Luggage By Kroger: A True Crime Memoir (49 page)

As I drove away
from
The Post
's big
white stone building, where my resignation sat in Johnny B's
mailbox, I snuffed back a nostalgic tear. But I still had a smile
on my face. For the first time since the age of twelve I would face
the morning unemployed. Most crucial parts of my life suddenly had
changed in the span of a single day. But I knew the most important
thing remained in place.

I checked my
reflection in the rear view and then whispered with
confidence:
I'll figure something
out.

SIXTY-NINE

September 15, 1980

I should have known that the
eleven-month anniversary of my first date with Catherine could not
pass without a reunion of sorts. By then I had reordered my life
around my daughters, and things were working well. I used some of
my savings to set us up in a little two-bedroom apartment near
Houston's Astrodome complex, across the street from a grade school
and a church. I also found quickly that my journalism talents were
much in demand as a freelance reporter. Until then, I always had
considered the word "freelancer" a synonym for "unemployed" and
scoffed at the concept of living that way. But Houston at that time
had become an international news center, and I was learning that
most national news outlets needed freelance help covering the
place. Given my local news reporting experience and my newfound
availability, I started getting calls for assignments I could
handle on my own schedule. With only a little marketing, I began to
believe I might be able to succeed at self-employment for a
while.

But mostly I focused on making the girls the
center of my life. Little E started her advanced kindergarten
program that required a bus trip for several miles each morning and
afternoon. The bus stopped right outside our small apartment
building, and the church across the street offered an after-school
program where she could go in case I was out when it came home.
Despite the expense, I kept Shannon in the Montessori pre-school on
the belief that she needed the most stability I could provide. Lots
of things were in flux around her, but I wanted to make sure her
oasis of stability remained in place.

I swore off women, at least for a
while, or, perhaps, as best I could. When Barbara heard about
Cindy's suicide attempt she called one night from a bar and offered
to help any way she could. I was flattered. But I told her I
thought the time had come for my daughters to be the only girls in
my life, at least for a little while.

Cindy spent a month in a Houston mental
hospital, then emerged reluctantly accepting the court order I had
obtained while she was there. Although that order did not grant her
any visitation, I agreed to split each week with her as long as
Little E could reach her bus stop in the mornings. Cindy appeared
to have successfully eliminated Uncle Al from her life, and she
returned to her job as the child welfare worker for Ben Taub,
almost as if nothing had happened. But she had experienced an
epiphany of some sort in the form of a religious conversion and had
become involved in a Roman Catholic group. The religious experience
appeared to have a calming effect, and she seemed to be taking life
one day at a time while sorting out her personal plans for the
future. She certainly showed no signs of challenging my new role as
the primary custodian and, in some ways, appeared relieved she no
longer had the responsibility.

To accumulate pocket change as well
as for therapeutic reasons, I also took a menial job waiting tables
weekdays over lunch at one of Houston's mid-range seafood
restaurants called Pier 21. Waiting tables gave me something
constructive to do for a couple of hours in the middle of each day
while adding a nostalgic feel to this new period in my life. I felt
as if I were back in college, reviewing my options for the future,
and having a little fun. I knew I wouldn't be there very long,
either, and it was nice to scrape the tips off the table for a wad
of instant money in my pocket every day.

Pier 21 stood walking distance from
the offices for the Houston Oilers pro football franchise, and we
often saw sports luminaries stop for lunch. I waited on future NFL
Hall of Famer Earl Campbell one day and laughed when he sent his
fish back to the kitchen. I didn't get a tip from this
multi-millionaire running back, but I didn't ask him for an
autograph, either. I just treated him like he was any other guy
sitting down with his wife and kid for a lunch. Maybe that insulted
him. More entertaining, however, were the times when members of the
Oilers cheerleading squad, the Derrick Dolls, sat in my section.
They laughed a lot, tipped well, and flirted even better. So, I
always made sure their fried shrimp and pasta salads received
special treatment from the kitchen.

Several of the dolls were there
when I looked up to see Catherine stroll into the dining room with
the Last Cowboy on one arm and one of the local district criminal
court judges on the other. It was obvious someone had tipped her
that my waiter skills were on display at Pier 21, and she demanded
a table in my section to see for herself. Ever the professional at
whatever I'm doing, I took their orders politely and refilled their
tea glasses repeatedly. Watching her watching me made me curious
about what had happened to her since the trial. I knew she had been
released on bond pending appeal, an option for anyone sentenced to
a term of fifteen years or less. Of course, I also knew she wasn't
able to practice law while appealing a felony conviction like
attempted murder. And, I was glad to see that she apparently hadn't
taken any shots at Skelton—yet. Maybe the conviction had placed her
on best behavior. So, once again, I simply could not resist when
she asked if she could return after the lunch rush to have a drink
at the end of my shift.

"The terms of your bond require you
not to violate any laws, and I am assuming that also means you
can't kill me," I said sitting down and ordering a scotch from
Sally the barmaid, who had agreed to keep an eye on us while
cleaning up from lunch.

Catherine laughed meekly as I removed my black
bow tie and pulled my personalized wine opener from my pocket. She
sighed.

"What have we done to ourselves?"
she asked. I raised my eyebrows and took a sip of scotch. She
continued, "Look at you. You're a waiter?"

"Yes," I joked. "But that's only
until I can pass the test for driving a cab."

"It's been so bad for me. Skelton
has finally given me a job in a machine shop he owns. I do the
books and answer phones. I have nothing any more. No money or
anything. I heard about Cindy, and it is good you finally have
those kids from that bitch."

"We're getting along. You know, I
got a call from the state's program to help victims of crime. They
said I am eligible for a rehabilitation grant. I told them they
should find some real victims and give the money to
them."

"Ha! Maybe I should apply. I'm the
real victim here," Catherine said and then took a pause before
making her pitch. "But it doesn't have to be this way. You can fix
it. You can tell them you made a mistake. You didn't mean for any
of this to happen."

"And why would I do
that?"

"Because you know there is going to
be another trial. The appeal will be granted. So much happened in
that trial that was wrong. And when they order a new trial, you
will have to decide again what is best for everyone. And by then I
will have something on you."

"Oh, man," I said, shaking my head.
"Listening to you is like having the same bad dream over and over.
I wake up, take a piss or get a drink of water. Then I lay back
down, close my eyes, and here you come again. Squawk, squawk,
squawk. You make my ears hurt."

"Gary, please
listen to me, listen to how desperate I am. I got a job at
The Post
."

"
The Houston Post
?" I asked, astonished. She nodded and I said, "They
circulated your picture after the shooting and told the guards to
arrest you on sight. And then you just stroll in over there, and
they give you a job doing…what?"

"Just making sales calls at
night."

I started laughing
at the image of her walking into
The
Post
and actually getting a job there while
she was atop the security team's list of most wanted potential
trespassers.

"Talk about your sleeping
watchdogs," I said.

"No," she said, "it wasn't for the
job. I wanted to get in there and sneak into the personnel files,
find yours, and get something on you."

"Did you?"

"Of course," she beamed with pride.
Then she continued, "Well, I got in there and saw your file. But I
couldn't find anything in it that was useful."

"Catherine, I truly am sorry your
life has crumbled like this. It is such a waste. You don't have to
be like this. You could have been a successful attorney. But I
can't do anything about it now. If you win an appeal, so be it.
I'll be there to testify again. Until then, you just need to suck
it up and do the best you can. All you have to worry about is
yourself. I've got a couple of kids, and I certainly don't have
time for your bullshit any more."

Her patented Medusa stare failed to
materialize. All she could muster was a timid scowl that vanished
almost as soon as she tried. She looked beaten and shaking, and I
realized how far she had fallen just to come here and beg me to do
something she knew could never be done. If our attraction indeed
had been fatal, I realized, the fatality was her.

"Remember what you always said?" I
asked. She squinted as I continued. "You always told me 'Nothing is
free' and you were correct. I paid for our relationship with a
bullet in the back. And you paid for taking your shots with a
conviction. Nothing is free. And, now I think we are done here,
correct?"

She stared a moment, then got up and walked
out. I walked over to flirt with Sally.

"Is she the one?" Sally asked,
revealing that she, too, had heard rumors of my turbulent past. I
grinned because I did have plans for Sally, and I hoped it would be
sooner, rather than later.

"What do you think?" I
asked.

She smiled and whispered, "You can
do better."

Just then, Catherine emerged from
the back door of the restaurant, and I whirled when I spotted her
in the corner of my eye. I expected an attack but it didn't come.
Instead, she looked at me with painful eyes.

"My car won't start. Can you come
take a look?"

I started laughing.

"Sorry, Catherine. You will have to
call Triple A."

With that I walked outside, climbed into my
Bronco, and drove toward the parking lot exit. I checked the
rear-view mirror and watched as Catherine approached her Mercury
Cougar with its hood at a 45-degree angle. She stared in my
direction, then reached up and slammed the hood closed. She climbed
inside, started the car, and headed for the other exit.

I didn't know what she had had in
mind with that stunt. But it reminded me of something important. I
knew I would spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder
anyway, waiting for that moment when it came time for her to settle
all scores.

And, at the risk of getting too
metaphysical, another thought crossed my mind—a new response to
Catherine's lingering question about how I had managed to escape
her attempt on my life. If I had been destined to square things for
Tedesco, maybe also destiny had a larger plan unfolding to make
sure I was available to catch my girls when Cindy fell. I might be
uncertain about the existence of God. But it certainly did seem
like the universe might have some order in it after all.

I might not understand why things
happened, but I certainly had learned a rule of thumb for managing
life. It seemed pretty clear that when the bell sounds for any
fight—no matter how hopeless it seems—you just need to keep
swinging because there is no way to predict what might happen in
the second round. And it sure seemed clear to me that honest, open
love is a power that will usually find a way to survive. Peel away
superficial emotions like lust or jealousy, and you find that basic
love—like that of a parent for a child—dictates the real milestone
events of our lives. Find that raw, basic emotion, and you can
never go wrong. It will survive.

Unlike the Apostle Paul, I would
never be struck blind on the road to Damascus. But I had seen a
light of sorts, and I recalled in particular Paul's admission to
the Corinthians—a solid, real world observation even for an
agnostic like me. The time had come to put away my childish things.
Catherine Mehaffey and the lifestyle she symbolized certainly
topped that list.

But I really had little time that
day for further rumination on the mysteries of the universe. Like
everything else, they would sort themselves out in time. For the
moment, I had more serious responsibilities to attend. Little E
would need help prepping for a spelling test. And Shannon would be
waiting at school for me to take her home.

Epilogue: …And they all lived
happily ever after?

Just as Catherine predicted, Will Gray
successfully worked his appellate magic on her attempted murder
conviction, persuading the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals to order
yet a third trial in 1983. As we prepared for that event, I told
Bert I would be satisfied with a compromise to avoid the risk of
submitting the case to another jury. I suggested they allow her to
plead guilty to a reduced charge of aggravated assault with a term
of ten years probation. She agreed, and the case ended with that
conviction. Although some have criticized me for what they
considered weakness, that outcome satisfied me for several
reasons.