One day she came home from work, floating on air, to announce she'd been offered (and accepted) a job in Denver. She chattered for a few minutes and then said, “We should fly out there this weekend to look for a place to live. Maybe you can set up some interviews with the paper out there.”
He looked at her and said, “Why would I want to do that?”
She stopped in the middle of the room, with her eyes wide and her mouth open, shocked by the notion that he was not as excited as she was. She said, “What do you mean? We're going to Denver.”
He shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips and said the words that haunted him ever since. He could have and probably should have put it differently, but he was so irritated to see the the kind of person she was turning in to and so sad over the immanent demise of their marriage, he simply blurted, “You are going to Denver. I am not going anywhere.”
She turned to look at him. A cold film descended over her eyes. She stared at him for a minute and then said, “Oh. Well, if that's the way it is, okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”
All of their friends and colleagues thought she had dumped him, and virtually every one of them took his “side.” Technically she did leave him. He never had admitted it to anyone else and he only rarely allowed himself to think about it, but deep down he understood how much of a hand he had played in the destruction of his marriage. At least he had the decency to be broken up about it.
For her part, Deborah looked sad for about a minute and then turned on her heel and went into the bedroom to pack for her house-hunting expedition. From that day until the day she left for good, six weeks later, they never discussed their marriage. The only subject Deborah talked about was her new job. Those discussions consisted of running monologues at about 220 words-a-minute. Ray spoke very little.
Few people knew that it was more than five years before they actually divorced. Ray assumed Deborah must have had a serious boyfriend when she finally served him with papers, but he didn't know for sure what prompted her to ultimately make the move to bury their dead marriage. They conducted the entire proceeding long distance, through lawyers. Since they had no children (thank God) there was no reason to talk to one another.
Over the years, he often went for long periods of time without even thinking about her. When he did think about her, he liked to focus on the things about her that annoyed him and the abrupt way she ended their marriage. That day, alone on his porch, he realized how deeply he felt her absence in his life even after all these years.
A tiny, cold feeling of dread niggled at the back of his mind. She would not have contacted him after such a long time simply to apologize. She couldn't have changed that much. He tried not to worry about what could be wrong. He failed.
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 populate
d 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. Theref
ore, 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.
Baiting & Fishing Page 5
