Prison Wars: An Inside Account of How the Apocalypse Happened By Martin Sanger. Martin Sänger

had a permanent smile.

      He prized his smile even more that his projects. Quentin wanted both and expected he could have both. Unfortunately, my spin couldn’t keep him from his public image. Herein, lies an interesting dynamic and lesson; don’t believe the hype. It will distort you until you are completely lost. But I am getting ahead of myself.

      The morning after the press conference, when I arrived at Quentin’s Malibu home, we all went on a beach excursion. It was a family only, no business allowed, beach trip. But he did have a personal goal that he snuck into the day. As his main publicity agent Quentin felt I had to know him and his family well. This was essential to my being able to paint a picture of him as a family man.

      But, Quentin wasn’t simply being scheming or manipulative. He was, as I have indicated, one of the kindest and most spiritually generous people I ever met. I think he could tell that I was lonely. My family had never been tight. I think that he knew that I needed a family and he wanted to help me be happy; to have a sense of belonging in the universe.

      It wasn’t just me. Wherever he went he seemed to key into people’s deep need for love and recognition. Knowing him made one realize how lonely Americans are. Our professionalism hid a lot of pain. A large part of his charisma and power over people came from his extraordinary warmth to perfect strangers. A surprising amount of folks are easily manipulated because they are starved for common friendship.

      Beyond it just being Quentin’s nature to be loving, he hoped that by making me a part of the family, he would be able to conduct business without having strangers on his property. I was to be that fine line between his personal and professional life. Having no children or close family of my own, I was really happy about this part of my assignment. I felt like an adopted puppy.

      The day after the press conference, a limo came to my hotel and dropped me off at Quentin and Melissa’s place. It was fun and unnerving to be in a limousine. I was really conscious that people must be looking at my vehicle and wondering who rode inside. My first inclination was to roll down the window, lean out and proclaim, “It’s me, it’s me! I get to be in a limousine!” But that would be silly. So I kept the windows rolled up and sealed myself off from view.

      Being resolved just to take my seat in the limo and quietly reflect on the night before morphed into self-scrutiny. I started asking myself, ‘Why am I in a limousine?’ ‘Am I special?’ ‘Different?’ ‘Aren’t I just that little guy from Nebraska?’

      Since I didn’t describe it before, let me describe Malibu now. For those of you who don’t know, Malibu is an idyllic community on the coast of the Pacific Ocean, Northwest of Los Angeles. Though definitely in the mix of Los Angeles, Malibu is cut off from it in many ways.

      For one thing, it is a part of Los Angeles where the air is clean. It doesn’t strike one as a place where commerce happens at all. Facing a marvelous quasi-private beach, it feels like a tropical island paradise. Every home in Malibu has the perfection of homes in Better Homes and Gardens or Architectural Digest. Malibu is the sort of place that so lacks a dark side that it almost manifests one by an inconspicuous absence.

      And yet Malibu doesn’t give you that foreboding sense other rich suburbs have. That’s because it is permeated with a very homespun, country nuance. Ostentatious homes tend to make us not-so-rich folks to feel like we should know our place. In many rich communities I am ever so slightly, but consciously, aware that if I don’t comport myself well, if I am not on my best behavior, I may be taken for a criminal or member of a lower order and possibly arrested. Malibu doesn’t create the sense of paranoia other suburbs do.

      When I arrived Quentin and Melissa were having coffee on the back porch of their home. The white lattice woodwork and well-placed ivy is one of the reasons my description is so apropos. Their having enough money to create as great an approximation of heaven as they wished didn’t result anything but good taste and a nice home. I felt very comfortable.

      As I approached, Quentin came up and embraced me! Melissa politely stood up and gave me a not too strong handshake.

      Melissa is a beautiful woman. She had a one-piece bathing suit with a plaid shirt tied around her waist. Her beauty is that of the Malibu country-style natural sort. Her auburn hair is full, and it bounced all the way down to her chest. Her eyes are so light brown that her pupils really stand out. And you can tell that she spends a lot of time in the sun. But being slightly wrinkled by the sun only added to her rustic wholesomeness

      “So. You are Marty!” She smiled, shook her head, and emphasized several words via pacing, as though I was a really pleasant surprise. “Quent has really taken a shine to you.”

      “Looks that way.” My reply was accompanied by a somewhat nervous glance at Quentin. His smile was reassuring and they held hands.

      “You must be a pretty great guy then.” She said staring right into my eyes.

      “Aww, gee shucks.” My comfort level at receiving love wasn’t all that high and Melissa was really direct about relationship dynamics. That was a direct extension of her country robustness.

      It really felt awkward to me. Awkwardly, as if to deflect it, I returned the compliment, “And he being such a good judge of character, I must also then be in the company of a really special lady.”

      I realized that she had only been smiling with her eyes as the full compliment of her teeth came out.

      “You work for Fortune magazine?”

      “Yeah. But Quentin wants me to work for him. And with all this charm and love, I feel somewhat like I’m crawling into a spider web.”

      “We don’t bite. We’re cool people. You should think about it.” Melissa offered earnestly.

      “I am.”

      We all sat down together on their porch and had some coffee while we waited for the children. She asked and I told her about my slow rise to being a junior reporter on the Fortune staff.

      “Hard work! Now that’s the way, eh Quent?” She shot out with a gentle mocking and a humorous glance at his eyes with hers.

      “Yes dear. Diligence and sweat are the stuff of manliness.” They both laughed: he a short guffaw and she a twinkling snicker.

      “I guess you guys think that’s the fool’s way up the ladder.” I queried somewhat hurt.

      “I don’t think Quent’s ever worked more than four hours a day. He likes ideas.”

      “Other people’s ideas.” Again they both laughed in unison.

      “They do the work. He smiles at them.” Their love was really evident. They spoke as one person speaking to himself. They looked at each other with big smiles. The look she normally gave him always intertwined with headshaking appreciation of his greatness. The look he gave her was always intense and somewhat silly.

      “That’s the hard work of the venture capitalist.” He said, faking a reluctant admission with total joy and self-satisfaction.

      “Speaking of hard work, where are we going today?” I had been saving that question for a time when I was feeling a need for a change in discussion. That is a little reporter trick I’ve developed. Always have an ace question in the hole.

      “The beach, Zuma!” Their simultaneous answers were the verbal analogue to the vines interwoven on their lattice.

      “But I . . .”

      “But you don’t have any shorts. We know, we know.” She was a great motherly type. They smiled at each other and then Quentin continued their thought.

      “Then go into the guesthouse, over there, and you’ll find some new shorts on the bed.” I turned and visually followed the path of Quentin’s finger. There I saw a little white guesthouse that had previously escaped my notice.

      When I turned around, they were both