by Gary Taylor
As I made for the door, Catherine rose from the couch and spoke very slowly. She said, "Wait, Gary. I do have something for you. It's back in my bedroom closet. You can go and get it now."
I turned and looked down the short, dark hallway between the rooms. A slight grin slid across my face as I realized our moment had arrived. Something or someone awaited me back in her bedroom.
"You want me to walk back there and look in your closet?" I asked, considering if I really wanted to honor her request. I flashed on an image again of Little E hiding on the floorboard of my two-hundred-dollar car and remembered the promise I'd made to finish this business with Catherine that night.
"OK," I said. "I'm going to do that—exactly what you ask. I'm going to go back there and look in your closet. Then I'm going to leave and go home."
FIFTY-FIVE
January 18, 1980
A chill ran up my spine. It's one of the oldest clichés around. I had used it myself a number of times before that morning. I'd heard many others toss it around casually over the years and still hear it said quite often with a laugh. But the truth was, I never really had felt a chill run up my spine until then—as I stood in that closet at the rear of her apartment and stared at nothing through the shadowy light from the lamp in Catherine's living room some fifty feet away. Up my spine? It did not stop there. It covered my shoulders like a shawl, spread down my arms, and under my fingernails. In the other direction it ran down the back of my legs and into the crack of my butt. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
I barely had had time to realize the closet sat empty before that living room light went out and threw everything into an eerie twilight, the inside illuminated only by stray beams sifting through the windows from lampposts in the street beyond the house. I stood just inside the closet holding the knob on the light wooden door that opened outward toward the hallway as I searched the empty shelf above the rod for a sign of anything she might have had for me. I froze there for a second until I heard her soft footsteps padding slowly down the hall. When she cocked the revolver, however, that chill covered me like majesty on the queen, and, before the sound stopped echoing like thunder around the dark apartment, I had pivoted, stepped inside the closet, and pulled the door behind me, hoping it would form some kind of a shield as I faced the bedroom beyond the door.
I peeked through the crack between the door and jam, a space that offered a thin, narrow view of her silent movement into the bedroom. I watched her holding the pistol pointing down with both hands as she turned away from the closet and took a position on the opposite side of the room facing me from beside the head of her bed.
Moron was the first thought that leaped into my head. Then, I thought—No, not strong enough. Imbecile? Idiot? One of those, whichever is dumbest. That's what I am, unless there is something even dumber!
Trapped inside her closet like that, my mind began scrambling for options as my eyes raced around the small space searching for anything I might use to escape. But nothing was there. So, I watched carefully through the crack, hoping I might find something to give me an edge.
"I am going to kill you now," Catherine began, after lifting the pistol to shoulder level and pointing it at the hollow wooden closet door that stood between us. I knew the bullets could rip the wood before hitting me if she had started shooting right away. Instead, of course, she wanted to talk a little first. Recalling the Exorcist Tape, I thought: I guess this is the place where she wants me to beg for her mercy.
"You know there is nothing more after this life, so it won't help to pray," she continued in a tone of voice I had never heard from her before. She seemed completely detached, devoid of feeling, speaking like a robot on autopilot. Her eyes looked blank in the dim light and I couldn't even be sure they focused on me. As she spoke, strange thoughts crossed my mind.
Maybe, I thought, I should just step out and take it. Maybe I've had enough of this life. There would be insurance for Cindy and the girls.
I remembered suddenly we had passed the midnight hour into January 18. It was my youngest daughter's second birthday. What a present this would be! Would they be better off without me? Would I be better off without this life? Did I really want to continue this fight?
As if on cue, Catherine offered a suggestion in the midst of her lecture: "Don't worry about your wife and kids, I won't do anything to them. But, you—you have done things to me that nobody has."
Suddenly, I wanted to cry. During the last three months I had seen several different Catherines. At times she had been witty and charming. Other times I'd seen her uncontrollable anger. I had seen her trying to con me or play on my sympathy. As I watched through the crack in the closet, I realized I was seeing yet another Catherine, the most dangerous of all. This Catherine with the cold, lifeless eyes was the killer. I wondered if this Catherine was the last one Tedesco had seen as well—before his brains were bashed on the floor of his garage.
Maybe this is what I deserve, I wondered. Then I recalled something Catherine had said once while philosophizing on the question of just deserts. She had said, "Here's how you tell if they got what they deserve. You look at what they have. And that is exactly what they deserve."
As all these thoughts and emotions raced around my brain, I also realized that Catherine actually was giving me a unique opportunity most people never have. She was forcing me to decide the meaning of life under intense pressure that would help me focus finally on an answer. Do you really want to live? she was asking. And suddenly I realized my answer was, Yes. There would be no more hesitation, no further thoughts of surrender. No tears. A searing new heat started melting the icy chill that had paralyzed my mind. It was the heat of anger. My temperature was rising. And I realized I could harness this anger for deliverance.
We don't allow people like Catherine to run our lives and paralyze us with fear, I thought to myself, as my mind began to clear. We face them and make them break us, if they can, or we break them instead.
Rejuvenated by my new resolve and driven by a seething but disciplined rage, I searched the closet again, this time with more attention to detail. My eyes moved slowly from right to left, from the crack between the hinges of the door to the little opening beyond the knob. And suddenly I spied my salvation. I had a plan. It might not work. But at least I wouldn't go down begging her for mercy.
I knew I needed patience to strike at the right time. Outlining the steps in my mind, I returned to stare out the crack, keep quiet, and watch her for any sign of opportunity.
"You should just come out now," she said, her voice droning listlessly as she held the pistol aloft in the policeman's position pointed at the closet. "I know how to use this. Officer Joe taught me."
Then, it appeared she had run out of things to say. As if searching for some other words to coax me out or force herself forward, her arms wavered a bit, and I watched her eyes. Their focus dropped to the floor. Confident she had relaxed, I sprung into action.
Kicking open the door, I reached in a single motion for the wooden chair I had parked beside that closet so long ago. I grabbed the chair by the back and swung it around pointing the legs directly at Catherine while advancing straight toward her.
"Motherfucker!" I screamed my battle cry as adrenalin bubbled to a boil.
With the chair blocking my view, I couldn't see her startled reaction, but I could sense a frenzy of movement from her direction as I advanced with the chair, like a lion tamer in the circus. Suddenly, the seat of the chair splintered as a .32-calibre slug came sailing through a hole in the bottom and smacked into the left side of my head, just above the ear, grazing my skull and ricocheting to the side. I remained oblivious, drugged by the action. I felt nothing and continued my advance, focused only on the blueprint I had plotted moments before.
Following that plan, I flung the chair in her direction hoping to knock her back against the wall and create a distraction for me to pivot empty-handed and rush headlong down the hall toward the front door. Fight or flight?
I guess my ultimate plan had become a combination of the two basic options. But I noticed the adrenalin was working on either one.
Looking back, I also recall my impression of entering what professional athletes often call "the zone." That's an ill-defined, adrenalin-induced state of mind in which physical senses heighten to their ultimate powers. Baseball Hall of Famer Tony Gwynn has described it as a place where the baseball appears to move slower than it really does. I have experienced the zone myself sometimes in amateur sports. Playing basketball in high school, for example, I enjoyed some times when every other player seemed to be moving in slow motion. Playing shortstop on a softball team when in the zone, the ground balls seemed to take extraordinarily slow, looping bounces that made fielding them a snap. If I could live permanently in the zone, I certainly would. But you only enter the zone at special times when your adrenalin is pumping perfectly to control your reactions—and, in particular, it now seemed, when someone is trying to murder you. That night in Catherine's apartment I felt the zone take hold as I grabbed the chair. Running down Catherine's hallway pushed my adrenalin to full throttle. The sequence of events transpired in a matter of minutes. But in my mind, it seemed like hours. Everything in that apartment stood in a time warp except for me.
As I entered the living room, I focused on the deadbolt above the doorknob and noted the next obstacle in my path. Catherine, of course, had taken the time to lock the door.
You will only have one chance to unlock it, that little voice in my head instructed as I sped across the room. Stop and do it right. Then get the hell out of here.
Fortunately the dead bolt had an inside handle of its own so I didn't need a key. I knew I could not use any precious time to look over my shoulder for her. So I stopped at the door. I reached down and twisted the dead bolt handle to unlock it. I opened the inside door and pushed the handle of the outer glass storm door standing between me and her front porch. It opened, and I started to run again, toward the yard and the street beyond.
But I suddenly felt myself propelled faster than I knew I could run. I was moving out above her concrete front porch, flying headlong into the yard, almost parallel with the ground. I also felt a pounding sensation, as if someone had popped me in the back with a bath towel. But I knew I was moving much too fast for that. I landed face down in the grass about ten feet beyond the front door and clutched the turf with the fingers on the end of my outstretched arms.
That bitch shot me! My thoughts screamed inside my head. I was finally growing angry. She really shot me!
FIFTY-SIX
January 18, 1980
Although I knew she had shot me in the back, I also was aware that I felt no pain. It had to have been the adrenalin. Somehow, I had escaped the house, and I pondered my next move. I lay spread-eagled on the turf and looked around the street. I had thought maybe Strong would be coming with his shotgun, but the only car I could see was mine, parked in front of Catherine's duplex. I noticed porch lights coming to life at a couple of houses across the street, but I lay as still as possible. I glanced over my shoulder and caught a view of Catherine in the corner of an eye—standing on the porch and admiring her pistol-work. She probably would have enjoyed firing a few more rounds into my prone body, but she couldn't do that with me down in her front yard where neighbors might see.
Since I felt no pain, I wondered if the shot had hit my spine and paralyzed me. I wiggled my toes and felt them move. Then I grabbed some grass with both hands and noticed my hands could squeeze the blades with no problem. Satisfied with my continued mobility, I didn't hesitate launching the second phase of my plan. I jumped up and ran to my right along the south side of Kipling, toward Dunlavy—a little busier street that crossed Kipling about four houses to the east. I thought I heard another gun shot in the background, but I was so focused on my escape I could not be sure.
"Murder," I yelped, without much imagination but determined to make an impression on anyone who might be listening. "Help."
Then I thought, Shit, is she going to chase me down the street?
I moved into the shadow of a line of trees just in case and ran hard, finally feeling like I might survive this showdown after all. I must have put on a pretty good show because Catherine later described the scene from her view to a writer for The Dallas Times-Herald newspaper, saying: "I never saw a man run so fast or jump so high. He was jumpin' like a rabbit."
I had planned to run another couple of blocks down Dunlavy to where it crossed the much busier Alabama Street. There was a traffic light at that intersection and a large twenty-four-hour grocery store. But I foolishly tried to flag down a car going past on Dunlavy. It carried two teenage girls who had snuck out for an early morning joy ride, and, of course, they weren't going to stop for some guy in a panic claiming to have been shot. But I learned later that they did stop for Catherine, much to her regret. I looked back to see her standing on the corner with what appeared to be a pistol in her hand, hanging down at her side while she watched my flight. I relaxed with the realization I could probably make it to the grocery store. I just wondered if the bullet in my back would prove fatal.
"Can you call an ambulance?" I asked a startled clerk in the store who had just sat down to a meal of Church's Fried Chicken. Eager to leave an evidentiary trail in case I expired there in the store, I added: "I've been shot by Catherine Mehaffey."
The guy just looked at me dumbfounded at first, and I had to give him the fire department's phone number in those days before the advent of the 911 emergency dial. From my years covering police and fire, the department's telephone number was engrained on my brain. After he made that call, I gave him Strong's number and asked him to call that one, too.
"Hey man," I told a sleepy Strong when he answered after six or seven rings, "that bitch shot me."
"Bullshit," he replied, snapping quickly alert.
"Not bullshit! I'm at that Weingarten's grocery at Alabama and Dunlavy waiting on an ambulance. Next stop is probably Ben Taub. What the fuck happened to you?"
"I waited outside for a long time. Finally I figured you two had made up again. Are you OK?"
Given the history of my relationship with Catherine, I couldn't blame him for leaving. I had lost track of how long I had been in her house and figured it must have been longer than it seemed. Things probably would have been worse if he had been there, anyway, and started blasting with a shotgun after I burst through the door.
"I don't know how I am," I said. "I know I took something in the back and side of my head. You need to get over to Taub and find me. Call Cindy for me, too, if you can, and George."
Ben Taub was Houston's primary emergency hospital and boasted one of the nation's top trauma rooms. I figured Cindy needed to know what had happened in case I died. And I thought my old roommate George should know since he also was my boss. As soon as I hung up, I noticed a fire truck had pulled into the parking lot, and I scowled at the guy eating chicken. He just shrugged his shoulders, so I walked out and told the fire fighters I'd been shot and actually needed an ambulance. It arrived about the time a Houston police patrol car pulled in, as well as a night time news photographer from the CBS-network affiliate, Channel 11.
"Who shot you?" asked the TV newshound as I lay inside the ambulance with the paramedics checking me out.
"The lawyer Catherine Mehaffey," I said. "That's M-E-H-A-F-F-E-Y. She's a lawyer."
The patrol officer shooed him away and asked me where it happened.
"It was at her place at 1723 Kipling, right up Dunlavy a couple of blocks. She's got a gun and could still be trouble."
They wrote down my name, then left to go find her. Just as I smiled while envisioning the scene of a potential SWAT standoff, I looked up to see one of the paramedics with a catheter line in his hand.
"C'mon," I whined. "I don't need that yet, do I? Fuck."
"It's procedure."
"Fuck that bitch," I grumbled while he threaded the line into my penis. "This feels worse than the gunshots."
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br /> Both paramedics started laughing, so I asked, "How does the gunshot wound look?"
"We'll take good care of you, and they'll look at the hospital," said one of them. "Are you in any pain?"