Divine Fury (25 page)

The guy who answered the door was thin, tall and had long black hair and hazel eyes.
 
He wore an AC/DC T-shirt with flames on the front and tattered jeans.
 
The pupils of his eyes looked like small tunnels they were so dilated.
 
As he stood in the half-open door, he was moving constantly, rocking back and forth as he shifted his weight from his toes to his heels.
 
Lee could hear laughter inside the house.

“Yeah. Yeah.
 
Hey.
 
What is it?” he asked.

“Is Lonnie here?” asked Lee.

“Maybe.
 
Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter.
 
San Francisco News,” said Lee.

AC/DC left just a crack in the door.
 
Lee could hear him walking toward the back of the house.
 
The laughing and talking he had heard stopped.

Five minutes later, Lonnie Carter opened the door. He was thinner than he had appeared on the television.
 
Good looking.
 
Blond.
 
Mid-30s.
 
Piercing blue eyes.
 
But a little disheveled.
 
His hair was uncombed.
 
His face had a sheen of sweat on it.
 
He seemed to focus on Lee okay.

“I’m Enzo Lee,” said Lee.
 
“San Francisco News.”

“I’ve heard of you,” said Carter.
 
“You better watch out.”

“Me?” said Lee.
 
“Why is that?”

“I don’t know.
 
You pissed off some people, man.
 
I’d just watch yourself.”

“Well, thanks,” said Lee.
 
“You know why I’m here, right?”

“Yep.
 
Same reason every other member of the media has been ringing me every two minutes,” said Carter.
 
“It’s Harper, right?”

“That’s right,” said Lee.
 
“I guess I don’t totally get it.
 
You drop this bombshell – television…the works – and then you just drop out of sight.
 
What’s that all about exactly?”

“Well, that was my deal,” said Carter.
 
“Do the announcement.
 
TV.
 
Turn over the email.
 
As far as I’m concerned, I’m done.
 
Obligations fulfilled.”

Lee peeked over Carter’s shoulder.
 
He saw a sofa and chairs in the room off the front door.
 
His friends must be in the back somewhere.

“Do you mind if I come in so we can talk for a few minutes?” he asked.
 
“Instead of doing this standing out here?”

Carter paused.
 
He didn’t appear too enthused about welcoming Lee into the house.
 
Finally, he relented.

“Okay,” he said with resignation in his voice.
 
“Just for a couple of minutes.”
       

The room was furnished with the basics.
 
Heavy wooden coffee table.
 
Overstuffed couch that probably hadn’t been moved in ten years.
 
Two upholstered chairs opposite with short backs.
 
Lee sat in one of those and put a small portfolio he was carrying on the coffee table.
 
He pulled his notebook and pen out of it.
 
Carter sat on the sofa.
 
He fidgeted and rubbed his hands, one massaging the other.

“So, you got paid for telling your story about Harper,” Lee began.

Carter laughed.

“Yeah.
 
I did,” he said.
 
“Cashier’s check.
 
Thirty thousand.
 
Already in my account.”

“And it was to tell your story? And provide the email?
 
Anything else?” said Lee.

“Well, sign a zillion documents.
 
This and so is true.
 
I won’t talk to anyone without their approval.
 
I won’t pick my nose in public.
 
Whatever.”

“You mean things like affidavits, swearing that your story is true?” said Lee.

“Sure.”

Lee reached into the portfolio and pulled out several pages of a computer printout.

“I got this from Harper’s campaign,” he said.
 
“It’s a chain of emails that includes the one you handed out at the press conference.
 
But in the context of the whole chain, it makes that one misleading.
 
Harper is saying you two had a relationship later, five years after that basketball camp, and not when you were a minor.”

Carter rocked back and forth in silence for a few seconds as if weighing which way to go with his answer.
 

“Yeah. That’s true,” he finally said. “Look.
 
They called me because they knew Drew and I were together for a while.
 
Maybe six months.
 
Whatever.
 
When I told them about knowing him since I was 15, they kept asking about that.
 
It was pretty clear what they wanted.
 
So, I gave it to them.
 
I realized the email made it look better.
 
So, I gave that to them, too.”

“All right,” said Lee.
 
“So, you basically just made it up.
 
And now you’re telling me this…why?”

Carter stared at the coffee table, lost in thought for a few moments.
 
Then he looked up at Lee.

“Look,” he said.
 
“Those guys are assholes.
 
I know what they stand for.
 
Anti-gay.
 
I mean they’d probably send me to the concentration camps if they had their way.
 
But I needed the bread, man.
 
They said, ‘We’ll give you this check.’
 
And I said, ‘Okay.
 
What do you want to hear.’

“What can they do?” Carter continued.
 
He laughed.
 
“Sue me?
 
Good fucking luck with that.
 
Besmirch my good name?
 
Do you think Mommy and Daddy are going to be shocked to hear little Lonnie has been telling lies?
 
Gimme a break.
 
Look.
 
I’m not looking for people to tell this to.
 
But you’re the one who found me.
 
And those guys are jerks.
 
Screw ‘em.”

Lee knew he had his story and, best of all, it was on the record.
 
He asked a few more questions to fill in the gaps.
 
The only full name Carter recalled was Dirk Renstrom, the guy who had originally contacted him.
 
He didn’t know how Renstrom was connected to the Chapman campaign.
 
Carter also said he was paid through a company called La Vista Security.

The closest Carter came to showing any remorse for the situation was when Lee was leaving and he asked the reporter to give Harper a message for him.

“Tell Drew I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”
 

Lee had negotiated the crush of rush hour traffic on I-80 through Berkeley and paid the toll for the Bay Bridge.
 
After waiting his turn at the metering lights, he began the short drive across the bay and into the city.

He understood why Harper’s opponents had pushed Lonnie Carter in front of the television cameras even if they suspected that his story would crumble in the end.
 
The scandal had dominated the news throughout the state for a complete 24-hour news cycle.
 
It had been the biggest story in the campaign so far.
 
A comparable media campaign would cost millions of dollars.
 
The payment to Carter was a pittance in comparison.
 

Even better, only a fraction of those who saw the initial story would really focus on later developments.
 
For many, some level of association between Andrew Harper and the explosive allegation of child molestation would remain.
 
If the lingering taint changed even 2 or 3 percent of the vote on election day, it could determine the outcome in a tight election.
 

 
Lee came out of the portion of the Bay Bridge that passes through Yerba Buena Island via a short tunnel.
 
The last two-mile section of the bridge into San Francisco was suspended over the bay from two huge towers, like the more famous Golden Gate Bridge.
 
This was Lee’s favorite view of the city with the highway heading straight into the downtown skyline.
 
Most of the tall buildings had windows that reflected the bright blues of the sky and ocean.
 
As usual, the cloud bank waiting over the cold Pacific rode the offshore winds that kicked up late in the afternoon when temperatures cooled.
 
The dark mass loomed over the skyline as it rolled in from the west,
 
reasserting its dominance and snuffing out the sunset .

Chapter 32

LEE’S ARTICLE REVEALING that Harper’s accuser had recanted his story mere days after making his accusation in front of the television cameras was a coup but it took a nervous day before all the editors at the News treated it like one.
 
That was because as soon as Lee had left him, Lonnie Carter disappeared again.

Eventually, an enterprising reporter from the Los Angeles Times found him in a run-down cabin in Guerneville along the Russian River an hour north of San Francisco.
 
Carter clearly was trying to avoid the limelight.
 
Fortunately, when he was discovered yet again he confirmed what he had told Lee.

The experience brought back old emotions for Lee – the elation mixed with nerves when he was out in front on a story, but all alone and wondering if events were conspiring to make the whole damn thing blow up in his face.
 
It reminded him of what had happened in New York, the nightmare that had eventually led him to return to San Francisco and trade the investigative work for the comfortable life of a feature writer.

Ray Pilmann had started circling as the day wore on, replaying his warning not to be Harper’s apologist.
 
When Lee read the L.A. Times’ story on the paper’s website late in the day backing up his disclosure that Carter had fabricated his allegations against Harper, he exhaled a long sigh of relief.
 
He leaned back in this chair and thrust his arms aloft with fists clenched in a victory pose.
 
He felt the pain in his gut ease almost instantly.
 
Across the newsroom, Lorraine Carr gave him a wink and a fist pump.
 
Pilmann had disappeared.

Lorraine was doing a Jackie O thing that day with fake pearl earrings, oversized sunglasses and a thin, retro sweater.
 
She even had a scarf.
 
Lee figured it warranted putting the top down on his Toyota Spyder for the ride out to the Legion of Honor Museum.
 
The sun still was warm and bright when they parked near the fountain outside the museum’s entrance.
 
They walked up the long ramp to the entrance archway flanked by rows of Roman columns.