Chapter 6
Ray continued to spend time, whenever he could spare it, reading through the voluminous published material about Ronald and Marcella Wilson. He didn't turn up anything new nor could he really put is finger on anything he thought was odd or unusual. He contacted an acquaintance who had covered some of the criminal trials of the Tectron employees and talked him into sharing both copies of the trial transcripts as well as his notes. When he asked Ray why he wanted them, Ray responded with a made-up line about how he was working on a story about the difference between the way the justice system treats white collar criminals and other criminals.
The guy sniffed, “You're full of shit, Ray. That's such a hackneyed old line. Your work is much more original than that. If you don't want to tell me what you're working on, fine, but don't blow smoke up my ass. And, if you're going to lie, the least you can do is be creative enough to spin off decent tales.”
“Can I still have the notes and transcripts?”
“You can borrow them. Give them back. They're souvenirs of the biggest story I ever worked on.”
Ray took the notes and the transcripts and promised to return them promptly. He read through Wilson's trial transcript as well as the trial transcripts for the President and the CFO of Techtron. They were much more interesting than the news articles. It occurred to Ray that he had finally reached the point of agreeing with both Victoria and with Deborah's father: journalistic writing in America's newspapers had sunk to an all-time low. American journalists had not always been truthful or ethical (think of the 19th century yellow journalism scandals) but they had at least been decent, and occasionally brilliant, writers (think of Twain and Hemingway). The ability to write well seemed no longer to be a requirement for print reporters.
He read the transcripts once quickly and then scanned his buddy's notes. The media's take on the story was that the participants had simply succumbed to greed. They had been legitimately making boatloads of money. They got greedy, so they cooked up elaborate schemes to make even more money manipulating the stock price. They did that by cooking the books to make it appear they were selling thousands up on thousands of their cheaply made, inferior products to schools and organizations in third world countries. In fact, for reasons that were unclear, Techtron actually sold very few computers.
Even some of the technical designers engaged in corporate dirty tricks, stealing ideas from other companies instead of creating new ones. The whole company, from top to bottom, seemed riddled with slime.
Ray generally hated to see anybody go to jail because he personally thought that going to jail would be the worst possible thing that could happen to someone. He found himself glad these guys were behind bars, where they could no longer run amok, victimizing both the poor individual employees, whose retirement plan was invested in the company stock, as well as the stockholders.
The employees' stories were consistent. The proof piled up during day after day after day of testimony. These guys appeared to be the worst of the worst of capitalists: wolves in sheep's clothing, touting their desire to “do well by doing good” while ripping off customers as well as their suppliers and attempting to sabotage the work of competitors. The state of Georgia put on a great case in the state criminal trials, which preceded the federal trials. Ray was particularly impressed with the cross-examinations conducted by one particular junior district attorney who handled some of the questioning concerning technical computer manufacturing issues. He managed to elicit very damning testimony from the witnesses without getting so technical the jury would not be able to follow it.
The problem Ray had with the story was that it all seemed too neat, too perfect. Real-life crime stories are not like novels. There are usually loose ends in a real crime story, a few questions which remain unresolved or facts that don't seem to fit. There are often inconsistencies between statements of various witnesses. Often the testimony of the involved parties changes over time.
This crime story was different. These guys stuck to their scripts. The witnesses agreed completely as to what happened, when it happened, who did it and why. The testimony of the principals never changed. Ray noticed that the company president's initial statement, given to the police shortly after his arrest, contained certain words and phrases he used verbatim in his testimony at his trial three years later. These guys were not just well coached, they were like stage actors who knew their lines cold and could recite them day in and day out for years. That absolute consistency and the complete lack of any credible evidence in their favor made Ray uncomfortable.
He worked on other stories also. The rapist he had been following copped a plea so that story was over. He picked up on a story about a red tide bloom off Bradenton and filed a couple of human interest pieces about some of the local “characters”. The paper ran local color stories from time to time for the benefit of the tourists. Most of the young reporters were new to Sarasota, and, many of them, new to Florida. They could write articles if someone from the police department or one of their editors told them where the story was. They didn't have a clue how to go out on the streets and dig up stories on their own.
Ray didn't do celebrity stories, but he loved to write about the dying breed of old fish heads that once populated most of coastal Florida. Every couple of months he filed a feature article about a local person or place, usually one whose existence or livelihood was threatened by progress. Because he was acquainted with most of the people he wrote about, he didn't have to interview them. All he had to do was get their permission for him to write their stories. Often that was the hardest part. A lot of the time, he had to wait for the person to die before he could tell their story (to wit: his posthumous feature on Odom Boyd).
By accident one day Ray ran across a guy who's story was bizarre even by South Florida standards. He made his living carving turtle shell napkin rings while “squatting” in an old boathouse at the end of a ramshackle pier. He lived with no electricity or running water. The guy was a complete nut, but his carvings were works of art. He sold virtually all of his work through art dealers in the Far East and Europe. He earned six figures a year, which his agents saved for him in the event he ever decided to get a real house, or, more likely, when he ultimately would require institutionalization. Ray filed what he thought was a hilarious story. Chuckling, he forwarded his article to his editor and muttered to himself, “Take That, Dave Barry! I don't make this shit up either.” He was a little worried that his editor would kill the story because Ray was a standard news reporter. He was not supposed to write humor.
Whether they printed the stories or not, at least he was turning in his quota. He knew he was skating. He was hungry for a big, meaty story, but there seemed to be nothing on the horizon.
He decided he'd earned a long run, followed by a crab cake sandwich and a beer. As he walked away from his desk the phone rang. He considered not answering it, but there was always the possibility that each phone call could be The Next Big Story. Reluctantly, he picked up the receiver.
Victoria Caruthers was on the line. They made small talk for a few minutes. Then she said, “I'm calling to let you know about an event this weekend you may want to attend. I have been given to understand that Marcella Wilson plans to attend a fund raiser sponsored by the Yacht Club Auxiliary on Saturday. I happen to have some extra tickets and thought perhaps you would like to attend.”
He chuckled, “I'd just fit right in at a Yacht Club Auxiliary fund raiser! Actually that raises a question: what with the Yacht Club Auxiliary members being for the most part filthy rich, why would you reach out to the public to raise money? Why not just give your own money. What kind of charity are you collecting for anyway?”
She laughed, “You know, a part of me would like to be very offended by that remark, except that you are absolutely right. Actually, public fund-raising has been quite controversial within the Auxiliary. Some of the members agree with you. They think we should simply give our own money, since, as you so indelicately pointed out, most of
us are very blessed, materially speaking.” They both laughed, and she went on, “But a number of years ago, when our membership began to decline, in part because our existing membership was aging and our daughters and daughters-in-law were not joining in the numbers they had in previous generations, a couple of our members suggested we hold a few events that would be open to the public in order to perhaps attract some new blood.”
He laughed. She paused. Eventually, she chuckled and said, “I gave you time to chime in about the delicious irony of the Yacht Club Auxiliary, most of whom as you no doubt well know, were at that time also members of the Daughters of the Confederacy, opening our membership to newcomers.”
He couldn't resist asking, “Including Yankee newcomers?”
She cleared her throat. “A few.”
“Only really, really rich ones I'll wager.”
“No comment.” She paused and cleared her throat again. She obviously had reservations about inviting him to the fund raiser. He couldn't decide if it was because she was afraid he would be tempted to write a satirical piece about the old blue-haired ladies of the Yacht Club Auxiliary or because she feared he would be too uncouth for the gathering. Probably both. He found himself laughing to himself because she was no doubt 100% right on both counts.
She went on, “Anyway, we're raising money to renovate some of the public pools in the community and to fund swimming lessons around town for poor children. Drownings have become epidemic around here and our president would like us to do what we can to promote water safety not only in and around boats but pools as well.”
He grinned and said, “That's a good idea. I am notoriously cheap, but I'll buy a ticket to that. I've seen a few kids after they've been pulled from pools. The lucky ones die. The rest mostly destroy their families' lives because they typically need constant medical care forever.”
“I volunteer at the hospital. I agree with you. In any case, I don't expect you to pay for the ticket. I happen to be chairing the event. I'll comp you an admission ticket but I expect you to buy some raffle tickets and a couple of drinks from the bar.”
He laughed out loud. “Ma'am, I am a reporter. Gambling and drinking are occupational hazards.”
She sniffed, “Somehow I suspect that neither are vices from which you suffer.”
“You would be right about that. I'm too cheap for either. I will, however, for the Glorious Cause of the Ladies of the Yacht Club, buy a raffle ticket and a beer.”
“Please don't make fun.”
“I apologize. It really is a good cause.” He changed the tone, “Will we finally meet?”
“I'll be there, but I am sure I will be very busy. Perhaps it would be best if people didn't know we are acquainted.”
He thought about that for a minute, considering whether or not to take offense. At first he thought she was saying he was socially beneath her, which was manifestly true so it would be foolish to be offended by that. Then he realized it might not be a good idea for people to know about their friendship because she was his principal source for information from Sarasota's society. The confidentiality of sources went beyond just criminal matters. He found it interesting that she seemed to have realized that before he did. In addition, it was probably true that her being friendly with him would not do her reputation any good in her own circle. He simply said, “You're probably right. I promise to play it cool, but I will look forward to meeting you, if only briefly.”
“I'll have a courier drop off the tickets to your office tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
He went for his run and stopped for a sandwich and a beer in a joint near his home that had a fabulous view of the Gulf of Mexico. He greeted a number of his neighbors. This place was the more-or-less official venue for the neighborhood's full-time residents' Sunset Celebration. It was too plain, old-fashioned and inexpensive to attract the increasingly well-heeled tourists who were about the only people who could afford to vacation in Sarasota any more. That was the main thing the locals liked about it.
It made Ray feel like an old crank, but he fondly recalled when Siesta Key was overrun in the summertime by families with little kids, playing on the beaches all day and then picnicking in the parks in the evenings. In the winter the Canadians and Yankee retirees arrived. Until recently, they tended to be ordinary, middle class people. It never failed to amuse him when he found his neighborhood filled for several months of the year with women wearing seersucker Capri pants and way-too-large earrings and men in loud, ugly golf pants or shorts and sandals – with socks, of course. They used to annoy him because they tended to be somewhat boisterous in their pleasure to be away from the cold and snow. How he missed those folks now!
The new crowd consisted of middle aged and older people who were for the most part obviously (and very, very proudly) wealthy. They liked to throw their money around, and there was almost no pleasing some of them. They, too, were loud, but not from having fun. They simply made it a habit to be loud, obnoxious and very rude to the locals.
The bartender/owner of the restaurant where Ray and his neighbors hung out was the kind of guy who could never do enough for his regular customers. He was cheerful, attentive and he made sure the service and the food were top notch. Therefore, Ray was surprised to notice one of the waitresses being curt, to the point of rudeness, with a nearby table of tourists.
He asked the bartender what he was going to do about it. The bartender responded that he wasn't going to do anything about it other than perhaps give her a little bonus for the night. He went on to say that he made enough money from his regular locals. He didn't really need or want the tourist business. They made the place too crowded and noisy which ran the risk of running off the regulars. Besides, he didn't like the way these assholes treated his staff. Consequently, he had made a new company policy. The staff were expected to continue to treat the local, regular customers with the respect and attentive service they had become used to – or else. On the other hand, they were encouraged to be as rude to tourists as they could be in order to keep them from coming back.
After Ray finished laughing, he patted the guy on the back, handed him a $10 tip and said, “On behalf of your regulars. Thanks!”
On Saturday, Ray dressed carefully in khaki pants, a light blue shirt and a Navy blue sport coat. He felt ridiculous, but he knew he would feel even stupider if he didn't dress the part. He knew from experience that most of the men would be wearing that same get-up. The only exceptions would be the really old Yacht Club members in their white pants, blue blazers and captain's hats. Those old dudes were for the most part so rich they could wear evening gowns with feather boas and nobody would say a word.
The fund raiser was a silent auction. There were a hundred or more auction items, described on cards, arranged around the room on tables with fishbowls in front of each one. Guests wrote down their bids and put them in the fishbowl. The high bidder would be awarded the prize. In addition, there were door prize tickets for sale, along with a raffle of a Rolex watch. Ray was amused to realize that these old ladies had all but perfected the fine art of hitting people up for money. He half wondered if he would have to pay to use the bathroom. He bought a couple of door prize tickets but passed on the raffle ticket. It would be just his luck he would win the Rolex. Everybody in the newsroom knew how cheap he was. If he showed up wearing anything but his scratched old Timex there would be way too many questions.
He wandered around the room, studying the prizes. He was not surprised to learn the Auxiliary had obtained donations from many, many local businesses. He placed bids on several items. He placed a really low-ball bid on a tennis racket and four lessons at a country club. He had always wanted to learn to play tennis. He didn't think he would win that one, but it was worth a shot.
He put in a medium-low bid on a set of pots and pans from an upscale kitchen store. He didn't cook, but his housekeeper was a fabulous cook who frequently stocked his fridge with leftovers from meals she prepared for her family. He
had recently overheard her talking on the phone to her daughter lamenting about the abominable condition of her cookware. If he won the cookware, he'd give it to her as a gift. She'd have new pots and pans, and he'd probably get more leftovers than ever. That's what he would consider a win-win situation.
The best prize of all was a lifetime membership to the gym where he belonged. He knew that the lifetime membership went for $4500. The annual membership was $700. He had been a member of that same gym for almost 20 years. He thought they should give him a lifetime membership for free after all those years of loyalty. He put in a $2500 bid on the membership, and thought he had a pretty good shot at it because there were only a couple of other cards in the bowl. He looked around the room. He was probably the only person in the room who didn't belong to a country club. He believed the two cards already in the bowl were decoys. Twenty-five hundred dollars was a lot to fork over all at once, but the money would go to charity. He would get a gym membership he would have paid for anyway. The gym had already made plenty of money on him; he did not feel bad about trying to get the lifetime membership for cheap. He walked away chuckling.
Lunch would be served in a few minutes. He had promised Victoria he would get something from the bar also, since Marina Jack was donating 100% of the bar proceeds to the charity. He ordered a draft beer, and soon realized he was the only one in the place drinking beer. Everybody else was drinking wine or fancy cocktails. He sighed and felt like a yutz.
He stood off to the side scanning the room for familiar faces. There were a lot of faces he recognized from photos in the paper or the TV news, but he did not see one person he knew personally, other than the editor-in-chief of the paper. He steered clear of her to avoid questions he didn't want to answer.
He did not see Marcella Wilson. He assumed she would show up fashionably late.
Next he searched among the workers to see if he could identify Victoria. He had seen a very old photo of her, but did not know what she looked like now. It did not take long for him to find her. She was standing near the buffet line having a rather intense conversation with the manager of Marina Jack. Apparently, Victoria was not happy with either the setup of the buffet or the fact that lunch was late in being served. Probably both. She never raised her voice nor did she appear use strong language. He could tell from the look on the man's face, however, that she was giving him an ass-chewing the like of which he probably hadn't experienced since boot camp. Just for an instant, Victoria looked in Ray's direction and their eyes met. Her eyes twinkled. He had to turn away to keep from laughing. The next time he dared to look at her, she was finished with her tirade; the manager looked as though he might pass out at any second, and she was wearing a satisfied Cheshire Cat-like look. Ray was a little surprised she wasn't rubbing her hands together.
Soon after that, she took her place at the head of the buffet line with some of the other old battle-axes from the Auxiliary and the Commodore of the Yacht Club, to greet the guests as they lined up for the feed. When it was his turn to greet them, Ray held out his hand to Victoria. He tried not to make too much eye contact as he said, “Ray Bailey from the Times. This is a very nice affair and will do some great things in our community. Here's my card. I plan to file a report on the fund-raiser. Please let me know how much money you raise and what projects you plan to fund with the proceeds.”
Victoria took the card and smiled warmly, but a little vaguely, “Thank you for coming Mr. Bailey. We will appreciate the publicity.” She introduced him to the Commodore, and they motioned him toward the buffet, inviting him to enjoy his lunch. He filled his plate and found a seat in the shadow of a large plant off in a corner of the restaurant. He could see almost the entire room. He did not think very many people would notice him. The food was excellent, which was to be expected.
The Marina Jack restaurant was a Sarasota landmark. He had eaten there regularly until about twenty years ago when the prices started to rise. He had sneaked a glance at the regular menu on his way in and caught his breath. One dinner in that place could cost more than he typically spent on food for an entire week. Since the lunch was free, thanks to Victoria's complementary ticket, he tucked in and enjoyed the scallops and shrimp, and then went back for seconds.
While he was filling his plate the second time, he lost his seat to a young couple, obviously tourists, who were very wrapped up in each other. They were probably honeymooners who came to have lunch at the restaurant and got roped into buying a ticket to the fund raiser. He decided to go outside, but before he made it to the door, he saw Victoria and some of the other Auxiliary ladies forming up a receiving line at the front door. He hung back for a second and then saw Marcella Wilson and a couple of other women parading up the walk. They walked in with Marcella in the rear. Victoria and her welcoming committee greeted Marcella's entourage, and then turned to welcome The Lady herself.
Victoria was cool. Marcella was cooler. Ray wanted to laugh. Victoria was probably 75, with beautiful silver-gray hair. She was the classic Steel Magnolia: a tiny woman not more than 5'0” in heels, weighing perhaps 90 pounds fully clothed. Marcella Wilson was in her 50's, and statuesque. Once again he had the feeling she was not one of the nouveau riche women who overran Sarasota in the wintertime. She was tall and graceful where Victoria was tiny and birdlike, but both appeared to be cut from the same cloth. They greeted each other as more-or-less equals, taking into account Victoria's greater age and stature as a pillar of the community.
Marcella afforded Victoria the appropriate level of deference, but not one iota more. Ray found himself enjoying the show. It was an utterly silent and completely dignified battle for dominance between two strong women. Ray was amazed at how few people in the room were aware of the clash of the titans taking place silently under everyone's noses. It only lasted a minute or so, and in Ray's opinion it appeared to end in a draw.
Ray had been so engrossed in the show that he had sort of stopped in the middle of the hallway leading from the entrance into the restaurant. Too late to get out of the way, he realized that Victoria and Marcella were headed straight toward him. Victoria's face showed mild surprise for about a nanosecond and, then, without missing a beat in her stride, she interrupted the story she was telling Marcella, and steered her in Ray's direction. His first instinct was to bolt, but he had nowhere to go.
Victoria stopped in front of him and said, “Marcella, I want you to meet Mr. Bailey. He works for the local paper. He is covering this event and intends to do some articles about the dangers of drowning in swimming pools.” She shot him a look and raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. He couldn't decide if he wanted to smack her or laugh. He thought it was actually a great suggestion and he made a mental note to write at least one article on the subject.
Marcella's handshake was much firmer than he expected. He thought she was the most attractive middle aged lady he had seen in a long time. Her lips were slightly thin, which set her apart from the women with botox lips who all looked like their husbands popped them one on the way to lunch. Her face had a few lines and wrinkles in all the places you would expect them to be in a woman her age, unlike many of the women around town whose unlined faces reminded him of the Joker in the Batman movie. She had applied her makeup with restraint (how very un-Southern of her!). She was slim and seemed to be in good shape but not too muscular.
He was a “leg” man, but he intentionally checked out her chest. She had ballet-dancer-small breasts. It was all he could do not to laugh. There was so much silicone in the rest of the room he felt sure that if the pier collapsed and the restaurant fell into the harbor, the plastic boobs in the room could keep it afloat. Marcella's entire look was designed to be natural, classy and very neat. It was a lovely package, to be sure. Ray knew enough about Southern women to suspect that Marcella's “totally natural” look was as artificial and time-consuming as the big-haired, painted and surgically enhanced ladies who populated the rest of the room, but he liked it even so.
Marcel
la delayed her greeting for a long second. It was obvious she was sizing him up as well. He caught a glimmer of something in her eyes that made him think she was not impressed. That didn't surprise him. What did surprise him was the fact that the look only lasted for a second, and it was followed by what appeared to be a look of genuine interest. She said, “Mr. Bailey. I've read some of your articles. You are a very good writer.”
“Thank you.”
She paused for a minute and furrowed her brow, “I don't seem to recall meeting you or seeing your name on any bylines of stories concerning my .... the events ...., um, the Techtron story.”
He smiled and shook his head, “I write local news for a then-independently-owned paper in a small market. That was a national story. Our paper picked up the stories from the AP and the UPI. I have to confess, I didn't even follow the story.”
She looked astonished. “I would think that makes you one of the few people in America who didn't.”
He shrugged and said, “I was working on something else at the time and wasn't paying attention.”
She laughed. He felt embarrassed. She said, “It's refreshing to meet someone so candid. I hope we shall see each other again.” She turned and sailed toward the buffet. Victoria glanced at him for just an instant. He saw a mixture of amusement and consternation in her eyes.
He went outside and wandered around the marina, ogling the boats. He didn't envy the rich men of the Yacht Club their fancy, high-maintenance wives, but he sure as hell coveted their boats.
After a while, he noticed the people inside the restaurant congregating in a clump in the middle of the room. He assumed, correctly, that meant the auction winners were being announced. He went back inside. The grand prize went to one of the Yacht Club members: it was a $10,000 base-model, plain-Jane Rolex watch. As the winner reached out to accept it, his $100,000+ diamond-studded Rolex glittered in the sun. Everybody in the crowd laughed, including the winner himself who shrugged and grinned.
As he expected, Ray won the gym membership. He paid with a credit card. As he was walking away from the table, Marcella Wilson walked over to him and congratulated him. He chuckled, “Thanks. I've been a member of that gym for 20 years. I would have spent the money anyway, and it was for a good cause. I actually got a heck of a bargain.”
She looked surprised. “That is odd. Usually the prizes at these things go for more than the retail cost.”
“Not this one. I think I was the only bidder and I put in a very low bid.”
“Why do you suppose nobody else bid against you?”
He waved his arm around the room, “Look at these people. I'm probably the only one who needs to join a gym. The rest are either country-club members or they have fully tricked out gyms in their homes. Probably both.”
She laughed and said with a sheepish look on her face, “I guess that was a sort of 'let them eat cake' remark.”
“Maybe, but you're new in town. It might not have been as obvious to you as it was to me. I'm prepared to cut you some slack.”
“You are too kind.”
“No. I'm not.” He let that remark kind of hang there.
They looked at each other for a second. There didn't seem to be anything else to say, so Ray shook her hand and started to turn away. She put her hand on his arm and said, “I hope you don't think it forward of me, but I'd like to invite you to lunch one day soon. As you pointed out, I'm new here. You have evidently lived here a long time and know the local lore as well or better than anyone. I think that hearing some of those stories would help me become acclimated.”
He looked her directly in the eyes for a minute and grinned, “You mean you want to know where the bones are buried so you can avoid potential social pitfalls?”
She shook her head and smiled, “Yes, although I would never put it so bluntly. You're not a Southerner?”
He scratched his head. That one was a hard question. Technically Florida was in the South, but everybody who spent any time in the Sunshine State knows that the South ends around Jacksonville. Besides, having grown up in the Keys, he always felt he was more of an Islander than a Floridian. He had never been certain he could legitimately call himself a Cracker (although he usually did for lack of a better term); he was pretty sure he was not anything resembling a real Southerner. He shook his head and held his hands out palm up, “I don't know the answer to that. I don't think I qualify as a Southerner. Most certainly not a Southern Gentleman. I'm a Cracker. Worse than that, I'm native son of the Conch Republic.”
She smiled, “I guess that explains it.”
While he was wondering what “it” was, she handed him her card and asked him to call her to arrange lunch. He stuck it in his pocket and headed for the door. His little foray into society had just succeeded more magnificently than his wildest imaginings.
He met Marcella for lunch on Tuesday at Marina Jack. The agenda was to tell her the local stories. He talked. She listened. They both laughed a lot. He asked her a few questions, which she deflected and finessed. He found out absolutely nothing about her. He did, however, manage to set a date for dinner with her in a couple of weeks, upon her return from a trip, the destination of which she did not reveal.
That meant he had two weeks to find out everything he could about Marcella Wilson. After only a couple of days of intensive research, he realized that well was almost totally dry. He could find no information about her prior to her marriage. Part of the problem was that he did not know her maiden name. Unlike many women, she did not use her maiden name on any of her significant documents. When she married Roland Wilson, she changed her name and all of her identification documents. He could find no reference to her maiden name anywhere. He found that curious.
He also found it curious that he had such mixed feelings about her. On the one hand, she was a lovely woman. On the other, there was something in her that seemed to bring out a mean streak in him he didn't realize he had. He couldn't figure it out, but he didn't like it.
And so, he did what he always did when he was conflicted about something, he threw himself into his work, cranking out stories and trolling all his usual haunts for new material.
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