Attention, Please 6i1467

ATTENTION, PLEASE

PATRICIA FISH

Copyright © 2019 Patricia Fish.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-2588-2 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-4897-2589-9 (e)

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 10/24/2019

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 The Little Girl Who Read

Chapter 2 The Robin Fight

Chapter 3 A Decent Man

Chapter 4 Sky

Chapter 5 Death of a father

Chapter 6 “The Zoo”

Chapter 7 The Publicist

Chapter 8 Sky and the estate from hell

Chapter 9 Personal publicist and the family from weird

Chapter 10 The Children

Chapter 11 Avian political consultants

Chapter 12 Sky, political consultant of the future

Chapter 13 Melanie Talbott

Chapter 14 Deciding what to do

Chapter 15 Telling the Truth

Chapter 16 The dysfunctional family strikes again

Chapter 17 More Stonewalling

Chapter 18 Angst of the Author

Chapter 19 Attention, please

Chapter 20 Flight 206

Chapter 21 Let the Trashing Begin

Chapter 22 The Surprise

Introduction

I n accordance with all federal, state and local laws, I will not make a profit on this book. This information is now given lest the reader be dismayed that I should profit from my crime. In the manner of Monica Lewinsky and Vanna White I am, make no mistake, using my celebrity to sell a book. I never wanted to be famous but I did, you understand, want to be rich. It was Manny Roberts who explained to me how one is not necessarily divorced from the other. As of this book’s writing I realize that many in the American public do not believe my story about Manny. Unlike Monica, I did not tell all of my secrets before I wrote this book. Read on for there is far more to Manny Roberts than ever released to the public. And it’s earth-shattering, believe it. Even for no profit I’m happy to tell the story because, first, it’ll blow the lid of all of the deceptions foisted upon the American public for at least the past two years and second, if you like this book you’ll like my others from which I can, follow me here, make a profit. At this time I’d like to introduce a new character to the story. Her name is Marcia Wood and she has everything to do with what I did, more so than even Manny. I never mentioned Marcia during my trial because Marcia had nothing to do with it. No one would know Marcia Wood anyway. In fact, if I had mentioned Marcia and my relationship with her, I would probably have been sent to the loony bin for ten years whereas this way, I’m only in jail for a year, nine months with good behavior. Now I know the public wants to know all about Georgette Robinson. At least my editor keeps telling me and I keep telling her I’ll write so much about Georgette Robinson the public will be sick of her. But I remained firm that I must introduce Marcia into the Georgette Robinson story because Marcia was, well my Muse, of

sorts. Though Marcia was very much a living and real person. That’s the odd part, actually. That a Marcia Wood really lived and is a recorded human being though no one, not a soul, will believe me when I state who Marcia Wood really was. There’s also Sky, my one an only contribution to the continuation of the human race and I’ve got to talk about her. She’s been hog-tied and horse-whipped to silence by the attorneys and public relations people but be assured given the chance, Sky would be gracing your television screens, embracing your ears and eyes with her presences. Any sort of biography would probably have the writer listing their children and their deeds. And Sky is my daughter so it’s not odd that I would devote a few words to her. However, Sky’s story is also an amazing one and dovetails quite nicely with the story, or The Story, as my editor calls it. Unlike Monica and I don’t know, probably Vanna who’s not known world wide for her prose, my story is NOT being ghost- written. This is not to state the obvious but the editor says I have to state it. So consider it stated. I’m not really that great of a writer though there are those times I can turn a phrase or two. That is to say I’m not that great of a writer when compared to, say, Ernest Hemingway. I write as well as, say, Tom Clancy. Imagine that, Georgette Robinson telling the world she writes as well as Tom Clancy. Well, yes, why shouldn’t I say this? Because Tom Clancy is on the best-seller list he writes better than me? Or the would-be writer down the street? Hey listen, there’s singers in church choirs that hit soprano high notes with a full throat and have no need to scream like Celine Dionne. They even sing better than Whitney Houston and probably don’t sweat as much. Then so there are plenty of writers that write as well, perhaps better, than Tom Clancy. I’m one of them. Not that Tom Clancy’s a bad writer and let me say this now. His writing is fine and he’s devilishly good with plots. His wealth is deserved and he has talent. So I deserve the wealth as well and hey, Monica had her book and let’s not forget Vanna. But I’m getting ahead of myself and you really want to hear the story. It’s a good one. And it’s all true, every damn word of it, I swear. Thankfully, the public is already aware that I’m a bit of an oddball. My editor tells me this book is going to be a runaway best seller and I’m psyched. I’m told the book stores are making space even as I type this, the

introduction. The editor tells me, make it interesting, make it good, but don’t worry about perfection. Save some for the future, she tells me, I’m not going to do any of that. Don’t need to as a matter of fact. I’ll be able to write more books in the future, perhaps some fiction, some non-fiction. What I write will sell; I will have an audience. Not because of my notoriety, I submit. But because I’m good. Monica and Vanna, you notice how they haven’t written any more books? Thus this book will be an absolute tell-all and if you think the Manny Roberts tidbit is a juicy one, ladies and gentlemen of the reading public, it goes waaaaaay beyond Manny Roberts. It’s the most unbelievable story and I’m convinced that I’m doing the public a great service by writing it. After I tell the whole story, buy some of my other books. I will be writing more, did I tell you?

Chapter 1 The Little Girl Who Read

I ndeed I did have an odd family. The public wants to know this, says my editor. Problem is, what with Jerry Springer and all, my family would not now be perceived to be all that odd. I still submit my father was the most unusual man who ever lived while my mother was more ordinary but still strange. First my father loved to work and this is odd enough to require no elaboration. Oh I know there are plenty of people around who are called “workaholics” but my father wasn’t like that. He was a carpenter and his for-pay job was a hearty one. But he never worked overtime unless paid triple time and a half, which was seldom. My father also adored being unemployed and even managed, in his later years, to scam the social security people into letting him retire early, full benefits. He didn’t work himself to death for an employer, is what I’m saying here. My father’s labor was for his own gain. The fruit of his loins, or so my father figured, were fair game as little employee objects to also work for his own gain. Thus much of my childhood was spent, well, working. No, no child molestation, no outrageous lifestyle. Mostly working, working all the damn time. My father (I simply won’t refer to him as Dad because I hope he is burning in hell) did have a bit of a temper and on more than one occasion, his corporal punishment would be considered excessive. One time I was out trying to sell a Catholic Review and lost track of time. It was very dark before I realized I was an hour past due. Too late I scurried back to my house, hoping I’d somehow get there and inside before my father knew it. For walking up that dark road toward me was my father. He had his tongue kind of folded over, that thing he did when he was mad. Even now I shake a bit at the memory though I sometimes dream of ripping the thing from his mouth and jamming it down his throat. What he did, he stuck his tongue out, then folded the point down and under. Then he pulled this folded tongue back until a large wedge of it protruded from his mouth. He’d then clamp down on this weird tongue configuration with his teeth. Actually he looked like an idiot, but the humor was lost on a young child subject to his wrath.

“You’re going to get a bad beating,” he told me just before folding that tongue up. I was scared to death. “Please Daddy,” I begged, “don’t give me a beating. I was only trying to sell Catholic Reviews.” He remained mute, that tongue still sticking out. Now he had a two block walk to cultivate his rage. I was frightened he would kill me, really. “Now get in there and do those dishes,” he said, slipping his belt out from his pants in that determined manner. I was sobbing and begging and not at all sure whether he really wanted me to do the dishes or stay right there and get a whipping. If he wanted me to go and do the dishes then why was he taking his belt off? It seemed the monster wanted to ister his little whipping WHILE I was doing the dishes. “Keep doing those dishes,” he screamed, slapping that belt across my legs, back and neck. It was terrible. I had to actually soap, wipe and scrub dishes while he beat me brutally with a belt. If I slowed down or took my hands from the water to ward off a blow, he beat me harder. This was over forty years ago, a time when child abuse wasn’t as closely monitored as today. It was also a time when neighbors were reluctant to get involved in how others handled their children. Even so, there was a loud knock at the door. “Mr. O’Reilly, just let me see your daughter.” “No. This is my home. I deny you permission to come in.” I held my sobs inside. My father warned me he would come back and beat me double if I made a sound as he answered the door. It was a police officer at the door, summoned by the neighbors as a result of my screaming. I prayed to Jesus, who I believed in at the time owing to extensive Catholic schooling, that the cop would somehow get inside. For as soon as he left I was sure to get beat again, this time because my father would be furious that a

neighbor had called the cops. Back then, the police could not just rush in if they suspected child abuse. Back then they had to obtain permission of the home owner before entering. Innocent children are really helpless and there was no more helpless child in the world than that little girl praying to a fictitious Jesus to make the cop come in. To those who care about such things, and my editor tells me they care, this was probably the beginning of my hatred of all things authoritarian and also the start of my political self. I don’t know really, how people come to be how they are. So often it all sounds like so much psycho-babble to me. Marcia used to say genes were more of a determination of what a human turns out to be than any childhood experience. She sure showed me plenty of examples of this at any rate until I now really question so much of the popular psychology. The public wants a tragic childhood, the editor tells me, and I have a kind of sad one. I’m really only telling it because of the editor because if you ask me, everyone’s got a sad childhood, even rich kids it seems like. “My father was cold.” “My mother was distant” I hear this sort of thing on Oprah Winfrey and then there’s the Jerry Springer guests who have the most unusual parents in the world who sleep with their children’s husbands or wives or maybe the kid sleeps with the step-parents, and I wonder that anyone ever had a happy childhood. No wonder this country’s so screwed up. After a few Oprah and Springer shows I’m reluctant to talk about my childhood. So I worked hard, that’s not so bad. So my father beat me with a belt; everyone beat their kid with a belt. My father used to beat up my mother but not all that often and they divorced when I was nine anyway. Even his whippings weren’t istered all that often. I got maybe seven serious whippings in my entire childhood so it wasn’t an everyday terror like Sybil or anything. In fact, I don’t recall being especially unhappy as a child anyway. I think this was because I liked to read a lot and that might have been the start of all my problems, at least I’ve often mused.

No one in my family, mother’s side or father’s, was a reader. Not many of my relatives were very smart, in fact. My father might have been considered an intelligent man, at least he was thought so by the hillbillies in his family and this mostly because he knew how to do income taxes. My father certainly thought himself to be an intelligent man and he let you know it. While he may have had some rudimentary IQ cells that could have been cultivated to some sort of brilliance, he never used them. Or he used his IQ for other than gaining knowledge, mostly in pursuit of his lifelong goal, to get everything for cheap. I was always a smart child and I don’t know why. My brother and sister (yes I have those, don’t like them all that much either) were no genius’ in school. The eventual half- siblings that came along with parental remarriages were no brains either. Like so many other things in my life, my intelligence was almost, but not quite, outstanding. I’ve never been outstanding, truly exceptional, at anything. On many counts I’ve been “almost” but never quite. Which is more frustrating because I would probably have been better off to have been totally stupid like the hillbillies and know no better. Still, the report cards always put me on the honor roll. My parents were simply amazed though my father thought it only right what with having his genes and everything. My mother told everyone about how smart I was, how pretty. And so well- behaved! Unbelievably perhaps, I was probably the most well-behaved child in all the country, maybe even the world. Of course I didn’t know this at the time, or even consider it an irable thing. Mostly I was the sort to be content with following the rules and avoiding confrontations. I saw no honor in constant detention that would only interrupt my life. It is with a mere mention that I suggest a low profile was the way to avoid my father’s strange and inconsistent wrath. Childhood fights and arguments only got me beat up. Having common sense, something at which I might possibly be outstanding, kept me out of trouble. My brother and sister were always in trouble and for the life of me I couldn’t see what they got out of it. My brother would be in detention or the nuns would be phoning my parents. My sister used to run around and stay out all hours. I had too many things to read, imaginary plays to act out, too much to do and too many people to see.

Though my family was amazed at my intelligence, they made no attempt to encourage it. No one ever checked that I had done my homework. I never received a dollar for an A. My brother and sister never received reprimand for their bad grades either. There was definitely not enough reading material provided. I resorted to stealing stuff to read. Okay, so this is larceny of a sort. Today a child that would steal magazines and books to read would be hailed as some sort of misunderstood hero. Back then, it was serious stuff. If I visited someone’s home I always stuffed their magazines down my dress or pants. I’d slip magazines from the stores in my backpack. I’d check out books from the library though I didn’t have a library card. We did get the newspaper every night. I read it from start to finish, including the classifieds. I’d read the sports section and was an enormous Baltimore Oriole fan. The editorials were my favorite. I knew every columnist and what days they were featured. I was very political. All this when I was but ten years old. I’d often write letters to the editor, yes even that young. Oh I had serious thoughts and solutions to everything and the paper would print my letters more often than not. Quite a little whippersnapper I was, nose into everything. When I was twelve an aunt gave me the book “To Kill a Mockingbird” and that pretty much changed my life. This was an era when black people still had to use separate facilities and the debates would rage. The book changed my perspective a bit from the hillbilly one I’d been exposed to prior. That was the way it was with my reading. It gave me the way it ought to be, not the way it was around me. Because I’ll tell you true, even then I knew that my family wasn’t right. As far as I was concerned the whole bunch of them were a bit off- center. Actually, not just as far as I was concerned. Even today if anyone met my father, crazy brother, extremely odd sister or flaky mother they’d think it as well. Which makes me the only “normal” one in the family, one might deduce and this alone is suspicious thinking. Yet there’s that small matter of my international crime to consider so there’s that theory out the window. No one in my family’s ever pulled a stunt like that.

Chapter 2 The Robin Fight

“T hey won’t hurt you none. They’re just fighting for their territory.” These were the first words spoken to me by Marcia Wood and they came when I was directly in the midst of a battle for my life trying to avoid two feuding robins who came at me out of nowhere. Amusing that at the onslaught the only thing I could think about was bats and how bats get in your hair. I’m not sure what bats do when they get in your hair but I had heard they do that. Anyway, these were robins that flew into my head; yes those cute little birds that hop across the lawn pecking for worms. At the time I didn’t know they weren’t bats. And I was quite hysterical, screaming and brushing my hair as if it were on fire. That’s when Marcia said her first words to me, yelling at me to be calm for goodness sake, that the robins in my hair were only fighting for their territory. A quick-witted soul would point out that the robins could very well take their fight anywhere besides directly on my head. Me, I was too busy getting bat-robins out of my hair. Marcia didn’t live exactly next door to me. She lived about three houses down, but due to the odd configuration of our lots, her backyard was within conversation distance. Marcia was out weeding her garden while I was innocently taking out the trash. “In my whole life I never had two birds fly in my hair.” Marcia plucked an errant weed from her petunia patch and chuckled. “You need to get outside more. Some of these birds will fly onto your head on purpose, not accidental like those pair of robins. They want to pluck off a few strands to build their nest.” My husband, Ralph, and I had lived on this pie-shaped lot wedged into a small cove off of the Chesapeake Bay for almost five years at the time. I wasn’t much

for outside and especially not in this spooky lot and now this neighbor was telling me about birds that try to pluck your very hairs. I vowed to stay indoors more. “Since you’re out here, do you mind if I take a start off of your forsythia?” One can see here that I was out of my element. I had no idea what forsythia was, just where it was and what on earth a “start” was. “Sure,” I replied, as calm as you please like I understood that anyone would want some of my forsythia. To my surprise, Marcia began a climb over three fences heading toward my yard and all I could wonder is if she makes it over here should I take her inside or is forsythia an outside thing? “Not as young as I used to be,” Marcia said after the climbing that resulted in her eventual arrival in my yard. She brushed off her pants and straightened her gardening smock as I decided to wait and let Marcia take the lead with this forsythia escapade. Marcia headed directly to some kind of bush things growing at the top of my lot and I followed behind. And darn if she didn’t begin cutting some forsythia limbs and I’ll be darn if I knew those things were forsythia. They always bloomed pretty yellow flowers in early spring and were one of the few things that bloomed on this lot. “Good to let them arc like that,” Marcia said, now standing from her pruning. “I hate people that try to make hedges of the things, don’t you?” Please understand how flattered I was that here was Marcia complimenting me on my arcing forsythia which only arced because I never cut them. I never cut them because who on earth ever heard of cutting bushes? Ralph and I weren’t outdoor folk which was quite evident when one viewed our sad and sorry yard. We knew when we bought the place from my father that it was a difficult lot, all sloped and populated by a dozen very tall oak trees that insisted on dropping their leaves each and every autumn. Given time, Ralph and I discovered that if you don’t move the leaves at least

from the lawn part that the grass doesn’t grow. So we started doing that and managed to keep a postage stamp lawn going for respectability. Other than that, the many gardens, shrubs and bushes on the lot remained pretty much buried under almost six years of leaves. My father of the folded tongue was quite the gardener. We even lived for a time on a small farm so I was familiar with such as rakes, hoes and green growth. We grew some incredible tomatoes and corn on that farm. I understood the concept of putting something into the ground to reap a bounty of either flowers or vegetables. I even had a modest collection of house plants that I watered and tended so it’s not like I hated plants or anything. More, I hated that awful sloped lot and that awful big ugly house that sat upon it and I’d often pondered that my father always managed to stick it to me and he stuck it to me when I foolishly purchased this ugly place from him. Let the leaves fall where they may, or so went my thinking. “Your father always managed to have some beautiful bushes over here. Why his hydrangeas would win prizes.” I thought, oh-oh, this woman complimented me on my forsythia and now she’s going to disapprove of my yard which definitely wasn’t anything like when my father lived here. Of course he was retired when he was fifty and loved to work so what else would he do but steal plants and place them lovingly into the lot surrounded by weird fences also obtained for free? While I, unable to scam the government, had to actually work for a living not to mention that husband Ralph wasn’t that energetic of a guy if you get my drift. I figured Marcia was talking about the bushes that bloomed those huge white flowers in late summer because they were beautiful and were the only things on my lot that would win any prizes. I nodded my head thoughtfully in agreement with Marcia’s assessment of the hydrangea. “It’s very important.” I turned my head in response to this curt statement from my gardening neighbor. “Territory,” Marcia responded to my quizzical look. “They need to protect their young from predators. Then there is only a limited food supply in any given area and of course all the birds in the world couldn’t survive on the berries available in it. It’s a matter of life and death really.”

This was how it was with Marcia. Upon further acquaintance these odd musings wouldn’t seem odd. The first time Marcia sprung this out of nowhere I didn’t know just what to say. “You talking about the robins?” I responded, just to make sure because the comments sure had nothing to do with hydrangea or forsythia. “One year they were fighting in Bosnia. The next year it was Kosovo. Ethnic cleansing they called it. Called it terrible. But I’ll show you a mockingbird that will chase a crow out of its territory any day. They only flock together when it’s advantageous to them.” Or course ethnic Albanians were not crows and now the lady was getting into something I knew a little bit about. “We can’t have human beings slaughtering each other,” I responded with the tone of a political savant. Which I was. “Human beings will slaughter each other in a minute if it means death to them or theirs. They all will, really.” Marcia blew a breath wind up her face to dislodge some greying bangs and smiled after this statement. She was such a nice lady I really didn’t want to start my acquaintance with her with political debates which only got me into hot water anyway. “If humans had fur they wouldn’t be all over the world. Wouldn’t be so many of them either.” Marcia was stroking my cat Timber when she made this assertion. At the time she was in my house and sitting at my table. It was the first time I’d invited her inside. After my first encounter with her I considered avoiding the woman forever. “She seems to be some sort of racist,” I’d told Ralph the night of the robin fight. “Made some remark about crows that made me uncomfortable. All I need is to get involved with some kook.” Ralph agreed that Marcia sounded weird, at least from my version of events. He thought I should stay away from the woman. “Who needs the aggravation?”

Of course, Ralph thought all other people beyond me and him to be an aggravation and then sometimes he wondered about me. Timber was enjoying the stroking from Marcia which was odd in that Timber is a cat that doesn’t like anyone. Just as soon as Marcia sat down Timber bounded onto her lap. “I would think that having fur would allow humans to live in even more areas than they do now.” Marcia guffawed at my response. “How long do you think people would last living near the equator if they had fur?” “I imagine they have fur covered animals around the equator,” I shot back. “Hmmmmph,” was all Marcia said then continued on with her Timber ministrations. “It’s being able to don apparel suitable to the weather that gives the edge. Humans are all born with just skin. This way they can adapt to their own individual clime or to changes in their individual climes. We wear shorts in summer and coats in winter.” I took a sip of iced tea to ponder this. “The snowy white owl has plumage that is useful to it only in snowy climates. They evolve to better fit in a particular environment, but then are tied to that environment. You won’t find any snowy white owls around the equator. At least not for long.” There was no arguing with this. I’d never heard of a snowy white owl around the equator but then I didn’t even know they lived near the snow. “Humans have certain traits in keeping with their climate,” I finally blurted after a few seconds of thought and a mounting anger that my cat Timber was betraying me so shamelessly. Marcia raised an eyebrow.

“People from Africa have dark skins, coarse hair and thicker lips as protection from the sun. Even in Mexico and Italy the people are brown skinned. How is that humans didn’t adapt to their climes, to use your phrase?” “Well they did, of course. But an African or Mexican can live in Sweden, no problem. Even Swedes can live in Africa though they’re more prone to sun cancer. Because an African can put on a coat and a Swede can shed theirs. The vestiges of human evolution, the coarse hair or dark skin, are just that, the vestiges. Humans have evolved into one race with only minor differences.” To tell the truth I was glad to hear this analysis from Marcia mostly because I feared her to be a racist. Throughout the rumination sprung from a chance petting of a fickle cat, Marcia had made no racist slurs. I decided Marcia was an interesting person and I always liked interesting people. In the few weeks that had ed since my initial conversation with her I’d learned a little about her background. Seems she’d lived in our small community for almost nine years. My neighbor to the right thought she had once been a school teacher. The neighbor’s son said she was a widow with no children. All agreed she was a quiet, pleasant person, a delight to live near, especially with her gorgeous gardens. Garden appreciation, up until that time, had never been one of my strong suits. Since the neighbors had labeled Marcia’s gardens as “gorgeous” I paid them more mind. Someday, I pondered, I might decide to fix this yard up. Goodness knows the bare basics were already there. My father had landscaped the lot, albeit with some unusual materials, to a “tier” formation that worked well with eroding soil. All about there were some lovely bushes, obtained no doubt from middle of the night plant larceny trips. While my father wouldn’t steal from a neighbor’s yard, the highways and byways of Maryland were fair game. Then there was probably a bit of the green thumb gene within me, stirred on by Marcia and her gardens or by her knowledge of mine. Marcia’s gardens were beautiful and even a horticultural fool like me could see it. She took what was ugly and difficult about our lot configurations and made it beautiful. From the vantage of my deck I could gaze upon the whole of her back lot and wonder how she did it. Ribbons of emerald grass snaked around large oak trees. They were bordered

smartly by landscaping rails. Circling the trees in wide swaths were areas filled with nothing but dead leaves. With the different growing spots so well-defined, it made sense to fill the land around the sun stealing trees with dead leaves to prevent ugly weeds or spindly plants requiring more sun. All over and about tiny but again well-defined gardens were positioned. This one had a birdbath surrounded by a circle of pretty petunias. Over there was a diamond shaped garden filled with impatiens and ostrich ferns. The gardens positioned in the few full sun spots were planted with sun loving flowers including sunflowers, roses, dahlias and zinnias. The effect when viewed from my deck was of a beautiful floral mosaic, carved from the very earth. In spite of her remark about the crow, I couldn’t get out of my mind that anyone who could wrest this much beauty from the land must have something real good inside of them. I made it a point to start a conversation with Marcia each time she and I were out and about our gardens in tandem. After a few weeks I invited her in for a spot of iced tea. At which time the recalcitrant Timber became Romeo to Marcia’s Juliet and the first of many times Marcia served as my muse over the human condition. To the readers pondering why I’m bothering with this Marcia person, please understand early on that Marcia was every bit as important in my life as was Manny Roberts. It was as much because of Marcia as Manny that I did what I did.

Chapter 3 A Decent Man

O kay, okay, about Manny Roberts, the man who would be president. How did I discover his perversions and why would no one believe me? Why did I even care enough to do what I did? How did I get involved with him in the first place? It started when I began to look for a decent man. Actually, it didn’t have to be a man; I would have been quite happy with a decent woman. Alas men hold the power in politics and don’t let anyone tell you different. In any event, I desperately wanted something to believe in; someone who had integrity, honesty and decency. Please don’t laugh, because in spite of my experience with Manny Roberts, I still believe there are plenty of decent people in America. It’s making them believe that they too can hold a political office, that they too can be a leader. It’s a hard sell. William Jefferson Clinton was my nemesis but I must say it didn’t start with him. There was one Lyndon Baines Johnson who thought it of small import to sit in the cushy oval office and dispatch young men, teenagers really, to go fight that dirty war in Vietnam. A war that history has now told us had no plan, no end point, no nothing but to keep letting them die so that America can save face. Then the man went and implemented the infamous birthday lottery and this greatly affected my own life. For my husband of the moment (I’ve been married four times, yes, and the media has made great mention of this as if it means something) was of draftable age. We both sat glued to the television as the birthdays were announced. In an amazing bit of serendipity, our birthday, July 7, was the very first birth date pulled from the death lottery bucket. Both of us, in a smaller note of serendipity, shared the same birth date. I was female at the time of the birthday lottery and still am. At that time, only males were called for the draft. If the prize for having the winning birth date had been a million bucks believe that July 7 would have been the last number called. As it was the prize was an all-expense paid trip to

downtown Hanoi and we were not honored. I was a child of 21 years at the time but I was quite old enough to realize with a thud that the man in the oval office could, on nought but a whim, send my beloved husband off to die. The power overwhelmed me, and made me mad. It’s kind of like the shorts. Of course the shorts issue is a smaller scale issue than death in Vietnam, but it is about one man, one man’s agenda and the enforcement of this agenda on other people. I’d been working at Northern Electric for almost ten years when I was assigned to the wire shop. Northern Electric was a factory, an extremely hot factory in the summer time. And in the summers, the factory workers all wore shorts. Except in the wire shop, which was headed by a manager who didn’t like folks wearing shorts. I don’t know why this was, or even that much about the manager. I do know that everyone lied and obfuscated the real reason for the shorts ban in the wire shop. “The wires could rip off the reels at any moment and do great damage to bare legs,” one supervisor told me. “Women wearing shorts in the wire shop will distract the male workers and then we’ll have a mess,” the union steward told me. “It just looks plain unprofessional to wear shorts to work,” the human resource manager told me. A fool could easily ascertain that these were the silliest of reasons, all made stupid by the fact that employees in all of the other factory departments wore shorts in the hot summer. Those same awful things: damaged bare legs, lustcrazed male workers, and unprofessional looking employees, could just as easily happen in the other factory shops. “Jones doesn’t want anyone wearing shorts,” a co-worker whispered to me and this, I knew, was the real reason shorts were banned in the wire shop. Of all the union representatives, human resource managers and Vice-Presidents of this or that, no one could make Mr. Jones see the light as well as the unfairness of his rather arbitrary edict. But then Mr. Jones has a lot of power and

like those with power will do, he forced his preferences and wishes on those below him no mind the needs and wants of the little people actually doing the work. I, and few of my brave co-workers, decided the hell with it, we’re going to wear shorts to work. See what they do. As we concocted our little mutiny, the coworkers and I agreed that we might be suspended, maybe even fired. Still, we were going to force the issue. Perhaps all the other slavish minions were willing to eschew shorts because of Mr. Bigshot Jones sitting in his air-conditioned office, but a few rebels were going to call his bluff. Every one of us got suspended for the day. “Why couldn’t you wait until the union dealt with the issue? Why did you have to go and call the man’s bluff? As it is, we’ve been notified of your suspension and there’s nothing we can do. You did break the rules.” I didn’t care. The union steward phoned me first thing the morning of the shorts incident and read me this riot act and the whole time I listened to his telephonic rant my eyes glazed over. Not even the union, the one organization that existed to protect us put-upon workers, wanted to wrestle with the almighty Jones. It’s always all about politics and this worker discomfort was all about politics and the power of Mr. Jones. It wouldn’t do for peons such as I to buck the system. Four of us went home on suspension but I’ll tell you true, within a month Mr. Bigshot Jones issued an edict that shorts would now be allowed in the wire shop. There is no proof that our little rebellion caused this turnabout but I’m betting the farm that it did. For the very last thing any powerful individual wants is for a whole bunch of little people to start questioning their edicts. And when a small group of us did, don’t you suppose the upper management types feared yet another rebellion, perhaps involving even more employees? Wasn’t it better for them to issue the change in dress code themselves, after cornering Mr. Jones and informing him that his little quirk was no longer the law? Most importantly, in spite of all the power of Mr. Jones, the man didn’t have near as much power if, say, several hundred employees suddenly showed up in shorts and they too had to be suspended and sent home. With my buddy Lyndon Baines Johnson, a whole bunch of little people took to the streets protesting that nasty little war and know now that I was very much

one of them. So who knows, perhaps the seeds of my rebellious nature were sown that evening my father decided to give me a whipping while I washed the dishes. Or perhaps later, when that policeman was not allowed in the house. Or maybe it’s just my way, in my genes or whatever, as Marcia would submit. I only know I have but one life to live on this planet and in this country and before I accept the whims and agenda of another, it better suit me or I’m going to reject it. And I’ll never stop being amazed at the many people who accept that demanded by the more powerful with no question. How comes only four of us wore shorts that day? How comes there were in reality but a few out protesting that awful war? Between the Vietnam war and the ascent of William Jefferson Clinton I got busy working and raising a child. I definitely didn’t like Richard Milhous Nixon but his dismissal went along swimmingly and there was no need for me to get involved. I was more of a casual observer of our country’s political scene than anything else, although I always did vote. Then along comes Clinton and now everything I believed to be good and holy is thrown directly out the window. Not that my congress was any help. The senate blithely let the man go, though he lied under oath, obstructed justice and with the death of his impeachment I had to live, for the first time in my then fifty years, in a country where someone was definitely above the law. And that someone was the president of the United States. Even more amazingly, the National Organization of Woman either blatantly continued to defend the man or paid small talk to his indiscretions. The man was an absolute cretin with woman and yet, like the union before, the very organization that was supposed to protect my feminine interests proceeded with their own agenda in homage to the powerful. The same senators that were all over Nixon were now guesting on the political talk shows and defending Clinton as if the man were the archangel of goodness. The final amazement, the American public openly embraced the man with a 66% approval rating proving that the vast majority of humankind will follow a leader blindly, not daring to question those with power.

No one protested the actions of Clinton and in particular his especially smarmy wife, more than me. I was all over the Internet complaining about the man. For my trouble I was attacked even by other peon folks like myself. I also was the victim of a scare campaign I’m convinced was orchestrated by the White House that involved threatening email, scary phone calls and the eventual planting of a bomb in my mailbox. It was like living in a third world country governed by a two-bit dictator. Though I’d never thought it would happen in America, I could now see how despots get elected and remain in power. It’s the little people that let it happen, just as the little people continued to wear long pants in the wire shop. For through it all, William Jefferson Clinton had one and only one thing on his side and it wasn’t partisan senators and lying women’s organizations. It was his popularity with the citizenry who didn’t want their lives disrupted for a greater good. Believe that if Clinton’s popularity fell down to the 20% level, the man would have been removed from office, pure and simple. Ah but my Clinton woes didn’t lead to my ultimate act but in only an indirect matter. My disgust did, however, cause me to seek a bright light, a greater truth, a leader who was not compromised by hidden agendas and displaced loyalties. Enter Manny Roberts. I’d known Manny for almost ten years before he decided to enter politics. Truth is, I was as surprised as anyone when Manny’s name was right there on my voting ballot in a bid for my representative from the state of Maryland. Last I’d heard from Manny he was an ing manager for a local car dealership. At the time I was his bookkeeper. “Manny Roberts! You him, he was my boss at the Born’s BMW dealership! He’s running for the House of Representatives.” Ralph squinted his eyes at my reminder in that manner of memory retrieval. I tapped my foot impatiently until dawn would break over his marble head. “Little guy? Wears bow ties?” “That’s him. There his name was on the ballot. How come you didn’t tell me he was running?” “Why would I even have known who he was? Besides, he’s a Republican. I don’t pay attention to Republicans.”

Not that it was on Ralph to tell me who the candidates were but we did have an unspoken tradition around here. Ralph would read the local papers and keep me abreast on who was doing what to whom while I would peruse the “Big” papers on the Internet. Once Ralph gave me the lowdown I would narrow my choices down based on Ralph’s analysis and hone in on their activities, platforms, etc via the same boring local papers. Unlike Ralph, I had no particular aversion to Republicans though I didn’t especially like them. I didn’t especially like Democrats either and in either case there is no ideological reason. So far as I was, and still am, concerned, the two party system replaces the greater good with party agendas. From this political setup a national leader would ascend, a person supposed to insure what’s best for everyone in the country. Instead we get what’s best for the party. But Manny was different. If anyone was definitely not a Republican it was Manny. I not only voted for him in my surprise. The next day I called him. “I voted for you last night you rascal. I had no idea you were running for the House of Representatives.” There was no mistaking Manny’s booming chuckle at the other end of the phone line. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about you ever since I started my campaign. how you used to go on about how you would run a campaign? I even thought of calling you a couple of times but figured, nah, you wouldn’t be interested. How the hell you been?” My heart fluttered a bit in excitement. Was Manny kidding? He was really going to call me about running his campaign? I’d have jumped at the chance. Indeed, I wasn’t about to let this opportunity me by. “Well it’s not too late to appoint me to head your presidential bid,” I said playfully, but serious too. “Whoa,” Manny boomed. “Let me learn my way around the House of Representatives first. Right now no one’s even heard of Manny Roberts. I do intend to change all that.”

“What’s this Republican nonsense?” Manny chuckled again. “Hey, I had some backers in the Republican party. Things aren’t quite as pristine as you and I would like in this world of politics, Georgette. Still, you know what kind of guy I am. I have no intention of following any partisan agenda.” “It was Jack, right?” There was a pause and the telephone line cackled. “Yes, it was Jack. Finally talked me into it. He wanted to get that tax- happy Democrat out of there. Guy raised the inventory tax three times. It was killing the car business. But I told him there would be no special car dealer legislation. I did promise to quit raising the inventory tax and this was only fair after all.” The conversation took on a lull as I pondered my next move. “Hey listen, you got my phone number. You got my email address. When the time comes, phone me up. For all those times we discussed and dreamed of a better world, let’s finally make it happen. When you get antsy and decide to run for the big job, give me a call. Together, as they say, we can change the world.” Manny rang off. I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and went out on the front porch for reminiscing. A titmouse flew onto a nearby deck rail and I real quick grabbed my hairs. In the two plus years since I’d made friendship with Marcia I’d learned quite a bit about birds, indeed even the gardens themselves. Spurred on by Marcia and my father’s death, I took a leaf blower to the lot and discovered all sorts of neat things growing below and those that weren’t growing I learned how to plant. In the course of becoming my new gardener self, I met a few of the yard birds of which gang these round-eyed little titmouses were very much a part. Cute birds, all big-eyed and looking guilty every time they snatched a seed from the feeder. What with all the birds and everything, of course I had to have some bird feeders. Titmouses love hair, human, dog, cat, it was no mind. Liked to line their nests with it, soft on the eggs. Given a chance the birds will land right on your head and try to pluck a hair. Mostly the titmouses stole hair from my old dog Millie. On one occasion a titmouse tried to steal my head hairs and I had a panic attack

cum the day of the robins. Marcia witnessed this bird attack as well. As per normal, she had a logical explanation for yet more bird obsession with my hair. “These birds used to hang around fire houses, back in the time when fire trucks were drawn by horses. They would pluck the hairs from the horse’s mane. No horses around here so they were trying to get themselves some human hairs.” I was still swatting my head in the event errant titmouses should still be within. Just a few moments before I’d been innocently sitting on my front porch when the bird flew on the porch rail adjacent to where I sat. I smiled at the little female bird who regarded something on the top of my head with much curiosity. By this time I no longer lived in fear of the birds but to have one attack my person caused me some angst. Suddenly the titmouse flies directly at my head and Marcia would have been proud. I remained still, curious as to what the bird wanted, yet understandably cautious. Birds flying onto one’s head was odd, even here in this odd place. A thrill raced down my spine from where the bird’s feathers brushed in her flight to my head. That was more than I could take. I ran, brushing my head and screaming in that manner of the robins. Same as the robins, there was Marcia, standing by her fence and laughing at me. This time I knew the type of bird that attacked me and this time I screamed at Marcia why on earth the titmouses had suddenly taken to attacking my head. That’s when Marcia told me about the titmouse and horse’s hair. So when the titmouse lighted on the deck rail the day I spoke to Manny Roberts I reacted quite normally by hiding my hair. Then I don’t know, maybe you had to be there. “It’s about making a decision for the greater good and not being afraid of implement it. It requires courage, believe it.” Manny and I were discussing leadership this first day of any sort of serious, nonwork discussion. I’d taken to entertaining my co-workers with rants about Slick Willie and the outrages he and his gang of goons were inflicting on the nation. Manny, God love him and I’ll always him for this one good thing, intensely disliked William Jefferson Clinton. In the midst of my rants Manny would often me, adding his fuel to the debate fire so much that not one coworker would dare to say even one good thing about Clinton. We’d just delivered yet another mortal blow to the sales manager who’d informed us that Ken Starr had that prior evening proclaimed “President Clinton and the first

lady” innocent of any complicity in the White House filegate scandal. The sales manager was quoting yet another White House flackie who’d wrangled a post on that morning’s Today show and actually made that outrageous statement. “I watched Starr’s testimony before congress and the man did no such thing,” I rebutted Jake, the sales manager who was a bit of a nerd and most times didn’t care all that much about Clinton or anything else on the national scene. He merely had a Today sound bite quote and wanted to bait me. “He cleared only the “President” of any misdeeds in filegate. Starr made no mention of the first lady in this absolution. In fact, he pointedly made reference to “other possible White House involvement” with the scandal. Any fool knew he was referring to Hellary,” Manny said, surprising me by suddenly appearing to my right and ing in with my rebut. Jake sputtered and said right on his TV screen just this morn was the Clinton lawyer who stated that both the Clintons had been cleared by Starr. He then spun and headed back to his office, having recited the truth according to Katie Couric that any fool also should know is modern arbiter of truth no mind the actual facts. “The White House is notorious for this,” I sputtered to Manny a few moments later. “They get on some well-watched program and just spout outright lies. People like Jake, whose only source of encapsulated news is probably the Today show hear this and believe it like the gospel.” Manny shuffled some papers on his desk in silence. “They have the bully pulpit,” Manny said after a moment. “It’s only natural that the President should have access to the national media. I’m not saying other Presidents haven’t skirted the truth in such national dialogue, but this White House’s outright lies are even more scary, and the media mostly lets them get away with it.” Manny stopped and sipped some coffee. I assumed a seat by his desk both for discussion of daily work duties and continuation of the subject then upon. “I saw that little interview with Greg Craig this morning,” Manny said, placing his coffee mug firmly on desk for emphasis. “Tim Russert, the interviewer, didn’t even correct Craig. He made some soft remark that the first lady being

cleared was not ‘exactly what Starr said’, and that was the end of it. Russert should have been all over Craig, quoting Starr’s remarks directly and forcing him into the truth. Instead, he makes this lame sotto remark and the White House skates again with another lie because the news people, the very people supposed to guard against such deceit, allowed it to happen. And to happen on a program with the largest national audience.” I sipped some coffee in silence, pondering that yet again the ones “supposed” to protect us didn’t protect us at all. “What’s their agenda? Why didn’t Russert call Craig on this statement? Why would a nationally known news guy like Russert not do what you would think would be in his genes- exploding political lies?” Manny raised an eyebrow and regarded me with consideration. He took a long sip of coffee while I searched his face for the reason. “Because Craig would go on ‘Good Morning, America” next time, though I’m sure they had another Clinton spokesman on there repeating the spin. Still,” Manny said, thumping his coffee mug on his desk yet again, “they wouldn’t get the guests. They wouldn’t get invited to the parties. They’d be personna non grata and that’s the worst thing. It’s hard to call down a presidential spokesman when there’s none that will appear on your program.” Manny and I talked a bit more about leadership and s receivable. It was the first of many of our little political bull sessions and in time we formed a bond. In fact, Manny was already involved in politics albeit on a very local level. He was very active in his home owners’ association, and represented the car dealership in many associations and organizations. Without more intimate association, the casual observer would perceive Manny to be a wheeler-dealer, the sort who cavorts with the powerful endlessly. Jack Born, the owner of this dealership and many others, hired Manny to be the Controller but in realty Manny was the dealership’s major lobbyist. I was the one who ran the day to day ing operations. Manny did, indeed, strike me as a political gadabout even from the first interview before he hired me. Given the proximity of our jobs, in time we became friends and in time I discovered that Manny and I shared many common political beliefs. The man was much more conservative than one would think, and he was much more than a shallow glad-

hander first impressions would leave. Manny and I had many a political discussion in that cramped office of his. Another thing that attracted me to Manny was the total lack of any sexuality between us. At first sight this might seem a strange statement but it springs from many and varied personal experiences. For I’d sprung from teenager to adult woman directly in an era when women pushed to change their image from Donna Reed and sex object to respected and intelligent human being. As with most cultural transformations, the change was slow and never fully accomplished for my money, even today. I’d had plenty of male supervisors that thought nothing of running their hands of my legs or outright hinting at a workplace affair. Perhaps there are women who think this sort of thing to be a compliment but I never did. Though the media made much about my many marriages, I was very much a faithful wife with no interest in extraneous affairs that would add nothing to my married life. The distance I felt I had to keep between myself and any male supervisor was not necessary with Manny. Manny was very much in love with his wife and what the heck, I was very much in love with my husband at the time. We were two people, that’s all, two people who worked together and shared some political commentary. I’d often josh with Manny that he should run for a political office. At the time I’d just began to dream of becoming a writer and Manny thought I was good at it. I told him I’d do a hell of a job running a political campaign and that he should me when he’s ready to do the deed. I quit that job at the car dealership for better funds. Then there were more jobs and I kept going for bigger bucks. Manny Roberts and I lost until I voted for him to represent my district in the House of Representatives then paid him a phone call some eight years after we’d worked together. Only Manny was now a Republican and was apparently pushed to election by Jack Born, owner of many car dealerships. These facts should have foreshadowed the change in Manny Roberts from independent thinker to politician with an agenda but, silly me, this was still a time when I believed people meant what they said. It was before I realized that people will state what they think other people want to hear more than what they really think, is what I’m saying here.

And I believed that Manny was the man who railed against lying presidential representatives and mis-used bully pulpits. I believed that Manny was a leader who would lead toward a greater good. Too late I learned that there was a reason Manny didn’t me to work on his campaign and in a sober note, in his own way he was looking out for me. But I pushed it, calling him up and begging him to let me in on his campaign. Within two years Manny took me up on my offer and the rest, as they say, is history.

Chapter 4 Sky

T he story of Sky Logan is of more import beyond being the daughter of a mother who committed a well-publicized federal crime. For Sky Logan, I would submit, is a product of her time. Sky grew up in an era when there was no such thing as being “bad”; a time when there was no personal ability; a time when it took a village to raise a child and in the case of Sky, the village very much got snookered. This is not to discount the impact of Sky’s experiences as they impacted my own, including the constant angst then upon and a desperation to stop the insanity that led to my later actions. Yes, the child’s name is really Sky though some pundits have remarked on the coincidence of her name and the nature of my crime. Pshaw on this. I christened her Sky because the moment I held her in my arms I noticed her eyes were the color of a brilliant spring sky. She was also born at the tail end of my hippie era and such unusual names were all the rage and I too was a victim of celebrity suggestion. Frank Zappa named his daughter Moon, for goodness sake, and the moment a celebrity wears a designer dress or gives their kids weird names for sure there will be a national stampede for peons to do the same. Though I swear it was her eye color that inspired her name, it might well have been suggested by Zappa’s incredibly cool name for his daughter and if it was okay for him it was surely meant that the likes of I would follow the lead. Sky was very much a planned child. She was born in my twenty-seventh year, perfect age to have a child. I was then properly college educated, ensconced in a well-paying job, owner of a home and as dictated by nationally accepted standards, it was time to reproduce. I was also legitimately married to her father, who also had two children by a prior marriage. Steve’s children were teenagers when Sky was born. Though he’d experienced having a baby before, Steve told me he especially enjoyed having this experience again, at a time when he didn’t have to work three jobs to raise a family.

My parents had long since remarried other, more appropriate partners. Thus I had two sets of parents giving Sky four sets of grandparents and surrogates on her maternal side. Steve’s parents, while they had other grandchildren, were also now able to enjoy a new grandchild more than they could those born while they were still working at a daily employment. Along with my full brother and sister of earlier misbehavior fame, I had a slew of half siblings then add to this Steve’s teenaged children who loved their new little sister and here was a child welcomed by a host of relatives starved for the laugh of a toddler. Sky was a child who slid effortlessly into a world full of happy humans who couldn’t wait to kiss, cuddle and coo a new human life so long ago enjoyed. I was, of course, a loving mother who envisioned a life full of mother-daughter outings, long and lusty bull sessions, and the occasional heartbreak that would heal with tears shed upon a concerned mother’s shoulder. If Sky wasn’t the sickliest baby thrust upon the planet than I can imagine no other. While I had visited a medical doctor but once in my childhood and that for a nail stuck in my foot, Sky was a regular at the Pediatrician and hospital emergency room. “I’ve never seen a child so sickly,” I often remarked to Steve who, God love him, never complained when he had to leave work to take Sky from daycare to a pediatric appointment. We were a modern couple, Steve and I. We sometimes flipped a coin to determine who would take off work for the next medical crisis. She certainly was born healthy enough, weighing in at a hefty eight and one half pounds. According to all the medical personnel, Sky was a perfect baby, sure to experience nought but a life of good health. The first time she fainted, I thought she’d died. I was changing the child on the bed. Sky was six months old at the time. In that manner of babies just learning to roll about, Sky promptly rolled off the bed directly onto a concrete slab thinly cushioned by a shag carpet. In that manner of mothers who knew no better, I’d turned my head for but a second to fetch a needed item immediately before Sky took her plunge. The fall was a short one and though woefully inexperienced as a mother, even with the six months I had I knew the child couldn’t have been too seriously hurt. Sky did let out a ferocious yell upon impact. I picked her up for comfort. Give

her a few moments, I figured, to cry it out, then check the head for nasty bumps. Only Sky didn’t quite finish crying it out. Initially she’d taken a large gulp of air and held her breath with the strength of her cry. Without making another sound, the child simply collapsed in my arms. Then followed panicked calls to 911, screams that the baby had just died, and frantic rushes to the accident locale by father and siblings. Sometime in the middle of all this chaos not to mention a 911 operator anxiously awaiting directions to my home, Sky revived and continued her sobbing as if never interrupted. “Evidently the baby fainted,” I told her father a few hours later. “I’ve never seen anyone faint in my life.” “Rachel and John used to faint when they were younger. My mother told me I would occasionally faint as a child.” This revelation from Steve surprised me. So Sky might have some sort of hereditary condition that she should grow out of? In fact, when Sky was only three years old, her father died. He was only thirtynine at the time. This medical exposition on the many illnesses of Sky Logan has no direct relation to my deed. If I’ve laid out a scenario of a child born into a family of welcoming relatives but perhaps prone to some sort of hereditary tendency to illness, than this was my intent. The eighteen years that followed the death of Sky’s father are more germane to the tale then the background. For one Sky Logan wended her way directly into the bowel’s of this country’s health care system and the result is a bizarre one indeed. In fact, Sky’s story is more revealing than all the weird conversations with Marcia Wood and the many lessons given to me by Manny Roberts. Hers is a story about an individual totally addicted to attention and the yeoman’s effort of the many agencies, health care providers and school personnel, who did everything possible to fulfill that lust. Sky’s real problem has never been diagnosed, even at the date of this writing. It is perhaps by my actions that Sky will finally get that which she has always desired: the entire world gazing upon her with sympathy and love. After this book is released for publication, the gag order will be lifted on Sky. Look for her to grace your television screens with her

beautiful presence. Look for her to tell you tales so impossibly sad that you will ban your children from the watching. Look for huge blue eyes that well with glistening tears with precision timing and precision style. Consider that everything she will tell you will most likely be a lie. The suspicions started with the many strep throats. And they didn’t begin in ernest until Sky was almost twelve years old. By this time I had gotten married to my current husband, Ralph. There was another husband squeezed between Sky’s father and Ralph but that marriage was a disaster of epic proportions. Yes, poor half-orphaned Sky suffered this bad marriage along with me and yes she then had to adjust to yet another step-father. No one ever promised her a rose garden. I always kept Sky with me. This was a child who was loved and she was the focus of my life. No matter what Sky should ever tell you, believe that I was a widowed, divorced woman raising my child and raising her the best that I could. I never left her alone, I never physically punished her and I never put my own needs above hers. While certainly not perfect, I was more an average woman, struggling to work and struggling to provide. Ralph, Sky and me were settled into our new house for almost two years. Sky had been ed at her new school for about the same amount of time. We’d all adapted to the changes and life was going along as well as could be. Out of nowhere, Sky began to suffer a rash of sicknesses. First, it was the strep throats. Child got them constantly. We were forever rushing Sky to the doctor, often to the hospital emergency room. The healthcare system in this country had transitioned quite a bit in the time between Sky’s babyhood and her pre- adolescence. When Sky was a baby, I had to pay for all office visits and prescriptions. Steve Logan had a Blue Cross plan, but it was used only for hospital stays. It was not meant to be any sort of extended health care plan beyond paying for expensive time in a hospital. Folks like me simply had a medical budget and part of our normal living expenses consisted of these sorts of medical costs. Then HMO’s became all the rage and now such as doctor visits and prescriptions were part and parcel of the medical care provided. Americans began to expect some sort of complete health care plan, in fact a health care plan that never cost them a penny beyond their share of their medical coverage’s payroll deduction.

I’d submit that the fact that all doctor visits were essentially free caused Sky’s real disorder to go unsuspected. For we too now had an HMO medical plan, in keeping with the trend of the times. “You don’t think all of these strep throats a bit odd?” Ralph asked me one evening after an especially harrowing day that involved me getting off work to pick up Sky from school after yet another call from the school nurse. Ralph Robinson has no children. I met him on a chance visit to his store’s parts department seeking a part for my cranky furnace. Ralph is a friendly, shy and low-key kind of guy. We’ve been married by this writing for almost eighteen years. You’ll never see Ralph on any of the talk shows, spilling the beans on his weird wife. This is because Ralph Robinson is one unusual human being; a fellow that has absolutely no need for extraneous attention. Childless though he was, Ralph enthusiastically undertook the raising of Sky. Like her real father had, Ralph assumed responsibility for the care and upkeep of Sky Logan as much as me. It was Ralph who would interrupt his work days to pick up a sickly Sky from her school. It was Ralph who shared my nightly angst over this sick child and it was Ralph who endured the humiliation foisted upon us by a social system geared to discover every ailment known to man and some not invented yet. That would be excepting the ailment of outright fakery. This was something none of the agencies wanted to consider. “Well, I don’t know,” I responded to the rhetorical query on the strep throats. “I guess it is odd. You or I never get a strep throat. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had a strep throat in my life.” “Yet Sky’s had six in as many months,” Ralph replied, his raised eyebrow a physical explanation point. For a few moments I pondered this. It was the first time one of us had dared to voice the suspicions we’d begun to have. Over the prior year Sky had begun to faint frequently. She also had those many strep throats and then migraine headaches had become the norm. Because of her many visits to her school’s health room, Sky became great friends with the school nurse, a woman who later became my and Ralph’s mortal enemy. Sky was, I mused at the time, in great pain because of her illnesses. This wasn’t

a fun thing going on and a peer down her throat often revealed pockets of pus that obviously were not fake. I hauled Sky to the HMO, then to all sorts of specialists, then to more specialists. No one could ever find a thing wrong with the child. “How could she possibly give herself strep throats?” I finally responded. The very idea was horrendous to me. I considered Ralph way off base here and then as well as many times thereafter, I called him mean-spirited. “Then let me ask you this,” Ralph countered, “how is she able to use the computer when she has such a raging migraine?” I looked at Ralph like he was crazy. Why couldn’t someone use the computer with a migraine? Not that I had any experience with migraines. I could count on the fingers of one hand how many headaches of any kind I’d ever had in my entire life. “Listen, I’ve done a little checking around myself. People with migraines usually can’t stand any kind of light, especially the glare of a computer screen. Yet we rush her to the hospital with an out-of-control migraine then she comes right home and gets on the computer. I think something’s fishy.” It would appear that Sky’s gig was up so far as Ralph was concerned. I wasn’t so easily convinced. Took me six more years to be convinced but by then there was certainly enough evidence to make the case. The so-called “tilt table” test was first to raise my suspicions. Sky was, by her early teens fainting, suffering migraines and catching endless strep throat infections. “We need to ascertain if she has vaso-vagal syndrome.” Seems this syndrome causes people to suddenly faint for no evident reason. Something about a heart valve closing too sudden like. “What we’ll do is strap Sky to a special table. We monitor her heart, lungs and blood pressure. Then we ‘tilt’ the table in different manners to cause her blood to rush to her head, feet, etc. We can then determine if she has vaso-vagal and treat her accordingly.”

It sounded strange to me but the HMO was paying for everything so why not? Sky had a seizure on the tilt table. I didn’t even know a thing, sitting in the handsome waiting room all ensconced in a magazine. The doctor came out to give me the news. He was pale and shaking. “Not to worry,” he told me, wiping a brow and now giving me concern. “Sky’s fine but we did have to call in the emergency room. She had a seizure on the table. I’ve never seen such a thing happen before. Nothing unusual happened as far as the blood pressure and respiratory monitors reveal. What I’d like to do is schedule this same test but with an Neurologist on hand and Sky wired up for an EEG.” I was by now quite alarmed and readily agreed. Again Sky had a seizure. She was by now wired to a brain monitor. I was certain they would find something wrong with Sky’s brain. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Sky’s brain.” The Neurologist’s words bounced off of my ears in disbelief. “The EEG ed no abnormal brain activity. As before, the blood pressure and respiratory monitors showed nothing untoward.” “Are you telling me that Sky faked a seizure.” The Neurologist busied herself with some charts. “I’m not saying this exactly,” the doctor said, eyes not meeting mine in a manner I considered dishonest. “Sometimes people get so nervous at any medical procedure that they panic. Maybe something else caused her seizure.” Hard as it was for me to believe, the physician actually shrugged her shoulders. If the doctors were shrugging their shoulders what was a non-medical person like myself supposed to do? “What else that wasn’t monitored would cause a seizure? They had her hooked to a heart, lung, brain and blood pressure monitor. As for being nervous, please, Sky was a veteran of medical tests. Sometimes I could swear she enjoyed them.

How can I handle this if you won’t it she was faking?” “I’m not prepared to state the child was faking. I am a Neurologist and I am prepared to say there was nothing abnormal about her brain wave activity.” So that, one can see, was that. Kid faked a seizure in front of a whole bunch of health care workers but none of them wanted to it it. When she was fourteen, Sky got pregnant. Again, bizarre. Lied about this directly to my face when she was eight months along. And to think she almost had me believing her! “I’ve been eating a lot.” Sky’s response to my concerns over her huge belly didn’t seem to strike any truth chord. When one overeats, one gains weight all over, not just in the belly. Sky had spent the entire summer living with her brother. Her brother was by then married and a responsible adult. He had a small child himself and Sky could help with the child care duties. And Sky adored her nephew. There was no way I could trust Sky to remain alone that summer of her fourteenth year. I’ve always maintained that the years parents should stay home with their children were the adolescent ones. Take the babies to daycare, it’s the teenagers that need a watchful eye upon them at all times. The arrangement I made with Sky’s brother suited us all. She didn’t get pregnant while living with her brother. Sky was already pregnant when she kissed me goodbye a sunny June day when leaving to spend the summer helping with her nephew. By the time she returned home in early September, her belly was round and large. The day following her return I was driving the highway, content that Sky was back home and that school would be starting soon. The image of Sky’s big belly flashed through my driving vision and I abruptly pulled the car to the left. A pregnancy test, I thought. Just let me give the child a pregnancy test and what could it hurt?

I stood directly over Sky as she contributed the urine sample. Couldn’t risk her using dog urine or some similar ruse. The stick turned a bright blue. For three days the child declared she never had sex with anyone. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I might be the grandmother of the next Christ child what with my virgin, pregnant daughter. “It might have been Timmy,” Sky sobbed in confession. “We were laying on the couch together watching TV. I fell asleep and when I woke up he was on top of me.” I quizzed Sky more on the logistics of such as underwear and sexual organs upon this awakening. “I don’t nothing, Mom. He might have done something while I was sleeping but I don’t anything.” Imagine a male having an entire sexual intercourse episode with a sleeping partner and the sleeping partner does not even stir. This on a little couch and a partner that was ostensibly a virgin. And she wouldn’t feel this? “I think she got pregnant on purpose,” Ralph said later. I called him meanspirited once again. What 14 year old would get pregnant on purpose for goodness sake? “Then why not tell you? Why keep it a secret until way beyond any chance of an abortion should that be the choice?” “She was probably terrified, Ralph. I don’t believe for a minute that this Timmy raped her while she slept. But I can understand that young girls could panic and ignore the increasing signs of pregnancy.” “What’s your plan?” “Why I’m going to arrange a private adoption, of course. Sky might want to throw her life down the toilet but I’m determined I’m going to stop her.” It was a horrible experience. At least for me. Sky appeared to be having the time

of her life. We arranged for Sky to be seen immediately by what else, an HMO physician. I then responded to an ad in the paper placed by a couple seeking a private adoption. The school arranged for Sky to attend classes until her baby was born. The adoptive mother to be took Sky to all her pre-natal classes. For a pregnant 14 year old, Sky was certainly displaying little angst. First we found the note. “Do you notice anything different about me?’ “No, what?” “Look at my stomach.” “Looks fat.” “Look again.” The words were written in alternating pen colors. It was evidently a note Sky was ing back and forth with a classmate. The child was advertising her pregnancy! Then she was all over the Internet. Ralph did some digging and discovered Sky was posting to some medical newsgroup, bragging about how she was going to have a baby and how she was going to keep it. We also found some interesting posts made by our Sky. Seems she had muscular dystrophy and also was being treated for brain cancer. It got so bad Ralph had to put up a post stating that everything Sky had written was a lie. She was driven off the board by the outrage of those she had fooled. We survived the birth of the baby. Only now Sky had every reason in the world to suffer severe depression. It was only expected what with having given up a baby for adoption and all. Came the time when Sky began to threaten suicide. “Yet another ailment that can’t be proved.”

This time I didn’t call Ralph mean-spirited. This time I began to consider that maybe Ralph had a point. In the aftermath of the adoption the school nurse made great effort to avail herself to Sky in her sorrow. At first I was very thankful for the extra effort by Nurse Slobosky. “She’s got me concerned. I think you ought to come and take her to a mental health professional immediately.” It was Nurse Slobosky who phoned me with the first of Sky’s many suicide threats. Of course I left my job and got Sky the professional help she needed. Then began a long course of visits to the psychiatrist, suicide threats and the eventual ission of Sky to a mental hospital. Sky’s trip through the mental health system of our state is a long and tortuous one. The result of all this, still in effect as of this writing, is strange, weird and beyond comprehension. If you think Sky was right smart at faking seizures, wait until you discover how she twisted the mental health workers around her finger.

Chapter 5 Death of a father

P arents of middle-aged people die every day. The death of my own father would not, on its surface, appear to be much different than most. The man always had a weak heart though he worked like a plough horse most of his life. Even when he finally suffered the heart attack that eventually killed him he still refused to go gently into that good night. The emergency room doctors managed to save his life though we were informed he was most likely a vegetable due to the length of time his brain went without oxygen. It took him a week to die and the wait was grueling, as much as from the observation of our dying father as from the impossibility of the family from hell trying, in vain, to form some sort of familial solidarity. There was my older sister, Jane, a would-be yuppie. My younger brother, Joe, was and still is, a total, nut case, purely and simply. My half-brother, Mike, was the child of my father and step-mother. We’d never been any sort of family and our vigil over our father’s deathbed formed no miracle bonds. It was more the same old, the same old. First Joe and his mentally deficient wife insisted on hanging around and this was too strange. “He promised me his lot in Florida,” was the constant refrain from Joe the entire six days our father languished near death. Which meant not a thing to any of us because how did we know if such a thing was true? And even if it was true, before the man had taken his last breath was not the time for such a discussion. Then Joe and Shirley never had any class. Joe was the spit image of our father and this is no compliment. Joe was also a carpenter like his Dad before him. He also liked to do that bite your tongue thing and this is almost as funny as pathetic. While I hadn’t suffered so many whippings at the hand of my father, Joe received quite a few. Some of them were brutal as I was often a witness. Then Joe was probably the worst behaved child

in all the world and his transgressions were downright obscene. Joe often pooped in his pants. I speak not of a three or four year old Joe. Joe pooped his pants up until he was 16 and most likely beyond. I myself witnessed a pant pooping incident that made no sense. We were working on yet another “fixer-upper” that my father had purchased. Joe was spackling sheet rock while I was across the room painting woodwork. I was stretching my back when I noticed Joe standing rigid with a very unusual look on his face. Joe was 13 at the time so I had to be at least 15. Suddenly something falls from below Joe’s pants cuff and I notice him hurriedly reach down to retrieve before someone sees it. It was a turd and it took me a few seconds to realize it. Right there in public the guy drops a turd, even with his pants on. Joe and I always had this thing going that we constantly tattled on each other. I was about to scream to my father that Joe had just pooped his pants. Joe held his finger to his lips as his eyes silently begged me not to tell. I didn’t tell our father because, quite frankly, I was too embarrassed to even it in the form of a tattle that my 13 year old brother pooped his pants. All through Joe’s adolescence my father and stepmother wrestled with Joe’s poop problem. They were always finding sheets and underwear filled with dried poop. This would make most people quite mad because no matter the teenage angst within, surely such as pooping pants could be controlled. Then he was forever in trouble at school. He also liked to climb out of his window late into the night and drive around in the family’s car. At the age of 16 he got himself involved with a middle-aged lady down the road. It was allegedly a sexual thing. By this time I had left home to live on my own so I only have my stepmother’s version of events. My father whipped Joe constantly and I suppose this wasn’t a good thing. But I know that this was a child who was bad beyond any normal definition of badness. As an adult and myself a parent to a child with her own unusual transgressions, I must ask: “Just how does a parent handle a perpetually bad child?” My older sister was also bad in some unusual ways though she maintained a more prim and proper image. First, Jane absolutely hated me. I read the poetic tomes on sisters and wonder how come I had such a mean one.

Believe it. The bitch was mean, plain and simple. Oddly, I always tried to please her. Jane always fancied herself to have oodles of class. Which she didn’t. A person with class does not pee in their younger sister’s boot or in her bobby pin jar. Yes she did and I don’t know why. The bobby pin jar was an ornate thing that I used to store my bobby pins. One day I reached into the jar to obtain a hair fastener and guess what I dipped my hand directly into? Right. A jar full of Jane’s pee. Of course I ranted and raved and directly accused her because who else would have done it? We were sharing the same bedroom at the time, a basement affair. It simply wasn’t likely that either my mother or stepfather, who we were living with at the time, would have stolen down to our basement bedroom to pee in a bobby pin jar. The boot incident happened when I we were again sharing a bedroom, this time living with my father and stepmother. I donned my boot because the season’s first snow storm blew in during the night. Guess what I dipped my entire foot directly into? Right again. A boot full of Jane’s pee. In both cases the bathroom was some distance away from our bedroom. A night time bathroom visit did require crossing some area but it’s not like we had an outhouse or anything. Anyway, *I* always made it to the bathroom in the middle of the night so it’s not like it was impossible. In any event it never occurred to me to take something of Jane’s and pee in it. Then there was the time I scrubbed the entire kitchen floor; this in an effort to please Jane. It was our job to scrub the kitchen floor and no matter how I did it, it never pleased Jane. She’d always grab the brush from my hand and re-do everything I did. One morning I arose early in the morn. I filled the bucket with soapy water and proceeded to methodically scrub the kitchen floor before Jane awoke. I figured she’d be so pleased. And I really, really tried to do a good job. When I heard Jane stirring I rushed upstairs to tell her to come see. I wasn’t quite done the floor when Jane came down. I told her to go ahead and fix a bowl of cereal and I would finish up the floor. Jane sat at the table eating her cereal while I continued, on my hands and knees, to scrub the floor. I was

scrubbing under the table where Jane was eating. So proud I was. In fact Jane did compliment me on my efforts and this spurred me to work harder. Suddenly, right while I was below Jane’s chair, she dumps her entire bowl of cereal on my head. “That entire corner still has marks all over it. You never could do anything right.” Well I just cried my eyes out, mostly from yet another failure to please Jane but also due to the milk and cornflakes on my head. Jane wasn’t bad in the same sense as Joe. She did like to hook school and she always had a whole slew of boyfriends who hung around like male dogs when a bitch is in heat. Though to hear Jane even today you’d swear she was still a virgin. She got pregnant at age 16, dropped out of school and went on to have two more babies with as many different fathers before she was 20. When I finally hit my own adulthood I avoided Jane. I didn’t like her and there’s no law anywhere that says you have to like a sister who peed in your boot and dumped cereal on your head. Besides Jane always found a way to deride me, even as an adult. I never dressed right, I was lazy, I didn’t know how to act. And though this missive might sound as if I had Jane’s number, I didn’t. I took her mockery to be true and accepted my station as a second-class citizen who didn’t have a lick of class. I experienced another strange incident with Jane that carried on into adulthood and became an issue with her children. When I was 14 Jane invited me to spend the summer with her. By then she had a live-in boyfriend and two little girls, ages 2 and 4. Evidently I was a good enough babysitter and Jane regularly sought my services. “Let’s go down to the Green Dolphin tonight.” At the tender age of 14, such as the Green Dolphin were foreign countries. Jane, however, was an afficionado of area night clubs. Though I was underage, Jane managed to get me some fake ID and there I was, all dolled up by Jane’s hand, dancing at some nightclub or another with men twice or three times my age. “What about Sharon and Susie?”

Jane’s two daughters were entirely too young to be left alone and besides, it was my job to watch them. So far as I was concerned Jane could go to the Green Dolphin herself and I would stay home and babysit. Jane’s lifestyle of nightclub hopping was uncomfortable to me. However Jane didn’t have another female pal lined up to accompany her and in this pinch her little sister would have to do. “They’ll be all right. We’ll put them to bed and after they’re asleep we’ll sneak out.” This shocked me a bit. I didn’t think it was a good idea to leave two babies alone like that but hey, Jane was their mother and I figured she knew what was best. We did get the girls to sleep and managed to slip out quietly from Jane’s apartment. Just as Jane was pulling out from the parking space, I saw little Sharon open the curtains and peek out. The parking pad was located directly in front of the patio, fronted by a sliding glass door. Evidently Sharon was not asleep and got out of bed after we left. The poor child looked like a frightened deer as the headlights from Jane’s car hit her terrified face. “We have to go back.” “No, they’ll be all right.” I was but a young teenager at the time and some would argue that even as an adult my maternal instincts were not the best. But I was beside myself with worry about those two little girls. I shut up though, because again I figured Jane knew best. Then as we pulled out of the parking lot we saw two police cars flash past us, both with blue lights blinking. They turned into the apartment complex and now I was terrified. “Something’s happened,” I shouted. “We have to go back.” Jane just smiled and drove on. This time I was not going to shut up. I begged Jane to turn around. Which she did. There were no police cars in front of Jane’s apartment and it appeared that Sharon had gone back to bed. Jane never even went inside to check on them but there was no Sharon peeking from behind the curtain either.

We both spent the night dancing away at the Green Dolphin. It was during that same summer that I had a confrontation with Jane’s live-in boyfriend and I still think I was in the right. Susan, Jane’s youngest daughter, was two years old and not yet toilet trained. One day Susan peed her pants. Richard, Jane’s boyfriend and eventual father of Jane’s last child, decided Susie need a lesson. He sat that little baby on the toilet, without the seat being down. As small as the child was and with no seat surrounding the toilet, the baby had to hold onto the rim of the toilet with all of her might to keep from falling in. At first I didn’t consider it too bad though why the absence of the toilet seat made no sense to me. If you want the baby to get comfortable with a toilet it didn’t seem smart to have her terrified that she would fall in. The child screamed for twenty minutes and I imagined falling into a toilet would be extremely frightening to such a youngster. I asked Richard if I could take her off the toilet now, that I thought she had learned her lesson. “She’s going to sit on that toilet for another hour,” Richard responded. No way was I going to allow that baby to sit on the toilet like that for another hour and I don’t care that I was only 14 or even that Jane didn’t utter a protest. I went in and grabbled the child. I told Richard and Jane I was taking the baby out. Richard didn’t like this. He told Jane he was leaving, forever. “If you’re going to allow your family to come in here and override my rules then it’s me or them.” Then Jane did just the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever seen a woman do in my life. She got down on her hands and knees I swear and begged Richard to stay. There I stood holding the still terrified little girl and there was my sister begging this awful person not to leave. “I’ll make my sister go home,” Jane cried and hey, far be I to hang around where I’m not wanted. Besides, I had enough of witnessing this sort of child abuse and consider it was nothing less than that. Leaving children untended and terrorizing them with toilets was no way to raise a child. I informed Jane and Richard that it was no problem, consider me gone. Then I left.

It was over my father’s deathbed that Jane made some sort of attempt to reacquaint ourselves with each other. Things started out fine but ended terribly. After all was said and done, Jane still found a way to screw me over. I never thought of myself as any better than my brother or sister though they thought I did. I did, however, consider such as abusing children and pooping pants to be not such nice things to do and hey, who says we can’t sit in judgement of others? It seems more and more we live in a world where to judge others is considered a bad thing. Every one has some sort of sad story that caused them to do bad things. We should sympathize, understand, empathize. I say this is bullshit. Bad behavior is bad behavior and like Shakespeare said, a rose by any other name and all that. The problem with judging others harshly is that one has to maintain some sort of standard of proper behavior themselves. It’s only the thick as thieves mentality that has us looking the other way when another acts inappropriately. Were I the sort that pooped my pants or dropped to my knees to beg a child ab not to leave then perhaps I wouldn’t judge my brother and sister so harshly. I was not and am not a perfect person by any means but I did and do try to adhere to some accepted standard of behavior. Though I it hijacking a plane might be considered bad behavior. I know my brother Joe granted an interview to the National Enquirer about me and what he said was mostly true. Joe is as pleased as punch over my notoriety and he would be. Jane has wisely eschewed any interviews and I’m glad for this. They both think I’m going to give them some of my newfound wealth though I haven’t realized a dime from my exploits. My attorneys ed all of my relatives and anyone else that knew me well and promised them money for silence. This should be a revelation as I intend it to be. Most times when relatives of the famed or notorious refuse interviews it’s because someone promised them dollars for discretion. Did you really think it’s nobility that prevents the likes of Fergie from spilling all the beans on Prince Albert? So my father’s impending death bought the dysfunctional siblings together once again. Joe acted like a total kook but thank God he didn’t poop his pants. Jane played the part of the grieving daughter but her behavior after the death showed her real motive. Mike, our half-brother, found himself once again in with his weird older half-siblings. In fact, Mike handled himself quite well despite the rancor. He’s a pretty nice kid, Mike, just so the reader thinks my siblings, halves or whole, are not all nut cases.

Our father lived six full days beyond the final heart attack. He never regained consciousness. We all visited and took turns sitting by his bedside. It was terrible as watching someone die is wont to be. The situation wasn’t helped much by Joe’s constant badgering that he gets Dad’s place in Florida and his offer to have his retarded wife take Dad home and care for him. After my father died came a time to handle the burial and eventually the estate from hell. I, as the reader might expect, was the one sibling assigned to handle the will and it was a nightmare indeed. Before the estate could be settled, of course, it was required for one or more of us to travel down to Florida to gather my father’s things, find an appropriate Florida attorney and prepare his property for possible sale. While my father never gave me a damn thing worth mentioning in life, after his death he granted me a gift that has enriched me greatly in my middle years. It was my half-brother Mike and myself who went down to Florida. I had never visited my father in this retirement home. Thus I was surprised when Mike and I pulled up in front of his place in our rental car. My father’s Florida lot was easily one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen in my entire life. At the time I was no horticultural genius but I knew enough to know beauty when I saw it. The entire yard was surround by plantings of marigolds and petunias. The front yard was graced by a home-made wishing well. Climbing all about the wooden structure were glorious miniature pink roses. The bucket held a planting of handsome begonias. The grass shone emerald green, cut into curved swaths to accommodate the many flower and vegetable gardens. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered in awe. “He always did have a green thumb,” Mike responded. Though his Florida home was considered a “trailer home”, it looked like anything but. Perhaps there was a time when a trailer sat on the huge lot. Now the trailer was amended and added upon until it appeared for all the world as if a

rambling rancher. Tucked into all ends of the extended edifice were many screened porches, grape arbors and picnic areas. Lemon trees dotted the lot, surrounded by more marigolds and colorful zinnias. A large vegetable garden grew in the back. Already in early May small tomatoes dotted the plants. The entire lot was studded with small and large gardens, all filled with beautiful flowers that greatly enjoyed the endless Florida sun. “He must have loved it here,” I told Mike, “what with the extended growing season and all. This place is gorgeous.” Even the realtor, when Mike and I finally located one and made arrangements for an assessment, was stopped still by the beauty. “This place is incredible,” were her first words upon greeting. “He always did have a green thumb,” I repeated the mantra. That weekend Mike and I spent many hours cleaning and packing. During rest breaks I would stroll the many gardens and ponder the meaning of it all. My own lot had once been lovingly tended by the same man who’d wrested this beauty around me. It now stood barren, filled with years of dead leaves accented by the occasional blooming of the hydrangea or forsythia, the horticultural remains of my father’s efforts. That weekend I made a vow which changed my life. Like my friend Marcia, my father had to have some good within him to be able to pull such beauty from the earth. For him and every bit as much for myself, I vowed I would return to my weird Maryland lot and restore the land to the beauty it once had when my father tilled its soil.

Chapter 6 “The Zoo”

M arcia was, of course, quite interested in my newfound garden efforts. Many was an afternoon spent with Marcia leaning across her fence, chatting away as I squatted to weed. I’d told her all about my father’s Florida gardens upon my return home, as well as my pledge to restore my own pathetic lot to its former glory. Marica’s eyes twinkled in happiness. A gardener always likes to come upon a cogardener and it seemed Marcia delighted at the thought that we’d now be partners in horticulture. In fact, Marcia was an excellent source of all things green and knew the ins and outs of our lots’ eco-systems well. “The first year they sleep, the second year they creep and the third year they leap,” Marcia told me as she handed me a cutting of yarrow from her own beautiful gardens. I accepted the offering with brows furrowed. I knew of the yarrow from witnessing the bloom in Marcia’s yard. But those words made no sense. “They’re perennials!” My brow remained furrowed. Her explanation only left me more confused. “Perennials come back every year. A serious gardener fills the gardens with perennials and uses annuals only for accent.” I unfurrowed that brow and wiped it quickly with a cloth while I was at it. Placing the rake against the fence, I turned and gave an arm signal for Marcia to come on over. I wanted to know about perennials and annuals plus I wanted to take a smoke and iced-tea break. “Let me get this straight. There are plants you can put in the ground and they come back every year? Like, you don’t have to re-plant the gardens every year?”

This was a subject that did, indeed, quite interest me. Because in the time between my return from Florida and the several weeks so recently spent clearing the lot of ten billion leaves, I discovered that this lot was a large one indeed. As I blew and raked leaves I was overwhelmed by the many gardens lying below and the enormous job of filling them with plants each and every spring. Marcia chuckled and took a long swig of iced tea. “There are so many kinds of plants in this world, child. Those petunias everyone plants every year really came from South America. The ubiquitous impatiens came from Italy! These are not native plants. These are plants imported into America for weekend gardeners to throw into a few pots and hanging planters. They die in the winter because, why goodness child, they are plants that were only meant to live in sunny climes. Not many severe winters in Italy or Peru.” I was beyond intrigued. Images of lugging huge flats of petunias and impatiens every spring had weakened my Florida resolve. On a whim I jumped from the porch setting of our meeting to retrieve a catalogue from inside. “How about these flowers?” I asked, pointing to a flower in the handsome rotogravure that had caught my eye. Marcia chuckled again. “Wisteria needs lots of sun, child. Too many oak trees around here to have a crop of wisteria. Though these pretty garden catalogues would have you believing the vine would grow anywhere, no problem.” There went my brow furrowing again. “Let me get this straight. Only certain things will grow in certain places?” I was paused by Marcia’s outrageous laugh. “Well, I mean,” I plowed on to defense of my confusion, “even the catalogues tell me a wisteria vine would provide shade and beauty. All I need to do is buy one.” Marcia took another long sip of iced tea. My eyes never left her face. I wanted an answer. “Child, it’s all about evolution. Good gardeners understand this no mind the catalogues. Consider. What type of eco- system do you have here?” I considered but couldn’t get beyond what exactly was an eco-system.

“A forest!” Marcia exclaims and I was still confused. “You think because you’ve got this little house tucked down here between all these trees you’re no longer in a forest?” “I don’t know. A forest is a bunch of trees I always thought.” “Well child, that is exactly what a forest is for goodness sake. And what we have here is a bunch of trees am I right?” She was right. I’d never liked all these trees but the lot was situated on the Chesapeake Bay waterfront and not a hair on a tree’s head could be touched without approval of the FBI, CIA and a note from my mother. But a forest? “So what grows well in a forest?” I didn’t even bother furrowing my brows with this question. I told Marcia that nothing grows in a forest but trees. Again she threw back her head and laughed. “Plenty of vegetation grows in a forest. Nature abhors a vacuum I’m sure you heard that. A forest floor would be a vacuum if certain plants hadn’t adapted to fill in the void. By the nature of the eco-system, such plants would require the biology to thrive with roots covered by leaves and a very filtered or completely shaded light source. Ferns grow wonderfully in forests.” Of course! Marcia had a beautiful stand of ferns surrounding that huge oak tree down by the water. I often stood on my rear deck and ired how natural and symmetrical those arching ferns looked surrounding the tree. “And these ferns come back every year?” “Ferns are not plants originally evolved to fill a Mediterranean hillside. Ferns evolved to survive in a forest. How would they survive if they didn’t hibernate during the cold winters to return again with the spring?” Well Marcia had me there, for sure. There are plenty of ferns dotting the gardens here in The Zoo. The zoo nickname itself came about because of the evolution of the lot that would soon include appropriate forest plants as well as many critters of many sorts. Marcia knew all

about the critters of the gardens as well. Especially the bird fellows. The first bird of my garden to make my acquaintance was a robin. This robin was a peaceable fellow, unlike the feisty robins of my earlier terrified introduction. There was no Marcia around to give me guide to bird behavior so I observed the robin my own self. I was hoeing yet more weeds when I noticed the bird hopping along behind me. Such was his insistent proximity that I stopped and gave him a scolding. “What are you doing following behind me?” The robin didn’t answer. He did, however, dig himself up a juicy worm, extracting it directly from a furrow in the land caused by my hoeing efforts. And I’d have been damned if the bird wasn’t availing himself of all the worms churned and displaced by my gardening! What an opportunist was this rascal! I was even more pleased that I’d ascertained the reason for his behavior with no help from Marcia. “And why shouldn’t he take advantage of this worm bounty?” Marcia asked later after I breathlessly recited my bird behavior observation. “It just seemed he was so close to me. Other than flying in my hair, I’ve never known birds to get so close.” “They have wings,” was all Marcia said. There were quite a few birds on my lot and you could have knocked me over with one of their feathers when I realized how many. Handsome woodpeckers pounded upon the oak trees with a deadly earnest. Gaudy blue jays screamed and circled the yard. Brilliant red cardinals romanced their pretty wives directly upon the many poles and newels that dotted the lot. Soon I had me a whole bevy of bird feeders and soon after that I was totally in awe that there were even so many birds in the world much less on my own humble little piece of land. Then I met the snake and the nature in my new nature loving self was sorely tested. The dog was barking at something on the deck. Which was most unusual in that the dog usually barked only at ers by and the most dangerous of all, babies

being strolled in those things with wheels. Something on the deck had her ire and she was quite vocal about it. I strolled out to see what was the cause. There wasn’t a person or animal in sight. “Ginger, you’re getting old. There isn’t a thing out here.” Ginger, however, was not convinced and continued to bark at the side of the house. The least I could do was cast my eyes in that direction and I almost had a heart attack right there. A snake, almost ten feet long, was slithering up the aluminum siding as nonchalant as you please. I did the only sensible thing which was to grab the portable phone and immediately call Ralph at work. “There’s a HUUUUUUGE snake climbing up the side of our house,” I screamed. “What?” Ralph answered, evidently unsure he’d heard right and not even sure who I was. “Ginger’s barking at it but the snake’s paying her no mind. The thing is climbing up the house!” Ralph laughed at the other end of the phone line. I politely but in a rather loud tone asked him what was so funny. “I think it’s kind of neat. A snake, huh?” Until my born again green-thumb Ralph had always been the nature guy in this family. It was Ralph who would tell me about the pretty yellow bird he’d seen flying about or the lovely blue flowers of the bindweed. Ralph also adored the lot’s many lizards and I thought this incredibly weird. Then as I was out and about in my horticultural efforts I too learned to enjoy the lizards who took advantage of the many shade spots to avoid the heat. Ralph, he would think a twenty foot snake was “neat”. I spent some minutes discussing the dimensions of the snake when it dawned on me that there was probably not a damn thing Ralph could do what with being at work and everything. I rung off with a promise not to let the snake in the house. “He was probably trying to get to a bird’s nest in your eaves,” was how Marcia later explained this odd snake behavior. So far as I knew, snakes climbing upon human abodes was not the norm, even here in The Zoo. I didn’t know what the snake was doing at the time and determined that it was on me to save my

homestead. I quick grabbed an old rose trellis and decided I would have to beat that snake off the house. Before I took my first swat, I stopped and studied the creature. This was a handsome snake and I knew this even then, long before I’d come to fully appreciate God’s creatures and the wonder of their evolution. His color was a perfect ebony and he stretched to an easy ten feet though I’d grossly overestimated its length in my earlier terror. His skin was dry and his belly was covered with perfectly shaped ivory colored diamonds. It was amazing how the snake moved, starting with a ripple at the it’s neck. The ripple continued down the length of his body. With each ripple, the snake moved along another half an inch. He had a forked tongue and this amazed me mostly because of the stereotype. All the cartoon snakes I’d chanced to see had exaggerated forked tongues and darned if the real things didn’t have one as well. After this scrutiny, I’d come to like the snake. Or at least I wasn’t as terrified. He was only a creature after all and he was a creature doing what he was meant to do. Though I still didn’t know why he was doing it on my house. I figured maybe he was lost. My plan was to take the rose trellis and lift the snake off of the side of the house then lower him gently to the ground below the deck. This intent formed in my head, a woman who’d just ten minutes prior had never laid eyes on a real snake in her life. Now I was a regular Dr. Doolittle returning lost reptiles to their proper spots. The snake didn’t think much about being prodded about with that rose trellis. My actions caused him to inch higher onto the house. Frustrated I put the rose trellis down and ran inside to fetch my camera. If nothing else, I could always get a picture of the thing. I shot a whole roll of film, including a few snake and dog together pics for special effect. The snake made no attempt to climb higher but he wasn’t coming down either. The heck with it, I decided, and went inside to take a nap. Later that night the snake was gone. I don’t know where he went and really didn’t care. This snake lived here in The Zoo and that was the way it was. “You became a creature of your eco-system,” Marcia declared later after I’d recounted the snake story, now with accurate snake lengths. I turned and regarded the lot with different eyes. No longer was the land covered

with several feet of leaves. I’d planted a few perennials as instructed by Marcia but this was the year they were sleeping. Still, the many tiers and concrete swaths so lovingly designed by my landscaping father were now visible. I could see the beauty and engineering behind the design, though the cheap materials defeated the effort. This was a lot very prone to soil erosion as are most waterfront parcels. The tiers served to keep the dirt where it was wanted. The concrete swaths, pads and sidewalks shored up the loose soil as well. The fact that the tiers were made by some sort of strange corrugated awning and the fence post poles were actually huge metal affairs filled with more concrete tended to detract from the aesthetics. There was sound planning behind the construction but as was my father’s wont, he found beauty in cheap materials as much as from beautiful flowers. Yes I had indeed bonded with that snake just as I had with that opportunist robin stealing worms stirred from my labors. Something did happen to me that day of the snake and the first sign was my decision to nap while the snake still slithered up the side of my house. Marcia understood the meaning though I considered that I was more resigned then impressed. The critters lived here and they had no care for land titles or bills of sale. I couldn’t, and wouldn’t even if I could, drive them off. The squirrels tormented the dog, the birds stole my worms and the snakes climbed my house. For a strange pie- shaped lot wedged down off of a small cove off of the Chesapeake Bay, there certainly was a lot going on. And to think I’d been so busy watching the television as to be so unaware. Even Ralph noticed the yellow birds once in a while. Then I was also busy earning a living, being a high-priced bookkeeper for a local hospital, working all hours of the night to impress. I studied the eco-garden that day along with Marcia. For almost five minutes neither of us murmured a word. It was a beautiful place, The Zoo. After eight years of living here, I was finally starting to notice.

Chapter 7 The Publicist

T he editors warn me to tell my story but ask that I tone it down on the gardens and birds. And goodness knows the editors know best. Still, if the world really wants to know why one middle-aged woman up and fitted herself with a bomb and hijacked a plane full of VIP’s then the world will have to understand my relationship with my eco-system and how I finally found the “truth” so long missing from our national scene. Not to mention that little “truth” about Manny Roberts which also spurred me to such a drastic action. Manny won the election to the House of Representatives and most folks already know this. When the announcement was made I was as pleased as anyone out in Maryland land. I’d often send him a quick email stating my position on some issue or another. He always responded with his view of the issue and how he intended to handle it. Other than this, our interaction was slight. It wasn’t until that little war in Kosovo began that the formerly unknown Manny Roberts made a name for himself. I knew Manny had been a POW in Vietnam. He often told me of the experience. Always I ired his resilience. Only a strong person could have survived such a thing or at least went my reasoning. Soon I was seeing my old bud Manny on all the political talk shows and I was bursting my buttons with pride. The editors absolutely insist that I tell the story of Manny Roberts but let me state right now that I feel a bit guilty doing so. Manny did, the readers would it, disappear from the national scene as soon as the truth about him was revealed. This was more than that awful Bill Clinton had the grace to do and you have to give Manny this. It seems a bit unfair to force him to re-live that national nightmare all over again. Not that I think Manny’s reading this book or anything, but he’s bound to hear about it. Anyway, at some point during the war in Kosovo Manny’s name became

whispered as a possible presidential contender. I myself was one of his biggest boosters. At the time no one could have said a bad word about Manny to me and not have to put up their dukes. He was a righteous and good man in my mind. Exactly the sort of leader this country needed. I was delighted the day Manny phoned me to help out with his presidential bid. “I’m going to do it, Georgette. The party is willing to back me and many are saying I’ve got a good chance.” “You’re still a Republican, right?” “Georgette, no one, but no one, gets elected in this country without affiliation with one of the major parties. I know I’ve trashed the Republican party in the past, as well as the Democrats. But I don’t have millions of dollars to spend on a campaign unless you want to lend it to me.” In fact if I had endless amounts of money I certainly would have lent it to Manny, such was my conviction that this was a good man. But I would have required that he run as an independent because I’d long grown disenchanted with the major political parties. “Why I’m calling,” Manny went on after his chuckle about my lack of funds to finance a political campaign, “is to ask you if you’d like to be part of my campaign. We talked about it often enough. we both promised that if either of us decided to run that the other one would be part of the campaign staff?” Indeed Manny and I had often mused about how one or the other of us should throw our hats in the ring. We lamented the lack of decent leadership in the country. I always knew that I would never run for any sort of political office. Life under such a microscope simply was not for me. Truth is, I never thought the day would come when Manny would be running for President of the United States but there you have it. Until his bid for House of Representatives, ed by Jack Born owner of many car dealerships in the state of Maryland and an imposing political player his own self, Manny had never been especially involved in politics other than the armchair sort. But of course I wanted to be a part of Manny’s bid for President! And I told Manny that in no uncertain . I’d even overlook the Republican affiliation for the chance.

“There’s some things you need to know,” Manny responded to my acceptance. “First, I know we always envisioned that one of us would run as a sort of independent. It’s not like that Georgette, but I think I’ve held onto my principles. There’s compromises that have to be made and I’ve made some. The only other option is not to run at all, to never have a voice, to never effect a change or offer decent leadership. The party has already appointed me a campaign manager and I have to go along. I can’t offer you that job but I insisted that I be allowed to appoint my own personal publicist and of course I’m choosing you.” Such as compromises and party appointees did not in my mind. All I heard was Manny’s offer to have me be a part of his campaign and I was pinching myself that honest and decent people really do exist and given the will, they really can run for a public office. And I would have a chance to be a part of it. In fact I had no idea what a personal publicist does. I was a writer and Manny absolutely loved my writing. But writers write lots of things like science fiction, horror, biographies and non-fiction. Being a capable writer in no way implied qualifications to be a publicist. But the word “publish” is inferred in that job title. Thus, a writer would qualify. I had a vague idea that a personal publicist would be responsible for writing publicity pieces on their charge. This was very much part of the job but there was sooooo much more and I should have known. Of course I accepted immediately. Whatever I had to do I would do because I believed in Manny Roberts. As a political candidate, Manny had many pluses. He was attractive enough, and the steel grey hairs framing his face added to his distinguishment more so than such a thing ever would a woman. He had a politically perfect family consisting of a pretty wife and two children. Best of all, Manny had no “past”. That is to say there were no x-rated pictures likely to show up in mid-campaign. So far as I knew Manny never had any sort of drug or alcohol addiction. On the negative side, Manny was a bit on the short side. He also was half-Jewish though he converted to Episcopalian when he married his wife Genine and had been a devoted Christian since then. Such as being short or half-Jewish shouldn’t be considered negatives but political candidates should, ideally, embody the

nation’s concept of the epitome of the American male. This might well be why we can’t get any decent leaders in this country. Ugly people are hard to get elected so right there you’ve eliminated a bunch of the population. Unmarried people or people without nice children are difficult to get elected. And for all the talk about minorities and equal rights, blacks, women and jews are a problem in certain parts of the country. It’s all about image and I knew that before I even showed up for work as Manny’s personal publicist. I was never so naive as to believe that actions would adhere to the well-meaning words. The verbiage may state that we are all equal under the law here in the United States. But a white, Anglo-Saxon protestant male is a bit more equal is all. I was naive enough to believe that goodness, leadership and integrity were as important as image. Give me a proper WASP male with some guts and leadership and the guy can get elected. This was all bunk of course. All that was really required was a proper WASP male. Then with proper attention to image, polls and focus groups, any jerk can get elected. Yes I should have known this after Bill Clinton but I really thought him to be an anomaly. It’s like a car. Automobiles can be flashy red with handsome lines. Accessories can be fancy and impressive. But if the thing has a clogged fuel line it won’t run and then what good is it? People, however, are a completely different matter. Through the miracle of make-up, properly prepared speeches and the bully pulpit, any human being, no matter how shallow, can be presented as the Thomas Jefferson of our time. The minions of this country also are responsible for this phenomena. Witness the sudden popularity of berets after the Monica Lewinsky saga. Or the rush to purchase a copy of the dress Helen Hunt wore to the academy awards. It’s all about who gets the attention. Because whoever gets the attention will be emulated and I now know why this is so. At the time I accepted Manny’s offer, I wasn’t as naive as many have suggested. I truly thought I had the best of both worlds; a man who would be getting the attention of the world but who damn well deserved it. One thing I hadn’t considered was how the emulation and adulation tends to bring out the worst in people. I’d assumed that Manny Roberts would continue

to be the good man he was.

Chapter 8 Sky and the estate from hell

A long with my pledge to renew my yard to its former glory, I was also charged with handling my father’s estate. These two activities kept me quite busy. If I wasn’t in the yard furiously blowing leaves I was sitting in front of a computer screen filled with a Lotus spreadsheet. Of all the things that have happened in my life the handling of this estate was primary in instilling a cynicism in me that never dissipated. Here was the perfect opportunity for me and my siblings, all whole and half, to come together in peace and togetherness. Jane and I, only four years apart in age, could have become the sisters we’d never really been. And it almost happened. Except for that little matter of Jane’s goofball of a husband. Larry Wilmont is an icon in his own mind. Absolutely no one forced to endure the company of Larry Wilmont for more than ten minutes can stand the man. This is because the man knows everything about everything and no one else in his presence knows a thing. To hear Larry tell it, he was a doctor, a lawyer and a candlestick maker. Until my father’s death, I’d only seen the man in ing at some family event or another. As stupid as these siblings were, none of them wanted Larry to handle my father’s estate. His reputation had well proceeded him and besides it was on someone in the family to handle the estate. Most people would not even be faced with this debate had a normal and not so incredibly cheap person died. But my father left no will though he had made some rather unusual and unfair financial arrangements before his death. It seems he’d transferred all of his bank s, stock and CD’s into my halfbrother’s Mike’s name. That’s it. All the money was in the name of both my

father and his youngest son. At his death, Mike was complete owner of all the money. This interesting little fact made me extremely angry and rightfully so. It was I, my sister Jane, and my brother Joe that were the free labor that built all of my father’s houses; said houses being the source of my father’s money. Yet the man, just like that, cut us all out of the money save for Mike. “This is what my mother told me to do and it’s what I’m going to do. She said to split the money by me keeping half of it, then taking the other half and splitting it between you and Jane. Joe is to get none of it.” As I’ve said, Mike was a halfway decent sort of guy and he was up front about it when I confronted him with my knowledge, that all the money was now in his name. And I believed him. The kid could easily have kept all the money to himself for legally, well, it was his. Evidently my stepmother and my father had cooked up this plan to insure that Mike got half of the money they left behind as well as to insure that Joe got none of it. “My mother said that you all have a mother and she will probably leave you an inheritance. Her and my father were all I had and I was rightfully entitled to half of their estate.” Mike explained this in a matter of fact manner, not smirking or righteous about it at all. And I itted there was a point made. “Besides, you and Jane will get the same amount under this system that you would have had the money not been put in my name. If Dad had died without g the money over to me then you and Jane would have gotten one quarter of it. Under this system, you will still be getting one quarter of the money. It’s just that Joe doesn’t get any. My mother said that Joe was so bad and mean that she wanted to make sure he didn’t get one dime of her money.” Again this was all true. Joe was a bad child and he grew into an equally bad adult. He and his mentally deficient wife were horrors. They gave up their first child for adoption. I should say they “sold” their first child to the highest bidder. They kept their second child but gave up their third child as he was born blind. Their last child was a daughter and they kept her. The two of them lived in dumps that would defy the building code. And the two

children they chose to raise both turned out bad. The son went to jail at age eighteen and hasn’t been out since. The daughter is strung out on drugs and sells her body cheaply on Baltimore street corners. If ever there was a bad sheep, even in this family chock full of bad sheep, it was Joe. Then Joe and my father and stepmother got involved in some sort of house purchase that was a disaster. My father put up the money for Joe and his wife to buy a house. It was, in that manner of my father, a “fixer-upper”. Still, Joe was a carpenter and if he were playing with a full deck he would have taken the opportunity and built a nice house for his family. But no. Joe refused to pay the mortgage payments, telling my father that he “owed” the money to him. Anyway, this nightmare transaction went on for five years and might well have taken the same amount of years off of my father’s life. My father and stepmother ended up selling the house at a loss. The bitterness and rancor over the whole thing lasted until their death. So an argument could have been made that my father and stepmother had a right to cut Joe out of the will. It was my own sensible self that thought the whole thing smelled to high heaven. Then when Mike and I were in Florida we found an actual will. The thing was handwritten by my father and stipulated that all of his worldly goods were to be equally divided amongst all of his children. This was well and good except monies put directly into the name of one child as co-owner were not my father’s “worldly goods” to distribute after his death. After his death, you understand, that money belonged to the co-owning child. We also discovered more than a will. It was a weekend translated in my mind as “black and white”, “Jekyll and Hyde”. For even as the Florida gardens stood proud and happy in the surround, laying on my father’s kitchen table was a piece of paper that offered direct proof of his status as the liar I’d always known him to be. “Are you calling me a lare?”, the word pronounced as intentionally misspelledthe word “are” proceeded by the letter “L”. My father would ask this improbable question each time one of us children would deny some accused misdeed. If the ash tray were broken, I would deny guilt, even if I did it. Then my father would ask that ridiculous question with the equally ridiculous mispronunciation and of

course I had to then deny I was calling him a “lare”. Even as a child I’d considered that my denial at having broken an ashtray could hardly be construed as calling my father a liar but this was what I was dealing with. The man hated being called a liar and that was most likely because he was a huge one. “She wants to get serious and I’m just not ready for this.” This was the lament of my father on his routine trips to Maryland for the occasional visit. My stepmother had died just the prior year and it was understandable that my father was a bit at loose ends in the subsequent months. He had been married to her over thirty years and I believed, as much as was possible for such a self-centered person, that he really loved her. Some time after the death of my stepmother my father found a woman he evidently liked. It certainly seemed harmless to me though a bit embarrassing in that manner of elder adult parents discussing their love life. I would always nod my head at his sentiment because I could readily understand his reluctance to get involved with another woman so shortly after the death of his life long mate. It was Mike who first noticed the packet of legal papers sitting on my father’s kitchen table. I watched Mike’s face as he scanned the words of the document. I knew something was awry. “What is it?” Mike tossed the papers across to me without saying a word. “Mr. O’Hara will refrain from being near Mrs. Meara at any distance less than three hundred yards.” I read the words of the document and like Mike, I was speechless. My father had actually been served papers for being a stalker! This from the woman he lamented as wanting to get so serious! What could be sadder then discovering after the death of a parent that the parent was so deceptive, such a creep? Even if I’d known this right along, how humiliating it was to have actual proof that the recently deceased was not such a nice person, no, not at all. It got better, or worse, depending on perspective.

Mike and I actually got to meet Mrs. Meara, who we only knew as “Alice” of the getting serious persuasion. Seems she lived in my father’s neighborhood and saw all the activity going on around his trailer. She stopped and asked us who we were. When we told her we were the children of Lucky O’Hara, she pulled her car into the driveway for a visit. “I’m so sorry to hear of his death. We had some great times together but after a while he got to be a bit of a ‘problem’.” Mike and I nodded our heads. Alice had side-stepped the problem at issue but we already knew about the stalking complaint and I told her this. She lit a cigarette, took a long drag, blew a waft of smoke into the air and studied the plume intensively. “He used to do some strange things. I’m not sure his mind was all there. Sometimes I would stop by and I’d find him laying on the floor. I’d run to phone 911, all in a panic. One time I noticed he opened an eye, this while he was supposed to be ed out on the floor! It got so I couldn’t handle all of this erratic behavior. Then came the stalking ...” Alice’s words faded off. Mike and I remained silent. I wasn’t all that sure about Mike, over a decade younger than myself, but I always knew my father to be a king-sized fake and Alice’s recitations of the man’s duplicitous behavior along with the legal notice about the stalking confirmed with no possibility of erasure that my father was tantamount to an evil man. The marigolds surrounding his yard shone gold and yellow, happy to have been planted and cared for by such a malicious sort. As I stood in that Florida garden listening to tales of a nasty man and his nasty behavior I was standing dead center in an oxymoron come to life. What else could I walk away with from this man who gave me half of his genes and not much else, but the gardens he planted and loved and coaxed to greater things? First I had to get through istering the horrible estate he left behind and dealing with siblings that were often times chips off the old stalker’s block. “Larry wants to know why you and Mike went and got a lawyer? According to our agreement that night after Dad died, you all weren’t supposed to get a lawyer unless everyone agreed. Furthermore, why’d you and Mike go to Florida anyway? You’re only eating away at the estate.”

My ears still sat firmly on the sides of my head but there I was, hearing this nonsense from none other than the vapid Jane. That trip to Florida was no where near any sort of entertainment. Someone had to go down there, clean the place up, arrange a sale and pack up any belongings or memories to ship home. Then Mike and I had a blowout on the Interstate on the way home driving my father’s dilapidated van. We’d sold a lot of my father’s sellable stuff and arranged for the rest to be auctioned off by an estate specialist. The money realized from these sales was dutifully divided and distributed to all four siblings. That stupid van sat in my yard for a month and half until I sold it and the grass still hasn’t grown back. Yet all monies were evenly divided to the heirs, with proper ings delivered each month for questions and responses. As for having hired a lawyer, give me a break. First, Florida law absolutely required a member of the bar to handle all wills. Any selling of my father’s property had to be handled by an attorney and you can bet Jane wanted her share of the money realized from the sale. Yet that awful Larry husband of hers wanted to know how dare I go on vacation to Florida and hire an attorney, something any executor would have done. In fact I knew full well that Larry Wilmont just wanted to flex his muscles, to find something, anything, no matter how unfair, to complain about. In fact again, all of the siblings had unanimously signed an agreement that I would be executor of our father’s estate because, again and again, the man left no will that we knew of at the time and someone had to do it. I was the ant of the family, not to mention the most sane one of the bunch forgive my lack of humility, and when push came to shove the motley crew knew if they wanted it done right and fair they had to elect me. Who were they going to pick, Joe of the retarded wife and pooping his pants fame? Jane with the space between her ears? Mike, who was already suspect with all the bank s in his name? Larry of the incredible ego and not even a blood relative? My election then left the field wide open for Jane to criticize and nitpick, at Larry’s behest naturally for this was a woman who got down on her knees and begged child abs not to leave. Couldn’t expect her to have a original thought in her head after all. Dealing with Joe was a nightmare unto itself. Over and over again, following me everywhere, Joe kept telling me that Dad wanted him to have the Florida lot and trailer home. Which was beyond dumb because I was obligated by law to split

all the worldly goods fairly and squarely and not based on some silly assertion by the very believable Joe not that he would lie about such a thing. Hell’s bells, my father told me that I was to have everything and I got to wonder how the siblings would have reacted to that statement and follow through. I told Joe if he wanted the Florida lot and trailer that it would have to be based on his share of the estate. If the value of his quarter of the estate was equal to the value of the lot and trailer, than damn well he could have it. Save me the trouble of selling the thing. Which I did manage to arrange for Joe to get the lot through some wheeling and dealing and forking over ten thousand dollars of my own inheritance to Joe so he could get the lot. I even managed to talk Jane into giving Joe ten thousand dollars because my father had de facto disowned him by g over all the cash money to Mike. Mike dutifully gave one quarter of the money to me and one quarter to Jane. God love him because if it were me and knowing what I know now about Jane and Joe, I wouldn’t have given a dollar to anybody. I was right there in Mike’s attorney’s office when the lawyer told him he was under no obligation to distribute any funds to anyone so I know he didn’t have to. Still, Mike wanted to follow the wishes of his mother and he wanted to be fair. Stupid Larry kept telling Mike that we could sue for the money and tie it up in the courts for “years and years”, a threat I knew to be untrue but I also wanted Mike to think this. It was quite a large sum of money, even a quarter of it and I felt a right to my share. Jane did agree to my proposal that we each give Joe ten thousand dollars from our share of the money, more to thwart my father’s evil intention of disowning Joe. Joe did work like a plough horse as a child, building my father’s fixeruppers that he sold and made a bundle on. No matter how “bad” he was, he deserved a fair share of the estate if for nothing else but that it was his labor that helped earn it. I managed to divvy up that estate and still insure that Joe got the precious Florida lot and trailer. Jane got her share of the money from the funds belonging to Mike as well as the other worldly goods of my father. There was a modest cost for attorney’s fees and the expenses Mike and I incurred on our one and only trip down to Florida where we worked like dogs cleaning, clearing and packing. No one paid a dime for ant fees thanks to my own expertise in such matters. Not to mention the way I managed to please everyone in a family that was beyond pleasing. Still Jane had to mention the lawyer and my “fun” trip to Florida, the dysfunctional bitch. Shades of throwing cereal in someone’s face.

And Joe could ride right off the planet with his constant obsession that I somehow cheated him out of his estate when the jerk got twenty grand more than he ever would have seen were it not for my own efforts and generosity. None of the culprits have ever sued me for my malfeasance and don’t hold breath counting on it. In their heart of hearts they know they couldn’t have gotten better service than through my own experience executed deftly with this unwieldy of situations. They owe me the most heartfelt of apologies and gratefulness and they must live the rest of their days knowing it and knowing that I know it. As for me, after I distributed the last ing and payments, I wrote them all a letter telling them to never, and now fifteen years later I still mean it, never bother me again with their horrible presences. Even in my ill-gained fame I don’t want to deal with them other than the monies my attorneys promised them to keep quiet until after publication of this book. No law says anyone has to stay in a dysfunctional family and even if were a law I wouldn’t do it. Bad behavior is bad behavior and never the twain shall meet. I sure hope they read this, just so they know that the whole world now knows what incredible losers they are. The final chapter of this chapter came from the fruit of my own loins and my only contribution to the earth’s gene pool. For in the midst of dealing with the devil’s assistants I called my brother and sister, young Sky was helping herself to scads of money from my bank . I had often given Sky my bank card and have her stop by the ATM to get me some cash. She knew my and until the time that large sums of money were flowing through my from the estate to await eventual distribution, there hadn’t been a problem. The kid took full advantage of my distraction with the other worldly siblings to help herself to some of my father’s money. At final ing, the child stole almost four thousand dollars from right under my nose. I didn’t discover the theft until some two months later when the estate funds had been distributed and my checks started bouncing all over the place. By this time the cushion of the estate funds had been depleted by distribution and the money I should have had simply was not there. Sky managed to steal the money within a time frame of six weeks, easily within a span when I wouldn’t have reconciled the . Here was my own child a deliberate thief now add this to the dysfunctional family and ponder again why I might be bitter. Sky had graduated from high school by the time I discovered her larceny. I kicked her right out, the kid was eighteen after all. With all the money she took, she should have easily been able

to set up her own apartment. The way my Sky handled her freedom even to this day may defy belief.

Chapter 9 Personal publicist and the family from weird

“T his is Gene Maroney. You’re going to like him Georgette. Guy knows his stuff.” I regarded Manny’s campaign manager with scant curiosity. At the moment then upon, I was too excited with the thrill of it all. Manny had officially filed his intent for presidential candidacy, Gene Maroney had been appointed manager of the campaign and an impressive election headquarters had been established. I’d given notice to my then employer and the day finally came when I was officially introduced to the campaign staff as Manny’s personal publicist. It was a dream come true. “Manny’s told me a lot about you. If you’re as good as he thinks you are our guy should be a shoo-in to the White House.” I shook Gene’s hand, delighted that Manny spoke well of me. The thought that a potential President of the United States, no matter how tenuous that “potential” was at the time, thrilled me and I it such readily. Yes, there’s power and power is a nice thing, make no mistake about it. Of course I told Gene that Manny spoke well of him as well though Manny hadn’t told me a thing about his campaign manager. The problem with these etiquette type of deceptions is we often think we are the only ones telling these polite little lies. It never occurred to me that Manny probably hadn’t told Gene a thing about me either. “I suggest the first thing you do is get real close to Manny’s wife and children. Find out their hobbies, what interests them, what makes them tick. When one markets a politician one is also marketing his family. I understand Manny’s daughter is a sophomore at the University of Maryland and the son plans to matriculate there as well. Genine is actively involved in their community’s board of directors and this should be good play. In a few weeks we’re planning a rally in the Parkville mall. I need the family on hand, looking and acting their best.

Get them ready for it, huh?” I’d spent most of the morning meeting the many of Manny’s campaign staff, paid and volunteer. Manny showed me the trucks full of campaign literature already amassed and a treasurer from the Republican party reviewed the finances and budget of the campaign with me. It was as I was about to depart that Gene Maroney stopped me with his advice about Manny’s family and the warning of the campaign rally. I welcomed his suggestion for at the moment the import of it all began to weigh on me. We were talking about a presidential candidate after all. Gene’s suggestion about where to begin was exactly what I needed for in the midst of the whirlwind day, I had no idea where to begin. “So what do you think?” I blew a breath wind up my face as response to Manny’s question. Manny guffawed. “Hey, it’s a bit intimidating. But this is a presidential campaign. Lots of rules and regulations.” Genine had evidently just came in the door when Manny and I arrived at his house. She was still wearing her coat and was, oddly, pulling various drug store medicines from the bowels of her coat pockets. “Just in time, Georgette. I told you she’d be here.” Genine frantically continued to pull cough medicine, bottles of aspirin, cold lozenges and various thermometers from her pockets. She threw them hurriedly on the kitchen table, too busy with the task to acknowledge Manny’s greeting. I’d met Genine Roberts before, but always in a quick ing manner the way colleagues tend to introduce a spouse who drops by the job to drop off the keys. Manny and his family also faithfully attended all parties at Born’s BMW’s. Since I’d only worked for the dealership for a little over a year, I’d only chanced to attend one Christmas party, At the time Sky was still a youngster and I was too busy running after her to pay much attention to Manny’s children. I considered Genine to be a very classy lady, always dressed and coiffed perfectly for the occasion, always at the ready with the proper polite phrases for the moment. She’d make a perfect first lady. Yet this rather bizarre scene with the drug store

paraphernalia left me speechless. Manny appeared not to notice a thing and continued along in his boisterous tone. “You told Marty to be here, right? And what about Melissa? Was she able to get out of classes for the afternoon?” “Marty said he would be by around six pm. Melissa should be here in an hour or so.” Even while Genine recited the litany of child schedules she continued to pull and arrange the patent medicines. “You told them to be on their best behavior, right? Can’t have them make a bad impression on my personal publicist.” Suddenly Genine whirled from her drug sorting duties and thrust her right hand into the air. Her action so surprised me that I thought she might strike me. Then I noticed the open palm and realized the woman wanted to shake my hand. “I know we’ve met before but this will be the first time we have a chance to spend some time with each other. Manny’s spoke well of you so often that I hope I don’t disappoint you. Would you like a cup of tea? Maybe a soda?” The woman totally transformed herself from a rather unusual obsessivecompulsive sort into a perfectly normal woman. I was amazed. Though I willed my eyes to the straight and narrow, still they strayed to the mountain of medicines and medical equipment now resting on the table. “I’ll get all this stuff straightened out. I stopped by the drug store, only to buy a newspaper actually. Then I ed that I needed to refill my medicine cabinet. Melissa emptied us out when she took off for college.” Genine shrugged off her coat as she explained the medicine mountain. I wondered, but didn’t mention, why all this stuff didn’t come in some sort of bag. What kind of store leaves the customer having to fill their pockets with goods rather than providing some sort of parcel to carry them? Genine scooped the drug store purchases from the table into a large box. She poured me a coke, told Manny to skedaddle, then sat across the table from me expectantly. “Ah, I’ve never done this before. I must ask your patience.”

I was a bit nonplused by the manner in which Genine sat down so abruptly, facing me with her eyebrows raised, her answers to my thought provoking questions at the ready. It occurred to me that I probably should have prepared a list of items I wanted to cover. The purpose of the visit was to enable me to chat with Genine, get to know her, spend some casual time with her. Manny called Genine on her cell phone right after Gene Maroney made the suggestion that I get to know Genine and the children. Evidently he’d caught Genine in the drug store and in her haste to meet us back at the house was unable to get a bag for her purchases. Genine arranged for the children to come by a bit later. It wasn’t meant that I would be asking a list of regimented questions. Yet Genine’s look told me that was exactly what she expected. Genine was a pretty woman. Though solidly middle-aged, her hair was a soft blonde that framed her face in a smooth pageboy. She was tall and possessed the kind of willowy figure I’ve always envied. Her eyes were an intriguing greygreen, wide-set and framed by perfectly arched eyebrows. Even on a casual shopping trip, Genine wore a fashionable but understated black pantsuit punctuated by a bright red and yellow scarf. She tapped her nail on the kitchen table. It was manicured to a bright shiny buff, filed perfectly square and extending only slightly beyond her fingertip. All of her nails were similarly treated. “So what do you think of the campaign?” Genine lowered her eyes, ostensibly in deep thought over my offhand and rather silly question. “I think it’s so exciting. I’m delighted for Manny. The children are popping their buttons they’re so excited. I even think the dog and cat are excited.” “You’re having no second thoughts? Not scared or anything?” “Goodness no. What would I have to be scared of? This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Any woman in the world would be happy to be in my position.” “Think you’d like being the First Lady?” Again Genine lowered her eyes in thought. I almost wanted to smack her. What’s

to think about? The melodrama of ostensible thinking was being overdone. “Genine, First Ladies generally have some sort of project, some sort of ‘cause’ they bring with them to the White House. They use their exposure to bring attention to their pet causes. Jacqueline Kennedy had her mission of restoring the White House to its historical splendor. Lady Byrd Johnson worked at beautifying America. Nancy Reagan had a war on drugs. Hillary Clinton…..well let’s forget her. Have you given any thought to what your ‘cause’ will be?” Genine laughed. Both Manny’s and my dislike for either Clinton was well known to any who knew us. Now Genine’s thoughtful brow furrow was appropriate. Finally I was getting to the meat of this woman. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” she answered after a long pause. “I have no idea.” I leaned across the table with lowered head, my own body language indicating deep thought. “Well you need to think about it now, Genine. A First Lady wields considerable power. What ions do you have that you want to promote from that bully pulpit? What dreams do you want to help come true? What wrongs do you want to right? You need to think about it now, not only because you’ll be prepared when Manny’s announced as President-elect, but also because it will help me paint a picture of you, wife of Manny Roberts, next President of the United States. Almost as many voters vote for a candidate’s spouse as those voting for the candidate. My job is to present you in the most favorable light possible but also to insure you have a stake in your husband’s victory. So what’s your ion?” This time Genine didn’t furrow her brow though I’d rather she had. Instead, she cast her eyes to the floor, obviously evading direct eye . “Child abuse,” she said, almost too quietly. “Child abuse?” “Yeah,” Genine responded, a bit defiantly. “Child abuse. What’s wrong with

that? I’d like to use my position as First Lady, if I ever get there, to combat child abuse.” “That’s wonderful, Genine. Don’t take me the wrong way. It just surprised me a bit. But there could be no nobler cause and I’m in your corner. Not only will it make wonderful copy, it’s good stuff. And child abuse is such a problem in this country.” I was surprised at Genine’s response. Child abuse seemed so removed from her world. It occurred to me then that Genine herself may have been a victim of child abuse. My assessment of Genine Roberts was that she would be quite an asset to any political candidate. She needed some tutoring on body language and definitely needed to quit the exaggerated “thinking” bit. She expressed herself well and I really liked how she defended her choice of a pet cause. It was a noble one, too. At first I pondered that it was a bit too hackneyed. Who could defend child abuse, after all? It had the smell of a convenient cause celebre and the last thing I wanted was for Manny to be tainted with the fakery of a manufactured candidate. Manny was very real, an average Joe, who had a truth and a leadership to bring to the American people. This was exactly how I wanted to present Manny and his family- average folks looking to create a better America for all the other average folks. While Genine probably dressed and coiffed herself far better than the average American woman, she was just simple enough to be perceived as almost average. The time spent with Genine was productive. Now was time for me to meet Manny’s children.

Chapter 10 The Children

M elissa Roberts was, and still is, fat. I’m sorry Melissa, if you’re reading this. For I too am fat and it isn’t fun. But Melissa’s obesity is very much part of the story, both in of what might be the cause of her obesity as well as the realization of my own inner prejudices despite my own plump figure. The first time I laid eyes on Melissa I was dismayed to see how heavy she was. Neither of her parents were overweight though it’s no secret that Manny has to closely watch his weight. Melissa, however, was extremely heavy and I pondered for a fraction of the section that perhaps we should walk away from this presidential campaign without a hope. The entire country would be commenting on Melissa’s girth and pay no mind to the message of the candidate. As it turned out Melissa became a bit of a folk hero for fat women everywhere and I’m happy for her. She has also, as the reader probably knows, itted to having been molested by her father. She did not, however, it this until well after my little hijink and the timing of her subsequent confession is important in understanding the desperation that led me to my action. When penning a true story, the author is telling the reader about many things he/she might already know. It’s not like writing pure fiction is what I’m typing here. Since the reader probably knows about Manny Roberts and his affinity for young girls I must write about my experiences with Melissa with the knowledge of her abuse a given, even though I didn’t know any of this at the time I met her and all during the political campaign. A few seconds after meeting Melissa I was sorry about my mean thoughts. After all, what does the weight of a child have to do with the kind of President a man might be? Yet I knew with all the PR bones in my body that Melissa Roberts was just plain bad press. “The public only wants to see perfection on the political stage,” was how Marcia put it when I told her about my dilemma.

Somehow I regained my tongue while shaking Melissa’s hand. All those ugly thoughts had flashed through my mind within the time of introduction by Genine and before the perfunctory handshake. “Don’t worry, I already know I’m going to be a problem,” Melissa said as soon as Genine left the two of us alone. “That’s not true…..” I began to protest a bit lamely when Melissa cut me off. “Listen,” she began with a ion, “the thing I hated most…the thing I absolutely dreaded most about my father running for President, was my having to be on such public display. At least in the real world, people most times just whisper about how fat you are. As daughter of the President, I’ll have to face constant public discussion about my weight and I hate the idea.” Then was as good a time as ever to broach the subject of a possible diet. The thought had whirled around my head for a few seconds but it’s not the sort of thing one suggests without offending. Since Melissa herself was expressing such concerns about the public scrutiny she gave me an opening for the suggestion. “I don’t know why his running for President should become MY sacrifice,” Melissa responded with a vehemence that startled me. “Sure I should go on a diet. I should go on a diet for many reasons but I positively resent that the main reason would be for him.” Melissa said the last word with emphasis and a tone that dripped with disdain. To me Manny was such a swell guy it un- nerved me that his daughter would be so full of contempt. Then Melissa was a teenager at the time, and I figured she was full of adolescent dislike for her parental units. My own daughter was prone to such a tone. “Maybe a diet could be a combination of an action taken for your father as well as something you do for yourself. The campaign is but an opportune time to initiate a diet regimen, nothing more. Could you live with that?” Melissa turned her head away and remained quiet. “I’ve been on so many diets in my life,” she finally said in summation of her thoughts. “Ever since I was six my mother has run me to doctors and clinics and storefront weight loss centers. I’ve eaten smelly prepared food, I’ve weighed

each morsel before it entered my mouth, I’ve stood on more scales and hated them all. But I guess I could make the sacrifice one more time.” Melissa’s words shocked me. The girl was only eighteen yet her litany of weight loss despair could well have been my own. And I beat her in years by almost thirty two! I too had eaten smelly food, stood on endless scales, jogged and bicycled and exercised, and visited so many weight loss centers they all blurred into one. There was even a time I ed some weight loss center or another that had me getting some sort of needle in my behind every week. Now here I was, almost fifty years old at the time and no skinnier for all my money, time and despair. If I was testimony in any manner to the success of various weight loss schemes Melissa could rightfully deduce that they didn’t work. Not that I was as heavy as Melissa, who, at only eighteen years of age, tipped the scales at over 250. I am one of those pleasingly plump type of women, along the order of Delta Burke. Many of my diet attempts were misguided tries to be thin…..really thin. Melissa was truly obese, a candidate for measures more drastic than a weekly weigh-in and inspiring meeting. It was my suggestion that Melissa have surgery to staple her stomach and I readily it this. I didn’t suggest such a thing simply to get my candidate elected. At least, hey, I truly don’t think this was my motive. I did want Melissa to lose weight for the campaign and perhaps my impetus was a selfish one. But Melissa was not an overweight person that would succeed in the many programs she’d already been through. First it was obvious that none of them HAD worked and second, those sorts of programs are really not for one so overweight as Melissa Roberts. Of course, Melissa had the surgery and developed severe complications as a result. The reader probably knows this and might well be familiar with Melissa’s subsequent disparagement of me and my obsession with getting her father elected. I’d like to offer now that her accusation is far more cruel than the reality. If I were a thin woman my suggestion of the radical surgery would perhaps be mean spirited. But look, I’m fat too and if I were eighteen and as heavy as Melissa, I’d think the surgery option would be logical. My relationship with Melissa over the past few years has been a complicated

one. She doesn’t like me and has been publically vocal about it. I figure I’m entitled to a rebuttal and this book should be the vehicle. So yes, I suggested Melissa have the surgery-even made all the arrangements myself. But it was not meant to be cruel and was not because of my obsession with getting her father elected. It was a combination of opportunity and depth of the problem then upon. Marty Roberts was not overweight and I it to being grateful for this. He was, however, the most surly young man I’d chanced to meet but even this caused me no great concern. It’s easy to hide a nasty disposition. Far easier than hiding a hundred excess pounds. This really is the shame of it all I’m itting here. The public forum, such as it is, does not allow for any sort of in-depth analysis of the personality, integrity or decency of the celebrated. Of course I should have known this after the Clinton scandals and my own laments about the lies and spin thrust upon a busy public. Or course I inexplicably got myself so immersed in the sale of my candidate that I became the manipulator of spin just like my predecessors Lanny Davis and Sid Blumenthal. “If that’s what he wants,” Marty responded to my query of what he thought of the campaign. I thought it a bit offhand. There weren’t too many adolescents whose father was running for President. Then he lit up a cigarette and this caused me no end of dismay. Now I had a fat daughter and a son that smoked. “Don’t worry I won’t let anybody in the precious public see me lighting up. One of Dad’s big contributors is a tobacco company and they give me free cigarettes. But mum’s the word in any public setting.” Marty’s assertion of a lurking tobacco contributor surprised me. “When I run for President,” Manny used to joke, “I’ll have no special interests making me compromise. That’s the whole problem with political elections, you need so much money that the system makes so many strange bedfellows. I’ll campaign on the Internet where there’s no need to purchase air time.” Those long ago conversations between Manny and myself were exercises in naivete. Manny’s naivete dissolved soon enough what with his initial affiliation with the car dealership lobby and now a tobacco lobby. My naivete hardened into a deep resentment that grew like a festering pimple. At first it was a big lump, slightly sore but easy to ignore. Then the thing began to grow a head that

was going to pop no matter how much I ignored it. That’s just the way I am and I’m not suggesting I’m a better person than anyone else. The simple fact is that I believe that being a well-behaved and basically good person is important and our duly elected leaders should at least have this going for them. I also believe the vast, way vast, majority of American people are generally well-behaved and mostly good people. The country would be chaotic if not. Though I moaned and groaned about Clinton and his corruption, I found myself in much the same position as perhaps George Stephanapolous who, by his own ission, found himself caught up with a candidate whose thousands of little lies, deceptions and hypocrisy were ignored or explained away when they were but tiny plants, until they became a huge forest of tangled subterfuge. I scoffed at the Stephanapolous book and the man’s attempt to explain how he believed Jennifer Flowers to be a liar, that the tapes of the candidate’s own voice were somehow faked, that Clinton was never any sort of draft dodger. “The guy knew right along that Clinton was a creep and now he’s writing a book to justify his loyalty to the scum bucket,” I told Manny during those earlier conversations. “And he’s going to get rich off of the same book that details how he was deceived and how he willingly ignored all signs of deception. I, for one, am not fooled.” So George, I owe you an apology for the very first day I met the entire immediate family of presidential candidate Manny Roberts I should have been filled with suspicion. Here was the candidate’s wife emptying her pockets of goods she’d obviously not purchased, an overweight and bitter daughter who showed only dread over her father’s political efforts, and a surly son whose entire aura was unpleasant. Something was very wrong with that family and one would think my experiences with my own dysfunctional family would have raised my instincts. When one believes, one wants to believe. Reality was the last thing I wanted to face. My mind focused or nothing but presenting this crew of oddballs as one incredibly happy and normal American family. I believed in the cause. Within a month after these initial meetings with Manny’s family I had everything under control.

Let the campaign begin.

Chapter 11 Avian political consultants

“W hy it’s positively amazing,” I told Marcia. We’d both just witnessed a bird mobbing caused by a nest distress call by a pair of chickadees. Until then I’d never believed such a thing occurred, especially amongst the lower evolved. Blue jays, those beautiful blue and white birds with such a commanding presence, are known to be nest predators. They eat the eggs of other birds and as a result, are not regarded too kindly by their genus. Just as soon as a blue jay spots a pair of birds in any stage of nest building, the bully bird will stalk the nesting pair. I’d witnessed such stalking behavior myself. Indeed I often took off after the blue jay bully my own human self, armed with a menacing pitchfork and consumed with the desire to drive him off. What I didn’t know until the sunny afternoon of the bird mobbing was that birds will often help other birds if there are predators around the nest. This mobbing began when a pair of chickadees lighted on a tree branch near their nest and began to call loudly to the surround. At the moment Marcia and I were ensconced securely on Marcia’s back deck, weary from an afternoon of weed pulling and anxious to indulge in human conversation. Marcia first noticed the sudden appearance of many cardinals and robins. “Look, it’s a bird mobbing,” she said, interrupting my thoughtful political discourse. I searched her yard for what I believed would be a swarm of angry birds carrying guns and ropes for my experience with bird mobbings was then non-existent. Though I was by then quite the bird watcher, even while embroiled in a maddening and frantic political campaign. The pastime was, I’d often pondered, a perfect counterpoint to the fury of ballot box races. I’d spend many hours simply sitting on my porch, regarding the vast and lusty bird activity in my own yard. I’d ponder about the political race with which I was consumed, only to have the revery interrupted by the sight of a robin couple bathing happily in my

bird bath. It was relaxing, it was humorous, it was a constant source of wonderment. It was Marcia, of course, who piqued my curiosity about the bird fellows. First I became a would be gardener, then I became a fascinated bird watcher. The two activities often go hand in hand, or so Marcia explained. For how could one spend their days wrestling with the ugliness of nature, witness slugs and moles, and not notice the beauty and fascination of the ecosystem? The bird mobbing, however, was a new one on me. I was not insulted that Marcia cut off my political dialogue. The sight of all those birds congregating in one spot totally captured my attention. “They’re responding to the distress call of the chickadees. See that blue jay over by the pole?” I did notice the blue jay over by the pole and I also noticed that the other birds responding to the chickadees’ call noticed him as well. They were all pounding the hell out of the blue jay. “Amazing,” I said as both Marcia and I watched the blue jay get attacked by all manner of birds, none of which were chickadees, those birds with the original problem. “Are you telling me,” I asked Marcia as we turned our attention once again to each other, “that other birds, even birds of different species, will respond to a distress call and risk their own lives to save the nest of another?” “Oh I wouldn’t suggest the birds are risking their own lives. That’s the reason for the mobbing behavior after all, the safety afforded by their sheer numbers. You won’t find too many animals risking their lives for their own sakes, much less for the protection of other animals. Still, there’s an element of danger in responding to a mobbing, more so than say, sitting on a tree branch.” By then some titmouses and finches had arrived to in the attack on the blue jay and I was really flabbergasted that even these little birds could be so vicious. As Marcia said, however, there was the safety of the numbers. That blue jay would have had any one of those titmouses or finches for lunch had they dared to attack on their own. Coupled with attacks on all sides from robins and cardinals, the little birds were in no danger from any one-on-one destruction by a

ferocious blue jay. A few mourning doves came over to the fray, though true to their peaceful natures for which they are the very icon, they sat quietly on a tree and watched all the action. “It’s a mutual thing is all. It’s about survival. Those birds aren’t all the best of friends. The same ones all involved in that defense would tear those chickadees’ heads off if they posed some threat to their own nests or territory. It’s a method of survival is all, a way that helped them evolve. A large black snake could not be dealt with by one lone bird. It’s ‘get rid of the snake before he attacks me and mine’.” I leaned back in Marcia’s chair and let out a long sigh. That blue jay finally got the message and took off for other parts. The odd community of birds were now dispersing, no doubt to return to their own nest rearing and to be with their own species. “There’s some kind of message here,” I said, “but I’m not sure what. It’s….,” I then stopped and looked to the sky as if the clouds would help me find the words, “there’s so much parallel to human behavior that it intrigues me. Even more so I notice, what with dealing with the people I meet during the campaign.” Marcia raised an “I-told-you-so” eyebrow. Indeed Marcia had told me so though not in so many words. Upon my initial fascination with the birds Marcia would explain the behavior in a manner that made sense to me and my human sensibilities. Like the then current nest distress call and subsequent mobbing response. I was quite willing to attribute human melodrama for the behavior when it was, in fact, anything but. As Marcia explained, the birds aiding in the defense of another nest wasn’t based on pure avian altruism. Comes a time when one’s own nest might be threatened by a predator. It was a survival thing and those that didn’t figure it out, well they weren’t with us that sunny day and that’s the final result of it all. “It’s a real problem,” I’d once lamented to Marcia re the difficulties in dealing with situations involving both of the sexes. Make no mistake my own youth was filled with romantic espionage and there were even moments in my plumper middle years that might be construed as mild flirtations. It was then, and had always been, my personal anguish that humans were so totally unable to compartmentalize their sexual urges. Like the feminists before me, I was of a

mind that there’s a time and place for everything. The workplace, then, was a place to pursue wages and the resulting pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. A political campaign, I’d complained bitterly to Marcia, is a forum to get a favored candidate elected, not the vehicle to meet, flirt, date and make love with the opposite sex. It was especially inappropriate for one to use that pulpit of power to cast their spell on the weaker and meeker though the Roberts’ campaign turned into exactly that. The worst culprit was one Gene Mulroney, campaign manager of the Manny for President drive and man of unbridled lust. “The guy has absolutely no class,” I told Marcia. “He’s fat, ugly and bald, yet he thinks he’s Don Juan and Casanova all in one. He gets those teeny-bopper campaign groupies to thinking that he’s going to introduce them to the power within which he mingles. Then he sends some flackie to summon them to his room, introduces them to some powerful figure, maybe even Manny himself, then cajoles them into his bed. The whole thing disgusts me. And the man is supposed to be married!” Marcia clucked and chuckled simultaneously. The woman led such a quiet life yet she was regularly rewarded with my many rants and raves over life on the campaign trail. We were an odd couple, Marcia and I. Yet it was her calming perspective and simple commentary that fueled me to righteousness. The woman had probably never been involved in a political campaign in her life but here she was, my confidante and advisor. “I never really understood why folks get so upset when men engage in mating behavior,” Marcia surprised me later over a twilight iced tea. “It’s part of our nature to reproduce after all. But we get mad when humans try to reproduce.” “We’re not talking reproduction here, Marcia, for God’s sakes,” I almost shouted at the woman. “Gene Mulroney doesn’t want to reproduce with the campaign groupies though I wonder if he even questions such issues as birth control. It’s about sex…lust….power. Don’t go trying to put some sort of gauzy nature theme on his rotten behavior. Not that those silly groupies have a clue and I could throttle them.” Marcia chuckled again and I wanted to slap her. “All sex is about reproduction, no matter what they call it. Even the exercise of power is about reproduction. Those groupies, as you call them, seek power

because power is about survival. Power insures continuation of the species.” Discussions with Marcia often boiled down to this level that any normal casual observer might consider quite odd. No matter the subject or lament at hand, Marcia managed to reduce it to it’s lowest common denominator and though there were times I just wanted to be angry, Marcia would give me a common sense perspective on the issue. I bit. “And how does power insure continuation of the species and just how does a political groupie get such an insight?” “The robin with the largest territory that contains the most berries will always find a mate. And that robin wouldn’t be owner of that great territory if he wasn’t robust enough to fight off interlopers who also would like to own such a grand piece of earth. That bird better have healthy enough lungs to sing his song for even ownership of a nice territory is worth zilch if a ing female doesn’t even know of its existence. That’s how the system works. It’s not such a nice thing for the punier robin who had to settle for a smaller parcel and less abundant berries but that’s how it’s supposed to work. The best get the best and have better chances of reproducing healthy offspring. There’s no built-in empathy for the robin who has to settle for less. He either accepts his lower lot in life or fights to regain the better. How’s your Gene Mulroney plucking the choicest females that are there, I remind you, because of his power, any different than the robin who sings about his fine territory and many berries? Both of them attract interested females and both are probably able to take their pick. As for the females, why wouldn’t you choose the robin with a better site than that punier fellow who had to settle for a hardscrabble piece of land with fewer berry choices?” As much as I loved the birds, it was times like this that Marcia made me a bit testy. Human beings were not birds and yes we did, for the most part, empathize with that punier robin who has as much right to life, liberty and pursuit of happiness as the bigger one. Humans did not condone manipulation of other humans for their own gain. I told Marcia this in a tone that brooked no nonsense. Damn if the woman didn’t chuckle again! “Human beings are the highest evolved. Of course we see the cruelty of nature that wants to be, after all, only the best. We also understand that puny robins have one life and they have a right to a good one. Problem is, we are bucking our very natures and this simply will not work. You’ll never stop those groupies

from gravitating to the power. I’m thinking they’re probably groupies because they don’t have much else going for them. Maybe their only way of attracting a powerful mate is to hang around it until the power rubs off on them. Every time human beings a law or impose a gag on the truth that goes against the order of things, the order of things, like a diverted stream, will find another path. Of course your Mr. Mulroney is a creep. The difference between that female robin and those groupies is that the robin is actually getting something by reaching for the power. The robin’s getting a mate that will protect her and the territory he has established. She’s insured of a safe place and plentiful food to raise her children. Those groupies will mostly get nothing from Gene Mulroney but empty air. Any way you look at it, it’s dealing with our natures contrary to the way things ought or were meant to be.” “I adore the woman but sometimes she grates on my nerves,” I told Ralph later. I gave up on the mystical discussion about the evil Gene Maroney and his ilk. It was time to talk to another human being, one who was a bit more immersed in the real world than an old woman who spent her days toiling her gardens and watching the birds. “I think she’s right,” Ralph said and right then I wanted to slap him. “You’re never going to stop the groupies. And if you can’t stop the groupies you’ll never stop the likes of Gene Mulroney, or Bill Clinton for that matter, from taking advantage of what is so obviously there for the picking. I’m not saying it’s a nice thing and when you’re married, you’re supposed to be married. I don’t know about all that stuff about the robins though it makes some sense on a rather odd and very basic level. But Marcia’s got a point and I don’t think you ought to poopoo it. Animals form mating teams for a reason and that reason is to better raise the young. Call it romance or love or kindred spirit, but the idea of pair groups to raise the young was not invented by human beings. If you want to raise it to a higher level, then yes, we take a vow when we get married. We give our words that we will remain faithful to our mate. You know someone cheating on their spouse than at the very least this is a person whose word can’t be trusted. You sure your buddy Manny isn’t dipping a little on the side?” That Ralph, whew, he too could be quite the philosopher. “Manny’s a straight arrow,” I told Ralph in a tone that dared him to dispute. And Manny was a straight arrow. At least I thought so at the time. He showed no

interest in the many groupies who would have gladly shared a roll in the hay. This made me ire the man even more. Here was a guy who could have his choice of nubile female flesh, unlike my Ralph who I loved but let’s face it, the man wasn’t exactly fighting off the women that would have at him. The real test of commitment comes more when the temptation is real than in any hypothetical small talk situation. We were three months into the campaign at the time and I became more disenchanted each day. I’d held fast to my vision of a political campaign and candidate unsullied by outside influences and abuse of power. Yet each and every day I witnessed the likes of which made me sick. Gene Mulroney and his taking advantage of the groupies was one example. Yes I supposed then, and now, that most political campaigns had these elements. Still, I was committed to Manny Roberts, genuine candidate of the common folk. This position came about based on some real and very sincere beliefs and while the world and Melissa Roberts might question my motives, only I know what they were and yes, I can only state them as truth. None of us really knows what drives another of our species but we sure know what drives our own selves. I was driven by my pure belief in a candidate that I thought a good man who would make a good leader. Each day I had my veneer of good intentions chipped away. It was Manny who kept me believing and the astounding way he avoided the groupies served to reinforce my belief in the candidate and it was all about the candidate after all, not the horny campaign manager. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know that Manny’s preference was little girls, much younger than the teenaged groupies that entertained Gene Mulroney. While I’d slowly and inexorably allowed myself to become part of the spin, I really did draw the line when I discovered the truth about Manny Roberts. It was when I drew that line that others tried to erase it and it was then that I hit the hardest wall and discovered the truest truth. It was then that I decided to hijack an airplane because what I needed was what Manny had in such abundance. I needed some attention, please.

Chapter 12 Sky, political consultant of the future

T he interesting story of Sky occurred well before my involvement with the campaign of Manny Roberts. The editors question my inclusion of the tale in this book but I held firm that this was a child born and raised in the time of my writing. She is, I argue, the result of a duplicitous society led by duplicitous leaders. She also is the personification of human attempts to change our natural selves and the havoc that results thereafter. Finally she is an excellent example of the struggle to get at the truth and how the agendas of others prevent it. Who knows, perhaps someone enterprising investigator will look into the incredible story of Sky and maybe then she’ll get either the real help she needs or she’ll knock it off. Sky lives, even as of this writing, in a mental institution. There is, however, nothing at all wrong with Sky beyond the fact that the kid doesn’t want to work and she’s found the perfect vehicle within our country’s health care system and now the child doesn’t even have health insurance. She is languishing in the life of leisure completely on public funds. The lawyers have kept Sky silent and out of the picture until now. As for Sky, she’s content to keep a low profile because any monies that might come her way as a result of my celebrity and/or book success would be just as welcome as the public funds that currently house, clothe and feed her. Please believe that I have every intention of taking that child off of the public dole because I am very ashamed that this child of mine did not grow up to be a self-sustaining citizen. In fact, I anticipate that Sky will make her presence known should she discover she will not benefit from any wealth I may earn. I argued to the editors, successfully, that it was better for me to deal with Sky in the book rather than have her show up after publication with her bizarre story that might well cast as lies all that I write. Sky became obsessed with the mental health system during her late teens. Up until that point her many physical ailments had garnered plenty of the attention she craved. Because she’d ran the litany of physical problems that finally yielded no diagnosis, Sky discovered the mental health care system to be perfectly suited

to fake illnesses. Such as manic-depression and schizophrenia are difficult to prove beyond an individual’s assertion and actions. And Sky was a trained actress by the time she discovered the mental health care loophole that allowed re- entry into the world of illness and the sympathy it elicited. By the time Sky was seventeen Ralph and I were exhausted. We both were convinced that Sky was fooling everyone or else everyone wanted to be fooled. It’s also about agendas, agendas of school personnel, agendas of health care workers, the agenda of Sky Logan; the agenda of everyone but Ralph and Georgette Robinson who danced merrily like puppets on a string in response. The suicide threats went on for two years. At times she would phone the HMO and cajole an attending nurse to phone me and tell me to rush the child to an emergency room. I say phooey to those who complain of the heartlessness of the HMO’s. Sky had the HMO people jumping at her command. The people ended up paying a fortune in diagnosing, treating and hospitalizing Sky Logan. This with not a thing wrong with the child! If someone should relate a horrid HMO story that would have them refusing treatment for a dying person I would spit. Whoever would need a method to persuade reluctant HMO’s should Sky Logan for she will have them begging for the chance to treat the sick patient. The first time Sky was itted to a mental hospital they had to place her in an adult ward. The adolescent ward was full up. Sky absolutely loved it there. I’d make the long trip to pay her a visit and the child would barely have time for me such was her involvement with the adult patients who babied and protected her. Sky was finally moved to the adolescent ward and it was then that I knew she was faking. Though the child itted her fakery directly in front of a health care professional they didn’t believe her. “Mom, Dr. Reynolds wants to have a meeting with you,” Sky phoned me at work with this information and the incredible saga began. I interrupted my work day yet again to drive out for the requested consultation. Introductions were made and Sky, the doctor and myself were ushered into a private consultation room. “What is it you want to talk about Mrs. Robinson?” the young and ionate Dr. Reynolds queried. I looked to the ever innocent Sky both in confusion and for an explanation.

Her irresistible blue eyes welled with unshed tears. “Mom, you’ve got to get me out of here.” Still I regarded Sky in confusion and for further explanation. “Mom, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’ve been faking all along. Please Mom, you’re the only one who can get me out of here.” Of course I now transferred my gaze to the good doctor who would perhaps provide a better explanation. “Sky’s been unhappy these past few days,” the young doctor informed me. “Depressed patients tend to flee when forced to confront their monsters. We have Sky engaged in an intensive group therapy protocol and she’s rebelling at the treatment. This urgent request to be released is a symptom of her running from the protocol and from the pain.” Now I was more confused than ever. Sky was sitting right there and itting fakery yet the doctor was explaining it away as an attempt to avoid treatment. “Mom, that’s not true,” Sky interjected. “There’s never been anything wrong with me. Only you can get me out of here. I hate it here, Mom. I never heard voices Mom. I made myself faint. I don’t want to kill myself. Get me out of here Mom and I’ll never do it again. I hate it here.” The only sound in the room were the combined breathing of three people. Evidently I was expected to some sort of Solomon and decide how to divide the reluctant patient. By that time I’d been suspicious of Sky and her illnesses for over five years. Her pleading ission of fakery rang true to me. Yet the doctor told me no, that Sky is lying THIS time, that the child needs to remain in the hospital to get the help she needs. I refused to allow Sky to leave the hospital for several reasons. First, if she was faking then it served her well to suffer a bit in the adolescent ward that held no caring adults to give her endless attention. Second, if she wasn’t faking and Dr. Reynolds was right, then Sky should remain in the hospital and get the help she needs. Finally, I figured that in either instance there was definitely a problem with Sky and she should get help. I only hoped the

professionals would ascertain the truth. They didn’t. Sky was permitted the maximum thirty days allowed by the HMO. By the time the child was released she denied her former ission of fakery. And why not? She’d already served her time in a setting she didn’t like so why risk the possibility of having future issions denied? Everyone benefitted from the chosen course of action. The world-famous mental health hospital got a properly paying patient, the young and ambitious Dr. Reynolds saved yet another soul from self- destruction, and Sky was given a reprieve from the fakery she’d almost had to it. From that initial ission until the child turned a legal 18 years of age she was in and out of the mental hospitals. Ralph and I dutifully followed the procedures to have her itted for yet another suicide threat. We by then refused to believe a word of it but the schools and health care professionals commanded that the child be attended to. Of course the school must take a suicide threat seriously and Sky knew this. By the time she was a senior I suspected even the school was sick of her and would be glad when she graduated. Two months before her graduation Sky threatened another suicide and this time I decided I would throw down the gauntlet of my suspicions. “Mrs. Robinson, we’ve received a call from a national suicide hotline. A person who identified herself only as Sky attending a school by this name phoned. The people manning the phone thought her threat serious enough that we should take action. It’s no great task to figure out it was Sky Logan.” I listened to the familiar words of Sky’s guidance counselor and agreed to come in for a meeting. “Sky, people can reach out and help you during a crisis or time of need. But no one can make you want to live.” Sky’s giant eyes filled with tears. The guidance counselor looked on with concern. The principal folded his arms in boredom. This was but one of many such meetings. My words were a bit different, however. Whereas I had always responded meekly to school orders that I seek help for the constantly depressed Sky, this time I decided to state my piece. And my piece was exactly as stated.

After all, how long can a parent, a society, indeed, even an HMO, keep trying to prevent a suicide? Sky had already been itted over six times because of suicide threats not to mention the out-patient programs and ongoing psychotherapy that was part of the regimen. Never mind the fact that I didn’t believe the kid wanted to kill herself for a minute. My little speech was intended only to spur those in attendance to some thought. It’s not easy to look an education authority in the eye and tell him you think your kid’s a fake. I figured perhaps my speech would make them consider that this was nigh on the tenth suicide threat in three years. It didn’t work. The school stated once more that they would refuse Sky ission until she got the mental health care she needed. Of course they had to say that. Ralph and I had discussed this right along. “What, do you think they’re going to ignore a suicide threat and take a chance the kid might really do it?” Ralph’s question was a rhetorical one really. We both knew the school had to do what they had to do and by Sky’s senior year we suspected the school was on to Sky as well. None of this mattered because rules were rules and hey, Sky knew the rules. The child adored being in hospitals and she knew how to get into them, be they for the mental spirit or physical soul. Two weeks before her graduation Sky pulled one more trick that had there been any doubt left in me that the child was faking it disappeared forever. This time the HMO itted Sky to a local hospital for a strange rash on her face. The doctors thought she had Lupis. I was simultaneously dismayed and elated. Finally, a possible diagnosis! Goodness knows I dreaded that Sky would have an ailment that cut young women down in the prime of their life but even this was welcome news. At least she could get the medical help she needed. Lupis was a disease often undiagnosed until a female entered their late teens. The disease might well have been the cause of Sky’s earlier childhood ailments but was too dormant for diagnosis. And surely one would become very depressed at the thought of so many illnesses and no diagnosis; depressed enough to often ponder suicide. The rash on Sky’s face was a classic symptom of Lupis and the rash was very real. No way she could fake this. Sky was hospitalized for three days while the HMO physicians tested, poked and

prodded. The day I was summoned to pick up Sky for discharge I was informed that all tests were negative. Sky did not have Lupis. “I’ve set up an appointment to have that rash checked out by a Dermatologist,” Sky’s pediatrician informed me. “All of the tests showed nothing amiss. This will probably be the last time I’ll be treating Sky. After age eighteen she should be seen by an internist. Good luck, Sky.” The pediatrician Sky had frequented so often through the years extended his arm for a goodbye handshake. I wondered why he never questioned all these medical tests and how they never showed anything wrong. Then Sky had provided the guy with years of a guaranteed job in a manner of speaking. “It’s pigment,” the dermatologist told me. I shook my head to further clear my ears. Words like pigment and paint were filling my head. “Pigment? Like in paint?” I asked the doctor rather stupidly. “Some kind of pigment,” the doctor responded curtly. “She has no rash in her skin. I suggest she wash her face in warm soapy water until it goes away. Make sure she dries her skin thoroughly and consider applying a lotion to avoid a real rash.” I simply did not know what to say. Here was a contracted HMO specialist itting my child had some sort of paint on her face. The doctor was certainly nonchalant about it considering that Sky had been in the hospital for the past three days for this same “painted” ailment. Any minute I feared he would phone the HMO about Sky’s duplicity. Instead he shrugged off the diagnosis after his instructions on how Sky should wash her face. “Pigment! That’s paint Sky! Paint! You painted your face with something and spent three days in the hospital. The expert dermatologist told me it was pigment!” Of course Sky denied doing any such thing and once again those blue eyes welled with tears. This little episode had cost I couldn’t imagine how many thousands of dollars. There was the cost of the hospital ission, the specialists called in to consult on the many tests performed on Sky, the cost of the tests and

finally the cost of the dermatologist consult. Maybe I didn’t have to pay for it thanks to the miracle of modern day health care but for sure there were plenty of people that could have used that hospital bed occupied by Sky Logan. People with REAL ailments. People with NO health insurance. I threw a grand graduation/eighteenth birthday party for Sky. In fact I was a celebrant as much as Sky. At the age of majority, it would be on Sky to obtain her own health care and health insurance. Ralph and I would no longer be held hostage to a system that had school personnel, ambitious young doctors and paid specialists all benefitting by the fakery of one shrewd child. If you think the lack of health insurance deterred Sky in the years following her ission to adulthood, think again. Sky never did get any sort of permanent job. The few she had she quit almost immediately. Sky was not the sort of person who wanted to labor in any sort of job offering minimal attention when she could convince the public agencies that she was a sickly citizen who needed health care. I don’t know how she did it but in a time when the streets are filled with the homeless seeking food, shelter and decent health care, Sky Logan managed to get herself itted, via the public dole, into a public mental institution for a period of now going on two years. Further, she figured out how to get into some sort of ingenuous program that had the mentally ill living in handsome apartments as fine as any rent paying person would want. The program, originally intended to segue the mentally ill into society, also allowed the patients to hold a full time job, have their own transportation and receive a monthly stipend of spending money. In summary, a place where a mentally normal person could live in comfort, receive unlimited physical and mental health care, and get a little spending money for much needed cigarettes. One could avoid actually working by being just sick enough to alarm the mental health doctors into denying release until the patient is “ready”. Of course, Sky is never ready. She has to take a few pills now and again in order to look the part but Sky’s a veteran at handling medicine. It’s not a bad life, in fact. She even has a public paid telephone and phones me every day. I still love the child and always will. She is my only child after all. The change in our relationship since Sky reached adulthood was that I could now tell her flat out that I know she’s faking. The child still denies it but has agreed to my that our relationship must be void of all health complaints, both physical and mental. Let her foist her fakery on the unsuspecting public. Entirely too many people’s personal agendas were served by the likes of Sky. Be it a wary

education system, ambitious mental health care professionals, HMO’s filled with doctors seeking steady employment or doctors hired as consultants, they all benefit by a Sky Logan, so young and fresh-faced, a perfect candidate for rehabilitation. Sure it’s not any kind of life that most normal people would seek. Sky does not have endless freedom to come and go as she wants. But a person who exists only for constant attention and concern? This is a perfect situation. And it doesn’t cost Sky a cent. Only you and I pay for her care.

Chapter 13 Melanie Talbott

T he day I became aware of Melanie Talbott and her relationship with Manny started out exceptionally warm. Exceptionally for the state of Maryland in the humid month of August even. I was already sweating at 7:30 am as I sipped morning coffee on my porch and watched a pair of chickadees frantically feeding their nestlings in a nest then hosted by my hanging impatiens. I’d agreed to meet Manny at campaign headquarters at 10:00 am but was up early as was my custom. A brilliant red cardinal flew by the porch and I was testy already because of the heat but the cardinal pushed my limits. The cardinal and the mockingbird and the robin were all testing my patience and this was most because I didn’t know why these birds had been hanging around my yard all week. The campaign was entering high gear, the convention was over with Manny winning the party nomination handily, and I only had an hour or so before sunset to indulge in my favorite activity: watching the yard birds. I liked to come home, kiss Ralph quickly in greeting, grab a Diet Pepsi and head on out to the porch. It was an hour I spent trying to empty my mind from speeches, campaign quotes, scheduling and endless coaching of the entire Roberts family. Bird activity tended to pick up in the twilight hours so it was an excellent time and place to unwind. Soon enough it would be dark and my concerns re the coming days would once again become my mental focus. The cardinal had been coming around all week yet I couldn’t figure any discernable purpose. He didn’t seem to have a nest anywhere nearby and I saw no mate or little ones following him. The mockingbird too would stop by quite often and sit upon the tree branches, flexing his wings in a manner that would make him look like a hawk. The robin was always around, often filching worms from my compost pile. His unusual behavior was to sit on a fence newel and bark at me whenever I was anywhere around the chickadees’ nest. It got so I was looking into every bush and yard nook or cranny for either a cardinal, mockingbird or robin nest such was the frequency of their presence around the

chickadees’ nest. There were none of these birds’ nests in the surround yet every one of them exhibited definite defensive nest behavior. I was working ten to twelve hour days and could only observe the birds early in the morn or late twilight. The rush caused by the campaign’s inception had faded. Soon the campaign would swing into high gear and the November elections would end it all, either in victory or defeat. That hot August morning was truly an infamous Maryland dog day both in of the campaign and the weather. Though I was happy to be part of the campaign there were those moments when I resented the loss of the many hours I would spend in my gardens, observing the plants and watching the birds. Now it appeared I had four birds’ nests going and was missing out on the best part of it. All three of the mystery birds were in attendance that morning, the mockingbird flexing his muscle-wings, the robin barking his warning and the cardinal, ever present and ever red. I wanted to scream at them just why the hell were they here and where were their nests? The chickadees started to call their nestlings from the nest and then I was really frustrated that I might have to leave before it happened. Luck was with me for after the first call of the female chickadee a youngster hopped onto the rim of the plant pot and flew towards its mother. Inexplicably the cardinal flew down where the awkward baby landed and stood guard. It was then that I realized that the three bird musketeers had been helping to guard the chickadee nest! Understanding bird behavior requires some retrospective interpretation. In addition, I was hampered by observing only glimpses of the chickadee nesting activity due to my hectic schedule. Still it was small matter to put two and two together and figure out just why these three birds were hanging around that chickadee nest and why they were here the morning the babies left the nest. They were helping to guard the chickadee nest and I did not even begin to understand why. Birds will give what I call nest distress calls and I’ve seen several. The cause of the distress is often a stalking and nest- robbing blue jay. But it could well be a snake winding its way toward the nest or a hawk in the surround. All manner of birds will respond to the distress call no mind the species of birds issuing the sound. The birds then “mob” the offending prey, be it stalking blue jay or slithering snake. The effect of this group effort is to drive off the prey. One tiny

chickadee is no match for the predatory blue jay but fifty birds or more divebombing the culprit tend to make him go away. Thus the concept of avian group behavior to defend another bird’s nest was not lost on me. But such a methodical monitoring of the nest over a period spanning almost two weeks was a new one. That mocker, robin and cardinal were not reacting to an adrenaline rush caused by a nest distress call. They were regularly and with firm intent monitoring those chickadees and their nest. This was why the robin barked at me whenever I walked near the nest though I hardly think he considered me a nest predator. The chickadees would scold me as well but I interpreted their noise as reminder that I should mind the nest. The chickadee babies were out of that nest within fifteen minutes and my mind was spinning. It wasn’t as if the robin, mockingbird or cardinal population would be in any way affected should those baby chickadees get eaten by a blue jay or snake. It also wasn’t as if the chickadees could pay their benefactors back by any reciprocal nest protection, a chickadee being small threat to predators of robins, mockingbirds and cardinals. I’d argue with anyone who would listen that I was witness to bird altruism, pure and simple. Here I lived amongst a species that regularly robbed, murdered and hated others of their own yet the so-called lower evolved were defending the nest of another bird, not even of their own species! I grabbed my pocketbook and headed to campaign headquarters. Manny always loved my bird stories though he would hardly be considered any sort of bird watcher. Once Manny told me he thought he heard a woodpecker in the woods behind his house and this gave me an idea of the extent of his involvement with the birds. Yet he always stopped whatever task he was upon to listen to my tales of the backyard. In fact my backyard bird tales have earned me some small amount of fame well before the hijacking and definitely after. Reprints of my prior published s from Wildbird and Birds and Blooms magazines have been printed in most of the major newspapers, generally part of editorials pondering why a woman who so loved birds would put an entire airplane of humans in such jeopardy. Before that first fateful call that reunited me and Manny once again I’d made some inroads at being a writer, something I’d always wanted to be but had never attempted. And most of those inroads were writing about the birds to include mystery stories written about birds, love stories involving birds, indeed entire books written about my strange lot. Most of my submissions were rejected as are

those of most new writers with no sales track record. These books and stories still exist and remain my intellectual property. Those reprints fell through a loophole that I made when I signed away all rights to the writing upon publication. Birds and Blooms and Wildbird made a killing on my articles but hey, that’s the rule. Beginning writers are often so desperate to be published they sign away their intellectual property with no thought. I now say thank goodness for all of those editors who rejected my work because it is still happily mine and will see publication daylight as a result, yes and it’s a shame, of all of this attention. I figured if I got to Manny’s office an hour early I could relate my most amazing bird tale before we had to get down to business. It would seem that Manny wasn’t expecting me quite so soon. If he had I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have little Melanie Talbott dressed down to underpants at the same moment I burst into his office. “Manny I…..,” of course my words faded off at the sight before me. For there was Manny Roberts leaning back in his rollback chair while rubbing Melanie’s prepubescent nipples. The little girl stood before him, clad only in underpants and singing happily along with Manny as if the whole thing were a game. “Georgette!” Manny shouted, jumping from his chair. He was fully clothed, thank goodness, but his aroused manhood was quite evident even through his pants. Ten million thoughts raced through my head at that moment and I’ve yet to sort them all out. My initial thought was that Melanie had some sort of rash or had perhaps been bit by some sort of strange bug requiring Manny’s ministrations. The public may laugh at this weird fleeting thought that so quickly ed through my mind but yet that was my first mental explanation. The thought that Manny might actually be sexually molesting this little girl did finally but only through a fog. Michael and Connie Talbott were campaign volunteers. In retrospect I recall that Manny did seem to enjoy playing with their little girl but of course I gave it no malicious thought. Either Michael or Connie would bring her along when it was their turn to man the phones or assist with campaign literature distribution. The couple were ardent republicans and had served as volunteers for every republican candidate since Spiro Agnew, another notorious Maryland republican.

Michael Talbott owned a contracting firm that was the recipient of many Maryland building contracts. Perhaps the Talbotts’ devotion to political campaigns sprung from a quid pro quo mentality, I don’t know. Elected republicans are few and far between in this state so I’m not sure their efforts on behalf of the republican party paid off during democratic regimes. At any rate, the Talbotts were genuinely nice people who deserved better than having the candidate they ed taking advantage of their young daughter. Their reaction, however, to my discovery left me, as well as the rest of America, puzzled. Not to mention the months of disbelief that followed my desperate action. Even more amazing was how the party, friends and ers of Manny Roberts greeted my accusation. If the Clinton scandals didn’t leave me forever doubting that my country was the greatest and freest of all, the Manny Roberts scandal taught me irreparably the clout of power and that the only requirement for fame, fortune or leadership lies in the amount of attention an individual receives.

Chapter 14 Deciding what to do

“G eorgette, please,” Manny begged with everything in him, “That’s the first time, and the last time, I’ve ever done such a thing. I don’t know what got into me. I’ve never even thought of such a thing. Please, Georgette. Everyone deserves a second chance.” I heard Manny’s words but not a thing was ing. My head was still spinning and I think even at that point in the chain of events it didn’t that Manny was molesting the child. Then little Melanie started to cry and finally my mind could focus on something that needed doing. I picked up Melanie’s sunsuit and put it on her. The straps required my utmost attention because tying pretty bows was better than actually considering what I’d seen. My soothing fell on deaf ears so far as Melanie was concerned for she continued to cry vehemently. Finally Manny came over and took over tying the child’s sunsuit and to my amazement, Melanie immediately stopped her howling. The two of them sang the song “Sesame Street” and now my mind was fully in the Twilight zone at the sight of this man so happily engaged with the child he had just been molesting. I began to doubt what I had seen. “Sexuality should be respected. Men shouldn’t rape woman, woman shouldn’t have babies without the very least the father’s financial , couples shouldn’t have sex before marriage really. Of course men shouldn’t use woman as sex objects and a man who uses his power to use a woman in this manner is not much of a man.” Manny and I hadn’t discussed sex all that often in our pre- campaign past. The subject didn’t arise all that often for one thing and another the man had been my boss and this sort of repartee was not considered conversational fodder for such a relationship. So far as I knew Manny was happily married and so was I. Even beyond this, Manny had never discussed either his sex life or encouraged me to discuss mine. His quote above followed my question posed to him re his thoughts on the Monica Lewinsky scandal. I thought it pretty much summed up

his feelings on the matter and walked away from the conversation more convinced then ever that Manny was a special man, a man who should be a leader. As I watched Melanie and Manny sing “Sesame Street” I considered that Manny must think it’s all right for a man to use his power to treat children as sex objects. I gagged at the thought and it was perhaps then that the full import of what I had seen finally ed. A few minutes later Melanie’s mother arrived. “Did you have fun, Melanie?” Connie Talbott asked her daughter, who nodded yes with surprising animation. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Manny. I could have taken her along to the conference with my son’s teacher but you were right, she was so much better off here. She tends to get squirmy during long meetings. Thanks for the offer. I owe you one.” Connie Talbott tugged on Melanie’s hand and the pair walked off towards the main office. It was 10:00 am and the day had now officially begun. Manny had a habit of arriving to the office earlier than anyone else and had evidently been there along with Connie Talbott who also liked to arrive early. When she had to leave for 45 minutes to attend a scheduled appointment with her son’s teacher, Manny told her to leave Melanie there. I messed everything up by showing up an hour before my expected time. “Georgette, please, I’m begging you again. I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know and if I could un-do it I’d pay any money. But I deserve a second chance. You’d give anyone a second chance.” True enough. I like to consider myself the sort of person who would give someone a second chance. But child molesting? Can anyone justify giving someone a second chance for molesting a child? Oddly enough, I considered Manny’s offer. At the time I didn’t know all that much about child molesting though I’ve learned quite a bit since. The strange sequence of Melanie interacting happily with Manny, for instance, is not unusual. Children often identify with their abs. Child abs get along notoriously well with children. Younger children especially, like a two and a half

year old Melanie, don’t often understand what is happening to them. If the illicit activity began as a game the child will often consider everything that happens as part of the game. I’ve also learned that one does not give child molesters a “second chance”. Child molesters rarely change their ways. I didn’t know all of this at the time and Manny certainly seemed ardent with his promises not to do it again. Today I shake my head that I ever considered such a thing. But Manny was so sincere in his pleas, so distraught and yes, ashamed. I believed then and even believe today that Manny Roberts wishes more than anything in the world that he didn’t have his abnormal compulsions. “I know of no species in which the adults participates in sexual activity with the young. Sure there’s the domestic pets that might do such a thing but they are so removed from their natural environment that their behavior is in no way indicative of the normal order of the things.” I sat quiet for a full minute after this statement by Marcia. We were sitting on her back deck, having an iced tea while the citronella candles glowed. Across the cove the bull frogs sang of their masculinity. An owl hooted its derision. Weary and confused, I’d ed Marcia for a sip when I’d couched the scene I’d witnessed as something that occurred between a child and another “campaign worker”. Since I was still pondering my options I didn’t want to tell Marcia that actual identity of the molester because if I decided to shut my lips on the matter I sure didn’t want Marcia Woods to know about it. Not that Marcia was any sort of big-mouth. Goodness knows plenty of reporters have scouted her down for her comments on the whole thing and for the most part she’s kept a low profile. Hounded by an especially tenacious reporter, Marcia did finally it that I’d told her early on about the molestation incident but she told the truth, that I’d told her the perpetrator was another campaign worker. This did tend to cast doubt on my credibility as the “spinners” accused me of pinning on Manny what was actually the deed of someone else. I’ve explained as best I can why I couched the incident as involving someone else. I wasn’t lying when I told the press I’d related the incident to two people: Ralph and Marcia. Of course Ralph verified that I’d told him about the incident the day it happened but because the man is my husband the spinners argued that naturally he would back up my claim.

The world already knows my credibility was restored only when Manny’s daughter related the molestation she endured as a young girl. It’s testimony to the power of lies spun by the powerful that I was cast, and believed to be, the deceiver, with such a heinous crime at stake. As for Ralph, his reaction was one of absolute horror and though the man hates any sort of public scrutiny he did not hesitate to my . So far as Ralph was concerned, Manny Roberts needed to be shot. “Jesus Christ, Georgette, of course you should tell somebody. We can’t have a President of the United States who’s a child molester! If you don’t do anything about, I sure will.” Though Ralph is mostly a quiet guy, not at all prone to excitement or exaggeration, on this subject he was most vehement. Which was a good thing because in my confusion I’d almost considered keeping mum about the incident. Not that my attempts to bring the issue to someone’s attention was met with much enthusiasm and the world well re the months of spin following my little drama. Manny almost made it to the national election with his little quirk well concealed. The man, the world must never forget, came dangerously close to being the President of the United States! Who knows how many children he could abuse with all of the power associated with that office? And if the spinners were so willing to lie away this awful behavior even before he was elected, believe they would have been in full force after he was President. “The lowly squirrel even leaves its coveted territory so their offspring do not have to find and establish a place to flourish while so young. All species protect the young, and at all costs. For the most part even humans protect the young. It’s what it’s all about.” Okay, so Marcia tends to be philosophic in that nature loving way of hers and sometimes it’s a bit odd. Still her way of logically explaining things made so much sense to me, yes a human who Marcia would often deride as being the more stupid of the world’s living things. Because it’s a fact that sexually molesting a child is a terrible and abnormal thing. In fact and as Marcia expounded, no other animal participates in sexual molestation of the prepubescent. Why this is a human thing would probably be fodder for another book. The amazing thing, and I it it readily, is that for a brief moment in time I actually considered it permissible to give Manny another chance. With

Marcia’s skewed but unique perspective and Ralph’s vehemence, I was soon persuaded to speak the truth. The problem with speaking the truth, especially about such a thing, was to whom to speak said truth. It’s also important to understand my position within the confines of the campaign, a position greatly exaggerated or outright falsified by the press. At the time of the incident, I was a “personal publicist”. Yes I’ve already so stated this but it needs detailing again. Just as many political candidates have personal publicists as those who do not. The job is a relatively new one in this day of mass media and instant perceptions. Indeed criminals have taken to hiring personal publicists, the action de facto confirming that juries are influenced by public perception and do not reach verdicts based on the merits of prosecutor and defense presentations alone. OJ Simpson would be a perfect example of a criminal tried via public perception rather than such as facts and evidence alone. I was not Manny’s campaign manager. That job belonged to Gene Mulroney. I was not, even, a person of any sort of power in the Republican party. In fact, up until the Roberts’ campaign, I generally tried to avoid Republicans. I also was not a long time personal friend of the Roberts’ family though I had considered myself a friend of Manny’s in a fashion, but even at that we didn’t socialize. Manny reached out to me before he even became a presidential candidate. He did so because we had often discussed, debated and dreamed about a presidential race during the time we were colleagues. My main mission during the Roberts’ campaign was to coach, train and prepare both Manny and his family for exposure to the public. I had absolutely no experience prior to the campaign with this sort of agenda but personal publicist appointments are often made based on past friendships. My credentials were essentially an ability to twist a word or two into a fancy phrase. Manny always enjoyed my writing. Why this was so is a matter of personal preference. For Manny, it was criteria enough to engage me as his personal publicist. After a campaign, personal publicists often become something else or they fade into the past. Elected candidates have “personal aides” or “spokes people”. These folks often were people like me, personal acquaintances of the candidate who helped to get him or her elected and are rewarded with a trusted position within the political system.

Naturally I had hopes beyond babysitting the Roberts family, after the campaign was done and if my candidate won. In fact, at the time of the molestation incident I’d recently begun to cast my glance to the future and considered that I would love to be a speech writer. During the campaign, Manny had an experienced Republican speech writer penning his political rhetoric. After election, a candidate has more freedom to choose their own speech writers, Aides, etc. In mid-August, with the convention behind us and the election looming close, I’d decided to approach Manny about a role in his istration. It’s also of some import to note that before my job as a writer, personal publicist or any other position associated with verbal art, I was an ant. Manny was, in fact, also an ant. I absolutely hated ing and dreamed in mid- life of a career change. It was my ing skills that led me to discover the sinister payoffs out of campaign funds and the public needs to stop believing that there was no way I could have discovered what I did due to lack of experience. I may have hated ing, but I was good at it. In summation, I was not a person with any sort of great political power during the Roberts’ campaign. The Republican party would just as soon have me quit and be out of their hair. I had no extraordinary s with the powerful and descended from no political dynasty to enhance my appeal. I was simply a former friend of the candidate and was respected in that capacity alone. It is from such humble beginnings that power is born, I’d agree, but I was far from any powerful and influential position within the campaign force at the time of the incident. Finally, yes I was alive and well during the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal and I was no stranger to spin. In fact if ever a human hated and deplored the liars and connivers who defended their lying boss, it was me. So often I’d be consumed with a rage directed to the spinners who would risk their reputation and good name to defend a man I hardly thought worth it. The Internet bulletin boards were full of rants and raves written by my own wise self over the dishonesty of the Clinton istration and the coterie of liars who looked us in the eye and told us such dishonesty was simply a matter of perspective. It’s beyond ironic that I would be, a few years later, embroiled in a campaign so full of deception that the Clinton shills looked like pikers. At the time of the Clinton/Lewinsky scandals I often pondered what caused people like Madeline Albright to stand on the steps of the capital and announce to all the world that her man was innocent of any illicit activity with a young intern and she believed him. William Cohen,

Bill Richardson, Lanny Davis, even Bob Dole and Gerald Ford all took the public pulpit to defend William Jefferson Clinton who wasn’t worth a dime so far as I was concerned. And I could not for the life of me understand it. What on earth did Bill Clinton have that made these people risk their own integrity to save him? What a fool I was. It’s never about a Bill Clinton or a Manny Roberts. It’s never about one person, not ever and at no time. For while the American public bought into the spin argument that Monica and Bill were consenting adults and the president had a right to a private life, surely I considered in the throes of my dilemma, no one would tolerate such as a child molester. It was an old joke during the Clinton scandals that the only thing which could bring the man down was if he was caught in bed with either a child or a man. HAH! I caught my candidate with a child and even this was not enough to turn the tide of a winning candidate. Because it’s not about who the candidate is or what he/she stands for or even how he/she acts. It’s about a whole bunch of people whose ascent to, and remainder in, power is based loosely on one figurehead who may not be anyone of any substance or personality. The figurehead is nought but an icon, spinned, primed and prettied for public consumption. Silly me for once again believing that the rightness of things is more important than the fate of one person.

Chapter 15 Telling the Truth

W ayne Bosley was the national head of the Republican party. As most of America knows by now, Mr. Bosley did go down in flames when all the dust settled around the Roberts’ scandal. But for too long of a time the man was hailed and viewed as the voice of reason. After hours of agonizing introspection, I decided to approach Wayne Bosley with my knowledge. It took me three weeks to get an audience with the esteemed Mr. Bosley even though I told his assistant that I had information of “major importance”. The Republican races were in full force at that time, I’d concur. Still one would think with all my cajoling and wheedling and yes, threats, the man would least have given me a call to find out what was on my mind. During the three weeks I was trying to Bosley I had to interact with Manny and this was extremely difficult. Ostensibly I allowed Manny to think I was going to forget the incident. I hated being so deceptive but I imagined myself as a woman on a noble mission. My plan was to tell Wayne Bosley what I’d seen just as soon as I could talk to the man. After that I figured the expected course of events would naturally follow. Manny would be pulled from the race, Ford Lambert would be nominated via an emergency convention, and that, I figured, would be the end of that. I considered that such a series of events would raise the curiosity of the public and beyond that I decided I’d let the chips fall where they may. If an enterprising reporter tracked me down I didn’t know what I would do. Frankly I thought that after my revelation and after Manny was removed from candidacy, the Republican party would give me some sort of guidance on how to proceed. I had no plans for a blockbuster book or celebrity gained by selling my story to the tabloids. I had no plans at all, frankly, because mainly on my mind was getting someone to listen to what was going on. I did not think a child molester should be my country’s President. I did not nor do not consider myself any sort of exemplary heroine. There are millions and millions of people in this country who would have followed the same course of action as me. Maybe they would have done things

differently but point is those millions and millions of fine Americans would have been of the same mind set as me: a child molester should not be the President. Of course most of these millions would not likely have been in a position of losing power, money or prestige if their candidate’s strange behavior were revealed. Silly me and silly millions of honest and decent Americans who believe integrity and character are important, that a candidate should have some ideals and goals. “Georgette, I can’t thank you enough for giving me another chance,” Manny told me a week after the incident. I’d already placed my whistle blowing call to the national head of the Republican party but Manny didn’t know this. At least I hoped he didn’t. “You know I have every intention of appointing you as my head speech writer. I’ve had this intention right along and if you misconstrue my timing of this revelation I ask your forgiveness. But I really want you to know this and know it’s the truth.” Was this a thinly disguised bribe? I don’t know. I do know that the offer did come at a time when such promises were generally made-after the convention and before the national election. Still, it wasn’t until after I’d caught the man molesting a child that the offer was made so I don’t know which it was. Funny that Wayne Bosley made the same offer during the time I had to finally meet with the man. “Gene tells me many, many good things about you. He’s pleased that Manny plans to appoint you to head the speech writing staff. I apologize for the time lapse before I could meet with you but it’s been hectic. Now what’s on your mind?” Bosley sat down on the edge of the desk after saying this, post introduction. We were in Manny’s office at the Maryland headquarters. Bosley’s assistant had phoned me three days prior and asked if it would be all right for Bosley to meet me on my home turf since he was stopping by to check on the campaign anyway. This arrangement pleased me because otherwise I’d have to discuss this on the telephone or fly to New York at my own expense for a face-to-face meeting. I told Wayne Bosley what was on my mind. At the least I would have expected, what?, an ashen face, a concerned look,

maybe even an instantaneous reaction that would have the man frantically phoning his consultants in an effort to stop the Roberts’ campaign. Wayne Bosley cooly lit a cigarette, took a long drag and studied the ceiling fan with great interest. “This is serious,” was all he said. It amazed me that Bosley was a smoker. Gene Mulroney was a smoker. In fact, I am a smoker. I cast no aspersions on the smokers other than the Republican party had publically and quite vocally taken a stance against smoking, most for political correctness I knew. Still, throughout my entire political campaign experience I was amazed at how many political operatives were smokers themselves. The image of the smoke- filled room where decisions are made was alive and well, I’d often mused. I sat on my awkward perch at the edge of the chair in front of Manny’s desk. I remained silent. There was no need for further conversation at that point, or so I thought. In fact I had more information about Manny’s little “problem” beyond what I’d witnessed. For in the three weeks waiting for this audience with the mighty I’d done a little sleuthing on the campaign books. Mindful of the Clinton scandals and how the women who dared to tell the truth were branded as liars and psychopaths, I even squirreled away copies of my “proof”. Campaign expenses were submitted and paid by the national party. A petty cash checking was kept in the local office but the majority of the checks were cut and mailed far away from prying eyes such as myself. The national party did deliver a printout of the regional campaign’s income statement and balance sheet, complete with comparisons to budget for the local campaign director to peruse and monitor the spending. Yes political campaigns have income statements. Money is raised via fundraisers and contributions. And money is spent for advertising, travel and campaign literature. Before the campaign even begins a budget is drawn up detailing anticipated incoming funds and projected expenses. Usually an infamous “exploratory committee” designs the thing and submits it to the national party as proof of a candidate’s monetary viability. All monies received and spent during a campaign are tracked and credited to the local campaign.

Every month a printout comparing actual to budget is delivered to all local campaign offices. It is the local campaign manager’s responsibility to keep the income and expenses on track. Chance would have it that because of my ing background, the printout was delivered to me instead of Manny. I noted all penciled concerns by Gene Mulroney and dealt with the fiscal concerns myself. Manny had enough on his mind and since I was experienced with matters ing, I assumed this task, a small one really. With my concern over the molestation I decided to pay that income statement a bit more mind. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. My closer perusal of the data was part of my overall effort to find some proof or backup of my claim. Not that I, at the time, considered I would have the problem of say, a Kathleen Willy or Juanita Broderick. I was convinced that the mere whisper of child molestation would send Manny on his way and far from the presidential pulpit. There it was, on the balance sheet. An item titled “good will”. Good will is a viable ing ledger entry. If the president of Domino’s pizza decides to sell his business to Joe Blow who no one ever heard of, a good portion of what he is selling is “good will”. For if the unknown Joe Blow were to open his own pizza delivery service without benefit of the “Domino’s” name he would have a long and arduous struggle to sell his product. The tangible assets of such a sale might include a few ovens and pizza pans while the cost of the sale could well be in the millions. Naturally the ovens and pans are not worth millions and ants do not record them as such. The ovens and pans might be recorded as an asset worth their true value while the remainder of the sale’s cost is recorded as “good will”. The good will is amortized, ie the value of the asset is written off as an expense over a length of time determined to be the span during which the famous brand name will carry the product. If Joe Blow makes lousy pizzas sooner or later and no matter the famous name, his business will fail. That name recognition, however, will carry the business for a determined time span before the customers are no longer fooled. It seemed odd to me that a political campaign would have a balance sheet item titled “good will”. At first glance it occurred to me that things like bribes and such would be the only kind of good will a candidate would have and I was a bit amused. It took nerve to even record such a thing on the books and I became

more curious. At the time I didn’t even consider that the balance sheet item would be in any way associated with the molestation incident. I was a bit disillusioned with my favorite candidate and pondered that if the man molested children he could very well take bribes with no concern. The Republican party used an ing software program called Jenark. I was familiar with this program. It’s excellent at tracking the expenses, assets and liabilities of many, many entities. Which a national political campaign certainly is. While I had access to the national network for email purposes, I didn’t know if my would give me access to the ing program. There was, however, a Jenark icon on my computer’s desktop so I double clicked on it. The introductory screen popped up but it too required a . On a chance I entered my network ID and my network . With no hesitation, the main menu appeared on my screen. It seems that the network ID and were programmed to automatically allow the access to Jenark as well. Many companies do this to keep the from having to all sorts of sign-ons and s. Probably everyone with a network ID had access to Jenark though very few would be interested in accessing the rather boring ing program. Except this ant, of course. I hit menu item number one to access the General Ledger, that pulled the chart of s on the screen. “Good Will” was asset number 10015. Then I hit the menu item to access the s payable subsidiary ledger. If checks were cut and charged to this I’d find a way to filter out only invoices charged to good will and ascertain the payees. “Access denied” the computer screen flashed. Evidently I wasn’t given rights to access the s payable system. Really I shouldn’t have had rights to access this system. It surprised me, however, that someone granted me access to the general ledger but not s payable. I don’t know if this was intentional or merely the way all s were initially set up. If there was any guardianship of the ing software at all it certainly should have been the s payable system. Jenark generates checks directly off of any laser printer, complete with a proper scanned signature. It wouldn’t do to have just anyone access to such a system. Yet I could enter the general ledger module, no problem. Not being able to see the payees of checks for invoices charged against good will was an obstacle. However, entries to the general ledger were made via the

s payable system and this is normally the routine. s payable is generally a subsidiary ledger of the general ledger but all entries to s payable greatly affect the general ledger. A seamless ing system posts s payable journal entries to the general ledger without extra effort by the payment/invoice processor. Usually the description of these journal entries is the payee of the invoice entered. I crossed my fingers and printed all entries to the general ledger to this to my terminal. A company can choose not to have the invoice payee as the general ledger description, specifically to foil snoops like me. The Republican party has never been known as a hotbed of ing expertise so I hoped they hadn’t over-ridden the software’s default for s payable entries to be posted to the general ledger with invoice payee as general ledger description. They hadn’t. Three payees were listed on the general ledger under the for good will. They were: Mr. and Mrs. William Martin, Mr. and Mrs. Wayne Post and, most interestingly, Mr. and Mrs. Michael Talbott. Instead of discovering payees such as Shell Oil, AT&T or Blockbuster Video-the sorts of big companies that would be worth a good will entry to the general ledger, these were three rather unusual payees. All of these people were part of Manny’s campaign volunteer staff. Mr. and Mrs. Michael Talbott were the parents of little Melanie and according to the local general ledger, they were issued a check for $50,000.00. The checks for Martin and Post were both in the amount of $15,000.00. I was more confused than ever. All of these people were volunteers. Manny had plenty of volunteers working on the campaign, yet only these three received a check from the Republican party charged off as good will. More perplexing, the party had written a check TO these volunteers. If the Talbotts, for instance, were looking for future favoritism for government contracts one would think the money would be going in the other direction. Though there are campaign finance laws that limit the amount any company or individual can contribute to a political candidate, it’s no secret that the loophole of “soft money” contributions allows this rule to be virtually ignored. The Talbotts could have contributed $50,000 to Manny’s campaign, stipulating that $1,000 represented their maximum contribution for Manny the candidate while the rest of the money was

to be used “soft money”, ie money given for the good of the party and not attributable to a specific candidate. According to my snooping, the party was issuing checks to the Talbotts rather than the other way around. I had no idea why the Posts and Martins were also getting a check from the party. I made these ing discoveries a week after I’d phoned Bosley for a meeting. While I didn’t have a copy of the actual check, I did have proof that a check was cut to these people and was entered to the general ledger via the s payable subsidiary ledger. Any ant with 101 under his/her belt would know this was excellent proof that a check was cut to these payees. I made a printout of the general ledger details listing these entries. There was no way I could get a copy of the canceled check but I was smug that this little printout was plenty of proof. While still waiting for my meeting with Bosley, I did some more probing. Betty Martin was a volunteer that worked mostly in the evenings. Regina Post worked from home, writing and editing the campaign newsletter. I knew of them but didn’t know them personally. It was only a matter of gossip and small talk that allowed me access to more information on the three payees. All three of them had little in common. They each had an area of expertise, they each contributed some time and skills to the campaign, they each were ed Republicans who had worked on other campaigns in the past. So far nothing that would warrant a special check. The only thing each couple had in common that rang a bell in my mind? They all had young daughters under five years of age. I had my printout in a folder and the knowledge of the daughters in my mind. Wayne Bosley continued to blow smoke rings at the ceiling fan. I had no intention of even mentioning the pay-outs if Bosley reacted in what I considered the expected manner. I only bought along the printouts in case the man didn’t believe me. Call me naive, but I thought it possible that payments to the couples were trumped up and funneled through the national party without Bosley’s knowledge. So just in case, I had my proof. Bosley finished his cigarette and intense scrutiny of the ceiling fan. He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a long sigh. “I’ll take care of it from here. I want to thank you enormously for telling me and

more importantly, for keeping this confidential. We’ll do what we have to do on our end. I have to ask you if you have any intention of going to the media about this? Have you told anyone else about this?” I told Bosley the truth, that I’d told my husband and a neighbor in very veiled . “I’d sure like to keep this out of the papers, Georgette. I know that’s asking a lot. You could make some money selling your story to the tabloids. You can understand that besides dealing with this in the appropriate manner, I’d really like to try and keep this from becoming a major scandal. It’s going to be rough enough as it is, what with pulling out a national candidate so close to the election. Speculation will run rampant. Sooner or later that neighbor of yours is going to put two and two together and start blabbing. I wonder if there’s any way we can work together to stem the damage.” Bosley ran his fingers through his thinning hair again and I almost felt sorry for the guy. Until then I hadn’t considered the aftermath of Manny’s withdrawal from the race. Bosley asked me if we could work together and I immediately assured him that we could. Though I hadn’t a clue what he meant, I was more concerned with getting Manny out of the race. After that, hey, I was willing to listen. “Lambert’s going to need a good publicist to get him and his family up and running for the race. You already have the experience. If we can get him elected he will need a good speech writer. Understand, and I must put this as delicately as possible, that such positions would be contingent on your silence and keeping your husband and neighbor’s yap shut.” It seemed a fair proposition to me and I eagerly agreed. So far as I could see, it was win-win. There was nothing to be gained by destroying the Republican party. They didn’t know of Manny’s proclivities after all. Once they found out and once they got him out of the presidential race, they will have done the right thing. As for the job offer, I thought I was a good personal publicist and as Bosley said, I did have experience. And I always wanted to be a speech writer so this was a plus. Maybe I could get ten thousand dollars from the National Enquirer with my story but in the longer run I was better off accepting the offer. Which I did.

“You keep a low profile over the next couple of days. We’ll concoct a story about why Manny’s removing himself from the race. When everything’s firmed up, we’ll call you. We’re going to need your help preparing the family. Can you do this?” I nodded that I could and shook Bosley’s hand in agreement. Since then I’ve never seen or spoken to the man in person again.

Chapter 16 The dysfunctional family strikes again

“H ow long has it been?” I tried to keep my ire in control at Ralph’s question. He’d been nagging me steady for the past week and a half since I last spoke to Bosley. I was sure the waste product would be hitting the fan soon. It was late September by this time and it did seem that Bosley should be making a move soon if they hoped to get Ford Lambert up and running. Marcia was weeding her garden when I’d casually mentioned that the campaign worker suspected of molestation quietly left. “Hmmmm,” was all she said. Marcia wasn’t especially into politics. She seemed perpetually more interested in her coreopsis so I figured there would be no problem with her. “A week and a half,” I answered Ralph, gritting my teeth. One usually responds to an innocent question in such a testy manner only if the question is weighing heavy on the recipient’s mind as well. The election was a scant six weeks away. I would have thought that Bosley would be moving by now and Ralph’s nightly question only served to remind me that I hadn’t heard a thing. The thought that this thing might be ignored had begun to enter my mind. It was a thought too horrible for me to entertain and at the moment I didn’t appreciate Ralph’s nightly reminder. Ralph clicked the channel changer grimly. “Looks to me like that they’re not going to do a thing about it. Time for you to start thinking of an alternative.” I picked up my channel changer and turned the television off. “And just what would you suggest, Mr. Genius? I already went to the head of the

party. Where else am I going to go?” “I’d find me some enterprising reporter and tell my story. What about the girl’s parents? See if they won’t back you up.” Of course Ralph’s suggestions made sense. They also made me squirm. For the days preceding this conversation I’d done nothing but curse the gods that I’d ever become involved in such a thing. I’d also taken a long look at my life and where I had come and wished I could go back and un-do it all. I’m a simple woman, really, not the sort to relish fame, celebrity and yes, notoriety. Before I’d impulsively assumed this job embroiling me in a presidential race my life was taking a turn I’d enjoyed. My only child was grown and out of the nest though under circumstances I didn’t approve. I was happily married, at least most of the time as such things go. I’d begun to enjoy modest, extremely modest, success as a writer, a late in life career that held promise and satisfaction. My gardens were alive with the plants I’d planted over the five years of my born- again green thumb and I so enjoyed watching them grow. I’d become quite amused by the bird fellows and they were the subject of much of my writing. Financially I was secure, as secure as most people in their later years though definitely not wealthy by any means. I was able to earn extra funds as needed by accepting temporary ing positions. This allowed me to take off mostly when I wanted. Suddenly I got it into my head to my old friend Manny Roberts and it went downhill from there. I’d sit on my porch, waiting for the call from Bosley and ponder that perhaps some magical spaceship would appear and take me away from it all. Besides the angst of waiting for the shoe to drop, I was walking a difficult path in dealing with Manny and his family. So far as I knew, Manny hadn’t a clue I had went to Bosley. I felt a bit like a traitor. He and his family were so upbeat and excited that I felt nothing but guilt when in their presence. In my younger days I’d be chomping at the bit to assume the heroine role. In fact I was often found marching in the sixties’ peace parades, flowers in my hair and the fire of the righteous in my gut. Once a friend and I caught a subway to DC to see the inauguration of President Reagan. We found some old five- gallon cement buckets and lugged the things all around the city, looking for a suitable viewing spot. We both wore green as that was the call of the feminists to make our collective statement that Ronald Reagan would know we were out there and

intended to maintain our stance. Even during the Clinton scandals, a time when I was considerably older than those peace-loving sixties, I was a bit of a loudmouth. Still, all of my rhetoric was posted on the mighty Internet from the peace and solace of my own clubroom. In the morning I could mind my gardens and in the evening I could type my rage. I often wondered why a Juanita Broderick or Elizabeth Gracen didn’t get on the soapbox and shout their stories, expose the man, reveal his hypocrisy. Well I know now why they didn’t. It’s simply not that easy to get the attention of the entire world. And if one does manage to do this, no one believes them. The morning following Ralph’s suggestion that I the media I sipped my coffee and watched a pair of robins frantically try to tend to three hungry and vulnerable babies that had recently fledged and landed in my yard. They were a busy robin family all right. The female flitted around endlessly, searching for worms and running quickly to fill a tiny one’s beak. The youngsters had assumed hiding spots that included my compost pile, a bushy lilac and an old woodpile I’d established some years ago to hold the never ending supply of oak limbs that dropped into the yard. The male, meanwhile, would perch high on an oak limb and monitor the surround. He was a busy guy also. Seemed that every five minutes the fellow was chasing off some bird intruder or another and the sound of a furious robin would periodically punctuate the air. To add to the robin angst, the parents had to get those babies grown and ready for the fall migrations which were getting ready to enter full force. I smiled at the antics of the speckled breast youngsters who would starve to literal death it would seem, lest a parent feeds them some worm food immediately. Goodness I only had one child and didn’t do the greatest job in the world raising her. This with all of the resources of the mighty humans who provided warm shelter that didn’t include woodpiles, plentiful food that I didn’t have to pull out of the earth, and safe surround that had locks to prevent predators. Right in front of me were a pair of robins, having successfully built a nest from nought but the materials in the earth, now rushing to feed and protect their young with only their instincts and the environment to guide them. Humans don’t even begin to know rough, I’d thought. That’s when I made my decision. I decided the hell with it. If Bosley or the Republican party weren’t going to do anything about Manny Roberts then neither was I. So we’d have a

president who was a child molester. So what? Why was it on me, one chubby and very unspectacular middle-aged woman to expose the man? The president was surrounded by people, aids, advisors, visiting dignitaries. How often would the man get a chance to molest any children? How comes I’m supposed to have some sort of conscience? I recalled that there were plenty of Democrats defending that Clinton person as if he were Christ finally returned when they knew full well the man was nothing but a boorish lech who wouldn’t know proper behavior if it smacked him in the face. By the absence of any sort of action by Bosley I could safely assume the Republican party was of the position that Manny’s peccadillos were all right. No doubt even if I succeeded in getting someone’s ear the Republicans would be right on the talking head shows, lavishing praise on Manny and heaping scorn on me. Then my mother called. “Hi Georgette. Hate to bother you but I need your help with something. It’s about Calvin.” I searched my memory banks to find a button named Calvin. “Who’s Calvin?” “Joe’s oldest son,” my mother almost shouted in exasperation. I don’t know why the woman was exasperated. I’d long ago cut ties to the dysfunctional siblings and for sure didn’t track their offspring. “What’s wrong with Calvin?” “He’s been arresting for fooling around with a little boy.” I ran my fingers through my stringy hair and let out a breath whoosh. “How old is Calvin anyway?” I asked. The last I recalled of Joe’s children, at least the ones he didn’t give away, he had a young son and daughter. “He’s nineteen. And he’s in big trouble.” Nineteen, I thought. Last I he was but a little squirt, maybe five or six. “Lord Mom, he was molesting a little boy? Where’s he at now?”

“He’s in jail. The boy’s father caught him in the act and damn near killed him. Calvin swears he’s innocent, that they were only playing. Problem is, Joe has no money and Calvin’s going to need a lawyer. Leroy lent him five hundred dollars. Do you think you could lend Joe some money?” It was impossible for me to reach through the little holes in the telephone and slap my mother silly. After the way Joe treated me I should lend him money to get his child molesting son out of jail? “Joe says Calvin is innocent. He says Calvin and the boy were playing with the hose, just fooling around. They took off their clothes because it was so hot and they were sliding down one of those slipper slide things. You know the kind I mean?” I figured my mother was referring to one of those plastic things that are hooked up to a hose. The many holes in the slide allowed the water to create a slippery surface. Children could throw their squirmy little bodies on the thing and slide down the thing for great amusement. “Calvin says they took off their bathing suits on a lark and that’s when the boy’s father came home. Calvin had slid into the boy and they were all tangled up. It didn’t look good but they were right outside in the backyard, Georgette. If Calvin were up to no good he wouldn’t be outside like that. That’s why I talked Leroy into lending Joe the money. I don’t want to see an innocent boy spend years in jail if he’s innocent.” Well it seems even my mother could spin a story. Or I don’t know, maybe Joe was doing the spinning. That “outside” defense turned out to be pretty lame in that the yard was a tiny affair, surrounded by a six foot high privacy fence. Calvin was evidently babysitting the child, a neighbor of over five years. And those “tangled” bodies caused by the collision of fun was actually Calvin thrusting his very erect penis in the boy’s behind. I ascertained these little facts after my mother’s description of the story but it was no mind. I wouldn’t lend either Joe or Calvin a dime and I didn’t believe Calvin’s story for a minute. They took off their bathing suits for a lark? More like the adolescent Calvin convinced the little boy to go outside for a bit of slippery-slide fun with the intention that Calvin would have a bit of additional fun. The boy’s father returned home unexpectedly and caught Calvin doing the deed.

Two minutes after my mother rang off after my firm refusal to lend the lecherous Calvin, via his father Joe, any money for his defense, Sky, of all people phoned. I’m not an especially religious woman but that day I considered that God or someone equally powerful was trying to tell me something. For doesn’t Sky give a friendly greeting from her insane asylum home and proceed to tell me about her old babysitter’s cousin. “You him, Ma. His name was Danny. They lived with Miss Linda for a couple of months then bought a house in our old neighborhood.” I ed Danny though I never paid him or his family much mind. As I recalled Danny, his wife, and two children moved down here from New York. They lived with Miss Linda and I give them a ing nod when I picked up Sky after work. “He’s been put in jail. Miss Linda caught him molesting a little girl.” I held the phone away from my ear and stared at it for a few seconds. What, I thought, is everyone on this earth some sort of child molester? Not to mention the next president of the United States though that thought wasn’t exactly centered in my mind at the time. Then Sky told me something that shocked me. “Mom, he did it to me once.” I was dumfounded. I had no idea, no idea at all. Sky narrated the incident she suffered and it was a nasty tale. Seems Danny found Sky playing by herself in a corner of Miss Linda’s basement. Sky said she was about eight years old at the time. Danny instructed Sky to lie across a large stuffed teddy bear then he proceeded to masturbate on her. “How come you never told me this?” I asked with some incredulity. It seemed to me that a child would tell her mother such a thing immediately so you can see I didn’t know what I was talking about. “You don’t want to repeat the incident in any way, Mom. It was horrible when it happened. All I wanted to do was forget it and for sure I didn’t want to tell you. I

was afraid you would blame me or something. I don’t know, I was only eight. But I’ll tell you what I do regret more than anything,” Sky explained as my mind continued to reel what with Calvin the molester and now my own daughter. Sky was prone to tall tales we’ve already established this. But this story had the ring of truth to it. The experience had to be a horrible one if Sky wasn’t even willing to exploit it in her never-ending search for attention. “I regret that I never said anything. If Danny just recently got caught in the act, how many other children do you suppose he’s molested over the years? In fact, according to the newspaper, Danny was suspected for several other incidents but the parents of the children wouldn’t press charges. This guy has gone for years doing his nasty stuff and don’t forget he had two daughters. What kind of hell do you think they lived? Maybe if I had told the man would have been stopped. It’s a horrible experience for a child. I spent a couple of years terrified that the man would catch me alone again. I had quite a few nightmares about it too. But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Sky stopped for a moment to take a puff of a cigarette I assumed, a nasty habit for one so sickly I often thought. “I’m going directly to the police and tell my story. Who knows, maybe it will help put the creep away. Maybe there are others that will come forward as well. Whatever and even if they don’t believe me, there’s a truth here and I’m going to tell it. I have no proof but it happened and I’m going to tell my story. The truth is the truth after all.” These phone conversations did happen that day of the robin family and just when I decided to forget all about it, that it wasn’t worth the hassle. Why if even the self-centered Sky felt strongly enough to risk disbelief, how on earth could I just walk away from what I saw especially when the perpetrator could quite possibly become our country’s next president? Then there was that little matter of fairness. So far as I was concerned both Calvin and Danny could rot somewhere far away from vulnerable children. Calvin and Danny were not wealthy nor were they famous. They were average folk who did bad things. Average folks who did bad things ended up in jail. So how come famous and wealthy people who do bad things not only don’t end up in jail, they have even more fame and riches heaped upon them? I was mad, madder then hell. I decided I would go directly to little Melanie’s parents, tell them what I saw, enlist their aid. With a little help I could derail this

presidential bid, I thought, even if I had to go it alone.

Chapter 17 More Stonewalling

I ed three people to aid me with my revelation. Two of the people I spoke to would make excellent common sense to the casual observer. My third might seem an odd one but I felt, and still feel, I had very good reasons, not to mention an ulterior motive, for reaching out to Gene Mulroney, of all people. The public is most likely already aware that the esteemed Mr. Mulroney denies ever having spoken to me and had no prior knowledge of the “crime” I was about to commit. Let me say now that I did couch my conversation in hypotheticals but any fool, and Mulroney is no fool, would have caught my meaning and intent. It’s no major mind to me. Gene Mulroney is still very active in political campaigns even as I write. But know now that not for one minute do I believe he knew nothing about either my intentions with the airplane or Manny’s little indiscretion. My first was the Talbotts. Understand that I was well aware of some mysterious payout under the ledger “goodwill” and I had my suspicions about that. Even so, I considered that no decent parents would accept a payoff for the molestation of their little girl. There had to be another reason for my discovery but oddly, there was not. Indeed, the Talbotts presented some very good arguments as to why they settled the matter as they had. Though I didn’t, and still don’t, buy it. It was extremely difficult for me to even gain an audience with the Talbotts. Connie Talbott had quit the campaign, another suspicious act. Thus I had no access to her at campaign headquarters. I phoned their house a few times and left messages but they would not return my calls. Finally I drove directly over to their house and knocked on the door. By the time I was reduced to this desperate measure I was beyond angry. I’d pieced together a scenario that had the Talbotts knowing, and I didn’t know how they knew, that their child had been fondled by the would-be president, and they’d accepted a bribe to remain quiet. Of course they couldn’t very well continue to work on the man’s campaign, at least they had that decency.

“Mrs. Talbott I need very much to talk to you,” was how I introduced myself the day of my visit. “Ah, I’m sorry, but we’re very busy. We’re just about to go out.” I peered through the screen door. Michael Talbott was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and bouncing little Melanie on his knee. The older child was zooming toy trucks around the floor with the fury of a youngster in play. Connie Talbott’s hair was full of sponge rollers. They hardly looked like a family about to take a trip. Connie was about to close the door in my face when I pulled my ace out of the hole, or, in this case, my printout out of my purse. “Listen, I have proof that you and your husband received a payment of $50,000 from Republican national headquarters. If you don’t want to talk to me how about I show my proof to say, a snoopy reporter at the Baltimore Sun.” Connie stole a questioning look at her husband. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Connie opened the door. “Let me say right now that I don’t know what you are talking about. We did receive a check from the party but it was only to reimburse us for some office furniture and computers I’d purchased for campaign headquarters. I was able to get a good discount on the goods.” This revelation stopped me momentarily. But only for a few seconds. Then I dismissed the explanation out of hand. First, I’d spent many hours at campaign headquarters and I could recall no deliveries of new furniture or computers. Most of these items were already in place, indeed used from campaign to campaign. Second, such items would have been entered as “assets” in the general ledger, not “goodwill” as I’d already ascertained. Finally, who in their right mind would lay out $50,000 of their own money in advance like that? If such a transaction were arranged I’m quite sure there would have been provisions for the money to be laid out up front or to be paid directly to the supplier via invoice. It was time for me to be direct with the Talbotts.

I asked Connie if she could send the children to another room. What I had to say shouldn’t be heard by little pitchers. “Listen, I witnessed, yes eye-witnessed, Manny Roberts molesting your little girl. I’ve been all around the loop with what I saw, trying desperately to be discrete and fair. I had every intention of coming to you but my first act was to try and get Manny out of the presidential race. I do not, silly me, think it a good thing to have a child molesting president. I’m not getting much response from the Republican party. Maybe they don’t believe me, I don’t know. But I know what I saw and no one, but no one’s going to tell me I didn’t. I came across this payout in the party’s general ledger and I didn’t know what to think. I thought it only fair to warn you of what I knew and to warn you that I have every intention of telling everything I know.” I took a deep breath after this little speech. Michael ran his fingers wearily through his hair. Connie fumbled with the threads in the tablecloth. Almost a minute of silence ensued. Finally Michael spoke. “We know that something happened to Melanie. Connie became suspicious because of some things Melanie was saying. She is only three years old so it was difficult for us to separate truth from play. What really made us wonder was when Melanie made a comment to her mother when she was taking a bath with her. She reached up and grabbed,” before going on, Michael let out a self-conscious cough, “Connie’s breasts and said something about playing a game with them. We became so worried we took Melanie to a child psychologist who specializes in abuse situations with young children. The psychologist told us that someone has definitely been fooling around with Melanie in a sexual manner.” “We had no idea it was Manny Roberts. We did figure it was someone on the campaign staff,” Connie interjected. “To tell you the truth, up until now we had the culprit pegged as that Mulroney character.” Connie offered me a cup of coffee and I accepted. I made no comment as to their suspicions of Mulroney. Gene was a bit of a creep but I knew too well that the man’s sexual proclivities ran square on normal heterosexual relations with adult women, excepting perhaps the campaign groupies who were often quite young.

Still Mulroney didn’t fool around with children I was sure of it. “So who gave you the money, and why?” Michael Talbott ran his fingers through his hair again. “Connie went directly to Manny with her information. We figured someone on the campaign staff had been fooling around with Melanie and yes, we were mad. Connie threatened to go to the media with her knowledge. Manny seemed upset over the whole thing and almost cried in despair. He asked us if we had any idea who it was and Connie mentioned Mulroney. Manny said he was going to fire Mulroney immediately and the next thing we knew he gave us a check for $50,000. He told us to use it for little Melanie’s college education and if all goes well, she’ll forget about the whole thing by that time. Connie refused the check at first but Manny talked her into taking it.” “He told me that since we didn’t know who it was, even if it was someone involved in the campaign, the only thing the party could do was offer payment for our troubles. He said if we tried to push it the party would, of course, investigate everyone we knew to defend the campaign workers.” “Really there was no way we could prove who did it. I’m not going to lie and tell you we weren’t suspicious of Roberts himself. First, Melanie told us it was him that played the game with her. Second, there were a few times that Manny rather oddly offered to keep Melanie while I ran an errand or two. But I simply didn’t believe it! The man might be president after all!” I gave a sardonic smile and took a sip of coffee. Of course your average joe wouldn’t think a potential president to be guilty of such a thing. And I knew Connie to be truthful with her assertion that Manny would volunteer to keep Melanie. That’s how I caught him in the act, after all. I felt a bit sorry for the Talbotts, having to deal with such a thing. Their young daughter had been molested and they had to, simply had to, be strongly suspicious of the presidential candidate himself. What a thing to have to deal with. I placed my cup carefully in the saucer indentation as I pondered the Talbott’s story. “I’m going to need your help,” I began, softly. “I witnessed Manny in the act of molesting Melanie. I know what I saw and no one can erase that memory from

my mind. I understand why you accepted the money in good faith. I understand why you are confused, believing on one hand that Manny couldn’t have done such a thing yet knowing that all roads lead to him. But the man shouldn’t be president and you’ve got to know that.” A look ed between Connie and Michael that I didn’t especially like. “I’m sorry. There’s no way we can get involved in this thing,” Michael broke the silence. All I could do was sputter at this response. “It’s my brother,” Connie offered by way of explanation. I didn’t get it. “Connie’s brother has served time for molesting a young girl. This all happened over five years ago and he’s currently in intensive therapy to control his impulses. We root mightily for his recovery but we never leave Melanie alone with him. Still, what he did is on the public record and any accusations we make about anyone else having molested Melanie would bring up this demon. The man’s even ed as a sex offender under the provisions of Megan’s law. What do you think the public would believe?” Michael Talbott need say no more. While I had yet to meet Manny’s spinmeisters in full force, I recalled the Clinton experts. Anyone would have a field day with this knowledge. I could envision it well, the Talbotts accuse Manny Roberts of molesting their daughter. Next thing, Connie’s brother’s record would be blazing over the front pages across the nation. The public would read it and dismiss the whole thing out of hand. I made a lame argument that I could back up the claim with my eyewitness report but the Talbotts weren’t buying it. Connie busied herself with clearing the table of used coffee cups. Michael absent-mindedly petted the dog. I sat quiet, pondering the implications of it all. “We took the money,” Connie said. “Maybe that seems mercenary but tell me why we shouldn’t have taken the money? And we’ll do exactly as Manny Roberts suggested. We’ve purchased CD’s in Melanie’s name. By the time she’s ready for college she should have a nice sum available to her. It’s a justice of sorts and given our circumstances, there’s not much else we can do.” So I pretty much knew how things stood with the Talbotts and I couldn’t, still can’t, say that I blame them. To this day they deny any payout or suspicions of

Manny. To this day they still have the specter of Connie’s brother hanging over their heads and what’s more, they have nothing to gain by going public. Manny’s now out of the picture, the proverbial crap has hit the fan and even with my notoriety they have nothing to gain by backing up my claim. The money was justice of a sort as the Talbotts maintain, and the argument of future molestations is no longer an issue. Why should they put themselves out on a limb? Still and as I’ve stated right along, the truth is the truth and this is the truth of it. I’ve read the Talbotts’ denials over and over and probably will read them again after publication of this book. That doesn’t mean their denials are true and the above narrative is the truth of the matter. A puzzled public can now understand why the Talbotts would deny such a thing instead of ranting and raving for justice for their daughter. A more seasoned investigator would have thought of such things as hidden tape recorders or cameras in a CIA manner. The thought did, I it, cross my mind. But I had no idea how to hide a tape recorder or camera during my discussion with the Talbotts. All I had was a hand-held tape recorder and I had no idea if the thing would record if hidden inside my pocketbook. Professional investigators have tiny things that affix to a buttonhole or disguised as pins. I had no such thing and even so, I’d have been too nervous to pull off such a stunt. Besides, I foolishly believed the Talbotts would be chomping at the bit once I told them what I saw. Who could have predicted these turn of events? “How about this guy, Blaine Mason?” Ralph offered. We were both perusing both the Baltimore Sun and the Washington Post in search of an appropriate investigative reporter. I had some experience in dealing with the newspapers in my position as personal publicist but none with the hardline political reporters. Mostly I would issue press releases that would be faxed to all of the major newspapers. The press releases were mostly puff or informative. “Manny Roberts will be visiting Northern Steele today….”, that sort of thing. Perhaps in a future as speech writer or one with more political clout I’d have come to know the many reporters on the political trail more personally. At the time, however, my s were limited to fax numbers of the major newspapers and a few “Style” sorts of editors who would occasionally do write-ups of the candidates’ families. I chose not to approach the few newspaper s I had because, naive me, I was still trying to keep the whole thing discrete. Thus Ralph and I were perusing the Sunday papers in search of bylines of hard-hitting political articles. Blaine Mason was perfect and I’d almost forgotten about him.

“You say you printed this off the mainframe computer?” Blaine asked me re my general ledger printout. It took some phone dueling to finally get him on the line but I will say he responded quickly once he heard my assertion of explosive news. “Just a matter of burrowing down a few menu levels and there you have it. The Talbotts itted to me that they received the money but they feel they have a problem with credibility.” “Hmmmmm,” was all Blaine said. Blaine studied my printout for a few moments. I nervously chewed a fingernail. He was my last hope. If the media didn’t pick up the story then I supposed I would be silenced forever. He leaned back on the kitchen chair and bounced his pencil rhythmically against my precious printout. “For the record,” he broke his drumming, “I believe you. And I’m horrified. But the editors will never let me go with it.” My shoulders sagged with the final pronouncement. The whole thing would die with the editors. I threw my napkin on the table in disgust. “I ranted and raved over the Clinton thing, how the media didn’t want to cover the Lewinsky thing. Even so I thought such a heinous crime, an eyewitness and printed proof. What the hell do you people need, a video tape of the event?” Blaine scratched his ear. “Unfortunately, almost. I fight with the editors constantly but consider the dilemma. One person is eyewitness to an event. Last count there were almost 300 million people in America. Suppose every one, or a good percentage, of these folks claimed to have witnessed something like you did. You’d be surprised at how many kooks there are in this world. Kooks perfectly willing to phone up a newspaper claiming to have had sex with the senator or saw the candidate have sex with their grandmother. It gets so in a mass media setup that we have to demand more proof then one person’s word. Else we’d be printing a

whole bunch of unsubstantiated stuff. Stuff that could bring down an innocent person, change the course of history even. It’s heady stuff. Our paper, like most of the major dailies, requires two sources. Before coming over here today I called a source in the Republican headquarters. He told me they don’t even have the Jenark ing program.” I was stunned dumb. Blaine held his hand up in an attempt to pacify. “I knew even before I got here that this was bad news. One, it meant that you were lying and the printout was a fake. Or two, they’ve somehow became aware of your snooping and changed their entire computer setup in preparation for your accusation. Either way, it’s a dead-end. It would seem they’re waiting for you and have covered all the tracks.” Of course Wayne Bosley must have had me thoroughly checked out. Part and parcel of what he would learn is my computer access. I’m sure they have a record of me nosing around the general ledger system. Maybe they knew what menus I accessed or maybe not, depending on the level the system was set up to track. The simplest solution was to move the ing database to a completely different system. Then they could call my printout fiction, a product of Word Perfect and a fertile would-be writer’s brain. “I also have a copy of Connie Talbott’s brother’s registration as a sex offender,” Blaine said, waving a paper in the air. “This only lends more credence to your story but doesn’t change the situation any. It’s just not enough. Like I said, the editors will turn me down flat.” “So a child molester gets elected president of the United States?” It was time for me to quit talking in circles. My summation was met to end my meeting with Blaine as well as my crusade as some modern Joan of Arc. The impossible, I decided, was the impossible. “I’m going to think about it some more,” Blaine answered, uncrossing his lanky legs and making preparations to leave. “I’ve got some ideas but I need time. Promise me you’ll hang in a few more days until I see what I can do.” This, I was not willing to do.

“I’m sorry Blaine, but I can’t make such a promise. If I get an opportunity to get my truth out, I’m going to take it. If not,” I shrugged the rest of my response. Of course Blaine Mason turned out to be a gem. Were it not for him I would have been dismissed out of hand as a nut case needing commitment along with Sky. Blaine is a true master of his craft, dedicated to ferreting out hypocrisy, lies and evil. I can’t say enough good things about Blaine. I can and will say that the man was never privy to my plan. I did what I did out of desperation and yes, with a little help from none other than Gene Mulroney.

Chapter 18 Angst of the Author

T his is the chapter where, in most non-fiction first person s, the author speaks of the angst and introspection that led him/her to do/be what they did/were. So it is mine. For introspection of a productive sort should lead to some sort of action that will bring what we all must have: peace of mind. I knew, even as Blaine Mason dashed my hopes, that if I did nothing I would never know peace of mind. Goodness I had no peace of mind during the Clinton scandals and I was in no way involved with them other than as scribe and citizen. How could I ever live with a President of my country knowing what I knew? At the time, Manny was polling at almost a dead heat with Willfred Samms. Even if Manny didn’t win the election, his political future would still be bright. A presidential candidate with a narrow miss in an election is guaranteed a shot in the next election where the opponent might be less formidable. Beyond this he could run for senator or even re- election as a Representative. I’m sorry but I don’t even think a member of the House of Representatives should be a child molester. I’d completely cut off any attempts to remain in a position as Manny’s personal publicist. Though not a word ed between us, it was accepted that I’d resigned. Of course I’m sure now that Manny knew what I was up to. Whatever transpired between him and Bosley, Manny knew the Republican party was going to back him up. He knew better than to outright fire me or instigate a confrontation. Had I continued to act as his personal publicist that would have been fine with Manny. Since I essentially stopped associating with him and his family, that was fine with Manny also. Manny’s marching orders were evidently to act as if nothing happened and do absolutely nothing to disturb me. My former procedure was to consult with Manny before an event or occasion when I thought he’d need my services. If we both agreed, I’d generate an invoice at an hourly rate for the time I spent on the assignment. Manny would approve it and send it along to national headquarters who then sent me a check in the mail. It was easy enough to stop consulting with Manny about future services and he

sure didn’t phone me up to request some. We were adversaries and we both knew it. So there I was, unemployed and despondent. It was about fairness and I’ve been the sort who thought fairness was the right way to go. Don’t laugh. Because if I’ve learned nothing, it’s that given a choice, almost no one will choose fairness over favoritism and I don’t understand this at all. I never cheated at a game in my life. Never. And not, you understand, because it’s one of the ten commandments or any religious value. I never cheated at a game because, what fun is this? That’s the question that drove me on always and even now. What kind of fun is it to win anything, anything at all, with absolutely no or inferior competition? Talk about your self- esteem, people who value themselves get no pleasure from “winning” in a bastardized fashion. I put winning in quotes above because now I’m not talking about Scrabble. I’m talking about life which is, after all, but one big game. There are contests for everything and yes, the stakes are frequently quite high. We have beauty contests, both official and unofficial. The official ones generally attract only the loveliest specimens of our species. This is fair and I’d never win a beauty contest and I know this. And frankly, it doesn’t bother me. Because we have to, we simply must and with no other choice, accept what we must accept. I must accept that I am or was by no means a pretty enough person to win a beauty contest. Suppose, however, I got it into my head that I wanted to win a beauty contest? For whatever bizarre reason, suppose I decide I want to wear a crown, to walk the aisle while they sing of my beauty? There would be ways to do this. I could bribe all of the judges with money or find some blackmail thing. Given enough time and money, one can do most anything. And I could win a beauty contest. Again, what fun is this? I didn’t deserve it, to be sure. Or is deserving something reason enough to win? The ones who deserve to win beauty contests were born, due mostly to the luck of the genetic draw, beautiful. Ahh, you see the luck thing, this is always fair. Put all the balls in a big barrel and everyone has an equal chance, however small, of

winning. This is why the state lotteries are all based on luck. We all generally accept that luck knows no prejudice and does not discriminate as to race, religion or national origin. If I have the number pulled out of the barrel of balls then I deserve to win and though the losers may grumble, they walk away knowing they had as much of a chance as me. It’s a fair thing you must understand. Fairness is indisputable. There is no argument for pure fairness and in most everything, we-the human species- have agreed that the concept of fairness is as good a method as any to live with. Those that study and hustle get the best jobs. The beautiful women win the beauty contests. The fastest runners win the marathons. The smartest in the classes get to be valedictorians. The owners of the most lyrical vocal cords get to be our singers. The clever minds that design solutions to our problems get to be our inventors. The ones that own the winning ticket get to win the money. Somewhere along the way and as best as my muddled middle-aged brain could figure out, human beings have managed to cheat and legislate the concept of fairness darn near out of existence. It was Marcia that enlightened me and believe now that her casual conversation launched no less than a mental thunderstorm raging across my mind. “All of nature is fair. It’s the law of nature.” Marcia uttered these two sentences as a result of an evening’s ruminations, complete with my laments and complaints about the world in general. This time we were on my porch but still sipped the syrupy sweet iced tea. It was almost a week past my meeting with Blaine Mason and I’d done nothing but brood. I did engage in all manner of conversations with Ralph, my neighbor, my friends and Marcia. I was hoping, I don’t know, that someone would have a solution; would snap their fingers and tell me what to do. Of course I didn’t mention the Manny incident to anyone other than Ralph not because I cared if anyone else knew, but because I figured no one would believe me. The night Marcia and I were so deep in discussion followed a day both of us labored in the gardens. I love minding my gardens, especially when I’m so

troubled. It’s so elementary, life in the gardens. Living is reduced to a few simple but vital tasks. Food must be obtained, shelter must be sought and reproduction, though not necessary for the continuation of a specific life but vital for the species, must occur. My flowers needed sun, water, soil and the nutrients they’ve evolved to require. The birds need shelter, seeds or berries, water and a place for nests. The squirrels and rabbits, even the moles I so dislike, require the same. For them, indeed even my dogs and cats, this is what they need and they spend their days trying to acquire them. They just want to live. I was complaining to Marcia about the moles and how unfair it was that in addition to living on a sloped lot already prone to erosion that I would also be besotted with moles that sent even more precious earth down to the river. It was still this fairness thing going on in my head, you must understand, the concept now extended to a life made miserable by moles. “There’s nothing unfair about that at all,” Marcia corrected me and to my great surprise. The woman was a gardener after all and now she’s defending moles? “Moles only dig in soil that’s already quite friable. They wouldn’t survive very long if they decided to set up shop in a land filled with granite and boulders. Since we live on sandy lots, the scourge of the waterfronts, it’s only natural we would have moles. What’s unfair about that?” Well, now that she put it this way. Not that I would defend moles by any means but what, I live on the waterfront with its normal sandy soil and expect the moles to go dig in rocky soil? This certainly wasn’t fair to moles. Then Marcia made her nature comment and the hurricane in my head began as a tropical storm. “What do you mean?” I said, even as my brain waves were beginning to swell with a burgeoning tide. Marcia shrugged and took a sip of tea. The sun dipped behind the horizon and

this simple event burnt into my brain. “All living things evolve to the point of fairness and then stop there. To go any further would mean destruction to the species.” The woman had my complete attention. I wanted to hear more. The winds of thought were swirling in my head and I knew my mind was heading straight into a grade 7 hurricane. “How’s that?” I asked calmly though the swirling winds in my brain were making me dizzy. “Well, whales, for example,” Marcia began then paused to wipe the bottom of her glass. I was chomping, I wanted to hear about the whales. “Whales do not eat other fish,” Marcia said and the storm in my brain hit a lull. So? I asked Marcia. “They are too big. If they ate other fish they’d eat all the fish in the world. The sea itself would change in composition. No fish, then algae and debris would fill the waters. Then, hey, the whales would have no place to live. Most whales eat plankton and sea grasses, a food that is plentiful for animals so large. Elephants only eat vegetation as well. No animal has evolved that would destroy another species with the result of eventually destroying the environment and the earth. No earth, no life. Period.” Marcia laughed and leaned back in her chair. “It’s a cliche but it’s got to be said, no animal damages the precious cycle of life, except humans, of course, who can destroy the earth more with their minds than their huge size.” My mind was now at a mild gale force. “There are plenty of fish that eat other fish,” I countered. “Of course there are,” Marcia smiled at the silly me. “But they have to prey for their food in a battle that’s always roughly fair. Small fish swim in schools. One fish turns, they all turn. The swordfish might miss his meal because the fish swim in a flock that utilizes all the brain power available. I don’t know much about swordfish but maybe this guy doesn’t have such a big brain but he’s got a lot of brawn. What chance does one little fish have against a fellow so large? They figured out a way to survive else, hey, the fish wouldn’t be here, whatever

breed my hypothetical fish might be. If fish even come in breeds,” Marcia said and slapped her knee in hilarity. I’m almost deep in a mental hurricane at this point. “Because if swordfish could eat all of the fish then there would be no water ...” “And no water, no swordfish,” Marcia finished for me. “So evolution works in such a way as to allow the swordfish to get some of the fish but ...” “Only in some sort of fair competition ...” Marcia again completed my thought. “Because unfair means ...” “No life at all,” Marcia completed and now summarized. Marcia bade me goodnight not a bit aware of the headache she’d left me with, what with the hurricane and thunderclaps in my mind. This is a non-fiction book written by a non-fiction woman. The readers are nonfiction people. This revelation might be small stuff to more sophisticated readers but in keeping with the non-fiction of it all, it’s the truth. I understood, for the first time in my fifty plus years at the time, the realty of it all. Such as swordfish and birds simply do not have the brainpower to be unfair. They spend their days seeking berries, mates, water and shelter. Robins do not “think” about the destruction that wreak upon my compost pile when they swipe my worms. It’s simply beyond their ken. Yellow flowers do not think about the fact that their yellow blooms attract bees. They are genetically programmed to bloom yellow and that’s pretty much that. A long time ago, perhaps another of the species bloomed pink. It attracted no bees and was not pollinated as a result. With no pollination there were no children with pink flowers and humans such as I have no idea such a flower ever existed. Because it no longer exists, see where I’m going here? Okay so it’s not rocket science. ing this is my God given angst chapter, I early on reserved the right to state my revelation both as a writer

following form and finally, as a woman who made a mighty decision to hijack an airplane and has every right, here in her own book dutifully written in order to cash in on her sudden fame, to state her inspiration and impetus. It was a nature thing I hope you see. Human society had been roughly based on the fairness concept and in my rainsoaked mind, things had gone to hell in a handbasket, forgive my cliche. If you think Manny Robert’s child molestation proclivities are a far reach from my worm stealing robin buddies, think on. Humans are pack animals. We do not live in solitary groups and most anthropologists agree that even when humans had extremely sloped foreheads and hands that touched the ground, we still lived in groups. Lots of animals live in groups, some for only part of a year, some for all. Animals that live in groups live that way because, well, that’s how they survived. Unlike fish that travel in schools, pack animals have designated leaders, such designation made based on the criteria of the animals’ survival requirements. If coyotes need a fellow with exceptional scent perception, strong muscles and a grand brain to lead the hunt, that animal becomes the leader. The pack would not survive long with the animal equivalent of Alfred E. Neuman as their leader. I’d be insulting the average reader to go on. Perhaps most human beings could reach a conclusion that a child molesting President would be a bad thing without all this agonizing introspection, but I had to understand. It had to be clear in my mind why I even cared. It’s the same reason I disliked Clinton and his ilk though at the time it wasn’t quite as obvious to me. Humans need leaders that embody the values that will allow our species, and hence the individuals, to survive for life and thrive for reproduction. It all gets a bit muddier when adding politics to the mix this is a given. Politics is in no way about fairness much less nature, but it used to be there was some rough adherence to the principle. We chose leaders that led us through a difficult war or tough times. Coyotes “choose” pack leaders that lead the to food and hence, survival. I believe that neither coyotes or cavemen would choose a child molester as their leader. Sexual activity with the prepubescent of any species makes no natural

sense and might well cause eventual extermination of said species. Young who avoid future coupling because of traumatic immature sexual activities do not reproduce. No reproduction, boom, no species. It’s a stretch from all this to Republicans but the hurricane in my mind had finally calmed to a mild and sunny day. Some call it peace of mind.

Chapter 19 Attention, please

G ene Mulroney is an expert on getting attention. Which is why I paid him a visit to finalize my plan. There are some who would say this was a stupid thing to do but I disagree. Sure I tipped the man off that I was up to something. Though Mulroney denies knowing a thing about any of this to this day, indeed he is still heading campaigns, I do not believe it. First, he had me approach him for ideas on how to get the country’s attention. The man knew why I was asking and I wanted him to know. I’ll give him this, he was unfazed with my queries, in fact, he was quite helpful. “For a nobody, they’d have to do something bad.” Gene told me. I’d dropped by campaign headquarters ostensibly to pick up some of my personal effects. I’d phoned ahead to make sure Manny was not there and that Mulroney was. Gene loves to show how much he knows and he was forthcoming when I asked him how one unknown individual could get the attention of the country. “Celebrities don’t have a problem. ABC will drop what they’re doing to send cameras to cover a press conference by, say, Sharon Stone. Unknowns won’t get ABC to pay them any mind because, well figure it out, the country is full of unknowns while only a relative few are celebrated. Those kids at Columbine certainly caught the country’s attention, if you get my drift.” “But what if an unknown doesn’t want to actually kill anyone, much less themselves?” Gene eyed me shrewdly for a moment then lit up a cigarette. I had him trapped. He couldn’t outright ask me what or who I had in mind, or why. He knew full well I was asking advice on how to expose Manny. The conversation was couched in hypotheticals but he knew what I was doing. I did this on purpose. As soon as I left the office, if Gene Mulroney was any sort of loyal Republican, he’d be phoning headquarters with my veiled threat. Which is what I wanted. I had a wild hope that the party would finally deal with me,

perhaps stop me from having to do what I felt I had to do. It was a last desperate measure. Then again, I figured if nothing else, I’d benefit from some of Mulroney’s considerable expertise in dealing with the public. Gene finally exhaled a smoke ring and spent several serious seconds tapping an elongated ash into the ashtray. “Still have to do something bad. Or something amazingly good.” Good. I wanted to hear about the good part. “I don’t know, rescue a baby from a bombed out building. It would be an opportunity thing, for sure. Even at that it would have to be a rescue involving some sort of tragedy of national proportions. Say someone rescued a baby at the Oklahoma bombings. That person would have what we call “instant national celebrity”. It ain’t the same thing as rescuing a baby from a burning ghetto building if you get my drift.” I knew then that good was out. First I’d have to cause some national tragedy, which was bad. Then I’d have to risk someone’s life which I did not want to do. I knew that what I needed was a method to capture the attention of the country and instantaneously. There were plenty of ways to do this but I sought a safe method that wouldn’t end up with me dead. Which is why I decided not to take the senate hostage. Some sharpshooters would figure out a way to pick me off even if I held Ted Kennedy forcibly as a human shield. No. I never said a word to my husband Ralph about my plan. I didn’t specifically for the reason the man was mercilessly grilled by police seeking to pin my crime on him. Not that Ralph wasn’t urging my action but his suggestions were always legal ones. “Call every reporter at the Washington Post. Phone up Rush Limbaugh. How about Matt Drudge?” Ralph had offered. The man meant well. I’d told him about my meeting with Blaine Mason. Ralph thought I’d should persevere with the mass media. I love this man. He’d not God’s gift to women and for sure many would consider him odd. I’d never risk him paying the price for some wild scheme of mine. My

plan was to do something outrageous, example storming the senate while in session and threaten some lives. Of course there were all kinds of holes in most any plan that darted through my mind. “If it were me I’d hijack an airplane,” Gene said, his ash now attended to. My ears perked. This was an excellent idea. “And I wouldn’t hijack just any plane,” Gene elaborated and I was all ears. “I’d hijack one of those commuter planes always flying out of DC. First, security’s more lax in those puddle jumpers. Second, less lives would be at risk if anything went wrong. Those planes usually carry maybe twenty engers. Finally, there’s almost always some prominent political figure on those planes. Most representatives, senators, cabinet , use these planes to go home on the weekends. Bound to get more attention if you hijack a plane with the secretary of state on board.” In fact, the attorney general was on the plane that I hijacked but I didn’t know that in advance. As an added bonus we had a senator from Connecticut and don’t forget Lesley Whitmer, esteemed Washington legal bigwig. I had no idea who would be on the plane I hijacked. I simply took Gene’s suggestion. I left Mulroney’s office now convinced that I must hijack a plane. It was a perfect solution. In fact in an earlier time I myself flew in one of those “puddlejumpers” as Gene called them. Then I made many jokes about requiring Snoopy Red Baron headgear and a parachute before the journey. Gene was right, security was lax on those small planes. In fact, I the pilot carried on a cooler of canned sodas and told us to help ourselves. It’s not right to hijack an airplane. It’s not right to terrorize innocent people and it’s sure not right to blackmail the world. But I had to do it. The newspapers weren’t going to cover it, at least not right away. Blaine Mason ed me a week after we spoke, telling me he hadn’t forgotten our conversation and had some new leads. “What about the daughter?” Blaine asked me. “What about her?”

“Something weird with the girl. I checked her school records and discover she attended no public school for her entire third grade year. I don’t know where she was schooled but it wasn’t in any of the public schools. It wouldn’t be odd for a child to attend a private school, of course, but for only one year?” “I don’t know anything about it. So far as I know she went to school like everyone else. Though I recall she did express some contempt for her father that surprised me. As I , she resented having to go on a diet for him.” “Something’s up with the daughter, I’m sure of it. Hang in there, Georgette. I talked to the editor and he wants me on this exclusively.” While I appreciated Blaine’s good intentions, I was not convinced. By then it was early October and the elections were only a month away. I couldn’t help but the Clinton scandals. The public didn’t want him impeached, a national sentiment with which I vehemently disagreed, but I don’t think they would have voted him into office knowing what a scoundrel he was. I feared once Manny got elected he would become another Clinton. The truth needed out before November 6. This was when I got to pondering attention and why it mattered. Again I realize the average person might not have spent so many minutes in angst over the issue. Obviously, the casual observer might note, I needed someone’s attention or my accusations fell on an absent audience. My attention thoughts went way beyond this, however. They focused on Sky, my child so desperate for attention she’d injure herself for it. They pondered the concept of celebrity and just why certain celebrities were even celebrated and what the implications of it were. They eventually settled on my pet dogs. If ever an animal existed that knows the value of attention, it is the dog. I had a game I liked to play with my dogs. What I’d do, I’d pretend that I couldn’t find them. Though they’d be right by my feet, I’d call their names to summon. Sometimes, if feeling whimsical, I’d peer in nearby drawers or under pillows, calling their names to cajole them from hiding. The dogs meanwhile, will jump up and down in response, trying desperately in canine fashion to let me know that they were right here, quit looking under the pillows! Then I’d feign surprise and exclaim that “there they are!” while they’d lick my face with a vengeance that I would lose them like

that. “Pack animals especially require attention,” Marcia had told me. “The pack leader will give favored scraps or extra protection to those they deem deserving. A member of a pack will constantly seek the attention of their leader because to get it might possibly mean the difference between life and death. Dogs view their human owners as their pack leader. When you pretend to have lost them, they get anxious, all in doggy fashion,” Marcia smiled and continued to prune her roses. It was a bit of a lecture in response to my demonstration of the lost dogs. Marcia thought it a hoot, of course, but she was serious with her explanation. I thought her a bit anal at the time but in the dilemma I was then upon, her words came back. The one who gets attention lives. A human infant will not live without attention from it’s parents. A baby robin will not live if its parents don’t feed it worms then teach it how to find worms on its own. Animals that are of a pack begin life dependent on the attention of its parents then must live life dependent on the attention of the pack leader. Why do we care if the boss gives us a good word? Why even have awards ceremonies? Why appear on ‘Meet the Press’? It’s all about attention and springs from our very need for survival. I don’t know why Sky craved attention with such a vehemence. Perhaps it was a genetic thing. Perhaps I didn’t give her enough attention when she was young. Perhaps people can get addicted to attention much like any other drug. I do know we all like a little attention once in a while. Without it, how do we know we are even alive? The problem is that there are only 24 hours in any one given day and we sleep a good deal of them. This leaves fewer hours to give our attention to any one thing and most times we choose to pay attention to those things that interest us. Thus is born the concept of sound bytes, quick quips squeezed in whenever possible that will stay in a harried viewer’s mind. Beyond all the dog analogy, I needed national attention and, in my mind, I needed it quick. As Gene Mulroney suggested, I needed to do something bad.

That’s the problem with attention. It is not only gained by doing good. Bad gets attention too. Indeed many shrink types swear that many children misbehave for nought but a few scant seconds of attention. The pack leader, however, will not tolerate negative attention-getting behavior, or at least so I mused with no assistance from Marcia. A genuine pack leader, one with the greater good and his/her own survival at stake, will banish or destroy the member that would cause the pack harm. The coyote that howls during a stealthy hunt, for example, is liable to have an ear or two bit off by the pack leader who thinks this to be inappropriate hunting behavior. Humans don’t do this. Or at least they don’t do this often enough. Even OJ Simpson, though excoriated, still enjoys a certain celebrity. Why the man even obtained a job pitching for a law firm and if this isn’t an example of negative behavior unfairly rewarded than nothing is. He not only got away with murdering two of our own species, a behavior even the human pack frowns upon, but he was able to make money that I could never make because of it. And Monica Lewinsky? This was a good person, a vapid home-wrecker? Her handlers sure had the right plan for the idea is to strike while the national gaze is upon her. The girl wrote a book that is now filling those bargain basement bins. At the time, when her “celebrity” was at high point, she struck while the proverbial iron was hot, became a millionaire and retired from future book writing, hah. Make no mistake that yours truly is doing exactly the same thing though I got a bit mired in that silly law about not profiting from writing about crimes. It’s no mind and the reader will know this tidbit for the first time: all of the engers on that plane will get an even share of the sales from this book and everyone of them settled for this. Of course this discourages the legislators but hell’s bells, they are the absolute first to take advantage of legal loopholes. So those engers all could have sued me for pain, discomfort or whatever high-faluting phrase the attorneys have for it. My attorney, truly an exception to the scorn I heap on most of that profession, negotiated a deal where they will all share profits from this book, less overhead of course. Since I couldn’t profit from it I may as well take care of the nasty lawsuits that would occur anyway. The ruling held all the way to the supreme court which my attorney assured me it would. The other choice would have been to donate the profits to a charity and like the supremes ruled, what’s to stop me from having engaged in my misdeed entirely to benefit a favored charity? Besides, the spirit of the law still prevents murderers like the infamous British nanny from writing a book and profiting

from her murder of an innocent child. My gain, unlike Monica’s, is from future books, speeches, etc, that I hope to write/give. Of course, none of these can be about my crime but the way I figure, I can write mysteries, garden and bird stories for the rest of my life. In a tip to this fairness concept, give me that if my future writing doesn’t succeed, ie if my only allure was a flash in the pan airplane hijacking, then so be it. Unlike Monica may I also add, I can write. So the coyotes will banish a species’ member that disrupts the pack with behavior that would interfere with the survival and thriving of the pack, my own species rewards them with riches, special treatment and even elevates them to quasi-species leadership. This, frankly, scares the hell out of me. But I intend to take full advantage of it.

Chapter 20 Flight 206

T here is no rhyme much less reason why I chose Flight 206 beyond a few particulars. It was a “puddle-jumper”, taking off from Washington’s National Airport and arriving within an hour at Danbury, Connecticut. It was also a late Friday flight. Gene told me these flights would have the best chance of carrying important government officials for a weekend close by. Finally, Gene told me to catch any flight to Connecticut. “Everybody either lives or rents a place in Connecticut,” was Gene’s response to my query re the specificity of the locale. Flight 206 took off from National at 7:16 pm, precisely the best time to capture workers finishing up a busy work week with a chance to stop for a quick one at the local “happy hour”. So I picked this flight from the many offered. It was a good choice. I recognized Lesley Whitmer right away though I was cool. A white “Vernon Jordan” they called him. I’d been involved in politics enough to recognize one so “in” in D.C. I didn’t recognize Lawrence Watson or James Larrimore though I knew who they were. Larrimore had been a Republican since birth and the party sure pressed for his services. He’s the one who said I threatened him personally and accused me of wielding a knife. Thank goodness the other uncelebrated engers denied that I went anywhere near the man and all denied having seen a knife. That’s the problem when one sells their soul to become a non-thinking shill, there are others who have nothing to lose so large as the beneficence of the Republican party who will tell the truth. The big question now becomes, and I know many readers have endured my bird stories to get to this part, Did I Believe the Airplane Was Going to Run Out of Gas? Because this was the big question at the time and it was the question the jury had to ponder in determining the length of time I should spend behind bars. For while I may have been forgiven for hijacking a plane especially under the conditions, I was guilty of attempted murder if I truly believed the plane would

run out of gas and drop out of the sky as the pilot misleadingly told me. I’m not going to answer that just yet because first I must tell the reader how I did it. The fact that I had aluminum foil covered floral tubes taped around a bullet proof vest has received some attention. The fact that I told the pilot I had a special bomb made from instructions ed from the Internet has received hardly a mention. I thought this very original myself and much more deserving of air time than United Airlines did-this airline that doesn’t want their pilots to appear stupid. Frankly I don’t think the pilot was stupid and in his circumstance I’d have done exactly what he did. Which was to take me very seriously. I’d offer my foil serves as proof of some of the outrageous things we believe given enough publicity. Everyone knows, thanks to Katie Couric and her ilk, that it is possible to bomb-making instructions off of the Internet. But one that is specially designed to avoid bomb-detection scanners in airports? One that consists of a micro-chip, no larger than a small fingernail, that could be activated by voice and could blow up an entire airplane? One that looks suspiciously like floral tubes wrapped in aluminum foil? Yes, I told the pilot all of this and while he initially looked skeptical, he properly behaved like a pilot of a ship under siege. I waited until what I had deemed to be the proper moment. Which was ten minutes after we were in the air. The flight lasted only 58 minutes after all and I didn’t want to be close to landing when I made my move. I also wanted the pilot to be relaxed, dealing with a smooth flight rather than the complexities of takeoff or landing. I carefully timed our time in the air and monitored the pilot’s actions. In these puddle jumper airplanes, the pilot sits right in front of the engers, in full view and often joking along. I saw the pilot hit a few buttons then lean back in his seat, body language that told me it was time. Casually I unfastened my seatbelt and walked to the front of the plane. “Hey, I could have thrown one back to you. We don’t like to have folks walking around on these short flights.” Ostensibly I was to retrieve a soda from the cooler, prompting the pilot’s reaction. I surprised him a bit when I opened my sweater to reveal my bulletproof vest festooned with aluminum foil covered florist tubes.

“I’m sorry but I’m hijacking this airplane,” I told the pilot sotto voiced as I revealed the “bomb” strapped upon my person. “This is a bomb, a specially designed bomb. It’s operated by a miniature transmitter that will react to certain commands from my voice only. I ed the instructions off of the Internet and paid dearly for the transmitter. I don’t want to blow up the plane, not for myself because obviously I’m willing to risk self- destruction.” At which point I again displayed my handsome bomb vest. In fact there had been, just the prior month, a rumor that there was such a thing as a miniature bomb, designed to react only to a specific voice. The thing was said to have originated in the mid-east somewhere and was designed for terrorists. The rumor was all over the Internet and had, as these things often do, found its way into the work force email systems. So far as I knew the existence of such a thing was denied by all major governments but there you have it, a lie I could tell with some credibility. The mass media, spin, publicity, whatever you call it makes very real the option of saying something enough and turn it into reality, true or not. “But I don’t wish any harm to become of these nice people and it won’t. Follow my simple instructions and all will be just fine.” The pilot tipped his hat, a gesture I took to be full cooperation. The other engers were beginning to stir, now aware that something untoward was happening. “Everyone please remain seated,” I said, addressing the restless engers. “No one will be hurt if our pilot here follows a few easy instructions.” For effect, of course, I displayed my “bomb vest” to the audience. I notice Larry Watson pick up his cell phone and I couldn’t have this. “You,” I shouted to the offender. “Give me that cell phone. Anyone else have any smart ideas and I instruct this bomb to blow.” Again I showed my vest. “That’s the attorney general of the United States, ma’am,” the pilot who I learned to be Joseph Rugowsky., politely informed me. “And back there is Senator Larrimore from Connecticut. You sure you don’t want to call this off now?” The pilot’s information only spurred me on, though he couldn’t have known this. Wow, the attorney general, I thought. And a Republican senator. A double wow.

While I score high on originality for my hijink, I score a big zero on airplane dynamics. There was the little matter of the ground talking directly into the pilot’s ear that I’d overlooked. Give Joe Rugowsky credit, he carried on two conversations with evident ease. I didn’t suspect a thing. “All I want you to do is your ground crew. Then give me the microphone and I’ll handle the rest.” Rugowsky shrugged and keyed the mike. “Ground, this is United Flight 206 en route from DC to Danbury. I’m afraid we have an incident up here. We’ve been hijacked by a woman purporting to be wearing a voice controlled bomb.” I didn’t appreciate the laughter from ground control and I couldn’t even show them my vest. I grabbed the microphone from Rugowsky. “Listen up down there. I’m deadly serious. My name is Georgette Robinson and I’ve taken over control of United Flight 206. I have a bomb and won’t hesitate to use it.” The laughter died down to a few nervous coughs. A syrupy smooth voice responded. “Okay, Mrs. Robinson, my name is Charlie French and I’m head of air traffic control here at National airport. We’ve been alerted by the pilot of the takeover and now you’ll have to deal with me. What can we do for you today, Mrs. Robinson?” I had no idea the pilot was engaging in a simultaneous conversation with ground control. Evidently the first question French asked Rugowsky via the microphone in his ear was if I was married. Something to do with radio waves or something, but the ground could converse with me as if the only method of communication going on with the airplane, and also converse with the pilot on another wave length through the microphone in his ear. The pilot somehow whispered that I was wearing a wedding band though the guy should be a ventriloquist as I never saw his lips move. Hence French’s reference to me as “Mrs.” Robinson. “I want you to call ABC, NBC, FOX, CBS, CNBC, CNN, and MSNBC and have them send a representative of each to your ground control headquarters. I want to speak directly to them when the arrive. Also, Blaine Mason of the Baltimore Sunpaper and make sure he tunes into television. Tell them they

have fifteen minutes. Meanwhile I’m going to instruct my buddy Joe to fly around Philadelphia airport. You might want to hold all take-offs and touchdowns for a while.” Charlie French told me he was making the calls right now. Meanwhile, old Charlie suggested, why don’t I take a soda, sit in a seat and relax. They sure must have thought I fell off the turnip truck just yesterday with this ploy. I guess in a seated position I was more vulnerable or some such. I told Mr. French I was fine right up front by my friend Joe the pilot and in fifteen minutes I would address my assembled mass media audience. I was not so big a fool that I didn’t have a plan for as well. Before I even headed to the front of the plane I had Blaine Mason on my cell phone. I told him to hang on and he would be witness to a national event. Blaine figured it out after my first mention of the voice activated bomb and, of course, the Baltimore Sunpapers had the first scoop. Blaine ed all of the networks I’d suggested so even if Mr. Charlie French tried to play cute, I was insured of my requested audience. Charlie French did decide to be cute and told his subordinates to not even think of calling the networks. He was going to talk this kook out of the sky, not give in to her demands for a national audience. While I’d anticipated this, I was in the dark with the private conversation going on between Joe and Charlie. Evidently Charlie then suggested the out-of-gas ploy in his private conversation with Joe the pilot. “Listen, Mrs. Robinson, we have a small problem here,” Joe politely informed me. I learned later that calling me Mrs. Robinson was both an attempt at familiarity and a subtle reminder that somewhere in the wilds below, I had a husband who would miss me should I die. At the time I had not a clue. I nodded in irritation. Of course they had a problem. I expected they would have some sort of problem. “I don’t know how long you expect all of this to take, but you should know the airplane has a limited amount of gas. Now we’ve been flying for almost twenty minutes. We’re only gassed up for a 58 minute ride though I’d be a fool to tell you that’s all we were given. Still, we’ve only got about forty-five minutes worth

of gas left and there’s more.” Joe cocked his head as if addressing the engers. I didn’t like this gesture but said nothing. “You want to ride around the airport like this we’re u gas at about triple the flying rate. at cruise speed the plane gets to take advantage of the tail winds and the plane is not taxed by the constant maneuvering of the aircraft. I’d say that means fifteen minutes at a low altitude like this. Even if you let me take it up to cruise speed we’d only have enough gas to make it to New York. Why don’t you let me fly into LaGuardia? We’ll have those media representatives waiting there for you and then these good people can get out of harm’s way?” It would appear that Rugowsky’s friendly addressing of the engers was again some psychological effect, a ploy designed to bring me closer to the engers I might harm. The big question is: Did I believe him? For sure my attorney argued that I did not, that in fact I knew right along that the pilot was speaking to the ground in a separate conversation. In fact that’s exactly what I told my attorney. This after he told me that if I in any way suspected any dangers from a crash for any reason, that I was guilty of attempted manslaughter at best, attempted second-degree murder at worst. Yet in the above paragraphs I disavow any prior knowledge of the pilot’s private conversation so I guess I lied to my attorney, huh? Like I’m the first one. Of course the prosecutor can’t re-try the case since the jury found me not guilty but I bet he doesn’t like knowing I lied. Maybe through some rule or regulation he could re-try me but I’m betting he won’t. The trial was a political thing anyway and after Manny’s daughter made her confession the whole issue was moot. The Republicans did and it should be noted, make every effort to make me into the nut case. Did I ever believe Joseph Rugowsky as he warned me that the plane was in imminent danger of falling right out of the sky? To this I must answer NO. There is no way I could state in so public a forum that there were several minutes I did believe the pilot because what did I know from airplane gas mileage? I could never confess to a public who’s watched this drama unfold that for a time span while on that airplane, I didn’t care. I didn’t care if the plane fell right out of the

sky killing me, the pilot, the Attorney General of the United States, Senator Larrimore from Connecticut and all of the other innocent engers. No way I’m going to it to such a thing, even considering my desperation, living in a country controlled by the celebrated so deemed by attention they’d garnered, no matter the method. People would be paying attention to me if this airplane crashed, I may have thought. But no, I never thought for a minute that the pilot was telling the truth. I instructed the man to continue circling Philly’s airport. “Georgette,” a voice cackled over my cell phone. Blaine Mason was still on the line though up until this he had been pre-occupied with other matters. “Yes,” I answered, eyeing the engers warily. For a brief moment I thought someone plotted to have someone phone me up. “It’s Blaine. We have representatives of all the major networks here in the Sunpapers’ building. We also have the cable news represented and many major newspapers. We’ve also got a direct line to Matt Drudge. He promises to post the news to his site immediately so we’ve got the Internet covered. Nationwide bulletins have already been issued so the public is waiting. You’re a nut, woman, but I’m following you down here. Your buddies at National Airport never called a soul.” Which didn’t surprise me, of course. You really can’t expect anyone to tell the truth anymore. Then I launched into my prepared speech. Which most of the country has already heard ad nauseum but it’s my book and it definitely should be here, correct? “People of the United States of America,” I read because you don’t think I memorized the entire thing, did you? “My name is Georgette Robinson and I am a most ordinary American woman. I live at 815 Lake Lane. My husband’s name is Ralph Robinson and he will what I’m about to tell you. Or at least he will that I told him what I’m about to tell you. My phone number is 410-555-8732. I have served, in these past eight months, in the position of Manny Roberts’

personal publicist. Until recently, I’d hoped the job would lead to better things if my candidate became President. But I’m quite distressed that Manny Roberts might well become our country’s next president and this distress led me to this drastic action. Right now I’m going to fax a paper to Baltimore Sun headquarters. This paper is the only documentation I have to back up my claim. You are free to dispense this paper as you see fit.” I busied myself for a minute dialing up the fax number and wrestling with the plane’s weird fax machine. “This printout is from the national ing system of the Republican party. You will note the entry I’ve underlined. The entry represents a payment made to Michael and Connie Talbott in the amount of $50,000. The entry is under the heading of “goodwill” in the party’s general ledger. I accuse the Republican party of making this payment to the Talbotts because they know that Manny Roberts,” here I dropped an octave for emphasis, “sexually abused their daughter. In fact,” now I rose an octave for emphasis, “I myself caught Manny Roberts in the act of molesting the child.” Since it was a cell phone I didn’t get to hear the collective gasp of the media assembly but Blaine tells me that’s exactly what they did. Then he said there was frantic dialing of cell phones as they all tried to reach their editors. “Even if you were lying through your teeth, a woman hijacking an airplane while accusing the potential president of child molestation is big news,” was how Blaine explained it. “I’ve been frantic for almost a month over my discovery. And I hope Michael and Connie Talbott forgive me for exposing them like this. The couple itted everything to me but told me that Connie’s brother is a ed sex offender and they feared going public would only bring the accusation back to him. Blaine Mason has proof of this fact which he will dispense to anyone who’s interested. Feel free to investigate all facts as I’ve given you. I needed a way to get national attention and I had to do it quickly. I am prepared to die for my country but feel guilty about the good folks sharing this plane with me, including the country’s Attorney General and Senator Larrimore of Connecticut,” I improvised here.

“I’m going to instruct the pilot to fly the plane for ten more minutes then to land at Philadelphia International Airport. At that time I expect to be duly arrested and taken into custody. All law enforcement personnel are now on notice that I will surrender peacefully. I trust you media folks will follow up on any stray bullet that happens to still my mouth forever. Meanwhile, go file your stories, read my fax, talk to Blaine Mason, phone my husband. All will back up my claim. In due course I expect to be in jail.” Of course I followed up on my promise and also as promised, I was immediately arrested. The time I spent in jail was nothing compared to the three weeks that followed the incident.

Chapter 21 Let the Trashing Begin

R alph was not a happy camper over my airplane hijacking not to mention the constant phone calls he had to field. He did, however, and I knew he would, immediately obtain an attorney who met me when the plane landed. Seems that hijacking a plane is against the law even if I never believed that bit about the gasoline. My attorney did manage to get me released on my own recognizance although the prosecutor, Republican appointed, argued that I had already demonstrated my ability to abscond with an airplane. “Who’s to say she won’t hijack an international plane next time and head off to, say, South America?” the prosecutor asked the judge. They tried their best to keep me in jail until after the election but please, I’m an ordinary American woman who experienced quite extraordinary events. It’s not like I was some sort of experienced airplane hijacker apt to do it again and again. Until this crime I had a spotless record. Even though I wasn’t put in prison until the trial this didn’t stop the party from trashing me. What else could they do? They were already committed to backing the fine Manny Roberts and now they had to see it through. It would appear that thanks to my tipping off Gene Mulroney the party had already amassed some information about me. In no time the planet earth was informed that I had been married no less than four times, a fact that was supposed to somehow impugn my honesty. Such attempts to cast doubts on my experience or focus attention away from the real problem daunted me not a whit. No matter what sort of fiend I was that would marry as many as four men in a lifetime, there was no negating the fact that I witnessed the country’s potential next President molesting a child. I made no defense against the heinous charge of multiple marriages because why should I have? People can be married more than once and still witness an act of child molestation though the Republican party didn’t see it that way. For the record and this book, I married when I was eighteen. When I was 21 the man left me so he could “find himself”. My next husband, Sky’s father, died. My

next husband, the esteemed Joseph Ball, was definitely not the man for me so I left him. I certainly paid the price for that mistake and this is as it should be. Mr. Ball had some comments about me for benefit of the press not to mention the money he received from the tabloids. Something about my running off on him for another man. Yes I ran off on him but not for another man. I ran from his terrible temper that had him tipping fully set tables, food and all in his rage. I ran from the alcohol in him that changed him from merely constantly demanding to an unrestrained monster. I didn’t like living like that and I apologize to no one. He’s married again and quite content, living in the house once owned by me and Sky’s father the wimp didn’t even have enough pride to give me back what had been mine. But if I disrupted his life in a moment of insanity, well he got a nice little house out of it now didn’t he? Besides my many marriages I’d also committed the terrible crime of springing from a dysfunctional family. Well, duh. This is no big secret and I’ve told my side of the story in an earlier chapter. Damn it it’s my story and I’m sticking to it. The brother from hell had his time with the press and hey, I don’t begrudge him a buck or two if he made it. Problem is he told only lies. Blaine Mason managed to scrounge up my father’s handwritten will, my documented ing of the estate and an interview with the lawyer I hired to assist me. I came through with flying colors with absolutely no proof I’d ever cheated one heir out of a dime. I even gave Joe O’Riley $10,000 of my own money from the inheritance because I thought it terribly unfair that my father and stepmother left him nothing. Once again Blaine proved this fact so I’ll shut up now. If nothing else I’ve learned it probably best to always try and do the right thing because you never know when you might witness the future President molesting a child and be subject to the brickbats of a mighty political party looking to cover for their man. Thank goodness Sky chose to keep her trap shut in anticipation of future monies that might come her way. In spite I’ve told her story because I think it’s an interesting one. The kid won’t mind anyway because she knows it’s the truth and she knows I still love her. The party painted me as a minor political figure, insinuating that I probably had very little or no interaction with one so mighty as Manny Roberts. In fact I was a minor political figure but I saw the man molesting a child and it’s no mind if I was the janitor I still saw it. The Talbotts plain packed up and left for parts unknown and this was probably

the wise thing. Blaine Mason had proof that their fear was Connie’s sex offender brother. The Republicans argued that if I was telling the truth then why weren’t the Talbotts complaining? To that question I would respond: Why should they? The cat, as it were, was already out of the bag. The claim had been made that they were afraid to accuse for fear of the accusation being turned around to a family member. The child had already received recompense. Plus I’m sure some attorney advised them to go away and keep a low profile. No I would not have reacted in this manner, at least I don’t think I would. This is easy to assert, however, when one doesn’t have a young child faced with a lifetime in an unpleasant spotlight. Melanie Talbott deserves the opportunity of a normal life. Even Monica Lewinsky, who had a say in her clandestine activities, complained about never having a normal life. Certainly innocent little Melanie Talbott deserves peace and quiet. Finally the Republicans lambasted my documentation as the product of a wouldbe writer with a dandy Word Processor. “The Republican party doesn’t even use the Jenark ing system,” went the spin. “Anyone could sit down and type out this documentation off even a generic text processor. What proof is this?” Unfortunately it was all the proof I had. If I were the sort to generate damning documentation it would seem more prudent to fake a canceled check, something I have the wherewithal to do if a gun were held to my head. Sticking that attempted second-degree murder rap on me was a real low blow and if nothing else should go to show how really “unfree” this country has become. “The pilot told Mrs. Robinson the plane was going to run out of gas. Mrs. Robinson is not a pilot and has no airplane experience. It only follows that a normal person would give to the expert. Mrs. Robinson has certainly maintained her normalcy with vehemence. Thus she should have believed the pilot. Which she did but she didn’t care. She didn’t care if the plane fell out of the sky and killed over twenty innocent people. Even if, and this is a very loooooong if, her assertions were totally true, killing innocent people to “prove” it is still a crime.” Hooo boy, was this prosecutor serious or what? I got on an airplane with a fake bomb vest claiming a voice-controlled bomb. I stated that I knew the pilot was lying to me and how the hell can anyone go into my mind and decide what I believed? But oh no, the Republican party was so desperate to shut me up, to

lock me up in such a manner as to sully my credibility, that they actually tried to pin a crime on me that I did not commit. So what’s new? Hillary Clinton tried to pin thievery on Craig Livingstone so she could put her cronies in the travel office. Of course the guy was declared innocent but guess what, the truth didn’t matter. The sound byte was all that mattered and Katie Couric dutifully repeated the charges against Livingstone. Maybe I’m a hateful nasty human being like the party and some of my relatives claimed. Maybe hateful, nasty people belong in jail for a crime they didn’t commit. Just when they run out of hateful people like me then they come for the nice people like you folks. The prosecutor went for the second degree attempted murder charge and many thought this unbelievable. They completely dropped the hijacking charge but in neither case were the actions based on any sort of jurisprudence. The Republican party simply wanted the title of attempted murderer in all television sound bytes at least until they could get their guy elected. They didn’t care a whit about the hijacking charge. Indeed the party wanted that word buried in the rhetoric lest it remind the public that I perceived myself to be in desperate straits. They wanted the word “murder” attached to me and so what if it was a stretch that any first year law student would laugh off? All Joe Blow Sixpack would hear was that some woman accused of attempted murder was now accusing front- runner Manny Robinson of child molestation. Why should Joe Blow Sixpack believe the word of a murderer after all? We’ve gone and sold justice to sound bytes and spin and I’m very mad, even more so because it happened to me. Who knows what would have happened if Melissa Roberts hadn’t stepped forward with her blockbuster assertion? I never spoke to Melissa Roberts at any time after I witnessed the molestation even to this day. Though I consider her a heroine and I’m not afraid to say so via this book vehicle. It couldn’t have been easy doing what she did and the girl deserves credit. Melissa is always noncommital when asked about me. She never gives me credit for getting the attention required to end the sham. Not that I expect her to, please understand. My personal guess is that Melissa was spurred on by her mother Genine. This is just a guess and it’s not like anyone can find Genine or Manny Roberts to it. They too have disappeared off of the planet though rumor has it Manny slipped off to Israel. Seems his mother was Jewish and this allowed Manny to seek a new life in the holy land.

Blaine Mason discovered that in her third grade year Melissa Roberts was getting her schooling in a mental facility. The child simply could not be handled in a normal public school and no wonder with this abuse she was suffering at the hands of her father. I’m betting this episode was also arranged by Genine who had to know what was going on. Don’t curse Genine Roberts. No doubt she acted to get help for her daughter just as soon as she could. No doubt, in my mind at least, that it was Genine who prompted Melissa to come forward. No doubt the woman has finally broken free of a man she must have abhorred to the point of erratic behavior. Kleptomania comes to mind. Melissa Roberts has carved out a nice life for herself as a spokeswoman for large-sized women. I especially ire the way she champions big woman to accept themselves the way they are while cheering them on should they opt to diet to thinness. It’s a fine line yet Melissa handles it well. I’d like to say I hope Manny Roberts is doing well and is getting the help he needs. What I have to say, because it is the truth, is that I’m glad the man is far away from little American children and I’m damn happy he isn’t this country’s President.

Chapter 22 The Surprise

T he last chapter should be the surprise chapter, at least in a good mystery. Though this isn’t a mystery in that everyone knows the whole story, there is a surprise. It begins with patriotism. I know it’s an ugly word at times though I don’t know why. I’m willing to defend my territory, such as it is, with the same ferocity as would any robin. So let me state it now and suffer the brickbats head on: I think the United States of America is the best country on earth. If this be jingoistic to the point of political incorrectness then so be it. For sure I believe that out of all the millions of people in this vast land that we can come up with better leaders then Manny Roberts. Or Bill Clinton for that matter. “That’s wishful thinking, Georgette, and you know it. Always with the chamber pot on your head,” is how Ralph puts it. “It takes big money and powerful backing to get elected President. The whole setup requires a whole lot of political favors. It’s bound to attract some unsavory characters who abuse their power. Even so this country hasn’t done so bad with the leaders it has elected. It’s still the best system on earth no mind its many faults.” No one ever accused Ralph Robinson of wearing a chamber pot on his head, this is for sure. “We USED to elect decent leaders in spite of the system,” was how I argued back. “This was before Hollywood got involved with it all, before a sound byte replaced the Gettysburg Address, before lies suddenly became politically acceptable spin. Clinton actually got elected President though he sold his country down river to the Chinese and used women like so much chattel. Let’s not forget Hamilton Babbitt, the senator from New York who almost won last election. It wasn’t until after the man’s defeat that we learned he was addicted to gambling. You going to tell me no one in the Democratic party knew this? People don’t

have time to sit and listen to the Gettysburg Address. They have a trillion cable channels for God’s sake and don’t forget the Internet. They get our attention with compelling sound bytes and too many rascals and scoundrels are getting through the holes.” Ralph would not, of course, acknowledge my truth as is his wont. “You got a better solution?” he asked in a tone that held no expectation of an answer. In fact I do have an answer. I’m going to run for President. Indeed I will be running for President and I will be running on the Republican ticket. The editors tell me it will take a year to get this book edited, printed and marketed. A year and a half after that it will be time for another presidential election. I have a bunch of issues with William Hodges, current President and Democrat whose opponent was a child molester who pulled out of the race at the eleventh hour. This hardly qualifies as an election and a good opponent should be able to blow him out of the water. But a Republican? you might ask. It’s no secret that the Republican party had an overwhelming turnover after the Manny incident. I’m betting that Gene Mulroney will be looking for another job soon. They have no viable candidate for the next presidential election and it looks like they’re going to take a beating in the congressional races. Of course they backed the wrong horse and are paying the price. America needs at least a two-party system. Sure there’s the Reform party growing bigger every day. I say the more choices the better. Until then, I hate to see even one President elected under what would be essentially a one-party system. Smacks too much of dictatorship. Anyway it’s not about Republicans or Democrats. It’s about the greater good and so long as the parties back their man, no matter what, the greater good is not being served. The Republicans asked me to be their candidate, in fact. It was their only hope of

saving the party not that I particularly cared. Because no matter the method or party that puts me there, I intend to try and turn this country around. I have no illuminating platform just yet, ing the reader is probably reading this almost a year after I wrote it. I do feel we’re going in a wrong direction, what with our sound bytes and spin. It’s in my mind that America might be ready for mandatory voting, a practice in many other countries. If someone HAS to vote by law they’re more apt to give some, you got it, attention please. Candidates who know they have to appeal to everyone, not just likely voters or political junkies are more apt to consider a greater good. Further, there aren’t any great secrets bound to spring up during my campaign. My life’s pretty much an open book you should forgive the pun. Many have suggested the idea but mostly in the manner of a joke or semiseriousness. The Republican party was dead serious though I told them I’m not interested in promoting a Republican agenda. I’m not a heroine. I’d offer that most Americans would have taken the position that I did. Maybe they wouldn’t have hijacked an airplane but they would have made every effort to get the story out. Who knows what more drastic measures may have been the resort? I’m just an average guy. Maybe it’s time this country had an average guy for President. Maybe, somehow, some way, we need to break free of the mold we’ve found ourselves now in. Maybe. Perhaps. Possibly. Georgette Robinson for President! you read it here first.