Those beach photographs were the last time anyone saw her, even a glimpse. Her “disappearance” generated a tsunami of rumors. Sanders was too humiliated to ever show her face in public again, some said. Or she’d had a nervous breakdown and been institutionalized.
It didn’t take that long for conspiracy theorists to weigh in as well and start speculating on who had derailed her bid for the presidency and why or to suggest that she’d come to a grisly end. She’d taken her own life. Or been murdered by her enraged husband. Or been done in by her rock star lover because she’d turned her back on her true nature…
A token criminal investigation was eventually launched, then dropped when no evidence of foul play could be found. She wasn’t found either, dead or alive, of course, but her former supporters seemed content with the fact that she’d been buried politically, if not physically.
I wondered. Did Adrienne think Robin was dead? “There’s been so much written…Can you tell me what the real story is?”
“There is no real story,” she said. “With the Internet, anyone can write anything and no one knows if it’s a lie or not. Don’t you get it? There is no truth anymore.”
“So you don’t know what happened to her?” My voice was thin, wary. I was afraid she would shut down.
Instead, she kept staring out at the city, glassy-eyed, silent. There were secrets behind those caramel eyes. What she’d seen, what she knew—what would it take to get her to reveal it all to a nobody reporter like me?
“Who knows?” she sighed.
Someone once told me not to rush to fill in the silence, especially during an interview. Most people want to share their stories, and if you give them space, they will. I was hopeful, my posture tense. I almost didn’t realize I wasn’t breathing.
Adrienne added, “Everyone makes up their own version of the truth, until now, she’s some sort of myth.” She made a circle in the air with her hand. I watched as the smoke off the tip of her cigarette swirled through the air. I’d never seen anyone smoke so much. Nowadays, it was so rare. She smelled like the fire we used to make at summer camp. I watched, amazed at how little regard she seemed to have for her health. I realized this habit of hers was most likely the reason for her deeper, almost husky, voice. After listening to her earlier recordings, you could hear the subtle ways her voice had changed over the years. Errant thoughts like these fluttered in and out of my mind as I forced myself to hold the silence as long as possible.
We were interrupted by her assistant, Elaine, who came out with a plate of sandwiches.
“Have something,” Adrienne said, offering me the plate. “You must be hungry.”
Actually, I was a little hungry. But I’d never have taken that ham and cheese sub off the plate had I known that she wasn’t going to eat. It made me suddenly self-conscious, being the only one of us chewing. On the other hand, it kept me from interrupting anything more Adrienne might choose to share. Elaine left and came back to bring me a soda. I thanked her, and she went away again.
When I turned my attention back to Adrienne, she was giving me a little smile of approval. She’d been trying to get me to eat something for the past hour. I must’ve looked pale, as I usually did when I was sleep-deprived. I was too excited about this interview to sleep much over the past couple of days. Maybe my paleness worried her. And that was another thing. In the time we’d spent together so far, she seemed to have a sort of nurturing quality about her, which was yet another surprise.
“So you think Tom did it?” I asked bluntly, in between bites.
She paused a moment to consider my question. “Honestly, I don’t think the guy had it in him or—given the fact that their divorce had been finalized—any reason to. But I did get under that man’s skin. I knew it.” I watched her crush the final stub of a cigarette into the ashtray.
As I took my last bite, I felt the end of the interview coming. I wanted to make it last longer. “What about the other theories?” I pressed. “That her security guard, Danielle, killed her? Or some angry voter? Or that she’s hiding away somewhere?”
She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Like Big Foot?” I could tell she didn’t put much weight in any of those theories. “I’m sorry I don’t have more answers for you. But you can tell everyone this: she was the love of my life.”
* * *
And that was it. I guess it was a big enough revelation for my editor, though the political junkie in me kicked myself for not asking for her thoughts about Robin’s opponents, all of whom hadn’t fared any better than Robin Sanders.
Graham Goodwin, the runner-up to Robin in the primary race, had soared in the polls after the debate and was deemed most likely to take Robin’s place in the top spot to be the Republican nominee.
Goodwin was the son of an evangelist who liked to quote the Bible whenever he was talking about cutting funding for the poor. He’d twist some passage to make his ruthless actions sound as though they were sanctioned by Jesus himself. He especially loved to align himself with veterans, as though he were their most ardent supporter, in spite of evidence that he’d voted in favor of cutting funding for veterans’ programs.
Unfortunately, in a long-ago interview, Goodwin had said, “I don’t believe in PTSD. It’s called nerves. When I was growin’ up, if I got nervous about something, my dad would tell me to pull myself together. That’s what the vets should do, pull themselves together, instead of askin’ for money because they got nerves. It’s a disgrace to their service.”
The interview had been buried deep in archival footage. But someone had found it. A news source called “The Eye” popped up on the Internet shortly before the Republican convention and released the footage to all media outlets. Before long, Goodwin’s words were being played on CNN, MSNBC, ABC News and every time anyone turned on the TV. No matter how many times Goodwin insisted that his words were “taken out of context,” it didn’t matter. His position in the polls, as well as his political future, were destroyed.
Next in line was Jerry Johnson, a former SEC coach who insisted that he was more anti-gay than his remaining opponent. Which made it especially embarrassing when some of the lewd emails he’d sent to one of his players turned up on the Internet—again courtesy of “The Eye.” The boy he’d propositioned was underage at the time, someone Johnson was trying to recruit. Finally, Johnson was reduced to a rehearsed “I have sinned” speech in front of hundreds of TV cameras. His show of contrition wouldn’t be good enough. He was later indicted and imprisoned. Career, and life, over.
The last remaining Republican contender for the nomination was Myron Welles, who, besides being insanely rich, had a pretty squeaky-clean reputation, even for a politician. Actually, he was a CEO turned politician. Many of his constituents believed he’d never win the presidency because he was too far into another tax bracket to be able to relate to the common worker. Welles, it seemed, would be the only one left unscathed for the longest time.
But as soon as Welles appeared to be the comfortable frontrunner, “The Eye” website destroyed him too. They ran video footage of a speech Welles had given to the employees of one of his corporations in which he said: “The appearance of goodwill is as good as goodwill itself.” This was followed by an admission that he’d lied about all of the charitable giving his companies had done for various charities. Testimonials from employees appeared, how they’d been told to tell the press that they had several programs just for working with charities, which wasn’t true. Even worse, they’d sued to get money back from the Salvation Army. It wasn’t looking too good for Welles.
Welles secured the Republican nomination because it was so late in the nominating process—earning the dubious honor of losing to Democratic incumbent Mark Ellis in a landslide.
I reminded myself that I was writing an article for Rolling Stone, not The Washington Post. But deep down, I knew there was a bigger story here, and being too flustered by meeting Adrienne Austen, I was unable to think clearly enough to ask the right questions. Adrienne st
ood up. I followed her lead, sensing I was coming dangerously close to overstaying my welcome. Preparing to make my farewells, I edged toward the hall where I’d come in.
“Hang on.” Adrienne held up her finger, then took the phone her assistant, Elaine, was holding out to her. I waited in the living room, affecting a casual air as I eavesdropped. There wasn’t much to gather, just a few nods and a final, “Yeah, I’ll be there soon, babe. Have to finish up an interview.”
When Adrienne finished her call and returned to me, she shrugged, almost apologetically. She waved away smoke from a freshly lit cigarette. “She hated my smoking,” she said, smiling as if she were recalling a happy memory. “She was always on my ass about lung cancer.” She shook her head. “I hope you got everything you wanted.”
I nodded, shaking her hand. “Yes, yes, thank you so much for your time.” I was being polite, not fully realizing yet how many hours had passed.
“You should be thanking me,” she joked. “You kept me up half the night.”
I was so concerned about looking cool that I didn’t really absorb that last comment. I searched for the elevator, momentarily forgetting how I’d gotten here.
Chapter Fifty
Cory
I stepped into the elevator, telling myself the interview was over, but feeling that so many things had been left unresolved. I guess I’d thought that by being around Adrienne Austen, listening to her, I could glean some sense of what had happened to Robin Sanders, even if it was only intuitive. But in the end everything was as mysterious as it had always been.
I called the taxi service I’d used to come here. I didn’t trust the self-driving auto-taxis because all of their computers were hooked up to the Internet, and I hadn’t wanted anyone to know my destination. Call me irrational, but I was fiercely protective of this exclusive interview. Ms. Austen was known as a bit of a recluse, and I didn’t want to give the slightest indication that she was willing to talk to anyone, for fear that a hundred other reporters would come out of the woodwork. No, auto-taxis were too transparent. At least a good tip could keep a human driver quiet. That was why so many famous people still used regular driving services.
The taxi arrived in less than a minute, and once inside, I told the driver to give me a few minutes. I needed a moment to decompress. It had been a once-in-a-lifetime interview, something I knew I was never going to forget. And even though she had been so open, sharing moments from her life, even some of the most intimate, it seemed as though she was leaving out something…maybe the most important part. Why wasn’t Sanders at that rally? How did Adrienne part ways with her in Hawaii? Or did Sanders disappear while they were in Hawaii?
Sitting in the cab in the shadows, I looked up—and realized what she’d meant with her last remark. Dawn was breaking. I’d been too focused on what she was saying to notice the night zooming past us. But she hadn’t seemed to mind. Maybe reliving those memories had transported her too. My editor was going to be very happy with the resulting story.
I wasn’t completely happy, though. I was doing what everyone does when they get the interview of a lifetime—thinking of all the things I wished I’d asked. Like about another biography of Robin Sanders, also unauthorized, that was due to come out shortly. I’d gotten an early look at the galleys, and it wasn’t going to paint a flattering picture of her.
I doubted somehow that Ms. Austen was going to notice or care what was in any books that were written, though. As she had said in our interview, “There is no real story. Anyone can write anything and no one knows if it’s a lie or not. There is no truth anymore.” She seemed to have made peace with her version of the story of their relationship and that was all that mattered to her.
It wasn’t all that mattered to me, however. It didn’t appear she had anything to hide, but I was going to look further anyway—if not for the story, for my own satisfaction.
Chapter Fifty-One
Cory
My ruminations were interrupted by the appearance of a shadowy figure rushing out of Ms. Austen’s apartment building into the misty morning. It looked like her, wearing a long black coat and a Fedora. I thought I recognized the blond strands of hair sneaking out from underneath the brim of the hat, resting on her collar.
I watched through a raindrop-smeared windshield as Ms. Austen climbed into a sleek black, chauffeured car. I told my driver to follow the car, even though where she was going was probably none of my business. Maybe I just didn’t want my connection with her to end. My driver followed her fairly easily, zipping through the awakening streets of downtown Manhattan. I didn’t worry about looking too conspicuous. It was easy to get lost in the sea of cars.
Keeping my eyes locked on her car just in case the driver lost track of it, I queued up one of her albums on my iPod-X. “Happiness set free high above the trees…”
I got nervous when the journey took me through the Lincoln Tunnel and down the New Jersey Turnpike. We were heading away from the city. Why would she be traveling this far out of New York at this time of morning? And would she notice that a bright yellow taxi seemed to be headed for the same place she was going? Wherever that was.
When the car carrying Adrienne took a sharp turn up an exit ramp, I directed my driver to fall back. She’d be easy enough to spot in the sparser traffic of the suburbs. And so would I. My driver grunted acknowledgment of my instructions. He wasn’t a big talker, and I appreciated that. Especially right now.
Soon we were in a residential neighborhood of older homes and giant trees made even greener by the rain. Then we passed a stone abutment on the side of a hill—the wall of stone filling my window as the rain slowed to a steady drip. When her car turned inside what appeared to be a small cemetery, I instructed my driver to go a little farther and then pull to a stop along the curb. It was such an obscure little cemetery, nearly eclipsed by the looming oak trees. If you traveled the main road that ran past it and you blinked, you’d miss it.
“You want to go in?” The cab driver looked quizzically at me. Now was not the time for him to get judgmental. “Wait here,” I said, getting out.
“It’s your dime,” the driver muttered, tapping the steering wheel with chunky fingers. I made a mental note to pay him a little extra for taking part in this clandestine, slightly unorthodox, mission.
I climbed a small hill and made my way cautiously toward the gate. Confident that the fencing and bushes gave me enough cover, I pulled out my camera and used the zoom lens. Through it I saw Adrienne getting out of her car and making her way to a particular grave.
Standing there in the gray wind, unflinching, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboros and set them down in front of a tombstone. She smiled slightly, her lips turned upward at the corners. Before I realized what I was doing, I snapped a succession of photos. I felt guilty later for invading what she undoubtedly wanted to be a private moment, but I was so awed by it my fingers seemed to have a mind of their own.
She didn’t stay long. She turned, made her way back to the black car and left.
When I was sure she was gone, I went into the cemetery and searched for the grave where she’d laid the cigarettes.
I found the Marlboros lying in front of what looked like a very old grave. It seemed as though there had been some words etched in the granite, but weather and age had faded them until they were unrecognizable. I recalled Adrienne’s words. “She hated my smoking.” Was this Robin Sanders’s grave? It was obviously an inside joke between them. If Robin Sanders was buried in that cemetery, and it was in the cemetery records, that information would’ve been all over the news. Could there have been a secret grave that no one knew about?
I bent down, squinting to try and make out any letters. But I couldn’t see anything. And I remembered that Adrienne had said Carmen was buried in Boston. I felt chills up my spine, wondering if this New Jersey grave was, in fact, the grave of Robin Sanders.
I walked back to the cab, confident that if I decided to write a story on Robin Sand
ers I had enough photos to print. But what would the story be? With each step along the gravel pathway, I grew more confused. The former Georgia governor had disappeared mysteriously from public view. There was no body to bury as far as anyone knew and therefore no need for a grave. Unless the body of Robin Sanders had been interred anonymously here in this little cemetery in New Jersey. If Adrienne knew where she was buried, did that mean Adrienne had killed her? Or was covering for whoever had? Why would she do that? Who would she care enough about to hide the truth?
My assignment was to do a profile of celebrity rocker Adrienne Austen, I reminded myself. A profile that had resulted in a once-in-a-lifetime interview and could establish me as a journalist.
The story I was contemplating writing was more. Much more. With more loose ends to tie up. More unanswered questions. And an even bigger payoff than the one for the article due at Rolling Stone in a scant four days. Maybe even a book deal.
I had to do the profile and do it well—but if I worked at it, it could be the perfect teaser for a longer piece to follow on Sanders. The Sanders story wouldn’t be easy. I’d have to get people to talk on the record who previously had refused to—and then double- and triple-check my facts to make sure they were rock solid. Anything less, and my name would be mud. Nowadays, in the sea of questionable stories, a handful of respectable journalists could command the greatest respect. To do such a story—the risks would be great, but so would the rewards.
I decided to follow my instincts and investigate…
In Her Eyes Page 19