Dead Head db-3

by Rosemary Harris

  If I’d had that nice clean aerial view when I was nineteen, I wouldn’t be walking through O’Hare Airport with two federal marshals, a barn jacket thrown over my handcuffed wrists, rushing to catch a flight to Detroit, back to the city and state I hadn’t even wanted to fly over for as long as I could remember.

  I’d thought about this moment every day for the last—what is it—twenty years? Twenty-five? Who remembered? Early on, I jumped every time I heard a siren or if the front door open unexpectedly. Gradually, that feeling faded, like an old scar you forget you have until you look for it and see that it’s still there, right where it’s always been, and you were crazy to think that it had ever disappeared. Now it’s over. They know. And I can exhale.

  That time and place, B.C., before Caroline, seemed like fiction, a novel I’d read or a movie I’d seen before my real life began. If only.

  My friends and family were in shock when I was arrested at cheerleader practice, on the football field with the rest of the squad around me and Coach, who looked stricken. I sleepwalked through the trial and sentencing until I heard the words, twenty years. Only then did it become real for me. Twenty years was longer than I’d been on the planet. I’d be almost forty when I got out, older than my father. Way older than my mother was when she died. People kept saying thank God she wasn’t there to see me, but I didn’t thank him, I wanted her with me. To tell me what to do. Maybe if she’d been with me, I wouldn’t have been in such a mess.

  In prison I spent months crying myself to sleep every night—afraid during the day and more afraid to let my defenses down and go to sleep at night. It was like that for eighteen months until one day a dozen of us were chosen for a work release program that was to last two weeks. After a few days I noticed cracks in security, the times when a guard could be distracted and frequently was. I stayed on my best behavior for twelve days. On the morning of the thirteenth day I simply didn’t get on the bus that took the others back to prison. Only one other inmate saw me slip away behind a delivery van and all she did was close her eyes, a slight curl to her lips. Maybe she was laughing to herself as the van pulled away with me hunkered down in the back. When the driver stopped for gas and a bathroom break I crept out of my hiding place.

  I walked for miles, tearing off my work shirt and tying it around my waist. I turned my prison-issue T-shirt inside out, and in those days the look passed for grunge. Then I hid at a construction site where I knew my brother Luke would be at 6:30 that night. He’d gotten a summer job as a security guard making sure no building materials disappeared overnight. Once I was sure all the workers were gone, I scooted over to the hut where the blue light from a cheap portable television reflected off the window. I tapped on the glass. My brother scrambled out of his chair and opened the window.

  “Sweet Jesus! What the—how did you get here?” He pulled me inside, closed the door, and hugged me. We both collapsed and started to cry.

  I hid in the booth until 4:30A.M. By that time, I hoped it would be safe to go to a motel and steer clear of the construction workers who’d start arriving soon. Luke had thirty bucks in his pocket. He gave me twenty-five and I checked into a hot-sheet motel near the interstate highway until my brother returned with a bag of clothing and all the cash he could scrape together without arousing suspicion.

  “They’re looking everywhere for you,” he’d said. “I didn’t even drive—I rode my bike because I was afraid of being followed. You can’t stay here.”

  As if I wanted to—waiting for the cops to come banging on my door to drag me back to that place. Early the next morning, after saying good-bye to Luke, I sat fully dressed on the edge of the bed wondering what the hell I was going to do. Then I heard one of the truckers checking out. He was making a noisy exit, he and his vehicle belching and grunting. I ran outside and climbed on his running board before he left the long, narrow parking lot and turned onto the highway.

  “Will you wait for me?”

  In five minutes I was out the door, grabbing a motel washcloth and a sliver of soap and the bag my brother had brought.

  “Not much in the way of amenities here,” the trucker said, looking at the pilfered items.

  I stuffed the stolen goods into my bag. The guys who drove me from Ann Arbor to Dayton and from Dayton to Pittsburgh didn’t really want to know my name. The first one thought he might make out—teenage runaways were probably less discriminating and undoubtedly found themselves in situations where it was easier to just do the deed than to get beaten up and tossed out of a moving vehicle. But after a few feeble attempts to engage me in sexy chat, he dropped the idea and was just grateful to have a human to talk to on his long drive south, instead of simply singing along to oldies on the radio.

  The next driver wanted to replay his own hitchhiking experiences or live vicariously through mine. He looked like an aging hippie, ten or so years past his Woodstock days, and he kept saying things were far-out, which I knew from an old boyfriend meant “good.” Up until that point my own travel anecdotes (the Upper Peninsula to visit grandparents and one class trip to Chicago) weren’t adventurous enough to keep him interested, so we soon fell into that silence that takes over on long drives when the rocking of the vehicle or the rhythm of the windshield wipers is all the sound you need and keeping quiet is more natural than saying anything. I rolled down my window to feel the nighttime breeze and to stay alert, just in case he tried anything.

  In Pittsburgh I was picked up by a woman in a Volkswagen van. She said I looked like an Abigail, and I told her it was remarkable, but she’d guessed my name; so I was Abigail for a few days. I got shorter lifts across the endless state of Pennsylvania, and all the way I tried out various fictional autobiographies and names until I found the handful of story lines I was comfortable de livering. My parents were dead. I grew up with my grandmother, who was back home in Oregon. Oregon was a nice touch. I never met anyone who’d ever been there.

  I had a lightweight nylon bag that contained everything my twenty-year- old brother thought I’d need: some clothes, dark glasses, one of the wigs our mother wore during her chemo sessions—I wasn’t sure I could wear it—a hat, my passport, and the entire contents of my brother’s college fund. Six hundred and forty dollars to start a new life.

  Nine

  The stranger we’d all known as Caroline Sturgis was named Monica Jane Weithorn. Why do all convicted felons have three names? And she wasn’t from Oregon, as we’d thought; she was from Michigan. Caroline/Monica had been convicted on a drug charge when she was eighteen years old and had been sentenced to twenty years in jail—a surprisingly draconian sentence given her age and the fact that it had been her first offense.

  By that night, Caroline’s story was dribbling out on the local news channels. The following day it was all over the Internet. Springfield, Connecticut, was soon flooded with news media from every major market in the country who wanted to learn all they could about the woman they were calling the Fugitive Mom.

  News trucks lined the streets around the Sturgis home. Reporters camped out at the Paradise Diner. It was impossible to buy a quart of milk without some overzealous helmet-haired reporter sticking a microphone in your face. And my best friend, Lucy Cavanaugh, came dangerously close to being one of them. As soon as she heard the story, she called me.

  “Paula, this would make a great feature for sweeps week. If you can get us the story, Danielle might offer you a job.”

  “You just spent an entire weekend telling me what a jerk your boss is—why would I ever want to work for her? Besides, you know the story,” I said. “Everyone knows it by now. She walked away from a work release program, hitchhiked out of town, changed her name, and started a new life.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “That’s like saying Moby-Dick is about a guy who goes fishing. This is a huge story and you know her. I met her. This could be big. I could write that screenplay I’ve always wanted to write. Meryl Streep—she’s from Connecticut, isn’t she? Or is it Maine? I
t’s one of those states up there. Maybe she’ll be interested. She could play Caroline. No, she’s too old. No, she can do anything.”

  I could almost hear the wheels turning. She’d be planning her Oscar acceptance speech in a minute. “You are officially going off the reservation and I’m hanging up now.” And I did. Whatever last shreds of privacy Caroline and her family still had, I wasn’t going to be the one to tear them down. Hopefully someone was shielding her kids from the vultures that now circled the family.

  Besides, appearances to the contrary, I didn’t know her. None of us did. Even her husband and her kids hadn’t known she wasn’t Caroline Sturgis.

  I’d told Lucy everything I knew. It was unclear if anyone had helped her escape, but it seemed likely. That was all most of us knew because since her arrest Caroline hadn’t given a statement to anyone.

  How do you live with something like that hanging over your head for twenty-five years? Constantly covering your steps and worrying about slipping up. Now it made more sense why a smart, creative woman like Caroline didn’t work but stayed home, doing her crafts and quietly numbing herself with alcohol. She was hiding, staying under the radar.

  The story was like roadkill: it was impossible not to pay attention. People in Springfield who barely knew Caroline were giving interviews, and the residents of her hometown in Michigan dug back decades to find the slimmest reminiscence. One of her second-grade classmates volunteered the significant factoid that Caroline/Monica always liked to make up stories. Which of course meant nothing but gave the talking heads copy to read while nodding gravely. Opinions were everywhere. With each day more snippets of the story leaked out and were rehashed mercilessly all over town, including at the Paradise Diner.

  Babe wasn’t behind the counter when I arrived, so I grabbed a newspaper, slipped into my favorite booth in the back, and got the attention of one of the singing waitresses with the universal cup-drinking motion that said I needed coffee. Eyebrow Girl brought me a mug and a slice of cake.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Olive oil cake,” she said, bored. “Pete wants you to try it.” She dropped the plate on the table with a clatter. “Sorry.”

  Sure she was.

  Olive oil and cake are not two things I generally associated together, but for free, I was willing to give it a shot. It was delicious with a slightly nutty flavor, and I was shaving off another sliver of the dense cake with a spoon when Babe slid onto the banquette opposite me. She looked tired, but I was enough of a friend not to say so.

  “What have you been up to?” I asked. “Neil back?”

  “I wish. Putting in a new lock on the back door. I should be putting in a new door, but I’ll wait until Neil comes home. That the olive oil cake?” she said. I nodded, handing her the spoon. “Whodathunkit, right? Giada recipe. Not that that girl looks like she’s ever eaten a piece of cake in her life.”

  Babe’s appearance brought the sullen waitress back with an automatic cup for Babe and a refill for me.

  “Thanks, Terry. So what do you think?” she said when the girl left.

  “I think you’re right: she’s probably never eaten an entire piece of this cake and I think the boobs are real,” I said.

  “Not Giada. Caroline…Monica…whatever the hell her name is. Pretty wild, huh, federal marshals coming to take her away? The Main Street Moms must be having a field day with this one. They’ll be dining on this for a year. I guess now we know why Caroline was so hot to put the business in your name. She’s been invisible so long it was probably second nature to her not to put anything in her own name.”

  In all the excitement, that hadn’t occurred to me. Had Caroline done something related to the business that had exposed her identity?

  “Cripes, I wonder if that’s how she got caught, because I resisted letting her be a silent partner.”

  “Don’t start feeling guilty—it wasn’t your fault. Besides, she hasn’t bought anything yet or signed any papers.” Babe shook her head at my ignorance. “Where have you been? People are getting e-mail alerts and Twitters on this, details are flying through this diner faster than blackflies in April. Maybe I should just put the latest news on the marquee outside. I almost wish I had a television in here if only so people would stop asking me what I know. No, I take that back.”

  I knew she didn’t mean it; the last thing she’d ever watched on television was Hill Street Blues, and that was only because she’d dated one of the actors. Besides, she liked Caroline as much as I did—neither of us would ever exploit her situation. Maybe deep down we’d both seen something else behind the ballet flats and designer clothes. A layer of experience or sadness. We just didn’t know it had been caused by a year in the slammer.

  Babe blew on her coffee and then took a swig. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly. “It was an anonymous tip. Somebody intentionally outed her.”

  “But who? And why?”

  “Quién sabe, my friend.”

  Just then Sergeant Mike O’Malley entered the diner. Babe waved him over, and he joined us, sliding onto the seat next to her.

  “Brother,” he said, “not a very convenient week for this to happen. We’ve got a new department spokesperson—fresh out of school. He’s been hyperventilating ever since this story broke. And we’ve got a rookie cop who nearly shot himself in the thigh yesterday, like that dopey football player.” Mike swung around and called to the girl behind the counter. “Darlin’, can I get a decaf here? Skim milk?”

  What possible difference could skim milk make when I saw him eyeing the rest of the cake on my plate?

  “How awful for you. I’m sure it hasn’t been a banner week for the Sturgises either,” I said.

  “True,” he said. “I’m just asking as a neighbor, not a law enforcement official, but you two girls didn’t know anything about this, did you?”

  “Let me out of here,” Babe said. “I will not be interrogated in my own restaurant.” It was said in fun, but I had the feeling there was a nugget of truth in it. And, tellingly, she didn’t answer. Babe shoved O’Malley out of the booth and then got out herself. “Don’t say anything without your attorney present.” She gave Mike a playful push and left.

  Of course we hadn’t known—at least I hadn’t. Although I don’t know that I would have said anything if I did. It was an ethical dilemma unlike any I’d ever encountered before.

  “What was she in jail for, anyway? A couple of joints?” I thought of the horror stories about American kids on vacation who stupidly tried to carry pot across borders and were thrown into foreign jails for years. But Caroline had been arrested in Michigan, not Thailand.

  “Not exactly,” Mike said.

  He told me that according to the Michigan police, Caroline/Monica had been a big-time drug dealer. And they weren’t talking a few nickel bags for her own use. She had denied everything, but the prosecutor claimed that she had a string of employees working for her, mostly young girls. I’d seen Caroline struggle with her own checkbook and Anna had had to dun her for payment almost every month. This was a big-time drug dealer?

  Maybe it was all a ruse. Maybe she had been playing the ditzy blonde for so long she didn’t know how to stop playing the part.

  Mike said that Caroline had originally been arrested with a man and an older girl, who had served two years of her sentence before being paroled. Presumably she’d gotten on with her life, while Caroline had spent decades in hiding. Good grief.

  “How’s she doing?” I asked.

  “Seems okay.” Mike eyed the olive oil cake, which had remained untouched since he’d sat down. “Won’t see anyone, though. Not even her husband. Poor bastard—he keeps coming by the station anyway. Bringing her food and clothing. Her toilet items. Yesterday he brought a suitcase filled with creams and lotions. We had to go through every one of those tiny bottles. Is your bathroom filled with stuff like that?”

  It was. And I knew what Caroline used. I seriously doubted whether Grant Sturgis could smuggl
e a file or a poison pill into jail in a flat jar of YvesSaintLaurent eye cream. “What happens next?” I asked. I took a small bite of cake and washed it down with cold coffee.

  O’Malley told me Caroline would be extradited to Michigan and a judge there would decide her fate. He’d either send her back to prison to finish her sentence—possibly with a few years tacked on for escaping—or send her home with a suspended sentence. Presumably they’d take into account the way she’d turned her life around, but you could never tell. She could get titanically unlucky and get a judge who prided himself on being a hard case or one who was running for reelection and didn’t want to appear “soft on crime.” I didn’t know what I thought; it was all too fresh. O’Malley was silent and looked longingly at the half-eaten piece of cake on my plate.

  “Go on,” I said. “You know you want it.”

  “What makes you think my lean and hungry look is directed at your leftover cake?”

  That was as close to a pass as O’Malley had come since I first moved to Springfield. I didn’t mind. I never minded, but I kept that to myself. I guess I could sip wine in front of the fire with a man like Mike, talk about our days, laugh at the stupid things that happened, I just hadn’t done that for so long. And I wasn’t sure I knew how not to be sarcastic and distant with Mike O’Malley.

  Just as things were getting interesting we were interrupted by his coffee coming and my cell phone ringing. I fished it out of the bottom of my backpack and froze when I saw the name on-screen: Caroline. I fumbled to unlock the keypad and hit answer before the phone kicked into voice mail mode. Would she be calling me from the Springfield jail? Why? I waited for what seemed like an eternity. “Who is this?” I whispered.

  “It’s Grant. Grant Sturgis. I need to talk to someone. Someone I can trust.”

  Of course. He most have reconnected their home phone and I had saved the number as Caroline.