by Lee Barnett
I put my head down on the table and sobbed. I sobbed so hard that I didn’t hear the door open behind me.
‘Barnett? Are you okay?’
I lifted my tear-stained face to Bernadette and gasping through sobs shook my head.
It took me several minutes to regain the power of speech and I slowly spluttered how I couldn’t believe how anyone could be so cruel.
Bernadette looked at me kindly. ‘I’m so sorry. I wish I could make things better for you.’ She gave me a sympathetic smile and then withdrew to give me my privacy.
I sat there and collected my thoughts. What I needed to do, what I had to do now was to come to terms with my past, a past that I had shoved deep down inside for too long. After a few more minutes, I reminded myself of the positive: I had kept Samantha away from these monsters all this time and if that was the only thing I accomplished in my life then I should still be thankful.
I also reminded myself that there was no time for self-pity.
I stuffed the highlighted pages back into the envelope and pulled out a psych report by Dr Madelaine Wohlreich. I hadn’t seen this before, either. It was dated 18 April 1994, but posted after Savanna and I left. I remembered that I had told her everything that had happened over the previous eighteen months. I left nothing out, but as I sat there reading the report twenty years after the fact, even I thought it sounded too far-fetched to be true.
Before I confided in her I had checked to see if she had any connection with Dr Bjorksten. She had assured me that she didn’t. I remembered thinking at the time that it was a risk to share everything, and that another psychiatrist might think I was crazy. By the time I had finished reading page 3 I felt immense relief – it was very clear that this kind doctor had believed me. And not only did she believe me, she repeated what Dr Shecut, Dr Folk and the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders stated – that hyperthymic personality is not a recognised disorder, even writing, ‘I am unsure what this means’. She also agreed with Dr Shecut and Dr Folk that neuroleptics or any other psychotropic medications – such as Navane – should not be used because of a risk to the patient and/or her fetus. And she concluded that there was no need for me to be medicated.
When Bernadette reappeared to get me, I thanked her for her patience and again saw her concern. ‘You know, Barnett, you don’t have to go through this by yourself. You can always speak to the counsellor.’
I gave a wry laugh. ‘Thanks, Bernadette, but I can never speak to a counsellor or psychologist no matter how bad it gets. They’ll find a way to use that against me.’
11
Los Angeles, California, US
April 1994
WELCOME TO LA, I THOUGHT WRYLY. I ENTERED THE DINGY LOBBY OF the budget motel and asked for a room, possibly for two nights. The receptionist, a heavily tattooed, bearded man, looked me over a couple of times then nodded. ‘Sure. Just you or someone joining you?’
I told him it was only for me and if it could be anywhere but the ground floor. Then I checked that if I paid in cash my credit card reciept would be torn up. No problem, no questions asked.
My room was on the second floor and smelled of damp. Quite a contrast from where I regularly stayed while on layovers as a flight attendant.
After I had washed my face, changed into pyjamas and poured a glass of wine, I sat down at the rickety table and pored over a map of Los Angeles. Before doing so, I flipped through my address book to the fictitious name Jamie Brown, whose address was by the corner of 7th and Parkview, just by MacArthur Park, the one immortalised in song. On the map I marked the spot with a giant X, not to depict hidden treasure, but for something that could prove to be far more valuable. Then with my pencil I made a slow retreat, marking the route back to my motel. I memorised these directions, too; this was not an area to get lost in. There was no room for mistakes, too much was at stake.
Next I lugged the enormous Los Angeles White Pages on to the table. I couldn’t afford any subconscious slip-ups in choosing a new name. I closed my eyes, took a breath and randomly selected a page for my fingers to rest on: Canton. Hmm, okay, that would do. Then I found the new first and middle names for my son: Nic Mara. And then my new first name. I needed to choose a little more carefully here and wanted something that could be non-specific to gender: Alexandria, Alex for short. Yes, I liked that. And my middle name? I smiled to myself and decided to have some fun: Maria, after Mrs Bang Bang, who was Sonya Olsen’s mother and a local legend on Ormond Beach. Both of these women had tried to discredit me with their gossiping and Sonya’s antagonistic deposition, and everyone knew Sonya’s mother’s nickname came from her more louche and lascivious habits, as well as the local legend that she shot one of her husbands.
And my birthdate? My finger stopped on 17 August. Did I dare make myself younger? Hell yes, why not? Besides, it had to be significantly different from my own year of birth, so … 1966, six years younger! Then it was back to the phonebook to find my parents’ names: Rose Maria Blackwell and Edward Michael Canton.
After completing all that, somehow miraculously, for the first time in more than eighteen months a calmness gently enveloped me. It truly was weird – I’m quite sure it was the opposite of what I should have been feeling under the circumstances, but then, at last I felt like I was taking control. That night, much to my surprise, I slept well and the next morning that sense of calm lingered.
My drive was short, which was the plan – to stay close but not too close. I drove down the heavily littered streets, and with every block I travelled they became even more so. I parked the rental, checked my money belt (secure under my loose shirt) and headed out to MacArthur Park a couple of blocks away.
Following South Union Avenue I came to 7th Street and turned left into Parkview Avenue. MacArthur Park was right there and I was instantly assaulted by the stench; there was no fresh air as you would expect from a park but instead a combination of rotting rats, human waste and fetid water. The homeless lined the streets and dirty grounds of the park. Some had buckets placed before them and asked for money for food, some slept in cardboard boxes and some looked like the walking dead. Prostitutes leaned against lamp-posts or tottered into the endless traffic to proposition drivers. Gang members of all types openly sold drugs to passers-by, promoting their wares in unfamiliar languages.
Even back then I was reasonably aware about the darker, seedier habits of big cities. I’d spent a lot of time in Central America and recently had a chunk of time in Eastern Africa, but this … this was the USA! One man approached and in broken English asked me what I was after. I hesitated for a moment and then in a rough impatient voice he prompted me: ‘Pink card? Passport?’
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for birth certificates.’ He turned away.
A few cars pulled up to ask what drugs I was looking for. I smiled and waved no thank you. Then another car stopped and I told the man I was after birth certificates. ‘Go through the park under the Wilshire tunnel towards 6th and South Alvarado.’
I thanked him and did as I was told. Wilshire is a large and busy street that winds its way through MacArthur Park. As I was walking I had the eerie feeling I was being watched. When I reached the pedestrian tunnel, I stopped. The tunnel was dark even in daylight, and it absolutely reeked. It would have been safer to take a busy street the long way around, but for some reason the precise directions I had been given made me think this was a test of some sort and if I passed I’d get the prize. I entered and smelled human waste. People lay together in heaps, two of them still had needles in their arms. One man made eye contact with me as he urinated on a prone woman who had either passed out or was dead. I knew I looked incredibly out of place but still somehow I tried to look casual about it all. I kept my pace steady and my gaze as fixed as possible on the growing circle of daylight at the end. I smelled fresher air, and at last was out!
When I reached 6th Street I turned right towards Alvarado, now feeling a little more confident about dismissing hawkers who didn�
��t have what I wanted. After about a five-minute wait, a familiar car pulled up, it was the same man who had given me directions. ‘Quick,’ he motioned, his eyes wide scouting our surroundings, ‘get in the back.’ I did as I was told.
His strong accent became more pronounced the faster he spoke and I found him difficult to understand at first. Slowly, as we joined the slow moving traffic circling the park, he asked again how many birth certificates I needed and if I had the names and birthdates. I stammered yes and handed him my piece of paper containing the names. He said the cost was $150 each and he wanted half right then and the other half on delivery. I refused, insisting that he would have $100 for each after I had checked them and nothing before. I don’t know where I got the nerve from to say that but I knew that I was being tested. He smiled and agreed then told me to meet him at the same place at 4 p.m. that very afternoon. He pulled over and I got out.
As I walked back to my rental I glanced at my watch. It was only 10 a.m. How could that be? And how was I going to fill the next six hours? Nestled between some grimy buildings nearby was a Salvation Army store and some pawnshops. Amongst them I saw a large sign featuring an open hand with ‘Palm Reader-Psychic’ written above it. Hah! I thought. Why not?
Inside, the lighting was dim. Large posters of palms adorned the wall with the names of each of the lines and descriptions of what they meant, and the sweet, smoky smell of incense burned my nose and eyes. I waited a little before a very elderly lady emerged in a spectacular fashion from behind the curtain. She had a bandana on her head and wore a mismatched outfit worthy of any TV psychic or professional carny. She introduced herself as Madam Christine.
I’m hopelessly honest and without thinking told her I was just killing time and didn’t believe in what she was peddling. She gave me a toothless grin and motioned for me to sit down on a small wooden stool across from her wing-back chair. I placed my left hand on the table between us.
From what I could gather it started as a regular, generic reading but after several minutes she started to speak in snatches such as, ‘You need to take her and get out!’, ‘Go far away and never look back!’, ‘Do not hesitate, go!’, ‘She is depending on you!’ It took a minute to collect my wits before I asked her, ‘Leave where? Take who?’
‘You know who,’ she said. ‘You have to go far away and do not look back!’
I started to tear up at this and she softened her voice and looked right at me. ‘You have been hurt very badly by someone you love.’
I nodded. ‘My husband.’
Madam Christine shook her head slowly. ‘No. You have been hurt by your mother. I’m so sorry, my child.’
I nearly, completely lost it at hearing her say that and I started to tremble.
‘It’s okay,’ she continued gently. ‘You two will be fine but you must leave soon, before it’s too late.’
How could I ever have anticipated a palm-reading session like that? At last I finished blowing my nose and wiping my eyes and thanked her. I stood on unsteady legs and promised I would do as she had insisted. Then as I was leaving I turned and asked her if I would have any more children. She told me no.
The next thing I did was to hit a 7-Eleven, buy a Tab, powder donuts and borrow their phonebook. The Indian man behind the counter asked if I was all right. ‘You’re in a very unsafe place down here.’ I nodded and told him I was only checking a number and address. ‘A few years ago there were thirty murders in MacArthur Park,’ he added to make his point clearer.
I jotted down the address and headed back to my car. Once inside, I locked the doors and opened the map to locate just where the local US passport office was. Thankfully it was close by.
I climbed the stairs to the State Department that houses the passport office. A queue of people snaked out the door and around the building. I asked and was told that indeed this was the line for people applying for a passport, and that passport application forms were available inside. I walked into the office, grabbed several passport application forms then retreated to the back of the line.
Deep breaths. After some minutes I tapped the lady’s shoulder in front of me and asked if she would show me what birth certificate was needed for the passport application. ‘You know how it is,’ I explained. ‘There are like three different birth certificates for each state, one with the little feet on it, an abridged version and then the long one. I can never get it right.’ I shrugged and smiled sweetly as she retrieved hers from the folder.
It was a thick sheet of paper with a blue border and a seal in the right-hand corner in the same blue ink. At the top of the document STATE OF CALIFORNIA was embossed in white, while the entire document inside the border was speckled with yellow dots, presumably to make it difficult to forge. Above the top blue border was a perforated line, to differentiate between the birth certificate proper and the administrative information. I studied everything with care then thanked the lady, telling her I had brought the wrong one and how she had saved me a lot of time.
At last I made my way back to 6th Street and Alvarado. Not long after, my man pulled up and again told me to get in the back, which I did. We started circling the park and he handed me two papers. At once I could tell these forgeries were of a much lighter weight than the one I had inspected at the passport office. Then on the reverse side I saw the names were rendered in black type and looked cheap and fake.
I was overcome with anger and fear. ‘Is this the best you can do?’ I shouted. He tried to tell me that they were just as good as the real thing. ‘No!’ I spat at him. ‘These are useless!’ He tried to argue some more when out of nowhere I grabbed him by the back of his collar and told him not to fuck with me, that they needed to be on good paper, have a blue border with yellow spots inside and a perforation through the middle. He couldn’t believe how I knew all this, probably because of my Southern twang, but he got it. ‘Okay, okay, calm down,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you good birth certificates. Come tomorrow at eleven and wait on that bench over there.’ He pointed to one near a fountain.
Within an hour I was back in my room nursing my disappointment. And the day had started out so well. With the help of a Burger King whopper and a glass of wine I distracted myself from considering the real likelihood of failure. ‘This will work, I will succeed, stay positive.’ I repeated my mantra many times before finally drifting off to sleep.
I was up, packed and out of the motel bright and early. There was no need for another night in LA – no need and no time. At least that second morning I had a better idea of what to expect. With my $200 safely tucked into my money belt, I was soon standing next to a fountain in front of the park bench. I was a little early so I watched everything and everyone like a human videotape, just to make sure that nothing seemed too unusual in this cesspool of criminal activity. Bad thoughts of what-ifs ran through my brain before I finally spotted my man across the other side of the street from me. He looked very very nervous. He signalled to me: twenty more minutes.
What’s that about? I wondered. The time limped past but I remained ever vigilant. Then at last my man reached behind an open door, grabbed a newspaper and zigzagged across the street and towards the bench.
‘Look straight ahead,’ he instructed in a breathless whisper. I did as I was told. I heard him mutter ‘too many cops … everywhere … can’t take chances’. I wondered what the newspaper was for. Did he have a gun or a knife wrapped in the middle? The only thing I was sure of was that it wasn’t for reading. My heart started pounding as he slid the newspaper over to me. I picked it up and tucked inside were two very satisfactory birth certificates.
I complimented him as I hid the money in the newspaper and slid it back to him. ‘You did well.’
‘Thank you,’ he said and in a split second he was up and gone.
I caught the red eye back from California. My first task, after a shower, was to call Hans Paul. It was now Day 46 and still no written court order allowing me access to the Appellate Court. Hans told me to be a little more pat
ient, that he knew Judge Mallard well and still hoped to persuade him to reverse his order. I didn’t believe him. I reminded him of the hell it was to see my daughter only four nights a month, and how she was changing for the worse each time I saw her. I also reminded him that I had already paid him $15,000 to do something, which was yet to happen. I wondered whether Hans was wilfully choosing not to press this issue.
Next I called Susan Poag in Houston to see if she was around the following week and that I hoped to visit if that was okay. It was.
On the Friday, Patty dropped around with a small present and told me how she was looking forward to our girls’ night with Savanna and offered to come with me to pick her up. As we turned down the road towards the modest ranch house of Harris’s mother, Patty reached over and patted my hand, knowing how excited and nervous I was. We gave each other a small smile.
I didn’t even get to knock before Harris was standing there in his suit and tie holding Savanna. Without a word he turned Savanna around and handed her to me. Our eyes met. ‘Hi, sweetie, how are you?’ Savanna looked as if she was trying to place my face and voice, but true to her accepting nature, she reached out to me and we embraced. As I put her in the car she began rubbing her already red eyes and tugging at her ears. I sat next to her in the back seat and let Patty drive, greedy for every precious second with my baby.
Friday nights were always a little tricky because it would be after 7 p.m. by the time I got back home and it would take time for Savanna to settle. In the weeks following Judge Mallard’s decision it became harder and harder for her to settle and harder for her to remember her home, and me. This particular Friday, Patty and I watched Savanna playing, when suddenly she got up and walked over to me, a strange look on her beautiful face. Then with her right hand she grabbed a handful of her peach fuzz hair and pulled hard, while with her left hand she struck me, over and over, saying, ‘No! No!’