Chapter 5: Becoming Somebody

Suspicion

“I don’t know what to think, Gee. Every time I leave town, you end up in jail. Is this going to be a habit?”

“It was all a misunderstanding,” Gee said nervously.

“I’m teasing, Gee,” Karen laughed. “I was just trying to discover if my leaving town related to you going to jail. I mean, I could stay closer if necessary. Much closer.”

“Um ... How was your conference?” Gee asked. He had a vague discomfort when he thought of Karen being at the same conference in the city as Troy Cavanaugh. It was stupid, he knew. But that didn’t stop the anxious knot in his stomach. After all, he and Karen had only been on two actual dates and had made no declarations about being ‘with’ each other. His uncertainty about his relationship was harder to deal with than his lack of identity.

“It was great! I found some allies that might be able to help in my investigation. It turns out that I’m not the only journalist trying to dig into the underground trafficking of children. That’s what really makes this difficult.” Karen’s dedication and enthusiasm for this subject was infectious and Gee shoved his doubts aside. “There are laws against prostitution, child abuse, and slavery. But laws aren’t really a deterrent if you can’t catch a perpetrator in the act. As a result, the laws are used to punish the victims while the offenders remain hidden.”

“What do you mean?”

“Laws against prostitution should protect women and men who are forced into the life by need, greed, and power. But in reality, those are the women it punishes while their johns and pimps go untouched. A parent might get turned into child protective services by a neighbor who doesn’t believe in corporal punishment while another neighbor keeps an unknown child chained in their basement.”

“Aren’t the police investigating the hidden crimes?”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Karen’s face fell. “We had an FBI agent come to our group to talk. Laws that protect innocent people from invasion of privacy also tie the hands of police. They need to show just cause in order to launch an investigation. There are so many leaks in the system that even following up a legitimate lead usually results in a dead end because the perp has been warned in advance and cleans house before they get there.”

“How are you supposed to get a story here if the police and FBI can’t crack the ring?” Gee asked. “It seems to me, the only way to expose them would be from the inside. Please don’t tell me you plan to infiltrate a child trafficking ring!”

“Not me.”

“Someone?”

“We’re working on getting someone inside, but without a specific target, we don’t know the entrances. Right now, it involves a lot of backtracking and seeing where loose threads lead. You might find it hard to believe based on television shows and popular literature, but there are actually very few journalists—or police, for that matter—who are willing to go under cover as a prostitute. Imagine how many fewer would be willing to infiltrate as a pedophile or trafficker. It involves breaking the very laws we’re investigating.”

“How can we uncover the problem then?”

“We’ll find a way.”

They sat in silence having finished their late dinner after Gee’s library time. He’d been sad when Sally Ann Metzger didn’t show up for the Bookhouse. On the other hand, she’s safe and wasn’t spirited away to join the traffic Karen is investigating. That thought gave him pause.

“Kidnapping.”

“You did a good thing this weekend, Gee. She might never have been seen again. You did better than I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Got time for a long story? I’ll make it as short as possible.” Gee nodded to her to continue. “Fifteen years ago, I was a mother’s helper. Technically, I was too young to babysit, but mothers of small children need help. Someone to play with their child while she makes dinner or runs the vacuum. That was me. I was a helper for a young family in the Orchard Project. My charge was just two years old and I was pushing her on a swing in the front yard. That was all I had to do. Push the swing.”

“What happened?” Gee encouraged as he took Karen’s hand. She squeezed his softly.

“The puppy. We were laughing and giggling with the puppy romping around the swing. He tripped me and grabbed my flipflop. He took off running around the side of the house and I chased him. It was only a minute. I picked him up and went back to the swing where little Renee was. Only she wasn’t there. She was gone. I screamed, and Mrs. Lisle came running. We were frantic, looking up and down the street, in the bushes, anywhere Renee could have run off to. A neighbor heard us and called the police. It hadn’t even occurred to us that she might not have wandered off.” Karen started weeping and clutched Gee’s hand tightly. “We never saw her again. She was gone. The police investigation gathered information indicating a white van had been parked nearby, but no one got the license number. They decided the kidnappers had been waiting for their opportunity for days. And then they just disappeared.”

“Ransom? Any word from them?”

“No. That’s what makes it so impossible to track these things. Most resolved kidnappings are the result of the kidnapper making contact, either to demand a ransom or even just to gloat over the fact that he won. Or they are a relative, usually a parent. But cases like this, the kidnapper never makes contact. There are no leads. He and the child just disappear.”

“Karen, you’re still suffering. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Everyone’s told me that. I had counseling for years. The poor Lisle family didn’t survive. Mr. Lisle committed suicide. Mrs. Lisle drank herself out of her home and disappeared. Maybe to the city. Maybe she died. But I swore then and there that I’d find the people who did this if it took the rest of my life. That’s why I became a reporter and made child trafficking my special area of investigation.”

It took several minutes to break through the gloom brought about by Karen’s story. They awkwardly finished their meal in the little diner—made difficult by the fact that she didn’t release Gee’s hand. They left the diner and walked up Main Street toward the river. As they passed the radio studio, Gee noted that the broadcast desk was empty and asked Karen about it.

“There are only two regular broadcasters and a couple of high school students who cover the desk on weekends,” Karen explained. “The rest of the time is network programming. Technically, WRZF is not a public radio station. It’s a non-profit station but is privately owned. It buys programming from various public broadcast networks, international news outlets, and late Saturday night it even rebroadcasts the Grand Ole Opry from Tennessee. Don’t ask me why.”

“I heard the interview with Troy from the conference. Apparently, they are doing something right for him to win an award. I didn’t know he’d be there with you.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty full of himself over that award. It’s really just a certificate of recognition from his fellow broadcasters, but he treats it like an Oscar. He spent the whole conference trying to...” Karen stopped abruptly and turned to Gee, pulling him to a stop at the street corner. “Gee, Troy wasn’t at the conference with me. God! I had no idea how that might appear to you.”

“It wasn’t ... I mean, I didn’t...”

“Of course you did. You’re a male. And I am stupid. Listen, you need to hear this.”

“Karen, you don’t need to explain anything. I don’t have a right to an explanation.”

“Yes, you do. Because...” Karen took a deep breath and let it out. “Troy and I used to date. It was soon after I got back to Rosebud Falls and lasted until about eight months ago. We broke up right after the holidays. It would be foolish of me to tell you we weren’t intimate. Of course we were. But, we broke up. I broke it up. Troy made it clear last weekend that he wants us to get together again. He’s been trying for months. But it is over. Completely and finally.”

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was accusing you of something, Karen. We haven’t made any vows to each other. We haven’t said we are exclusive or that we are even planning to be more than the good friends we are. I’m sorry that I jumped to conclusions.”

Karen laughed. “Actually, it’s nice to know that you have reactions and responses that are normal, even though you don’t have a memory context for them. But there is something else you should know about me before we let our relationship progress any further. I’m twenty-seven years old and, while I’m not promiscuous, I’m not inexperienced, either. One of the things I discovered about myself ten years ago is that I’m essentially monogamous. Serial monogamy, I’ll grant you, but one relationship at a time. I don’t step out on the man I’m with and I expect the same from him.”

“But we aren’t in that kind of a relationship ... are we?”

“I don’t know, Gee. We’ve known each other for a couple of months. We haven’t been intimate and that’s good because I could get scared if we developed our relationship any faster than we are. But I’m not exploring any other relationships while we find out where this one is going. Capisce?“

“Karen, you are the only woman I’ve been interested in since I got to Rosebud Falls. I don’t know what came before that, but I don’t have a feeling of ‘relationship’ before I got here. I have two references to my past. Bill Williams, who was at the fair running that ride, but seems to have disappeared along with the Whirl-a-Gig. I don’t even know if they were real. And Rae, who gave me a book. Bill said he’d tell her I was doing well. I feel a strong connection to her, but not a romantic one. I can’t explain it better than that.”

“That will have to do,” Karen said. “As long as we’re clear about our status and intentions.”

“I try not to have intentions. I’m willing to find out where this ... us ... leads us. I’ll take it at whatever speed you suggest.”

Spit on His Grave

Jo Ransom walked through the War Memorial Park holding her grandmother’s hand. Her grandmother, Celia, made this walk nearly every day since her own mother’s death in 1959. Jo, finished with college, had just moved back to Rosebud Falls and agreed to accompany her grandmother.

They approached the memorial statue in the center of the park, determination in the old woman’s step. The sculptor somehow managed to contrive a pose of the seven young men assaulting Omaha Beach as if they were still the linemen of the Rosebud Falls football team. She looked at the faces on the statue as if seeking out one and spat toward it.

“Bastard,” she whispered.

“Grandma! What if someone sees you disrespecting the memorial? Don’t do that.”

“Jo, it’s time you learned the truth about your family and about that betraying man they make out to be a hero,” Celia declared. She led the young woman to a bench where they could still see the statue.

“Grandma, don’t get upset.”

“I’m seventy-five years old. I can be upset,” the old woman said indignantly. “Now listen. Those seven men left seven babies in the wombs of young women here in town. It was a scandal, yes, but an understandable one. No one wanted those boys to go to war feeling unloved. They’d already been shipped overseas before they found out their girlfriends were with child. They were not only soldiers, they were Family. One from each of the seven Families of Rosebud Falls. Noble. Honorable. They wrote letters to their Families detailing their relationships with the girls and acknowledging their sons and daughters. They asked the Families to accept their children and grant them their names.”

“That’s very sweet and romantic, Grandma. I’ve heard that before,” Jo said, soothing her irritated grandmother.

“All except that one,” Celia said pointing her finger. “My father, Joseph Roth, sent no letter of acknowledgement. His father, Aaron Roth, claimed my mother Maura was a loose woman attempting to capitalize on a Family name and that his son would never have mated with a common shiksa. He went so far as to ridicule the Families of the other six for having sons that could be led around by the nose and having their Family lines polluted. While the other six were recognized by the Families and were christened with the Family last name, my mother was an outcast, and I was simply a bastard child. I spit on his memory every day.”

“Grandma, you mean we are related to the Roth Family?” Jo asked.

“What there is left of them, curse them. That old man, Benjamin Roth, my father’s brother, sits in his fancy mansion by the river knowing that he is the last of his name this city will ever see. Oh, his daughter hyphenated her name and insisted that all her sons do the same. But Roth will disappear as one of the seven Families. It is the curse I give them.”

The two finally stood to leave the park. Jo drove her grandmother back to the Hilltop Retirement Village. Tears flowed down her grandmother’s cheeks.

“My mother, Maura, was destroyed. She died when I was fifteen. The only one who watched over her was Ohna Johansen. Ohna’s daughter, Dee Poltanys became my best friend and they took me in when Mother passed away. The other five were embarrassed about how mother was treated and did their best to include us, but we had no family. Even now, I am beholden to the Poltanys Family. They built this little retirement village on the hilltop.” Celia sighed and pointed out toward the West Branch River and, on the other side, the coal yard. Downtown was visible to the southeast.

“Take a last look at this cursed town and leave it forever, Jo. I tried to get my son to go, but he wouldn’t leave me. He’s spent a lifetime building houses for others that he could never afford to own. But you, my girl, have a college education. You can make your mark on the world. Go and don’t look back. That’s my advice.”

Jo hugged her grandmother and promised to look in on her again tomorrow. She drove back to the park and sat on the bench looking at the memorial statue for a long time. At last, she approached the statue, spit, and left.

Harvest Schedule

“When does this schedule start?” Gee asked Nathan as he tacked the work schedule to the employee bulletin board.

“Oh, this is the Harvest schedule,” Nathan said. “Harvest week here is a strange concept to an outsider. We won’t know exactly when it is until the foresters start the sirens and the churches ring their bells. We know it will be in September or October. Everyone participates. It’s the only way we can hope to bring in all the nuts, deadwood, and timber.”

“So, we’re all required to serve in the Forest?”

“Gee ... uh ... no offense, but don’t talk like that about Harvest. It’s not a requirement. It is a privilege and civic duty to take part in Harvest Week. An outsider might be considered ... well, an outsider if he didn’t participate in Harvest. Not everyone works in the Forest. People have to be fed, emergency services still need to function, and essential businesses, like groceries, have to be open. But we operate with shorter hours and a skeleton staff so everyone has at least half a day every day to work the Harvest.”

“I don’t see my name here.”

“Well, we don’t know what job you’ll have for Harvest. As soon as you know, I’ll schedule your work hours if you have any available.”

“I almost forgot about orientation.”

“Don’t. It’s my fault you didn’t get to an orientation earlier. You’d think one of us would have remembered to tell you. With school starting next week, orientations are going on all over. Schools will be on half days during Harvest and teachers are all being trained to keep their students focused on the jobs at hand. For all I know, you’ll be assigned the task of setting up the park for the nightly parties. You might not make it to the Forest at all.”

That thought caused a little pang for Gee. He liked the Forest. In fact, he wanted to work Harvest, no matter what job he was assigned. It was part of the mystique of the town. And most recently, it was where Karen Weisman held his hand for two hours as they walked and quietly talked.

“Say, don’t you have to be at the courthouse this afternoon?” Nathan asked, snapping Gee out of his reverie.

“Yes. I came back here to clock out. I better get a move on.”

“Good luck this afternoon.”

Rebirth

“George Evars?”

“Here, sir.” Gee felt like a schoolboy being called upon when the judge first called his name. They were in a conference room, not a courtroom, but there were several people jammed into the small space.

“Welcome to the community, George,” the judge smiled. “Just wanted to make sure I was addressing the right person. I’m told you prefer to be called Gee.”

“Yes, sir. I’m used to it.”

“And Jack LaCoe, you are representing Gee?”

“Yes, your honor. Gretchen is also on the team.”

“Okay,” the judge said. “For those of you who don’t know...” he looked at Gee, “ ... I’m Judge Brian Warren. In a community as small as ours, I serve as both City Judge and County Judge. Mostly I’m an arbitrator. Anything needed beyond that, we call for help. This is not a hearing, but a discussion about how the City can best help a stranger in our midst who has repeatedly shown himself a hero since the first day he walked into town. In addition to those already introduced, let me point out the others invited to this meeting. Frieda Grimm, Gee’s employer on my left. Beside her, Don and Leah Roth-Augello of the Savage Credit Union. This is Karl Nussbaum of First Rose Valley Bank. And, of course, Detective Mead Oliver. We have two items at issue here. The first is that with Gee’s loss of memory, possibly related to the rescue of a child in our raging river, Gee’s identity was also lost. No wallet. No papers. No trace. This makes Gee, in the truest sense, an undocumented visitor. The second issue is banking related, as Gee has no place to bank his earnings. Again, I emphasize that this is not a hearing, but a fact-finding discussion to see how we can help Gee become a citizen of our city. Jack, would you like to begin?”

“The first issue I think we need to deal with is Gee’s identity. There has been activity on several fronts to confirm he is who he says he is. In that regard, I’d like Detective Oliver to report his findings,” Jack said. Mead cleared his throat.

“The Police Department, in cooperation with the Sheriff’s office and State Police have undertaken to ascertain the true identity of the man claiming to be George Edward Evars,” Mead read from his prepared statement. “This investigation has included name searches through state and national missing persons reports, a search for tax and Social Security records, and submission of fingerprints to the AFIS database maintained by the FBI. We have further submitted Mr. Evars’ photograph, name, and presumed birthdate to the licensing departments of each of the 50 states to search for driver’s license or other state-issued identification. Finally, well-known investigative reporter, Ms. Karen Weisman, has cooperated in providing the department with the results of her searches of membership associations, including such service organizations as Masons, fraternal organizations like Elks and Moose, and commercial memberships like AAA, Costco, and Sam’s Club. Her results have returned no trace of the man calling himself George Edward Evars. However, she has also, with the approval of Mr. Evars, submitted DNA to several testing labs that are not part of the national database. This profile indicates that Mr. Evars is of mixed Northern European heritage and as much as twenty-five percent Native American heritage. It has not, however, revealed any relatives closer than five degrees of separation. We will, of course, follow up with contacting some of these distant cousins to see if anything surfaces as time and resources allow.”

“Military, Homeland Security, FBI, and CIA?” the judge asked.

“Yes, your honor. All have been queried and come back blank. Some searches, like CIA take longer and they only respond if they have an interest in the person. Military branches and FBI have no match. Homeland Security, in a surprise move to us, has simply informed our office that the person in question is not of interest in any former or ongoing investigation.”

“I’m surprised INS hasn’t been here to haul you away, Gee,” the judge laughed. “They seem to be the only ones missing.”

“Your honor,” Jack said, “contrary to popular opinion, there is no national law nor any law in this state that requires a person to have identity papers. He needs to have a license to drive a car, a work permit to hold a job, even a passport to get into or out of the country. But all those are situation specific.”

“There is a problem with a work permit,” Frieda interrupted. “We are retaining records of all money paid to Gee and have withheld income tax, Social Security, and Medicare payments, but we’ll have to figure out a way to file a report by the end of September.”

“That is where the INS comes in,” Jack continued “Based on the combined evidence of the DNA tests and Homeland Security’s lack of interest, we agreed to file Form I-765 with the US Citizenship and Immigration Services. They have provisionally indicated that they will issue an Employment Authorization Document. In general, a person is not otherwise required to have an ID.”

“Then why are we here?” the judge asked.

“We—and that includes Gee, your honor—believe several recent misunderstandings could have been prevented if Gee could simply produce a government issued identification document. Even though it’s not a law that he has to carry identification, he is required to truthfully answer law enforcement officers when asked his name and other pertinent information. Typically, this is verified by the officer through official documents. When those are missing, it becomes a hardship on both the officer and the subject,” Gretchen responded. “In addition, Ms. Grimm must retain Form I-9. The EAD is only part of her solution. Gee must also produce an ID card issued by a federal, state, or local government agency or entity, providing a photograph, name, birthdate, and address. This is purely a case of helping a man more effectively fit into the community, who has already repeatedly shown his commitment to the welfare of our citizens.”

“How about getting him a state ID card? The kind they issue to people who don’t drive.”

“It requires a birth certificate or affidavits of two people who have valid ID and will attest to the correctness of his name, birth date, and place of birth.”

“We get bombarded non-stop about how many illegal aliens are in this country with drivers’ licenses, Social Security numbers, and health benefits. How the heck can this be so hard?” Judge Warren said.

“People lie.”

“And no one will lie for Gee,” he sighed.

“Your honor, I don’t want anyone to lie for me. I’d rather not exist,” Gee said softly.

“I was being facetious, Gee. I’m not suggesting someone should lie for you. You’re a good man,” the judge said. “Let’s put this aside for later consideration and talk about banking. I assume Gee needs ID to open a bank account.”

“At one time it was pretty loose as long as no transaction exceeded $10,000, but the Patriot Act of 2001 put requirements on financial institutions to record a Social Security number for any account opened,” Karl Nussbaum said.

“If I may, Karl,” Don Roth-Augello broke in, “when the Patriot Act expired in 2011, only three provisions were renewed. Technically, we don’t have to have a Social Security number attached to the account now.”