The Arizona State trooper half-leaned in the window, then glanced in the back seat. Gregg sleepily roused himself and looked bored, as only a teenager can.
The officer looked at Dick, who raised one hand in a nonchalant greeting.
"Do you folks have any fruits, vegetables or plants of any kind?" he asked.
I shook my head, appearing tolerant and pleasant. "Nope."
I was so afraid he would hear the heavy thumping of the three hearts beating wildly inside that car. I could almost taste the shame and grief that would be served up in prison as we all held our breath, waiting for the state trooper's next words.
The stern looking officer took one more sweeping glance at the three of us, glanced back at the trunk, and then hesitated. "Fine. Drive on."
I nodded. "Thank you, officer."
I pushed the electric window button up and casually shifted into gear, then slowly drove away from the potential disgrace and disaster.
For the next hour or more, neither Dick, Gregg nor I made a sound. Each lost in our own reverie, none of us could voice the horror of that heart-stopping narrow escape.
CHAPTER NINE
A Live-in Thief
"Error is correctable whenever it is recognized as such, the path of error is the path of truth."
-- Hans Reichenbach
Finally, Chicago’s skyline came into view. "Thank goodness we're almost there. I'm exhausted. How are you two holding up?"
"I'm beat to the bone," Gregg groaned.
"I'm okay," Dick chimed in. "But the trip has been rough on both of you. I promise this is the first and last time I'll get involved with Clark. When we get back to Sarasota, I'll break it off with him and Jackson. Never again. In the meantime, we can rest up and maybe squeeze in some fun. Chicago has a great Museum of Natural History you'd both like. As soon as we're settled and rested, let's do some heavy-duty sightseeing."
Approaching the entrance of the Blue Angel Inn where Clark had two rooms booked for us in advance, my eyes rolled back in my head. The two dingy single-story buildings facing each other were in dire need of renovation. Bits of paint flaked off and floated in the air like falling snow. Scraps of newspaper and candy wrappers whirled around the half-bald grassy areas between the woebegone buildings. Even the roofs sagged. Oh well, I mused, we wouldn’t be here for long. And after the grueling drive from Los Angeles, a bed that offered a little more comfort than a concrete slab would feel like a feather mattress.
After checking into the motel, Gregg and I unfolded our stiff bodies and crawled out of the car. With my son's grubby motel room still unmade, Gregg and I flopped down on the double beds in a half stupor.
"You two rest, while I unload," Dick said tenderly.
He left to round up four cardboard boxes from the motel's dumpster, into which to stuff the bags of marijuana. With bleary eyes, Gregg and I watched him stack the boxes in the bedroom.
Finished with his chores, Dick rubbed his hands together and headed for the door. "I'm going to round up my connections. See you both later."
"The man has the constitution of a Sherman tank," I mumbled to my son, as I closed my eyes.
Within a few days, the news came back bleak: Dick's Chicago connections had either turned up missing or refused to speak to him on the telephone. Week after week, Gregg spent most of his time watching television or reading, while I did the same. I remained in our room during maid service to prevent any temptation the worker might have had to peek into the boxes that sat menacingly unsold in our bathroom. Dick spent most of his time combing the city for buyers.
On another windy Chicago afternoon, Dick answered the knock at our door, thinking it was Gregg. But there stood the Asian motel manager, looking seriously annoyed. "I'm sorry, but we can no longer charge the rooms to Charles Rainier's account," he stated in an irritable manner. "From now on, we must be paid in advance for both rooms."
"I'll see what can be done." Dick closed the door and turned to me. "Great. That's all we need now. Clark’s had the rooms charged to his credit card, so naturally it's paid in arrears."
Week after week, the unresolved phone calls between Clark and the motel manager added to the tense situation of Dick's inability to unload the pot. Every couple of days, the manager would bang on our door, shouting, "You haven't paid in advance, so you must pack up and get out...now!"
By then, we had been holed up for close to six weeks and I could stand it no longer. "Dick, this is madness. The manager could call the police any minute now. And what’s sitting under the sink could send us to prison for the rest of our lives. Do something and do it now."
Dick did something. He decided to sell the pot on the street in one-ounce bags. Gregg and I were both put to work on his production line. Providing a scale and small plastic bags, he instructed us to put in a few grains less than a full ounce in every bag--instructions I ignored. Nevertheless, Dick faithfully called Clark every few days. Eventually, Dick ran out of excuses and finally told Clark what was going on. "The timing is bad. There's a new supplier flooding the Chicago market at a price we can't meet."
In reality, no one wanted to do business with Dick Lee.
Stuck out on the street peddling pot, Dick started taking his troubles out on me and Gregg, as my son began to grow increasingly depressed. It wasn’t until years later that I learned about Dick’s hideous lies. He had taken Gregg aside and told him that he should stay in his own motel room. He told my son that I wanted him out of our lives when we returned to Sarasota. Frightened and confused that he was unwanted --a repeat of his past stay with his father--Gregg carried that burden alone.
One day, during that time, Dick insisted that we pay an unexpected visit to Gregg's room. The minute the door opened, we could smell pot. While Dick ranted at him for taking one of the one-ounce bags, Gregg sank down silently on the edge of his bed. I held my tongue, fearing that if I pointed out that most of this was Dick's own doing, he would fly into a rage and become physically abusive. Preservation instincts for my son forced me into silence.
Later, after the storm had passed, I knocked on Gregg's door. "Hon, how about a walk?"
"Fine, let's go, Mom." We walked for hours, but my son said little. Had I only known then of his suffering, I could have dispelled Dick's lies.
And had I been aware that the man I had married possessed so demonic a disposition as to deliberately and secretly drive a wedge of pain between Gregg and me--to drive a stake into my son’s heart--I would have left Dick then and there.
Back in our room, Dick gave me a tongue lashing about the sympathy I had shown my son by inviting him to take a walk.
A few days later, Dick announced that he there was some good luck, at last. "I found Tim Davis, an old buddy of mine, who used to bring in music tapes and records during the years that I had three Tape Town stores in the Chicago area.” He raised his eyebrows. "I always paid Tim in cash and didn't ask where he got the stuff from. Hell, I didn't care if he brought me stolen merchandise, as long as the price was right."
One afternoon, he brought Tim to our room, the only person in Chicago who seemed happy to see Dick. A man in his early thirties, of average height, weight and appearance, he was the type of individual who could easily mingle and go unnoticed in a crowd.
After Tim's brief visit, Dick laughingly described him. "When he's not chasing women, drinking tequila or smoking pot, Tim's breaking into houses."
The continual chaos and turmoil fit Dick like another layer of skin. An adrenaline junkie, he delighted in danger, which represented adventure. To him, boredom was the only crime.
By the second week of August, I was at my wit's end. "I've got to get Gregg back home, Dick. It's time to enroll him in school."
"Sure, Pussycat. I've been thinking about that too. Tim and I put our heads together and we'll transfer the pot to the apartment building where he lives. He's on the east side of Chicago so it'll be easier to sell the stuff from there. I'll stay at his pad unti
l it's gone, then fly back to Sarasota."
"Okay," I said. "We'll leave in the morning."
I dashed to Gregg's room to tell him the good news.
"Great, Mom. Let's get out of here as soon as we can."
In the speed of a sneeze, we had our clothes packed and loaded in my car, smiling at each other in the knowledge that we would soon be leaving Chicago--and this sorry state of affairs--behind.
At seven the next morning, we were getting into the car for the trip home.
Dick kissed me. "You know how much I love you," he said.
With my love for him ebbing away, I could only mumble something unintelligible in response.
Dick said good-bye to Gregg. "Take good care of your Mom. And be sure to behave yourself and stay out of trouble."
Looking at each other wide-eyed, Gregg and I got settled in my Olds and waved good-bye. Fifty miles south of Chicago, our spirits started to soar. Like birds set free from a cage, we chatted and found laughter again on the pleasant drive back to Sarasota. Having missed at least six months of school to attend the Straight program, Gregg would have to repeat his sophomore year at Riverview High.
For the next couple of weeks, Dick called frequently from Chicago to tell me that he and Tim were still trying to unload the pot. One unerring mark of being without Dick was how much better I functioned, however, the stress reprieve turned brief.
At that point, Gregg told me he had decided to quit school and find a job.
"Honey, what are you saying? You told me everything is going well at school. How did such an idea pop into your head?"
Gregg looked away. "I don't have anything to say, Mom. I've just decided to quit!"
I could feel the room spinning around me again, "Gregg, you know how important it is to get an education. Without at least a high school diploma, the only job you're likely to find is slinging hash or cleaning out horse stables. High school is only the first segment of your education. Like your father, you have a good mind. And remember your dad went to Columbia University in New York City on a full four-year scholarship. If you applied yourself, you could get one too. If not, I'll manage it. We've discussed this many times before. What's going on? Talk to me."
"There's nothing to say. I've made up my mind, Mom. I'll be seventeen soon and can quit school if I want to."
Closing his mouth, Gregg remained silently stoic. I tried to reason with him, to plead, bribe. But nothing I said altered his decision. In desperation, I called Dick.
Dick’s response was casual. "If the kid wants to quit, that's his business and his decision. Don't worry about it. Things will work out for the best."
"I don't understand your nonchalant attitude. Gregg must have an education. If he quits high school, he could easily slip through the cracks!"
Dick hesitated. "The boy has to make his own decisions. What else can I tell you?"
"Looks like we'll have to work it out ourselves. Goodnight Dick." No help there, I thought. Not knowing the truth, I sought help from the very demon who had orchestrated the evil against my son.
After talking my throat raw, Gregg finally agreed to enroll in a three-month vocational school to get a GED, a General Education Diploma.
A month after Gregg and I returned home, Dick appeared on the doorstep without notice. At his side stood Tim Davis, the young thief from Chicago. I could hardly believe my eyes. I stammered something as they carried their luggage into the house.
Later that day, in the office and out of earshot of Tim and Gregg, I voiced my strong objections. "Dick, I don't want a thief living here. How could you, bring him home with you without telling me?"
"Look, Jen, this is my house as much as yours. I'll invite whoever I want. And if you don't like it, you can take a flying leap for yourself. I'll set up the roll-away in the office and Tim can sleep there. I'm going to show him the ropes."
"And what kind of influence do you imagine Tim will be on Gregg?"
"Tim's not going to be around Gregg that much, so lay off. Tim's been a big help to me."
"Does that mean all the marijuana's been sold so we can be free of this whole dirty business?"
"Well, some of it." Dick looked away.
I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but I want Tim out of here, and I want him out of here fast." Dick flashed a warning look and stormed out of the office, slamming the door.
Dick and Tim had only been able to sell off a few pounds of pot. One hundred thirty pounds remained hidden in Tim's storage bin in Chicago. Nevertheless, Clark and Jackson accepted Dick's explanations of why he couldn't unload it in Chicago.
Tim, it turned out, had come to Florida illegally. The terms of his parole from Illinois for the crime of breaking and entering prohibited his leaving the state. Again, Dick had displayed his unique powers of persuasion in convincing Tim to come to Florida.
The second week of Tim's residence, I overheard Dick talking to him. "Don't keep any stolen merchandise in the house, stash it in the garage."
"Right, Dick," Tim responded.
With clenched teeth, I again demanded that Dick rid the house of Tim.
As usual, Dick tried to reassure me with platitudes. "Stay cool, Jen. Just for a little bit longer. Clark, Jackson and I are working on something right now. Be patient just a few more days."
"Dick, you tell your thieving guest that if he robs one more house, I'll call the police."
"Hang on there!" Dick raised his arms. "Don't you know that would implicate me, and you as well?"
"I'm sorry, but that’s the way it has to be. You made the decision to bring him here, so it's your responsibility. And another thing…. You promised to sever your relationship with Clark, Jackson, and Reed."
"That's right, I did. And I meant it. I'll quit after this business is finished. Hang in there, Pussycat. I'll give Tim the word. No more funny business."
Mornings, after lumberjack breakfasts, Dick and Tim left for the day and Gregg rode his bike to school in pursuit of his GED. Tim drove Dick's red truck while Dick cruised Sarasota in his ill-gotten black Lincoln Mark V.
A few days later Dick made an announcement. "Tim and I are flying back to Chicago. Clark and Jackson have decided that we're to pack the remaining pot in a foot locker, fly to Los Angeles and give it back to Saul Morey, so he can sell it there. And to keep Saul honest, Clark wants me to stay in L.A. while he sells it and makes sure the money is sent back to Clark. Saul is like Melvin Pome. They're both plagued with gambling disease. Saul 's got it in his blood and can't shake it, poor devil!"
My neck and shoulders ached from stress. "Dick, I'm counting on your word that when you return from L.A., you'll be through with Clark, Jackson and Reed."
"You have it, Pussycat." Dick gave me his winning smile.
The next evening, he and Tim boarded a flight back to Chicago.
A few days later, as I tried sorting through the genesis of my marriage to Dick, a plain-clothes detective knocked at our door. After inspecting his identification, I invited him inside, my heart skipping a beat. "What can I do for you, officer?"
Standing in the foyer, the man replied, "I'm investigating the robberies in your neighborhood, specifically the burglary next door."
"Robbery, how awful. My neighbors aren't hurt, are they?"
"No," he responded. "They were away at the time. I'd like to talk with your son Gregg about this matter. Is he home?"
My heart skipped a few more beats. "No, he’s in school. He'll be home around four-thirty."
"I see. We're questioning other youngsters in the area as well as Gregg, but we know your son's had problems in school and has attended a drug rehabilitation program. Can you bring him into the station later today?"
"Yes, of course. We'll be there after he comes home and has had a bite to eat. That should be around five thirty or six o'clock."
The police detective nodded. "That'll be fine. Here's my card. You can ask for me, or anyone in the robbery division if I'm out. Good a
fternoon."
"Good afternoon, sir." I closed the front door, went back to the office, sat at the desk and wailed at the wall. "Is my life nothing more than a series of shoveling away one pile of camel dung after another? Aaaaaaag."
Thinking that maybe a long soak in the bathtub might help ease the tension of this latest turmoil, I switched on the answering machine and slipped into a tub full of steaming water. I leaned back and tried to figure out the best course of action. I realized I was in a 'Catch-22' situation. Gregg was not only innocent of the crime, but he didn't know that Tim was the one guilty of committing it. If I told my son of Tim's thievery, in good conscience, he would have to tell the police what he knew. Furthermore, if I informed the police that Tim Davis had committed the crimes, Dick and I would be implicated as well. In the eyes of the law, we had harbored a felon. I said a prayer that Tim would remain in California or move back to Chicago and never again set foot in our home. Trying to make the best decision regarding Gregg's pending police interrogation, I lingered in the bath water a few minutes longer, mentally revisiting my New Orleans enchanted haven...to rest my heart and soul.
Getting out of the tub, I dressed and headed next door to visit my neighbors who had been robbed. Velma invited me in and waved me to a living room chair. "I'm so sorry to hear about the burglary," I said. "I’m just grateful that you and Jules were away when it happened."
"Yes, we were lucky." Velma settled down on the couch. "The thief didn't get much. We keep most of our valuables in the bank and all my good jewelry travels with me."
"Thank goodness for that! What did they steal?"
"Well, Jules had a small silver coin collection. They took that, a few pieces of costume jewelry, and some odds and ends. They didn't get more than a hundred dollars worth." Rising from the couch, she offered to serve coffee. Oh, how I admired her composure.
"That's nice of you, Velma. Perhaps another time. By the way, Gregg will be questioned by the police later today, along with other neighborhood youngsters. I just want you and Jules to know that Gregg's not a thief. He had nothing to do with your home being robbed."
Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant Page 10