If You Really Loved Me (31 page)

"You're not the father?"

"Hell no! I'm not the father. Are you kidding? I haven't been with a woman in so long I don't even know if I prefer men now. Sometimes I think about it. You think I'm joking? I'm serious. I don't think I could ever trust a woman again."

Newell and Robinson frowned. There was something offbeat, something grotesque, about the way David Brown spoke to Cinnamon, a vulgar intimacy about matters most fathers did not discuss with their daughters.

Cinnamon seemed used to such conversation. She ignored it. She would not be sidetracked. She had an agenda to meet, and she homed in on another question that had tormented her for years. The insurance payoff. She had never heard of it until they told her at Board. "They said there's a million-dollar life insurance involved. . . . They asked me, 'Did your father get it?' I don't know what to tell these people."

David's voice betrayed just a veneer of fear. He went into a long, convoluted explanation. He himself was uninsurable —ever since they found his "car had been shot up. . . . When Linda died, they canceled all our policies. I'm totally uninsurable," he said almost proudly.

"I am too." Cinnamon shrugged.

The girl had a wry sense of humor. She was quicker than her father, far wittier than any of the family Newell had yet spoken to. It wasn't mean comedy; she simply picked up instantly on plays on words. Three and a half years in this place hadn't knocked it out of her. Sometimes she was so quick that her humor went right over David's head.

Cinnamon wanted to talk about
the truth.
David clearly did not. He grew impatient with his daughter. Why wouldn't she just accept his offer of Patti as the guilty party and stop asking for the damn truth? David believed in Patti. She would sacrifice herself.

Or, if Cinny didn't like that scenario, he had a detective out there right now, trying to tie Larry into the murder. "Somebody broke into the house while we were all gone— the one in Garden Grove. The police were out there; they shut up the house . . . okay. What I've told everyone is that there is
no way
that you—any more than me—were capable of shooting somebody. Okay? So I am still paying a detective to investigate it."

Or wait—he had another option for her. "They say the only way you would ever get a reduced sentence is if you told them something convincing that did not indicate it was preplanned. That it was an act on the spur of the moment. Like a fight."

Suddenly, a shadow fell over David and Cinnamon, and Lieutenant Favila motioned Cinnamon over, saying gruffly, "Have you got your pass?" Under his breath, he whispered, "Make sure you say, 'Dad, I have to tell them the truth.' Got that?"

She nodded and showed the security chief her pass.

"What did
he
want?" David asked suspiciously.

"Something about I didn't check out in Unit, and they didn't know where I was."

He nodded, unconcerned. "Anyways, if you could think of something to tell them that would satisfy them—"

"How about the truth?"

"Okay. Do me a favor. Okay? Tell
me
the truth. Okay?"

"I didn't do it," Cinnamon answered flatly.

"That's the truth? . . . The honest-to-God truth? Did Patti do it or did you do it? . . . You remember clearly?"

"I remember."

"Well, you said you forgot a lot of things."

"You
asked me to say that, remember?" Cinnamon almost sobbed. "I want to make sure you remember what you asked me to say. Because you said, if I loved you . . . Don't make me feel like I'm crazy!"

He backed off. He was a master at this. However repugnant Brown was, Newell had to give the guy points for controlling a conversation. "I'm not trying to make you feel like you're crazy. ... I honestly do not know to this day if Patti did it."

"Well, I didn't do it. I didn't see her do it."

"Okay. Now, I understand your conclusion. I wish you had told me a long time ago."

"You
do!" Cinnamon exploded.

"I told you, 'Don't do it.' You said you had to because 'I love you, and I'm not going to let Linda and Alan hurt you.' "

Cinnamon burst out.
"You said if I loved you
. . . and I would get less time for it. That they wouldn't even send me to jail. ... I just want to make sure you remember what you told me because I am about to lose it in here."

Now, it was David's term to be alarmed. Obviously, the last thing in the world he wanted was for Cinnamon to flip out.

"Don't! Don't lose it.
Patti
did it," David said. "No wonder I've been afraid. Every night she stayed in that house ... I never thought Patti was so capable of being so kind as to say that she would take your place for it. I couldn't understand. You didn't even see it then. ... If I had known she had done it, I would have made her confess to it a long time ago. You didn't tell me. . . ."

"You told me what to say. You didn't ask me."

". . . Let Patti take the blame for it. You don't know anything. Okay?"

"They're not going to let me go. I've already been convicted."

David Brown, age eight. The sixth of eight children, David was on the road and on his own when most kids were in junior high school.

David with Brenda Kurges, teenagers in love at sixteen; July 1969. Exactly one year later, Brenda gave birth to their daughter, Cinnamon.

A proud father, David Brown holds Cinnamon, five months old; November 26, 1970.

David and Cinnamon, about three, on an outing. His marriage to Brenda was in trouble, but his little girl adored him.

Cinnamon Brown, seven and a half, minus a tooth. As a young girl, she was a frequent guest at her father's home, with both his second wife, Lori, and his third wife, Linda.

David Brown, age twenty-nine. "The Process," his invention to clean computer disks, had earned him a small fortune and fame in computer circles.

Linda Brown, age twenty. She adored her husband, David, and happily played "Mom" to both her younger sister, Patti, and David's daughter, Cinnamon.

Patti Bailey, age thirteen or fourteen. Unhappy at home, she was thrilled to be invited to live with her big sister, Linda, and brother-in-law, David.