True Story

by Michael Finkel

  On the cover of Sally’s card was a picture of a teddy bear. The message inside was remarkably vague. “Hi!” it began, in MaryJane’s looping cursive. “Sorry I waited so long to write but time goes by so fast. As I’m sure you guessed we moved. Chris sent out his resume and got a couple good bites so we went to check out the areas and decide where we wanted to move to. I still don’t have an address or number to give you because he’s in 8 weeks of training and then he could be sent to anywhere in the USA. We miss you guys. I hope all is going good with you.”

  MaryJane’s family told the Michigan police about the cards, hoping it might assist them in tracking down the Longos. Instead, when the police read the cards, they concluded that MaryJane was voluntarily avoiding contact. The Longos, they determined, had simply moved away, as MaryJane had written. The police deleted them from the computer system. They were no longer missing persons.

  In late November of 2001, Longo said, continuing his testimony, he was promoted to the home-furnishings section of Fred Meyer. He received a modest raise and full-time hours, and immediately began searching for better housing. Along Newport’s bay-front walkway—probably the most valuable stretch of real estate in town—he found an upscale condominium complex called The Landing, whose manager, James Calhoun, was willing to work out a rental deal.

  Longo told Calhoun that he was employed as a subcontractor for Qwest Communications, researching the demand for high-speed internet service in Newport. He said that he’d be living by himself, though his family might come for an occasional visit. “I wanted to give the impression of being a businessman,” Longo testified. He informed Calhoun that Qwest would soon be sending him a very large check, with which he’d pay the bill. Calhoun accepted his story and didn’t ask for a down payment or a credit-card imprint. Longo declined the maid-service option, which made the rent on his unit, number 211, $1,200 a month. “I was proud of the fact that I was able to get a place like that,” he said from the witness stand. The family moved in on November 30.

  As Longo was solving his housing issues, he was also working on his career prospects. He was intent, he said, on finding a corporate position, perhaps with Starbucks, but first he needed to be able to pass a background check. He was wanted by the police in both Ohio and Michigan. For a low-ranking job like the one he held at the Fred Meyer, his background wasn’t inspected, but to secure a position that would allow his family to live comfortably, there was no way he could use his real name or Social Security number. And he couldn’t invent new ones; that wouldn’t pass a check either. Back in Toledo, he’d purchased a book called The Modern Identity Changer, and he decided it was time to apply the information he’d learned from it.

  First, he used the public library to scan the obituary sections of various newspapers, looking for people who were born about the same time he was. He eventually found four. Next, he checked to see if each person had been registered with the Social Security death index, which is posted on the web. Some families, in their grief, neglect to do this, especially when the victim is young and dies unexpectedly. This leaves a viable Social Security number attached to a deceased person.

  Three of the men who’d died had their names and numbers listed on the death index, but one did not: Alan Rae Swander of Albany, Oregon, who was born on April 20, 1974, three months after Longo, and died in an automobile accident on May 22, 2001. Swander’s number was likely a good one to use—as far as the federal government was concerned, Swander was still alive—but Longo did not yet know the specific digits.

  If someone is not on the death index, the quickest way to find his Social Security number is to access his death certificate. Proof of kinship, though, is often required to see this document. Another method is to hire an information vendor—scores of them are advertised on the internet—who will provide almost anybody’s Social Security number for a modest fee, no questions asked, all major credit cards accepted.

  But Longo didn’t have a valid credit card; all the ones he owned were overdrawn. So a few days before he left Starbucks to work in the home-furnishings department, he stole a credit-card receipt. He said in court that he battled his conscience before doing this, but rationalized that it was “a small sacrifice for the greater good.” He jotted down the card owner’s name and account number, stashed the information in his wallet, and threw away the receipt.

  The prospect of a more stable future, Longo testified, is the reason he lifted the credit-card number and had among his possessions obituaries with Social Security numbers written on them. He didn’t remain in Newport long enough to become Alan Rae Swander, but he did use the credit-card data to purchase a plane ticket to Mexico.

  As for the Hit Man On-Line booklet that Briggs had mentioned in his opening statement as proof of advance planning of the murders, Longo explained that it was merely one of hundreds of files he downloaded one night while the family was living in the Toledo warehouse. “It was kind of a last-ditch effort to make some money,” he said. He gathered from the internet all the strange and unconventional information he could find, then created a home page and charged $12 a person to access it. The site was called NoToKnow.com, and Longo advertised it as “the best place for all of the forbidden, not to know, information on the web.” In total, he earned under a hundred dollars. He could have made a fortune, he said, but he had to abandon the warehouse and disconnect his internet service.

  For the last three weeks of their lives, Longo’s family lived in relative luxury. The condominium in The Landing had a full kitchen, a washer and dryer, space for everyone to sleep, and a grand view of Yaquina Bay and the Pacific Ocean. “It was everything we needed,” Longo said. “It seemed like a big answer.”

  They even made friends. Longo’s coworker Denise Thompson and her husband, Macon, had two children about the same ages as Zachery and Sadie. The Longos invited the Thompsons to dinner at the condo. The Thompsons brought over a salmon, and the two families, Longo said, got along wonderfully. Macon and Chris discussed starting a business together, selling internet service. Denise and MaryJane later spent a few afternoons with each other. As an early Christmas gift, Denise knitted MaryJane a scarf. “It was great to finally feel normal again and have people over and let the kids play with somebody else besides each other,” Longo said.

  The condominium, though, was expensive. Even with Longo’s higher salary and full-time hours, his monthly income, after taxes, was scarcely sufficient to cover the rent. Longo’s paycheck, during the first week that his family lived in the condo, was devoted entirely to food, diapers, shampoo, dishwasher detergent, and other items related to the move-in. Longo told MaryJane that he’d made arrangements to stay in the condo long-term, paying the rent bit by bit from his salary. He explained to the manager of The Landing that his payment from Qwest had been delayed.

  But there were little things the second week, too—the minivan needed gas; the kids hadn’t been given a new toy in months; it was time for another round of groceries and diapers. Before the week was out, Longo’s paycheck was gone again, with nothing left over for rent. He even spent the change in the minivan’s ashtray. Once more, Longo went to The Landing’s manager, James Calhoun, and spun a story. He was given a reprieve of a couple of days, but it was obvious that Calhoun’s patience had worn thin.

  Longo received another paycheck from Fred Meyer on Friday, December 14. It was for $170. Longo wanted to give all of it to Calhoun, but again the family needed some things, and Longo had also promised MaryJane that they would go out on a date. It had been more than a year since just the two of them had gone to dinner, and they’d made firm plans for Saturday night. They had even asked Denise Thompson to come to the condo and babysit.

  On Saturday morning, the whole family went shopping. They went to the Fred Meyer store, where Longo had an employee discount, and bought milk, sugar, cheese, microwave popcorn, a roasting pan, baby wipes, a children’s book, and a Lego set. A brief videotape, recorded by a Fred Meyer surveillance camera, was played in court, sho
wing Chris, MaryJane, and the three children all together, pushing a shopping cart toward the store’s exit.

  Denise Thompson arrived at 6:30 P.M., and MaryJane and Chris left. MaryJane was wearing the scarf that Thompson had knitted her. The kids ate macaroni casserole and watched a movie, The Little Vampire. Zachery and Sadie were happy, Thompson later said, but Madison was upset because MaryJane wasn’t there.

  For their dinner date, Chris and MaryJane went to Rogue Ales, the local brewpub. They talked. MaryJane told Chris that it had been rough living in the motel room, but now that they were in the condo she felt better, more settled. She told him, according to Longo’s testimony, that she was proud of him for earning a promotion so quickly at Fred Meyer.

  But MaryJane also expressed a touch of suspicion. Even though Longo wasn’t earning that much more money, they’d gone from a low-budget motel along the highway to a high-end condominium on the bay. It seemed too good to be true. She reminded Chris of his promise of complete openness and honesty, and asked him, bluntly, if there was anything he needed to reveal. She wouldn’t be upset, she said; she just had to know.

  Chris claimed, in his testimony, that he wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her about the panic that was roiling inside him; that they were a day or two from being kicked out of The Landing; that their one valuable possession, the minivan, wasn’t even legally theirs. But how could he admit this? MaryJane had just said she was proud of him. She said she was feeling better. So he told her that everything was fine.

  “This is not a dream, not a facade,” he said to his wife. Rather, he told her, this was only the beginning. They were back on track and everything was going to progress from here. He’d earn more promotions, he promised her. They’d return with full commitment to the Kingdom Hall. And their lives would once again be free of worries.

  “We left dinner happy, arm in arm,” Longo said on the stand. He spoke this part of his story while staring passively at the floor, as if studying the courtroom’s carpeting, which was seawater green, flecked with strands of yellow and pink. Judge Huckleberry seemed to have followed his eyes, and was gazing at a similar spot. Briggs, at the prosecution’s table, was still writing on his pad.

  MaryJane and Chris saw the eight o’clock showing of Ocean’s Eleven at the Newport Regal Cinemas. They were home, Longo testified, by 10:30. Zachery and Sadie were still awake, and Longo watched cartoons with them for a little while, until they fell asleep.

  On Sunday, December 16, Longo slept late and then worked at the Fred Meyer from 2 P.M. until 11. At work, he thought about MaryJane’s question from the evening before, asking if he’d been hiding anything from her. He didn’t know whether to confess all he’d done or to try and maintain a delicate balance—admitting some things, hiding others, keeping her satisfied one day at a time.

  By the time he drove home that night, he was severely depressed. His final deadline for paying the rent, Monday morning, was a few hours away, and he didn’t have a dollar to spare. They would have to leave. But where would they go? Back to the fleabag motel, back to ramen and bread? And then what—more counterfeit checks, more arrest warrants, more running away? He understood, for the first time, that things would never get better.

  When he entered the condo, his family was asleep. MaryJane was in the bedroom, with Madison on a comforter on the floor. Zachery and Sadie were on the fold-out sofa in the living room. The television had been left on, and he turned it off. He was hungry. He poured himself a glass of pinot grigio and ate a hunk of cheddar cheese.

  Then he walked out onto the balcony. It was nearing midnight, cold and drizzly. Boats rested in the harbor, lines clanging against masts. The lights of the Yaquina Bay Bridge formed a bow against the sky. Longo broke down. “I remember looking out on the perfect setting, and knew we’d have to move,” he said. “It was just set up to be a horrible week.”

  He wandered back inside. He brushed his teeth. He went into the bedroom and lay down next to MaryJane. She stirred and said, “How was your night?” and he said, “Fine,” and kissed her good night, and she fell back to sleep. But Longo was wide awake. Thoughts of his family churned in his head. “I was thinking that they were in that situation too long with me,” he said. “That they deserved much better. I didn’t know if I could give it to them.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  A FEW MINUTES before Longo returned to the witness stand to relate the final chapter of his story, Ken Hadley and Steve Krasik spoke privately with me. I’d been waiting outside the courtroom during a recess, drinking a soda from the RC Cola machine, when the two lawyers motioned for me to follow them. Hadley opened a wooden door with a blue sign that read COUNSEL / CLIENT CONFERENCE, and we squeezed into a windowless room. Krasik and I sat at the two-person table while Hadley remained standing.

  Over the course of the trial, I had developed a good relationship with both men. I’d once accepted an invitation to a crab dinner at Hadley’s house, and Krasik and I had met a couple of times at the local sushi restaurant to exchange trial gossip and share a meal. Now, in the conference room, the two attorneys appeared ill.

  “We’re about to cross the Rubicon,” Krasik said. He’d removed his eyeglasses and was massaging his temples.

  Hadley was blunter. “Chris is a dead man,” he said, “if he tells this story.”

  The two attorneys, apparently stymied by Longo and conflicted over how to proceed with his defense, were attempting a different approach. They were asking if I had any ideas.

  “We don’t want to look like fools,” Krasik said.

  “We’re just punching bags,” Hadley added.

  They asked if Longo had already told me the remainder of his tale. I shook my head no. Both lawyers implied that they feared they were blindly leading their own client to his death. This, I figured, may be why they hadn’t given an opening statement—they did not want to lock themselves into a specific story. They asked if I had any notions, any at all, of how they might prompt Longo to change his mind, to confess to everything, to plead for leniency from the court.

  “You’re his friend,” Krasik prodded.

  “This would all be so much easier,” Hadley said, “if I didn’t like Chris.”

  “It would be such a waste to kill this man,” Krasik concluded.

  Then they fell silent. The air in the conference room seemed to drain away. I felt, at that moment, as though Longo’s life was in my hands—that if I said the right thing, he’d be spared the death penalty.

  I knew that a death sentence, even if the inmate lives out his natural life, is vastly different than a life sentence. In Oregon, death-row inmates live for years, as they pursue their appeals, in so-called supermax units, kept alone, locked down nearly the entire day, so sealed off from the world that not even sunlight is allowed to shine into their cells. All other inmates, no matter their crimes, can qualify for full-time jobs and a spot on a softball or basketball team, and can spend twelve or more hours a day away from a cell. “The difference between death row and the general inmate population,” Hadley had said to me over dinner at his house, “equals the difference between the general inmate population and freedom.”

  I searched my mind for something to tell the lawyers. I had spoken to Longo for all those hours and read all those letters, but I still hadn’t gained any true understanding of him. During the trial—especially after the autopsy photos had been shown—I’d found that the more I learned about Longo, the less I could state about him with any certainty. I now wanted to back off from our relationship; a little distance, I thought, might help me arrive at some insight. The last few times I’d seen INMATE PHONE on my rental house’s caller ID, I had been tempted to leave it unanswered. Mostly out of habit, I ended up taking the calls, though our conversations ended well before the time expired. One evening, over the phone, I’d even referred to our relationship in the past tense, as if my image of him had shifted entirely. “I thought you had some very good parts to you,” I’d said. “I liked you.” Longo�
��s only response was a muted “Okay.”

  I had asked Longo a dozen times since his plea hearing if he was being entirely honest, and he’d answered a dozen times that he was going to live or die by the truth. There seemed no way to counter that. Now, sitting in the conference room with Hadley and Krasik, I sensed that I was at least partially responsible for what might occur. I wanted to help Longo, but I didn’t know how. I felt a sharp, deep fear, as if I’d hit a patch of ice while driving and was sliding off the road—my mind was racing, but I was essentially helpless. All I could think of was running into the courtroom and yelling, “Stop!” What else could I do? Longo’s course, I felt, had already been set. I wasn’t holding anything back; I just had nothing to say. I nibbled on my bottom lip, shook my head, and apologized to the lawyers. Then we left the conference room and returned to court.

  Longo continued his testimony. He was lying in bed, he said, next to his wife. It was past midnight. MaryJane eventually got up to use the bathroom, and as she returned, she noticed he was awake. She asked him what was wrong. Longo hesitated, and she asked him again. He said that he was thinking of the discussion they’d had on their date, when she asked him if he’d been hiding anything from her.

  He said that he hadn’t been fully honest with her. There were, he admitted, a few things he’d held back. She said she wanted to know. He began by telling her about the condominium—that he hadn’t paid the rent, that he’d been lying to the manager, that they were going to have to move out.

  She was upset, but wanted him to continue. He told her he’d recently stolen a credit-card number while working at Starbucks, to help establish a new identity. He told her that the Penske moving truck he’d rented in Ohio had been authorized only for in-state use. He told her that he’d taken two crab traps from the Waldport house and pawned them. At first, Longo testified, the conversation was fairly restrained. With each admission, MaryJane would react angrily, then quickly settle down and demand further information.