Shocking True Story (9 page)

"I'm your mother. That's why you listen to me."

Tuesday, July 30

PRISON FOOD HAD FATTENED HER UP. It did to so many. When I finally came face-to-face with Janet Lee Kerr in Riverstone's special visit room, I could see the pounds that months of double scoops of mashed potatoes with hamburger gravy and bowls of Riverstone Casserole had done to the young woman's figure since she had been on the
Rita Adams Show
. I estimated at least a twenty-pound weight gain. Maybe more. Her long brown hair had been cut short on the sides, a kind of modified Jane-Fonda-in-
Klute
shag. It looked a little—I hated to think—
butch
. It was not an especially attractive hairdo.

I hoped Angela, her cellmate, liked it. I assumed it had been styled for her.

"Pleased to meet ya," she said, extending her hand.

"Okay to shake?" I asked an enormous male guard who sat at the end of the table like some denim-clad Buddha.

"Yeah. No monkey business, though."

Monkey business? What was I going to do, pull something out of a body cavity and hand it over to her?

Janet rolled her eyes and we shared a little laugh.

Over the course of the hour, my recorder consumed a mini-tape as we talked about Janet's life and her cocksure insistence that she had been framed. She had been tricked. She had been hoodwinked.

I could see that she was likable enough, though, certainly not anyone I'd want to pal around with. She was more like someone I might ask how to change the oil on the LUV. I wondered what power she had over these men that would make them contemplate and attempt to kill on her behalf?

"Danny was in love with me. Still is," she said, tugging at the collar of a shirt that was too tight. "He wanted Deke out of the way so he could have me to himself."

"Were you in love with him?"

"You gotta be joking! He was a loser that I felt sorry for. I hung around him, but I never led him on."

"Lovers?"

Again, Janet let out a snicker of denial. "Have you seen him?" she asked skeptically.

"Just the photo on television. You know, the talk show."

"Let me tell you, they did him a favor by cutting Danny's puzzle piece smaller than the others. With as big as he is, he'd need a 500-piece jigsaw of his own."

"You were never boyfriend/girlfriend?" I asked one more time.

Her denial stayed firm. "Never. Never in a zillion years. I never even let him touch my hand."

"So this whole mess was caused by Danny? Misguided goofball Danny?"

She lowered her gaze. "And Deke. Deke's at fault here, too. He was weak and let those bastards in the DA's office pressure him into lying at my trial."

"What about you, Janet? Are you responsible for any of this?"

Like flipping a switch, Janet's eyes welled up with tears. She brushed aside her shaggy, brown hair with a finger accented by a coiled snake ring.

"Yeah, I am," she said, her chapped lip now quivering. "I made a mistake by loving the wrong man. That's my only crime."

I nodded as I thanked her and packed up my recorder, the time allotted by the prison over. There was always a little truth to that statement. Through my work, I knew that it was frequently the combination of people that led them to the unthinkable. On their own, they'd have brewed in their contempt for their target. With some urging, however, plans were swung into action. Murder or violence was like an eBay auction or drinking game, with the sway of others pushing you to do more than you wanted.

Or should.

♦

Another letter came earlier that day. I recognized the envelope: gray, unremarkable. No return address. Simple lettering that looked more creepy than cursive. Inside, the single sheet wasn't a direct threat. Those are easy to handle. You know what to expect. But this was veiled in the most insidious manner possible.

Just four little words.

PRETTY WIFE PRETTY GIRLS.

It was like cancer, I supposed. If you felt all right, you could ignore it. It was there eating away at your body. But as long as there were no outward indicators, you were fine. Denial was so very powerful. But every now and then, as I typed I thought about the letters. It was like a dripping faucet mocking every click of my keyboard.

I finally had to tell Val about the letters. I found her upstairs buried in a stack of laundry. She set down Taylor's pink and purple swimsuit, regarded the letter and shrugged. She didn't seem to get the seriousness of what I was showing her.

“I'm concerned and a little creeped out,” I said, coolly as I could.

Val handed the letter back and turned her attention to the laundry. "I thought you'd be happy to have a stalker," she said. "I mean, finally, about time, Kevin."

She was deadpan, but I knew it wasn't how she really felt.

Saturday, August 3

JETT CARTER CALLED MY OFFICE LINE SATURDAY MORNING with bad news. Her sister had taken ill at the prison the night before and had been shuttled off to the infirmary under the care of sadistic nurses who—according to Janet—enjoyed probing and poking and sticking their rubber-gloved fingers where they weren't supposed to. As Jett recounted it, Janet had choked on the rice pudding at dinner the night before. Another prisoner rushed to her aid and administered the Heimlich maneuver, but apparently had done so with such force it cracked two ribs.

"She's real upset because she won't be able to work in the sewing shop for at least a week. She needs the money to pay for her appeal."

The sewing shop offered the
creme de le creme
of prison jobs, paying almost five dollars an hour. The prison shop made sleeping bags, duffel bags and totes. Each was tagged
MADE BY THE LADIES ON THE INSIDE
. Years ago, MLI designs were highly coveted by college students for their prison cachet. A major Northwest sportswear company jumped on the idea and created a line of apparel and accessories called Jail House Frocks. The "prison-inspired" line sold like gangbusters at JC Penney's and Kohl's. In a matter of weeks, the Jail House Frocks success turned the MLI product line into has-been, hand-me-downs. No college or high school student wanted to wear or tote something that even
suggested
Penney's.

MLI never recovered their glory days, though they still did enough business to employ twenty-two of the prisoners, whose names were drawn by lottery. Janet was one of the lucky few to get one of the coveted positions.

"Janet is afraid she will lose her job doing zippers," Jett told me. “She needs the cash.”

Jett was already working two jobs and sending whatever money she didn't absolutely need for her own food and shelter to the prison for her mother and sister's canteen expenses. The girl simply couldn't work harder.

"How long will it take for her to recover?" I asked.

"Doctors don't know. Hell, the doctors in there aren't worth a crap. They do as little as they can. Mom and Jan tell me that if you are going to prison, you better stay healthy. There is no such thing as medical care for the girls on the inside."

"So I've heard," I said as I switched on the speakerphone so I could neaten up the little piles of murdered lives that deluged my desktop.

"I'm getting ready to write the first chapter and if you're up for it, I have a couple of questions for you."

We talked another twenty minutes or so and I wondered why it was that the nicest people are trapped in families in which there is no hope. No chance even. Why is it that once the ball is rolling, it can never be stopped? Everyone wants to believe that they are in charge of their own destiny, but what of the baby born to a woman like Connie? Jett had barely escaped and the sad truth was that at any time she could be pulled back into the whirlpool like her sister. If the worst that could happen ever did, and Jett committed some airhead crime and was sent to prison, every day could be a family reunion for mother and daughters.

"Your name is unusual," I said, winding down the conversation.

There was a short silence. Then a gusher.

"My mother named me after her favorite singer, Joan Jett. Obviously, 'Joan' wouldn't work. For the longest time I wished she had named me Mariah or something else. Even Madonna would have been better. But she thought Jett was a strong, unique name. She had heard somewhere that strong names make for strong women. She already had a Janet and figured Jett would be better."

I told her I liked her name.

"I think it's kind of stupid," she said flatly.

I tried to convince her otherwise, but she would have none of it. She didn't take compliments well and she didn't know how to give them. She had been isolated from the good that people had to offer. Yet, she was so trusting of me. I liked her right away.

♦

I SPREAD OUT MY NOTES AND TURNED ON my iPod. It was a ritual that had sustained me through my other books. I always typed to the sound of music. I tried to pick a performer whose music fit the milieu of the story I was telling. For
Twisted Sisters: Deception, Death, Dough in Dixie
, I typed to a Dolly Parton disc that I picked up at Silver Saucers by exchanging my girls' Raffi CDs. I felt country tunes would help me write the story of two sisters from Knoxville who murdered the husband of one because he was lazy, mean and wouldn't buy her a new car. I guess it worked.
Twisted Sisters
was optioned for a television movie to star post-
Clarissa
, pre-
Sabrina
Melissa Joan Hart. The movie, like all the others optioned by some hotshot producer with little money and a gigantic line, was never made.

For
Murder Cruise
, I typed to Jimmy Buffett, realizing that the Florida Keys was nothing like the Hawaiian Islands, save for the fact the islands—like any—were surrounded by water.

When I wised up and figured out that my books needed more intellectual appeal, I wrote to
Musical Jewels: A Golden CD Collection of Classical Composers' All-Time Favorites
. I played it on repeat for days on end, hoping the flow of the compositions would rub off on my phrasing.

My editor considered my work-in-progress
Fatal Killer
my masterpiece at the time.

"The rhythm of the murder scene is outstanding," he said, while I watched Hedda awkwardly dig into her back after a flea. "The way in which you have the girl find her mother with the blood still spurting out of her head was magical."

"Thanks," I said. "I'm trying to reach a different crowd. Don't you think we could do better than
'Fatal Killer'
for a title?"

"Marketing says
Fatal
works. Look at
Fatal Vision
."

I rolled my eyes at the never-ending list of
Fatal
titles.
Fatal Voyage, Fatal Mother, Fatal Wedding, Fatal blah, blah, blah
.

"I'm just trying to lift up the genre," I finally said. "I want it to be better than it has been."

"Better doesn't work," he said. "
Better
doesn't sell books!"

"I see."

"Besides, wait until you see the cover for
Fatal Killer
. I think you'll like what the art department is trying to do with it."

"Red and black?"

"No, a dark ebony and mahogany. Very different. Incredibly classy."

When I saw a jpeg rendition of the cover a few days later, it looked red and black to me. I dialed my editor right away.

"It's just your monitor," he said, somewhat impatiently. "It's more cherry than red and more of a warm black than anything. You'll see."

In the end, I counted my blessings. It was not the worst cover I had ever seen. I doubted
For the Love of a Baby
could ever be topped. It was, of course, red and black. But the art department at Death Penalty Books touted a unique die-cut, pop-up cover that they believed would set a new standard for the publishing world. They were right. It set a new low-water mark.

The cover depicted a tombstone with a child's date of birth and death cut into the cold gray of a granite slab. When the reader opened the book, a die-cut flap popped up like a gruesome jack-in-the-box. It was a little baby, eyes closed, wearing a pink sleeper.

Baby in the grave. Baby out of the grave
.
Open and close. Open and close.

Whenever I thought of it, I cringed and felt a sense of relief at the same time. It could always be worse.

I settled down and went to work, each day fading into the next as I soaked up the story and planned how I'd make this the best story ever.

♦