The Sourdough Wars

started pacing. That must have annoyed the deputy, because she came to see what the trouble was. “First time in?”
    I nodded.
    “Prostitution?”
    I shook my head and swallowed. “Assault. But I didn’t do it—I mean, I was just defending myself.”
    She nodded automatically, and I could see it was a story she heard an average of three times a day and believed every time the Bay dried up. If I ever got out of there, I was going to kill Rob Burns, probably by flaying.
    “Why don’t you get some rest?” said the deputy.
    “No. I mean I can’t. …” I glanced at the bunk. She nodded and disappeared. When she got back, she was carrying a clean sheet.
    “I know how you feel,” she said, and pushed it through the bars.
    You don’t expect to meet someone nice in jail. It threw me off the track so thoroughly that I forgot to feel sorry for myself while I was folding the sheet and making myself a louse-free pad to sit on. By the time I got around to sitting on it, I’d exhausted gratitude, amazement, and the milk of human kindness. I started plotting revenge against Rob, and I ended up in tears.
    I was still teary when the deputy came and said I was bailed out. That was the last thing I expected to hear. I hadn’t really expected Kruzick to get it together that fast. I knew he’d probably manage by morning—that is, if Mickey hadn’t left him permanently, as she would if she had any sense. Once she got home, wheels would turn—young Mickey certainly wasn’t going to let her big sister spend the night in jail—not the
whole
night, anyway. But I figured she’d take advantage of being away from him and savor it as long as possible. Otherwise, I certainly wouldn’t have been all red-eyed and undignified like I was.
    They gave me my personal belongings and let me take the elevator to the first floor. Did I mention that City Prison is in the Hall of Justice, which also houses a good many courtrooms in which I had successfully argued cases for my clients? I was just glad none of them could see me then.
    Mickey and Alan were waiting in the rose-marble lobby, as I’d hoped. Unfortunately, they weren’t alone. Mom and Dad were there, too. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Rob was just coming through the door. But even that wasn’t the worst part—he had Pete Brainard with him. Pete Brainard is a
Chronicle
photographer.
    It occurred to me simply to step back in the elevator and go back to the sixth floor, where it was nice and peaceful. But Mom was on me like wrinkles on raisins before I had a chance. She’d been crying, too, and she hadn’t stopped yet. She was wearing her black Bill Blass coat—mourning, I supposed—and she engulfed me in a blanket of high-quality wool. To my amazement, she didn’t utter a word of reproach. Just cried and sobbed, hanging on to me.
    That was a nice surprise, but a little embarrassing. I couldn’t keep my mind off Pete Brainard’s strobe, which was going off repeatedly.
    “Mom,” I said gently, “You’re wrecking my suede jacket.”
    She let up and I fell into Daddy’s arms. “Take it easy, Beck,” he said. “Everything’s okay.”
    “I was robbed,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”
    “I know, baby. We’ll straighten it out in the morning. You’ve got the best lawyer money can buy.”
    That made me smile. “Modest, too.”
    Then Mickey hugged me, and Alan gave me the “okay” sign. The camera kept clicking away.
    Rob came forward, but I stepped back. “Honey, I’m so sorry,” he said.
    “Don’t you ‘honey’ me. I saved your life and you left me to rot in jail.”
    He looked bewildered. “But what happened? I don’t understand.”
    Mom turned on him like one of the furies. “You get away from here, Mr. Rob Burns of the
Chronicle
. Look at that bruise on her face! You did that to my daughter, you, you”—she searched for the right words—“newshawk!”
    Mickey and I both giggled. It started out as a little tiny ripple of a giggle, and before we could stop it, it was a giggle fit. Mom and Dad just stood there with the corners of their mouths turned down, looking like a couple of tragedy masks. Several times before I’d come very close to disgracing the family and now I finally had, and Mickey and I were yucking it up while Pete Brainard recorded the Fall of the House of Schwartz for the
Chronicle’s
half million readers.
    Rob looked as if I’d punched him in the
kishkas
. He finally managed to speak, in a high, kind of cracked