“You could try a civil suit. Sue him for emotional distress.”
Kimani shook her head and grabbed her handbag. “Not worth it. I’m okay. He’s not the only asshole in this world. And maybe he’ll clean up his act now.”
She hoped it was true, but deep down, she didn’t believe it.
“MR. LEE, THANK YOU for meeting with me,” Kimani said as she took a seat opposite Ben’s uncle in the small office of his campaign headquarters, located in an old warehouse that used to house a dance studio. Outside the glass walls of his office, volunteers busily bundled literature pieces, stamped letters, and assembled lawn signs.
Gordon returned a warm smile. Either he didn’t recognize her as the young woman Ben had brought to lunch with him to the soul food restaurant, or Ben hadn’t told him the part she’d played in sparking the FPPC investigation.
“It’s Montana, right?”
“Actually, it’s Kimani Taylor,” she corrected a little sheepishly.
“My apologies. I’m usually better with names.”
She didn’t feel right letting him think the error was this. “I let Ben introduce me as Montana the time we had lunch at Maybelle’s. Kimani’s my real name.”
A brief look of puzzlement crossed his round face, but he didn’t pry. “What can I do for you, Kimani?”
She took in a deep breath. If Ben hadn’t told his uncle—she wasn’t sure why he wouldn’t have—she needed to come clean and get it off her conscience.
“I work for the San Francisco Tribune,” she blurted, then waited for his reaction.
“Ah.” His brows knit briefly in thought. “That’s a very good paper. I hope they’re able to continue their good work for years to come.”
She blinked several times, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. He didn’t harbor any ill will towards the paper that may have hurt his chances of winning the election?
“You’re not upset, Mr. Lee?”
“Please, call me Gordon. What is there to be upset about?”
“The Tribune ran an article about Oakland Forward, and now you’re being investigated by the FPPC.”
He gave her a sympathetic smile even though he was the one who deserved the sympathy. “I won’t say it didn’t hurt. But my campaign has done nothing wrong, and the investigation will show that.”
“But I saw you dropped several points in the most recent polling Channel 2 did on the race.”
“We’ll make it back up.”
She perked up. “I think I can help—in a way. The Tribune wants to do a profile of you, and all the other candidates, of course. I think it will help the voters get to know you better, on a personal level. It’ll be more interesting than the campaign literature they receive in their mail.”
“Well, I am honored. I don’t know that I’m that interesting.”
“Your background is very interesting: how you came to this country and worked two jobs as a high school student to support yourself even though your family could probably afford to buy an entire college; all the work you did as a nonprofit housing attorney—the pro bono cases you took on behalf of tenants who couldn’t afford a lawyer; the role you played in securing a location for mental health services in Chinatown.”
“That was a team effort.”
“From what I heard, you were the one who actually made it all happen, but you let Councilwoman Huang take the credit.”
“It’s not important who gets the credit.”
“See, that’s exactly what the voters don’t see but should—your modesty, your dedication to improving the community. Right now, a lot of voters think you’re just a puppet for business interests. And Oakland Forward reinforces that perception.” She paused and decided to rush the words out before they stuck in her throat. “And it’s my fault.”
“Your fault?”
“When I was, um, spending time with Ben, I saw a text from Ezra Rosenstein to your nephew. I told my editor about it.”
He made no response, so she continued.