The Whole Truth (17 page)

Sitting in my office with a dial tone in my hand, I shrugged and thought, wryly, I had to ask.

I didn't understand their attitude at all. When Sounder, McKee appeared on the case, I expected them to do what defense attorneys do these days: use the media to win sympathy for their client before they ever set foot in a courtroom to defend him. But nobody from the firm appeared on television to do that, nor were they interviewed for stories about the crime.

"I should have written to her," I reproved myself.

My next move was a carefully composed letter in which I presented my own bona fides, and then went to pains to emphasize that I never betrayed a trust or a secret, from either side of the aisle. In the blandest terms, I asked Leanne English for an appointment, "for general background for my book."

The attorney did not reply to my letter.

I called Robyn Anschutz at the police department and asked, "Robyn, where'd they come from? If Ray didn't hire them, who did? I'll bet Leanne costs three hundred and fifty dollars an hour, don't you?"

"At least. I don't know, Marie, but I'd like to."

"Do you think it could be that man Ray worked for?"

"Donor Miller, you mean?"

"Yes, him."

"I suppose. But even if he had that kind of money, which I doubt, he didn't strike me as somebody who would dish it out for another person. Especially not for a loser like Ray."

"But he did offer to get Ray a lawyer, didn't he?"

"Well, yeah, but at three hundred and fifty dollars an hour?"

"Do you know where Miller is these days?"

"Not a clue."

"Well, if he isn't paying for Ray's defense, have you got any ideas how I could find out who is?"

"Not unless you can hack into the billing system of Sounder, McKee."

We laughed at that felonious suggestion.

"You probably know some of the other defense attorneys over there," I suggested to Robyn.

"Yeah, but nobody's sayin' no thin'."

"Don't you think this is very strange?"

"Tellin' me?"

But there the matter stood, up to and including the trial.

Raymond Raintree, who didn't have two pennies to rub together, had for his defense team one of the most expensive lawyers in Bahia Beach. And nobody knew who was paying her.

I swipe my finger along the edge of the plate to swab the last bit of buttery goodness from the omelette, and decide it would be okay to get Franklin's opinion of this.

"Do you know who's paying Ray's legal bills?"

"I don't, and I sure have wondered. Do you know?"

"I was hoping you did. I'll tell you one thing—whatever she's being paid, it can't be enough to compensate her for what she went through today."

Franklin visibly shudders as he reaches for my empty plate.

"You're going to wash them, too?"

"I want to make sure of my welcome."

I could learn to like this. The man sure knows how to work his will with juries, and with me. But I have my doubts about a serious involvement with a prosecutor. While I know many whom I admire, as a breed I think they tend to be tough, demanding, argumentative, and unforgiving. While those may be requisite qualities for seeking a death penalty, they aren't the best ones for love. Tonight, I'm seeing the softer, more winning side of Franklin DeWeese, but he's got another personality, the one that wants to run thousands of volts of electricity through defendants, and I'm not forgetting that for a minute.

I stop him before he leaves the room with the dishes.

"What's going on with the judge, Franklin?"

"Self-defense. An administrative hearing. No charges. This is just a nice little vacation for her. She'll be back on the bench soon."

"What's your opinion of that?"

"On the record?"

"To start with, yes."

"Judge Edyth Flasschoen is an outstanding representative of Florida jurisprudence," he pronounces glibly. "Her quick return to the bench will be bad news to the criminals of this state."

"Very nice. And off the record?"

He laughs, and says in a tone of mock injury, "What? You suspect me of saying the politic thing? What do I really think? I think she should have shot him with a bigger pistol." "Yeah," I agree.

It's 1 a.m. on the morning after the day that Ray escaped, and the state's attorney is in my kitchen cleaning up, and I'm finished with what Robyn asked me to do. I've reread everything I've ever written about this case, and I don't know anything I didn't already know before.

Just as I'm walking out of my office, the phone rings again.

Again, the caller ID says PRIVATE CALL, and again I grab it, say, "Hello," and get no response.

But I've been reading all of those interviews, and so maybe that's why this time a feeling hits me, and I sink down into my chair, and I say, "Ray?"

"How'd you know?"

That weird, high-pitched voice is his, all right.

My heart stops, and my mind screams out to Franklin who is only a few yards away from me: Franklin! Come in here! Jeeze Louise, what do I do about this? I can't get Franklin's attention from in here, I can't call the cops while Ray's on the line, I can't alert 911,1 can't get anybody to trace this call. I don't dare ask Ray, "Will you hold on a minute?" For a crazy instant I am tempted to start pounding on the wall with my fist so Franklin will come running, but if I do anything like that, Ray will hear me.

Immediately, I do the only thing I can do: I switch on a recording device that I use when I interview people over the phone, with their permission. I don't ask this caller's permission.

"I just knew," I say, getting my nerves under control.

There's no sound for what seems a long time.

I am way out of my league here.

Please, Franklin, please finish up in there, and come back.

I'm afraid to ask Ray a direct question, because they tend to scare him off, or launch him into stories, lies, and fables. I want to ask him, "Why are you calling me?" I want to say, "What do you want? Where are you? Why did you hurt those people so bad?"

I don't say any of that, because it would be a mistake.

Finally, I say, carefully, "So . . ."

"They're lookin' for me."

"Yeah." I pause, treading carefully like somebody on the edge of a crumbling volcano. "Are you . . . okay?"

"Tell them to leave me alone."

"I don't think they will, Ray."

"I can take care of myself."

This is so absurd that I just remain silent.

"There are five principles of survival in the wilderness."

I blink, unprepared for what's coming out of his mouth now.

"Protect yourself, be able to signal for help, know how to provide food and water, have a goal, and stay healthy."

He sounds as if he's parroting what he has learned from somebody else.

"Where'd you learn that?" Damn, a direct question! I didn't mean to do that! This is hard, second-guessing every word before I say it.

As if I haven't spoken, he says, still in that odd lecturing kind of voice, "Protecting yourself, that's the first priority, and that means clothing and shelter. You don't need much clothing in Florida, but you need some for camouflage, if you're hiding."

I take a chance and say, "So where do you get the clothes?"

"That's what beaches are for."

I try to think ¦what he means. "You mean, for stealing stuff?"

"Yeah, or you can find a soccer field and grab some kid's soccer bag, and get clothes out of there."

"So clothes aren't a problem."

I'm careful to turn it into a declarative sentence, not a question. The second "principle" he listed, if I recall it correctly, was "signal for help in an emergency." He's in an emergency, all right. And then it hits me: I'm the one he is signaling. Does he seriously think I can tell the police to lay off, and they will?

"Don't go hungry, and don't go thirsty," he says, breaking the silence, "'cause they're killers, they'll sap your strength when you need it. A person could live a long time without food, but he wouldn't think straight, he'd get nervous and angry and start making mistakes. He could find little bits of money, and buy stuff, but he'd have to be so careful, going into convenience stores. Better to steal it, if you can, although that's risky, 'cause you can get caught."

"Yeah," I say, agreeably, feeling completely lost with this.

"You don't ever want to get caught. Do anything you gotta do, but don't get caught. And if you get caught, keep quiet and tell lies. Don't ever tell anybody the truth about anything."

I am fascinated by what I am hearing, horrified by who's saying it.

"About food? Like I was saying? You're better off hunting, fishing, eating seaweed if you have to. The stems, roots, and leaves of most grasses can be eaten raw, cattails are a great source of food, pine trees are full of edible shit, and green seaweed is good, as long as you get it out of the ocean or off of rocks, and don't pick it up from the beach."

I feel an hysterical urge to laugh.

"Why not the beach, Ray?"

"It gets all moldy."

"Oh."

"Some berries are okay, just not the white or red ones. Bugs, slugs, maggots, ants, earthworms, grasshoppers. Any snake, as long as you've got a blade to skin and gut it, and a fire to cook it. You got to know how to test a plant for edibility, how to snare a bird, improvise a club, or a slingshot, build a box trap for small game."

He is using words—improvise, snare, edibility—that I would not have thought he knew. I'm guessing that somebody's taught him this, and told him over and over again, and made him memorize it.

"And water?" he says, as if I have asked about it. "Look for lawn spigots, and public fountains. Or, you can build a beach well, or vegetation bags to trap the dew on the leaves of trees. And people are always leaving half-empty bottles of mineral water all over the place."

I nod, and then feel ridiculous.

"What's the next one?" he asks me.

"The next—"

"Principle of survival."

"I don't remember what you said."

"It's, you got to move toward something, not just run away."

Oh, boy, do I ever want to ask, "Where are you going?"

"Remember the last one?"

"No, I'm sorry, this is all new to me."

"You have to stay healthy, so stay away from doctors and hospitals. And that means fight if you have to, but not if that would get you so injured you couldn't take care of yourself. It's almost always better to run than to fight. Remember that. Don't be a fighter, unless you have to. Don't fight 'cause it's usually not worth it, and you're only going to get hurt if you do."

"You fought today."

"Couldn't go back."

"To prison."

"Yeah."

Suddenly I get it, it's clear. "You'd rather die first, and if you didn't die, then you'd fight to get away."

There's silence, and I think it means yes.

This is so strange, and I want to ask him so much else.

"You didn't fight when they arrested you."

"Fuck, I didn't know they'd make me stay there forever!"

He sounds agitated, and I feel scared. Immediately, I attempt to calm us both down again. "You didn't know they were going to put you in jail for so long." I am trying so hard not to phrase things as questions, but more as agreements with what he is saying. With each silence, I sense his own agreement, and he's silent now.

"Ray?"

"Yeah."

"Do you mind if I ask ... I mean ... all these things you know about how to survive ..." I don't know how to say this any way but as a question. "How'd you learn all that? Did somebody teach you?"

He doesn't answer, and the silence grows very long.

"Fuck," he says, sounding agitated again, only worse this time. "It's happening again. I hate it when this fucking happens."

"What, Ray?"

"It's like I get all stupid, like my brain goes all numb, and I can't think or remember anything. Shit, it's like I'm going to pass out, and I hate it, I hate this!"

And then he hangs up, just like that.

"Franklin!" I shout, and keep shouting until he appears in the doorway. "Ray just called me! What do I do? What should I do?" Without even waiting for him to answer, I pick up my telephone receiver again, and press the star button then six and nine to activate call return. If I don't do it now, it won't work. Call return only works on the last incoming call. Ray might still be there, if I can get him back on the line . . .

But the phone rings and rings and nobody answers.

Franklin is shouting, "Call Anschutz or Flanck!"

I look up Robyn Anschutz's home number. The detective picks up before the second ring.

"Robin? It's Marie Lightfoot. Ray called me."

I tell her what just happened. Her response is jubilant.

"Hot damn! Why would he call you?"

I tell her about killers sometimes mistaking me for a friend.

"How nice for you," she jokes. "Can I ask a favor? Would you put on some coffee? We'll be right over."

I hang up and say to Franklin, "You've got to leave."

We can think of no good reason for him to be there, waiting for the cops to arrive. If they want to call him, and bring him into this, they will. But that's not my decision to make. For the first time, I wonder if we have made a mistake, and maybe there is a potential conflict of interest here, even if I can't quite work out what it might be. He gives me a quick kiss, and he's gone, and he even leaves the kitchen sparkling behind him.

"Hi, Robyn," I say as I open my front door.

It is at exactly this moment that I realize that I'm not going to be able to keep myself out of this book. Ray's life is now intersecting with mine. This is an odd sensation for someone who prides herself on being a detached observer of crime, but never a participant in its effects. Like it or not, I'm part of his story now.

"Cell phone," are the first, triumphant words out of the detective's mouth. "In this county. North and west of here. We've got him now. We'll have that location under surveillance and that whole area cordoned off before he can call you back."

"Cell phone? Where would Ray get a cell phone?"