by Lee Barnett
I picked her up, gently murmuring over and over how much her mommy loved her while I rocked her gently. Patty and I exchanged terrified looks, both of us knowing that something was very wrong. I was more resolute than ever.
The next morning, I dressed Savanna in blue Oshkosh overalls and we went to a pharmacy and got two passport photos. I knew it was a good sign when the photographer kept referring to Savanna as a boy.
On the Sunday evening, Ann Chabot and Babs came for a last cuddle with Savanna on the couch, which was not visible from the door. I heard heavy footsteps on the wooden porch and took Savanna, wrapped in a baby blanket to ward off the chill, and stood in the doorway. Harris pulled my clinging baby from my arms and threw the baby blanket back at me. Then, bizarrely, he started raising his shrill voice saying, ‘Stop flicking me with the blanket, Lee. Stop it! Stop it!’ Throughout his screaming, his head was bent towards his front left breast pocket where he hid his micro tape recorder. There were hundreds of lies about what I supposidly said or did so I kept a tape recorder; Harris kept one to make up more lies, such as screaming that I was pinching him or hurting him. He continued with this nonsense until Ann and Babs appeared from behind the door. ‘Harris, Lee is not touching you!’ they both said. To this day, the shock in Harris’s eyes remains unforgettable. All of this might have been tremendously funny if not for the terrified look on poor Savanna’s face. Harris then turned around with my baby and headed down the stairs.
A few minutes after Harris left I called Melinda and told her what had happened. She told me to write it all down, and said that at least I had witnesses this time. Then I told her how frustrated I still was that the written order hadn’t been provided. Melinda reminded me that I had still not followed Judge Mallard’s orders and got another mental health evaluation. I had forgotten about that, although Hans had told me it wasn’t necessary. I promised Melinda that I would make the appointment the following day.
In the morning, I called the Medical University of South Carolina to make an appointment with a psychiatrist, Madelaine Wohlreich, for Monday, 18 April. I let Melinda know. Then I flew into Houston, Texas, where Susan was waiting for me.
After I dropped Susan off at work, I swung by her high-rise apartment, dropped my bags, and consulted the Yellow Pages. I found several optometrists, far enough away from Susan’s to ensure I wouldn’t bump into someone I knew. I jotted down the addresses and rifled through the pages until I got to W, to look for wigs. And then I was out the door again.
The first stop was at an optometrist where I bought some brown contact lenses. When the sales girl gave me a quizzical look I told her I was auditioning for a television commercial. Easy. Next was another optometrist but this time I asked for horn-rimmed glasses with plain glass in them. Within minutes I had my second item.
The wig shop was a slightly different proposition. I had no idea just what to look for so I asked for some advice on a few black wigs. The saleswoman selected one she felt looked the most natural and suited my face the best. Next was the passport office where I took several application forms and double-checked that they had a 24-hour turnaround. They assured me they did. So with all of that completed, I picked Susan up from work. And for the first time in a long time I found it difficult to stop smiling. At last I felt buoyant about finding a way to save Savanna.
The next day, I dropped Susan at work again and had her car. I stopped at a public bathroom and carefully inserted the brown contacts, fitted the black wig and then headed towards the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Taking the complete driver’s test was surprisingly easy, especially considering it had been over fifteen years since I’d received my first licence. I aced it, and was even complimented on my skills by the DMV tester, though naturally he thought this was my first time taking it. I filled in the forms, used my new name and age and attached it to a copy of my new California birth certificate. But it was while I was being photographed that I learned I had missed a very important step: it took two weeks to get your photograph licence and in the interim you’re given a temporary licence with no photo until the proper one is mailed to you. ‘What address do you want me to send your permanent licence to?’ the lady asked me. I was caught completely off guard and stuttered a little before coming up with a plausible address, one I hoped never existed or was nowhere near anyone I knew. Finally I looked her straight in the eye. ‘1915 Guadalajara Street, Houston, Texas,’ I said with false confidence.
I grabbed my temporary driver’s licence and headed off for two new passport photos before I was back at the passport office. As ever, the queue was long and with each minute I became increasingly nervous, and that was before I saw the surveillance cameras. I had also started to doubt the effectiveness of my wig, because it really did look like a wig. Deep breaths, look normal, act normal. After about forty-five minutes I finally spoke to an officer sitting behind a window and told him I was applying for a passport for my son and myself. I handed over the two applications, two birth certificates, our photos and my temporary driver’s licence. ‘Do you have a photo identification?’ he asked. I told him no and that my purse had been stolen, but still he insisted I needed a picture ID as proof for a passport. My heart sank.
Back at the car I was almost in despair, wondering what on earth I might be able to use for a photo ID. I dumped the contents from my wallet onto the passenger seat and sifted through them for something with a photo on it. I couldn’t use my real driver’s licence, my scuba licence had no photo, library card ditto, but then there was my USAir ID. That might work.
Before I picked Susan up I stopped to buy a razor blade and some Wite-Out. Later that night when Susan was out on a date, I sat down and separated the laminate that surrounded my ID. I did it without damaging the card itself. With that done I headed out to a Kinko’s to use a colour photocopier. I also asked if there were typewriters I could use, and there were. Furthermore, they did laminating right there in the store. Excellent. For my purposes, this truly was a one-stop shop.
I made three colour copies of my USAir flight attendant ID then sat down at a table in the near-empty store. I scrutinised the photo and my blue eyes stood out like beacons. Hmm. I reached over to a pencil holder on the desk and darkened my eyes with a 2B pencil. It worked. There was really nothing I could do to change my hair without it looking strange, but gratifyingly my hair didn’t look too blonde in that picture anyway. Next I whited out my name then photo copied the altered ID to see how it looked. I held my breath while it printed, but it looked good. Then I moved to a typewriter and plugged in Alexandria Maria Canton. Then back to the colour copier and … it was perfect!
I needed some help with the laminating though, and the sales guy, who was more interested in his chemistry textbooks, helped me uncomplainingly and without suspicion. Then I etched the outline from my real ID, used a guillotine to cut it down to size and ensured the laminated edges were solid.
The next day after again dropping Susan off at work, I stopped at the same restroom to put on my disguise and returned to the passport office. After another long line and wait it was my turn. ‘Next.’ This time I had a middle-aged lady.
‘Hi,’ I said with a big smile. ‘How are you today?’ I placed the applications, pictures, birth certificates, temporary driver’s licence, and my doctored USAir ID neatly on the counter. ‘I’m applying for a passport for my son and myself.’
She had kind eyes and peered at the forms, which were all okay, and then at the ID. She peered a little closer at my USAir ID and then back at me. My heart sank. This wig just wasn’t going to cut it. I smiled sweetly in an all-knowing way and whispered to this lovely lady, ‘I’ve been sick.’ At once she flashed a sympathetic and caring smile, a nod in understanding and placed my application in a pile to one side. ‘They’ll be ready for collection after 3 p.m. tomorrow.’
When I dropped Susan off the next morning I offered to cook dinner and suggested a quiet night in. I really wanted to spend time with my best friend because I kne
w it would likely be our last evening together. I headed to the nearest mall and bookstore and rooted around for travel books until I found the one I wanted: The Rough Guide to Malaysia, Singapore and Brunei. I paid for it and as soon as I was out of the store, I headed to the public toilets. In the privacy of a stall I ripped off the cover of the book and then tucked the cover deep down into the rubbish and left. After lunch it was back to the passport office in my disguise. While waiting in line, as usual I kept repeating my new name to myself just to make sure I didn’t slip up. But everything went without a hitch and I was handed an envelope with Canton Plus One written on it.
I forced myself not to squeal with delight and kept my head down as I walked out of there. Who knew who might be watching? Finally I got back to the car and opened the envelope, after again checking that I hadn’t been followed – it was exhausting to be on constant high alert. What was inside was nothing short of a miracle: two real US passports for Alexandria Maria Canton and Nic Mara Canton!
Sometimes life can seem little more than a series of reactions in response to things that have been done to you. Besides the day Savanna was born, this particular success, borne from my response to our situation, was one of the happiest of my life. Things were falling into line. I had a rare opportunity to reset our lives and it all seemed possible.
Still in disguise, I dropped into a chain travel agency and paid cash for a one-way flight to Germany for Saturday, 23 April.
It was a night for celebration, but the secret could not be shared with anyone. I did, however, buy a bottle of champagne and made a dish of fresh crawfish and corn with a fiery orange Cajun spice. Susan joined me out on the balcony and asked me why I was smiling. I told her I had been thinking about when we had first met nearly thirty years earlier at Ormond Beach when I had Kingie, our big black snake, draped around my neck. Susan had come straight up to me to touch him. We had been the best of friends since then. We both smiled and laughed and then she went inside and returned with a shoebox. On the lid she had written ‘Lee’.
‘Let’s have a look at these,’ she said. Inside were hundreds of photos, from the earliest years when we were four and six. On the top was a newspaper clipping of the two of us watching the London Symphony Orchestra play our favourite work, Peter and the Wolf. And there were photos of us in the Florida Keys swimming with Mitzi; in Belize, snorkelling, swinging through the jungles and drinking Belikin beer at the Blue Angel bar in Placencia. Photos of us climbing through caves near the Ugandan border, getting caught in an elephant poaching nightmare and lying alongside the gorillas in Zaire. ‘What a life and what a friendship we have had,’ Susan said. I nodded, too afraid to speak. And then she showed me ‘the most important photos of all’, which were in a separate envelope inside the box and captured our times with Savanna over the past ten and a half months. ‘These,’ she said, ‘I will treasure forever.’
We raised our glasses and toasted our incredible Savanna.
After the glittering sunset, I turned to Susan. ‘If something happens to me, will you please keep fighting for justice?’
She looked at me knowing that something was going on, but thinking better of asking what it was. ‘You know I will, Lee,’ she said.
And we enjoyed the rest of our evening in a companionable silence.
12
Charleston, South Carolina, US
April 1994
THERE WAS STILL SO MUCH TO DO AND SO LITTLE TIME. I MADE NO to-do lists because I couldn’t risk a possible break-in from Harris’s private detectives searching for dirt. It was now Day 56. I checked in with Hans Paul, and still no written order.
Patty called wanting to catch up the following day. I had so much to do but still said yes. ‘I’ll catch some shrimp and crabs for dinner,’ I said – I needed to make time with her, she had been so wonderful to me for the past eighteen months. There weren’t many things that my mother and I agreed on, but the saying ‘the more you have to do the more you can do’ was one of her favourites, and mine. There would never be a truer saying for what little time I had left.
I returned a call from Aunt Clara and accepted her invitation for Sunday dinner and a sleepover arriving around 5 p.m. Next, I selected some pictures from my many photo albums to give Savanna as much a sense of ‘family’ and history as was possible. While still living at Harris’s house I found an 8mm movie in Harris’ office drawer, then called my dear friend Gordon King to see if he had a projector. Soon Gordon and I were watching the weird and disturbing movie titled ‘Good Eating’. In the film, Harris could have passed as a Charles Manson lookalike: totally naked he walks from the porch of a house towards the camera, which is set at crotch height. Harris reaches next to the camera for a slice of corn bread and a V8 juice. Then it ends. I found it seriously creepy! I contacted the company that had transfered Harris’s ‘Good Eating’ home movie to VHS to see if they could make a VHS from a smaller videocamera tape and combine the two together. Yes, they could and it would take two days.
I phoned Gordon to ask him if I could come to his office on Wednesday to use his photocopier and electric typewriter during lunchtime. That was fine, he said, and he even offered to skip lunch and give me a hand if needed. I said no to that bit as I wanted to work undisturbed. And so the next part of this particular plan meant sitting cross-legged with reams of legal papers across my living room floor and prioritising which were the most important ones to copy and leave for evidence.
By the late afternoon I grabbed my cast net, some raw chicken and a few beers and drove to Patty and Mike’s. At the rear of the house, my well-used Jon boat was waiting for me. Then it hit me and I started to cry – looking at my little boat that had given me such adventures and smelling the pungent pluff mud, I realised what I would soon no longer have.
After filling three crab traps with chicken, and mixing and rolling pluff mud and fishmeal to tennis ball size, I pushed off the dock and headed out to the natural channels between the marshes. After the last crab pot was thrown, I pulled up to a muddy embankment, tossed out the stinky fishmeal balls to bait the shrimp, cut the engine, lay back on the seat and cracked open a Miller Lite beer
With the motor off it was completely silent in a beautiful maze of marsh fields. I was totally alone with nature, in my happy place. Once my ears had adjusted to the quiet, I was then able to drink in the rhythmic lapping against my metal boat, the sucking of fiddler crabs burrowing in and out of the muddy banks, the swooping wings of pelicans catching their prey, the occasional ‘puffs’ of bottle-nose dolphins emerging for air, and strand feeding on the mud banks – actually, they breech onto the mud as a team, which is something unique to South Carolina. On the mud banks, the egrets, seagulls, blue heron and osprey all jockey for the dolphins’ leftovers of mullet, shrimp and small crustaceans.
When I got home, a piece of paper was sticking out of the sliding glass door. I looked around but no one was about. This was my second note by this person – same writing, same paper – telling me to wait at the public phone booth at 9.30 p.m. and that it was important. I got to the phone with a couple of minutes to spare. At precisely 9.30 the phone rang. A gruff voice at the other end said, ‘We’ve got another offer for you: what if we knock off Harris Todd for you … for four thousand dollars?’ I almost laughed out loud but then paused, pretending to consider it seriously before I said, ‘Absolutely not.’ I hung up with a small laugh, imagining the disappointment of the trio of Harris, Graham and Jania as they failed to entrap me a second time.
The following day, after buying a stack of stationery, I grabbed my video camera and a couple of blank tapes. It was time to leave something of consequence behind, my story of what had happened to Savanna and me. This was for the law enforcement agencies, media and the legal powers to see that I had to leave, that it was the only way to protect my daughter. In Savanna’s room I placed the camera on the floor to capture my legs but not my face – the less people saw of me the better – and began.
My catch-up with Patty was sim
ilar to my last night with Susan, in that when I asked her what movies she wanted to see, she wanted to watch home videos of Savanna that we had made together. Not for the first time I wondered if these women somehow intuited what I was about to do.
During dinner, Patty apologised for not being as available to help me and Savanna over the past few weeks, but that Mike her husband also needed her time. I told her that I completely understood, which I did, and that I felt awful that it might have been affecting her own marriage. In response, Patty shook her head.
‘But how can you do this on your own? Everything you have done has come back to bite you. They always seem one step ahead.’
‘We have been through so much,’ I whispered back to her and reached over to squeeze her hand. The rest of the evening was spent laughing at the crazy videos of Savanna chasing seagulls, setting up the train set Gordon had given her for Christmas, and wearing the adorable cool-cat glasses Patty had bought, making her the most glamorous baby to leave Roper Hospital. The times Patty and I shared during my pregnancy and after Savanna’s birth were filled with trauma but also much joy. I knew that Patty had saved us and that I would be eternally grateful to this dear friend of mine.
The next day, Sunday, 17 April, I continued with my filming. ‘I promise and swear on my life that I will continue to take care of my daughter. I will keep her safe and I will never allow anybody to harm her again.’ With that, I packed away the recorder. Later, I made the drive to Summerville, the place of my birth. I felt the comfortable embrace of the tunnel of oak trees that fringed the road home. I passed the cemetery where my father lies and after a few miles, decided to swing by the nursing home to see another surrogate aunt, Aunt Jane, who had been in a coma for over a year. As I had done on past visits, I took a chair next to the bed and held Jane’s hand. Never at a loss for words, I started speaking about mundane things before turning to my Family Court hearing. I told her how proud she would be of her husband, Uncle Ernie, and what an amazing job he did when he testified for me. Then I got up and closed the door to Jane’s room and told her everything else and what I had planned next. At last I bent over the bed, kissed Aunt Jane goodbye and whispered into her ear, ‘Thank you for listening.’