Due Justice

Chapter 10

Tampa, Florida

Thursday 7:20 p.m.

January 7, 1999

Later, I changed into a canary-yellow sweat suit and made myself a drink. I went out to our balcony and sat with my feet propped up, lighting up my first Partaga of the day. It was after dusk, but not dark. The sky was filled with reds and oranges. Tomorrow would be another beautiful day.  I was still sitting there, contemplating what to do about Carly’s problem when George came out to join me. I was glad to see he’d brought a larger than usual glass of Glenfiddich.

“How do you feel about room service tonight?” he asked me as he sat down in the rocker next to mine. “I can order up some poached salmon over greens with raspberry vinaigrette and fresh sourdough rolls. What do you say?”

“Sounds good to me,” I answered him, still contemplating.

“I’ll give you a silver dollar for your thoughts. They look valuable.”

“I was just thinking how really unfortunate it is that the police department never closes.”  Then, I told George, my partner in all things, about Carly’s visit.

“What is it about you that brings everyone with a problem to your door?”  The question was rhetorical. It was far from the first time I’d been asked. Nor the first time I’d asked it of myself. For a long time I felt as if I walked into every room with a large sign around my neck that said “bring your problems to Willa.”  In every crowd, at every party, in every organization I joined, it seemed I soon became the “mother” of the group. Messy divorce?  Problems with your children?  Out of money?  Weight problems?  Drugs, alcohol, gambling?  Ask “Dear Willa a/k/a Mighty Mouse.”

Now that I know myself better, I know I wear my philosophy on my sleeve. You see, I believe all problems can be solved. It’s that simple. And most people don’t. Most people just want to wallow in it, but they don’t want it fixed, especially if the fix requires the acceptance of personal responsibility and personal change. On some level, I like solving problems, other people’s problems anyway.

I accepted that was why Carly had come to me in the first place. Not because she had any special affection for me. It’s just that I’ve always been the problem solver. And she certainly had a problem. Where else would she go?

But this time, George was as distressed by Carly’s situation as I had been, maybe more. If I try to mother everyone who comes along, George takes in strays, any stray, as long as they’re a stray. Because Carly had been estranged from the family lately, George was particularly protective. He’d always liked Carly and he felt protective of her.

“Don’t you know someone to whom you could entrust this information in confidence?  It seems the sort of thing that needs to be disclosed, but I certainly wouldn’t want Carly to be arrested just for having suggested the possible identity of a dead man,” he said. George still believes in all American institutions.

“I think I’d have to give some reason for my suspicions. Since I never learned why Carly was asked to leave the prosecutor’s office, I’m not sure that if I disclosed her name, she wouldn’t become a suspect. I can’t risk that.”

George and I debated the ethics and the practicalities for another hour before concluding that perhaps the tried and true “anonymous phone call” was the best way to go. Since it was scrupulously important, at least to me, that I not be involved, George volunteered to make the call from a pay phone in the local supermarket. I was amused and surprised. Until he suggested it, I wasn’t really sure George knew where the local supermarket was, and cloak and dagger is clearly not his style. I’m not sure he even knows who James Bond is. George really is a sport.