by Peter Israel
Another nail in my coffin.
The police found the house in East Springdale the first day. I had no address for them, but they traced it through the telephone number. Ever since then, day by day, the details have come out. The house was rented to a New York company, with a midtown address, and the lease had been signed by Robert A. Smith, President. The rent was paid each month by a check drawn on a New York bank. The bank account was also in the name of the company, and the same Robert A. Smith signed the rent checks, also checks to utilities like New Jersey Bell and PSE&G.
But—surprise, surprise, the company turns out to be a fiction. So is Robert A. Smith, at least in name.
The house, once the police got into it, bore no traces of either Harriet or Robert A. Smith. Or, needless to say, of Justin Coffey. The telephone was still working. There was an answering machine too, but no tape.
I’ve seen some of the neighbors interviewed on television. They said Harriet had lived there since last spring and that she’d been there all the time during the summer, but only weekends since. The man who visited her there several times a week usually arrived at night, and his car would be gone in the morning. Some said he drove a fancy foreign car—possibly a Jaguar. Others said an American car. But if Robert A. Smith, or whatever his real name is, is Harriet’s stepfather, then, as one of the neighbors put it on camera, he must have a lot of stepdaughters. Because Harriet, they all agree, isn’t the first young woman who’s lived there.
The media are having a wonderful time with this—“Harriet’s Love Nest”—although one TV reporter, who managed to get inside, called it “about as sexy as a Holiday Inn.”
The State of New Jersey has no record of a white Honda Civic registered to a Harriet Major, a Robert A. Smith, or Robert Smith Enterprises, the fictional New York company.
The police out in the Twin Cities can’t come up with any trace of a Harriet Major, nor does the University of Minnesota have any record of her ever having been a student there.
More important, the “police in six states” who’ve been put on “special alert” (I keep hearing this. It drives me nuts. Why six states? Why not fifty?) can’t find any trace of her either. Or of Justin. Or even of the white Civic.
The longer it goes on, the less anyone knows. And the less anyone knows, the more they turn on me.
I’m the one who knew Harriet best (Why don’t they try my husband?), but I won’t talk to anyone. I’m “in seclusion.” Doctor’s orders. But how—here it comes—could I have hired her in the first place? How could I have played it so fast and loose? Complete with “sidewalk interviews” on the streets of St. George, people who claim to know me and who say things like, “Well, you know, people like her, all that money, they think they can buy everything. They don’t really care.” Or (this was a St. George mother): “I imagine she feels pretty awful, and I do feel terrible for her, but it’s sort of her own fault. I mean, some people take terrible chances with their children.”
I’ve become a subject for Oprah.
Nobody knows what it’s like, not even the people closest to me.
Christmas Day I did try. My mother prepared the dinner, and I dressed, gave Zoe over to the nurse, went downstairs. But the minute I walked into the living room and saw the tree, I lost it—I mean, literally, in the downstairs john.
Since then, I’ve retreated upstairs. I can’t eat. Dutifully, my mother brings me trays, but I don’t touch a thing. “At least this way,” I tell her, “the weight problem will take care of itself.” And since I can’t even nourish my daughter anymore, what does it matter what I put in my stomach?
Nobody knows what the waiting is like, or how the dread brrring of the telephone jolts me, and I grab for it over Zoe, only to hear the threatening voices, the well-wishing voices, the women pretending to be Harriet, the “journalists” pretending to be anybody, the demands for money, the offers of money.
Yesterday, the day after Christmas, somebody—I think it was the New York Post—reported we’d already had a ransom demand. Since then, the phone hasn’t stopped.
At the very least, my parents say, I should let someone else answer for me.
I continue, automatically, to pick up myself.
Every time with a knot in my stomach.
I’m convinced something could happen to Zoe next—if I let someone else handle her, if I let her out of my sight for more than two minutes. My mother says I’ve got to get up, dressed, out of my room, do something. Instead, I small myself into my chaise longue, the portable phone and the remote clicker on the end table next to me. And I wait, Zoe’s tiny swaddled body tucked into mine. And I watch my story unfold on television.
She is my only consolation. I talk to her constantly. I marvel at every little detail of her: the sounds she makes, her gluttony at bottle time (she’s made the switch to formula without looking back), the deep blue wonder of her inquiring gaze, her tiny hands. I won’t let anyone else feed her, change her. I say to her: “If I somehow failed with your brother, if he is puny because of me, or has trouble with his consonants, or if he’s been carried off because of my negligence, no, it will never happen to you, my darling.
“Because Momma won’t let it,” I promise her, the tears streaming down my cheeks.
Nobody knows what it’s like when your milk dries up and the doctors say there’s nothing to do, nothing whatsoever, it’s over.
Helga Harris.
I never could stand her on the network news. Too pushy and brassy-blond, I always thought, and according to Selma Brodkey, who works in TV advertising, she slept her way onto prime-time. But then there was some scandal involving her and the anchorman, and now she’s back on “Five-to-Six,” which is local, and, leave it to Harris, she’s found a different angle.
“This is Thursday, December 27. I’m Helga Harris.”
I’m only half-listening as she begins. Something about the anxious times we live in, the threat of war in the Gulf, the economy, blah-blah-blah, how we seem to thrive only on other people’s misery. But then …
“… the Christmas Kidnapping,” she just said. “The disappearance last weekend from St. George, New Jersey, of little Justin Coffey and his baby-sitter, the mysterious Harriet Major. And the terrible plight of his parents, Lawrence and Georgia Coffey.”
She goes on: “Why has the case so fascinated the public and the media? First, there is the mystery woman, Harriet, the baby-sitter, young and apparently beautiful, and in the absence of details about her life, we’ve been free to invent her for ourselves. And then there’s St. George, that posh and insulated suburb. Aren’t we New Yorkers a little jealous of people who live in safe places like St. George? A little resentful, too, because they’ve somehow finked out on us? Finally there are the Coffeys themselves, Lawrence and Georgia, your quintessential yuppie couple, he a Wall Street executive, she the daughter of a prominent psychoanalyst.”
The familiar aerial sequence has come on as she talks. Followed by images of Justin. Then a wedding picture of “the quintessential yuppie couple.” Where she got that picture I’ve no idea.
“Lawrence and Georgia Coffey,” Harris says, “as any parent will understand, are living a nightmare. They are the victims. Yet we of the media have treated them like the villains of the story. Thanks to us, they live today in a virtual state of siege.”
By now I’m sitting forward in my chaise. Helga Harris, of all people.
“I’ve heard it asked: How could an intelligent, college-educated woman like Georgia Coffey have been so careless? How could she have entrusted her child to a woman she knew so little about? When Georgia hired her, Harriet Major said she came from Minnesota. Apparently she didn’t. She gave Georgia references. Georgia has admitted to the police that she never checked them. Major said she lived with her stepfather in East Springdale, New Jersey. We now know that she did live in East Springdale, but that the man in question apparently wasn’t her stepfather.
“But why didn’t Georgia check? Why didn’t she ask questi
ons, call? How could she take it all on faith?”
Because I just did. Because I’m a trusting person.
“Why wasn’t she perfect? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be: perfect wives and mothers?”
Harris pauses, as though expecting an answer, but there’s none.
“I have this to say on the subject,” she goes on, now full face on my screen. “I happen to be a working wife and mother. I, too, entrust my children to strangers. Yes, they come with references, and I interview them and call the people who’ve recommended them, but they are still strangers. Like other mothers, I do what I do because I have to do it, and out of good faith, hope, and with my fingers crossed.
“But I, too, live with the constant fear that what has happened to Georgia Coffey could one day happen to me.
“Georgia Coffey, we’ve never met, but if you’re listening, my heart goes out to you.”
“I’m listening, Helga,” I murmur aloud. “And I thank you.”
“Meanwhile, the police investigation in the Christmas Kidnapping continues. This is Helga Harris.”
Later, same day. I’m watching the “Ten O’Clock News” on another local channel. The anchor has just announced a possible new development in the Christmas Kidnapping case—what possible new development?—and suddenly there are aerial images of the heavily wooded ridge line that runs above our house and above much of St. George. It’s actually a wildlife preserve belonging to the state, with a reservoir on the far side, some hundreds of acres, all in all, at the junction of three towns. Raccoons live there, and skunks, deer, some say even bears, and on weekends there are picnickers, joggers, lovers who carve their initials into the trees.
But this isn’t a weekend. This is the middle of winter. What I see, from the news helicopter, is a line of uniforms advancing out of the woods onto a grassy area, and two of the men in the middle are being pulled forward by German shepherds on leashes.
“… special team from the New Jersey State Police,” the reporter is saying. “Today they combed some two-thirds of the area in question, looking for the missing Justin Coffey and his baby-sitter, Harriet Major. Darkness ended the search, but the searchers will be out again at daybreak.”
I’m standing up in a state of shock, clutching Zoe in my arms. I can’t believe nobody told me. Dogs! Police dogs! Now Capriello is on TV, our one-man police force, something about not being surprised that they found nothing but that they have to follow up every lead.
I put Zoe in her portable crib and head downstairs. Larry looks up, startled, when I burst in on him. He’s on the phone.
“Georgie! What—”
“How dare they!” I rage at him.
“Wait a minute.” Then, into the phone, “Howie, I’ll have to call you back.” He hangs up. “How dare they what, honey?”
“This is our son, for God’s sake! He’s not just some piece of meat!”
“Georgie, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Justin! I just saw it on television. They’re looking for him with dogs!”
I tell him what I’ve just seen. Of course it doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. He knows all about it. The police got an anonymous tip about the wildlife reservation. Like everything else, they have to check it out.
“But he’s not dead!” I blurt out. “Justin’s not dead!”
“Of course he’s not. You and I may know that, Georgie, but—”
“You’re damned right we know it! And so they waste all that time and manpower …? But how come you know so much about it?”
“Capriello told me.”
“Oh, did he? And nobody saw fit to tell me?”
“Georgie. Georgie, honey. It was only an anonymous tip. And you haven’t exactly been willing to talk to people lately, you know?”
It’s true enough, I realize suddenly, but that doesn’t stop me.
“I want to see him in the morning,” I say peremptorily.
“Who?”
“Capriello.”
He looks surprised. For a second, I think I can read his mind—What does she want to get in the way for?—but he doesn’t say it. Instead: “Sure, honey. Whatever you want. I think I can arrange that.”
“Please do,” I say.
28 December
“Do you think Justin’s dead?” I ask Capriello pointblank.
We’re alone, downstairs. It’s morning. He’s short and white-haired, always in a business suit, and his ruddy cheeks always look as if he’s just come from a barber shave.
“I think that’s one eventuality we have to look at, Mrs. Coffey,” he answers. “Among others.”
“But why? What possible evidence is there that he’s dead?”
“Only negative evidence so far.”
“What’s negative evidence?”
“That Harriet hasn’t contacted you. Mostly these cases don’t last very long. If it’s money, there’s usually contact in the first day or two. But that hasn’t happened, and that leads us to consider other eventualities.”
“So that’s your negative evidence? That she hasn’t called?”
“No, not just that.”
“Then what else?”
“That we haven’t been able to find them. Not a single trace of them. Even with all the publicity, and this case has had a ton, no one’s come forward.”
“But how hard have you looked?”
“How hard? Look, Mrs. Coffey, considering that it’s Christmas and—”
“What on earth does Christmas have to do with it?”
“A lot of the men take time off. We’re always shorthanded over the holidays. But—”
I feel about to explode.
“Christmas! Are you telling me you don’t have enough manpower?”
“We never have enough manpower, Mrs. Coffey.”
“But you still have enough to go out with the dogs on a wild goose chase?”
“You mean yesterday’s sweep?” he asks, unperturbed. “Those were the state boys. We’d gotten a tip. I didn’t think there was anything in it, but we have to follow up. But I don’t want you to think we’re not getting the job done, Mrs. Coffey. If you take into account all the jurisdictions that are involved, not only in New Jersey, plus the FBI is coming on board, hundreds—probably thousands—of man-hours have already been spent on your son’s case.”
I’m not impressed. I ask him about Robert A. Smith, the possibility that he, whoever he really is, kidnapped both Justin and Harriet. Have the police thought of that? Of course they have, he claims, it’s an angle they’re pursuing actively. Then why haven’t they found him? Don’t they have a physical description? The physical descriptions are conflicting, he says. But don’t they have fingerprints from the house in East Springdale? Aren’t those traceable? They’ve had all the expert help they could ask for, he says. So far they haven’t been able to trace anything, but they’re still working on it.
“Whoever he is, Mrs. Coffey, he’s a very clever customer. But we haven’t given up on him, far from it.”
I don’t believe the Smith theory anyway. I still believe that the Great Seducer drove Harriet into acting on her own.
I say as much.
“Larry has been very cooperative,” Capriello says. “Whatever went on between him and this young woman is a great embarrassment to him. But what bothers me—maybe you can help me here—is, if you’re right, why would she have taken Justin with her? I can understand her taking off herself, but why would she have taken Justin?”
It doesn’t escape me, in passing, that Larry is “Larry” while I’m “Mrs. Coffey.” But I can’t answer him. I don’t know. Only Harriet knows. And until we hear from Harriet, the rest is chickens running around with their heads cut off.
Capriello mentions their flyer. He says Larry thought I wouldn’t want to see it, but he has one with him.
I have to hold it in both hands. It makes me think of milk cartons and those little advertising postcards that come in the mail with pictures of mis
sing children on one side. His picture. “Suspected Abduction.”
“But you do think he’s dead, don’t you?” I say, handing him back the flyer.
“I didn’t say that. We just have to consider that eventuality.”
“But it’s only been a week,” I protest. “Not even.” Then, when he says nothing: “But what do you think?”
“I just said, we—”
“I don’t mean we, the police. I mean you. You personally. Do you think he’s dead?”
The question seems to fluster him—his hand goes up involuntarily, touches the knot of his tie—but all I can get out of him is that they’re pursuing every avenue.
Of course, I think wildly. He doesn’t have to say anything, doesn’t even have to have an opinion. It’s not his kid! What’s Justin Coffey to him other than an open case on his blotter, or whatever they call it, or a picture on his damned flyer?
And what am I to him, other than another hysterical suburban mother?
“Well, let me tell you something, Lieutenant Capriello. Justin’s not dead. If he were, I’d know it. I don’t know how, but I’d know it. And let me tell you something else. I’m not going to let this case end up like the Patz boy, the one in Soho, where a decade goes by and the police tell everybody they’re still looking for him. This is my son. If you can’t find him, I will, even if it means I have to stand on street corners handing out your stupid flyers!”
I mean it too, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let him see me cry. I tell him that, from now on, I want to know everything the police are doing, and I don’t want to hear it from my husband and certainly not from the television news. I hardly hear his placating response—something about believe me, Mrs. Coffey, and our cooperation, and how it’s just as important to the St. George police to solve the case as it is to me. I’m thinking something else. I’m thinking that if I want Justin back, I’m going to have to fight for him. I’m thinking that if, for example, the case has become a media free-for-all, then I, poor downtrodden Georgia Coffey, am damn well going to have to learn to use the media myself.
After Capriello leaves, I call Selma Brodkey.
