that Armando Gutierrez was involved in the murder of Eldrick Brown and that he’s part of a group that for years has traveled around the country targeting people and organizations like yours. With your high profile and the position SayNo is gaining on the national stage, I think it’s entirely possible he’s targeting you next.”
AnnaLynn Conté was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I believe what you’re saying, Josh, and I’m not questioning your sincerity. But we’ve had break-ins and run-ins with loonies before and none of them have stopped us from doing our jobs. This Gutierrez and whoever he works for won’t either. So while I appreciate your concern, I don’t see there’s much we can do except deal with the situation when and if it arises. And, please, stop calling me ‘Ms. Conté.’ It makes me feel a hundred years old.”
I could appreciate that. I never felt much like a “Mister” either.
“Okay, AnnaLynn. Look, I’m not suggesting you fold up your tent and go home. All I’m saying is take some reasonable precautions. Back up your data somewhere off-site where a thug like Gutierrez can’t get to. Ramp up security at your office. Get something for your personal protection and be aware of your surroundings. These people are serious, and you’ve got to take them seriously.”
“Alright, already, Josh.” She was getting impatient now. “I’ll take your advice. I promise. I’ve still got my dad’s old deer rifle. I used to go hunting with him every year until I turned eighteen and became a vegetarian.” She chuckled at the memory. “That didn’t last long. I’ve never been able to resist a thick, juicy steak.”
That seemed to break the ice.
“Me neither,” I said. “Tell you what, next time I’m in town I’ll take you out for one. Anyplace you like. And a bottle of Bordeaux. Deal?”
“Deal. Now I really do have to go, Josh. Thanks for the warning.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. And when I hung up, I wondered why I really did.
Chapter 9
M y flight to Akron was only four hours late, the usual airline comedy of errors, though not especially funny. I called Julie a little after 9 p.m. to reschedule for tomorrow but she insisted I come over now. She sounded hyper and jittery, a combination of too much coffee and nervous energy. I was feeling hyper and jittery myself; three slugs of
café cubano
while killing time at the Miami airport will do that to you.
I picked up my rental car and thanks to cold but clear weather and an utter disregard of posted speed limits made it to Julie’s house in under an hour. Her neighborhood seemed deserted. Half the streetlamps were out. On some blocks almost all the houses were dark; only a few spilled dim light through tightly drawn curtains.
Julie met me at the door wearing jeans and a loose sweater, her blondish hair tied in a ponytail. She was small and trim and what women would describe as “cute,” though there were bags under her eyes you could have carried groceries in and her nails were split and bitten. She looked to have aged well past her thirty-five years in the weeks since the YouTube video of her home’s defense went viral and she joined the ranks of instant celebrities.
We made awkward introductions and she poured two cups of coffee and set out a plate of Christmas cookies while I unpacked my pocket video camera and set it on a miniature tripod. I wasn’t much of a shooter but the video team at Public Interest would take my raw footage, edit it, mix in complementary footage, tweak the sound and picture, and come up with two, five and twelve-minute reports for our clients and for our own website too. We’d also post the entire unedited interview so we couldn’t be accused of manipulating the facts.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Josh,” Julie said, “I just have to check on Megan.”
I sipped my coffee and eyed the cookies hungrily. They looked like
AnnaLynn Conté was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I believe what you’re saying, Josh, and I’m not questioning your sincerity. But we’ve had break-ins and run-ins with loonies before and none of them have stopped us from doing our jobs. This Gutierrez and whoever he works for won’t either. So while I appreciate your concern, I don’t see there’s much we can do except deal with the situation when and if it arises. And, please, stop calling me ‘Ms. Conté.’ It makes me feel a hundred years old.”
I could appreciate that. I never felt much like a “Mister” either.
“Okay, AnnaLynn. Look, I’m not suggesting you fold up your tent and go home. All I’m saying is take some reasonable precautions. Back up your data somewhere off-site where a thug like Gutierrez can’t get to. Ramp up security at your office. Get something for your personal protection and be aware of your surroundings. These people are serious, and you’ve got to take them seriously.”
“Alright, already, Josh.” She was getting impatient now. “I’ll take your advice. I promise. I’ve still got my dad’s old deer rifle. I used to go hunting with him every year until I turned eighteen and became a vegetarian.” She chuckled at the memory. “That didn’t last long. I’ve never been able to resist a thick, juicy steak.”
That seemed to break the ice.
“Me neither,” I said. “Tell you what, next time I’m in town I’ll take you out for one. Anyplace you like. And a bottle of Bordeaux. Deal?”
“Deal. Now I really do have to go, Josh. Thanks for the warning.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. And when I hung up, I wondered why I really did.
Chapter 9
M y flight to Akron was only four hours late, the usual airline comedy of errors, though not especially funny. I called Julie a little after 9 p.m. to reschedule for tomorrow but she insisted I come over now. She sounded hyper and jittery, a combination of too much coffee and nervous energy. I was feeling hyper and jittery myself; three slugs of
café cubano
while killing time at the Miami airport will do that to you.
I picked up my rental car and thanks to cold but clear weather and an utter disregard of posted speed limits made it to Julie’s house in under an hour. Her neighborhood seemed deserted. Half the streetlamps were out. On some blocks almost all the houses were dark; only a few spilled dim light through tightly drawn curtains.
Julie met me at the door wearing jeans and a loose sweater, her blondish hair tied in a ponytail. She was small and trim and what women would describe as “cute,” though there were bags under her eyes you could have carried groceries in and her nails were split and bitten. She looked to have aged well past her thirty-five years in the weeks since the YouTube video of her home’s defense went viral and she joined the ranks of instant celebrities.
We made awkward introductions and she poured two cups of coffee and set out a plate of Christmas cookies while I unpacked my pocket video camera and set it on a miniature tripod. I wasn’t much of a shooter but the video team at Public Interest would take my raw footage, edit it, mix in complementary footage, tweak the sound and picture, and come up with two, five and twelve-minute reports for our clients and for our own website too. We’d also post the entire unedited interview so we couldn’t be accused of manipulating the facts.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Josh,” Julie said, “I just have to check on Megan.”
I sipped my coffee and eyed the cookies hungrily. They looked like
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