Page 10 of A Mean Season
“Good night,” he said, with a slight smirk.
Ronnie and I went upstairs. Outside our room, he tucked his fingers into the waistband of my 501s bringing me to a stop.
“What?”
“What if it was just us?” he asked. “Would you like that?”
“I’m not unhappy.” And I wasn’t. I genuinely liked John, and I found Junior to be as amusing as he was annoying. “Are you unhappy?”
“We could rent our room. Buy something smaller. Maybe a condo even. For just the two of us.”
“It’s up to you. You’re the real estate baron.”
“I just need, maybe, around ten thousand dollars. I should have it in six months, or a year.”
“Okay, we’ll talk about it then.”
“You have something else on your mind?”
I gave him my filthiest leer, and said, “You know I do.”
4
April 3, 1996
Wednesday morning
Cammy Wainwright was now Camille Eggleston. She lived south of Ventura Boulevard on Davanna Terrace in Sherman Oaks. The address wasn’t far from the 405, but I knew better than to take that route. I came up the 710 to the 5 and took that to the 134 going west. That merged with the 101 and I got off onto Ventura Boulevard almost immediately. Even though I didn’t leave until ten, hoping rush hour would die down, it took well over an hour.
Mrs. Eggleston lived in a gray clapboard house that would have fit right into a tony suburb outside of Boston. Only the bright sunshine and the neighbor’s palm trees gave it away. There were matching bay windows on the first floor, dormer windows on the second, a brick walkway to the front door. The lawn was brilliant green and there were well manicured boxwoods forming a border around it. Though I didn’t see any evidence of it, I assumed there was an expensive sprinkler system buried beneath the lawn to keep it from frying in the scorching heat of the valley. Even in April it was seventy degrees, what most of the country called summer.
I knocked on the front door, a tasteful charcoal gray, and waited. After a moment I reconsidered my decision and rang the doorbell. She knew I was coming; I’d spoken to her on the phone. She’d asked to do the whole thing on the phone, but I’d pressed her until she’d finally agreed to my visit. I was beginning to wonder if she’d changed her mind when the door opened.
She was around thirty-six-years-old, though she already had the ultra-thin, dried-out look that well-preserved, upper-middle-class women often take on. She probably weighed less than she had in college, was personally trained, professionally manicured and pedicured, waxed, trimmed, highlighted and styled on a monthly basis. She wore just enough make-up to look like she didn’t wear any at all.
That day, she wore a crisp lemon-yellow shirt with the collar turned up and a pair of mint-green capris with a pair of white strappy sandals.
When I introduced myself, she said, “I’m afraid I don’t have much time. My daughter gets out of preschool at 2:30, but it’s in Northridge and I need to make a couple of stops first. I absolutely must leave by 11:45. I’m sure you understand.”
I did understand. She didn’t want to talk to me.
“I’ll do my best to make this quick.”
More than an hour up and at least an hour back for a half an hour conversation? Yeah, I was thrilled.
She led me out to a patio next to a built-in pool. There was a tray with iced tea sitting on a wrought iron table. She poured me a glass and I sat down. At least I wouldn’t get dehydrated.
Slipping the file I’d brought onto the table, I said, “As I told you yesterday on the telephone, we represent Peter Linder. Evidence has come to light that proves his innocence. I’d like to ask you some questions about the investigation and trial.”
“Yes, I remember what you said.”
“Can you tell me about Brenda Wellesley?” I asked.
If this had been a deposition, an attorney would advise her to answer yes or no. I do my best to make that difficult.
After a long moment that included a sip of the ice-cold tea, she said, “It’s been seven years since it happened, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought ‘Thank God for Brenda.’ Until you’ve been raped you don’t realize how often the subject comes up, on television, in the news, in conversation even. Do you remember the Central Park Jogger case in New York? That happened almost two years before my rape. There was a little press attention because of the similarities. I was jogging. There was a park. Normally a rape like mine doesn’t even make the news. Luckily my rapist was caught quickly so it died down.”
She stopped for a moment. I waited. She hadn’t really told me much about Wellesley. I hoped she might if I just kept silent.