Luggage By Kroger: A True Crime Memoir (32 page)

I paused and looked at her while
trying to gather my thoughts. I could not think of anything she
might do to that car that would hurt me. Kill a pedestrian? She'd
be the driver. One of the rules of my life had been to never loan
my car to anyone unless my life depended on it. I often had joked,
"If Jesus wants my car to attend the second coming, he'll have to
provide proof on the first one." I could not recall a time I ever
had loaned any car of mine to anyone. But I looked over my shoulder
at Cindy and the lawyers, where Fred stood drumming his fingers on
the side of a wooden bench and Cindy scowled.

"What the hell?" I said, reaching
into my pocket, taking the car key from the latch that also held my
door key, and handing it to Catherine. "I'm getting this back
tonight at the Cellar Door?"

She nodded and headed for the elevator as I
walked back toward Cindy.

"I had to loan her my car to get
rid of her," I said.

Cindy started laughing and said,
"Mehaffey is driving your car? I'd like to see that."

"I'm glad you get a kick out of
that. I hope it comes back in one piece."

"Oh," Cindy continued, "did she
promise to take it to a garage and get it into one piece for
you?"

"So what are we doing?" I said,
changing the subject but glad to see Cindy in a spunky mood. I
grinned at the quick recollection of good times in our life
together.

"That judge is done for the day,"
said Fred. He looked at all of us and asked, "Do we still have a
settlement?" When we nodded, he said, "I'll schedule a new date."
Then he looked at me and asked, "Should we keep it a secret, off
the docket? I can arrange that, I think, if everyone
agrees."

"I'm sorry about all this," I said,
shaking my head. "I don't know what to do."

"Keep it off the docket," said
Cindy. "Let's get this out of the way. Gary will figure something
out with her. He always does."

Sure, I thought. And monkeys will descend from
heaven with bags of money for everyone on earth.

FORTY-FIVE

January 9, 1980

Promptly at five-thirty I walked
into the Cellar Door, a restaurant and bar located then in one of
the Shell Oil company buildings a few blocks from the courthouse.
It had been one of our regular haunts during the past few weeks,
and the waitresses knew us by name. I found Catherine at a table
with two male attorneys waiting for me. The weeping, helpless waif
of the morning had transformed into the life of the party and she
cackled, "Hello," as I entered the dimly lit barroom. I had every
intention of just taking my key and getting out of there, but her
two companions insisted I sit and have a drink with
them.

"I hear today was your big day,"
said one of them, laughing.

"I guess so," I said. "Divorce
court. You know the routine."

"Well congratulations," he said,
turning to a waitress who spotted me and mouthed "scotch and
water?" I nodded and she went to get it while the lawyer yelled,
"Put that one on me. It's not every day you get
divorced."

"So we all want to hear about it,"
said Catherine, lifting her glass to her lips.

"Do you have my key?"

"Oh," she said, "sure. You know
what? I found my keys right in my purse. I don't know what I was
thinking. Let me find yours now."

She started rooting around in her purse again
as our waitress brought my drink.

"Here's to your freedom, eh?" said
the lawyer, lifting his glass in a toast to me. I really wasn't in
the mood for this phony celebration, but I tried to be
civil.

"Well, I can't be too free without
my car key," I said, glancing at Catherine as she continued
searching her purse. The lawyer looked confused so I added,
"Catherine borrowed my car. Now she can't find my key."

"I don't believe this," Catherine
muttered. "I really can't find your key. I'm not kidding. Where is
it?"

"Ahhh, shit," I muttered. "I don't
believe this."

"Don't panic," Catherine said.
"We'll find it. Just give me a chance."

I made small talk with one of the
lawyers about his latest case, and we shared some gossip on a
judge. He bought another round of drinks and then another.
Meanwhile, Catherine still couldn't locate my key. By seven I
decided I had to leave anyway. I stood up and said my
goodbyes.

"How can you leave without your
key?" Catherine asked.

"I can get a spare," I said. "I
know where one is."

"And where is that?"

"Over at Cindy's."

That triggered the Medusa stare.

"I can drive you over there if it
isn't very far," said the lawyer who had bought the
drinks.

"The fuck you will," she said.
Looking at me, she ordered, "You sit here and wait for me. I'll go
over there and get it."

Our faux-celebratory mood wilted as suddenly
as if someone had opened the tent flap at an Arctic campsite and
welcomed a blast of frigid air. The two other lawyers stood moot
and watched the confrontation unfold.

"You don't know where she lives," I
challenged.

"Wanna bet?" Catherine said, rising
as if to leave. I was still standing, and I moved to block her
path.

"Catherine," I said, "if you leave
this bar, I am going to call Cindy and tell her to call the
cops."

The lawyer who had bought the
drinks looked at his watch and said, "You know, I think I need to
head on home." Then both of them stood and walked away leaving
Catherine and me to stare at each other.

"C'mon, Gary," she finally said.
"It's my fault I lost them. What am I going to do? Get her down and
beat her up?"

"I'm going to make that call
anyway," I said, moving away from the table. Catherine responded by
reaching out and grabbing my necktie. She pulled me back to the
table. I realized I was in another position where I might have to
use physical force to just get away. I looked around the bar where
patrons at other tables had turned to watch the show.

"Don't do this," I told
her.

"You…will…not….call…her," Catherine
ordered in a growling staccato.

"You…will…not…go…there," I replied,
aping her tone.

She looked around the bar, finally aware that
others were watching her provoke this confrontation. She released
my tie.

"OK, OK," she said. "Don't worry
about your precious Cindy. You know what? I bet that key is up in
my office. Why don't we walk over there and look
around."

It already had gotten dark outside.
I was sure there would be no one inside her building, unless the
cleaning service had not finished its rounds. But it looked like
she had me cornered again. Cindy was my only other option, and I
was determined to keep her and others out of this final round of
battle with Catherine as much as possible. Besides, I would have to
take a cab to retrieve my extra key from Cindy. I thought about
just calling Strong and asking him to go fetch it. But then, I
decided it all sounded like a lot of trouble just to avoid another
private meeting with Catherine. I was beaten and worn out. I had
just about reached a point where I wanted to say, "Bring it on,
bitch! Do whatever you want, and let's see if you can get away with
it!" I was ready to call her bluff and see if she really could back
up all those threats about the arena of death.

"Yeah," I said. "Let's go on and
find it so I can get out of town tonight."

The 609 Fannin Building was just as
I had pictured in my mind—dark and foreboding. I had placed my
psyche on full-scale red alert, using every bit of peripheral
vision to check the doorways and side rooms as we walked down the
hall to the offices she shared with Lloyd Oliver. I drew blueprints
in my head of plans for action should I be attacked by Kenneth, or
that Tommy Bell guy, or anyone else she might have had waiting. But
nothing happened. We went into her office, and she took a seat
behind her desk. She rummaged around in a drawer and pulled out my
key.

"How about that?" she said. "Just
like I thought. I'm sorry. I forgot I put that in there for
safekeeping. See, you threw that ridiculous fit for
nothing."

What is the point
of this?
I thought. But I just said
nothing, continued to look around the room, and held out my palm
for the key. She gave it to me and then leaned back in her chair.
She pointed at the couch where we had enjoyed that afternoon sex
romp and laughed. Then she said, "Hey, why don't we have a drink.
One last drink for old times, huh? Will you do that one thing for
me? I don't want to leave things like this. I really didn't hide
your key as a trick to get you up here. What am I going to do to
you, anyway?"

Before I could resist, she got up and took a
bottle of scotch from a cabinet behind her, filled two tumblers,
and handed one to me. I took a sip.

"I need your help," she said. "I am
losing my mind because of the murder of George Tedesco."

"Has something new happened on
that? My ears are tired of listening to you. And this day has worn
me out."

"You don't want to hear the real
story—what actually happened to George?"

"I'm listening," I said, taking a
drink of the scotch.

"You aren't wearing a wire, are
you? Do I need to search you? Sometimes I think you might have been
working for Special Crimes from the start."

"What, as an undercover agent of
love? You aren't searching me. Say what's bothering you, or I can
go. I'm not that curious any more."

"Sure you are," she said. "I need
your advice."

She paused to sip her drink and then continued
with her story.

"A week after the murder I got a
call from an old boyfriend who wanted to have coffee. He was a
younger man, someone I had known right before George swept me off
my feet."

I grunted at that description, but she just
waved me off.

"Anyway, this boy took me out for
coffee. He asked me, 'Are you my attorney?' I said, 'Sure.' He
said, 'So anything I say is confidential?' I said, 'Of course.'
Then he said, 'I killed George.' He said he had let his anger build
while we had been together until he just couldn't stand the way
George had treated me. He went to George's condo to confront him,
lost his temper, and beat him to death. He said George had pulled a
gun on him, but this boy said he was able to grab the leg of a bar
stool from above and smack George in the head with it. He said, 'I
killed George for you and now you have to help me out.'"

"What did you say?"

"I asked him what he planned to do.
He told me he wanted money to leave town. He needed help. So I gave
him two hundred dollars. I told him to leave the state of Texas and
never come back."

"Where do I come into this? What is
your question for me?"

"You know a lot about the law from
an outsider perspective," she said, pushing a copy of the legal
code of ethics across her desk to me. "Look in there and tell me
what you think my obligations are. Now I wish I had never told you
about this."

"If this is true, you need a
lawyer."

"I've discussed it with a couple of
them. They tell me I have no choice but to keep it confidential.
But I have to get the investigators and Special Crimes off my back.
I have to figure out a way to tell this. Can you help
me?"

With that story she now had served
up a third version of the Tedesco murder. Initially, she had said
she knew nothing about it. Then, that night out at Mike's, she had
described the murder in vivid detail, teasing she had done it
herself. Now, this night, she had pinned it on some old lover young
enough to call a boy. I still wasn't sure which version to believe
and certainly didn't know how to advise her on this latest tale. So
I improvised.

"Here's an idea. Take a lie
detector test. When they get to the question of what you know about
Tedesco's death, you claim attorney-client privilege and tell them
you can't answer it. That way, they get the test, you don't have to
lie, and they know they need to look for somebody else."

She buried her head in her hands
and started to cry again. She started shaking her head and
muttering, "I can't do that. It won't work. I'm so
afraid."

I sat there watching her for a few
minutes and reconsidered my idea. It was pretty silly. But it was
all I could offer, if indeed that was what she really wanted. I
started considering an exit strategy from the building, wondering
if she would want to walk out with me.

"I'm really scared," she said. "I
can't be alone. These last two nights have been unbearable. Please
come with me to my apartment, and this is the last thing I will
ever ask of you. Just get me inside, and I'll make us a dinner. Let
me make a drink and calm down. Then you can leave, and that will be
the last of me for you. I promise."

She was offering yet another chance
for a final, peaceful solution. I didn't believe it. But it sounded
like the best exit strategy for the moment. I thought to myself: Go
over and tuck her in. Do her this favor and then see what happens.
You have to get out of the building anyway, and it's probably safer
to leave with her at your side rather than somewhere back behind in
a dark hallway.