Ghost writer, p.10
Ghost Writer, page 10
The manuscript, its pages still not crumpled from many readings, its white paper not smudged and stained with tea, as others usually were, had seemed to call his name Friday when he left. He had intended to keep it at the office, to not let it interfere with his weekend. But it nagged at him until he finally gave in and threw it in his briefcase.
He only had a few pages left to finish what had been sent. The chapters had been short and stopped and started with no apparent logic. Another mark of an amateur. He took out a note pad; it somehow eased his soul to approach it methodically. He found his place and began reading.
Jonathan continued to read and love books, though he remained a poor student all the way through high school. In college—
Jonathan stopped reading and quickly picked up his pen. He couldn’t believe it. The writer had left off with a young, anguished boy lying in his mother’s lap—all of which happened, from what he could remember—to college?! Jonathan scribbled feverishly. This was his first big clue. There was what, maybe ten years missing? The person writing this didn’t know what had happened in those ten years! If he had, he certainly would’ve written them down.
Jonathan tapped his pen against his chin, loud enough to make Meg glance over, even during a violent scene. “Sorry,” he smiled.
She drew her soft eyebrows together. “Are you watching, Daddy?”
“Of course,” he said, pointing at the TV “You’d better watch, too. I think this is going to be an important part to the plot.”
Meg whipped back around and Jonathan was thankful he’d seen the movie before. He was right, and Meg gasped as the attractive actor delivered a clincher line.
Jonathan tried to think about those ten years. What, of significance, had happened? He and his father had grown more distant, but Jonathan was growing more into a man and didn’t need his father’s approval for much of anything. Instead of a desperate puppy dog, Jonathan was now independent and as cruel and cold as his father had ever been to him.
He’d joined varsity basketball, and though he never made first string, he saw some significant playing time. He’d had a few insignificant girlfriends, but no one he would later brag about to anybody. There were no prom queens. He mostly dated bookworms, and most of those types had long, stringy hair down to their waist and glasses that always looked outdated. He mostly referred to those girls as friends, and only they knew he’d kissed a few along the way.
College had been different, though, and he wondered if this ghostwriter would know anything about those days. Before he continued, though, he took the page of the manuscript and made a huge star by the sentence he’d just read. He’d never dared to write on the manuscript before; it held some sort of strange power over him, a power that he silently revered by respecting its neat white pages. But now he’d found a weakness, and he pressed his pen hard against the page. Then he continued.
During college at the University of North Carolina, Charlotte, Jonathan Harper seemed to fit in perfectly. He joined all the appropriate clubs and associations for his particular interests and made his way to the head of his class with ease. He was a hit with all the professors, and a few of them often asked him to join them for coffee at the Student Union.
Perhaps it was all the coldness and hardness of his childhood that had molded him into the kind of man everyone wanted to be around. He had a certain unapproachable attitude, the kind that made people want to approach him more. He always chose his words carefully, and if he smiled or paid interest to a particular person, it meant they were special. It was just how he worked. He demanded attention, because for the most part, he never wanted it.
Jonathan flipped the page of his pad for more room, noting that this person knew his personality and maybe knew him in college, though no specific details had been given yet.
It was a cold winter morning when he decided to go to the campus library. He was working on one of his first term papers, and though he’d already done his research, he always felt at home and comfortable surrounded by books and silence. And it was there, that morning, in the silence of the library, that she first caught his eye. Her name was Katherine Williby.
Jonathan tried hard to not let that affect him, but one never does have much control over emotional reactions inside the body. His heart stung and then pounded hard against his chest, and even his skin began to crawl with a strange sort of itch. Now his family was involved. And not only that, whoever wrote this had the details right. He’d gone to work on a term paper in the library when Kathy had first caught his eye. He jotted down a couple of notes, though without enthusiasm. He hoped the following details would be vague. But his hope soon vanished.
Her hair was long, brown, and shiny, and it swung against her back as she carried her books close to her chest. She hardly seemed to notice him as she sat at the same table as he, though at the other end. She was noticeably petite, and Jonathan wondered if he shouldn’t help her with the books. But she’d dumped them on the table before he could offer. She glanced up once to find him staring at her, smiled briefly, and then opened her own book.
Jonathan couldn’t concentrate. He could smell the light scent of her perfume from where he sat, and her left leg, crossed over her right, dangled to the side of the table in his perfect view. Her eyes sparkled, even under the dim light, and he guessed they must’ve been the most amazing shade of dark blue, almost navy, lined neatly with dark black lashes and framed with thin, neatly formed brows.
A certain energy penetrated from her, even as she read her book and took notes on a pad that looked brand-new. After a few moments, Jonathan—well aware of his sudden stardom status on campus—moved a few seats over toward her, making her look up with curiosity.
“Hi,” he said in a deep voice that didn’t seem to fit him.
Katherine smiled cautiously, gripping her pen a little too tightly. “Hello.”
At that moment, Jonathan could think of nothing more to say, and the awkward silence seemed to resonate off the library walls. Her small mouth spread into a tolerant smile.
“Um . . . I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Harper.”
“Well, Jonathan Harper, is there something I can help you with?”
He felt his heart flutter and only because he could not think of anything else to say, he blurted out, “Will you go out with me?”
At first her face seemed to indicate that she would not. She closed her book and her lips made a straight line across her face. “Go out with you?”
He nodded and felt so incredibly foolish that he wanted to sink below the table. The only way out of this was for her to say her polite “No thank you,” and then for him to pretend he had finished his research, close his books, and leave with his head up.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked suddenly.
Jonathan twitched a little, blinked his eyes twice, and asked, “What?”
“Do you have an idea of what we’re going to do? Because I like having a good time, and if you wanted to do something boring, I probably wouldn’t go.”
Jonathan smiled at her candidness. “Oh. Well, I tend to think I’m pretty good company, so how does dinner sound?”
She cocked her head to the side. “You think you can entertain me the entire evening?”
Jonathan’s heart surged with anticipation. “Well, I’m buying, so you have nothing to lose if you try me.”
“I am a very busy person,” she said in a playfully serious voice.
“And I’m a pathetically bored person,” he said, making her laugh. “Tell you what. Give me two hours. After that, you’re free to leave.”
She held out a small, dainty hand, and he took it. They shook hands and both said, “Deal.”
It was the beginning of a love affair.
Jonathan held the last page of the manuscript in his hand and stared at the last three words: a love affair. It seemed so ironic as he heard Kathy continuing to slam things upstairs.
But his mind switched gears quickly, and he began analyzing. This person had to have known either him or Kathy in college, or maybe both of them. Jonathan tried to remember how many people he’d shared details with about the first time they’d met. He couldn’t think of anyone specific and noted that was probably more of a female thing to do anyway.
However, what bothered him more was that the connection between a college acquaintance and his childhood didn’t make sense. If the writer was a college acquaintance, then the details about him and Kathy made sense. But how could you factor in the childhood details? Not even Kathy knew much about his childhood, at least the things that were written in the manuscript.
Jonathan tried to rub away the tension in the back of his neck as his mind churned with a million different possibilities. Suddenly he heard a click and watched Meg jump off the couch and take the tape out of the VCR.
“Great movie, Dad!” she said and plopped back down on the couch to finish off the popcorn and Milk Duds.
“I knew you’d like it,” he said, trying to scoot the manuscript subtly to the other side of himself. He checked his watch. “It’s late, big girl. You probably should get to bed.”
She nodded. “I know. But remember your promise?”
“Promise?”
“Yeah. You promised me you’d go to church with us in the morning.”
Jonathan had almost forgotten. He tried to contain the huge sigh that attempted to escape. “Sure, honey. I’ll go.”
Meg smiled approvingly, grabbed one last handful of goodies, and sprang upstairs.
“Meg?”
“Yeah?” she called from the top.
“What time?” There was silence. “For church? What time do you leave?”
“Fifteen till ten, Daddy.”
“Thanks. See you in the morning.”
Jonathan released the sigh that had been building and sank back into the couch, crushing part of the manuscript underneath him.
------
Jonathan tossed and turned all night and awoke much earlier than needed the next morning. To his surprise, Kathy was already up, too. He could hear her downstairs in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what time she got up on Sunday mornings. He was either asleep or working at the office when they would leave for church.
His body seemed unusually heavy as he rolled it out of bed. He guessed Kathy hadn’t slept well either, a sign that they at least still cared enough to lose sleep over their heated, unresolved fights.
He had over an hour before he needed to get ready for church. He stretched his body, brushed his teeth, splashed some water on his face, and decided to read a few more pages of Clyde’s manuscript. If he wasn’t going to go to the office this morning, at least he could get a little work done before church.
He settled into the large upholstered chair in the corner of the bedroom, scooted the ottoman underneath his feet, and began to read.
“We got 122 men on this death row,” the guard with a southern drawl said. “Only three are scheduled for execution in the next two months. Jerome’s one of them.” The guard glanced down at me. “I got to wonder what it’s like to know the exact moment you’re gonna die. Ever think about that?”
A thick sheet of Plexiglas separated me from where the prisoner would sit. Beside me a young Mexican woman cried to a man on the other side I assumed was her husband. Before I could do much else, Jerome Mitchner was seated in front of me, his large head holding a boyishly curious look. The guard next to me gave us our privacy.
“Who are you?”
“Keaton Spade,” I replied steadily.
“I don’t feel like talkin’ to no one,” Jerome said heavily. “Why you here? You look like some cop or somethin’. I couldn’t do nothin’ else from death row, could I? Get in trouble? Gonna arrest me, are ya? Can’t be sentenced to death twice, can ya?”
“I’m from the FBI.” I opened my briefcase and pulled out a pad and pen. “I want to talk to you about your case.”
“What about it?” Jerome said defiantly. “I killed a man. I gonna die for it. What’s there to talk about?”
“Did you kill that man?”
Jerome was silent.
“You confessed to it,” I said after he didn’t reply. “You said you killed him. Why did you say that?”
“You with the FBI, you say?” Jerome asked. I could tell by the unsteadiness of his voice that Jerome was very much caught off guard. “What you want? You tell me why you here, why you askin’ these questions.”
“You had no criminal record before this crime. But you certainly had the motive to kill the guy. And witnesses say you said several times you were going to kill Roberts. It’s a simple question. Did you kill Manuel Roberts or not?”
I heard Jerome shuffle his feet against the cement, a sign he was agitated and nervous. “I want my lawyer. I gotta right to see my lawyer.”
I cut him off quickly. “You can talk to your lawyer all you want, Mr. Mitchner. But I’m asking you this once. What harm is there in asking you this simple question? I’m two minutes from walking out that door. You either answer the question now or you don’t. That’ll be the end of it.”
Jerome’s heavy brow formed a scowl. He took in a deep breath and his fingers fiddled around methodically for a phantom cigarette. “I didn’t kill Manuel.” There was a long pause between us, and then Jerome kept talking. “It was a setup.”
“A setup? Who?”
Jerome was talking fast and nervously, rambling. “I don’t know, man. I mean, I got some enemies. Sure. Everybody does, don’t they—”
“You confessed.”
“I-I-I . . . they brainwashed me. I mean, they were in my face, you know? Tellin’ me they had the evidence! Tellin’ me it’d be worse if I didn’t confess! What’s worse than death row?”
“You didn’t kill him?”
“Nah, man, I didn’t kill Manuel. I didn’t kill him. I’m an innocent man.” Jerome moved his face close to the glass. “You gonna get me off death row? Clear my name, man?”
“I’ll be back,” I said and snapped my briefcase shut.
“Whooo-hoooo!” I heard Jerome squeal as I left the room. “You crazies hear that? Hear what that man just said? There’s somethin’ goin’ on! I don’t know what! But there’s somethin’ goin’ on!”
The door opened to their bedroom, and a flushed, just awakened face peeked around it.
“You’re up, Daddy!”
“Of course. Did you think I would miss this? We had a deal.”
“You better get dressed!” Meg said and shut the door.
Jonathan glanced down at his watch. It wasn’t quite time, but it was a good place to stop in Clyde’s book. He picked out a nice dark suit from his closet, shaved, got dressed, and headed downstairs.
A heavy aroma of homemade waffles filled the kitchen, and Jonathan laughed as even the birds on the windowsill seemed to greet him with a morning song. Sophie was on the floor playing with some pots and pans.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. Kathy turned around and froze for a moment. She then looked him up and down.
“A suit?” she asked in a not-so-friendly tone.
Jonathan looked down at himself. “I didn’t know. I mean, I thought I’d try to look nice.”
Kathy whirled back around and started distributing butter and syrup on the waffles. “A little dressed up just to be doing some weekend work at the office, aren’t you, Jonathan?” she said with what he was sure was a sneer on her face.
Jonathan moved forward a bit. “I’m not going to the office. I’m . . . going to church with you.”
Kathy turned back around, still holding the butter and the syrup. “You are?”
He smiled. “Yes. Is that okay?”
She softened immediately and set down the butter and syrup. “Really?”
He picked Sophie up off the floor and kissed her on the cheek. “Really. Meg and I had a deal.”
“Jonathan, I can’t believe . . . I mean, I just assumed you were going to the office—”
Her gentle words and the tender moment were abruptly cut short with the shrill ringing of the telephone.
“I’ll get it,” Jonathan said. Kathy just stared wide-eyed at it and then looked back at Jonathan. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll get it. Go fix the waffles.”
He watched as Kathy slowly turned around, and then he answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Jonny, it’s Clyde.”
“Good morning, Clyde! How are—”
“Listen. Meet me at your office in ten minutes.”
Jonathan’s heart sank suddenly. Clyde sounded panicked, yet all he could do was watch Kathy and remember how soft her words had been just minutes before, how her face had brightened when he told her he was going to church with them.
“Clyde, what’s the—”
“Jonny, ten minutes.”
He watched as Kathy walked two plates to the kitchen table and arranged the napkins and silverware with a delight that could only come from a mother and wife.
“Can’t this wait?”
“Jonny, it’s urgent. Hurry.”
chapter 10
Clyde was waiting in front of the office building, leaning up against the brick wall. Before he was even able to get out of his car, Jonathan immediately noticed the manila envelope tucked under his arm. His heart raced with apprehension and paranoia. He looked around the near-empty parking lot for anyone suspicious. But the truth of the matter was that the only person in his view was Clyde.
