The Alibi

by Marilyn Baron

  When the couple came out of the apartment, Savannah was wearing a filmy white silk negligee that showed off her generous curves and more than a hint of breast. She was leaning suggestively into him, then entwined herself around him, kissing him with a hunger that was almost palpable, and certainly embarrassing.

  I found myself wondering: Did Savannah call him “Willi” in private when they were in the throes of passion? He tried to disentangle himself from her grasp a number of times, but she clung to his body as if it were a lifeline, and by the look of regret fastened on his finely chiseled face, it was obvious he would have preferred to crawl back into bed, her bed. Her honey-blonde hair was half in, half out of curlers. Which told me she was confident enough in his interest that she could be herself. It gave her a disheveled look. Curlers or no, she was a classic beauty, in the mold of Marilyn Monroe. It would have been a domestic scene but for the fact that the director was married and not, I later found out, to Savannah Braddock.

  “Is this where the director lives?” I asked Peggy, surprised that such an illustrious man lived in such an unremarkable apartment. “I heard he was pretty wealthy.”

  “His wife is the wealthy one,” Peggy explained. “The director was a beat cop when she met him. Actually, he started out doing lawn work for her family. She married him, put him through college and law school, and has been devoted to promoting his career ever since. Her family has a lot of power in the Florida Panhandle and throughout the state. She has her eye on the governor’s mansion. She’s a guiding influence, but the success is all his. He’s earned every bit of it. The man is brilliant. He has a mind like a steel trap. So no, he doesn’t live here. He does spend quite a lot of time here. Sleeps over whenever he can.”

  I had never seen a steel trap, but I didn’t think it hurt that the director could charm the skin off a snake. “Then why are we picking him up here?”

  Peggy looked like she’d rather chew glass than answer my question.

  “The director (she always called him that, so I got into the habit of calling him that too) had an emergency meeting with the judge.”

  I nodded like I understood, but I didn’t.

  “Who is she?” I nodded toward the apartment doorway.

  “The Honorable Savannah Braddock, the youngest judge on the second judicial circuit court,” Peggy answered simply, pursing her lips and slanting her eyebrows. In her current state of undress, Savannah Braddock looked less than honorable. Nevertheless, the message was clear. This tryst would remain between us.

  Was this a love nest? Did the director pay the rent on the place? Did he often meet in bedchambers with this particular judge? Did he know what she wore underneath her robes? These were questions I was dying to ask but couldn’t. Wouldn’t dare. Not on my first day on the job. My lips were sealed.

  Peggy needn’t have worried. Who was I going to tell? These were the days before Facebook, before Twitter, before Instagram, before the Internet. Before Amazon knew what you were thinking before you even thought it.

  Despite the lack of instant digital communications, Peggy was tuned into everything that was going on in the division. Information was currency, and as the director’s eyes and ears, she capitalized on it. She went drinking with one or more of the regional directors, the CFO, Deputy Director of Institutions, Facilities Management Director, Comptroller, Legislative Affairs director or the Chief of Staff every night like she was just one of the guys. She could drink them under the table, and she had all the dirt on everyone. She was all about secrets and not above trading in them. As just one of the boys, she was whip smart and good at her job, so she commanded their respect.

  Peggy wasn’t married, wasn’t dating anyone, that I knew about, so her entire life was devoted to the director and keeping him informed and happy. Not that it would come to that, but infidelity aside, I was convinced she would take a bullet for him. Come to his defense even if he murdered someone, even if that murder was captured on some kind of recording device—these days, a cell phone, which at that time wouldn’t be in widespread use for another fifteen years.

  And further, judging from the look of longing in my boss’s eyes, I intuited that Peggy would have traded places with Savannah Braddock in an instant, even though she was young enough to be his daughter. Savannah Braddock wasn’t much older. But apparently, Peggy Springer wasn’t the director’s preferred body type. She was short-waisted and boxy, with a black pixie-like pageboy and severe eyebrows she wrestled with that almost met in the middle. Rumor was that the director went more for the blonde bombshell type, a type that Savannah Braddock embodied perfectly. I was blonde and some would say shapely, but Savannah’s curves put mine to shame.

  Savannah Braddock’s meteoric rise through the ranks of the good-old-boy network was astonishing, the way Peggy told it. The story went that the director met her at a reception after he addressed a young lawyer’s group. Using his influence and connections, he got her a prestigious clerking job with a judge in Tallahassee. Within a few years, she received an interim appointment as a judge in neighboring Watertown, which was unusual for such an inexperienced attorney. Not that she didn’t have a good head on her shoulders. But the talk was that it was her assets below the shoulders that prompted that appointment. Of course, there was plenty of tongue-wagging about how she got there, capitalizing on the unique type of experience she did have, but the wagging was never in front of the director.

  Their affair was the worst-kept secret in the Division, along the lines of a reported affair between a certain U.S. President and a popular movie screen actress. Savannah Braddock was the director’s Marilyn. He was besotted with her. He was probably in love with her. What man wouldn’t be? But he was too much of a gentleman and he had too much to lose to leave his wife, Miss Julia, Peggy confided. That was simply not done. This was the South, after all, and men had their standards. Not to mention Miss Julia was from the Rawlins family, the most prominent and wealthy family in North Florida. And the director owed everything he had and everything he was in the world to her.

  The first time I heard the series of clicks of the locking mechanisms that shut the metal gate behind me at the entrance to the maximum security women’s prison, I was startled, but Peggy assured me I’d get used to it. Peggy had written out a statement for us to read to the media when they called the temporary press room she had arranged to be set up at the prison. And she was right. The inmates were found later that afternoon, not far from the prison grounds, still in their prison garb. And in those days, orange was definitely not the new black.

  In the meantime, I got my trial by fire, answering reporter questions about the four women. What were their names? How old were they? What were they serving time for? Did they have husbands? Children? How much time was left in their sentences? How did they escape? How much time would be added to their sentence for their escape attempt? My first day on the job was exciting. I wondered what the rest of the days would bring.

  Chapter Three

  The next time I saw Savannah Braddock was at the director’s annual Fourth of July party that he and his wife hosted at their sprawling ranch on the outskirts of town.

  I had just arrived, and I looked around for Peggy because she was the only person I really knew. It was no surprise that I spotted her in a tight-knit circle—mostly a coil of men, all department heads and close friends of the director—around Savannah Braddock. I wondered if they were there for her protection or for the purpose of hiding her from their boss’s wife. They looked like the palace guard. I knew the director ran his division like General Patton and these were his trusted lieutenants. Or were these men also interested in Miss Braddock but didn’t realize she was already taken by their boss? That was unlikely. Everyone in the division knew everything. Everyone knew there was an invisible stamp on Savannah’s forehead that read Property of the Director.

  Rumors spread like kudzu—who was sleeping with whom, who was up for a promotion, who was the boss’s favorite. These men and Peggy were all jock
eying for position.

  I walked up and tapped Peggy on the shoulder. She turned and smiled at me like she was actually happy to see me.

  “Wow, this is some place,” I said, admiring the sprawling ranch and the antebellum home. “How many acres do you suppose it is?”

  Peggy spread out her arms, indicating that the ranch spread into infinity. “The Baintrees own the land as far as you can see, including all the cattle and horses. There’s a horse whisperer they have set up in the corral, if you want a demonstration. They’re offering hayrides, and they can saddle horses, if you can ride.”

  This was the closest I’d ever come to a horse.

  “Mrs. Baintree just redecorated, and she’s giving tours of the house.”

  “I’d love to get a look at the place,” I said. “Where’s the director?”

  She pointed toward the verandah. The director stood next to an older woman in a plain-looking dress, her angular face topped by white hair pulled back in a bun.

  “Is that the director’s mother?”

  Peggy laughed. “That’s his wife, Miss Julia. A lot of people make that mistake.”

  The contrast between Mrs. Baintree and Savannah Braddock, with her movie-star looks and snug-fitting sundress waging a losing battle to contain her curves, couldn’t be more pronounced.

  “She’s—I mean, there’s a big difference between, er, what I mean is…”

  “I was shocked the first time I met her, too,” Peggy interrupted. “This was Miss Julia’s family’s farm, and the house has been in her family for generations. The director is devoted to her and their two daughters.”

  I didn’t need Peggy to identify the daughters. They looked exactly like their mother, right down to their plain faces and frumpy fashion statements.

  I frowned. How devoted could the director be to his family in light of his frequent assignations with his mistress? I mean, I didn’t really know for sure how frequent, but judging from the one time I’d seen them, I doubted it was a one-time fling.

  “Does she know that—?” I tilted my head in Mrs. Baintree’s direction.

  “Of course not,” Peggy hissed. “This is not the place to talk about it.”

  I glanced at Mrs. Baintree, who looked like a librarian in her unflattering shift dress. Her eyes were flashing daggers in Savannah’s direction. Peggy was mistaken. This woman knew all about her husband’s mistress, and she was furious that he was flaunting her at their party. You’d have to be a blind fool not to see it. But when it came to the director, Peggy was a blind fool.

  I thought it best not to mention the director’s infidelity again. What kind of arrangement did the director have with his wife? Was their marriage in name only? Did they still love each other? What made the director stray?

  “They lead separate lives,” said Peggy. “They don’t have the same interests. She has her female friends. They’re more into fundraising for local causes, the battered women’s shelter, adult literacy, animal rescue. He likes to hunt and fish and camp. And, of course, fly. He has a private plane he pilots.”

  From everything I’d heard about Savannah Braddock, she was the director’s hunting buddy, fishing buddy, camping buddy, and bedmate, and she could outshoot any man. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t a woman who particularly needed protecting, though from the way she was acting around the men, she could dissemble with the best of them.

  I kept an eye on the two of them—Savannah and the director—and couldn’t help but notice the passionate looks they shot each other. Those looks flew like electric sparks; they simmered like the sun bleeding through the horizon. At one point, he sauntered over to her with a plate of food.

  “You eat yet, Savannah?” I heard him whisper. “I fixed you a plate.” Their fingers brushed as she took the plate from him. “Thank you, Director,” she practically purred in her sexy Southern accent. “I was getting awfully hungry.” He laughed, and she surreptitiously touched her hand to his thigh. “This was just what I needed, Willi.” Ha, ha. I was right. She did call him Willi. They whispered a few private words to each other, probably about when they would hook up later on.

  I felt sorry for Mrs. Baintree. She might have money and prestige and her husband’s name, but she no longer had his heart. She was dowdy but looked harmless enough.

  Well, who was I to judge? My boyfriend was three states away, and he hadn’t called me in a week. Was I supposed to wait for him, or spend the rest of my life in Watertown? Not that I didn’t like my job, but I knew I could never live here on a permanent basis. And what other options did I have? Looking around, I couldn’t see myself with any of these men. Did I want to become the wife of a prison guard or even a superintendent? Almost all of the men in the director’s inner circle were married, if that meant anything anymore.

  The director was hot, in a Joe Don Baker sort of way, ripped and powerful, but too old for me, and anyway, his eyes could hardly tear themselves away from Savannah.

  “I shouldn’t be too long, honey,” the director whispered. “Wait up for me, now, all right?”

  Savannah pouted. “You know I will. Should I get one of these big strong, handsome gentlemen to take me home?” She rubbed her forefinger over her bottom lip and then sucked on it.

  The director frowned. He intuited her meaning. She was trying to make him jealous, and it was working.

  A hand shot up. It was Roy Starnes, the comptroller, one of the only single men in the group, who was practically salivating and had been monopolizing Savannah’s attention since I’d arrived. “I’ll—” he offered. The director cut him off abruptly mid-sentence.

  “Peggy, honey, you won’t mind taking Miss Braddock on home for me, now would you?”

  Roy sulked and flexed his fingers into a fist. The director had embarrassed him again. Not only in front of his colleagues but in front of Savannah. Everyone knew he had a crush on Savannah and that he didn’t approve of his boss’s indiscretion. Peggy practically saluted and assured him she wouldn’t mind at all. Way to pimp out your boss, Peggy.

  The director trusted the men, but only to a point. Savannah was his, but she got restless when he wasn’t around. The men seemed to genuinely like him, but they weren’t above being jealous—of his home, his stature, and most of all, the unattainable Savannah.

  “I’ll see you later, then,” Savannah whispered. “Don’t be too long, now, Willi.”

  The director could hardly contain his impatience. And from the looks of his erection, painfully visible through his tight jeans, it was obvious he wanted to make his exit now and jump right into Savannah’s bed, but since he was the host, he had to keep up appearances for his guests and possibly his wife.

  To make his point, he addressed Roy in front of the crowd. “Roy, give me a few minutes and then come get me about that emergency situation—you know the one?”

  Roy’s face flushed. Not only had he become a yes-man but he was aiding and abetting what he thought was a sin, to his Christian sensibilities. I imagined he’d been hoping to get Savannah alone and rescue her from her predicament, whether she wanted to be rescued or not. To teach her that there was a better way. A way Savannah Braddock was definitely not interested in.

  The director flashed a lazy smile and looked back at Savannah, who grinned like a woman who had her man just where she wanted him. A woman who was adored. By the director and every other man in her line of sight.

  Chapter Four

  In those days, the Public Affairs Office consisted of a small group. In addition to Peggy and me, there was Stanley, an Information Specialist II, who had been a reporter for the Tallahassee Leader, and our secretary, Jean, an attractive middle-aged woman who was married to the owner of a successful real estate firm in town.

  Stanley was a hard-bitten journalist with sagging, sallow skin and jowls and a lazy eye. With his short stature, he resembled a wise old gnome. He looked like he was perpetually craving a smoke, but he’d apparently kicked the habit. Stanley looked beaten down, like the type of guy who was
going to be here for the rest of his career. No ambition. At least he had left behind the low-paying, long hours of working for a newspaper. But he was industrious and kind, willing to offer me, the new kid on the team, the benefit of his experience.

  It was only the dawn of the computer age, so we all worked on electric IBM Selectric typewriters. My primary job was to write press releases, answer reporters’ questions when Peggy and Stanley were not available, and edit the Correctional Courier, the official newsletter of the Florida Division of Corrections, which was distributed to all division staff throughout the state and which we around the office affectionately referred to as “The Clink.” We covered stories about staff, training programs, and inmate news and features.

  I also wrote articles for such publications as the Sheriff’s Star. My best article was about a reformed inmate who had been arrested for dealing drugs but who now counseled kids to stay away from drugs. Unfortunately, the day my article appeared in the magazine, on the front cover, no less, I learned that the man had been rearrested for dealing drugs. That should have come as no surprise. Drug offenses accounted for most prison admissions.

  Over the course of my year in the system, I visited a number of prisons—from major correctional institutions to re-entry centers, work camps, forestry camps, and road prisons, as well as training facilities and community release centers. The first time I went to supervise the printing of the newsletter, I drove four hours to Sumter Correctional Institution, which housed the printing press, operated by the inmates.

  When I walked into the institution, the superintendant took me into his office and laid his gun on the table. I assumed it was loaded. From his office, I had a perfect view of the entire complex through his picture window. “You see those gun turrets around the perimeter of the prison? If something goes wrong, they’re the only ones who can protect you. I can’t carry a gun into the prison because I might be overpowered. So if someone attacks us, run. There’s nothing I can do to save you.” Then he led me into the lion’s den, where the printing press sat along with the convicts running it.