The Truth About Gretchen

by Alretha Thomas

  “There she is,” Kate says, pointing at Gretchen standing near a news van. She spots us and waves us over. “Sarah was here. She dropped off Gretchen’s phone off and went back to the diner. Like I said before she’s always been the silent type. Doesn’t like a lot of attention.”

  Gretchen motions toward us. “This is Regina Wilson. She’s Robert Parker’s sister. And this is Kate Baxter—she owns Kate & Al’s diner.”

  The reporter extends her slender hand to us, and we reciprocate. A smile cracks my face when I recognize her as the reporter who used to do special reports for BET. She reminds me of a young Vanessa Williams—the former beauty queen, not the actress from the TV show Soul Food. She directs the camera operator, then thrusts her microphone into our faces.

  “Ladies, you’re being called Charlie’s Angels. What do you think about that?”

  Kate pats her lopsided beehive, looks down at her wrinkled pink blouse and smudged white pants, then over at me in my frumpy DMV outfit, and then at Gretchen wearing her Patriots garb. She says, “We may not look as sharp as them, but lady, we can kick some ass. Oops, can I say ‘ass’ on TV?”

  The reporter nods. “How did you ladies meet?”

  “I met Regina when she came into my diner during the storm last week. That’s Kate & Al’s diner on Angel Way in Shady Grove. When I met her, I knew she was special. She was out there for an audition, and she’d lost a keepsake her brother Robert had given her.”

  “She was auditioning for my graduate student film. That’s how I met her, and she introduced me to Kate.”

  “And your film is about Robert Parker?” the reporter says.

  Gretchen looks at me, and I give her an approving smile. “Yes, it’s about him. It’s a short, but in the past fifteen minutes, I’ve gotten a dozen requests from producers wanting to make it a feature-length film.”

  “Congratulations,” the reporter says.

  “Debra, I’m going to have to cut this short. Regina and Kate can provide more information. I want to get back to my family,” Gretchen juts her chin toward her parents and Lance, standing near a patrol car.

  The reporter hands her a card. “Call me. I want to get you ladies on my weekend show.”

  “Okay,” Gretchen says, sprinting into her parents’ arms.

  Kate drapes her arm over my shoulder and says, “This woman right here is the epitome of determination. She’s the one who tracked down the eyewitness. Then those thugs killed her. God rest her soul.”

  “You mean Bertha Winter?” the reporter says.

  “Yes,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. I don’t know how I’ll ever get over my role in Bertha’s murder. The pictures of her parents, her sister, and the choir flood my mind. This is national news. I hope her family doesn’t learn about her death on TV.

  Kate continues talking to the reporter, and I return to my family. On the way there, several other reporters try to score an interview, but I tell them I’ll talk to them later.

  Chapter 37

  Gretchen

  I cry tears of joy into my father’s chest while he holds me in a deep embrace. My mother and Lance wrap their arms around my father and me, cradling us. We separate and share looks of love and gratitude.

  “I’m sorry for not believing you, sweetheart.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. If I hadn’t experienced it firsthand, I wouldn’t have believed either.”

  My father caresses my face. “I’m just glad they didn’t hurt you.”

  “I am too,” Lance says. “And I’ll never forgive myself for abandoning you, when you needed me most.”

  I take his hand and kiss it. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “And we can go to counseling. Whatever you want, Red.”

  “I want you.”

  After a brief silence, I ask the question I’ve been avoiding. “How’s Patty?”

  My father lowers his eyes, and my knees wobble. Please don’t tell me she’s dead.

  “She’s still in a coma,” my mother says, then bursts into tears. “My god, that could have been you. We thought it was. She looked like you, the hair. She had on your jersey, and she had your ID. Your ring.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Mom. We were trying to throw off the bad guys. Is … she … is Patty going to make it?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” my father says. “Her parents are at the hospital.”

  “I want to see her,” I say through trembling lips. I can’t bear the thought of losing Patty. The irony that I once saved her life, and now might be the cause of her losing her life, isn’t lost on me.

  “The FBI wants you, Regina, and Kate to come to their office downtown. They have to get official reports. We spoke to Agent Turner. He says that all four men have been arrested, and John Crawford will be extradited from Dallas to stand trial for Robert’s murder. They say they have some pretty damning evidence, thanks to you, Regina, and Kate,” my father says.

  “We’re proud of you,” my mother says. “You never gave up. Despite the danger, the possibility of losing your life, you never gave up.”

  “Mom, it was because of the unfinished business in my past life. That propelled me.” I peer into her eyes, hoping she understands. She scrunches up her face. I start to elaborate, but she stops me.

  “I get it, sweetie. I get it.”

  “I do too,” Lance says. “I have something for you.” He removes my ring from his pocket, and my heart sinks, thinking about Patty. “The police found it in your car, on the console. She wasn’t wearing it when she was attacked. Gretchen, I love you more than you can know. I want to start over. I want to be the man who took you to see that Patriots game.”

  “I want to start over too. I want to be the woman who used to give you massages every night.”

  We laugh, and he takes my hand. “Gretchen, will you marry me?”

  “Yes, Lance. I will.”

  He slides the ring onto my finger, and my parents applaud. Then we group hug. I break up the lovefest, saying, “I want you guys to meet Kate and Regina and Regina’s parents.”

  “We’d love to.”

  I crane my neck over all the melee, seeking for Regina and her family. From a distance, I see them walking toward a Buick, along with Kate, who seems to be talking a mile a minute. I motion for my family to hurry, and we catch up to them.

  “Regina, I want you to meet my family. Kate, you too. Mom, Dad, Lance—this is Regina, and this is Kate.”

  Regina extends her hand. My parents and Lance brush it away and hug her. “I hear your brother and my daughter have a lot in common,” my father says with a glint in his eyes.

  “Yes,” Regina says, beaming. “These are my parents, Robin and Curt Pettaway. This is my husband, Taylor Wilson, and our daughter, Cookie Wilson.”

  “Nice to meet you,” my parents and Lance say.

  My mother and Regina’s mother step to each other and look into each other’s eyes. Then they embrace. After a couple of minutes they separate.

  “Did you believe that my daughter was your son reincarnated?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Regina’s mother reaches out to me, and I go to her. She stares at me, then touches my face and hair, her eyes taking in my length. “You definitely don’t look like my son. You know, I’m a Christian woman, and I don’t believe in reincarnation. But Regina told me some things that I haven’t been able to shake or explain. I know that with God, anything is possible, but I don’t know if I can believe you’re my son in another form. But I do know this: you love my son. You put your life at risk to find out who killed him, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful.” She hugs me and whispers in my ear. “Do your film—you have my blessing. Tell the world what really happened to my boy.”

  She releases me, and I say, “I promise you I will.”

  We turn at the sound of Kate clearing her throat. “Uh, people…what about me. Can I get some love?”

  We all laugh and hug her.

  ******

 
; Regina, Kate, and I, and our families and loved ones, sit in the two front rows of a courtroom at Dancing Hills Criminal Justice Center. I can’t believe it’s been four months since Robert’s killer was revealed to the world. In late November, John Crawford was escorted from his Dallas mansion in handcuffs, with his wife Nancy running behind them, sobbing and begging the police to let him go. That image will be forever seared into my brain. Nothing was athletic about the seventy-nine-year-old man with white hair and wrinkled skin from too much time spent on restricted golf courses under the blazing sun. He held his head down as his wealthy neighbors looked on in disbelief and shock.

  For more than two decades he’d gotten away with murder, and now his past had come back to bite him in his sagging ass.

  The print on the ace of spades was a perfect match. That, along with the red knit cap confiscated from his home, the archived flight passenger manifest, the rental car agreement, the bank records showing payouts to Shady Grove police officers, and a litany of other incriminating evidence. The Barnes brothers, Detectives Williams and Garcia, and Wilbur planned to testify against him in exchange for lighter sentences, which made the case a slam dunk, despite Crawford’s multimillion-dollar defense.

  However, the cohorts never testified, because a week before the trial began, Crawford halted the proceedings. According to his attorneys, due to his age and failing health, he didn’t feel he could endure a trial where the jury selection alone had taken two months. Since there was no trial, the other culprits’ plea deals were voided, and they all awaited their own trials. Wilbur, aka the goon, will most likely be sentenced to life in prison without parole for murdering Bertha.

  John Dewayne Crawford pled guilty to first-degree murder on February 1, 2018.

  Today is the sentencing hearing. We’ve all spoken, and now it’s his turn. Handcuffed and dressed in an orange jumpsuit, he struggles to stand. One of his many attorneys helps him. He looks over his shoulder at his wife, who’s been weeping nonstop. I sit between Regina and Kate, who squeeze my hands. Regina’s parents and my parents, sitting in front of us, shift in their seats. We wait for Robert’s killer to make his statement.

  “Your Honor, I want to apologize for wasting your time, and the families’ time. My attorneys, many of whom are lifelong friends of mine, advised me to fight this case. From the start, I wanted to waive the trial and plead guilty. Because I am guilty. I’m guilty of being raised in a family that was plagued with disease—the disease of privilege, racism, egoism, and materialism.

  “Robert Parker was a gifted athlete. Beyond that, he was a human being who deserved to live and enjoy the talents God gave him and the fruits of those talents. I was a man full of himself. I was a man who wanted what I wanted. Matt Simmons was the son I never had, the son I wanted. When he died, I lost myself. I lost my mind. I was full of pain and rage, and I struck out at an innocent man, a man who had nothing to do with Matt’s demise, and for that I am truly sorry.

  “I hope that one day his family can find it in themselves to forgive an old man like me. Not for my sake, but for theirs, because I know what bitterness and anger and resentment can do to you. It can turn you into a monster that goes into the night, looking for prey, looking for someone to slay, so you can relieve yourself of the pain and the hurt. But the truth is that it doesn’t go away. It just gets worse. With that said, Your Honor, I gladly accept whatever sentence you think I deserve. May God have mercy on us all.”

  He eases into his seat, and the courtroom fills with the hum of mumbling. The judge pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, peers down at Crawford, and asks him to stand again. His lawyers rise with him.

  “Mr. Crawford, your admittance of guilt and your willingness to discontinue the trial are appreciated, but that does not lessen the pain you have caused Robert’s family. It does not lessen the fact that you and your conspirators covered up Robert Parker’s murder for more than two decades. By your own admission, you killed a man who was in the prime of his life, a man who had a stellar future as a professional football player, a man who saw you as a father figure, a man who helped you go to and win the Super Bowl on two occasions.

  “To his family, he wasn’t just a football player—he was a loving son and brother. He was an example to other young people—black, white, Hispanic, Asian, and all the colors of the rainbow—that with hard work and perseverance, you can realize your dreams. Robert was not perfect. His family has said as much today. He was human, like we all are. But, he made one grave mistake on his birthday on January 1, 1991, his twenty-fourth: he trusted and believed that the man he called coach really loved and accepted him. And because of that, he made himself vulnerable to a monster.

  “John Crawford, you yourself just said that you became that monster. I, too, hope that the family can forgive you, so they can celebrate the memories of their beloved son and brother. John Crawford, with that said, the court sentences you to life in prison without the possibility of parole.”

  The court erupts in cheers, and the deputies lead Crawford away. Tears stream down my face when I think about the first nightmare I had. It seems like a million years ago. I no longer have nightmares.

  We hug and file out of the courtroom. Today is a day of celebration, and tonight is the screening of my thesis short film, The Truth about Gretchen. I’m currently working on the feature-length screenplay, which a major production company is producing. I’m directing, and of course Regina has a role in the film. She’ll play Sandra, Robert’s mother. Kate has a bit part, and Cookie, who’s returned to acting, also has a role. The producer and I are still trying to decide who’ll play me, Regina, and Kate. We’ll start production after Lance and I get married in the summer of 2018.

  ******

  In the Beverly Hills Theater, a hush falls over the room when the end credits of my short film begin to roll. As they conclude, a collective “aww” punctures the silence when the following words fade in on the screen:

  To our friend and sister Patty, who gave her life in the pursuit of justice. We will love you and be indebted to your forever. Patricia Crowley, 1991–2017.