One good thing about the impending destruction of all privacy rights in our country: It will be hard to blackmail anyone. Our lives will be laid open and bare for all to see. As a person who makes her living uncovering secrets, the destruction of privacy rights spells disaster for my income.
1:00 a.m.
I spent extra time this morning putting my makeup and clothes on today. Taking a day off is always dangerous. I have to remember every detail of who I am and rehearse my role in front of the mirror as I put on my alias. I have to think, “Now where did I put my watch? That’s not my watch. Who’s watch is that?” every time I see something out of place for my persona. I’m not that person any more. I’m this person.
I wasn’t planning to return to Georgia’s house today, so why be so careful with the makeup? Today was Safe Deposit Box day. I had a key and a Bank, and I was going to have to march in and show my credentials as representative of the estate and get access to that box. It wasn’t the same bank, so no one would simply glance at me and pass me through. Everything had to be perfect.
I was still worried about people following me, so I walked from my hotel to the Hilton, about half a mile away, and caught the hotel shuttle to the airport. Once there, I walked across to the parking garage where the taxi stand is. In a few minutes, I had a cab that took me directly to the bank.
I went into the bank and asked to see a bank officer. You don’t want to talk to just anyone in a bank. There may be ten “personal bankers” waiting to serve you and another ten tellers, but you only want to do business with one person who can make decisions without having to go talk to a supervisor. Banks have dozens of Vice Presidents. It doesn’t mean anything except that they are bank officers and can make everyday decisions without getting permission. I was ushered into the office of Vice President Smith. Smith? Really? Is anyone really named Smith? Apparently so.
“How can I help you Ms. Chester,” Mr. Smith asked.
“Yes. I am the authorized representative of the Estate of Georgia McFearin. She passed away on December 25th and I have only recently discovered that she had a safe deposit box at your bank and may have other accounts as well that should be closed and brought under the control of the estate,” I answered. I’d worn a conservative and somewhat matronly business suit today and tried to assume my most businesslike tone. I laid my leather portfolio on the desk, opened it and turned it to Vice President Smith so he could read the various letters of the state and the death certificate.
“These appear to be in order,” Mr. Smith said. “Let me see what I can find for you.” He turned to his computer and after tapping in a few lines came up with a screen-load of information. “Ah, yes. Ms. McFearin had a modest savings account and a safe deposit box. We only rent safe deposit boxes to account holders.” He showed me the screen with the balance on it. $234.40. Just enough to justify renting a box, I thought, trying to put myself in Georgia’s head when she opened the account. “Of course it is no problem to have a check cut for the amount, but it will take a few days to have the safe deposit box drilled and opened. I assume you will want to be here for that, and of course there will be a fee for replacing the locks and drilling the box open.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I have a key.”
“Oh! In that case, all we need to do is make copies of all the papers for our records and you can open the box. I can have a check cut for you while you are sorting out the contents.” Well, that seemed like he wanted to get rid of us. I was guessing that in the greater scheme of bankism, a $200 savings account and the amount of rental they get on the box, wasn’t enough to consider Georgia a worthwhile customer to have. In five minutes, I was inside the narrow vault lined with boxes. Mr. Smith and I had both inserted our keys, and he slid the box out. Then he left, closing the grate behind him. Now, let’s see what you’ve got, I thought.
It was a little startling, and a little puzzling. There was a thick padded envelope with CDs or DVDs in it. Five $100 bills in an envelope. A set of car keys. I bet I knew what car. And a list of names and addresses. A long list of names and addresses. I put the items in my bag and rang the buzzer to be let out of the cage. Mr. Smith had a check waiting for me and I signed the necessary papers to close the account and relinquish the box. Mission accomplished.
Outside the bank, I caught a bus and rode downtown to Pioneer Square, had an early lunch, and called a cab back to the airport hotel.
8:00 p.m.
If Georgia killed herself, it’s a miracle no one else got to her first. She had something on everyone. And my guess is that the seven DVDs that I had in my hands were what she was holding over seven people who were paying her handsomely to keep them under seal. From my perspective, they were seven motives for murder, and they were in my hands now. Her four girlfriends, her landlords, and her so-called boyfriend were all implicated. These disks contained explicit video of each of them, not only in flagrante delicto, but also chatting about their families and friends in settings that they probably thought were safe from cameras. I needed to go through the house again and look for mini-bugs, not just webcams.
I still don’t get how it all worked. Apparently, all the women rent from Rick and Susan. Rick and Deonn are partners and have partnered with every one of the women, including Susan, who seems to have a house of her own as well. Now that is freakin’. But at least it explains why Rick’s business is called Rick Thomas Productions, LLC. I thought it was weird that he had a company that seemed to get all its income from rent and a bar but was called something Productions. Apparently he’s got a following for his adult DVDs. Of course, all the names that I have for the ladies I’ve met are their “stage names.” Georgia kindly documented their real names, their husbands or boyfriends, their parents, their churches, their children.
They all have a lot to lose if their real identities came out. As much as I despise the industry, I don’t have any interest in exposing any of them unless they are a murderer. But now that I’ve got all this information in my hands, how could I ever convince them of that?
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