Free Truth Like the Sun by Jim Lynch Page B

facility than a community center. She parked in the gravel lot next to the netless basketball hoop among older American cars that reminded her of Ohio and watched families shuffle toward the entrance, their necks bowed against the rain. A KIRO-7 news van pulled up, followed by one from KING-5.
    She could hear clanking metal chairs and sharp voices as she entered the old, wood-floored auditorium, asking people why they came. The responses ranged from confusion and hostility to thoughtful or flip commentaries about the police. Finally, a stout woman mentioned that she came to hear what this Roger Morgan had to say. As others chimed in, Helen turned on her recorder.
    “He’s just pandering,” another woman said.
    “Patronizing,” her friend corrected her. “Patronizing, not pandering.”
    “Least he wants to talk,” a third added. “Doesn’t want to
think
about it and get back to us with some
statement
. He wants to talk. And I wanna listen.”
    “Fishin’ for votes like the rest of ’em.”
    “Yeah, least his ass will be here. Where’s the mayor? Where’s Rooney’s big butt? Seen the size of that man lately?”
    By now Helen sensed the crowd growing around her and, looking up, saw other recorders and microphones and a shoulder-held TV camera.
    “Try to find a seat,” shouted the director, a tall, reedy-voiced woman.
    “Hope nobody’s here from the fire department,” a man muttered as damp faces lined the walls.
    The director welcomed everyone, through a microphone now, extending her condolences to the family and friends of Michael Alan Shelton. She talked vaguely about tragedies and injustices, then suggested, “But I hope we can all agree there needs to be a more thoughtful response than the vandalizing of businesses that bring jobs to our community.”
    A man shouted, “Starbucks ain’t run
by
us or
for
us!”
    “
Three
businesses had their windows broken this morning,” she replied forcefully, “which ones aren’t the point.” When she recommended writing letters to the police oversight board, people started murmuring and eyeing the door.
    Next up was a reverend, short and loud and off subject. People fanned themselves and monitored the entrance until Roger Morgan stepped through it dressed like the father of the bride in a charcoal suit and champagne tie, followed by a blushing young woman in a dark pantsuit and by a gimpy Ted Severson. The rev gabbled on about how hard times can bring out the best in us, but everyone’s eyes were on Roger. When the whispering grew louder, the preacher got the hint and closed with a generic prayer.
    “As many of you may know,” the director announced, “we received a request today from a new mayoral candidate to address this group. Given our unsuccessful efforts to get the mayor and the police chief here today, the board swiftly agreed to let Mr. Roger Morgan speak. Mr. Morgan?”
    There was no applause but rapt attention as he strolled up to the microphone, adjusted it patiently, licked his lips once and finally looked slowly around the auditorium. Body language, Helen knew, was more important than words at times like these.
    “I’m not looking for votes today,” he began with a somber ease that struck her as pitch perfect. “I’m looking for answers. I’m looking for
help
in understanding not only this morning’s tragedy, but the daily travesties that go on around here.”
    Helen watched the expressions in the crowd, some insolent or distrustful—just another politician, blah, blah, blah—and others sensing something
different
.
    “I don’t understand, for example, how so many landlords in this area are allowed to raise their rents while they let their properties go to hell.” He paused, meeting eye contact from one side of the room then the other. “How is
that
okay?”
    “I heard that!” a man yelled.
    “Problem is, they pay less taxes, you see, when their houses and apartments drop in value. So what’s the incentive to keep them up? Not