Jerry hasn’t bothered to come see me. Not that I blame him. Must have been a shock, learning who I was, what happened to Ben. I heard he’s still in town, doing surveillance work nights, looking for missing persons days. I decided he had nothing to do with selling me out to the Drake brothers. Easier to sleep that way. Billy b did a couple interviews, some cable-access television, saw his name a couple times in stories written about me. Nobody asks him about his painting. They ask about me. The LACE exhibit sold every photograph I printed. A couple art magazines ran profiles on me and my work. Time and Newsweek printed some of my photographs as part of their coverage. Interview sent somebody to ask about the differences between shooting 35 millimeter film and .38 caliber bullets. All three networks are doing movies of the week based on my story. Every other day somebody is on television talking about me. I got women’s groups talking about how I’m the product of an abusive father. I got men’s rights activists calling me a gun-slinging whore. I tell anybody who asks I’m just an average girl from a small California town who took a slightly wrong turn in life, is all. Nothing special about me, except circumstance, and circumstance can happen to anybody.
The trial is in its third month now. I’ve been in jail for over a year. My hair has grown out, but I keep it clipped short. After a big fight with my lawyer, I removed the dagger nose stud and skull earrings. I wear dresses to court. My lawyer, he said jurors are more likely to trust a blond than a woman with black hair, so my hair is back to its original color. I even wear pink lipstick. I look like a good girl, again. But I know different.
Next week, my lawyer wants me to take the stand. He says the government doesn’t have a good case against me for the Drake killings, but they’re still waiting to file charges on Fleischer’s death. My lawyer wants me to plead to manslaughter on that one. I showed him this story I’m telling you, let him read each chapter after I finished it. We talked about everything in here as part of the defense, but the trial never seems to get around to the why of things so much as arguing about the what. I’ve asked him a couple dozen times couldn’t we copy this off and have the jury read it, let them decide from my own mouth whether I’m guilty or not. Every time I ask him he laughs and says the pure truth is like pure alcohol. Fatal in large doses, best to water it down a little.
Life isn’t so bad. What I wanted most was a new life. I got it. They won’t let me have a camera, but I guess I have to suffer somehow for my sins. I stay busy. I can’t get into too much trouble. I don’t have to worry about repeating the same self-destructive patterns. The state authorities have assumed responsibility for me.
I wish them luck.
Shooting Elvis Page 21