The soon-to-be-recalled D.A.’s first surprise was Eric Swalwell’s announcement that he now supports her recall. The second surprise was the unanimous vote by all thirteen Bay Area police unions to also support the recall. The election isn’t for another 3-1/2 weeks, but it’s looking more and more like a done deal, which leads to the question: What will Price do when we kick her out?
Warning: The following is satire. But perhaps there’s some truth in it.
March 2025
Pamela Price is just finishing her night shift as a hostess at the Home of Chicken and Waffles. She has kindly consented to an interview, her first since leaving office. I ask how she likes her new job.
“It’s okay,” she nods. “I like the people. The food is a problem.”
“How so?”
“Well, I’m eating too much. I just love those sweet potato fries and the Mac and Cheese, and the barbecue—don’t get me started! As you might have noticed, I’ve put on a few pounds.”
I had noticed, but said nothing.
Price seems pensive. “You know, I really didn’t think I’d be recalled. Even after Swalwell. All I did in office was keep my promises.”
“Maybe so, but voters perceived that you were soft on crime.”
“I prosecuted a lot of bad guys. I put them in jail. It wasn’t my fault that the media misrepresented me.”
“But did they? It seemed to me that they were on your side.”
“They said they were. But secretly they conspired against me.”
It was her old conspiracy theory again.
“I know exactly who my enemies are. They suck up to you and pretend to support you and then they stab you in the back.”
I thought the “stab in the back” analogy was weird, recalling as it did Hitler’s use of the same term after Germany lost the Great War.
“Well,” I temporized, “all that’s in the past. You have a new life ahead of you.”
Price was quiet for a moment, as if she were contemplating that new life. Then: “I’m going to get even with them.” She stopped walking and looked at me. “All of them. They’ll pay for what they did.”
“Who is ‘they’?” I asked.
“They know who they are. Carl Chan. Brenda Grisham. Swalwell. I will not be scorned. They haven’t reckoned on what Pamela Price really is.”
“And what is that?”
Price seemed to grow—to physically grow. She was the size of the oak tree—then the building—then the entire city block where we stood. Then she was the size of the Tribune Tower—of the Oakland Coliseum—of the Bay Bridge. The wind howled through her hair. Her eyes blazed with fury. From her mouth flames flared. She was truly frightening. I crouched down.
“Don’t worry, my pet. I won’t harm you. I know you weren’t part of this coup.”
I felt a little guilty, since I was part of what she was calling “this coup.” But I didn’t say anything.
And then she was gone. Poof! Just like that—as if Pamela Price had never existed. And I looked again and Broadway was filled with happy people, the bars and clubs packed, music filling the air. A woman was selling paper flowers in a storefront. A couple, lost to themselves, danced. Two low riders glided past, brilliantly colored. A piece of paper fluttered by. I picked it up: A calendar page. Oct. 7, 2024, it read. Today’s date. I was confused. Was Pamela Price really gone? Had it all been a dream? I walked over to the Home of Chicken and Waffles and peered inside the window. The place was crowded and noisy. Suddenly I was hungry. I entered. A short, large woman with big hair greeted me. “Hi, I’m Pam, your hostess. Would you like a table for one?”
Steve Heimoff