“That makes no sense,” Jim said, scratching his head.
“I know. Go figure. It’s all in how people think. Judge Lopez, on the other hand, makes them sign an assignment so that the back child support gets paid before the proceeds are given to the obligor. The assignment goes to the attorney and the insurance company or whoever will be paying.”
Just like Richard Cook had told him. “She doesn’t trust the obligor’s attorney?”
She shook her head. “There’s a reason for that. One of her first cases involved a lawyer who lied about the proceeds of the lawsuit.”
Jim cringed. “I’d hate to be that lawyer.”
“She’s not practicing anymore.” Mrs. Peterson played with one of her hoop earrings, running her finger around and around in it. “Listen, Lopez is strictly by the book. Honest. Straight forward. Gives no favors. Accepts none.”
“So she must have practiced law that way, too.”
“Her word was good and others trusted her. There aren’t many of those left, unfortunately.”
Jim could see he wasn’t going to get anything helpful about the judge from Mrs. Peterson. “What about her bailiff? It’s unusual to have a female bailiff, right?”
“Yes, but Bitsy was a regular deputy sheriff first and applied for the job when the last bailiff transferred to another position.”
“A regular deputy sheriff. So she gave that up to work in child support court. She has a story then, some kind of vested interest in the outcomes.” Jim leaned toward her, his eyes boring into her own.
“A story? I don’t know what you’re getting at.” She sat up stiffly in her chair.
“She has a personal stake in these cases, right? For that matter, you do too.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Dorman. What exactly are you implying?”
“When you’re in the courtroom you seem to relish your job.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Her neck turned from pink to red. Her eye twitched.
“For that matter, Bitsy Wink comes across as the most dedicated deputy sheriff in the courthouse, wouldn’t you say?”
“No more than any other is what I’d say.” The flush flowed up from her neck to her cheeks. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”
“That club you’re in. The way you recruit members for it. Your attitude about lining men up against the wall and shooting them.”
Shaking her head, Mrs. Peterson sputtered, “You’re wrong. That last statement was a joke—a bad joke. I haven’t done anything wrong in my job, and you can’t say I have. I’ve been dedicated to helping people with their child support problems for over twenty years, and now you come forward and imply I’ve done something I shouldn’t.” Her eyes filled with tears. She pulled a handful of tissues from a box on the corner of her cluttered desk.
It was a good act. He’d confronted her about her overzealousness, and she didn’t know what to do so she was resorting to tears. Just like so many other women he’d interviewed over the years. Well, it wasn’t going to work on him. He stared at her while she blew her nose and patted her eyes with the tissues. What would she do if he threatened to put in his article what she said about lining men up against a wall?
She bit her lip and glared at him. “Mr. Dorman, I’m really confused here. I thought you were writing an article about why men don’t pay child support.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. You cooperate with me, and I won’t print what you said.”
Mrs. Peterson got up and closed the door to her office. “What is it you want me to cooperate about? I’ve told you every nauseating thing I know about child support.”
Jim was convinced her alleged confusion was an act. “WiNGS.”
She sat for a moment just staring at him. “The WiNGS support group, you mean?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“I can only tell you what I’ve heard, Mr. Dorman. I don’t belong. I’ve never even been to a meeting except for once when I was the speaker and told them about how to file through our office if they had a lawyer.”
“You were one of the founding members, weren’t you?”
Her eyes flashed. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
The back of his throat burned. He swallowed and adjusted his glasses. “You know about it, how it works.”
She sniffed a couple of more times and wiped her nose. “It’s a women’s support group. Men could go if they wanted. It’s really for people not getting child support, to tell them what their alternatives are. To explore possibilities with them, resources, that sort of thing. I still don’t understand what you are getting at.”
“Shouldn’t you be a member?”
“What for? I’m not getting child support.”
“You work here.”
“So what’s that got to do with anything?” She tossed her tissues in a wastebasket next to her desk.
His throat grew dry. He could be wrong about her. Maybe she didn’t feel the same about men as the rest of them. “Let me ask you this. Do you have any affiliation with that group?”
Shaking her head, she said, “Other than being available as a speaker and serving on the advisory board, no. My husband thought I shouldn’t even be on the advisory board because it could be a potential conflict of interest, but since the judge is on it, I agreed to serve.”
“Your husband?”
“He’s a Justice of the Peace and an attorney.”
“I thought—”
“I know what you thought, Mr. Dorman. That I’m a man hater. Correct?”
Jim sure was getting tired of hearing his name. Her use of it was almost comical. Did he make her so uncomfortable she had to rely on formalities to conduct a conversation? “I apologize, Mrs. Peterson. I somehow got that impression, yes.”
“It’s your own sexist attitude—”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. You don’t even realize it. Now is there anything else I can help you with?” She pushed back her chair.
“Just a few more questions. Who was the founder of WiNGS?”
“Hmm, let’s see, couple of women lawyers who don’t even live here anymore and the bailiff, Bitsy Wink. If it’s information on WiNGS you want, you should ask Bitsy. As one of the first members, she’d have everything you need. I understand that currently she’s the board president.”
Deputy Wink was the last person he wanted to interview. “But you are on the advisory board? How often do you meet?”
“Supposed to meet twice a year, but usually it’s only once. It’s a formality, that’s all. They use us on their letterhead, my boss and I, and others, like the judge.” She picked up her pen again and twirled it between her fingers. “They get funding through the United Way and grants. They pay expenses for speakers if they have any from out of town and pay a part-time secretary. Their office and meetings are in a church.”
“And you say you’ve only gone to meetings when you’ve been the speaker.”
“Correct, one meeting, except for the advisory board.”
“So have you never been to an executive board meeting?”
“I wouldn’t even know if they have them. You can ask Bitsy that.”
Again she tried to push him onto Bitsy. “Do you remember Mr. Johnson? The man who died not too long ago? His ex-wife was a member, right?”
“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Dorman. What are you getting at?”
“Ms. Johnson is now receiving Social Security for each of her four children.”
“That’s not unusual. If a spouse has ever paid Social Security, his children are eligible for an entitlement until they turn eighteen. Used to be until they graduated from college. I don’t know why that would be any different for Ms. Johnson’s children.”
“And you don’t think it’s unusual for her to be better off now that Mr. Johnson is dead?”
Her face blanched. “Just what are you after?”
“You would agree she’s better off now that he’s dead?”
“I—I supp
ose so, Mr. Dorman. Mr. Johnson was not a good payer.”
“Well, let me ask you this, Mrs. Peterson, have there been other cases you know of where the woman wasn’t receiving child support and was on welfare and then the payer, the ex-husband or ex-boyfriend, died and she was better off?”
Her eyes wavered. Her chin trembled, and she licked her lips. “In the twenty years I have been here, I’m sure there have been one or two obligors each year who have died.” She spoke very slowly, her words clipped. “Are you implying that in Ms. Johnson’s case something unusual happened to cause Mr. Johnson’s demise? I understood it was a traffic fatality.”
He couldn’t tell if she was frightened or angry or just feeling threatened, but definitely his questions had elicited a response in her “You don’t see any connection between any of them—the obligors who died?”
“What?” Her voice was quite loud, and she glanced in the direction of the window. The girl Jim had been talking to and one other woman looked at them. Peterson hunkered down over her desk.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dorman, I may be slow on the uptake, but you can’t possibly think poor Ms. Johnson had something to do with her husband’s death.”
“I’m not sure if there’s a connection or not, ma’am. That’s one of the things I’m investigating.”
“Have you gone to the police?”
“No, ma’am. Not yet. And I would appreciate it if you would keep this all to yourself.”
She wet her lips. “That’s no problem. I’d feel like a fool if I mentioned this to anyone. You are way off base.”
“Then how do you explain Noel—that was his name, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “Noel Wannamaker? The young man who used to work here?”
“How do you explain his giving me Ms. Johnson’s name and address? He gave me a list of other names, too.”
She frowned. “Noel Wannamaker gave you a list of names? Whose names?”
“I’m not clear on that yet.” He wasn’t about to tell her who was on the list.
Shaking her head, she said, “Noel had a very active imagination. I assure you there has been no suggestion of wrong doing on the part of Ms. Johnson.”
“How do you explain Noel’s disappearance?”
“Noel’s disappeared?” Her face opened up, her eyebrows raised.
“Hasn’t he?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He’s never showed up for work this week.”
“He quit with no notice. Just called up and left a message on the office answering machine. Said he was leaving town and wouldn’t be coming back.”
Jim’s head pounded, and there was a rushing sound in his ears. “You don’t think something’s wrong with that?”
“You know how young people are. Very impetuous.”
“Would you mind giving me his home address?”
“No, I don’t mind. I think you’ll find he’s moved, though. At least that’s what he said.” She turned to the computer, typed in a few keystrokes, and copied an address onto a piece of paper, which she gave Jim. “It’s about lunch time, Mr. Dorman. Now, if there isn’t anything else?”
Jim reached out, offering his hand for her to shake. She laid her hand in his, let it be shaken, and let it drop to her side. Her hand was cool and damp like a recently dead fish. It was lucky her boss was the politician, rather than she. People would not want to touch a person who had a handshake with no personality.
“It wasn’t my intention to upset you, Mrs. Peterson. Thank you very much for all your help,” he said. “I know the way out.”
“And Mr. Dorman, you won’t write what I said, will you? I really didn’t mean it.”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
Jim left her door open and worked his way to the front of the office. “Your name?” he asked the girl he’d been talking to earlier.
“Donna. Donna Brewster.”
“Bye now, Donna,” he said. She nodded. He stepped into the hall and glanced back through the glass doors into the office. Mrs. Peterson stared at him, her face solemn. He waved.
He walked to the end of the hallway and got a drink of water. As he walked to the bank of elevators on his way back past the family section of the district clerk’s office, he glanced into Peterson’s office. The door was closed, but through the glass Jim could see she was talking on the phone and gesturing madly in the air.
Chapter Fifteen
Though Noel Wannamaker’s leaving wouldn’t do Jim any good, he hoped the reason Noel hadn’t been heard from was that Noel had left town. His absence wouldn’t give Jim any more information for his article series, wouldn’t tell Jim what the other names on the list meant, wouldn’t cut down on the legwork Jim would have to do for himself and, in addition, Jim wouldn’t have an ally he’d hoped he would have.
Noel lived in a singles apartment on the bank of the river out in the country. The grounds looked manicured with scissors. The riverbank was set up with tables, umbrellas, a diving board and a slide—a swimming partier’s paradise. The river was up. The partiers were out. Booze flowed faster than the water. Bikini-clad girls squealed and splashed as boys threw them into the cool depths. There were too many young adults to count, but Noel wasn’t among them.
After locating Noel’s apartment and banging for a good five minutes, Jim looked for a way inside. The door was locked, and the curtains drawn over the windows. No sound came from within. Several editions of The Wall Street Journal made a pile to the side of the door.
He knocked on the door to the adjacent apartment. After a few moments, a brunette who appeared to be in her early twenties, answered. She wore a beer T-shirt and cut-off jeans. Her perfume was eau de cigarette smoke.
“I’m Jim Dorman.” He shook the girl’s limp hand. What was it with girls and weak handshakes? “Seen your neighbor, Noel Wannamaker?”
She stepped onto the stoop. “What’s he done?”
“Just need to talk to him, and he doesn’t answer his phone or door.” He looked past her but didn’t see anything alarming.
Shaking her head, she said, “It’s been days. But he always kept to himself anyway during the week. Like he had something to do in the evenings—classes or study maybe?”
“What about the weekends?”
She tugged at a cuticle. “We’d see him sometimes. We have this residents’ group, and sometimes he’d come to the parties for a little while. You think something’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. Did he have a roommate?” Jim was starting to feel like he was the one being interviewed, not the girl. She had as many questions as he did. Not much of a source.
“Not that I know of. He had a girl live with him for a few weeks once, but it didn’t work out.” She chewed on the side of her finger.
“Did he get many visitors?”
“No more than anyone else. Why? He dealing drugs or something?”
He stifled a laugh. “Nah. Just wondering. So there wasn’t anything weird or unusual going on with him?”
“No. Sorry. You check with the office?”
“Would you have noticed if he’d moved out in the last week or so?”
Shrugging, she said, “I’m usually here. You think he moved?”
“You didn’t notice if he did.”
“Nope.” She leaned against the doorjamb.
“Okay. So where’s the office?”
“On the other side of the complex in the corner.” She made an arc with her finger. “You won’t have a problem finding it. There’re signs everywhere.”
Maybe she never had a problem finding it, but Jim walked in circles for ten minutes, his chest filling with disgust. He hated feeling like a fool for getting lost. The trees that shaded the place couldn’t do enough to keep the summer heat out. Perspiration lined his pits and collar. No thanks to a number of young people who couldn’t be bothered when he attempted to stop them for directions, he finally found the office. He should have gotten in his car and driven around.
&nb
sp; The office was an apartment that faced the road in the corner of the complex, no view at all, farthest from any activity centers. Gargantua, with the face of a gargoyle, and hair bleached as white as Jim’s underwear, staffed it.
He looked like he’d spent too many football seasons in the middle of the pileup. His nose had a bend in it that could only have come from being rearranged. His eyebrows had white spaces between the hairs. His lips had a few fat, white lines running vertically down them. But there was something about his build that said football player, not thug.
Gargantua’s greatest assets were his youth, his biceps, and two coeds, one hanging off each arm. The guy wore a muscle shirt and a pair of walking shorts. Somehow Jim didn’t think a thug would be running an apartment complex for college kids with rich parents, because clearly that’s what they were. Austin, San Antonio, Kerrville, and San Marcus were all within driving distance of Angeles. Each town had at least one college or university.
Jim introduced himself but didn’t even think about offering his hand. Gargantua was a bone crusher if he’d ever seen one. “I’m looking for a guy named Noel Wannamaker.”
“What’d he do?” Gargantua dropped into his official chair behind his official desk and began shuffling papers. The two girls just sort of hung around his shoulders like trained parrots.
“Nothing. Does he have to have done something for me to be able to talk to him?”
“Nah.” The Big G smiled with teeth that didn’t look quite right. Like maybe they weren’t all the ones God gave him at age six.
“Does he still live here?” Was this going to be another case of Jim feeling like the interviewee?
“He lived here?” The guy’s face was a blank slate.
“You don’t know?” Jim breathed evenly, maintaining patience.
He shook his head. “Should I?”
“Would you check?” Though inconceivable to Jim that Noel made enough money at the courthouse to pay the rent on an apartment that overlooked the Colorado River, he knew he had the correct address because Noel’s neighbor had confirmed it. Noel’s parents probably subsidized him so he could stay in school.
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