Page 66 of A Spy is Born

"I have a big meeting tomorrow. The director of my new movie, Troy Woods. I need to go see him. And what about Julian?”

“We will do everything we can for him.” A ball of nausea swirls in my stomach. Julian doesn't deserve this; he should be with some nice girl. "Don't feel too bad about it," Temperance says, as if reading my thoughts. "It's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" My voice comes out sounding soft, edged with regret.

"Is it your fault Jack Axelrod attacked you? That I approached you?"

"It's my fault I said yes. I could've taken the punishment due, and Julian wouldn't be in jail right now."

"Right." Temperance says it like it's not right. "And your grandmother could have stayed in Romania and been gassed with the rest of her family. But she chose to flee. She left them all behind, and she made it out alive."

"And she's a bitter old bitch. She survived. She's still breathing. But she's been miserable her whole damn life."

Temperance glances over at me, pulling his eyes from the road for just a moment. I don't meet his gaze. "You're saying she would've been better off dead?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying. All I know is that my choices landed Julian in jail tonight."

Temperance lets out a laugh. "No, they didn't—at least not on their own. Grand's choices did, or even Julian's. Or just fate." Traffic slows and the brake lights in front of us throw a red hue across Temperance’s face. "Nothing is any one person’s fault. It's all a kind of elaborate chain reaction."

“Or it is all just chaos, atoms crashing into each other?”

“Either way, not your fault.”

I can’t help the laugh that releases.

Temperance’ssafe house turns out to be an entire floor in one of the newly renovated old factory buildings downtown with junkies nodding off outside the plush lobby.Very LASunshine, celebrity and incredible wealth in the high rises and hills, with drug addicts and desperation huddled at its base.

The elevator opens right into the apartment’s living room. Distressed, painted wood floors, high, iron-beamed ceilings, and the redolence of sandalwood greet us. There is a kitchen along the back wall, and a lanky, nerdy guy is standing behind the marble-topped island, his brown eyes huge behind thick glasses. “Justin, meet Angela,” Temperance says, moving through the uncluttered space.

Justin stumbles as he comes around, grabbing at the counter to stay upright.He’s recognized me and can’t quite handle it.The man’s face goes beet red.So, not an agent.“Angela, this is Justin,” Temperance says as he pulls out one of the leather stools for me.

The nerdy guy works his jaw a couple of times before finally squeaking out a hello. He’s still holding onto the counter where he caught himself. “Evening,” I say.

Justin’s eyes jump to Temperance, who smiles at him. “We need to discuss a problem,” Temperance says. Justin swallows and straightens, releasing the counter and nodding. Temperance turns to me. “Can I get you a glass of water or a cup of tea before we begin?”

“Sure, water,” I say.

Moments later, we are at the large dining room table. Justin projects from his laptop onto a screen lowered from the ceiling. A photograph of Detective Jacobs wearing a uniform and looking about twenty years younger glows in the dim room. “Detective Abraham Jacobs,” Justin says, his voice deeper and more confident now that’s he behind his computer screen. “He’s been a suspected ‘ghost skin’ since 1991.”

“A ghost skin?” I ask, turning to Justin.

His screen reflects in his glasses, hiding his gaze. “It’s a term for white supremacists who hide their beliefs in order to further their cause.”

“Oh.” My voice comes out sounding small.

“In 1991, Jacobs was working in a local branch of the LA county sheriff’s department where a neo-Nazi gang of officers were convicted for habitually terrorizing black and Latino residents. Jacobs was suspected of being a member of the group but never faced prosecution. He’s continued to move up the ranks of the LA police department. In 2006, when the FBI released a report warning of white supremacists infiltrating police forces across the nation, we started tracking him closely. He’s a leader and recruiter for a ‘social club’ that calls themselves the ‘blue brotherhood.’?”

“Why is he still on the force? Can’t he be arrested and tried?” I ask.

Temperance shifts in his chair before answering. “Not enough political will.” He sits forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze holding mine. “To put it bluntly, the history of law enforcement in the United States is linked to the history of white supremacy. The origin of U.S. policing lies in the slave patrols of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.” He looks down at his hands where they are interlaced on the wooden table.

When his gaze returns to mine it’s softer, gentle—like he is about to impart some sad news. “In 2009, three years after the initial report warning of the infiltration of police forces, a joint report between Homeland Security and the FBI was issued, warning that white supremacist groups were recruiting ‘disgruntled’ veterans and law enforcement officers due to their skills and training. The report concluded that ‘lone wolves and small terrorist cells embracing violent right-wing extremist ideology are the most dangerous domestic terrorism threat in the United States.’?” A shiver runs down my spine, and I have to look away, staring at my glass of water.

“Conservative groups freaked out and the report was rescinded,” Temperance goes on, his voice calm, free of accusation, though his words are sickening. “In fact, Homeland Security stopped tracking the groups altogether, and now it’s just the FBI.” Temperance pauses. “And us.”

He sits back into his chair. “The military took action—they began to screen members for white supremacy tattoos and have done a relatively effective job of rooting out the extremists in their ranks, but police departments are not centralized. There is also a lack of will to rid many departments of racists. Fifty years ago, in many parts of the South, entire departments were made up of Klan members. And beyond that, being a member of a white supremacy group isn’t in itself illegal. Freedom of speech.”

“So you”—I look between the two of them—“keep track of the racist police officers?”

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