you?”
“I’m Matt Royal, Ms. Turner. I’m interested in a woman who used to work here. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time.”
“Certainly. Come on back. I’m not sure how much help I can be, given confidentiality restraints. Who are you interested in?”
We went through the door behind the receptionist and down a corridor with offices on either side. We turned into the fourth office, which was furnished with a metal desk like the one in front, and a couple of old side chairs.
“Connie Sanborne,” I said.
“Forgive the offices, Mr. Royal. We operate on a tight budget and take a lot of government cast-offs for our furniture. May I ask what your interest in Connie Sanborne is?”
“Did you know her?”
“I’ve been here since the beginning, Mr. Royal, more than forty years. I know everyone who ever worked here.”
I gave her one of my cards, one of the real ones that identified me as Matthew Royal, Attorney at Law, Longboat Key, Florida. “I’m looking into the murder of a woman whose name was Connie Sanborne, and I have been told that she worked here some years ago.”
“Yes, Connie worked here after she graduated from Northwestern. But she married a boy from U of C and moved to Iowa, I think. But I don’t understand. Her husband wrote me a note a few years back saying that Connie had died of breast cancer.”
“I just left her husband in Des Moines. I don’t think I’m dealing with the same Connie Sanborne, but the murdered woman claimed to have graduated from Northwestern the same year that your Connie did. Yet, the alumni office only has a record of one Connie Sanborne.”
“What is your interest in this, Mr. Royal, if I may ask?”
“I’m representing the man who is accused of killing Connie.”
I pulled out the picture of Connie taken by my pool, and handed it to Ms. Turner. “Is that Connie Sanborne?”
“Oh, no. This doesn’t look anything like Connie.”
“Do you recognize this woman?”
“No. She doesn’t look familiar.”
“Does the name Vivian Pickens mean anything to you?”
“Why, yes. She was one of our clients.”
She looked at the picture again, studying it intently.
“If you imagine long black hair on the woman in the picture...”
“Of course,” she interrupted. “This is Vivian. Was she murdered?”
“The woman in that picture was murdered in Longboat Key about six weeks ago. She used the name Connie Sanborne, though. I’d never heard Vivian’s name until yesterday. You said she was one of your clients. What does that mean? It was my understanding that she worked here.”
“Mr. Royal, what I’m about to tell you is mostly a matter of public record, and some of it is gossip. But I guess it can’t hurt Vivian now.”
She told me this story. Vivian Pickens was from somewhere down south. She had come to Chicago when she was sixteen, running from an abusive parent. She waitressed for a while in coffee shops and fast food joints, and began to experiment with drugs. Her salary and meager tips could not keep pace with the drug bills, and one night she had sex with a dealer for a vial of crack. It was easy. She tried this a few more times, and then started sleeping with men for money to feed her growing habit. Within two years of coming to Chicago she was working as a call girl in a ring run by a pimp known as Golden Joe. She sold her body and provided her johns with cocaine. When she was twenty-five, she was arrested and charged with prostitution and the sale of cocaine. She was tried, convicted and sentenced to eight years in prison. She had spent four years at the Illinois women’s prison and was released to the Grant Settlement House.
It was at Grant that Vivian had met Connie, who was the social worker assigned to her. Vivian was an innately intelligent woman and had taken some business and secretarial courses while in prison. She had used those skills at Grant and became sort of an assistant business manager for the foundation.
“I’m Matt Royal, Ms. Turner. I’m interested in a woman who used to work here. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time.”
“Certainly. Come on back. I’m not sure how much help I can be, given confidentiality restraints. Who are you interested in?”
We went through the door behind the receptionist and down a corridor with offices on either side. We turned into the fourth office, which was furnished with a metal desk like the one in front, and a couple of old side chairs.
“Connie Sanborne,” I said.
“Forgive the offices, Mr. Royal. We operate on a tight budget and take a lot of government cast-offs for our furniture. May I ask what your interest in Connie Sanborne is?”
“Did you know her?”
“I’ve been here since the beginning, Mr. Royal, more than forty years. I know everyone who ever worked here.”
I gave her one of my cards, one of the real ones that identified me as Matthew Royal, Attorney at Law, Longboat Key, Florida. “I’m looking into the murder of a woman whose name was Connie Sanborne, and I have been told that she worked here some years ago.”
“Yes, Connie worked here after she graduated from Northwestern. But she married a boy from U of C and moved to Iowa, I think. But I don’t understand. Her husband wrote me a note a few years back saying that Connie had died of breast cancer.”
“I just left her husband in Des Moines. I don’t think I’m dealing with the same Connie Sanborne, but the murdered woman claimed to have graduated from Northwestern the same year that your Connie did. Yet, the alumni office only has a record of one Connie Sanborne.”
“What is your interest in this, Mr. Royal, if I may ask?”
“I’m representing the man who is accused of killing Connie.”
I pulled out the picture of Connie taken by my pool, and handed it to Ms. Turner. “Is that Connie Sanborne?”
“Oh, no. This doesn’t look anything like Connie.”
“Do you recognize this woman?”
“No. She doesn’t look familiar.”
“Does the name Vivian Pickens mean anything to you?”
“Why, yes. She was one of our clients.”
She looked at the picture again, studying it intently.
“If you imagine long black hair on the woman in the picture...”
“Of course,” she interrupted. “This is Vivian. Was she murdered?”
“The woman in that picture was murdered in Longboat Key about six weeks ago. She used the name Connie Sanborne, though. I’d never heard Vivian’s name until yesterday. You said she was one of your clients. What does that mean? It was my understanding that she worked here.”
“Mr. Royal, what I’m about to tell you is mostly a matter of public record, and some of it is gossip. But I guess it can’t hurt Vivian now.”
She told me this story. Vivian Pickens was from somewhere down south. She had come to Chicago when she was sixteen, running from an abusive parent. She waitressed for a while in coffee shops and fast food joints, and began to experiment with drugs. Her salary and meager tips could not keep pace with the drug bills, and one night she had sex with a dealer for a vial of crack. It was easy. She tried this a few more times, and then started sleeping with men for money to feed her growing habit. Within two years of coming to Chicago she was working as a call girl in a ring run by a pimp known as Golden Joe. She sold her body and provided her johns with cocaine. When she was twenty-five, she was arrested and charged with prostitution and the sale of cocaine. She was tried, convicted and sentenced to eight years in prison. She had spent four years at the Illinois women’s prison and was released to the Grant Settlement House.
It was at Grant that Vivian had met Connie, who was the social worker assigned to her. Vivian was an innately intelligent woman and had taken some business and secretarial courses while in prison. She had used those skills at Grant and became sort of an assistant business manager for the foundation.
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