cardinal): Cardinal;
begin
Result:= Cardinal(StrToIntDef(Text, Integer(AutoValue)));
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseBoolean(const Text: string; AutoValue: Boolean): Boolean;
begin
Result:= AutoValue;
if (SameText(Text, 'no'))or(SameText(Text, 'false')) then Result:= False;
if (SameText(Text, 'yes'))or(SameText(Text, 'true')) then Result:= True;
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseBoolean(const Text: string): Boolean;
begin
Result:= ParseBoolean(Text, False);
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseFloat(const Text: string): Real;
begin
Result:= ParseFloat(Text, 0.0);
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseFloat(const Text: string; AutoValue: Real): Real;
var
PrevDecimalSpeparator: Char;
begin
PrevDecimalSpeparator:= DecimalSeparator;
try
DecimalSeparator := '.';
Result:= StrToFloatDef(Text, AutoValue);
finally
DecimalSeparator := PrevDecimalSpeparator;
end;
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseColor(const Text: string; AutoColor: Cardinal): Cardinal;
begin
if (SameText(Text, 'source'))or(SameText(Text, 'auto'))or
(SameText(Text, 'none')) then
begin
Result:= AutoColor;
Exit;
end;
Result:= $FFFFFFFF;
if (Length(Text) < 2)or((Text[1] <> '#')and(Text[1] <> '$')) then Exit;
if (Text[1] = '#') then
begin
Result:= Cardinal(StrToIntDef('$' + Copy(Text, 2, Length(Text) - 1),
Integer(AutoColor))) or $FF000000;
end else Result:= Cardinal(StrToIntDef(Text, Integer(AutoColor)));
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function ParseColor(const Text: string): Cardinal;
begin
Result:= ParseColor(Text, $FFFFFFFF);
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
function BooleanToString(Value: Boolean): string;
begin
if (Value) then Result:= 'yes' else Result:= 'no';
end;
//---------------------------------------------------------------------------
end.
|
Q:
Using uv_close instead of uv_async_send for single use uv_async callbacks?
My understanding is that the proper use of uv_async for a single use is the following:
Allocate the uv_async_t handle;
call uv_async_init on the allocated handle;
call uv_async_send to schedule the callback;
unregister the handle using uv_close;
delete the uv_async_t handle in the close callback;
For example:
uv_async_t *handle = (uv_async_t*)malloc(sizeof(uv_async_t));
uv_async_init(&uvLoop, handle, [](uv_async_t *handle) {
// My async callback here
uv_close((uv_handle_t*)handle, [](uv_handle_t* handle) {
free(handle);
});
});
uv_async_send(&asyncCb->uvAsync);
From what I gather, uv_close is called asynchronously in the uvLoop. Therefore, I am tempted to do the following to avoid queueing two callbacks in the event loop:
uv_async_t *handle = (uv_async_t*)malloc(sizeof(uv_async_t));
uv_async_init(&uvLoop, handle, nullptr);
uv_close((uv_handle_t*)handle, [](uv_handle_t* handle) {
// My async callback here
free(handle);
});
Is anyone else doing this, and is it considered safe?
A:
What is it you are tying to achieve? Do you need to use multiple threads? If so, that won't work since uv_close is not thread-safe.
If all you want is to schedule a callback in the future within the loop, check uv_idle_t. You could also use a queue and start / stop the handle as needed, instead of creating and destroying then.
|
Reading List
— Wed, 18th May 2011 —
Through Friday, 5/20, Theory is hosting its semiannual overstock sale featuring up to 70% off tons of jackets, suits, outerwear, shirts, knits, and accessories. Here‘s what a Theory overstock sale looks like. We’re talkin’ charcoal sportcoats down from $600 to $250; dress shirts down from $145 to $60; outerwear down from $600 to $200; v-neck sweaters down from $200 to $80. |
Harold J. Greene
Harold Joseph "Harry" Greene (February 11, 1959 – August 5, 2014) was a United States Army general who was killed during the War in Afghanistan. During his time with the United States Army, he held various commands associated with engineering and logistical support for United States and coalition troops. At the time of his death, he was deputy commanding general of Combined Security Transition Command – Afghanistan.
At the rank of major general, Greene was the highest-ranking American service member killed by hostile action since Lieutenant General Timothy Maude was killed in the September 11 attacks, and the highest-ranking service member killed on foreign soil during a war since Rear Admiral Rembrandt C. Robinson was killed during the Vietnam War in May 1972. To date, Greene is also the highest-ranking American officer to be killed in combat in the ongoing Global War on Terrorism.
Greene was killed at Camp Qargha, Afghanistan when a member of the Afghan National Army opened fire on a delegation of general officers and other dignitaries who were conducting an inspection tour. Fourteen NATO and Afghan service members were wounded in the attack. The attacker was killed at the scene when NATO service members returned fire; a subsequent investigation indicated that the Afghan soldier, a 22-year old Pashtun, was motivated by unhappiness over being denied leave to travel home during the Eid al-Fitr holiday.
Early life and education
Greene was born in Boston, Massachusetts, on February 11, 1959, to Eva May (Shediack) and Harold F. Greene. He grew up in Schenectady, New York graduated from Guilderland High School in 1977, and from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI) with a bachelor's degree in materials engineering in 1980. Greene's father lived in Guilderland, New York at the time of his death. His mother died in February 2013. Greene received a master's degree in industrial engineering from RPI, and a master's in materials engineering from the University of Southern California (USC). In addition, he received a master's degree in mechanical engineering from USC, and a Doctor of Philosophy (1992) in materials science, also from USC.
Greene's military education included the Engineer Officer Basic and Advanced Courses, and the United States Army Command and General Staff College. He completed the Defense Systems Management College's Advanced Program Management Course at the Defense Acquisition University, and also held a Master of Strategic Studies degree from the United States Army War College.
Career
Greene received his commission as an engineer officer in 1980, after completing Reserve Officer Training Corps at RPI.
As he worked his way through the ranks, Greene's assignments included platoon leader, company executive officer, and battalion staff officer, Fort Polk; resident engineer in Athens; project engineer in Istanbul; brigade engineer and company commander, V Corps, West Germany; staff officer and materials engineer, Army Aviation and Troop Command, St. Louis; product manager, Aerial Common Sensor, Fort Monmouth; and assistant director, Combat Developments Directorate, U.S. Army Maneuver Support Center, Fort Leonard Wood. At the time of the September 11 attacks in 2001, he was stationed at Fort Leonard Wood.
Greene was promoted to brigadier general in late 2009, and served as deputy commanding general of United States Army Research, Development and Engineering Command at Aberdeen Proving Ground. and the commanding general of Natick Soldier Systems Center. While at Natick, Greene urged the military to incorporate smartphones, video games and virtual worlds into military training. Later, he became Program Executive Officer for Intelligence, Electronic Warfare and Sensors in the Office of the Assistant Secretary of the Army (Acquisition, Logistics and Technology). Promoted to major general in 2012, he was Deputy for Acquisition and Systems Management in the same office. In January 2014 he was named deputy commander of Combined Security Transition Command – Afghanistan during Operation Enduring Freedom – Afghanistan.
Death
On August 5, 2014, Greene was killed after being shot by an Afghan soldier with an M16 rifle at Camp Qargha's Marshal Fahim National Defense University in Kabul, Afghanistan. He had been making a routine visit to a training facility at the time. Fourteen NATO and Afghan service members were wounded in the attack, including Brigadier General Michael Bartscher of the German Bundeswehr, two Afghan generals and another Afghan officer, eight Americans, and two British soldiers.
On the morning of August 7, 2014, Greene's body arrived at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware. Greene was buried in Arlington National Cemetery on August 14, 2014.
On the September 25, 2015, nine British servicemen acting as the Close Protection Team for the entire group were each awarded the US Army Commendation Medal for their quick actions in killing the assailant as well as heroic and meritorious service in saving the lives of many others.
On July 10, 2015, the Town of Natick, MA renamed Kansas Street in honor of the general. The street was dedicated General Greene Avenue.
Personal life
Greene was married to Sue Myers, a doctor and retired colonel who worked as a professor at the U.S. Army War College in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. At the time of his death, she lived in Falls Church, Virginia. Greene had two children, a daughter, Amelia Greene, and a son, Matthew Greene, who is a U.S. Army lieutenant.
Awards and decorations
See also
United States military casualties in the War in Afghanistan
Major General Nathanael Greene
Notes
References
External links
Category:1959 births
Category:2014 deaths
Category:American military personnel killed in the War in Afghanistan (2001–present)
Category:Deaths by firearm in Afghanistan
Category:Military personnel from New York (state)
Category:United States Army generals
Category:People from Boston
Category:People from Carlisle, Pennsylvania
Category:People from Schenectady County, New York
Category:People from Falls Church, Virginia
Category:Recipients of the Legion of Merit
Category:Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute alumni
Category:USC Viterbi School of Engineering alumni
Category:United States Army Command and General Staff College alumni
Category:United States Army War College alumni
Category:Burials at Arlington National Cemetery |
Q:
Filter out noise and variations from speed values
I have an application continuously receiving speed values (m/s). These values generates some noise and variations. This speed varies all the time, but there is some real changes that is worth noticing. For example when the speed value drops significantly there may be a turn.
Right now I'm using the average of the last X values, where X typically is a number between 5-15. I plot these values in excel to see the difference from the raw data. This works quite well, but the lower the history value is, the less smooth my curve gets. The higher history value, the smoother my curve gets, but then it also reacts late changes and neglects some of them.
I have also tried to to weight the last value in the average calculation. The result is a curve with still plenty of noise, but just a little less than the raw data.
What I'm looking for is a more sophisticated method to filter out the noise which can give me values close to the raw data, but also neglects small variations and noise.
What method could that be or is there anything I could do with my existing setup?
A:
For that purpose, Kalman filter is exactly what you need. Here is a free library that implements it: http://kalman.sourceforge.net/
On the other hand, Kalman is quite hard to understand and requires a bit of of research to use it correctly (and implementation is really hard). According to this answer you may find Complementary Filter easier to implement.
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![This 70-year-old asymptomatic man from La Rioja, Spain, underwent ^18^F-FDG PET/CT for initial staging of Hodgkin lymphoma. His diagnostic workup included contrast-enhanced CT, followed by ^18^F-FDG PET/CT, with both examinations reported together. He had no clinical evidence for COVID-19 infection including no known risk contacts. At the time of this writing, La Rioja region had one of Spain\'s highest COVID-19 incidence rates, with more than 1500 positive tests per 100,000 inhabitants, followed closely by Madrid with over 900 per 100,000 inhabitants.^[@bib1]^ ^18^F-FDG PET/CT was performed following the European Association of Nuclear Medicine procedure guidelines.^[@bib2]^ MIP images (**A**) showed bilateral cervical lymphadenopathy with abnormal ^18^F-FDG uptake, predominantly in the left side (SUV~max~, 9.0). The right lower lung (arrow, **A**) had ill-defined low-grade activity (SUV~max~, 2.4). On CT (**B**), there were bilateral tree-in-bud opacities and several peripheral and subpleural ground-glass opacities (GGO), predominantly in the right lung (arrows). These showed mild activity on axial PET (arrows, **C**). GGOs have been reported as a primary CT findings in COVID-19,^[@bib3],[@bib4]^ whereas pleural effusions and the tree-in-bud sign are atypical in COVID-19, possibly related to complications (pleural effusions) or superadded bacterial infection (tree-in-bud sign).^[@bib4],[@bib5]^ Although the patient was asymptomatic, with no fever or cough, his CT findings were suspicious for COVID-19. The same day as the PET/CT, a reverse transcriptase-polymerase chain reaction (RT-PCR) test had negative results for COVID-19 virus (also named "severe acute respiratory syndrome coronavirus 2" or SARS-CoV-2).^[@bib6]^ Same day chest radiography was negative, and blood tests showed normal lymphocytes (19.5%), [d]{.smallcaps}-dimer (\<200 μg/L), and LDH (115 U/L). Microbiological studies were negative for pneumococcus, legionella, and respiratory viruses. Given the high clinical suspicion for COVID-19, the patient was immediately isolated, and a repeat RT-PCR at 72 hours was positive for COVID-19. Repeat laboratory tests showed high IL-6 (4.4 pg/mL) and ferritin (1433 ng/mL), with normal [d]{.smallcaps}-dimer (\<200 μg/L), lymphocytes, and LDH (127). He was treated for COVID-19 with paracetamol and hydroxychloroquine sulphate (dolquine), plus omeprazole, enoxaparin, furosemide, azithromycin, and tranxilium. One week after diagnosis, the patient remained asymptomatic, with no respiratory impairment. Recent reports have focused on lung CT findings in COVID-19.^[@bib3],[@bib4],[@bib7]^ Four COVID-19 patients scanned with ^18^F-FDG PET/CT showed increased ^18^F-FDG activity in GGOs associated with COVID-19.^[@bib8]^ CT findings are not part of the diagnostic criteria for COVID-19, and CT should not be relied upon for the initial diagnosis. Currently, RT-PCR has a key role in determining patient hospitalization and isolation, although its sensitivity is imperfect, with potentially long processing times in many settings. In this scenario, CT findings have been used as a surrogate for early detection in suspicious cases. CT may also demonstrate disease evolution and treatment effects. In our patient with initial staging of Hodgkin lymphoma and asymptomatic lung infection, CT suggested the diagnosis of unsuspected COVID-19, preceding RT-PCR confirmation by several days. Low ^18^F-FDG activity in his GGOs may represent relatively low disease virulence.](rlu-publish-ahead-of-print-10.1097.rlu.0000000000003143-g001){#FU1}
Conflicts of interest and sources of funding: none declared.
|
There is one player for the Denver Broncos that nearly equals Peyton Manning in free agency and it is Drew Brees…
The Denver Broncos need a starting quarterback and, somehow, the New Orleans Saints have yet to lock up Drew Brees. It has been said there won’t be another quarterback like Peyton Manning to hit the market. However, there might be a slim chance it happens again.
If the Saints have not locked up Brees yet, there’s a possibility it won’t be done on March 12-14.
The Broncos more than likely could deviate from the plan of Kirk Cousins as priority number one. As evidenced in previous posts, a player like Cousins does not hit free agency at his age. The same could be said for Brees.
Despite the past two two seasons, the Denver Broncos could have some appeal to Brees. There’s a great defense and the Broncos are keeping their two key wide receivers for at least one more year. John Elway running the show is the biggest appeal. He’s the Broncos’ top executive, but he is their Hall of Fame quarterback too.
This is the same argument for why Cousins is considering Denver.
Yet another point to ponder for Brees is the opportunity to take a crack at the team that he started his career with: The Los Angeles Chargers.
Brees, if he is a free agent, becomes the best quarterback on the market. While it is quiet with New Orleans and Brees right now, there must be teams at least having internal dialogue if Brees becomes available. One team would have to be the Broncos. Let’s be honest.
Unfortunately, unlike Peyton Manning there remains a strong possibility Brees remains in New Orleans. But until the pen hits paper, Brees is the most interesting name to monitor at quarterback for the Denver Broncos, not named Teddy Bridgewater.
Make no mistake Kirk Cousins is target number one, but if Brees is out there still it could flip flop. |
Six weeks after roundly kicking breast cancer's ass, I began the writers room — with my best friend and co-showrunner Lennon Parham — for season three of USA's Playing House. My hair that I had lost during treatment (I had kept about half by freezing my scalp) was growing in and I looked alarmingly like Dog the Bounty Hunter, which may have given me an air of authority in the room. But other than that, you would have had no idea I had just been through the most terrifying and exhausting seven months of my life. Words could not describe how happy I was to be back.
We began the room as we always do, by sharing stories of what's happened to us the past year to our six writers, all of whom are dear friends. Tears were shed. A tremendous amount of Trader Joe’s chocolate chip dunkers were eaten. Lennon and I had not yet decided whether we were going to bring what we had been through into the show. That past year, when I wasn't busy Googling "What did Debra Winger die of in Terms of Endearment," I had kept a mental list of all the moments, both funny and sad, that we could potentially write about. There was no more high-stakes story we could tell to show the fierce way women show up for each other. I have always turned to TV for comfort (Gilmore Girls got me through a rough patch in my 20s — so much so that I cried when I stumbled upon the Stars Hollow set on the Warner Bros. lot), and I wanted to show women coming behind me that they could get through something as harrowing as cancer with the help of their friends and even emerge happier than they were before.
Lennon was less convinced we should do it: Yes, very funny and insane things had happened — and she felt each one like a sommelier would and then announced "'It's Number 2" like she was dropping the mic — the fear of losing your best friend and seeing her go through the most treacherous journey of her life was not something either of us felt like reliving. Not to mention we had spent so much time carefully building the charming and joyful world that Maggie and Emma lived in, complete with their Pinterest-worthy, cozy home and the lovable weirdos that surround them. If cancer came to Pinebrook, would it shatter the beautiful world that we knew our fans had come to love? But we were raised as comedians at the Upright Citizens Brigade, where the motto is "Don't think," which always has meant: If you're afraid, you must do it. So after careful deliberation, and with the blessing of our head writer, Anthony King, we took each other's hands and jumped off the cliff, Thelma & Louise-style. Man, why are women always biting it in every movie we love?!
It was truly surreal to see index cards on the board that had scenes like "Maggie chooses Emma's boobs" or "Surgery is a success!" We decided to have Emma get diagnosed middle of the way through the season, so that we could have a couple episodes to enjoy the girls being up to their old tricks before the big C shows up. In the episode when Emma gets diagnosed, it comes out of nowhere, much like it does in life. And just like in life, even when you're dealing with serious stuff, there are always funny moments. Strangely enough, I think that the episode where Emma finds out she has cancer is both one of our funniest and most heartbreaking. The one thing we decided not to show was Emma in chemo because, let's face it, chemo just plain sucks.
In order to capture the real way Lennon and I talk to each other, we've developed a unique way of writing scripts in which we improvise every scene, playing all the parts and recording ourselves. Those transcripts are used as the basis for the first draft. What that meant this season, however, is that we had to re-enact traumatic scenes from real life, and that was … not fun. One of Lennon's superpowers is that she is able to mimic people, down to the cadence of their voices. So when it came time to improvise the scenes with my doctors, Lennon was able to re-create almost word for word what they said and how they said it. I have never understood what a true flashback is until that moment. When Lennon transformed into my doctor, I found myself right back in that exam room, experiencing all the same emotions. The scenes you see in the show (my surgeons are played by the incredible Laurie Metcalf and Michaela Watkins) are pretty much word for word what happened in real life, just with better hair. In the middle of writing the surgery scene, we stopped and held hands and just sobbed. It was in that moment we knew that if, at the end of the day, nobody saw it, it would still be worth it for us to be able to process these emotions and move through them. Whenever things got too intense, we took a break to watch a clip of Channing Tatum doing the pony dance in Magic Mike. We watched that dance a lot.
At the ATX Television Festival, a woman shared that she was caring for her ailing mother and that her best friend's husband has stage IV cancer. When it all gets to be too much, they pile on her bed for a Playing House marathon. Of course, Lennon and I burst into tears and looked at each other. Jumping off that cliff was worth it, and look, we survived.
A version of this story first appeared in the June 21 issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe. |
Q:
Arrays disappear outside of JSON request
I am attempting to set up an array with the various properties of a YouTube video (you may be thinking this is somewhat superfluous, however I am planning on adding other sources in the future). I am able to add these values into the array within the JSON request, but once I get out of it, they just disappear. Any ideas?
var socialPosts = new Array();
$.getJSON('https://gdata.youtube.com/feeds/api/videos?author=google&max-results=5&v=2&alt=jsonc&orderby=published', function(data) {
for(var i=0; i<data.data.items.length; i++) { //for each YouTube video in the request
socialPosts[i]={date:Date.parse(data.data.items[i].uploaded), title:data.data.items[i].title,source:"YouTube", thumbnail:data.data.items[i].thumbnail.hqDefault, url:'http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=' + data.data.items[i].id}; //Add values of YouTube video to array
}
console.log(socialPosts[0].date); //This returns the correct data
});
console.log(socialPosts[0].date); //This returns with undefined
A:
You are trying to access results of Ajax asyn call which are not yet returned. You need to use result in call back function or pass the results to some function.
var socialPosts = new Array();
$.getJSON('https://gdata.youtube.com/feeds/api/videos?author=google&max-results=5&v=2&alt=jsonc&orderby=published', function(data) {
for(var i=0; i<data.data.items.length; i++) { //for each YouTube video in the request
socialPosts[i]={date:Date.parse(data.data.items[i].uploaded), title:data.data.items[i].title,source:"YouTube", thumbnail:data.data.items[i].thumbnail.hqDefault, url:'http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=' + data.data.items[i].id}; //Add values of YouTube video to array
}
console.log(socialPosts[0].date); //This returns the correct data
somefun(socialPosts[0].date);
});
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Security has been tightened in the area to prevent any untoward incident (Representational photo)
A part of Central Delhi has remained tense after Sunday's clash between Hindus and Muslims and vandalism at a temple. Three people, including a minor, have been arrested since last night over the violence in Old Delhi's Hauz Qazi, which started as an altercation over parking space. Over 1000 security personnel - police and Central Reserve Police Forces -- have been deployed in the area. Shops have been shut since Sunday and the locals have held a peace march.
Around 10.30 pm on Sunday, Sanjeev Gupta, a fruit seller, got into an argument with one Aas Mohammad, who parked outside his house. Aas Mohammad left, but returned with more people and attacked Sanjiv Gupta's house.
Mr Gupta informed the police and both he and Aas Mohammad were called for questioning.
Soon, a crowd gathered outside the Hauz Qazi police station, demanding Mohammad's release. This group then went and attacked a temple in the area where they vandalised some statues.
"We saw there were several people in the temple in the darkness. Some had pistols and others had weapons like knives.
We called up the police. But by the time they came, the miscreants had broken statues and set curtains on fire. They broke almost half the statues," said Rinku, an eyewitness.
On Monday, groups from both communities held protests, demanding action.
The locals claim the vandalism had been committed by outsiders.
"I have been living here for 50 years... Everybody lives with love, both Muslims and Hindus," said 50-year-old Swami Chandra Das.
The temple attack, he said, "doesn't look like an act of people from this area". An altercation between two individuals "would have ended between two individuals," he added.
The Delhi Police have registered three First Information Reports in this case -- two cross FIRs from both individuals over the parking quarrel. The third was over the vandalism at the temple.
Three people have been arrested in connection with the third case, and accused of rioting. The police, however, refused to divulge details about them.
Security has been tightened in the area to prevent any untoward incident. Mandeep Singh Randhawa, a senior police officer, tweeted: "After some altercation & scuffle over a parking issue in Hauz Qazi, tension arose b/w two groups of people from different communities. We have taken legal action &all efforts are being made to pacify feelings &bring about amity. People are requested to help in restoring normalcy."
Union Minister Dr Harsh Vardhan, who represents Chandni Chowk in parliament, visited the area this morning.
"It is very unfortunate and painful. The kind of things done to the temple is unforgivable," he said. "I have been told that the police is already in action. The culprits will be arrested soon and punished. I appeal to the people to maintain harmony," he added.
"The incident of vandalisation of Durga temple and violence by anarchic elements in Old Delhi is condemnable and utterly shameful," Congress'' chief spokesperson Randeep Surjewala tweeted in Hindi. "Delhi''s law and order is in the hands of Home Minister Amit Shah and is the responsibility of the BJP government," he said. |
Raspberry Pi Jukebox Based on Mopidy - dannyrosen
https://github.com/pimusicbox/pimusicbox
======
brudgers
Project Website: [http://www.pimusicbox.com/](http://www.pimusicbox.com/)
------
rwbg
been using it for a few month now on a raspi2. stable and pain free. the only
thing i ponder changing is the mopidy gui as the default one has some
usability issues.
|
"Democratic Socialist" Ocasio-Cortez Couldn't Name The 3 Branches Of Government
If you needed more evidence that “Democratic Socialist” Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez – who, at 29, is the youngest woman ever elected to Congress – isn’t ready for prime time, here it is.
During a conference call with prospective far-left candidates over the weekend, Ocasio-Cortez advised her comrades that the time for revolution is at hand: “[We need to] work our butts off to make sure that we take back all three chambers of Congress – Uh, rather, all three chambers of government: the presidency, the Senate, and the House” – in 2020. We can’t start working in 2020.”
For the record, the three branches of government are the legislative, the executive and the judiciary.
Socialist Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez: “If we work our butts off to make sure that we take back all three chambers of Congress — Uh, rather, all three chambers of government: the presidency, the Senate, and the House.”
Ocasio-Cortez then blasted Republicans for “drooling” over every minor slip up that she “corrects in real-time.”
Maybe instead of Republicans drooling over every minute of footage of me in slow-mo, waiting to chop up word slips that I correct in real-tomd, they actually step up enough to make the argument they want to make:
But this is only the latest in an embarrassing stream of slip ups and gaffes from Ocasio-Cortez, who has a degree in economics from Boston University, but has spent most of her time since graduating working in restaurants and non-profits. Since being thrust into the limelight after her upset primary win, Ocasio-Cortez has claimed that unemployment is low because everybody has two jobs (that’s not how it works), struggled to explain Israel’s occupation of Palestine, claimed that the “upper-middle class doesn’t exist anymore” (it’s actually growing) and wrongly accused Joe Crowley, the Democratic leader whom she defeated in an upset primary win, of plotting a third-party run against her (he wasn’t, and didn’t). And perhaps most memorably of all, Ocasio-Cortez told Chris Cuomo over the summer that Medicare for All would be much cheaper than the current system because the current health-care cost data don’t factor in the funeral costs for all those who die for lack of health care. |
Density Functional Theory Insights into the Role of the Methionine-Tyrosine-Tryptophan Adduct Radical in the KatG Catalase Reaction: O2 Release from the Oxyheme Intermediate.
Density functional theory was employed for a comprehensive study that provided electronic and structural insights into the KatG catalase reaction that involves oxyheme. The catalytic role of a unique amino acid cofactor Met-Tyr-Trp (MYW) in its radical form found in KatG was thereby elucidated. It was established that the MYW-radical is flexible such that a "hinge-like opening" rotation of the Trp-107 ring with respect to the Tyr-229 ring along their covalent C-C bond is an inherent feature of its catalytic properties. Also, an H-bond between the Tyr-229 and the mobile side chain of Arg-418 further enables the catalytic events. The opening process breaks an H-bond between the N-H of Trp-107 and the inner oxygen of the Fe-O2 (oxyheme) complex present in the closed conformation of the MYW-radical. This motion lowers the spin-crossing energy barrier between the ground state and the catalytically active high-spin states and enables electron transfer from the oxyheme group to the MYW-radical. The release of molecular oxygen is thereby catalyzed and leaves ferric-heme poised for another catalytic cycle. The energy barrier for the oxyheme state to complete the catalytic event, when assisted by the radical opening process, is thereby reduced and estimated to be 5.6 kcal/mol. |
1. Field
The present disclosure relates to display modules, and more particularly, to reducing yellowing of an image in a display module.
2. Description of the Related Art
Generally, a display panel such as a liquid crystal display panel is a passive display device that displays an image not by self-emitting light but by receiving external light.
In order for a liquid crystal display panel to be a self-emissive display, since a liquid crystal display module itself is not self-emissive, a back light unit is installed on a rear surface of the liquid crystal display panel to emit light. Accordingly, an image may be observed even in a dark place. The back light unit is used for a surface light source element, such as a light element for a light up sign, in addition to a passive display module, such as a liquid crystal display panel.
The backlight unit is classified as a direct light type or as an edge light type according to a position of a light source element. The direct light type backlight unit has a structure in which a plurality of light source elements disposed directly under a panel directly emit light on the panel. The edge light type backlight unit has a structure in which a plurality of light source elements disposed at a side of a light guide panel emit light and the emitted light is transmitted to a display panel through the light guide panel.
A light source element may be any of a cold cathode fluorescent lamp (CCFL), an external electrode fluorescent lamp (EEFL), a light emitting diode (LED), etc. The CCFL has a structure in which electrodes of both ends of a fluorescent lamp are formed inside a tube. The EEFL has a structure in which electrodes of both ends of a fluorescent lamp are formed outside of a tube. The LED has advantages, such as a compact size, low power consumption, and high reliability, and thus has been widely used as a light source element of a display module.
Recent passive display modules become thinner and larger, and a light guide panel manufactured to meet these trends has different characteristics. For example, in a light guide, yellowing of an image color gets worse at an area away from a portion on which light is incident. In particular, if a light guide panel is manufactured using an injection molding method, discoloration of a material of the light guide panel due to heat generated when manufacturing the light guide panel cannot be prevented, and if this discoloration is too intense, it is perceivable by the naked eye and thus product quality is deteriorated. |
1. Introduction {#sec1-ijerph-16-01299}
===============
Research and discussion on stigma grew substantially after Goffman \[[@B1-ijerph-16-01299]\] (p. 3) defined stigma as an "attribute that is deeply discrediting." Since then, different types of stigma have been defined according to different systems. For example, Livingston and Boyd \[[@B2-ijerph-16-01299]\] used three hierarchical levels, including the system or macro level (structural stigma), the group or meso level (public stigma), and the individual or micro level (self-stigma or internalized stigma) to classify stigma. Brohan et al. \[[@B3-ijerph-16-01299]\] and Corrigan and Rao \[[@B4-ijerph-16-01299]\] used awareness, experience, and acceptance to define different types of stigma as perceived stigma, experienced stigma, and self-stigma. Some researchers have also discussed the stigma of the friends and relatives of the stigmatized population, such as courtesy stigma \[[@B1-ijerph-16-01299]\], associative stigma \[[@B5-ijerph-16-01299]\], and affiliate stigma \[[@B6-ijerph-16-01299],[@B7-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Moreover, Link and Phelan proposed the underlying mechanism of the stigma using the co-occurrence components: labeling, stereotyping, separation, status loss, and discrimination \[[@B8-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Furthermore, a trend toward in-depth discussion of self-stigma is developing because more and more studies have confirmed its importance \[[@B9-ijerph-16-01299],[@B10-ijerph-16-01299],[@B11-ijerph-16-01299],[@B12-ijerph-16-01299],[@B13-ijerph-16-01299]\].
Self-stigma, the self-devaluation and acceptance of public stigma, serves as a barrier to the pursuit of valued life goals \[[@B14-ijerph-16-01299]\]. However, little attention has been paid to the self-stigma related to substance use disorders \[[@B15-ijerph-16-01299],[@B16-ijerph-16-01299]\] even though many studies have investigated the issue for other psychiatric disorders \[[@B9-ijerph-16-01299],[@B11-ijerph-16-01299],[@B17-ijerph-16-01299],[@B18-ijerph-16-01299]\]. To the best of our knowledge, current research on self-stigma among substance users focuses on instrument development \[[@B16-ijerph-16-01299]\] and self-stigma reduction intervention \[[@B15-ijerph-16-01299],[@B19-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Although the two aforementioned topics are crucial for mental health professionals, there is a need to investigate the possible mechanism by which self-stigma correlates with overall health outcomes, such as quality of life (QoL), for substance users. Knowing the mechanism will provide healthcare providers with insightful knowledge to treat the substance users immediately and appropriately \[[@B20-ijerph-16-01299]\]. For example, if we find a significant mediator for the effects of self-stigma on QoL for substance users, the treatment can be designed on the mediator in addition to reducing self-stigma. With the literature showing that substance users have problems in psychological distress and social dysfunction \[[@B21-ijerph-16-01299],[@B22-ijerph-16-01299]\], two dominant factors in QoL, we proposed that psychological distress and social functioning are two important mediators for the effects of self-stigma on QoL. Additionally, important confounders, including age, gender, educational level, and Hepatitis C virus (one of the most common infectious diseases for substance users), should be considered in the proposed mechanism.
QoL is an important health index in mental health service delivery due to the paradigm shift of recovery; that is, the focus for people with mental illness changes from reliving symptoms to improving QoL \[[@B23-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Therefore, QoL among people with mental illness has been widely studied. Indeed, the negative effects of self-stigma on QoL have been found in people with severe mental illness \[[@B24-ijerph-16-01299],[@B25-ijerph-16-01299]\], depressive disorders \[[@B18-ijerph-16-01299]\], and substance use \[[@B22-ijerph-16-01299]\]. However, we need to further explore the underlying factors between self-stigma and QoL. That is, we need to further understand to what extent self-stigma impacts substance users and the possible routes between self-stigma and QoL. In addition, we proposed that psychological distress and social functioning could be two possible mediating factors between self-stigma and QoL. The effects of psychological symptoms on the QoL have been found \[[@B26-ijerph-16-01299],[@B27-ijerph-16-01299],[@B28-ijerph-16-01299],[@B29-ijerph-16-01299]\]; that is, psychological distress of an individual is very likely to influence his/her QoL. Given that self-stigma is a potential dominator of psychological distress \[[@B17-ijerph-16-01299],[@B30-ijerph-16-01299]\], it is reasonable to hypothesize that a mediated effect exists between self-stigma and QoL for individuals, including substance users.
As for social functioning, people with mental illness who have a higher level of self-stigma tend to have poorer social functioning \[[@B31-ijerph-16-01299]\]. A relationship between self-stigma and social functioning was also found in 34 people with first-episode psychosis although the relationship was diminished after controlling for symptom severity \[[@B32-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Moreover, an association between impaired social functioning and poor QoL was found in a Dutch population of psychiatric outpatients \[[@B33-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Therefore, social functioning could be another mediator between self-stigma and QoL in addition to psychological distress. Also, psychological distress is associated with social functioning \[[@B34-ijerph-16-01299]\], and we thus hypothesized that psychological distress could affect the social functioning of substance users. Therefore, social functioning could serve as another mediating factor between self-stigma and psychological distress.
Although the relationships between self-stigma, psychological distress, social functioning, and QoL have been well-documented \[[@B30-ijerph-16-01299],[@B33-ijerph-16-01299],[@B34-ijerph-16-01299],[@B35-ijerph-16-01299],[@B36-ijerph-16-01299]\], to the best of our knowledge, no studies have discussed in-depth any mediating models using these four factors. How self-stigma associates with health should be discussed, especially among heroin users in Taiwan. According to the law regarding illicit drug use, heroin users were viewed as criminals \[[@B37-ijerph-16-01299]\]. It was not until 1998 that the Drug Control Act revised the legal identification of them as both criminals and patients \[[@B38-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Nevertheless, a systematic review reveals that healthcare providers may have negative opinions toward heroin users because heroin users may overuse the resources, are not vested in their own health, and have poor adherence to recommended care \[[@B15-ijerph-16-01299]\]. That is, even though some heroin users have satisfactory adherence, healthcare providers still perceive them as not responsible to their treatment. Similarly, Stuart \[[@B39-ijerph-16-01299]\] recently summarized that public and healthcare providers perceive "medical therapy," "medication substitution therapy," and "prescribed opioid" as a character weakness. With the stigmatization, heroin users are likely to refuse to engage in services. Accordingly, the health, including psychological health and social relationships, of heroin users is jeopardized. Although Taiwan government introduced the methadone maintenance treatment (MMT) programs in 2005 to solve the urge for inhibition for the spread of HIV infection among injective heroin users \[[@B40-ijerph-16-01299]\], only infected patients were prioritized for treatment. Additionally, those receiving MMT may further develop self-stigma and subsequently have impaired health.
Because most of the studies discussing the mechanisms regarding self-stigma have used samples with severe mental illness, especially schizophrenia, there is a gap in terms of substance users in the literature. Therefore, this study was aimed toward an investigation of the relationships among the aforementioned factors (self-stigma, psychological distress, social functioning, and QoL) in treated opioid-dependent individuals. Specifically, we hypothesized that self-stigma, psychological distress, and social functioning are associated with QoL; psychological distress and social functioning are mediators between self-stigma and QoL; social functioning is a mediator between self-stigma and psychological distress.
2. Materials and Methods {#sec2-ijerph-16-01299}
========================
This study was approved by the Institutional Review Boards of the Jianan Psychiatric Center (JPC14-022) and the Chi Mei Medical Center, Tainan, Taiwan (10403-004).
2.1. Participants {#sec2dot1-ijerph-16-01299}
-----------------
Heroin users registered into MMT programs were recruited from three hospitals that had the largest population with heroin addiction in central and southern Taiwan between April 2015 and February 2016. The three hospitals are the largest long-term opioid agonist treatment sites in central and southern Taiwan. Several psychiatrists determined the eligibility of the participants based on the following inclusion criteria: (1) aged 20 years or older; (2) meeting the DSM-IV (Fourth edition of Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) criteria for opioid dependence; (3) no other MMT contraindication, such as severe liver disease or acute psychosis; and (4) having sufficient mental capacity to provide informed consent and complete the assessment.
After receiving the signed written informed consents of the eligible participants, data were collected using self-administered questionnaires and interviews with a research assistant (or case manager). The research assistants and/or case manager from each hospital received a half-day training course to ensure the inter-rater reliability of the Opiate Treatment Index (OTI). The participants analyzed had characteristics similar to those of Taiwanese nationally representative data \[[@B41-ijerph-16-01299]\].
2.2. Measures {#sec2dot2-ijerph-16-01299}
-------------
The instruments used in this study included a demographic questionnaire and clinical records, the Self-Stigma Scale-Short (SSS-S), the OTI, and the World Health Organization Quality of Life-Brief version (WHOQOL-BREF). The demographic questionnaire and clinical records were used to collect information regarding age, marital and living status, educational attainment, employment and income status, HIV and hepatitis status, use of medications, and substance use history as well as the previous episodes and duration of MMT.
### 2.2.1. Self-Stigma Scale-Short {#sec2dot2dot1-ijerph-16-01299}
The SSS-S consists of 9 self-stigma-related items in three dimensions, namely, cognition, affect, and behavior, with 3 items in each \[[@B13-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Each self-rated item is rated on a 4-point Likert scale ranging from 1 (strongly disagree) to 4 (strongly agree). Because the SSS-S is designed for different minority groups, the term for the minority group can be replaced with the group being tested, and it has been applied fairly for "mental illness" groups in Taiwan with satisfactory Cronbach's alpha (0.95) \[[@B42-ijerph-16-01299]\]. In this study, we used the term "heroin users" instead of "methadone patients" to specify our study population in the SSS-S and make it more understandable to the participants. Moreover, we used the average score of the nine items to present the level of self-stigma. The Cronbach's alpha of the SSS-S in the current study is 0.89.
### 2.2.2. Opiate Treatment Index for Psychological Distress and Social Functioning {#sec2dot2dot2-ijerph-16-01299}
The Opiate Treatment Index (OTI) consists of 6 domains: drug use, HIV risk-taking behavior, social functioning, health status, and criminality and psychological adjustment (distress) over the past one month preceding the assessment interview, with the exception of the social functioning scale covering the preceding 6 months \[[@B43-ijerph-16-01299]\]. A higher score in a domain indicated more severe dysfunction for that particular domain. In this study, we only adopted two domains that were relevant to our study aims: social functioning and psychological adjustment. The social functioning domain comprised 12 questions with a 5-point Likert scale on aspects of social integration, such as employment, residential stability, and interpersonal conflicts. Therefore, the score range of the social functioning domain was between 0 and 48, where 0 indicates the best and 48 indicating the worst functioning.
In the original OTI English version, the items for the psychological adjustment domain were adopted from the General Health Questionnaire-28 (GHQ-28) \[[@B44-ijerph-16-01299]\]. In the same domain of the OTI Chinese version, there are 12 items with a 4-point Likert scale (scored 0--3) from the Chinese Health Questionnaire (CHQ-12) \[[@B45-ijerph-16-01299]\], which was revised from the GHQ-28. The CHQ-12 (range: 0--36) was adopted because of its stronger psychometric properties compared with the GHQ-28 in a Taiwanese context \[[@B45-ijerph-16-01299],[@B46-ijerph-16-01299]\]. A higher score in the psychological adjustment domain indicates more psychological distress.
The OTI has been found to be a valid and reliable instrument for outcome evaluation of addiction treatment in Taiwan \[[@B47-ijerph-16-01299]\]. The values of the inter-rater reliability and content validity of the Chinese version of OTI were good: the kappa values and Cronbach's alpha were 0.706 and 0.663 for the domain of social functioning and 0.680 and 0.871 for psychological adjustment, respectively \[[@B46-ijerph-16-01299]\]. The Cronbach's alpha values were 0.64 for the social functioning and 0.88 for the psychological adjustment in the current study.
### 2.2.3. The World Health Organization Quality of Life-Brief Version {#sec2dot2dot3-ijerph-16-01299}
The WHOQOL-BREF Taiwan version measures QoL using 26 items from the original WHOQOL-BREF and 2 Taiwanese national items \[[@B48-ijerph-16-01299]\]. The WHOQOL-BREF Taiwan version consists of four domains, namely, physical (7 items), psychological (6 items), social relationships (4 items), and environment (9 items), with 2 generic items measuring overall QoL and health. The item scores were rated on a five-point scale, and each domain score ranged from 4 to 20 points, with a higher score indicating a better QoL. In addition, satisfactory psychometric properties have been established for the WHOQOL-BREF Taiwan version: Cronbach's alpha values were between 0.70 and 0.91 \[[@B48-ijerph-16-01299],[@B49-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Moreover, the Cronbach's alpha of the WHOQOL-BREF Taiwan version in the current study is 0.93.
2.3. Statistical Analysis {#sec2dot3-ijerph-16-01299}
-------------------------
All the statistical analyses were performed using SPSS 17.0 (SPSS Inc., Chicago, IL, USA), except for the linear structural equation modeling (SEM) using AMOS 7.0 (SPSS Inc., Chicago, IL, USA).
Demographics and clinical characteristics were analyzed using descriptive statistics: continuous variables with mean and SD, and categorical variables with frequency and percentage. In addition, we examined how many participants had a high level of self-stigma using a cutoff of 2.5 \[[@B9-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Specifically, the score of 2 indicates "agree on the description of self-stigma," and thus, a score higher than 2 (where we used 2.5) suggests a high level of self-stigma.
The proposed mechanisms were analyzed using linear SEM \[[@B50-ijerph-16-01299]\], and a total of 6 linear models were examined. Model a ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}a) investigated the total effect of self-stigma on QoL. Models b ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}b) and c ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}c) included the mediated effects of self-stigma on QoL via psychological distress and social functioning, respectively. Models d ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}d), e ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}e), and f ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}f) simultaneously took the mediated effects of self-stigma on QoL via psychological distress and social functioning, while Models e and f additionally considered the association between psychological distress and social functioning in different directions (Model e is psychological distress on social functioning; Model f is social functioning on psychological distress). Therefore, the effects of self-stigma on QoL can be seen as being divided into five parts: (1) a direct effect from self-stigma; (2) an indirect effect through psychological distress; (3) an indirect effect through social functioning; (4) an indirect effect through psychological distress, followed by social functioning; and (5) an indirect effect through social functioning, followed by psychological distress. Moreover, the effect of self-stigma on social functioning can be examined using: (1) a direct effect from self-stigma; and (2) an indirect effect through psychological distress. Furthermore, the effect of self-stigma on psychological distress can be examined using: (1) a direct effect from self-stigma; and (2) an indirect effect through social functioning. Comparing the five parts with our models, Models e and f can be decomposed into four parts (parts 1 to 4 for Model e; parts 1 to 3 and 5 for Model f); Model d can be decomposed into three parts (i.e., parts 1--3); Models b and c can be decomposed into two parts (parts 1 and 2 for Model b; parts 1 and 3 for Model c). In addition, Model a only contained the first part.
In all of the linear models, four important confounders (age, gender, educational year, and the presence of Hepatitis C virus) on QoL were included. We did not use any interaction or quadratic terms in the linear SEM models because we did not assume any moderation effects. Additionally, all the linear models treated QoL as a latent concept that consisted of four domains (physical, psychological, social, and environment) first. Afterward, the same five models were examined again for each QoL domain. That is, the independent variables, mediators, and confounders were the same with the changes in dependent variables. The reason to treat the QoL as a latent concept in the beginning is that we want to assess the overall health condition of our studied sample before investigating their specific QoL.
The mediated effects were investigated using bootstrap methods \[[@B51-ijerph-16-01299]\]: a total of 1000 bootstrap samples were performed using a 95% confidence interval, which did not contain zero, to determine an existing indirect effect \[[@B52-ijerph-16-01299]\]. In addition, we used an χ^2^ test, normed χ^2^ (i.e., χ^2^ divided by degree of freedom), comparative fit index (CFI), root mean square error of approximation (RMSEA), and standardized root mean square residual (SRMR) to decide whether the data fit well with each proposed model. A nonsignificant χ^2^ test; normed χ^2^ \< 3; CFI \> 0.9; RMSEA and SRMR \< 0.08 indicated a satisfactory fit \[[@B53-ijerph-16-01299],[@B54-ijerph-16-01299]\].
3. Results {#sec3-ijerph-16-01299}
==========
[Table 1](#ijerph-16-01299-t001){ref-type="table"} describes the demographics, clinical characteristics, and the scores in the self-stigma, QoL, psychological distress, and social functioning. In brief, the mean (±SD) age of the 250 participants was 45.12 ± 7.49 years, and nearly 90% were male (*n* = 224).
All the linear models had significant χ^2^ tests (*p* \< 0.001 for all); however, other fit indices including the normed χ^2^ value, CFI, RMSEA, and SRMR were satisfactory or nearly satisfactory ([Table 2](#ijerph-16-01299-t002){ref-type="table"}). Moreover, Model f cannot be identified in our SEM analyses. Therefore, we could not describe any results for Model f. Nevertheless, Model a demonstrated that self-stigma negatively impacted the QoL of patients in MMT. Model b additionally indicated that the impacts of self-stigma on QoL were mediated by psychological distress with the indirect effects of psychological distress confirmed by 1000 bootstraps ([Table 3](#ijerph-16-01299-t003){ref-type="table"}). Model c indicated that social functioning also had negative impacts on the QoL of patients in MMT; however, there were no mediated effects demonstrated for self-stigma on QoL. Also, self-stigma was not shown to have any direct impact on social functioning ([Table 3](#ijerph-16-01299-t003){ref-type="table"}). Models d and e also demonstrated that the effects of self-stigma on QoL were mediated by psychological distress, as self-stigma directly influenced psychological distress but not social functioning ([Table 3](#ijerph-16-01299-t003){ref-type="table"}).
We further compared Models d to e, and found that Model e outperformed Model d in all fit indices ([Table 2](#ijerph-16-01299-t002){ref-type="table"}). Moreover, the χ^2^ difference test showed that Model e was significantly improved (Δχ^2^ = 27.867, Δ*df* = 1, *p* \< 0.001). We further calculated the proportions of the mediated effects, and the results showed that psychological distress was the primary mediator that accounted for about 70 to 75% of the mediated effects between self-stigma and QoL ([Table 3](#ijerph-16-01299-t003){ref-type="table"}). Moreover, results of the mediation models for each QoL domain were demonstrated in the Appendix tables (Please see [Appendix A](#app1-ijerph-16-01299){ref-type="app"} [Table A1](#ijerph-16-01299-t0A1){ref-type="table"} for the summary of the fit indices; [Appendix A](#app1-ijerph-16-01299){ref-type="app"} [Table A2](#ijerph-16-01299-t0A2){ref-type="table"} for the findings in physical QoL; [Appendix A](#app1-ijerph-16-01299){ref-type="app"} [Table A3](#ijerph-16-01299-t0A3){ref-type="table"} for the findings in psychological QoL; [Appendix A](#app1-ijerph-16-01299){ref-type="app"} [Table A4](#ijerph-16-01299-t0A4){ref-type="table"} for the findings in social QoL; and [Appendix A](#app1-ijerph-16-01299){ref-type="app"} [Table A5](#ijerph-16-01299-t0A5){ref-type="table"} for the findings in environment QoL).
4. Discussion {#sec4-ijerph-16-01299}
=============
The results of this study extend knowledge of the effects of self-stigma from people with severe mental illness to its effects on substance users. Corresponding to the negative effects of self-stigma on QoL in people with severe mental illness \[[@B24-ijerph-16-01299],[@B25-ijerph-16-01299]\], similar results were found in our sample of patients in MMT. Our results further demonstrated that the effects of self-stigma were diminished when using psychological distress as a mediator; while effects existed when using social functioning as a mediator. Our findings, which corroborate with studies on healthy workers \[[@B28-ijerph-16-01299]\] and psychiatric outpatients \[[@B33-ijerph-16-01299]\], showed that the two mediators, psychological distress and social functioning, impact the QoL of patients in MMT. The effects of self-stigma on psychological distress in this study also agree with the results of other studies on people with mental illness \[[@B17-ijerph-16-01299],[@B30-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Unlike the reported effects of self-stigma on social functioning \[[@B31-ijerph-16-01299]\], however, our findings showed that self-stigma did not have direct impacts on social functioning but rather had indirect effects through the mediator of psychological distress. The above results are somewhat in agreement with the findings of Mersh et al. \[[@B32-ijerph-16-01299]\], suggesting that the effects of self-stigma on social functioning diminished after controlling for symptom severity, a factor highly correlated with psychological distress \[[@B55-ijerph-16-01299]\]. In other words, psychological distress can moderate or mediate the effects of self-stigma on social functioning. That is, when people with high self-stigma simultaneously suffer from psychological distress, they might have worsened social functioning. In contrast, if people with high self-stigma have intact mental health, they might not have impaired social functioning.
According to the fit indices of the five proposed models, Models a ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}a) and c ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}c) exhibited the best fit. However, we felt that the two linear models did not fully capture approaches examining the effects of self-stigma on QoL, as was the case in studies \[[@B17-ijerph-16-01299],[@B30-ijerph-16-01299]\] revealing the critical role of psychological distress in people with mental illness. Although being inferior to Models a and c, the fit indices of Model e ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}e) were considered satisfactory. Given Model e included more information than did Models a and c, and significantly outperformed Model d, we believe that Model e reflected the real mechanism more than Models a and c did.
Through Model e, mental health professionals can become aware of the importance of reducing self-stigma for substance users because of the higher levels of self-stigma associated with high psychological distress, decreased social functioning, and impaired QoL. The aforementioned results signify the value of intervention programs for self-stigma reduction \[[@B14-ijerph-16-01299],[@B19-ijerph-16-01299]\]. That is, reducing self-stigma may help patients in MMT improve their mental health and social functioning, and in turn, their QoL, although Model e did not support the direct effects of self-stigma on QoL. Nevertheless, clinicians should not ignore indirect effects. In addition to self-stigma, Model e revealed that dealing with psychological distress and enhancing social functioning are other possible interventions by which clinicians can improve the QoL of patients in MMT. As a result, when a healthcare provider wants to improve the QoL of a patient in MMT, programs on self-stigma reduction, social functioning enhancement, and psychological health improvement are all potential approaches. Future studies may want to explore effective treatment programs on self-stigma, social functioning, and psychological health among patients in MMT given the importance of self-stigma, social health, and psychosocial health \[[@B56-ijerph-16-01299],[@B57-ijerph-16-01299],[@B58-ijerph-16-01299]\].
Our results showed that the self-stigma of most heroin users in MMT was high and the findings agree with the research in studying self-stigma for substance users \[[@B21-ijerph-16-01299],[@B59-ijerph-16-01299],[@B60-ijerph-16-01299]\]. About four fifths of our participants had SSS-S scores above 2.5, a cutoff that suggests high levels of self-stigma \[[@B9-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Can and Tanrıverdi \[[@B21-ijerph-16-01299]\] used the Internalized Stigma of Mental Illness scale \[[@B61-ijerph-16-01299]\] and found that nearly 85% of the people with substance abuse disorder scored above 2.5. Keyes et al. \[[@B60-ijerph-16-01299]\] and Heeren et al. \[[@B59-ijerph-16-01299]\] also found that people with alcohol use disorder have high levels of self-stigma. Additionally, the percentage of high level of self-stigma was much higher than that found in people with other mental disorders as reported by Chang et al. \[[@B62-ijerph-16-01299]\], where 21--40% of people with schizophrenia, 30--44% of those with bipolar disorder, 14--32% of those with depressive disorder, and 2--11% of those with anxiety disorder exhibited high levels of self-stigma.
Our research adds to the expanding stigma literature demonstrating the negative effects of self-stigma on QoL through psychological distress among heroin users. Future studies may use our findings as the breaking point to further study the roles of self-efficacy and self-esteem in the association between self-stigma and health. Other factors related to mental illness are also needed to be discussed, such as social support, psychoeducation (for patients, public, family, and healthcare providers), coping strategies, and comorbid conditions (e.g., depression and anxiety) \[[@B23-ijerph-16-01299]\]. Additionally, routine psychological assessment combined with psychiatric service would be helpful to reduce the severe stigma problems among heroin users seeking MMT because most MMT programs in Taiwan have been established in the psychiatric department of hospitals. Furthermore, our findings may support policy on mental health to focus on the reduction of self-stigma and improvement of QoL among heroin users. Therefore, future studies are needed to explore whether the aforementioned factors (i.e., social support, psychoeducation, coping strategies, and comorbid condition) are useful in reducing self-stigma and improving QoL.
There are some limitations in the study. First, the instrument we used (i.e., SSS-S) was not specifically for heroin users (or those in MMT). Instead, the SSS-S is an instrument widely used for people with different conditions \[[@B13-ijerph-16-01299]\], based on its replaceable terms for describing stigmatized populations. Therefore, the self-stigma we measured may not be as sensitive as instruments designed specifically for heroin users (or those in MMT) \[[@B16-ijerph-16-01299]\]. However, using the SSS-S has the advantage of comparing populations and the feasibility of comparing different populations. Second, following the first limitation, the psychometric properties of the SSS-S have never been examined using a sample with opioid use disorders. Therefore, the self-stigma as measured in this study may not be reliable or valid. However, we consider that this is not a serious problem because we examined the internal consistency of the SSS-S in this study, and the reliability results were satisfactory. Similarly, the WHOQOL-BREF used in this study is not a heroin-specific instrument on QoL. Therefore, the QoL measures in this study might not be sensitive to reflect the symptoms of heroin dependency. Third, the representativeness of our sample is restricted because we only recruited heroin users in MMT from central and southern Taiwan with a convenience sampling method. Therefore, it should be cautioned that our results may have limited generalizability. Fourth, we did not include people with other types of mental illness; therefore, we were unable to provide the direct evidence that people receiving MMT have significantly higher self-stigma than people with other mental diseases. Lastly and the most importantly, given that the data were collected in a cross-sectional design, our findings cannot be generalized to any causal relationship. Therefore, future studies using longitudinal design are needed to corroborate our findings. Specifically, in our cross-sectional design, Model f ([Figure 1](#ijerph-16-01299-f001){ref-type="fig"}f) cannot be identified (i.e., our data could not fit with this specific conceptual model); however, we cannot ensure whether the model is also unidentified using a longitudinal design.
5. Conclusions {#sec5-ijerph-16-01299}
==============
In conclusion, this study demonstrated a linear model describing the effects of self-stigma on QoL for patients in MMT. Psychological distress was an important mediator between self-stigma and QoL. Although social functioning was not a mediator, it had direct impacts on QoL. Given that QoL is an important health outcome for heroin users (and those in MMT) \[[@B63-ijerph-16-01299]\] and based on our findings, clinicians may want to reduce self-stigma, decrease psychological distress, and improve the social functioning of this population.
Conceptualization, C.-M.C. and C.-Y.L.; methodology, C.-M.C., C.-C.C., and J.-D.W.; formal analysis, C.-Y.L., K.-C.C., and S.-Y.T.; investigation, C.-M.C. and K.-C.C.; resources, C.-M.C., C.-C.C., J.-D.W., K.-C.C., and S.-Y.T.; data curation, C.-M.C. and K.-C.C.; writing---original draft preparation, C.-Y.L.; writing---review and editing, C.-M.C., C.-C.C., J.-D.W., and K.-C.C.; project administration, C.-M.C. and K.-C.C.; funding acquisition, C.-M.C. and K.-C.C.
This research was supported by grants from the Ministry of Health and Welfare, Executive Yuen, Taiwan \[grant numbers MOHW-10646, MOHW-10444 and MOHW-10445\].
The authors declare no conflict of interest.
ijerph-16-01299-t0A1_Table A1
######
Model fit for the conceptual models in each domain of quality of life domains (*N* = 250).
Model \# χ^2^ (*df*) *p*-Value χ^2^/*df* CFI RMSEA SRMR
------------------- --------------- ----------- ----------- ------- ------- -------
**Physical**
Model a 135.402 (68) \<0.001 1.991 0.946 0.063 0.061
Model b 562.358 (284) \<0.001 1.980 0.897 0.063 0.066
Model c 141.007 (80) \<0.001 1.763 0.952 0.055 0.059
Model d 582.013 (307) \<0.001 1.896 0.899 0.060 0.065
Model e 549.917 (306) \<0.001 1.797 0.911 0.057 0.065
**Psychological**
Model a 135.413 (68) \<0.001 1.991 0.946 0.063 0.062
Model b 553.593 (284) \<0.001 1.949 0.899 0.062 0.067
Model c 142.267 (80) \<0.001 1.778 0.951 0.056 0.060
Model d 577.475 (307) \<0.001 1.881 0.900 0.059 0.066
Model e 552.040 (306) \<0.001 1.804 0.909 0.057 0.065
**Social**
Model a 143.848 (68) \<0.001 2.115 0.939 0.067 0.062
Model b 551.124 (284) \<0.001 1.941 0.898 0.061 0.066
Model c 150.978 (80) \<0.001 1.887 0.944 0.060 0.060
Model d 574.387 (307) \<0.001 1.871 0.899 0.059 0.065
Model e 541.471 (306) \<0.001 1.770 0.911 0.056 0.064
**Environment**
Model a 144.120 (68) \<0.001 2.119 0.939 0.067 0.064
Model b 561.155 (284) \<0.001 1.976 0.895 0.063 0.067
Model c 149.879 (80) \<0.001 1.873 0.945 0.059 0.061
Model d 582.081 (307) \<0.001 1.896 0.897 0.060 0.066
Model e 551.384 (306) \<0.001 1.802 0.908 0.057 0.065
ijerph-16-01299-t0A2_Table A2
######
Direct and indirect effects of self-stigma on physical domain of quality of life (QoL) using 1000 bootstraps (*N* = 250).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Model \# Coefficient (SE)/\ \% of Indirect Effects
*p*-Value (Lower Limit, Upper Limit)
--------------------- -------------------------------------- ------------------------ ---------------------- -------------------- -------
**Direct effect**
Model a −2.013 (0.559)/\ \-- \-- \-- \--
0.002 (−3.21, −1.04)
Model b −0.349 (0.383)/\ −3.427 (0.351)/\ \-- \-- \--
0.38 (−1.07, 0.44) 0.002 (−4.18, −2.83)
Model c −1.909 (0.490)/\ \-- −0.163 (0.024)/\ \-- \--
0.002 (−3.00, −1.09) 0.002 (−0.21, −0.12)
Model d −0.445 (0.364)/\ −3.163 (0.352)/\ −0.054 (0.022)/\ \-- \--
0.26 (−1.08, 0.34) 0.001 (−3.92, −2.58) 0.01 (−0.10, −0.008)
Model e −0.468 (0.360)/\ −3.350 (0.353)/\ −0.056 (0.023)/\ \-- \--
0.25 (−1.08, 0.33) 0.001 (−4.14, −2.75) 0.01 (−0.10, −0.01)
**Indirect effect**
Model a \-- −1.678 (0.459)/\ \-- \-- 82.8%
0.001 (−2.89, −0.98)
Model b \-- \-- −0.133 (0.169)/\ \-- 6.5%
0.41 (−0.50, 0.20)
Model c \-- −1.550 (0.247)/\ −0.044 (0.532)/\ \-- 78.2%
\<0.001 (−2.03, −1.07) 0.93 (−1.09, 1.00)
Model d \-- −1.524 (0.244)/\ −0.079 (0.524)/\ −0.120 (0.307)/\ 77.0%
\<0.001 (−2.00, −1.05) 0.88 (−1.11, 0.95) 0.70 (−0.72, 0.48)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ijerph-16-01299-t0A3_Table A3
######
Direct and indirect effects of self-stigma on psychological domain of quality of life (QoL) using 1000 bootstraps (*N* = 250).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Model \# Coefficient (SE)/\ \% of Indirect Effects
*p*-Value (Lower Limit, Upper Limit)
--------------------- -------------------------------------- ------------------------ ---------------------- -------------------- -------
**Direct effect**
Model a −2.326 (0.683)/\ \-- \-- \-- \--
0.003 (−3.69, −1.01)
Model b −0.647 (0.494)/\ −3.341 (0.372)/\ \-- \-- \--
0.23 (−1.61, 0.35) 0.002 (−4.11, −2.69)
Model c −2.232 (0.647)/\ \-- −0.148 (0.026)/\ \-- \--
0.003 (−3.58, −1.04) 0.002 (−0.20, −0.10)
Model d −0.725 (0.341)/\ −3.147 (0.318)/\ −0.039 (0.019)/\ \-- \--
0.15 (−1.71, 0.23) 0.002 (−3.92, −2.49) 0.09 (−0.09, 0.007)
Model e −0.784 (0.343)/\ −3.239 (0.322)/\ −0.044 (0.020)/\ \-- \--
0.13 (−1.79, 0.21) 0.002 (−4.05, −2.56) 0.06 (−0.10, 0.003)
**Indirect effect**
Model a \-- −1.689 (0.448)/\ \-- \-- 72.3%
0.001 (−2.92, −1.04)
Model b \-- \-- −0.121 (0.156)/\ \-- 5.1%
0.41 (−0.48, 0.17)
Model c \-- −1.589 (0.259)/\ −0.032 (0.533)/\ \-- 69.1%
\<0.001 (−2.10, −1.08) 0.95 (−1.08, 1.01)
Model d \-- −1.526 (0.319)/\ −0.063 (0.527)/\ −0.085 (0.305)/\ 66.6%
\<0.001 (−2.15, −0.90) 0.90 (−1.10, 0.97) 0.78 (−0.68, 0.51)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ijerph-16-01299-t0A4_Table A4
######
Direct and indirect effects of self-stigma on social domain of quality of life (QoL) using 1000 bootstraps (*N* = 250).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Model \# Coefficient (SE)/\ \% of Indirect Effects
*p*-Value (Lower Limit, Upper Limit)
--------------------- -------------------------------------- ------------------------ ---------------------- -------------------- -------
**Direct effect**
Model a −2.139 (0.579)/\ \-- \-- \-- \--
0.002 (−3.53, −1.18)
Model b −0.831 (0.448)/\ −2.716 (0.366)/\ \-- \-- \--
0.050 (−1.83, 0.000) 0.002 (−3.48, −2.02)
Model c −2.048 (0.530)/\ \-- −0.142 (0.027)/\ \-- \--
0.001 (−3.37, −1.22) 0.001 (−0.20, −0.09)
Model d −0.937 (0.341)/\ −2.417 (0.318)/\ −0.060 (0.019)/\ \-- \--
0.02 (−1.85, −0.14) 0.002 (−3.20, −1.76) 0.02 (−0.11, −0.008)
Model e −0.959 (0.433)/\ −2.580 (0.380)/\ −0.062 (0.027)/\ \-- \--
0.02 (−1.90, −0.21) 0.002 (−3.36, −1.87) 0.02 (−0.11, −0.10)
**Indirect effect**
Model a \-- −1.317 (0.364)/\ \-- \-- 61.3%
0.001 (−2.23, −0.77)
Model b \-- \-- −0.116 (0.150)/\ \-- 5.4%
0.40 (−0.45, 0.17)
Model c \-- −1.175 (0.252)/\ −0.049 (0.532)/\ \-- 56.6%
\<0.001 (−1.67, −0.68) 0.93 (−1.09, 0.99)
Model d \-- -1.151 (0.256)/\ −0.087 (0.407)/\ −0.133 (0.315)/\ 55.5%
\<0.001 (−1.65, −0.65) 0.83 (−0.88, 0.71) 0.67 (−0.75, 0.48)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ijerph-16-01299-t0A5_Table A5
######
Direct and indirect effects of self-stigma on environment domain of quality of life (QoL) using 1000 bootstraps (*N* = 250).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Model \# Coefficient (SE)/\ \% of Indirect Effects
*p*-Value (Lower Limit, Upper Limit)
--------------------- -------------------------------------- ------------------------ ---------------------- -------------------- -------
**Direct effect**
Model a −1.523 (0.546)/\ \-- \-- \-- \--
0.002 (−2.74, −0.64)
Model b −0.168 (0.401)/\ −2.792 (0.326)/\ \-- \-- \--
0.71 (−0.94, 0.69) 0.002 (−3.48, −2.17)
Model c −1.444 (0.507)/\ \-- −0.125 (0.025)/\ \-- \--
0.002 (−2.59, −0.59) 0.002 (−0.17, −0.07)
Model d −0.232 (0.341)/\ −2.613 (0.318)/\ −0.035 (0.019)/\ \-- \--
0.59 (−0.99, 0.60) 0.001 (−3.36, −1.97) 0.16 (−0.08, 0.01)
Model e −0.273 (0.343)/\ −2.748 (0.322)/\ −0.038 (0.020)/\ \-- \--
0.55 (−1.02, 0.58) 0.002 (−3.51, −2.07) 0.14 (−0.09, 0.01)
**Indirect effect**
Model a \-- −1.362 (0.399)/\ \-- \-- 89.0%
0.002 (−2.37, −0.78)
Model b \-- \-- −0.103 (0.135)/\ \-- 6.7%
0.37 (−0.42, 0.14)
Model c \-- −1.278 (0.243)/\ −0.028 (0.534)/\ \-- 84.9%
\<0.001 (−1.75, −0.80) 0.96 (−1.07, 1.02)
Model d \-- −1.234 (0.247)/\ −0.053 (0.525)/\ −0.082 (0.312)/\ 82.2%
\<0.001 (−1.72, −0.75) 0.92 (−1.08, 0.98) 0.79 (−0.69, 0.53)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
######
Proposed paths between self-stigma, quality of life (QoL), psychological distress, and social function. (**a**) Total effect of self-stigma on QoL; (**b**) Mediated effect of self-stigma on QoL via psychological distress; (**c**) Mediated effect of self-stigma on QoL via social function; (**d**) Mediated effect of self-stigma on QoL via psychological distress and social function; (**e**) Mediated effects of self-stigma on QoL via psychological distress, social function, and psychological distress through social function; (**f**) Mediated effects of self-stigma on QoL via social function, psychological distress, and psychological distress through social function.
ijerph-16-01299-t001_Table 1
######
Demographics, clinical characteristics, self-stigma, quality of life (QoL), psychological distress, and social function of participants.
----------------------------------------------- ------------- --------------
*n* (%) Mean (SD)
**Demographics**
Age in year 45.12 (7.49)
30 or below 2 (0.8%)
31--40 61 (24.4%)
41--50 120 (48.0%)
51--60 59 (23.6%)
61 or above 8 (3.2%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Gender
Male 224 (89.6%)
Female 26 (10.4%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Educational level
Junior high or below 159 (63.6%)
Senior high or above 91 (36.4%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Marital status
Currently married 58 (23.2%)
Others 192 (76.8%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Full-time employment
Yes 126 (50.4%)
No 124 (49.6%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Monthly income
Less than minimum monthly wages in Taiwan 96 (38.4%)
Greater than minimum monthly wages in Taiwan 154 (61.6%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
**Clinical characteristics**
Onset age in year 25.92 (6.97)
20 or below 65 (26.0%)
21--30 135 (54.0%)
31--40 38 (15.2%)
41--50 11 (4.4%)
Missing 1 (0.4%)
Human immunodeficiency virus (HIV)
Yes 36 (14.4%)
No 214 (85.6%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Hepatitis B virus (HBV)
Yes 45 (18.0%)
No 205 (82.0%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Hepatitis C virus (HCV)
Yes 178 (71.2%)
No 72 (28.8%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Diabetes mellitus (DM)
Yes 5 (2.0%)
No 245 (98.0%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Hypertension (HTN)
Yes 9 (3.6%)
No 241 (96.4%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
Previous episodes of MMT
0 71 (28.4%)
1 119 (47.6%)
2 and above 60 (24.0%)
Missing 0 (0.0%)
**Self-stigma** 2.90 (0.59)
**QoL**
Physical domain 13.26 (2.81)
Psychological domain 11.70 (2.97)
Social domain 12.47 (2.78)
Environment domain 13.19 (2.73)
**Psychological distress** 10.05 (6.41)
**Social functioning** 15.52 (6.33)
----------------------------------------------- ------------- --------------
MMT: methadone maintenance treatment.
ijerph-16-01299-t002_Table 2
######
Model fit for the conceptual models (*N* = 250).
Model \# χ^2^ (*df*) *p*-Value χ^2^/*df* CFI RMSEA SRMR
---------- --------------- ----------- ----------- ------- ------- -------
Model a 194.540 (109) \<0.001 1.79 0.956 0.056 0.059
Model b 699.606 (361) \<0.001 1.94 0.901 0.061 0.065
Model c 207.475 (124) \<0.001 1.67 0.957 0.052 0.058
Model d 725.721 (387) \<0.001 1.88 0.902 0.059 0.064
Model e 697.854 (386) \<0.001 1.81 0.910 0.057 0.063
*df*: degree of freedom; CFI: comparative fit index; RMSEA: root mean square error of approximations; SRMR: standardized root mean square residual. Model a: Self-stigma on quality of life (QoL); Model b: Self-stigma on QoL mediated by psychological distress; Model c: Self-stigma on QoL mediated by social function; Model d: Self-stigma on QoL mediated by psychological distress and social function; Model e: Self-stigma on QoL mediated by psychological distress and social function, psychological distress on QoL mediated by social function. All the models were adjusted for the covariates of age, gender, educational years, and presence of hepatitis C virus (HCV).
ijerph-16-01299-t003_Table 3
######
Direct and indirect effects of self-stigma on quality of life (QoL) using 1000 bootstraps (*N* = 250).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Model \# Coefficient (SE)/\ \% of Indirect Effects
*p*-Value (Lower Limit, Upper Limit)
--------------------- -------------------------------------- ------------------------ ---------------------- -------------------- -------
**Direct effect**
Model a −1.967 (0.543)/\ \-- \-- \-- \--
0.002 (−3.11, −0.99)
Model b −0.477 (0.321)/\ −3.098 (0.316)/\ \-- \-- \--
0.14 (−1.11, 0.15) 0.001 (−3.72, −2.48)
Model c −1.889 (0.492)/\ \-- −0.143 (0.023)/\ \-- \--
0.002 (−2.98, −1.06) 0.002 (−0.19, −0.10)
Model d −0.561 (0.341)/\ −2.886 (0.318)/\ −0.046 (0.019)/\ \-- \--
0.097 (−1.25, 0.12) 0.001 (−3.59, −2.33) 0.02 (−0.08, −0.007)
Model e −0.594 (0.343)/\ −3.017 (0.322)/\ −0.049 (0.020)/\ \-- \--
0.07 (−1.26, 0.07) 0.001 (−3.72, −2.47) 0.01 (−0.09, −0.01)
**Indirect effect**
Model b \-- −1.546 (0.421)/\ \-- \-- 76.4%
0.001 (−2.60, −0.91)
Model c \-- \-- −0.117 (0.150)/\ \-- 5.8%
0.40 (−0.45, 0.17)
Model d \-- −1.440 (0.231)/\ −0.038 (0.531)/\ \-- 72.5%
\<0.001 (−1.89, −0.99) 0.94 (−1.08, 1.00)
Model e \-- −1.406 (0.229)/\ −0.070 (0.524)/\ −0.106 (0.302)/\ 70.9%
\<0.001 (−1.85, −0.96) 0.89 (−1.10, 0.96) 0.73 (−0.70, 0.49)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Model a: Self-stigma on quality of life (QoL); Model b: Self-stigma on QoL mediated by psychological distress; Model c: Self-stigma on QoL mediated by social function; Model d: Self-stigma on QoL mediated by psychological distress and social function; Model e: Self-stigma on QoL mediated by psychological distress and social function, psychological distress on QoL mediated by social function.
|
Q:
Does Jesus contradict Himself in these verses?
Just to state, I don't necessarily believe Jesus contradicted Himself. But these parts of Scripture sound like a contradiction, and I would like to hear any thoughts on how this can be reconciled.
I thought of this question after reading this post and these verses:
He said to them, “But now if you have a purse, take it, and also a bag; and if you don’t have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one. It is written: ‘And he was numbered with the transgressors’; and I tell you that this must be fulfilled in me. Yes, what is written about me is reaching its fulfillment.”
The disciples said, “See, Lord, here are two swords.”
“That is enough,” he replied.
Luke 22:36-38
But then when they come to seize Jesus, after Judas betrays Him with a kiss, this happens:
51 And behold, one of those who were with Jesus reached out his hand and drew his sword and, striking the body servant of the high priest, cut off his ear.
52 Then Jesus said to him, Put your sword back into its place, for all who draw the sword will die by the sword.
Matt. 26:51-52
As per the answers in the linked post, Jesus had them get swords so the prophecies could be fulfilled: That He would be counted amongst the transgressors, and His arrest would be certain. But then why would Jesus reprove Peter of using his sword the way he did in the latter verses, when that is what He wanted to happen? Perhaps "contradiction" wasn't the best choice of wording, feel free to edit if you can word it better for me :)
A:
I should preface my answer by saying this is entirely educated guesswork, as is any answer to this question. Don't take it as divine revelation, but as just one of many views on the events of the time.
Some have mentioned that maybe he was being metaphorical, and that the disciples were having one of their (quite frequent) blond moments in taking him literally. You think they would learn... anyway, this is very possible.
If you prefer to take it literally, my guess would be that Jesus wanted them to have swords for a short time. My reasoning is that Jesus has prefaced this with a comparison. Previously, they had gone out, preaching love, repentance and righteousness under the authority of their rabbi, their teacher / mentor / religious authority.
Having a rabbi was quite common. Many rabbis were radical, hard-hitting, slightly nutty and often very wrong (just read some of their recorded theories. One I read recently: http://www.sacred-texts.com/jud/hl/index.htm). While Jesus was "just another rabbi", they had little to fear.
Yet for the next few weeks, "Jesus" was synonymous with "criminal". People who wanted to get in the good books with the religious leaders might want to present the head of one of his disciples, and people who might have once given them free stuff as a thank you for their wisdom and guidance would now be treating them as scum.
This crowd that came with the temple guards might consider it a good idea to take Jesus' collaborators as well - but when they arrive they are faced with a dillema. They could take an unarmed and willing Jesus without any fuss - which is all they really came for - or they could try and take an armed and unwilling 12 disciples. It's a no-brainer.
P.S: I find it interesting that Jesus doesn't say "You shouldn't have done that", but instead says, "That's enough of that, you won't actually need to draw the sword unless you want to be killed by it" (paraphrased and liberties taken!). I imagine he was secretly glad they cut off the guard's ear, because it showed the crowd that the disciples meant business.
Also, to counter any potential arguments that God could have protected the disciples without resorting to swords, yes, you are correct. But that doesn't mean that the disciples were not more confident knowing that they had swords with them, and it meant that the legacy of focus was solely on Jesus. Remember that "the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed." Isaiah 53:5
A:
The sword is spiritual which he asks them to buy, such as the kind Paul refers to in his letter as 'the Sword of the Spirit', for example. Peter may have taken it literally (which mistake had been made several times in the past) and bought a sword with which he fought against the High Priest's servant.
In short, he is telling them to set aside worldly possessions (he who has a cloak) and arm themselves (let him buy a sword) for the war they are going to enter, which does not, indeed, end with his crucifixion, but continues until the end of time.
|
lok-sabha-elections
Updated: Feb 07, 2019 10:21 IST
These days, every conversation about India’s 2019 general election begins and ends with the same knowing admission: “In the end, it will come down to Uttar Pradesh.” Accounting for 80 seats in the Lok Sabha and home to roughly 230 million residents, Uttar Pradesh (UP) is the single biggest prize on offer. For both the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) of Prime Minister Narendra Modi and a bevy of opposition forces, the state is make-or-break.
In the 2014 general election, the BJP won 71 of UP’s 80 parliamentary seats (its coalition ally, Apna Dal, bagged another two). The state accounted for one out of every four seats the party won in achieving its historic parliamentary majority. But, as campaigning for 2019 soon begins in earnest, this dominance also has a downside: unless it can run the table in UP for a second consecutive election, the BJP will struggle to replicate, even approximate, its majority.
While BJP strategists are confident the party will pick up new seats in places where it has only recently emerged a player, such as India’s northeast, it will be difficult (if not impossible) to compensate for a hefty loss of seats in UP. Yet, sweeping the state is a daunting prospect in light of the pre-electoral alliance the state’s two primary regional parties, the Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP) and the Samajwadi Party (SP),recently stitched up.
These two rivals have bitterly fought each other for dominance of UP for the past two decades, but the BJP defeated both with a stunning three-fourths majority in the 2017 assembly elections. Reflecting on their rout, leaders of the two parties reluctantly concluded that they might lose together but they will surely lose separately. So far, the alliance has enjoyed remarkable success, snatching the seats of Gorakhpur and Phulpur from the BJP’s kitty in impressive parliamentary by poll victories in March 2018.
In 2019, the two parties will each contest thirty-eight seats—leaving two seats for the Congress (those held by Sonia and Rahul Gandhi) and two more for the Rashtriya Lok Dal. Meanwhile, the Congress has indicated it will contest the 2019 elections in UP on its own, bolstered by the fact that Priyanka Gandhi will play an active role in the party’s campaign in eastern UP.
Given the opportunistic alliances, the eleventh-hour Congress surprise, and the fact that Modi remains popular in the state even as his party’s brand has dipped, the UP outcome is virtually impossible to predict at this point. The absence of credible survey data also makes seat projections extremely difficult.
Any conclusion hinges on whether one believes elections in India are more about arithmetic or chemistry. Arithmetic suggests the formidable BSP-SP mahagatbandhan (grand alliance) will easily cut the BJP’s seat tally in half. But analysts who prioritise the chemistry of campaigns are sceptical that one can mechanically add up past vote shares and predict the future.
Rather than wade into the guessing game around the number of seats lost and gained for various formations, we focus on three issues critical to sealing the final UP outcome: voter mobilisation, Hindu voter consolidation, and rural anxiety about the economy. In the 2014 election, the BJP exploited unprecedented voter turnout, a unique crosscaste coalition of Hindu voters, and a souring economy, blame for which it could place at the door of the incumbent Congress.
Whether the BJP can replicate these conditions this spring will determine the party’s ability to stave off an increasingly confident, unified opposition.
Maintaining the enthusiasm advantage
First, the BJP’s success in 2019 will depend on whether it can mobilize its supporters and potential swing voters to go to the polls. Voter turnout across India reached a record 66.4 % in 2014; turnout in UP increased by 10 percentage points from 2009.
Whether due to anti-incumbency trends or Modi’s popularity, the BJP reaped the benefits of this surge in political participation. Across India, the party’s performance improved the most in constituencies that saw the greatest rise in turnout. This correlation held up very well in UP (figure 1). On average, a 1 percentage point increase in turnout was associated with a positive 0.6 percentage point vote share bump for the BJP. Rising women’s turnout particularly aided the BJP’s performance. The party’s ability to retain, perhaps build on, its support among women voters will be crucial for its 2019 poll success. (see chart 1)
The BJP must also ensure that young voters show up on Election Day. According to National Election Study data, turnout among young voters—this is traditionally lower than the national average—exceeded average turnout in 2014 by 2 percentage points. States that possessed a larger share of first-time voters in 2014 (those between the ages of 18 and 22) also saw the largest increases in the BJP’s vote share (see chart 2). UP was a particular outlier.
However, there are serious doubts that the BJP can replicate this mobilization. The novelty associated with Modi’s candidacy has dimmed, as have citizens’ perceptions of the BJP’s economic performance. In 2014, the BJP contested elections as the outsider; in 2019, it is the incumbent at both the state and national levels, making an anti-establishment campaign untenable.
Consolidating Hindu Votes
The UP electorate is notoriously fragmented by caste and religion. In recent years, the BJP, traditionally reliant on upper-caste support, has greatly expanded its outreach to lower castes, not least by leveraging the social services provided by the various affiliates of the Sangh Parivar.
In 2014, the BJP focused its efforts on those Hindu other backward class (OBC) and Dalit jatis underemphasized by the SP and BSP, respectively. In particular, it set its sights on peeling off non-Yadav voters from the SP and non-Jatav voters from the BSP (the Yadavs and Jatavs are the respective castes from which SP and BSP leaders Mulayam Singh Yadav and Mayawati hail), claiming that they have been marginalized by their more dominant brethren. The strategy paid off handsomely: in addition to consolidating its upper caste support, the BJP attracted large numbers of lower OBC and Dalit voters to its fold.
Unless the BSP-SP alliance can reverse this Hindu caste consolidation, it will find 2019 to be very rough going. An analysis of data on UP’s 140,000 polling booths compiled by Raphael Susewind allows for a local-level examination of the BJP’s 2014 performance based on the Hindu-Muslim breakdown of voters. The BJP dominated its rivals in booths where the Muslim share of voters was below the 75th percentile (figure 3), which translates to a roughly 20 % Muslim electorate. Above that point, the BJP’s vote share drops off drastically—a sign of the party’s difficulty in minority-dominated areas. The opposition, for its part, has a good deal of ground to make up in localities without a sizeable Muslim population.
The BSP-SP duo will also strongly contest UP’s 17 scheduled caste (SC)-reserved seats. In 2014, the BJP won all of these seats—landing a particularly harsh blow against the BSP, given that latter’s typically staunch Dalit vote base (figure 4).
Yet there are emerging signs that Dalits are no longer as favourably inclined toward the BJP. According to the Mood of the Nation survey conducted in May 2018 by the Centre for the Study of Developing Societies, Dalit support for the BJP had fallen sharply from 33% in May 2017 to 22% a year later.
There are multiple reasons why Dalit voters across India might question their previous support for the BJP. In April, the Supreme Court introduced new safeguards to prevent the misuse of the Scheduled Castes and Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, enraging many Dalit citizens. Although the government ended up asking the court to review its ruling, the decision wrong-footed it (and it was already being criticized for its lax implementation of the law). More recently, the central government’s move to provide a 10% quota for economically weaker sections has triggered fears that the ruling party could begin to unwind caste-based forms of reservation in favour of class-based quotas.
Lastly, there are issues specific to UP that have galvanized Dalits. In addition to a spate of anti-Dalit violence, there is a stark gap between the BJP’s rhetoric of caste inclusion and its upper-caste-dominated administration in UP. Chief minister Yogi Adityanath’s first cabinet contained only four Dalits, and, according to the Hindustan Times, just nine of state’s 75 district police superintendents were Dalits as of July 2017.
Addressing rural anxiety
The third factor likely to shape electoral outcomes in UP is the rising discontent of India’s rural citizens. Nearly 78% of UP’s population lives in rural areas—only five states have higher rural population shares.
This sizable rural majority spells trouble for the BJP. Many analysts have attributed the BJP’s December losses in Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, and Chhattisgarh to “agrarian distress” amid falling crop prices and growing farmer indebtedness. Indeed, political scientist Neelanjan Sircar found that the BJP performed worst in regions with a large share of agricultural workers, a trend absent in the previous state elections of 2013.
Opposition parties have tapped into farmers’ anger, promising, in several states, to waive their outstanding loans if elected. While the consensus among economists is that farm loan waivers make for bad economics—they create a moral hazard and harm credit culture—their popularity with rural residents makes for good politics.
Agrarian distress opens a number of potential vulnerabilities for the BJP across UP. The state’s 20 most agricultural constituencies include three of the BJP’s seven losses in 2014, along with six of the 17 seats the party won by less than 10 % (see figure 5). These six “vulnerable” constituencies—Sitapur, Kaiserganj, Shravasti, Misrikh, Kaushambi, and Hardoi—will be important seats to watch for opposition inroads in 2019 (the latter three are also SC-reserved).
Conclusion
For the BJP, insiders have long claimed that replicating 2014 is a pipe dream. The last general election result was a perfect storm of anti-incumbency, a slumping economy, and a presidential contest with only one compelling candidate. While a sweep of UP may no longer be on the cards, the BJP must retain a strong majority of seats there. To have a shot at doing so, it will have to energize its base, keep its coalition from fracturing, and address (or, more accurately, be seen to address) the needs of India’s rural dwellers. If it fails, a second term could be jeopardized. To paraphrase an old US electoral maxim: as Uttar Pradesh goes, so goes the nation.
Milan Vaishnav (@MilanV) and Jamie Hintson are with the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. This article is part of the ‘India Elects 2019’ series, a collaboration between Carnegie and the Hindustan Times. |
Euro 2016: French minister urges sanctions against Russia, England
Paris: France Interior Minister Bernard Cazeneuve has called to introduce sanctions against England and Russia after both sets of fans clashed after their Euro 2016 group phase match.
The match ended 1-1 at the Stade Velodrome in Marseille. The fans clashed after the match, injuring at least 35 people, reports Tass.
A man throws a beer can during street brawls ahead of the Euro 2016 football match England vs Russia. Pic/ AFP
European football's governing body UEFA later started investigations against Russia for crowd disturbances, setting off of fireworks and making racist insults and is expected to impose a heavy sanction.
"I welcome the UEFA decision to impose sanctions on the teams whose pseudo fans have committed crimes. There should be no clemency towards them from sports federations and sports bodies," Cazeneuve said on Sunday.
"It is absolutely necessary that national football federations of those countries whose fans provoked disturbances are punished proportional to the seriousness of those incidents of which these people are accused of both inside the stadiums and outside them, what is more serious," the minister added.
Cazeneuve said the events in Marseille on Saturday are "absolutely unacceptable" both for the society, for the country’s authorities and for those who really love football.
He also rejected criticism against police, saying the interior ministry is taking all the measures to ensure security at matches.
During the game, the Russian fans fired two flare guns and after the final whistle, the group rushed to the English fans' section. |
(Lori Adams, who owns Down-To-Earth U-Pick Garden and is a frequent vendor at the Sitka Farmers Market, will be writing a regular garden column in the Daily Sitka Sentinel this summer. The Sentinel is allowing us to reprint the columns on this site after they first appear in the newspaper. This column appeared on Page 4 of the Wednesday, April 4, 2012, edition of the Daily Sitka Sentinel.)
GARDENING IN SITKA
By Lori Adams
SLUGS!
Sitka gardeners do not struggle with a lot of pests, but the few that we do have give us plenty of trouble. The worst pests I have encountered in my garden are slugs, root maggots and aphids — and the slugs are by far the biggest problem.
I have had slugs wipe out an entire bed of young lettuce plants in one night! Large slugs eat entire plants, leaving their silvery trails behind them; and tiny slugs hide in the cracks and voids of bushy plants, riddling them with holes. The only real solution I have found for slugs is ducks.
Ducks love to eat slugs! They love the rain, they provide delicious eggs and meat and they are endlessly entertaining. My “herd” of ducks spends every waking moment foraging for slugs and other creepy crawlers in my garden! I could go on and on about the benefits of raising ducks, but I will try to focus on other solutions in this column.
Slugs thrive in damp, cool, dark areas — a perfect description of a Sitka garden! They are migratory by nature, coming out mostly at night to do their damage and slinking away before daylight. You need to think of the battle against slugs as a war that never ends. There is no permanent fix because no matter how many you kill they will continue to migrate in.
The best strategy in this war is to make your entire property a hostile environment for slugs. Cut down all brush, salmonberries and grass — TO THE GROUND. You would be surprised how many slugs live in these areas, just close enough to your garden to provide shelter during the day. Remove all piles of brush, stacks of lumber and other junk. (Compost heaps do not pose a problem if they are kept active and hot). Potted plants in the garden should be up on blocks to prevent slugs from living underneath them.
Slugs can crawl over virtually any surface but they do not prefer shells, wood chips, sand or gravel so use one of these materials to create a clear perimeter around your garden. Remove ornamental ground cover. My ducks can spend an hour in a patch of ground cover — what does that tell you? It’s the perfect environment for slugs! Finally, think about getting rid of your lawn. I loved my lawn and still miss it very much, but slugs love lawns.
One other strategy is bait, but rethink how you use it. If the theory is that slugs just happen to fall into it or eat it on their way by, then you should have hundreds of bait traps scattered around your garden. If on the other hand bait actually lures slugs in then DON’T put bait in the middle of your garden! Put it far away to draw slugs away from your vegetables.
The 2017 Sitka Farmers Markets will be from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. on Saturdays, July 1, July 15, July 29, Aug. 12, Aug. 19, Sept. 2 and Sept. 9, at Alaska Native Brotherhood Founders Hall, 235 Katlian St. To learn more about how to become a vendor, click the Sitka Farmers Market logo image below.
Click image to sign up for our monthly newsletter
Thank you to the Alaska Comprehensive Cancer Partnership for sponsoring the Sitka Local Foods Network in 2016 and 2017
Thank you to SEARHC for sponsoring the Sitka Local Foods Network in 2016 and 2017
Thank you to the Sitka True Value for sponsoring the Sitka Local Foods Network in 2017
Congratulations to the Sitka Farmers Market
Thank you to Tom’s of Maine for naming the Sitka Local Foods Network as Alaska’s winner in the 2015 50 States For Good program and awarding us $20,000 to improve our programming
Want to support more local foods in Sitka, Alaska? Please consider donating today to the Sitka Local Foods Network. Click the image below to give. Your support is much appreciated. Thanks.
Please support us through Benevity.com. Some corporations will match employee donations on this site. Click the logo below for more information.
The Sitka Local Foods Network is proud to be featured in the Food Tank and James Beard Foundation 2014, 2015 and 2016 Good Food Org Guides. Click the images to learn more.
The Sitka Local Foods Network is a proud member of the Farmers Market Coalition
Follow the Sitka Local Foods Network on Twitter
Please join our Sitka Local Foods Network group on LinkedIn.
Support the Sitka Local Foods Network when you shop through the AmazonSmile program. Click this link to go to our page, and make sure your browser address says smile.amazon.com instead of the usual URL of www.amazon.com.
Click the image to sign up for the newsletter of the Sitka Kitch community rental commercial kitchen |
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<module type="WEB_MODULE" version="4">
<component name="NewModuleRootManager">
<content url="file://$MODULE_DIR$">
<excludeFolder url="file://$MODULE_DIR$/.pub" />
<excludeFolder url="file://$MODULE_DIR$/.tmp" />
<excludeFolder url="file://$MODULE_DIR$/build" />
<excludeFolder url="file://$MODULE_DIR$/packages" />
<excludeFolder url="file://$MODULE_DIR$/temp" />
<excludeFolder url="file://$MODULE_DIR$/test/packages" />
<excludeFolder url="file://$MODULE_DIR$/tmp" />
</content>
<orderEntry type="inheritedJdk" />
<orderEntry type="sourceFolder" forTests="false" />
<orderEntry type="library" name="Dart SDK" level="project" />
<orderEntry type="library" name="Dart Packages" level="project" />
</component>
</module> |
Q:
Inkscape-- convert text to object, dynamic offset. Shift+Ctrl+C failed?
I met a problem when I try to
1> convert a text line into object, apply Path > Object to Path (or Shift+Ctrl+c),
2> then appy 'Path>Dynamic offset' (or Ctrl+J).
The text line (let's say "test") can be converted to path. But when I apply Dynamic offset, nothing happens. Normally I will see a tiny small rectangular on the edge of text, but this time I don't see it. Is it because I've changed somewhat default parameter set of Inkscape?
I've done it through:
1> apply text 'Path > Object to Path'
2> Ungroup it 'Ctrl+U'.
3> select all the single letter, apply 'Path > Combine' (Ctrl+K)
Now I can apply Dynamic Offset to the text now.
Thus, any suggestions?
A:
first Ctrl+K (path combine), then Ctrl+J (dynamic offset) will work.
|
Apoptosis is absolutely necessary for human development and survival, with millions of cells committing suicide daily as a way to prevent uncontrolled growth. Defects in apoptosis, together with amplified growth signals, often lead to cancer. Targeting apoptosis defects in cancer has a tremendous potential.
The first human apoptotic protein identified was BCL-2, as inhibitor of apoptosis, in 1984. The role of caspases-proteases that act as the cell's direct executioners by cleaving other cellular proteins was revealed in humans beginning in 1993. In cell ready to die, pro-apoptotic BCL-2 family members, like BAX, disrupt mitochondria, causing the release of other proteins that lead to caspase release and cell death. Activation of this so-called “intrinsic” apoptotic pathway is the goal of many of the new cancer drugs.
A second, “extrinsic”, cell death pathway is also an important target, and the first so-called death receptor, DR4, was discovered around 1996.
Most of the current cancer therapies, including chemotherapeutic agents, radiation, and immunotherapy, work by indirectly inducing apoptosis in cancer cells. The inability of cancer cells to execute an apoptotic program due to defects in the normal apoptotic machinery is thus often associated with an increase in resistance to chemotherapy, radiation or immunotherapy-induced apoptosis.
In this regard, targeting crucial negative regulators that play a central role in directly inhibiting apoptosis in cancer cells represents a highly promising therapeutic strategy for new anticancer drug design.
Two classes of central negative regulators of apoptosis have been identified. The first class is the BCL-2 family of proteins. Anti-Bcl-2 biologicals (antisense, antibodies, etc.) were tested in Phase III clinical trials for the treatment of solid and not solid tumors, while recently several small molecules (obatoclax, gossypol, ABT-763) have also entered Phase II clinical trials for the same indications.
The second class of central negative regulators of apoptosis is the inhibitor of apoptosis proteins (IAPB). IAPB potently suppress apoptosis induced by a large variety of apoptotic stimuli, including chemotherapeutic agents, radiation, and immunotherapy in cancer cells.
X-linked IAP (XIAP) is the most studied IAP family member, and one of the most potent inhibitors in suppressing apoptosis among all of the IAP members. XIAP plays a key role in the negative regulation of apoptosis in both the death receptor-mediated and the mitochondria-mediated pathways. XIAP functions as a potent endogenous apoptosis inhibitor by directly binding and potently inhibiting three members of the caspase family enzymes, caspase-3, -7, and -9. XIAP contains three baculovirus inhibitor of apoptosis repeat (BIR) domains. The third BIR domain (BIR3) selectively targets caspase-9, the initiator caspase in the mitochondrial pathway, whereas the linker region between BIR1 and BIR2 inhibits both caspase-3 and caspase-7. While binding to XIAP prevents the activation of all three caspases, it is apparent that the interaction with caspase-9 is the most critical for its inhibition of apoptosis. Because XIAP blocks apoptosis at the downstream effector phase, a point where multiple signalling pathways converge, strategies targeting XIAP may prove to be especially effective to overcome resistance of cancer cells to apoptosis.
More recently, cellular IAPs 1 and 2 (cIAP-1 and cIAP-2) were also identified and characterized as potent inhibitors in suppressing apoptosis via two distinct pathways. Direct caspase inhibition happens through binding to the same BIR domains as XIAP, but inhibition of TNF-α induced apoptosis and induction of non-canonical NF-κB activation is also observed.
A balance between endothelial cell survival and apoptosis contributes to the integrity of the blood vessel wall during vascular development and pathological angiogenesis. It has been shown that both cIAP-1 and cIAP-2 are essential for maintaining this balance. Thus, both cIAPs may play an important role in the control of angiogenesis and blood vessel homeostasis in several pathologies involving regeneration and tumorigenesis.
There is evidence to indicate that XIAP and cIAPs are widely overexpressed in many types of cancer and may play an important role in the resistance of cancer cells to a variety of current therapeutic agents. There is thus a strong rationale for pan-IAP inhibitors as potent and effective pro-apoptotic agents in oncology.
Recently, Smac/DIABLO (second mitochondria-derived activator of caspases) was identified as a protein released from mitochondria into the cytosol in response to apoptotic stimuli. Smac is synthesized with an N-terminal mitochondrial targeting sequence that is proteolytically removed during maturation to the mature polipeptide. Smac was shown to directly interact with XIAP, cIAP-1, cIAP-2 and other IAPs, to disrupt their binding to caspases and facilitate caspases activation. Smac is a potent endogenous inhibitor of XIAP.
Smac/DIABLO interacts with both the BIR2 and BIR3 domains of XIAP. The crystal structure of Smac/DIABLO reveals that it forms a homodimer through a large, hydrophobic interface, and that homodimerization is essential for its binding to the BIR2, but not BIR3, domain of XIAP. The four amino-terminal residues of Smac/DIABLO (Ala-Val-Pro-Ile, AVPI) make specific contact with a surface groove of the BIR2 and BIR3 domains, but not with the BIR1 domain, of XIAP. Significantly, the conserved tetrapeptide motif has remarkable homology to the IAP-interacting motif found in the p12 amino-terminal sequence of caspase-9 (Ala-Thr-Pro-Phe) and the Drosophila proteins Hid (Ala-Val-Pro-Phe), Reaper (Ala-Val-Ala-Phe) and Grim (Ala-Ile-Ala-Tyr).
The Kd value of Smac peptide AVPI binding to XIAP (Kd=0.4 μM) is essentially the same as the mature Smac protein (Kd=0.42 μM).
Full length Smac-BIR domain complexes of cIAP-1 or cIAP-2 are not reported. A complex between the BIR3 domain of cIAP-1 and N-terminal Smac sequences was reported, showing similar binding modes and strengths compared with XIAP. |
pledged of $40,000 pledged of $40,000 goal
Funding Canceled
Funding for this project was canceled by the project creator on Mar 25 2017 |
Pages
Friday, April 21, 2017
Augustus Pugin: Architect of the Victorian Gothic
By Mark Patton.
The skylines of Britain's great cities, London, Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Cardiff, are dominated by two great architectural styles, which compete with one another for the attention of the visitor: the "Gothic," and the "Classical." Whilst some really significant buildings (Westminster Abbey, York Minster, the Cathedrals of Salisbury, Winchester, Ely and Durham prominent among them) are genuinely Gothic (i.e. Medieval), none are genuinely Classical (i.e. Roman - this is in contrast, say, to France, where significant Roman buildings are still standing). Most of the prominent buildings in British cities are more accurately described as "Neo-Gothic" or "Neo-Classical," and were built in the Seventeenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries.
The skyline of Edinburg in c 1895. Photo: Library of Congress (image is in the Public Domain).
Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin (1812-1852) was one of the leading architects of Victorian Neo-Gothic. He was not the first British architect of the modern era to look to the Medieval past for inspiration, but he took the attachment to the Gothic world view to a new level, and, in doing so, created some of Britain's most iconic buildings.
Pugin's father, A.C. Pugin, himself an architectural illustrator, came to England as a refugee from the French Revolution. As a boy, Augustus traveled through Germany and the Netherlands with his father, helping to survey and sketch the great Gothic churches and cathedrals of the continent. By the age of fifteen, he himself was designing Gothic furniture for Windsor Castle.
"Specimens of Gothic Architecture," by A.C. Pugin (image is in the Public Domain).
Pugin's great break came in 1834, when a fire destroyed the greater part of the Palace of Westminster. A committee was established to commission a replacement, and the contract went to Pugin's collaborator, the architect, Charles Barry. The committee had specified that the new building should be either in the Gothic or the Elizabethan style: the capital already had its share of Neo-Classical buildings - Somerset House, St Paul's Cathedral, the Greenwich Hospital, the British Museum, still under construction - and the style had been discredited by association with the nation's defeated enemy, Napoleon Bonaparte. Britain was not a secular republic, it was argued, but a Christian kingdom, and this identity should be reflected in the nation's most prominent public building. Pugin argued, successfully, for a Neo-Gothic building, not least because one of the few surviving elements of the original Medieval building was Westminster Hall, built during the reign of Richard II.
The Medieval Westminster Hall, as depicted by Pugin's father (image is in the Public Domain).
Arguments have subsequently raged over which man was responsible for which elements of the building, but it seems likely that, whilst Barry designed the floor-plan and managed the budget, Pugin took responsibility for much of the detail, including the design of what is now referred to officially as the Elizabeth Tower (but, popularly, as "Big Ben" - actually the name of the bell), and almost all the features of the interior.
The Palace of Westminster, as designed by Barry & Pugin. Photo: Alvesgaspar (licensed under GNU).
The thrones in the House of Lords, as designed by Pugin. Photo: US Government (image is in the Public Domain).
For Pugin, however, the choice of Gothic was not simply an aesthetic, but also a moral, even a religious one. In 1836, he converted to Roman Catholicism, and, in the same year, he published a tract called Contrasts, arguing that the Gothic was the authentic Christian style, which embodied the principles of true religion. Classicism, on the other hand, he saw as rationalistic, atheistic, and ultimately utilitarian, going hand in glove with the tendency to treat human beings merely as means to an end. His tract came with a series of provocative illustrations.
"Contrasted Towns," by Augustus Pugin, showing the supposed contrast between a civilised Medieval town and a dehumanised modern one (image is in the Public Domain). The Medieval image, however, is highly sanitised, with no evidence (for example) for capital punishment or poverty.
"Contrasted Residences for the Poor," by Augustus Pugin (image is in the Public Domain). In fact, the "modern" design at the top (a modified, but not a true, "pan-opticon"), though widely used for Victorian prisons, was never used for workhouses; and the corpses of workhouse inmates, though they may have been buried in mass-graves, were never supplied to anatomists.
As a refugee, Pugin's father had adopted the Anglican faith to avoid the prejudices that might have prevented him from finding work. During the reign of Queen Victoria, however, Britain became more tolerant of other religious traditions, including Catholicism and Judaism. The Catholic Church re-established a hierarchy of bishops, and new Catholic churches sprang up around the country, largely in response to the influx of Catholic, Irish labourers. Pugin was well-placed to be the architect of preference to the new dioceses, although he sometimes came into conflict with the bishops, both over budgets (like many architects, he didn't like working within them), and over his ultra-traditional views on church architecture.
The Roman Catholic Church of St Giles, Cheadle, Staffordshire, designed by Pugin. Photo: Oosoom (licensed under GNU).
Pugin did not only design public buildings and churches, however, but also private houses, schools and colleges.
Scarisbrick Hall, Lancashire, designed by Pugin as a private home, now a school. Photo: PC78 (licensed under CCA).
His later years were troubled by apparent mental health difficulties: syphilis and hyperthyroidism have been suggested as possible causes of these, but he had also suffered tragedy in his personal life (his first two wives died young), and he seems to have responded to this by immersing himself in his work, so perhaps exhaustion was also a factor. He would have died in the Bethlehem Hospital had his third wife, Jane, not engineered his release, against medical advice. He died at home in Ramsgate shortly afterwards, at the age of just forty, and is buried nearby, in St Augustine's Church, which he designed himself.
Mark Patton is a published author of historical fiction and non-fiction, whose books can be purchased from Amazon.
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Britain leaves us awed by ancient castles, palaces and museums. History pours out a legacy of battles, a developing monarchy, a structured class system, court-inspired behaviors and fashions, artwork and writings that have created a love for all things British. Some of us feel that we must fuel the fire~ we have come together to share our historical work and to reach out to our much appreciated readers. Please enjoy our posts about the history of England, Scotland, Wales and all the Empire.
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// Package state has all abstracted
// logic related to the Terraform state
package state
|
Q:
Using Tsung to load test gen_tcp (SSL) with custom binary interface
I have a server written in Erlang with a custom binary interface that gets communicated over a TCP socket (SSL-enabled)
I need to be able to load test this server.
Tools like Tsung seem to work well but for interfaces that support HTTP, LDAP, Jabber/XMPP etc. Is it possible to use Tsung in its correct form to interface with my server via a binary interface? Is there a better solution?
A:
You need to write a tsung plugin.. Here is an example.
If I knew more about the specifics of your data, I could help more.
|
Cyclosporin A does not affect adenoviral-mediated transgene expression of interleukin-2.
The adenoviral vector demonstrates efficient gene transfer and high transient gene expression making it an attractive vehicle for human gene therapy trials. Unfortunately, the virus stimulates a potent inflammatory immune response that limits transgene expression and makes repeat viral dosing ineffective. Transient immunosuppression has emerged as one technique to prolong adenoviral-mediated transgene expression and enable readministration of the viral vector. Cyclosporin A (CsA) causes immunosuppression by blocking the promotor/enhancer region of the gene for interleukin-2 (IL-2). The affect of CsA on transgene IL-2 expression was examined. Viral-mediated gene transfer was optimized in a human cell line using a type five adenoviral vector (Ad5) containing the gene for human IL-2 or bacterial beta-galactosidase (lac-Z) driven by a cytomegalovirus (CMV) promoter. CsA at various concentrations had no affect on IL-2 or lac-Z transgene expression. The immunosuppressive drug CsA is known to block native IL-2 transcription but has no affect on the adenoviral-mediated IL-2 or lac-Z transgene. |
//---------------------------------------------------------- -*- Mode: C++ -*-
// $Id$
//
// Created 2006/10/28
// Author: Sriram Rao
//
// Copyright 2008-2012,2016 Quantcast Corporation. All rights reserved.
// Copyright 2006-2008 Kosmix Corp.
//
// This file is part of Kosmos File System (KFS).
//
// Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0
// (the "License"); you may not use this file except in compliance with
// the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at
//
// http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0
//
// Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software
// distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS,
// WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or
// implied. See the License for the specific language governing
// permissions and limitations under the License.
//
// \brief Tool for listing directory contents (ala ls -l).
//
//----------------------------------------------------------------------------
#include "tools/kfsshell.h"
#include "libclient/KfsClient.h"
#include "common/StdAllocator.h"
#include <iostream>
#include <fstream>
#include <cerrno>
#include <ostream>
#include <iomanip>
#include <algorithm>
#include <map>
#include <unistd.h>
#include <string.h>
#include <stdlib.h>
#include <time.h>
#include <sys/types.h>
namespace KFS
{
namespace tools
{
using std::cout;
using std::cerr;
using std::endl;
using std::fixed;
using std::setw;
using std::setprecision;
using std::right;
using std::ofstream;
using std::ostringstream;
using std::vector;
using std::map;
using std::less;
using std::pair;
using std::make_pair;
static int dirList(KfsClient *client,
string kfsdirname, bool longMode, bool humanReadable,
bool timeInSecs, bool recursive);
static int doDirList(KfsClient *client, string kfsdirname);
static int doDirListPlusAttr(KfsClient *client,
string kfsdirname, bool humanReadable, bool timeInSecs,
bool recursive, bool longMode, int level = 0);
static void printAttrInfo(KfsClient *client, const KfsFileAttr& attr,
bool humanReadable, bool timeInSecs, bool longMode);
static void getTimeString(time_t time, char *buf, int bufLen = 256);
int
handleLs(KfsClient *client, const vector<string> &args)
{
bool longMode = false, humanReadable = false,
timeInSecs = false, recursive = false;
vector<string>::size_type pathIndex = 0, i;
if ((args.size() >= 1) && (args[0] == "--help")) {
cout << "Usage: ls {-lhtr} {<dir>} " << endl;
return 0;
}
if (args.size() >= 1) {
if (args[0][0] == '-') {
pathIndex = 1;
for (i = 1; i < args[0].size(); i++) {
switch (args[0][i]) {
case 'l':
longMode = true;
break;
case 'h':
humanReadable = true;
break;
case 't':
timeInSecs = true;
break;
case 'r':
recursive = true;
break;
default:
break;
}
}
}
}
if (args.size() > pathIndex) {
for (i = pathIndex; i < args.size(); i++) {
const int ret = dirList(client, args[i], longMode,
humanReadable, timeInSecs, recursive);
if (ret) {
return ret;
}
}
return 0;
}
return dirList(client, ".", longMode, humanReadable, timeInSecs, recursive);
}
int
dirList(KfsClient *client,
string kfsdirname, bool longMode, bool humanReadable,
bool timeInSecs, bool recursive)
{
if (longMode || recursive)
return doDirListPlusAttr(client, kfsdirname, humanReadable,
timeInSecs, recursive, longMode);
else
return doDirList(client, kfsdirname);
}
int
doDirList(KfsClient *kfsClient, string kfsdirname)
{
string kfssubdir, subdir;
int res;
vector<string> entries;
vector<string>::size_type i;
if (kfsClient->IsFile(kfsdirname.c_str())) {
cout << kfsdirname << "\n";
return 0;
}
if ((res = kfsClient->Readdir(kfsdirname.c_str(), entries)) < 0) {
cerr << kfsdirname << ": " << ErrorCodeToStr(res) << "\n";
return res;
}
// we could provide info of whether the thing is a dir...but, later
for (i = 0; i < entries.size(); ++i) {
if (entries[i] == "." || entries[i] == "..") {
continue;
}
cout << entries[i] << "\n";
}
return 0;
}
int
doDirListPlusAttr(KfsClient *kfsClient, string kfsdirname, bool humanReadable,
bool timeInSecs, bool recursive, bool longMode, int level)
{
string kfssubdir, subdir;
int res;
vector<KfsFileAttr> fileInfo;
vector<KfsFileAttr>::size_type i;
if (level == 0 && kfsClient->IsFile(kfsdirname.c_str())) {
KfsFileAttr attr;
kfsClient->Stat(kfsdirname.c_str(), attr);
cout << kfsdirname;
printAttrInfo(kfsClient, attr, humanReadable, timeInSecs, longMode);
return 0;
}
if ((res = kfsClient->ReaddirPlus(kfsdirname.c_str(), fileInfo)) < 0) {
cerr << kfsdirname << ": " << ErrorCodeToStr(res) << endl;
return res;
}
string prefix;
if (recursive) {
prefix = kfsdirname;
if (! prefix.empty() && prefix[prefix.length() - 1] != '/') {
prefix += "/";
}
}
for (i = 0; i < fileInfo.size(); ++i) {
if (fileInfo[i].isDirectory &&
(fileInfo[i].filename == "." ||
fileInfo[i].filename == "..")) {
continue;
}
cout << prefix << fileInfo[i].filename;
printAttrInfo(kfsClient, fileInfo[i], humanReadable, timeInSecs, longMode);
if (recursive && fileInfo[i].isDirectory) {
const int ret = doDirListPlusAttr(
kfsClient, prefix + fileInfo[i].filename, humanReadable,
timeInSecs, recursive, longMode, ++level);
if (ret && ! res) {
res = ret;
}
}
}
return res;
}
typedef map<kfsUid_t, string, less<kfsUid_t>,
StdFastAllocator<pair<const kfsUid_t, string> >
> UserNames;
typedef map<kfsGid_t, string, less<kfsGid_t>,
StdFastAllocator<pair<const kfsGid_t, string> >
> GroupNames;
static UserNames sUserNames;
static GroupNames sGroupNames;
void
printAttrInfo(KfsClient *client, const KfsFileAttr& attr,
bool humanReadable, bool timeInSecs, bool longMode)
{
if (! longMode) {
cout << (attr.isDirectory ? "/\n" : "\n");
return;
}
char timeBuf[256];
if (timeInSecs) {
snprintf(timeBuf, sizeof(timeBuf), "%lld",
(long long)attr.mtime.tv_sec);
} else {
getTimeString(attr.mtime.tv_sec, timeBuf);
}
if (attr.isDirectory) {
cout << "/\t<dir>\t";
} else if (attr.striperType != KFS_STRIPED_FILE_TYPE_NONE) {
cout << "\t<r" <<
(attr.striperType != KFS_STRIPED_FILE_TYPE_UNKNOWN ? "s " : " ") <<
attr.numReplicas << "," <<
attr.numStripes << "+" << attr.numRecoveryStripes <<
">\t";
} else {
cout << "\t<r " << attr.numReplicas << ">\t";
}
if (attr.mode == kKfsModeUndef) {
cout << "-\t";
} else {
for (int i = 8; i > 0; ) {
const char* perm[2] = {"---", "rwx"};
for (int k = 0; k < 3; k++) {
cout << perm[(attr.mode >> i--) & 1][k];
}
}
if (attr.isDirectory && attr.IsSticky()) {
cout << "t";
}
cout << "\t";
}
if (attr.user == kKfsUserNone) {
cout << "-\t";
} else {
UserNames::const_iterator it = sUserNames.find(attr.user);
if (it == sUserNames.end()) {
string user;
string group;
client->GetUserAndGroupNames(
attr.user, attr.group, user, group);
it = sUserNames.insert(make_pair(attr.user, user)).first;
sGroupNames[attr.group] = group;
}
cout << it->second << "\t";
}
if (attr.group == kKfsGroupNone) {
cout << "-\t";
} else {
GroupNames::const_iterator it = sGroupNames.find(attr.group);
if (it == sGroupNames.end()) {
string user;
string group;
client->GetUserAndGroupNames(
attr.user, attr.group, user, group);
it = sGroupNames.insert(make_pair(attr.group, group)).first;
sUserNames[attr.user] = user;
}
cout << it->second << "\t";
}
if (! attr.isDirectory || attr.fileSize >= 0) {
if (humanReadable) {
cout << fixed << setprecision(1) << right << setw(5);
if (attr.fileSize < (1 << 10)) {
cout << attr.fileSize;
} else if (attr.fileSize < (1 << 20)) {
cout << (double)(attr.fileSize) / (1 << 10) << "K";
} else if (attr.fileSize < (1 << 30)) {
cout << (double)(attr.fileSize) / (1 << 20) << "M";
} else if (attr.fileSize < (int64_t(1) << 40)) {
cout << (double)(attr.fileSize) / (1 << 30) << "G";
} else {
cout << (double)(attr.fileSize) / (int64_t(1) << 40) << "T";
}
} else {
cout << attr.fileSize;
}
}
cout << '\t' << timeBuf << "\n";
}
void
getTimeString(time_t time, char *buf, int bufLen)
{
struct tm locTime;
localtime_r(&time, &locTime);
strftime(buf, bufLen, "%b %e %H:%M", &locTime);
}
}} // KFS::tools
|
A Still, Small Voice and a Throbbing Heart
In 1995 I was invited to give a welcome and some opening remarks at a scientific seminar in Salt Lake City on the subject of child nutrition. Ninety-six scientists from 24 countries attended. As I surveyed the audience during my remarks, I was impressed by the many nations represented, as evidenced by their dress, skin color, language, and other distinguishing features.
Three or four months later I attended a stake conference on the East Coast of the United States. As I sat on the stand in preparation for the priesthood leadership session, an African man entered the chapel and sat down by the aisle. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I might have seen him. I leaned over and asked the stake president who the man was. The stake president answered, “Oh, he is not a member of the Church. He is a visiting professor from Africa teaching at a prestigious university in the area. A few months ago he attended some kind of scientific seminar in Salt Lake City. He picked up a pamphlet about the Church, which led him to read everything he could find about the Church. He now attends every meeting possible.” Half in jest, the stake president then said, “I would be surprised if he were not attending Relief Society meetings.”
After the priesthood leadership meeting, I reintroduced myself to the visiting professor. He affirmed his excitement for this newly discovered source of truth. He explained that his family, still in Africa, was studying with the missionaries and would be joining him in America in about four weeks, at which time they would all be baptized together.
At the conclusion of the Saturday evening adult session, this man came rushing to the podium and, thumping his chest, excitedly declared, “My heart is throbbing just like this. I can hardly contain it in my body. I don’t know if I can wait the four weeks for my family to be baptized.” I suggested he ought to slow down his heart and wait for his wife and children, so all could be baptized together.
When Elijah was fleeing for his life from the wicked Phoenician princess Jezebel, the Lord directed him to a high mountain, where he had a most unusual experience. As Elijah stood upon the mount before the Lord, he felt “a great and strong wind … ; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice” (1 Kgs. 19:11–12).
I am occasionally asked by those not of our faith why it is that our Church grows so rapidly, in both membership and activity, while other churches are reportedly declining in both. The answer to that question is simply a still, small voice and then a throbbing heart. In this busy, tumultuous, and noisy world, it is not like a wind, it is not like a fire, it is not like an earthquake; but it is a still, small, but a very discernible voice, and it causes a throbbing heart. It is a quiet burning within that this is the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, with all of its doctrine, priesthood, and covenants that had been lost through the many centuries of darkness and confusion. Yes, it is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that testifies of the miracle of the Restoration.
It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that motivates millions of members to emulate the life of Jesus in word, deed, and service. It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that motivates thousands of retired couples to serve missions, usually for 18 months or longer. They put aside the comforts of life to go into the world, serving others at their own expense and at what some would consider substantial sacrifice, often serving in remote parts of the world where a hot shower and a comfortable bed are luxuries that linger only in their memories.
It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that causes hundreds of thousands of young men and women to leave promising professions, put off their education (sometimes leaving athletic and other scholarships), or delay romances to serve the Lord at their own expense to declare the Restoration of the gospel. It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that gives our young people the desire and courage to stand for purity, honesty, and principle, even at the expense of sometimes being ridiculed and rejected. It is a still, small voice and a throbbing heart that motivates one to joyfully keep God’s commandments and share the burdens of those less fortunate. Yes, there is power in a still, small voice and a throbbing heart.
Alma had his way of asking about the spiritual condition of our hearts. He asks, “Have ye spiritually been born of God?” And then: “Have ye received his image in your countenances? Have ye experienced this mighty change in your hearts?” (Alma 5:14; e”mphasis added). In other words, is your heart throbbing with a testimony of Jesus Christ?
May I tell you just three things of many that cause my heart to throb? First, my heart throbs with the knowledge that Jesus Christ is my personal Savior and that His love for me was sufficient that He would suffer unimaginable pain and even death. My heart throbs when in the solitude of my deep thoughts I realize I can be cleansed, purified, and redeemed through the blood of Jesus Christ. My heart throbs when I contemplate the price that was paid—the suffering incurred to spare me of similar personal suffering for my sins and transgressions.
Second, my heart throbs with the knowledge that a young boy, only 14 years of age, went into a grove of trees and from a simple, humble prayer the heavens opened, God and Christ appeared, and angels descended. And thus, the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ was restored with all of its priesthood, covenants, and purity of doctrine. My heart throbs when I consider what this boy prophet endured to bring about the fulness of the restored gospel. While heavenly angels were descending, Satan’s angels were also at work. The persecutions began, and like the lives of prophets of old, Joseph’s life culminated in his martyrdom. Throughout all his trials and persecutions, the young prophet remained steadfast and determined.
Because of the Prophet Joseph Smith, I understand more fully the magnitude of Christ’s Atonement. Because of the Prophet Joseph, I better understand the significance of the Garden of Gethsemane—a place of great suffering as Christ assumed our personal suffering not only for our sins, but also for our pains, infirmities, trials, and tragedies. I understand the infinite and eternal nature of His great and last sacrifice. I better understand the love our Savior exemplified in His last redeeming act. Because of Joseph Smith, my love and gratitude for the Savior is magnified and my worship more meaningful. Among the many hymns in our hymnbook written by W. W. Phelps is the familiar song with the words “Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!” (“Praise to the Man,” Hymns, no. 27). My heart throbs as I sing that song.
Yes, because we sing with enthusiasm and gusto, “Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah!” we sing about the Savior with even more reverence, emotion, and gratitude with the words “Oh, it is wonderful that he should care for me / Enough to die for me! / Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!” (“I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns, no. 193). My heart throbs because of the enlightenment the Prophet Joseph brought to my life regarding the personal effect of the Atonement of my Savior.
Third, my heart throbs as I study and ponder the sacred scriptures in the Book of Mormon, as it complements the Bible and further testifies of the divinity of Jesus Christ as the Son of God, the Redeemer and Savior of the world. Because of this sacred companion to the Bible, my understanding of Christ’s doctrine is expanded; thus many of the questions left unanswered in the Bible are explained to my full satisfaction. The Book of Mormon is tangible evidence that Joseph is a prophet of God, Christ did in reality appear to him, and the gospel has been restored in its purity and its fulness.
My heart throbs just to contemplate the miracle of the Book of Mormon’s existence—the laborious job of engraving on metal plates, the careful custodianship through the centuries by God’s chosen, and the miraculous translation. Truly it fits the perfect definition of holy writ. Because of God’s majestic love for us, He provided this evidence that we can handle, we can peruse, we can study, and we can even challenge. But, most important, God loves me enough that He will give me and anyone else who sincerely seeks a personal revelation of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon—the tangible evidence of the Restoration and that Joseph Smith was a true prophet.
In speaking of this sacred knowledge, the Book of Mormon prophet Alma testifies:
“Do ye not suppose that I know of these things myself? Behold, I testify unto you that I do know that these things whereof I have spoken are true. And how do ye suppose that I know of their surety?
“Behold, I say unto you they are made known unto me by the Holy Spirit of God. Behold, I have fasted and prayed many days that I might know these things of myself. And now I do know of myself that they are true; for the Lord God hath made them manifest unto me by his Holy Spirit; and this is the spirit of revelation” (Alma 5:45–46).
Like Alma of old, each of us, members and sincere investigators alike, can know with surety that these things are true. It is our great privilege to know. It is more than a privilege; it is our responsibility to know. It is our enormous loss to not know when such a privilege is given. The Lord has said, “Knock, and it shall be opened unto you” (Matt. 7:7). The Book of Mormon prophet Jacob says, “Come with full purpose of heart” (Jacob 6:5). We do not need to rely upon intellect or our physical senses. We study, we pray, and, like Alma of old, we may even fast, and then comes a still, small voice and a throbbing heart. Imagine a personal revelation from God that these things are true. The very thought of it makes my heart throb. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen. |
Microbiologically influenced corrosion (MIC) is a serious problem in the oil and gas industry, as well as other industries such as water utilities. Sulfate reducing bacteria (SRB) biofilms are often found to be the main cause for MIC pitting attacks. Pitting corrosion due to SRB has been found to be responsible for pipeline failures. MIC pitting was identified as the primary suspect for the 2006 Alaska oil pipeline leak. Acid producing bacteria and other microorganisms have also been found to contribute to MIC.
In addition, biofouling by microbes, especially microbes in the form of biofilms, is a major problem in many industries, such as oil and gas, water utilities, power plants (especially cooling systems, such as chilled water systems and cooling towers), and fresh-water and salt-water shipping. Microbes in biofilms are far more difficult to treat than planktonic cells of the same microbes. One particular type of biofouling is reservoir souring, which is often the result of biogenic H2S production by SRB. Current treatments for SRB are partially effective; however, SRB are very resilient because the sessile SRB in biofilms formed on rock and soil surfaces underground are very difficult to eradicate. In shale oil and gas production, biofouling by microbes can plug the rock and soil pores resulting in reduced flow of oil and gas. In addition, biofouling is particularly troublesome in membrane filtration processes. The biofilms form and grow on the membrane and reduce throughput and shorten the membrane life span. Moreover, biofouling is also a problem in common households such as in kitchens and bathrooms. In biofouling situations, the recalcitrance of the biofilm makes it far more difficult to treat than treating a system with only planktonic cells. Unfortunately, an overwhelming majority of microbes prefer to organize as a biofilm community.
Mechanical cleaning, including line pigging, and biocide treatment are common methods for mitigating the effects of biofilms. Tetrakis hydroxymethyl phosphonium sulfate (THPS), a non-oxidizing biocide, is widely used due to its broad-spectrum and excellent biodegradability. Such biocides are generally effective for treating planktonic cells. However, the sessile cells in a biofilm, whether it is corrosive or only causes fouling, are far more difficult to treat than planktonic cells because the biofilm provides good protection from antibacterial agents and other unfavorable environmental influences. In fact, the biocide dosage required to eradicate sessile cells in an established biofilm is often tenfold higher, or more, than the dosage needed to eradicate planktonic cells. |
In order to prevent oxygen oxidation and store various types of articles, represented by foods, beverages, medicinal products, cosmetics, etc., which easily deteriorate or degrade under the effect of oxygen for a long time, oxygen absorbents are used for removing oxygen within packaging bodies storing these articles.
As the oxygen absorbent, an oxygen absorbent containing an iron powder as a reactive main component is generally used in view of oxygen-absorbing ability, handling and safety. However, the iron-based oxygen absorbent is responsive to a metal detector and thus it is difficult to use a metal detector in inspecting foreign matter. Furthermore, packaging bodies containing an iron-based oxygen absorbent have a risk of ignition, and thus, they cannot be heated by a microwave oven. Moreover, the oxidation reaction of an iron powder requires water, and thus, an oxygen-absorbing effect is exerted only on an article to be packaged rich in moisture content.
Packaging containers are developed by making the container of a multilayer material having an oxygen-absorbing layer formed of an oxygen-absorbing resin composition containing a thermoplastic resin and an iron-based oxygen absorbent, thereby improving a gas barrier property of the container and providing an oxygen-absorbing function to the container itself (see, Patent Literature 1). To describe more specifically, the oxygen-absorbing multilayer film is used in the form having an oxygen-absorbing layer, which is optionally a thermoplastic resin layer having an oxygen absorbent dispersed in an intermediate layer formed of a thermoplastic resin, between layers of a conventional gas barrier multilayer film formed by stacking a heat sealing layer and a gas barrier layer, thereby adding a function of absorbing oxygen within the container to a function of preventing oxygen transmission from outside, and is manufactured by use of a conventional manufacturing method known in the art such as extrusion lamination, coextrusion lamination and dry lamination. However, such an oxygen-absorbing multilayer film has the same problems: a metal detector for inspecting foreign matter for foods etc. cannot be used; heating cannot be made by a microwave oven; and the effect is only exerted on an article to be packaged rich in moisture content. In addition, the multilayer film has a problem of opacity, leading to insufficient visibility of content. A multilayer film using an oxygen absorbent such as an iron powder, has problems: the film is detected by a metal detector used in inspection of foreign matter in foods etc.; the film is opaque, leading to insufficient visibility of content; and if an alcohol beverage is contained, iron reacts with alcohol to produce aldehyde, reducing taste and flavor.
In the aforementioned circumstances, it has been desired to develop an oxygen absorbent containing an organic substance as a reactive main component. As the oxygen absorbent containing an organic substance as a reactive main component, an oxygen absorbent containing ascorbic acid as a main component is known (see, Patent Literature 2).
In the meantime, an oxygen-absorbing resin composition composed of a resin and a transition metal catalyst is known. For example, a resin composition composed of a polyamide as an oxidizable organic component (in particular, a xylylene group-containing polyamide) and a transition metal catalyst, is known (see, Patent Literatures 3 and 4). In Patent Literatures 3 and 4, articles obtained by molding such a resin composition, such as an oxygen absorbent, a packaging material and a multilayer laminated film for packaging are further exemplified.
As an oxygen-absorbing resin composition requiring no moisture content for absorbing oxygen, an oxygen-absorbing resin composition composed of a resin having a carbon-carbon unsaturated bond and a transition metal catalyst, is known (see, Patent Literature 5).
As a composition for trapping oxygen, a composition composed of a polymer containing a substituted cyclohexene functional group or a low molecular-weight substance bound with the cyclohexene ring and a transition metal is known (see, Patent Literature 6).
In the meantime, injection molding, by which molded articles having a complicate-shape can be manufactured in a high yield, has been used for manufacturing a wide variety of products including machine parts, automotive parts, electric/electronic parts, containers for foods or medical products, etc. Recently, as packaging containers, variety types of plastic containers have been widely used because they have advantages of light-weight, transparency, moldability, etc. As a typical plastic container for a beverage, an injection-molded article having a screw thread cutting on the bottle neck designed to sufficiently screw the lid, has been frequently used.
As a material for use in injection-molded articles, general thermoplastic resins such as a polyolefin (polyethylene, polypropylene, etc.), a polyester and a polystyrene are mentioned. Particularly, injection-molded articles mainly formed of a polyester such as polyethylene terephthalate (PET) are used in a wide variety of plastic containers for beverages such as tea, fruit juice beverages, carbonated beverages and alcohol beverages. However, although an injection-molded article mainly formed of a thermoplastic resin is excellent as a packaging material, oxygen tends to easily transmit from the outside, unlike glass bottles and metal containers. Thus, even if a content is packed and hermetically closed therein, the storage stability of the content is still questioned. Accordingly, injection-molded articles having a gas barrier layer as an intermediate layer in order to provide a gas barrier property to such injection-molded articles composed of a general resin have been put into practical use.
In the meantime, as medical packaging containers for packaging and storing a drug solution in a sealed condition, glass ampoules, vials, prefilled syringes, etc. have been conventionally used. However, these glass containers have problems: sodium ion etc. elute off from the container to a liquid content stored therein; and micro substances called flakes generate; when a light-blocking glass container colored with a metal is used, the content is contaminated with the coloring metal; and the container is easily broken by drop impact. In addition to these problems, since glass containers have a relatively large specific gravity, medical packaging containers become heavy. For these reasons, development of alternate materials has been desired. To be more specific, materials lighter than glass, such as a polyester, a polycarbonate, a polypropylene and a cycloolefin polymer, have been investigated as glass alternatives.
For example, a medical container formed of a polyester resin material is proposed (see, Patent Literature 7).
In the meantime, a multilayer container having a gas barrier layer as an intermediate layer in order to provide a gas barrier property to a container made of plastic, has been investigated. Specifically, a prefilled syringe improved in oxygen barrier property by constituting the innermost layer and the outermost layer formed of a polyolefin resin and an intermediate layer formed of a resin composition excellent in oxygen barrier property is proposed (see, Patent Literature 8). Other than this, multilayer containers obtained by laminating a gas barrier layer formed of e.g., a polyamide (hereinafter, sometimes referred to as “nylon MXD6”), which is obtained from metaxylylenediamine and adipic acid, an ethylene-vinyl alcohol copolymer, a polyacrylonitrile, a poly(vinylidene chloride), an aluminum foil, a carbon coat or a vapor-deposited inorganic oxide, on a resin layer, have been investigated.
In recent years, it has been proposed that a small amount of transition metal compound is added to nylon MXD6 and mixed to provide an oxygen-absorbing function and the resultant material is used as an oxygen barrier material constituting containers and packaging materials (see, Patent Literature 9).
As a method for improving storage stability of foods etc. and preventing degradation of taste and flavor thereof, a technique of charging a deoxidized nitrogen gas in a package is known. In the technique, a metal can or a glass bottle is filled with e.g., an alcohol beverage such as sake, wine and shochu, a fruit juice, a vegetable juice, a broth or a tea beverage, and then, filled with nitrogen gas and sealed. However, metal cans and glass bottles inevitably have a problem of a non-combustible waste treatment. In addition, reducing weight is still demanded. Particularly when a metal can is used, elution of a metal component into the content is a problem. Because of this, alternation of metal cans and glass bottles to plastic containers such as a gas barrier multilayer container, has been widely investigated also in the food fields. |
--TEST--
gmp_clrbit() basic tests
--SKIPIF--
<?php if (!extension_loaded("gmp")) print "skip"; ?>
--FILE--
<?php
$n = gmp_init(0);
gmp_clrbit($n, 0);
var_dump(gmp_strval($n));
$n = gmp_init(-1);
try {
gmp_clrbit($n, -1);
} catch (\ValueError $e) {
echo $e->getMessage() . \PHP_EOL;
}
var_dump(gmp_strval($n));
$n = gmp_init("1000000");
try {
gmp_clrbit($n, -1);
} catch (\ValueError $e) {
echo $e->getMessage() . \PHP_EOL;
}
var_dump(gmp_strval($n));
$n = gmp_init("1000000");
gmp_clrbit($n, 3);
var_dump(gmp_strval($n));
$n = gmp_init("238462734628347239571823641234");
gmp_clrbit($n, 3);
gmp_clrbit($n, 5);
gmp_clrbit($n, 20);
var_dump(gmp_strval($n));
$n = array();
try {
gmp_clrbit($n, 3);
} catch (TypeError $e) {
echo $e->getMessage(), "\n";
}
echo "Done\n";
?>
--EXPECT--
string(1) "0"
gmp_clrbit(): Argument #2 ($index) must be greater than or equal to 0
string(2) "-1"
gmp_clrbit(): Argument #2 ($index) must be greater than or equal to 0
string(7) "1000000"
string(7) "1000000"
string(30) "238462734628347239571822592658"
gmp_clrbit(): Argument #1 ($a) must be of type GMP, array given
Done
|
Boston to Host 95th Annual NFHS Summer Meeting
The 95th annual National Federation of State High School Associations (NFHS) Summer Meeting will be held June 28-July 2 at the Boston Marriott Copley Place in Boston, Massachusetts. The NFHS is the national leadership organization for high school athletic and performing arts activities and is composed of state high school associations in the 50 states plus the District of Columbia.
About 900 individuals are expected to attend the Summer Meeting, including staff members and board members from the 51 member associations.
The 32nd annual induction ceremony of the National High School Hall of Fame and discussion of several key issues affecting high school sports and performing arts highlight this year’s agenda.
Five outstanding former high school athletes, including legendary Cleveland Browns’ tight end Ozzie Newsome from Alabama, pro basketball star Anfernee “Penny” Hardaway from Tennessee, former Major League Baseball players Michael Devereaux (Wyoming) and Casey Blake (Iowa), and track and field star Suzy Powell (California) headline the 2014 class of the National High School Hall of Fame.
Newsome was a three-sport standout at Colbert County High School in Leighton, Alabama, before becoming one of the greatest tight ends in NFL history. Hardaway scored more than 3,000 points in his career at Memphis (Tennessee) Treadwell High School and later was an All-American at Memphis State University (now the University of Memphis) and a four-time all-star in the NBA. Blake was a four-sport athlete at Indianola (Iowa) High School and was named one of the top 10 athletes in Iowa history before enjoying a 13-year professional career. Devereaux was one of the greatest high school athletes in Wyoming history at Kelly Walsh High School in Casper. His 12-year professional baseball career included two World Series wins with the Los Angeles Dodgers and Atlanta Braves. Powell set the national high school discus record at Thomas Downey High School in Modesto, California, which stood for 15 years. She later competed in three Olympics.
Among the topics that will be discussed at the 45 workshops during the NFHS Summer Meeting are promoting positive academic impact of participation in activities, social media marketing, components of successful spirit programs, participation opportunities for students with disabilities, sportsmanship, branding, transgender policies, values of middle school interscholastic activities and legal issues.
The Summer Meeting will kick off on June 29 with the Opening General Session featuring a “We Are High School®” student program. Along with the seventh annual National High School Spirit of Sport Award ceremony, the NFHS will present – for the first time – its performing arts counterpart – the National High School Heart of the Arts Award.
Zach Pickett of Shingle Springs (California) Ponderosa High School will receive the National High School Spirit of Sport Award, and Leia Schwartz of Miami (Florida) Coral Reef High School will receive the National High School Heart of the Arts Award.
The Second General Session on June 30 will feature NFHS President Harold Slemmer, NFHS Executive Director Bob Gardner and USA Paralympic Athlete Jerome Singleton, Jr. The Closing General Session on Wednesday, July 2, will feature best-selling author and humorist Ross Shafer.
The Summer Meeting Luncheon will be held at 12 p.m. on July 1, and will feature the presentation of NFHS Citations to 12 individuals. State association honorees include Paul Hoey of Connecticut, Brad Cashman of Pennsylvania, Gary Phillips of Georgia, Sandy Searcy of Indiana, Debra Velder of Nebraska, Wadie Moore of Arkansas, Marie Ishida of California and Gary Matthews of Alaska.
The Summer Meeting will conclude at 6 p.m., July 2 with the induction of the 2014 class of the National High School Hall of Fame.
High school coaches slated for induction this year include Bob McDonald, basketball coach at Chisholm (Minnesota) High School who retired this year after a legendary 59-year coaching career; Morgan Gilbert, who retired last year from Tuckerman (Arkansas) High School after winning more than 1,000 games as both a basketball coach and baseball coach during a 48-year career; Katie Horstman, who started the girls sports program at Minster (Ohio) High School in 1972 and led the girls track team to eight state championships; and Frank Pecora, who becomes Vermont’s first inductee in the National High School Hall of Fame after leading Northfield (Vermont) High School to 15 state baseball championships.
Other members of the 2014 induction class are George Demetriou, a football and baseball official from Colorado Springs, Colorado, who is a state and national officiating leader in both sports; Sheryl Solberg, a state and national leader in the development of girls athletics programs during her 34 years as assistant to the executive secretary of the North Dakota High School Activities Association; and Randy Pierce, a state and national debate leader who coached debate at Pattonville High School in Maryland Heights, Missouri, for almost 40 years before retiring in 2012.
This press release was written by Matthew Costakis, a 2014 summer intern in the NFHS Publications/Communications Department. He will be a junior this fall at DePauw (Indiana) University studying communications and English writing. |
// Copyright 2012 the V8 project authors. All rights reserved.
// Redistribution and use in source and binary forms, with or without
// modification, are permitted provided that the following conditions are
// met:
//
// * Redistributions of source code must retain the above copyright
// notice, this list of conditions and the following disclaimer.
// * Redistributions in binary form must reproduce the above
// copyright notice, this list of conditions and the following
// disclaimer in the documentation and/or other materials provided
// with the distribution.
// * Neither the name of Google Inc. nor the names of its
// contributors may be used to endorse or promote products derived
// from this software without specific prior written permission.
//
// THIS SOFTWARE IS PROVIDED BY THE COPYRIGHT HOLDERS AND CONTRIBUTORS
// "AS IS" AND ANY EXPRESS OR IMPLIED WARRANTIES, INCLUDING, BUT NOT
// LIMITED TO, THE IMPLIED WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY AND FITNESS FOR
// A PARTICULAR PURPOSE ARE DISCLAIMED. IN NO EVENT SHALL THE COPYRIGHT
// OWNER OR CONTRIBUTORS BE LIABLE FOR ANY DIRECT, INDIRECT, INCIDENTAL,
// SPECIAL, EXEMPLARY, OR CONSEQUENTIAL DAMAGES (INCLUDING, BUT NOT
// LIMITED TO, PROCUREMENT OF SUBSTITUTE GOODS OR SERVICES; LOSS OF USE,
// DATA, OR PROFITS; OR BUSINESS INTERRUPTION) HOWEVER CAUSED AND ON ANY
// THEORY OF LIABILITY, WHETHER IN CONTRACT, STRICT LIABILITY, OR TORT
// (INCLUDING NEGLIGENCE OR OTHERWISE) ARISING IN ANY WAY OUT OF THE USE
// OF THIS SOFTWARE, EVEN IF ADVISED OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.
// Flags: --allow-natives-syntax
var ordering = [];
function reset() {
ordering = [];
}
function assertArrayValues(expected, actual) {
assertEquals(expected.length, actual.length);
for (var i = 0; i < expected.length; i++) {
assertEquals(expected[i], actual[i]);
}
}
function assertOrdering(expected) {
%RunMicrotasks();
assertArrayValues(expected, ordering);
}
function newPromise(id, fn) {
var r;
var t = 1;
var promise = new Promise(function(resolve) {
r = resolve;
if (fn) fn();
});
var next = promise.then(function(value) {
ordering.push('p' + id);
return value;
});
return {
resolve: r,
then: function(fn) {
next = next.then(function(value) {
ordering.push('p' + id + ':' + t++);
return fn ? fn(value) : value;
});
return this;
}
};
}
function newObserver(id, fn, obj) {
var observer = {
value: 1,
recordCounts: []
};
Object.observe(observer, function(records) {
ordering.push('o' + id);
observer.recordCounts.push(records.length);
if (fn) fn();
});
return observer;
}
(function PromiseThens() {
reset();
var p1 = newPromise(1).then();
var p2 = newPromise(2).then();
p1.resolve();
p2.resolve();
assertOrdering(['p1', 'p2', 'p1:1', 'p2:1']);
})();
(function ObserversBatch() {
reset();
var p1 = newPromise(1);
var p2 = newPromise(2);
var p3 = newPromise(3);
var ob1 = newObserver(1);
var ob2 = newObserver(2, function() {
ob3.value++;
p3.resolve();
ob1.value++;
});
var ob3 = newObserver(3);
p1.resolve();
ob1.value++;
p2.resolve();
ob2.value++;
assertOrdering(['p1', 'o1', 'o2', 'p2', 'o1', 'o3', 'p3']);
assertArrayValues([1, 1], ob1.recordCounts);
assertArrayValues([1], ob2.recordCounts);
assertArrayValues([1], ob3.recordCounts);
})();
(function ObserversGetAllRecords() {
reset();
var p1 = newPromise(1);
var p2 = newPromise(2);
var ob1 = newObserver(1, function() {
ob2.value++;
});
var ob2 = newObserver(2);
p1.resolve();
ob1.value++;
p2.resolve();
ob2.value++;
assertOrdering(['p1', 'o1', 'o2', 'p2']);
assertArrayValues([1], ob1.recordCounts);
assertArrayValues([2], ob2.recordCounts);
})();
(function NewObserverDeliveryGetsNewMicrotask() {
reset();
var p1 = newPromise(1);
var p2 = newPromise(2);
var ob1 = newObserver(1);
var ob2 = newObserver(2, function() {
ob1.value++;
});
p1.resolve();
ob1.value++;
p2.resolve();
ob2.value++;
assertOrdering(['p1', 'o1', 'o2', 'p2', 'o1']);
assertArrayValues([1, 1], ob1.recordCounts);
assertArrayValues([1], ob2.recordCounts);
})();
|
1. Field of the Invention
The present invention relates to an electrical machine, which is reversible as a starter and generator for an internal combustion engine, especially an internal combustion engine of a motor vehicle. Such machines have been developed because they make it possible to unite the two functions of starting the engine and generating electrical current, which is needed. for the on-board systems of a vehicle, such as ignition, lighting, and so forth, in a single electrical machine and thus to save both weight and expense.
2. Description of the Related Art
In such electrical machines, however, the problem arises that for the generator mode and the starter mode of the electrical machine, different gear ratios are needed, so that a reversible gear must be provided that makes it possible to generate these different gear ratios in accordance with whichever function of the electrical machine is required just at that time.
A two-stage planetary gear is known from German Patent Disclosure DE 36 04 395. This reference teaches the use of such a gear in an automatic transmission of a motor vehicle for setting various gear ratios that correspond to the various gears, that is, speeds, in gear shifting and act on the chassis of the motor vehicle. The force transmission is always in the same direction here, namely from the engine to the chassis. This reference provides no information on the starter or the generator of the vehicle.
Another example of a two-stage planetary gear is known from German Patent Disclosure DE 19 531 043 A1. The planetary gear discussed in this reference is intended to be driven by a motor, in particular a motor of an electrical power tool, such as a power drill, and is intended to drive a tool with an adjustable gear ratio. Only one of the two stages is assigned a locking device that can prevent any rotation of the ring gear of this stage.
It is an object of the present invention to provide an improved electrical machine for an internal combustion engine of the above-describe kind, which is switchable for operation as a starter or a generator of the internal combustion engine with simple means.
According to the invention the electrical machine is synchronous or asynchronous and is alternately operable as a starter or as a generator of the internal combustion engine. This electrical machine comprises a two-stage planetary gear device coupled to a shaft of the internal combustion engine, in which each stage includes a plurality of gears, and respective braking devices assigned to the two stages to halt a rotary motion therein. The two-stage planetary gear device includes means for operation with a different gear ratio in a starter mode than in a generator mode.
The electrical machine of the present invention, which alternately functions as a starter or a generator for an internal combustion engine, advantageously includes simple means for switchover between gear ratios optimally adapted to the operation of the electrical machine as a starter and as a generator respectively.
Desirable gear ratios, for example for the use of a claw pole machine (synchronous or asynchronous machine) as an electrical machine are a gear ratio range of 1.6 to 4 for the generator mode and 4 to 60 in the starter mode. The spread, that is, the ratio of the gear ratios to one another, should be at least 2.
The brake force can be exerted in a simple way, in particular by the engagement of a braking device with a ring gear of the planetary gear. Shoe brakes, lamination brakes or friction belt brakes can in particular be considered for the braking devices.
In a first preferred embodiment of the electrical machine, the planetary gear includes two sun wheels solidly connected to the engine shaft and two sets of planet wheels, each meshing with one of the sun wheels and with a ring gear, and the planet wheels of both sets are rotatably mounted on a planet carrier that in turn is solidly connected to a starter or generator shaft, in order to transmit a rotary motion to the generator shaft, or from the generator shaft to the planet carrier. In this construction, by braking one of the two ring gears, a rotary force can be transmitted between the sun wheel of the braked stage of the two-stage gear and the planet carrier, while the other stage rotates freely.
This construction makes an especially compact design possible, in which the dimensions of the two ring a gears are identical. This reduces the number of different components of the gear that are required and makes more-rational and more-economical production possible.
In a second preferred embodiment, the planetary gear includes two sun wheels, of which one is solidly connected to the engine shaft and one to the starter or generator shaft, and two sets of planet wheels, each meshing with one of the sun wheels and one of the ring gears. The planet wheels of the two sets are connected in pairs on a common axle in a manner fixed against relative rotation. In a variant of this embodiment, the ring gear of one stage can be omitted.
In a third preferred embodiment, the two-stage planetary gear includes two sun wheels, one of them solidly connected to the engine shaft and the other to a starter or generator shaft, and two sets of planet wheels, each meshing with one of the sun wheels; the planet wheels of the two sets mesh with one another in pairs. A planetary gear of this kind requires only one ring gear.
In the second and third embodiment, the second braking device preferably does not engage a ring gear but instead is arranged to block the planetary motion of the planet wheels, or in other words their rotation about the shafts.
To that end, the planet wheels of both sets are preferably mounted rotatably on a common planet carrier, and the second braking device engages this planet carrier.
To simplify the control of the planetary gear, a common adjusting device for actuating both braking devices is preferably provided, which has at least one working position in which the first braking device is open and the second is closed, one working position in which the second braking device is open and the first is closed, and an idling position in which both braking devices are open. These positions can be set or adjusted by a control element that is movable with one degree of freedom. This degree of freedom is preferably a rotation, so that the adjusting device can be actuated simply, for instance with the aid of arbitrary conventional electrical machines.
To assure a gentle transition between the two gear ratio states of the gear, each corresponding to one working position of the adjusting device, the adjusting device can preferably be moved past the idling position from one working position to the other.
It is also expedient that the adjusting device can be moved past one working position to a braking position, in which the braking device that is open in the working position begins to be braked. The term xe2x80x9cbegins to be brakedxe2x80x9d is understood to mean a state of the braking device in which the braking moment is other than zero, but is limited enough that an overload on the gear and the drive train is precluded. The complete closure of one braking device should be allowed by the adjusting device only whenever the other braking device is not also closed at the same time.
In a first preferred embodiment of the adjusting device, in which the braking devices are actuatable by adjusting motions parallel to one axle of the gear, the adjusting device includes two ramps, rotatable about this axle, for converting a rotary motion into an adjusting motion of the braking devices. To couple the actuation of the braking devices, it suffices for the two ramps to be connected in a manner fixed against relative rotation. An adjusting device of this kind is particularly suitable for use where lamination brakes are the braking devices.
In a second embodiment of the adjusting device, in which the braking devices are actuatable by an adjusting motion perpendicular to an axle of the gear, the adjusting device has at least one cam disk and levers, interacting with the cam disk, for converting a rotation of the cam disk into an adjusting motion of the braking devices. It is understood that each lever and thus each braking device may also be assigned its own cam disk. This embodiment is suitable in particular for use in conjunction with shoe brakes as the braking devices.
Further characteristics and advantages of the invention will become apparent from the ensuing description of exemplary embodiments. |
Surgeon prepares first voice-box transplant
By Roger Highfield
12:00AM GMT 29 Nov 2000
A SURGEON has been awarded £1.2 million to prepare for the first full voice-box transplantation.
Within a few years, Martin Birchall hopes to conduct a larynx transplant that will restore the ability of cancer patients to speak - they will keep their intonation and accent but will speak with the tonal qualities of the dead donor's voice box. The larynx is a gatekeeper that allows people to breathe, stops food from going down the wrong way, contains the vocal cords and seems to help to protect the body from infection and allergy.
Removal of the larynx, due to cancer, means more than losing the ability to speak: it plays a role in kissing, swallowing, laughing, crying, smell and taste, in sniffing, even lifting heavy weights, when vocal cords must close. A functioning replacement would bring a much higher quality of life to thousands of patients worldwide.
Mr Birchall, Reader in Head and Neck Surgery at the University of Bristol and Honorary Consultant at North Bristol NHS Trust said: "The removal of the larynx has profound effects. Some patients describe how they wake up after talking in their dreams and find themselves noiselessly crying."
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The leader of his field in Europe, he has been awarded a £1.2 million Fellowship by the charitable Wellcome Trust to make laryngeal transplantation routine for people who have had their voice boxes removed. Initial surgery will take place on people who have a paralysed voice box and the first transplants could follow within four years, he said yesterday.
One of the patients treated by the Bristol team, Dennis Anderson, a cabbie who had the operation after he contracted cancer, welcomed the new funds. When Mr Anderson, aged 64, lost his larynx, a hole was cut in his neck, near the adam's apple, to allow him to breath. To speak, he has to put his finger over the hole to push air into his mouth. To compensate for his lost vocal cords, he has a vibrating flap in a plastic valve in the windpipe. He has made an excellent vocal recovery and is now his taxi firm's radio controller.
Mr Birchall's transplant research will be conducted with immunologists Dr Mick Bailey and Prof Chris Stokes, Professor of Mucosal Immunology, at Bristol University's outpost in Langford. Like other transplants, laryngeal transplants require a donor organ from a body that matches the recipients blood and tissue types.
Mr Birchall hopes to reduce the use of anti-rejection drugs, which cause toxic side-effects. As well as exploring how rejection of the transplanted larynx can be reduced, Mr Birchall's group will collaborate with Dr Giorgio Terenghi, at the Royal Free Hospital, London, on ways to make damaged laryngeal nerves work normally.
The nerves were not connected to the larynx in the first human laryngeal transplant, performed in the United States in January 1998 on Timothy Heidler by Dr Marshall Strome of The Cleveland Clinic, Philadelphia. Before the operation, Mr Heidler communicated with the aid of an electro-larynx, a hand-held device that produces an electronic "voice".
The day after, Mr Heidler said his first real "hello" since he had injured his own larynx 19 years earlier in a motorcycle accident. The tonal quality of his voice was similar to the donor, which some relatives found disturbing.
Mr Birchall said: "The first transplant has been a qualified success. But he is still forced to breathe through a hole in the neck because they did not know how to repair the nerves controlling movement." |
// -*- mode: C++; c-file-style: "cc-mode" -*-
//*************************************************************************
// DESCRIPTION: Verilator: List class with storage in existing classes
//
// Code available from: https://verilator.org
//
//*************************************************************************
//
// Copyright 2003-2020 by Wilson Snyder. This program is free software; you
// can redistribute it and/or modify it under the terms of either the GNU
// Lesser General Public License Version 3 or the Perl Artistic License
// Version 2.0.
// SPDX-License-Identifier: LGPL-3.0-only OR Artistic-2.0
//
//*************************************************************************
#ifndef _V3LIST_H_
#define _V3LIST_H_ 1
#include "config_build.h"
#include "verilatedos.h"
#include <vector>
//============================================================================
template <class T> class V3List;
template <class T> class V3ListEnt;
template <class T> class V3List {
// List container for linked list of elements of type *T (T is a pointer type)
private:
// MEMBERS
T m_headp = nullptr; // First element
T m_tailp = nullptr; // Last element
friend class V3ListEnt<T>;
public:
V3List() {}
~V3List() {}
// METHODS
T begin() const { return m_headp; }
T end() const { return nullptr; }
bool empty() const { return m_headp == nullptr; }
void reset() { // clear() without walking the list
m_headp = nullptr;
m_tailp = nullptr;
}
};
//============================================================================
template <class T> class V3ListEnt {
// List entry for linked list of elements of type *T (T is a pointer type)
private:
// MEMBERS
T m_nextp = nullptr; // Pointer to next element, nullptr=end
T m_prevp = nullptr; // Pointer to previous element, nullptr=beginning
friend class V3List<T>;
static V3ListEnt* baseToListEnt(void* newbasep, size_t offset) {
// "this" must be a element inside of *basep
// Use that to determine a structure offset, then apply to the new base
// to get our new pointer information
return (V3ListEnt*)(((vluint8_t*)newbasep) + offset);
}
public:
V3ListEnt() {}
~V3ListEnt() {
#ifdef VL_DEBUG
// Load bogus pointers so we can catch deletion bugs
m_nextp = reinterpret_cast<T>(1);
m_prevp = reinterpret_cast<T>(1);
#endif
}
T nextp() const { return m_nextp; }
// METHODS
void pushBack(V3List<T>& listr, T newp) {
// "this" must be a element inside of *newp
// cppcheck-suppress thisSubtraction
size_t offset = (size_t)(vluint8_t*)(this) - (size_t)(vluint8_t*)(newp);
m_nextp = nullptr;
if (!listr.m_headp) listr.m_headp = newp;
m_prevp = listr.m_tailp;
if (m_prevp) baseToListEnt(m_prevp, offset)->m_nextp = newp;
listr.m_tailp = newp;
}
void pushFront(V3List<T>& listr, T newp) {
// "this" must be a element inside of *newp
// cppcheck-suppress thisSubtraction
size_t offset = (size_t)(vluint8_t*)(this) - (size_t)(vluint8_t*)(newp);
m_nextp = listr.m_headp;
if (m_nextp) baseToListEnt(m_nextp, offset)->m_prevp = newp;
listr.m_headp = newp;
m_prevp = nullptr;
if (!listr.m_tailp) listr.m_tailp = newp;
}
// Unlink from side
void unlink(V3List<T>& listr, T oldp) {
// "this" must be a element inside of *oldp
// cppcheck-suppress thisSubtraction
size_t offset = (size_t)(vluint8_t*)(this) - (size_t)(vluint8_t*)(oldp);
if (m_nextp) {
baseToListEnt(m_nextp, offset)->m_prevp = m_prevp;
} else {
listr.m_tailp = m_prevp;
}
if (m_prevp) {
baseToListEnt(m_prevp, offset)->m_nextp = m_nextp;
} else {
listr.m_headp = m_nextp;
}
m_prevp = m_nextp = nullptr;
}
};
//============================================================================
#endif // Guard
|
<?php
/**
* A plugin to redirect internal URLs. Primarily intended for URLS that otherwise would cause 404 not found errors.
* URLs are redirected before before any theme page setup occurs. External URLs are not supported.
*
* The plugin supports a JSON object file or a CSV file with outdate URL/new URL pairs.
*
* Examples of files supported:
*
* JSON:
*
* {
* "http:\/\/example.com/oldurl1/": "http:\/\/example.com/newurl1/",
* "http:\/\/example.com/oldurl2/": "http:\/\/example.com/newurl2/",
* }
*
* Remember to escape the slashes!
*
* CSV (comma separated):
*
* http://example.com/oldurl1/,http://example.com/newurl1/
* http://example.com/oldurl2/,http://example.com/newurl2/
* (…)
*
* To use such a catalogue file create a folder `redirector` within the root `plugins` folder of your install and place the file within.
* You can upload several and enable the one to use on the plugin options.
*
* @author Malte Müller (acrylian)
* @package plugins
* @subpackage redirector
*/
$plugin_is_filter = 5 | CLASS_PLUGIN;
$plugin_description = gettext('A plugin to redirect internal URLs. Primarily intended for URLs that otherwise would cause 404 not found errors.');
$plugin_author = "Malte Müller (acrylian)";
$plugin_category = gettext('Admin');
$option_interface = 'redirectorOptions';
zp_register_filter('redirection_handler', 'redirector::handleRequest');
/**
* redirector plugin options
*/
class redirectorOptions {
function __construct() {
setOptionDefault('redirector_catalogue', '');
}
function getOptionsSupported() {
$catalogues = self::getRedirectionFiles();
return array(
gettext('Redirection catalogue') => array(
'key' => 'redirector_catalogue',
'type' => OPTION_TYPE_SELECTOR,
'selections' => $catalogues,
'order' => 0,
'desc' => gettext('Place a JSON or CSV file within /plugins/redirector/ to use for redirecting.')),
gettext('Debug mode') => array(
'key' => 'redirector_debugmode',
'type' => OPTION_TYPE_CHECKBOX,
'order' => 1,
'desc' => gettext('If enabled valid redirections will not be executed but logged in the debug log.'))
);
}
/**
* Gets the redirection catalogue file list
* @return array
*/
static function getRedirectionFiles() {
$catalogues = array();
$files = getPluginFiles('redirector/*.*');
foreach ($files as $file) {
if (in_array(getSuffix($file), array('csv', 'json'))) {
$catalogues[basename($file)] = $file;
}
}
return $catalogues;
}
}
/**
* redirection handler class
*/
class redirector {
/**
* Checks the current URL request with the catalogue and if found returns the new URL to redirect to.
*
* @param string $request The URL request passed by the filter hook in controller.php
* @return string The URL to redirect to or the original request URL
*/
static function handleRequest($request) {
$redirections = redirector::loadRedirections();
if (!empty($redirections)) {
foreach ($redirections as $key => $val) {
$old = trim($key);
$new = trim($val);
if ($request == $old) {
if (getOption('redirector_debugmode')) {
debugLog('redirector plugin redirection debugging: ' . $old . ' => ' . $new);
return $request;
} else {
return $new;
}
}
}
}
return $request;
}
/**
* Loads the catalogue of old to new redirection URLs selected on the options
*
* @return array
*/
static function loadRedirections() {
$file = getOption('redirector_catalogue');
$redirections = array();
if (!empty($file)) {
switch (getSuffix($file)) {
case 'csv':
if (($handle = fopen($file, "r")) !== FALSE) {
while (($data = fgetcsv($handle)) !== FALSE) {
$redirections[$data[0]] = $data[1];
}
} else {
debugLog(gettext('redirector Error: Could not open and load the redirections catalogue file: ' . $file));
}
break;
case 'json':
$raw = file_get_contents($file);
if ($raw !== false) {
$redirections = json_decode($raw);
unset($raw);
} else {
debugLog(gettext('redirector Error: Could not open and load the redirections catalogue file: ' . $file));
}
break;
}
}
return $redirections;
}
}
|
Friday, October 29, 2010
Daily Readings for Friday October 29, 2010
1 Paul and Timothy, servants of Christ Jesus, to all God's holy people in Christ Jesus at Philippi, together with their presiding elders and the deacons.
2 Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
3 I thank my God whenever I think of you,
4 and every time I pray for you all, I always pray with joy
5 for your partnership in the gospel from the very first day up to the present.
6 I am quite confident that the One who began a good work in you will go on completing it until the Day of Jesus Christ comes.
7 It is only right that I should feel like this towards you all, because you have a place in my heart, since you have all shared together in the grace that has been mine, both my chains and my work defending and establishing the gospel.
8 For God will testify for me how much I long for you all with the warm longing of Christ Jesus;
9 it is my prayer that your love for one another may grow more and more with the knowledge and complete understanding
10 that will help you to come to true discernment, so that you will be innocent and free of any trace of guilt when the Day of Christ comes,
11 entirely filled with the fruits of uprightness through Jesus Christ, for the glory and praise of God.
Gospel, Lk 14:1-6
1 Now it happened that on a Sabbath day he had gone to share a meal in the house of one of the leading Pharisees; and they watched him closely.
2 Now there in front of him was a man with dropsy,
3 and Jesus addressed the lawyers and Pharisees with the words, 'Is it against the law to cure someone on the Sabbath, or not?'
4 But they remained silent, so he took the man and cured him and sent him away.
5 Then he said to them, 'Which of you here, if his son falls into a well, or his ox, will not pull him out on a Sabbath day without any hesitation?' |
United States Court of Appeals
FOR THE EIGHTH CIRCUIT
___________
No. 04-2587
___________
United States of America, *
*
Appellee, *
*
v. *
*
Douglas G. Radtke, *
*
Appellant. *
____________
Appeals from the United States
No. 04-2593 District Court for the
____________ District of Minnesota.
United States of America, *
*
Appellee, *
*
v. *
*
Scott Christopher Radtke, *
*
Appellant. *
___________
No. 04-2611
___________
United States of America, *
*
Appellee, *
*
v. *
*
Michael Thomas Donohoe, *
*
Appellant. *
__________
Submitted: December 15, 2004
Filed: July 18, 2005
___________
Before WOLLMAN, LAY, and COLLOTON, Circuit Judges.
___________
COLLOTON, Circuit Judge.
Douglas Radtke, Scott Radtke, and Michael Donohoe appeal their convictions
for conspiracy to defraud the United States and the IRS, mail fraud, and federal tax
law violations. They also appeal their sentences. We affirm.
I.
The appellants’ convictions resulted from their actions during the 1990s in
connection with two corporations – Radtke Construction Company (“RCC”) and
-2-
Scaffold Services, Inc. (“SSI”). Douglas Radtke incorporated RCC in 1971 to
perform construction work for the Department of Housing and Urban Development.
He bought SSI, a scaffolding supply company, in 1974. During the 1990s, Douglas
Radtke owned all of RCC and part of SSI, and was CEO of both companies. RCC
was party to collective bargaining agreements with several unions, including the
Carpenters and Joiners Union (“Union”). SSI was not party to any such agreements.
Douglas Radtke’s son Scott Radtke was vice-president and minority owner of SSI.
Michael Donohoe was a field operations manager with SSI.
Beginning in 1992, SSI and RCC began intermittently paying employees for
services performed on an ad hoc basis with checks written directly from the
companies’ “accounts payable” bank accounts, rather than through the companies’
payroll system. These checks, referred to by all parties as “cash checks,” withheld no
taxes or union benefit payments. Until 1998, whether to pay an employee with a cash
check or through the normal payroll system was decided on a case-by-case basis after
the work had been performed.
In the early 1990s, Douglas Radtke hired Rita Galston to be SSI’s controller.
She was promoted to chief financial officer in 1997. Galston testified at trial that she
had believed at the time she worked for SSI that paying workers who were not
“regular employee[s]” of the company (“casual workers”) without withholding taxes
was permissible, so long as the payment amount did not exceed $600 in any given
year. Many of the cash checks used to pay SSI and RCC employees were approved
by Galston. Because of the supposed $600 ceiling on the dollar amount of the cash
checks, casual workers who received cash checks totaling more than $600 were paid
in checks made payable to relatives or friends. When workers who were on the
regular payroll of SSI or RCC were paid in cash checks, a substitute name was always
used.
-3-
At trial, evidence was presented regarding specific instances in which cash
checks were paid in these substitute names. Galston testified that Douglas Radtke
expressly authorized the use of cash checks to compensate his son Marc on two
occasions. One time, the compensation was for driving a truck for SSI, and the check
was made out in the name of Marc’s wife, Damita. The second cash check paid to
Marc Radtke, according to Galston, was made out in the name of his mother, Diane
Radtke. A former SSI employee testified that Scott Radtke told him to submit a
social security number and name not his own in order to receive payment over $600.
Donohoe acknowledged that he was paid several times with cash checks made out to
persons other than himself.
In 1997 and 1998, the use of cash checks at SSI became more regular with
respect to a particular project. SSI won a contract to provide scaffolds for an
inspection and repair project at Hennepin Energy Resource Company (“HERC”) in
1997. The job at HERC involved a scaffolding system new to SSI. According to
project manager Scott Such, Douglas Radtke, fearing it might take more time than
expected to assemble the scaffolding, asked several workers including Such if they
would be willing to receive payment in the form of cash checks for their work on the
job. The savings SSI achieved through its non-payment of withholding taxes on the
amounts paid by cash checks reduced the risk of a loss to the company on the HERC
job.
SSI continued to perform services for HERC in 1998, but it became difficult
to persuade workers to sign on for the “dirty, unpleasant job.” (D. Radtke Br. at 14).
According to Galston’s testimony, Scott Such, the SSI project manager in charge of
the HERC job, eventually approached her about the possibility of paying all of the
workers at the job in cash checks as a means of persuading enough of them to
participate. Galston believed that, because of the dollar amount of the HERC job
(between $20,000 and $40,000 for labor in 1998), she could not authorize the use of
cash checks for all of the workers without Douglas Radtke’s approval. She testified
-4-
that she and Such approached Douglas Radtke with the proposal, and that she told
him of the “upside and downside of paying cash on a job this size.” (T. Tr. at 290).
The upside, according to Galston, was the savings to SSI despite compensating
workers at a higher level. The downside of which Galston says she informed Douglas
Radtke involved penalties and interest that would be assessed for SSI’s failure to pay
taxes or union benefits on the employees’ pay, if the company’s actions were
discovered.
Galston testified that she did not recall specifically informing Douglas Radtke
that using cash checks would be “against the law,” (T. Tr. at 291), but claimed she
told him that “from a risk standpoint, basically, one unhappy employee blowing the
whistle would bring this to light.” (Id. at 292). According to Galston, Douglas
Radtke thought about the proposal for between five and ten minutes before approving
it, saying he “felt that his employees were loyal to him and that none of them would
. . . turn him in.” (Id.).
Galston’s testimony was not uncontroverted at trial. Although Scott Such
recalled discussing with Douglas Radtke the use of cash checks for himself and two
other workers on the HERC project in 1997, he did not have any recollection of the
April 1998 meeting recounted by Galston. Similarly, Douglas Radtke presented
evidence indicating that he was traveling out of state during the time that Galston
recalled meeting with him in April 1998.1
1
Douglas Radtke’s attack on Galston’s testimony regarding the 1998 meeting
proceeded along the following lines: The HERC job began the week of April 21,
1998. April 21 was a Tuesday, and Galston testified that she would “guess[]” that the
time of the meeting with Douglas Radtke “would have been Tuesday or Wednesday
of the week” that the HERC job was to occur. (T. Tr. at 420). Douglas Radtke and
his sister testified that on April 21 and 22 he was in Florida with his family on
vacation.
-5-
After the 1998 HERC job, use of cash checks at SSI and RCC continued to
increase. Galston testified that she did not seek approval from Douglas Radtke to use
cash checks on later jobs because she felt that “he’d approved the risk involved . . .
with doing this.” (T. Tr. at 304). Galston stated that she sought approval from
various other SSI employees, including Scott Radtke, for use of cash checks on large
jobs after 1998. (Id. at 306).
In 1999, SSI won a contract to erect scaffolding for a government-financed
project at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. The contract for the job
called for a certified payroll. The certification would require SSI to attest that proper
withholding had been accomplished. Not realizing this until after the job had been
completed, SSI paid some workers in cash checks. When faced with a certification
requirement that would force her either to report amounts paid with cash checks,
revealing that no withholding had taken place with respect to those amounts, or to
underreport the hours worked, Galston testified that she chose to exclude some of the
hours worked for cash checks.
Testimony was unanimous at trial that cash checks were the subject of a
discussion between Galston, Such, and Douglas Radtke occurring after the HERC
job, but the nature of the discussion differed in the recollections of various witnesses.
According to Galston, the discussion was prompted by Such’s request to use cash
checks on a large job. Galston felt obligated to bring to Douglas Radtke’s attention
the fact that workers not on the regular payroll of SSI or RCC would not be covered
by workers’ compensation insurance if they were paid only in cash checks. She also
remembered Douglas Radtke stating “very loud[ly]” at one point “no more cash this
year.” (T. Tr. at 806).
Douglas Radtke, by contrast, recounted hearing a discussion between Galston
and Such regarding the use of cash checks on an upcoming job. Douglas Radtke
testified that he “became very angry” and “got right in the middle of the discussion,”
-6-
telling Such to refrain from using cash checks because workers paid in this manner
would not be covered by workers’ compensation, and any injured worker would “end
up suing us.” (T. Tr. at 1542-43).
Scott Such described a conversation in which Douglas Radtke ordered him to
“back the cash payroll down to just our main employees” so that he would not “end
up in jail.” (T. Tr. at 816). An RCC-employed carpenter testified that Such told him
that Douglas Radtke had said the cash payroll was to be discontinued. Donohoe also
testified to hearing Douglas Radtke yell “no more cash this year,” or “no more cash.”
SSI and RCC ceased their use of cash checks as calendar year 1999 drew to a
close. On February 29, 2000, IRS agents executed a search warrant at the companies’
offices, seizing documents and interviewing employees.
A grand jury indicted the appellants, along with Marc Radtke, Rita Galston,
and Vernon L. Bodin (a vice-president of SSI), on July 29, 2002, charging each with
conspiracy to (1) defraud the United States and the IRS and (2) commit the following
offenses: failing to account for or pay over tax, in violation of 26 U.S.C. § 7202,
subscribing to materially false tax returns, in violation of 26 U.S.C. § 7206(1), and
mail fraud, in violation of 18 U.S.C. § 1341, all in violation of 18 U.S.C. § 371
(together, the “conspiracy count”). The grand jury also indicted the defendants on
three counts of mail fraud and three counts of falsifying ERISA records, in violation
of 18 U.S.C. §§ 2(b) and 1027. Douglas Radkte and Galston were charged with
fifteen counts of failing to account for or pay over tax, in violation of 26 U.S.C.
§ 7202, and Galston was charged separately with fifteen counts of subscribing to
materially false tax returns, in violation of 26 U.S.C. § 7206(1).
Galston pled guilty to the conspiracy count, one count of failing to collect and
pay over taxes, and one count of falsifying ERISA records. The appellants, along
with Marc Radtke and Vernon L. Bodin, were tried together. The jury convicted
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Douglas Radtke, Scott Radtke, and Michael Donohoe of the conspiracy count.
Douglas Radtke was also found guilty on seven counts of failing to collect, account
for, and pay over tax, and on two counts of mail fraud. The jury found Michael
Donohoe guilty of filing a false and fraudulent tax return and on three counts of mail
fraud. Scott Radtke was convicted of three counts of mail fraud. The jury acquitted
Marc Radtke and Bodin on all counts.
Douglas Radtke, Scott Radtke, and Donohoe were sentenced on April 13, 2004.
Douglas Radtke received thirty-six months’ imprisonment, a fine of $20,114.67, and
restitution of $179,885.33 – with $132,012.30 going to Wilson McShane, the third-
party administrator of the Union's Fringe Benefit Fund, and $47,873.03 going to
Berkley Risk Administrators. Scott Radtke was sentenced to twenty-four months in
prison and to joint and several liability for the fine and restitution amounts also owed
by his father. Donohoe received eighteen months’ imprisonment and joint and
several liability with his co-defendants on the fine and restitution amounts.
II.
On appeal, all three defendants challenge the sufficiency of the evidence to
support their convictions. In reviewing a claim of insufficient evidence, we consider
the evidence in the light most favorable to the jury’s verdict, and accept as established
all reasonable inferences from the evidence that support the verdict. United States
v. Hawkey, 148 F.3d 920, 923 (8th Cir. 1998). We will reverse only if no reasonable
jury could have found the defendant guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. United States
v. Walker, 393 F.3d 842, 846 (8th Cir. 2005). After carefully considering the record,
we find that the evidence presented to the jury was sufficient to sustain its verdict
with respect to all three defendants.
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A.
Douglas Radtke argues that the evidence presented at trial was insufficient to
prove that he acted with the mental state required by the crimes for which he was
convicted. He argues that “[e]ach of the offenses charged in the Indictment required
proof that [he] acted with intent to defraud.” (D. Radtke Br. at 45). According to
Douglas Radtke, the evidence showed only that Galston instigated the use of cash
checks, and that he permitted the practice in the good faith belief, formed in reliance
on Galston’s advice, that it was legal to pay casual workers as independent
contractors. He points to the fact that he signed only four of the nearly 600 cash
checks introduced into evidence, and that each of these was to compensate casual
workers.
We believe that sufficient evidence was presented at trial to support the jury’s
finding of intent. There was testimony that Douglas Radtke recognized that the
practice of using cash checks was illegal, but proceeded to authorize such checks.
Galston, Such, and Donohoe, for example, all testified to their recollection of a 1999
meeting at which Douglas Radtke expressed concern about the legal consequences
of continuing the use of cash checks. According to Such, he acknowledged that such
consequences included jail time. Galston also testified to an April 1998 meeting at
which she explained to Douglas Radtke that fines and penalties would result from the
use of cash checks on the HERC job if the practice was discovered.
Douglas Radtke asserts that Galston’s testimony regarding the 1998 meeting
was not credible because Such did not recall the meeting despite allegedly being
present. This argument is unpersuasive. Credibility determinations, of course, are
for the jury to make, and even a co-conspirator’s testimony need not be corroborated
to be believable. United States v. Anderson, 654 F.2d 1264, 1270 (8th Cir. 1981).
Douglas Radtke also claims that no reasonable jury could have believed Galston
because “evidence at trial was uncontroverted that [Douglas] Radtke was in
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Annamaria, Florida during the precise time Ms. Galston claims to have met with him
and Mr. Such.” (D. Radtke Br. at 47). It is true that Douglas Radtke presented
evidence suggesting that he was in Florida during the week of April 21, 1998. The
date of the meeting, however, was never placed in that week with certainty – Galston
offered only a “guesstimat[e],” (T. Tr. at 420) – and Douglas Radtke does not claim
to have been in Florida for the entire month of April. The jury, in fact, heard
evidence that Douglas Radtke was in Minnesota when Scott Such was planning the
1998 HERC job. It would have been reasonable for the jury, therefore, to conclude
that Douglas Radtke was present at a meeting at which the illegality of cash checks
was discussed.
In any event, intent to defraud need not be proved by direct evidence. E.g.,
United States v. Ervasti, 201 F.3d 1029, 1037 (8th Cir. 2000). The required intent
can be inferred from the actions of the defendant. The jury received a considerable
volume of circumstantial evidence from which it could have inferred the requisite
mens rea. For example, Douglas Radtke was the CEO and President of SSI and RCC,
and the jury heard testimony that he was a “hands-on” manager who was involved in
the daily operation of the companies. Evidence was presented suggesting that he
personally profited by $28,000 as a result of using cash checks at the HERC project
in 1999. This evidence gave rise to a sufficiently strong inference of intent to defraud
to permit the jury to find that Douglas Radtke committed the charged offenses.
B.
Scott Radtke similarly maintains that the evidence presented at trial established
only that he was present at SSI during the time of the alleged conspiracy and that he
knew of the illegal use of cash checks. This is insufficient to sustain his convictions,
he contends, because the government failed to present “any credible evidence that he
was a willing participant in any plan to defraud the [IRS] or . . . the carpenters union.”
(S. Radtke Br. at 22). He also alleges that the government “offered little” to discredit
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his assertion that he relied in good faith on Galston’s advice regarding the use of cash
checks. (Id.).
We disagree. As noted above, intent to defraud can be proven by
circumstantial evidence, and Scott Radtke admits that he “was familiar with the use
of ‘cash checks’ to pay for casual, extra hours labor.” (Scott Radtke Br. at 13). He
also concedes that his signature appears on a cash check that was shown to the jury,
and that a witness testified to having heard him discuss the use of non-employee
names on checks. Galston testified that she obtained approval for the use of cash
checks from Scott Radtke, and complained to him regarding Scott Such’s use of such
checks. Finally, Galston testified to a meeting she had with Scott Radtke at which
they discussed ways to avoid revealing the use of cash checks when they were
required to certify a payroll. This evidence of Scott Radtke’s knowledge of and
involvement in the cash check scheme provided sufficient support for the jury’s
verdict.
C.
Donohoe also argues that there was insufficient evidence to sustain a finding
that he was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt of the conspiracy count and of mail
fraud. In challenging his conviction for conspiracy, Donohoe maintains that there
was insufficient evidence to show that he intended to defraud the IRS, and that his
lack of intent to defraud precluded him from joining the alleged conspiracy. Donohoe
argues that he relied in good faith on Galston’s assurances that the use of cash checks
was legal, and that he was “uneducated as to the workings of the IRS rules and
regulations.” (Donohoe Br. at 15). Donohoe’s testimony at trial, however,
undermines his protestations of good faith. Donohoe testified that he initially thought
the use of the cash checks sounded “fishy.” (T. Tr. at 2290). His wife questioned the
legality of the practice when Donohoe told her he needed to use her name for a cash
check, and Donohoe recalled Galston instructing him not to use the social security
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numbers of dead people for cash checks, because doing so would risk detection. The
evidence presented at trial, in sum, supported the jury’s determination that Donohoe
had the state of mind required to join the fraudulent conspiracy.
Also with respect to his conviction on the conspiracy count, Donohoe argues
that while the indictment alleged a conspiracy to defraud both the IRS and “union
workers,” (Donohoe Br. at 14), the government failed to prove that the fraud targeted
at different victims constituted a single conspiracy rather than two separate
conspiracies. Where the evidence at trial supports multiple conspiracies, but only a
single conspiracy is charged in the indictment, we reverse only “if the evidence does
not support the single conspiracy and the defendant was prejudiced by the variance
between the indictment and the proof.” United States v. Pullman, 187 F.3d 816, 821
(8th Cir. 1999); see also Kotteakos v. United States, 328 U.S. 750, 756-57 (1946).
Whether a given case involves single or multiple conspiracies depends on
“whether there was ‘one overall agreement’ to perform various functions to achieve
the objectives of the conspiracy.” United States v. Massa, 740 F.2d 629, 636 (8th Cir.
1984) (internal quotation omitted). This is determined by the totality of the
circumstances, and because it is a question of fact, we draw all reasonable inferences
in favor of the verdict. United States v. McCarthy, 97 F.3d 1562, 1571 (8th Cir.
1996). Relevant factors “includ[e] the nature of the activities involved, the location
where the alleged events of the conspiracy took place, the identity of the conspirators
involved, and the time frame in which the acts occurred.” Id. (internal quotation
omitted).
Here, the evidence supported a finding that there was a single conspiracy. The
conspiracy in which Donohoe allegedly participated involved defrauding the IRS, but
the conspiracy count of the indictment did not allege specifically that union workers
were also the target of the appellants’ fraudulent scheme. Some of the conduct
charged, it is true, was directed at the Union, but a conspiracy with multiple
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objectives is not the same thing as multiple conspiracies. See Pullman, 187 F.3d at
820-21. Any fraud against the Union depended on a similar mechanism as that
against the IRS, namely, the use of cash checks. All of the fraud took place either at
the combined headquarters of SSI or RCC, or at company job sites. The identity of
the conspirators was equally uniform: Douglas Radtke, Scott Radtke, and Donohoe
all were accused and convicted of participating in the same fraudulent conspiracy.
And the time frame for all of the allegedly fraudulent conduct was similar. The
mailing of fraudulent reports to the Union’s fringe benefit fund third party
administrator occurred from November 15, 1997, through November 15, 1999. Most
of the cash checks were issued over a similar time period, between April 1998 and
December 1999. The evidence thus supports the existence of a single conspiracy.
Donohoe argues further that there was insufficient evidence of his knowledge
of the filing of fringe benefit reports to support his mail fraud conviction. This
contention is without merit. First, knowledge of the actual instance of mailing the
“matter or thing” alleged to have furthered a fraudulent scheme is not an element of
the crime described by 18 U.S.C. § 1341. The statute requires only that the defendant
devise a “scheme or artifice to defraud” and cause the placement of “any matter or
thing” in the mails with the “purpose of executing such scheme or artifice.” Id. The
requirement that the defendant cause the matter or thing to be mailed is satisfied by
a showing that he “did an act with the knowledge that the use of mails would follow
in the ordinary course of business or that the use of mails reasonably could have been
foreseen even though not actually intended.” United States v. Freitag, 768 F.2d 240,
243 (8th Cir. 1985). The jury was instructed that it could find Donohoe guilty if the
other elements of mail fraud were shown and “it was reasonably foreseeable that the
mail would be used.” (T. Tr. at 2669). Donohoe testified at trial that, during the time
he worked for SSI, he “assume[d]” that SSI was meeting reporting requirements by
reference to his time card information, and that he was familiar with the Union fringe
benefit fund. (T. Tr. at 2243). He also testified that he knew the hours paid for with
cash checks would not be reported to the Union. (T. Tr. at 2361). The jury’s
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conclusion after hearing this testimony that Donohoe “caused” the fringe benefit
forms to be mailed for purposes of § 1341 was reasonable.
Donohoe challenges the sufficiency of the government’s showing that he
intended to file fraudulent reports to the Union. Donohoe’s testimony and other
evidence presented at trial refutes this contention. Donohoe testified that he knew the
use of cash checks would result in non-payment of union benefits, yet he admitted
that he authorized payment in the form of cash checks some ninety times. The
government presented evidence during its cross-examination of Donohoe, moreover,
suggesting he used cash checks with the express purpose of avoiding compliance with
the Union’s four-hour minimum rate. In short, the evidence of Donohoe’s complicity
in short-changing the Union was sufficient to sustain his conviction for mail fraud.
III.
In a challenge to his conviction for willfully subscribing to a known false tax
return, see 26 U.S.C. § 7206, Donohoe asserts that the district court erred in
excluding from evidence his amended return for tax year 1999. Donohoe concedes
that he did not report $4,330 in income received in the form of cash checks on his
original 1999 tax return. His defense at trial was that he did not have to declare the
$4,330 because it was not included in his W-2 form. To bolster this defense,
Donohoe sought to introduce evidence regarding an amended tax return on which he
reported the $4,330 after realizing it was properly classified as income. The district
court granted the government’s motion in limine to exclude evidence of the amended
return.
We review a district court’s exclusion of evidence for abuse of discretion.
United States v. Martin, 369 F.3d 1046, 1058 (8th Cir. 2004). “The district court has
considerable discretion in admitting evidence of acts of subsequent conduct of a
defendant offered to prove the absence of evil intent.” United States v. Woosley, 761
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F.2d 445, 449 (8th Cir. 1985). “[A]n ever-present reason demanding latitude for [a
court’s] ruling on admissibility is that what takes place, particularly after the fact, is
often feigned and artificial.” Post v. United States, 407 F.2d 319, 325 (D.C. Cir.
1968) (internal quotation omitted). Whether evidence of a defendant’s subsequent
mental state, as demonstrated by a subsequent act, is “of any probative value in
establishing his state of mind at the time of the alleged criminal acts” must be
determined by the circumstances of the individual case. United States v. Stoehr, 196
F.2d 276, 282 (3d Cir. 1952).
Donohoe urges us to follow the First, Second, and Seventh Circuits, which, he
asserts, “have allowed the introduction of amended tax returns to show good faith.”
(Donohoe Br. at 18). He points to three illustrative cases: United States v. Johnson,
893 F.2d 451, 454 (1st Cir. 1990); United States v. Dyer, 922 F.2d 105, 108 (2d Cir.
1990); and United States v. Tishberg, 854 F.2d 1070, 1073 (7th Cir. 1988). None of
the cases cited by Donohoe holds that amended tax returns tend to prove a taxpayer’s
lack of criminal intent when filing an original return. In Tishberg, for example, the
admissibility of the amended return was not considered on appeal – the court stated
during a discussion of the sufficiency of the evidence that the defendant’s amended
return “may demonstrate a good faith effort to correct his previous mistakes.”
Tishberg, 854 F.2d at 1073. The court went on to say that the return “does not,
however, negate the import of his previous action.” Id. The suggestion that an
amended return may demonstrate good faith in Tishberg does not control Donohoe’s
situation because the good faith referred to in Tishberg is a “good faith effort to
correct . . . previous mistakes,” id., not, as was in question in Donohoe’s trial, good
faith at the time the original return was filed. Donohoe’s reliance on Dyer and
Johnson is similarly unavailing.
Whether an amended tax return filed post-indictment technically might be
“relevant” to the taxpayer’s intent at the time he filed the original return, there is no
doubt that self-serving exculpatory acts performed substantially after a defendant’s
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wrongdoing is discovered are of minimal probative value as to his state of mind at the
time of the alleged crime. The district court excluded this evidence because it was
of “[of] no probative value, and at best . . . confus[ing to] the jury.” (T. Tr. at 1227).
Federal Rule of Evidence 403 provides that evidence, though relevant, “may be
excluded if its probative value is substantially outweighed by the danger of . . .
confusion of the issues, or misleading the jury.” Given that there was little, if any,
probative value in Donohoe’s amended filing, see United States v. Ross, 626 F.2d 77,
81 (9th Cir. 1980) (holding that the defendant’s filing of subsequent accurate tax
returns and his offer to pay any delinquent taxes were not relevant to the charge that
he had willfully failed to file tax returns in previous years), the district court did not
abuse its discretion in ruling that any minimal probative value was substantially
outweighed by danger of confusing the issues and misleading the jury.
IV.
The appellants raise two assertions of error with respect to their sentencings:
the district court’s calculation of the amounts of loss for which they were held
responsible, and the court’s consideration of facts that were not found by a jury
beyond a reasonable doubt. Douglas Radtke also challenges the two-level adjustment
he received for his role in the offense pursuant to USSG § 3B1.1.
A.
Appellants each were sentenced based on an identical fraud loss amount, and
they challenge several aspects of the district court’s calculation of this amount. We
review a sentencing court’s determination of amount of loss for clear error. United
States v. Baker, 200 F.3d 558, 561 (8th Cir. 2000). In determining the amount of loss
attributable to fraud, precision is not required; the sentencing court “need only make
a reasonable estimate of the loss.” USSG § 2B1.1, comment. (n.3(C)). Here, the
district court computed the fraud loss amount as a total of two elements: union benefit
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contributions that were not paid as a result of the use of cash checks and the use of
SSI as a non-union alter ego for RCC, totaling $132,012.30, and workers’
compensation premiums that were not paid as a result of the use of cash checks,
totaling $47,873.03. This resulted in a total loss amount of $179,885.33.
1.
The appellants argue that the district court erred by counting as fraud loss
$62,685.13 in Union benefit payments not made by SSI. They contend that SSI’s
non-payment was not relevant conduct because SSI was not subject to a collective
bargaining agreement with any union, and because SSI’s non-payment was not
alleged as criminal activity in their indictment. We disagree.
At trial, the district court heard testimony that SSI payroll employees
performed work that was covered by RCC’s collective bargaining agreement, and that
SSI was an alter ego of RCC. Its finding that SSI was bound by RCC’s collective
bargaining agreement was not clearly erroneous. The fact that SSI’s nonpayment is
only obliquely referenced in the indictment, moreover, does not preclude the district
court’s consideration of this conduct in determining the amount of loss due to fraud
under the guidelines. Relevant conduct under the guidelines need not be charged to
be considered in sentencing, and it includes all acts and omissions “that were part of
the same course of conduct or common scheme or plan as the offense of conviction.”
USSG § 1B1.3(a)(2). The district court concluded that SSI’s non-payment of benefit
contributions was “absolutely a portion of the criminal conduct.” (S. Tr. at 109). The
court reasoned that RCC and SSI, as alter egos, both benefitted at the expense of their
employees by accepting their labors while shortchanging them in health-care
coverage, vacation pay, and retirement benefits by not contributing to the Union’s
benefit fund. (Id.). The court’s determination that SSI’s nonpayment of benefit
contributions was part of the same course of conduct as the use of cash checks was
not clear error.
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2.
Douglas Radtke argues that the loss amount should have been reduced by the
amount of benefits SSI paid to its employees. Radtke argues that although RCC and
SSI failed to make contributions to Wilson McShane, the third-party administrator of
the Union’s Fringe Benefit Fund, which contributions would have entitled employees
to various future benefits, the district court should have “credited” against the loss
certain amounts that the companies spent to give different benefits to the same
employees. Radtke does not specify what amounts should have been credited on this
basis. (D. Radtke Br. at 40-41).
The sentencing guidelines provide that in a case involving fraud, loss shall be
reduced by “[t]he money returned, and the fair market value of the property returned
and the services rendered, by the defendant or other persons acting jointly with the
defendant, to the victim before the offense was detected.” USSG § 2B1.1, comment.
(n.3(E)(i)). We do not think the fringe benefits paid by SSI or RCC to employees is
the sort of credit against loss contemplated by the guidelines. The commentary to the
guidelines provides that the court should apply a credit where the defendant returns
the very money or property taken as part of the fraud. In this case, for example, if
Radtke had made arrangements to contribute funds belatedly to the third-party
administrator before the fraud was detected, the principle of “credits against loss”
likely would apply. But Radtke seeks a credit for other benefits provided to
employee-victims that do not correlate directly with the amounts withheld from the
third-party administrator as part of the fraud. We find no authority to support this
proposition, and we are not of a mind to extend the availability of credits against loss
to benefits like these, which were paid to employees as part of a plan to entice them
to accept cash checks and thus to further the scheme to defraud. See United States
v. Whatley, 133 F.3d 601, 606 (8th Cir. 1998) (“[W]e are not inclined to allow the
defendants . . . a credit for money spent perpetuating a fraud.”); cf. United States v.
Carrozzella, 105 F.3d 796, 805 (2d Cir. 1997) (explaining that one reason for rule
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that funds returned as part of investment scheme are not credited against loss is that
“the return of money as interest or other income is often necessary for the scheme to
continue”).
3.
Appellants also charge as error the district court’s determination that
$47,873.03 in workers’ compensation was not paid as a result of their conduct. They
argue that the correct amount of loss attributable to non-payment of workers’
compensation premiums was $23,036.63. We do not believe the district court’s
finding was clearly erroneous.
Both RCC and SSI paid for workers’ compensation coverage at two rates, a
“high rate” and a “low rate,” depending on what type of work was performed by the
covered employees. The high rate was paid for more dangerous scaffolding work
done at substantial elevations (“high work”), while the low rate was paid for work on
the ground or at low elevations. The high rate for the years in question varied
between 36.18 percent and 45.19 percent of all wages paid for high work. The low
rate ranged from 3.94 percent to 8.66 percent. The district court found that 50 percent
of the wages paid in cash checks were for high work, and arrived at $47,873.03 as the
workers’ compensation loss.
Appellants contend that the district court erred by finding that 50 percent of the
work paid for with cash checks was high work. They allege that “uncontroverted”
testimony established that only 12 percent of work was in the high work category, and
that the correct loss figure was therefore $23,036.63. We do not believe this is an
accurate characterization of the evidence before the district court.
To be sure, appellants introduced a spreadsheet prepared by the new owner of
SSI suggesting that only 12 percent of wages paid in cash checks was for high work.
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(Defendant’s Ex. S-5). An audit supervisor from Berkley Risk Administrators,
RCC’s third-party administrator for workers’ compensation, also testified that
although he did not know “offhand” what percentage of the workers’ compensation
premiums were for high versus low work, (S. Tr. at 47), the appellants’ spreadsheet
indicated that about 12 percent of RCC’s workers’ compensation premiums were in
the high category. (Id. at 57). At trial, however, Galston provided testimony that was
sufficient to support an inference that a much higher percentage of cash checks were
used for high work. When asked to explain “what the company would save in
workers’ compensation from paying cash,” Galston answered that “our base rate on
scaffold erection, workers’ comp, was 45 percent of the wages paid, that’s 45 dollars
per hundred in wages.” (T. Tr. 294). Although the evidence was not further
developed, Galston’s testimony could be understood to mean that most or all of the
cash checks were used to compensate workers for high work, because rates for low
work never approached the 45 percent rate testified to by Galston. In that sense,
therefore, the district court was presented with two divergent possibilities – that only
12 percent of cash checks were used to compensate workers for high work, as
suggested by the appellants’ spreadsheet, or that nearly all of the cash checks were
so used, as suggested by Galston’s testimony.
If the district court had found that 100 percent of wages paid by RCC and SSI
required workers’ compensation payments of 45 percent, the loss attributable to the
non-payment of workers’ compensation would have been $77,463.56. The 12 percent
figure suggested by defendants would have led to a loss amount of $23,036.63.
Instead of choosing either of these figures, the district court settled on 50 percent as
an appropriate apportionment, because the defendants’ actions had made “precise
calculation virtually impossible,” (S. Tr. at 110), and because the court did not want
to “adopt any interpretation which would . . . reward the defendants for their
deceptive acts.” (Id.). The court observed that “a very substantial portion of the cash
payments were made for work on the HERC job,” in which “there was a necessary
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amount of scaffolding involved,” and in a project at the airport, which also involved
considerable scaffolding. (S. Tr. 110).
We cannot say the district court’s finding was clearly erroneous. The district
court was required only to make a “reasonable estimate of the loss.” USSG § 2B1.1,
comment. (n.3(C)). Where, as here, the loss attributable to fraudulent conduct is
unclear because the relevant conduct involved “deceit and secrecy,” moreover, it can
be reasonable for a sentencing judge to “split the difference” between two possible
extremes. United States v. Berndt, 86 F.3d 803, 811 (8th Cir. 1996). The fraudulent
conduct here – the use of cash checks – prevented proper record keeping, so the
amount of workers’ compensation premiums that went unpaid was not documented.
The district court’s determination that 50 percent was the appropriate percentage of
work characterized as high work, therefore, was not clear error.
4.
Douglas Radtke asserts that the district court erred by including in the amount
of loss all benefits that RCC and SSI failed to pay by use of cash checks prior to April
1998. Because Douglas Radtke was acquitted by the jury of all conduct occurring
prior to April 1998, he argues, the district court erred in refusing to “exclude all
losses occurring prior to” this date. (D. Radtke Br. at 42). The jury’s acquittal of
Douglas Radtke with respect to all pre-April 1998 conduct, however, establishes only
that there was reasonable doubt as to his involvement in such conduct. The district
court was still free, indeed obliged, to consider whether his involvement had been
proved by a preponderance of the evidence. See United States v. Dabney, 367 F.3d
1040, 1043 (8th Cir. 2004). The district court properly relied on the evidence at trial
of Douglas Radtke’s prior involvement in finding him responsible for the pre-April
1998 loss amounts by a preponderance of the evidence.
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5.
Scott Radtke maintains that the loss amount for which he is accountable should
not include amounts attributable to SSI, because he was not working for either RCC
or SSI when RCC was “revived in the mid-1980s.” Therefore, he argues, he was not
part of any illegal “double-breasting” scheme between RCC and SSI. Scott Radtke
was part of SSI’s ownership and management, however, and the district court found
that SSI and RCC were operating as alter egos during his tenure. Scott Radtke was
found guilty of participation in the cash check scheme that involved both companies
and therefore his non-involvement in RCC’s revival some twelve years before the
scheme began is irrelevant to the loss amount attributable to him.
6.
Donohoe suggests that he should be held responsible only for the loss
attributable to the cash checks he personally signed. He maintains that he should not
be held responsible for the entire loss attributable to the cash check scheme because
he was not involved in starting the scheme, had no decision-making authority at SSI,
and was involved in only a small number of cash check payments. (Donohoe Br. at
22). We disagree. Where, as here, criminal activity is jointly undertaken, relevant
conduct is to be determined on the basis of all acts and omissions “that were part of
the same course of conduct or common scheme or plan as the offense of conviction.”
USSG § 1B1.3(a)(2). “[T]he amount of loss charged to a particular defendant need
not be limited to the money that [the defendant] personally handled. Instead, the
amount of loss may include those losses caused by reasonably foreseeable acts that
co-workers committed to further the scheme to defraud.” United States v. Whatley,
133 F.3d at 606-07. According to evidence presented at trial, Donohoe was a project
manager with SSI who was intimately involved in the cash check scheme, personally
authorizing cash checks to employees some ninety times, and receiving payment in
cash checks numerous times under eight different names. He also discussed the use
-22-
of cash checks with Galston and knew that others at the company were involved in
the scheme. Under these circumstances, we conclude that the district court’s
determination that the entire cash check scheme was reasonably foreseeable by
Donohoe is not clearly erroneous.
B.
Douglas Radtke contends that the district court clearly erred in enhancing his
sentence two levels on the basis of his role as an organizer and leader pursuant to
USSG § 3B1.1(c). He argues that his mere position as owner of SSI and RCC cannot
alone justify this enhancement, and that Rita Galston instigated and expanded the
cash check scheme without his knowledge. “[S]ection 3B1.1 focuses on the relative
responsibility within a criminal organization.” Ervasti, 201 F.3d at 1041. In
determining whether a defendant is an organizer or leader, relevant factors include
the defendant’s “exercise of decision making authority, the nature of [his]
participation in the commission of the offense, [his] recruitment of accomplices, [his]
claimed right to a larger share of the fruits of the crime, the degree of [his]
participation in planning or organizing the offense, the nature and scope of the illegal
activity, and the degree of control and authority [he] exercised over others.” USSG
§ 3B1.1, cmt. (n.4).
Douglas Radtke was the CEO and owner of both RCC and SSI. Radtke argues
that a business owner does not perform an aggravating role merely because crime is
committed on the business premises, or because employees of the company
participated in the illegal activity. See United States v. Burgos, 324 F.3d 88, 93 (2d
Cir. 2003). Douglas Radtke’s role, however, involved more than mere ownership of
the business. Testimony at trial supported findings that, in his capacity as CEO and
owner, Douglas Radtke expressly authorized his subordinates to use cash checks
while knowing of the checks’ illegality and that, by virtue of his position as owner,
he received a disproportionate share of the profits derived therefrom. We conclude
-23-
that the district court did not clearly err in its determination that Douglas Radtke was
an organizer and leader in the cash check scheme.
C.
All three appellants have raised the possible applicability to their cases of the
Supreme Court’s decision in United States v. Booker, 125 S. Ct. 738 (2005), which
was pending when this case was submitted. Booker held that the Sixth Amendment
precludes a sentencing judge from imposing a sentence under mandatory sentencing
guidelines greater than what could be imposed based solely on facts admitted by the
defendant or proved to a jury beyond a reasonable doubt. Id. at 756. As a remedy,
the Court declared the sentencing guidelines effectively advisory in all cases. Id. at
765.
The appellants did not challenge the constitutionality or mandatory nature of
the guidelines in the district court, so we review their claims under Booker for plain
error. See United States v. Pirani, 406 F.3d 543, 550 (8th Cir. 2005) (en banc). On
review for plain error, we will only reverse if the district court made an obvious error
that impinged the substantial rights of the appellants and seriously affected the
fairness, integrity, or public reputation of the judicial proceedings. Id.
Although, by applying the guidelines as mandatory, the district court made an
“obvious error” for purposes of plain error review, the appellants have not shown that
their substantial rights were affected by this error. The record does not establish a
reasonable probability that any of the appellants’ sentences would have been more
favorable had the district court known that the guidelines were advisory. See id. at
552. Scott Radtke and Michael Donohoe were sentenced at the low end of their
respective guideline ranges, but this fact, standing alone, is not sufficient “to
demonstrate a reasonable probability that the court would have imposed a lesser
sentence” in the absence of mandatory guidelines. Id. at 553. A fortiori, Douglas
-24-
Radtke’s sentence in the middle of the guideline range is insufficient to meet the
Pirani standard for demonstrating an effect on substantial rights.
The district court gave no indication that it believed the sentences imposed
were unreasonable, or that it would have given any of the appellants a lesser sentence
in the absence of mandatory guidelines. Although the court acknowledged that “the
Court’s discretion is heavily influenced by the sentencing guidelines,” and that “the
Court is obligated to . . . place . . . [its] first determination based on [them],” (S. Tr.
at 138), it did not rely solely on the guidelines calculations to justify the sentences it
imposed. Instead, the court discussed at length the individual culpability of each of
the defendants. (S. Tr. at 123-24, 138-40, 145-47, 158). Where the effect of the error
is “uncertain or indeterminate – where we would have to speculate,” a defendant
cannot meet his burden to show plain error warranting relief. Pirani, 406 F.3d at 553.
Because the record does not establish a reasonable probability that any of the
appellants’ sentences would have been more favorable had the district court known
that the guidelines were advisory, resentencing is not warranted.
* * *
For the foregoing reasons, we affirm the judgments of the district court.
LAY, Circuit Judge, concurring in part and dissenting in part.
I concur with the majority opinion with the exception of Section IV.A.3,
wherein the majority holds the district court did not clearly err in calculating the total
amount of workers’ compensation payments omitted as a result of the Defendants’
illegal conduct. The district court did not articulate a single reason why it disbelieved
defense witness Terry Gulbrandson, who testified that only twelve percent of the
workers involved in this scheme were at the “high” scaffold rate. The difference
between 12 percent and 50 percent is significant, and so the district court’s unjustified
-25-
figures cannot be overlooked by claiming that “precise calculation” is “virtually
impossible.” Majority opinion, supra, at 20. Precise calculation is not required, but
a reasoned fact-finding process is.
The majority attempts to provide a post-hoc rationalization as to how the
district court could have arrived upon this fifty-fifty split, but with all due respect,
this is just sheer speculation. The majority reasons, “If the district court had found
that 100 percent of wages paid by RCC and SSI required workers’ compensation
payments of 45 percent,” then the district court’s calculation might have been
reasonable. Majority opinion, supra, at 20 (emphasis added). Unfortunately, the
district court did not make that finding, and we are not authorized to speculate.
Rita Galston’s testimony also cannot fairly be said to controvert Terry
Gulbrandson’s testimony regarding the percentage of workers at the “high” scaffold
rate. Galston’s testimony was non-specific, in the sense that it did not identify
whether she was referring to the “high” or “low” rate. It is questionable to infer that
she was speaking of the “high” rate, since the “45 percent” figure she mentioned did
not even comport with evidence showing that the high rate for the years in question
ranged from about 35 to 45 percent. In light of these potential conflicts, using
Galston’s testimony to buttress the district court’s suspiciously convenient and
otherwise unjustified calculation is simply too speculative.
The district court should have explained why it apportioned 50 percent of the
workers’ compensation payments to the “high” rate and 50 percent of the payments
to the “low” rate. Since it did not, and since the only evidence on point supports a
substantially different apportionment, I respectfully dissent.
______________________________
-26-
|
Q:
Inverting text data in MySQL
I would like to invert the text of certain records depending on if ValueA is greater than ValueB. If ValueA is indeed greater than ValueB, then I want to invert the contents of the field Content.
The image below shows the example table and the modifications I wish to make to that table.
NOTE:
ValueA and ValueB are INTs
The field Content is a data type TEXT
The field Content can have in excess of 25,000 characters
Ive also considered exporting the entire database, and checking if ValueA is greater than ValueB, and if so, then when exporting that record, it would invert the text in the Content field...
EDIT:
I access MySQL through putty.
A:
The function you are looking for is REVERSE(). You would need to write an update query to conditionally update the Content column.
UPDATE
YourTable
SET
Content = REVERSE(Content)
WHERE
ValueA > ValueB;
|
import datetime
from django.conf import settings
from django.db import backend, connection, transaction, DEFAULT_DB_ALIAS
from django.test import TestCase, TransactionTestCase
from models import Book, Award, AwardNote, Person, Child, Toy, PlayedWith, PlayedWithNote
# Can't run this test under SQLite, because you can't
# get two connections to an in-memory database.
if settings.DATABASES[DEFAULT_DB_ALIAS]['ENGINE'] != 'django.db.backends.sqlite3':
class DeleteLockingTest(TransactionTestCase):
def setUp(self):
# Create a second connection to the default database
conn_settings = settings.DATABASES[DEFAULT_DB_ALIAS]
self.conn2 = backend.DatabaseWrapper({
'HOST': conn_settings['HOST'],
'NAME': conn_settings['NAME'],
'OPTIONS': conn_settings['OPTIONS'],
'PASSWORD': conn_settings['PASSWORD'],
'PORT': conn_settings['PORT'],
'USER': conn_settings['USER'],
'TIME_ZONE': settings.TIME_ZONE,
})
# Put both DB connections into managed transaction mode
transaction.enter_transaction_management()
transaction.managed(True)
self.conn2._enter_transaction_management(True)
def tearDown(self):
# Close down the second connection.
transaction.leave_transaction_management()
self.conn2.close()
def test_concurrent_delete(self):
"Deletes on concurrent transactions don't collide and lock the database. Regression for #9479"
# Create some dummy data
b1 = Book(id=1, pagecount=100)
b2 = Book(id=2, pagecount=200)
b3 = Book(id=3, pagecount=300)
b1.save()
b2.save()
b3.save()
transaction.commit()
self.assertEquals(3, Book.objects.count())
# Delete something using connection 2.
cursor2 = self.conn2.cursor()
cursor2.execute('DELETE from delete_regress_book WHERE id=1')
self.conn2._commit();
# Now perform a queryset delete that covers the object
# deleted in connection 2. This causes an infinite loop
# under MySQL InnoDB unless we keep track of already
# deleted objects.
Book.objects.filter(pagecount__lt=250).delete()
transaction.commit()
self.assertEquals(1, Book.objects.count())
class DeleteCascadeTests(TestCase):
def test_generic_relation_cascade(self):
"""
Test that Django cascades deletes through generic-related
objects to their reverse relations.
This might falsely succeed if the database cascades deletes
itself immediately; the postgresql_psycopg2 backend does not
give such a false success because ForeignKeys are created with
DEFERRABLE INITIALLY DEFERRED, so its internal cascade is
delayed until transaction commit.
"""
person = Person.objects.create(name='Nelson Mandela')
award = Award.objects.create(name='Nobel', content_object=person)
note = AwardNote.objects.create(note='a peace prize',
award=award)
self.assertEquals(AwardNote.objects.count(), 1)
person.delete()
self.assertEquals(Award.objects.count(), 0)
# first two asserts are just sanity checks, this is the kicker:
self.assertEquals(AwardNote.objects.count(), 0)
def test_fk_to_m2m_through(self):
"""
Test that if a M2M relationship has an explicitly-specified
through model, and some other model has an FK to that through
model, deletion is cascaded from one of the participants in
the M2M, to the through model, to its related model.
Like the above test, this could in theory falsely succeed if
the DB cascades deletes itself immediately.
"""
juan = Child.objects.create(name='Juan')
paints = Toy.objects.create(name='Paints')
played = PlayedWith.objects.create(child=juan, toy=paints,
date=datetime.date.today())
note = PlayedWithNote.objects.create(played=played,
note='the next Jackson Pollock')
self.assertEquals(PlayedWithNote.objects.count(), 1)
paints.delete()
self.assertEquals(PlayedWith.objects.count(), 0)
# first two asserts just sanity checks, this is the kicker:
self.assertEquals(PlayedWithNote.objects.count(), 0)
class LargeDeleteTests(TestCase):
def test_large_deletes(self):
"Regression for #13309 -- if the number of objects > chunk size, deletion still occurs"
for x in range(300):
track = Book.objects.create(pagecount=x+100)
Book.objects.all().delete()
self.assertEquals(Book.objects.count(), 0)
|
- splash = false if local_assigns[:splash].nil?
.row.search-container
= form_tag restrooms_path, class: "search-restrooms-form", method: :get do
= hidden_field_tag :lat, ""
= hidden_field_tag :long, ""
.input-group
= text_field_tag :search, params[:search], class: "form-control search-bar", aria: {label: t("search_bar.enter_location")}
.input-group-btn
%button.btn.btn-light-purple.submit-search-button{type: "button", title: t('.search'), value: t('.search'), aria: { label: t('.search') }}
%i.fa.fa-search.fa-2x
%i.fa.fa-refresh.fa-spin.fa-2x
%button.btn.btn-light-purple.current-location-button{type: "button", title: t('.search-by-current-location'), aria: { label: t('.search-by-current-location') }, value: (splash ? t('.search-by-current-location') : nil ) }
%i.fa.fa-location-arrow.fa-2x
%i.fa.fa-refresh.fa-spin.fa-2x
|
Today, amazing things are happening in the world we live and the church is not left out in these unique but disgraceful changes.
Satan knows his time will soon be up and he is now on the roar,... More > seeking who he may devour. His presence in the church through the hearts of men has revealed the mysterious in today’s world. His powers to possess humans, and use them to perpetuate the darkest of all evil, are unveiled...
Will the church survive Demonic intrusions or stand against it? How really do demons possess humans and use them against the church? Why should they have to do this and on what purpose? Where is the position of the Holy Spirit in the church today? Is the world coming to an end?
As we expose many revelation truths, I am sure you can’t wait to read!< Less
This paper aims to study the core value of Gandhi’s “soul force” and Paige’s “software” as to promote nonkilling at both state and individual levels. This action... More > is perceived as a transformation of power shifting from the State to individuals. Despite its distance from our reality, it represents an emerging phenomenon based on the State’s loss of authority. While it is going to be an emerging issue if one looks into any problems of a society in which the State has less authority than individual human beings, it is certain that the State action of the murderous na-ture will first become much less dangerous to hu-manity. This is a huge progress for a nonkilling soci-ety we envision. Paige’s dream of that society relies on his first condition that “governments do not le-gitimize” killing, one of the major components of a nonkilling software for a peaceful humanity.< Less
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