Luggage By Kroger: A True Crime Memoir (22 page)

Exactly
, I wanted to say.
You've been reading my mind
.

But instead I bit my tongue and
just mumbled, "No." Then I realized how surprised I was to learn
she might care about something more than the sex. I had begun to
think she might be a clinical nymphomaniac, based on our brief time
together. And she hadn't demanded much of a courting ritual before
dropping down on the beach for our first embrace. I actually had
respected that modern, sexually-independent attitude.

But now, I wanted
to ask,
It turns out you're just another
old-fashioned girl?
I bit my tongue again
and all that emerged from my mouth was another, "No, not at
all."

"Nothing is free," she said before
I could start talking myself into an even deeper hole. "You need to
remember that nothing is free."

What are you, a
prostitute?
I wanted to ask. But my mind
quickly predicted her likely reply:
Aren't
we all?
The only difference is that some of us charge more than
others
. To that, I might even have to
agree. And I realized she did not appear prepared to accept
exposure to my wit and charm as payment enough for the sexual
delights she considered so valuable. I understood I was running a
considerable tab in her view and knew our day of reckoning could
prove expensive. I wondered if she was charging interest. So I
whined for pity.

"Catherine, I need some time. I'm
really confused right now, and I really enjoy your company. You
make me laugh. But I can't be making any commitment decisions yet.
If you tell me you need to find someone who can give you
commitment, then you'll have to look for someone else."

"You can't tell me you love
me?"

After just two weeks together, she
was talking about love? Questions bombarded my mind, but I didn't
have time to sort them out. Catherine awaited an answer.

"Of course, I love you," I replied,
feeling guilty the second the words left my mouth. I had only said
that to three other women: Cindy, Boop, and my high school
sweetheart. And, I had always struggled with the phrase. After much
soul-searching over the years, however, I had learned to shrug it
off. I considered it meaningless, the same as handing someone an
open-ended contract. Each person has a unique definition they
consider universal. I asked my high school sweetheart for a
definition one time, and she told me it meant I should be willing
to die in her place. After hearing that definition, I made a mental
note to never ask that question again. I had survived two marriages
without a serious dissection of the phrase. It could not have been
any more ridiculous for me to tell Catherine after two weeks than
it was for her to ask. To me, it was like answering yes when your
kid asks, "Are we almost there?" Besides, it seemed like she wanted
to hear it from someone—maybe anyone. But I decided to follow up
with a bit of humor.

"What if I said you're just a piece
of ass?"

Catherine hesitated while mulling
that over. Then she grinned and replied, "As long as you say I am
your piece of ass, that's all right. I like that."

"Good. I would hate to stop fucking
just to start making love."

THIRTY

October 29, 1979

As my move into Jim Strong's house
approached, we were discussing the details in the pressroom when he
asked about Catherine.

"I'm reminded of times I went
camping with my dad," I said. "Did you ever put a stick into a fire
and try to see how long you could hold until the flame moved up and
burned your hand?"

"Of course," he said. "Who hasn't?
But I was always an expert at throwing the thing down before it
reached my hand. How about you?"

I shook my head, chuckled, and
turned back to some notes on my desk. Catherine had insisted again
that I meet her for lunch at Charlie's that day. She had said she
wanted to introduce me to someone important. So, I was reviewing a
mental tally of the items revealed so far on her secret agenda of
reasons for maintaining an interest in me. Besides our physical
attraction to each other, I believed she had revealed several
ulterior motives. She considered me a buffer that might protect her
from overly aggressive investigators in the Tedesco murder. She had
told me she felt safer on the arm of a reporter who would expose
the police and Special Crimes if they took liberties on the
case.

Catherine also had said she
intended to appeal the verdict on Tedesco's estate and needed to
develop a respectable relationship with me so I could testify on
her behalf if she won a new trial. I just grunted when she said
that, considering it pretty farfetched to believe she'd get a new
trial and maybe even sillier to think I'd present as "respectable"
after cross-examination from Tedesco's lawyers in front of a jury.
But I realized her hopes for a retrial could moderate her behavior.
If she thought she needed me as a positive witness, she would work
harder to behave.

Then, there also had been her
discussion of a need to separate the professional and physical
sides of her life. I had concluded Catherine viewed me as a prime
candidate for domestic slavery. Would she call me her bitch? Trying
to see myself from her point of view, I realized I did have the
look of a desperate creature begging for rescue from the
two-hundred-dollar car and the luggage by Kroger. I knew she saw me
as a puppy she could easily control and manipulate, after some
short period of breaking. But none of this bothered me. I
considered myself unbreakable. And, I thought I might enjoy playing
the role of a kept man for a while. I also rather relished my new
image around the courthouse as the latest foil for our most
notorious femme fatale. I had prosecutors warning me off the scent,
and the whole scene had provided sanctuary from gossip about
Cindy's soap opera. Catherine amused me with her constant parade of
schemes and Machiavellian maneuvers. In my mind, our relationship
had become much like a game of chess. I hoped to lull her into a
state of overconfidence by accepting her portrayal of me as a
chump. And, I firmly believed her mercenary nature would force her
to drop me anyway, as soon as a more lucrative target entered her
life.

"You need to think seriously today
about the things I am going to ask you to do," she said firmly as
soon as I joined her at a table in Charlie's. Bringing me to a
place that required jackets for lunch was this city's version of
taking a mutt to a dog show. I had a tie, but it was loosened at
the collar. My khaki trousers and frayed herringbone jacket
contrasted sharply with the three-piece suits scattered about the
darkened dining room. A waiter in white stood nearby just itching
to scrape cracker crumbs from the tablecloth, should any fall from
my mouth.

"You have some genuine
opportunities, thanks to me," she began. "Our future depends on
it."

Not that again, I thought, taking a
sip of ice tea. I grinned and told her, "Our future is now." But I
don't think she understood my double entendre.

"That's right," she said. "Our
future is now, and we need to get going. I want you to help us make
a lot of money."

"How does that happen?"

"You need to use your influence
with the felony judges at the courthouse to appoint me to defense
assignments for indigents. I've done that for misdemeanors, but I
have to start getting felony assignments—the big cases. I want to
defend on a murder case."

"I can't do that,
Catherine."

"You can. You go to every court,
every day. They all want publicity. They all want you to help them.
Nothing is free. I could have a $250 assignment every day just
pleading somebody out on lower charges. You'd get your share. How
about 10 percent? There might be larger cases with more money
involved. You'd get 10 percent of anything you bring
me."

"I can't do that,
Catherine."

She applied the Medusa stare. Then she placed
her face in her hands, and I thought she was going to
cry.

"I can't take money on something
like that, Catherine," I said, as she peeked over her fingertips.
"But I'll tell you what I will do. I will take you to Judge Route's
courtroom and introduce you to his court coordinator, Edd
Blackwood. He has an open door policy on appointments. You see him,
tell him your background, and he'll find something for you. If that
works out, he'll give you something else. I saw him one time take
business cards from about a dozen lawyers, shuffle them up, and
then deal out representation to a whole room full of
defendants."

She started laughing and said, "You
would do that for me? And, if that works out there, you'll help in
some other courts?"

"But I can't take any money from
you. It would be a conflict in my journalistic ethics," I said,
then quietly questioned that comment as I considered the hypocrisy
of preparing to eat a $150 lunch on her tab. I didn't elaborate for
her, but I would have no problem introducing her to Edd, who had
become a good friend during our time together at the courthouse. He
was a law school dropout who had joined the sheriff's department
and then moved on to court administration. Later on, in the 1980s,
he would become a successful Houston bail bondsman. In 1979,
however, he was always asking me to find new lawyers to audition
for court appointments because his judge, Thomas Routt, liked to
spread the appointments around. Other courts would be more
difficult because most judges preferred to work exclusively with
their own cadre of lawyers.

Just then her "important" guest
arrived and sat down at our table. He was a former prosecutor named
James who required no introduction. I had known him from the
courthouse but hadn't seen him in months, since he had left the
district attorney's office and started his own private practice. We
made small talk for a bit, finished our meal, and then Catherine
came to the point.

"James is here because I want him
to take your case."

"My case?" I asked while James
continued to sip coffee. "What case do I have?"

"Your divorce case. You have to
take charge of that thing now before you lose out."

"I have a lawyer."

She waved her hand around as if
scolding me and said, "No, you can't have one lawyer for both of
you. Too much is at stake."

Then she looked at James, who
offered his first observation: "You have a very valuable house,
Gary. You have some mitigating factors in your favor for protecting
that investment."

Flabbergasted and growing angry, I
looked him square in the eye and said, "What the fuck do you know
about my house or my mitigating factors?"

"I've been in your house," he said.
"We went through it with the Realtor just to see what you have.
Catherine asked me to assist."

Then she added her advice: "Don't
ignore the adultery. I think you could get those kids if you do
this right. Let James help you."

I pushed my chair back from the table, wiped
my mouth with my napkin, and started shaking my head.

"Let me get this straight," I said.
"You two toured my house with the Realtor. Then you discussed my
mitigating factors. And now you think I'm going to fire my lawyer
and hire you to handle the divorce?"

They just stared at me. I paused a few seconds
and stood up to leave.

"I'm finished here," I said.
"Thanks for the lunch."

Before I could leave, James bolted
from his chair and said, "No, no, I'll go. I have to be in court
anyway. You two should talk about this."

As he walked away, I sat back down
and stared at her.

"You crossed the line here," I
said. "Even if I wanted to fire my attorney, there's no way in hell
I'd ever hire that slug."

"You know what," she began. "I
don't need your bullshit. You humiliated me in front of someone I
need to impress. I was trying to help you, and you just don't see
what a big problem you're making for yourself."

"You don't need my bullshit? I
don't need this bullshit. Why don't you find a new boyfriend who'll
take it?"

Our relationship should have ended
right there. But it didn't. The waiter refilled our coffees, and we
sat in silence for a few minutes staring at our cups. I didn't
leave, and she just sat planning her next move. Finally, she said
quietly, "I just wanted to help you because you have been so good
for me."

"Thank you. But I really would
appreciate it if you will stay out of my divorce. It's my business.
If I fuck it up, that will be my cross to bear. I'm sorry if I got
too rough with James but he just caught me by surprise. I felt
violated, like a burglary victim, to hear about that slug crawling
around my house behind my back trying to figure out if I would be
worth his time."

"All right," she said, giving me an
encore of her humility performance from that night at the beach
after ripping my tenant apart. "I'll try to keep my mouth shut. But
you know, I can't stand to see anyone taking advantage of you, and
I think that is happening now. You're just a nice guy who needs
someone to stand up for you."