by John Moore
We passed a Louisiana State Trooper midway across the bridge. He had a driver pulled over and was writing a ticket. I thought about stopping to talk to the trooper but chose not to. What could I say? The guy, whoever he was, would just deny following me, and I’d look like a crazy chick.
That decision turned out to be a mistake. Approximately two miles before I reached the Laplace exit, the SUV sped up to pass me. As the vehicle pulled alongside my car, I looked to my left to see the driver. Most of his face was covered by his black New Orleans Saints hat, but I observed he was tan, with a large tattoo on his right arm. My heart beat wildly in my chest. I could hear the thumping of my pulse and my mouth went dry. He edged his SUV to the front of my car and then turned into my lane, cutting me off. I slammed on the brakes, causing my car to slide. I slid right, then left and then right again. I saw the railing of the bridge coming at me. I had time to turn one last time. As I did I regained control of the car. I stopped on the shoulder of the bridge with my car butted up against the railing. I breathed long heavy breaths, trying to regain my composure. I tried to make sense out of what just happened. Did he just try to kill me? Why?
There was a knock on my window. Startled, I jumped, nearly hitting my head on the roof. I turned to see a lanky, older man with sun-faded hair and a kind face.
“Are you alright, lady?” he asked with a strong Southern drawl. I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw what must have been his 18- wheel truck parked behind me.
“I saw what happened. Are you alright?” he repeated. He had his Georgia driver’s license and a card that read Teamsters Union pressed against my window in an effort to reassure me that he was a legitimate truck driver.
I rolled down my window and said, “Yes, I’m OK.” Oddly enough, I was too. Once I concluded that the guy tried to run me off of the bridge intentionally, I wasn’t scared. I was pissed off. All I could think of was that bastard, Bart Rogan. This had to be his doing. He was trying to stop me. Somehow he knew that I was coming after him.
“I’ve called the State Police,” the trucker said, “and I’ll stay here with you until they get here.”
As we waited for the police, the truck driver told me that he’d seen the whole episode. He got the license plate of the SUV and gave it to the police when he called the incident in.
The truck driver said, “Ma’am, you’ve got somebody up there a’lookin’ out for you. I don’t see how you didn’t plunge right off this bridge into that muddy swamp.”
He was right. I should have been killed or badly injured. I silently thought, “Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Sarah.”
The police arrived and took both of our statements. The trooper told me the SUV was stolen, and it was found discarded a few miles ahead in LaPlace. An observant driver saw a tattooed man get out of the SUV and get picked up by another car. No license plate number could be seen on the second car. The trooper reckoned that the second car was stolen as well. He didn’t come right out and say it but he knew this was no accident. It was an attempt on my life. He questioned me about who would want to do me harm. I intentionally misled him, telling him nobody I knew would want to hurt me. And when he asked, as they always do, I told him I didn’t have any boyfriends to save Tom an uncomfortable visit.
I could have mentioned Bart Rogan, but I didn’t want the State Police involved yet. Involving them might make the Times kick me off of the ACC story. I wanted my unfettered crack at ACC and Mr. Rogan. I was beginning to believe there was truth in Mark Stevens’ letter. Maybe he didn’t kill Sarah. Maybe it wasn’t the serial killer either. Maybe it was Bart Rogan or one of his evil minions. Murder, though? Would he commit murder to avoid the truth coming out? I knew I had to take the possibility seriously and needed to get to the bottom of this mess soon. Death seemed to follow Rogan. I wondered if he played a role in Mark’s death too.
The battered women’s center was less than 30 minutes from the attempted crash scene so the trooper insisted following me till I arrived. I thought I had been so careful not to be followed but somehow I was followed anyway. I had underestimated the methods these creeps would employ to stop me. Rogan had his free shot at me and missed. I pledged to be ready the next time.
I told the cops I was going to visit a friend at the center and please not to follow me into their parking lot. He respected my request, though I think he was curious about my “friend.” I had to repeat that I didn’t have a violent boyfriend or husband in my life. Some men will beat on any women they’re mad at; others, like the trucker and this cop, will go to great lengths to protect them.
Susan greeted me at the door and escorted me to her office. I saw no need to tell her about the incident on the bridge. She couldn’t help me with Rogan. I wanted to keep her and the center out of the way of any harm that might befall me. The women at the center had enough problems, and they didn’t need any of mine.
“Child would you like some coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Yes, please. I would love a cup of coffee,” I said.
Susan brought me a steaming hot cup of Community Coffee, a local brand. It was just what I needed. Coffee had an interesting effect on me. It actually calmed my nerves. Susan told me the center would miss Sarah greatly. She wondered if I would be willing to take Sarah’s place on the board of directors. Of course, I was flattered, but with my current situation, I worried that I might be putting innocent people in peril. I told her I’d have to think about it for a while. I would love to help with the center. This place gave me such energy. But how on earth could I find the time? I still had to figure out how I was going to save my family’s farm. I was starting a new business. I had a new romance with a seafaring vigilante. Not to mention the fact that a powerful multi-billion dollar corporation was after me. And to think, just a few weeks ago I was Cinderella.
“Let me get the box Sarah wanted me to give you,” Susan said. She stood up and left the room.
“Holy shit, not another damn box,” I said slightly under my breath. “Every box I open lately has nothing but trouble in it.”
Susan returned carrying a cardboard box. It was the kind you could buy at any office supply store to store files in. Kinda old school, I thought. Everything is digital these days. She handed it to me and sat down.
“Would you like some privacy, dear?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “If Sarah trusted you with this box, I trust you to know what’s in it.”
The first document I pulled from the box was titled “Last Will and Testament of Sarah Richard.” The will was completely handwritten by Sarah, whose handwriting I recognized immediately. The will named me executrix of her estate and sole heir. She did not list her possessions in the will but simply said, “I bequeath to Alexandra Lee all that I own at the time of my death whether corporeal or incorporeal.” The box contained another paper listing her assets and debts. Her house on St. Charles Avenue was on the list, as was her Mercedes. She also had a bank account at JP Morgan Chase and listed the account number. The box had various other documents in it such as insurance papers and jewelry appraisals. Then there was a key. It was a strange-looking key, lying in the box by itself on a keychain. I held it up and looked at it in the light to read the tag on the keychain. “Cottonport Bank and Trust” it read.
“That’s a safety deposit key,” Susan blurted. “My father had all of his important papers in a safety deposit box, and he had a key just like that. We couldn’t get in it till we had court papers. We had to open his succession first.”
OK, Mr. Bart Rogan, I thought. That’s your ass. I’ll bet the proof of your dirty deeds Sarah has hidden all these years is in that safety deposit box. Soon I’ll have I’ll have my hands on all of it.
Chapter Nineteen:
Hospital
I enjoyed a restful night’s sleep at the center. What a peaceful place away from big city sounds. With all of the emotion associated with the abuse the residents suffered, Susan had
managed to create a healing and comforting atmosphere pastel painted walls, ceiling fans whirring and sound of children playing . I knew I had to be associated with the center in some fashion. After my mandatory coffee morning routine, I went to the Tulane Medical Center to see Mr. Jenkins. He had been admitted with signs of a mild to moderate stroke.
As I entered Mr. Jenkins’ hospital room, I was greeted by an elderly woman, a bit plump, with a warm New Orleans accent, reminiscent of parts of Brooklyn. She introduced herself as Gerti Jenkins. I knew who she was from the descriptions I’d gotten from the gossip pool at the Jenkins’ Public Relations Company. She was by all accounts a New Orleans Southern belle like the kind you’d find in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind. Time had passed her by, but she was completely unaware. She lived in her cloistered world of morning beignets and evening bourbon, never overindulging in either in public. Privately, well, that was a different matter all together.
Mr. Jenkins looked at me, and a faltering smile lit up his face. His words struggled to be heard so moved close to him.
“Hi, Alexandra, so happy you came to see me. This is my wife of 52 years, Gerti,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Jenkins. I met your lovely wife a few minutes ago. You two make the perfect couple,” I said.
I sat on the couch in his room as we chatted, outfitted like most hospital rooms, electric bed, flashing monitor lights, TV on the wall, and plastic furniture. Gerti, short for Gertrude no doubt, sat quietly next to me. We talked about good times, old times, and the weather. We even pondered LSU’s chances of winning the college football national championship. It occurred to me that this was the second time I had been on a couch in a hospital room in the last few months. My father’s room was the last time. Was this was a random thought or a premonition? Mr. Jenkins’ tone turned serious, and he asked Gerti to leave the room for a few minutes so he and I could be alone. A bit odd, I thought, but she didn’t question it. As she exited the room, she blew him a kiss. Fifty-two years and still blowing kisses. Seemed so nice. The scene reminded me of the Godfather movie. The wives were not involved in the family business, and they knew when to leave the room. They dutifully cooked and cared for their kids while their husbands discussed business. I imagined blowing kisses was just part of the Southern version of dutiful.
Once alone, Jenkins rolled his toward me, never lifting it from his pillow. “Alexandra, my condition is not good. The doctors tell me that I had a moderate stroke and I am certain to have more. I don’t think I will ever leave this hospital. Gerti doesn’t know and I prefer it stay that way. I have to tell you about things I have done in the past. Things I am not proud of. Secrets that I can’t take to the grave with me.”
His voice was weak, so I inched my chair closer to him. He recognized my action as a sign to continue and said, “Years ago, when I was building my PR firm, I was ambitious, or some would even say greedy. I was approached by Barton Rogan, who worked for ACC, to solve a problem for one of his friends and business associates. Barton was a powerful man and could open doors for me all over New Orleans and in Washington, D.C. I drooled over the opportunity to have him indebted to me. Barton explained that ACC owned 49 per cent of Bayou Oil. I knew the name Bayou Oil but not much else about them. He told me that the 51 percent owner, Dan Broussard, a married man, had been carrying on a torrid affair with a black Caribbean woman and got her pregnant. Sexual relations between whites and blacks were not supposed to happen in those days. Public knowledge of such affairs would ruin the social standing of any man exposed. Miscegenation laws were still on the books and forbade marriage between the races, punishing the participants with jail time. Barton promised to deliver Bayou Oil’s account to me if I would hire Sarah from the Times and let her shepherd the Caribbean woman back to her home in Haiti. A further part of the bargain was that after the birth Sarah would bring the child back to be adopted by Broussard and his wife. I agreed and we all did our part. Bob Broussard is that child. I know he doesn’t look black — that damn Broussard’s genes trumped the mother’s, I guess. Over the years, I made millions from the arrangement. Now I am afraid the bargain has come back to haunt all of us. Sarah came to me shortly before she was killed and said she could no longer live with what she had done. Not only had she helped with Broussard’s love child, she had also buried a pollution story about ACC. She wanted to come clean and redeem herself and atone for her deal with what she called “evil.” I begged her to reconsider. She was determined. I could not dissuade her. I called Dan Broussard and warned him. He was furious. Dan told me he would file suit against her seeking an injunction and damages for violating a confidentiality agreement she’d signed. You should go see the lawyer she hired to defend her. His name is Edward Swartz.”
“Is that why you said I’m sorry to her at the funeral?” I asked.
“Yes. I am afraid that Sarah was murdered as a result of that call I made to Broussard.”
I pushed back on the couch, stunned by what I had just heard. Jenkins had tears running down his cheeks. Holy shit, the cesspool I’d fallen into seemed to have no bottom. Now I knew what Sarah meant by atonement. She wanted to atone for her role in taking that poor Haitian women’s baby. Mark Stevens was Bayou Oil’s lobbyist and I am sure all of her actions were influenced by her love for him. Things seemed clear to me now. Rogan was the devil and both Mark and Sarah paid a steep price for their bargain with him. Now Jenkins was dying and his conscience was torturing him. He couldn’t possibly rest in peace knowing what he had been a party to. Rogan was still out there also. He was powerful and had a lot to hide. He would do anything to prevent being exposed. I knew without any shadow of a doubt who was responsible for targeting me on the bridge yesterday. I knew who killed Mark Stevens. But I wondered, was Rogan responsible for Sarah’s murder also?
I too had tears running down my face as I gazed into the defeated eyes of Mr. Jenkins and said, “Sarah told me, Mr. Jenkins, that the past should remain in the past. You have done good things with your life. You have a wife and a family who love you very much. Let the past go. Find peace in your good deeds and don’t dwell on the bad ones. We all make mistakes. We must forgive ourselves to move on in life.”
Gerti came back into the room a few minutes later and Jenkins and I said our goodbyes. I doubted I would ever see him again in this life. My words were of little comfort to him. He was a broken man waiting to die. Maybe that was the price he had to pay for his deal.
I wanted to go immediately to the lawyer’s office. But, first, I needed to tell Jess everything I had learned. I called her as soon as I left Jenkins’ hospital room. She answered on the first ring and said, “Hello, Alexandra, I was just about to call you. What’s up?”
“Hi Jess, I am at the Tulane Medical Center and I....”
“Tulane Medical Center,” she said cutting me off in mid-sentence. “Can you do me a huge favor and see if you can wangle your way in to see Gary Bennett, the man who shot Mark Stevens? If you can charm your way past the police guarding him, he may talk to you since you met him in court.”
“But I....”
“Thank you gotta run,” she said, cutting me off again.
I swiped a lab coat from an open closet and found Bennett’s room. I walked right in without any trouble at all. I guess I really looked the part. The cops were bored out of their minds and distracted by a basketball game on a TV in another room. Some security, I thought.
Mr. Bennett recognized me immediately. He said, “You’re that reporter I met in court. Want to hear about my Mary now?”
“Sure, that’s why I’m here.”
He told me all about his daughter being a straight A student and a cheerleader in high school. “She had a promising career ahead of her as an actuary before she was struck down by that murderous bastard Mark Stevens,” he said. Once he finished holding forth about his Mary, I asked if he had any other children. He said he had two young kids, a boy and a girl by his s
econd wife, Adrian. He went on to tell that he had peace of mind knowing they were taken care of.
“Life insurance?” I asked.
“A little, but I’ve made some other arrangements too,” he said. “Sorry, Alexandra, I’m feeling weak and must get some sleep. Maybe you can come back another day.”
I left him with my reporter’s instincts flashing. There was more to this story than he’d told me. No time now to dig. I had to find that lawyer Jenkins told me about.
I immediately looked up the number for Edward Swartz, Attorney at Law, on my smart phone. He agreed to see me without any delay. His office was not too far from the PR firm. It was well appointed, a sign of his success, I supposed. I introduced myself and showed him a copy of Sarah’s will. He already knew who I was and what was in the will since he’d advised her how to write it.
“Sarah told me all about you, Alexandra,” he said. “Sit down and let’s get started.”
Mr. Swartz explained that when Sarah made her deal with Bayou Oil, she signed a non-disclosure agreement. In that contract, she agreed to keep all matters involving Bayou Oil and ACC confidential. Bayou was suing to enforce the agreement and for damages resulting from her “willing and wanton violation of her contractual obligations.” He said that a judge had granted a temporary restraining order barring Sarah from disclosing any information about Bayou and/or ACC for 10 days, pending further orders of the court. A hearing was scheduled in one week to determine if the TRO would be extended.
