The house where Harry Finegold lived was built in the 1930’s during the great depression. It had been his father’s house, a grand looking home where Harry grew up; and after his parents passed on it became Harry’s house. It looked like a cross between a Southern plantation and the White House. A long wooden front porch ran the length of the house on either side of the wide double-doors, framed by two tall white pillars that extended to the bottom of the second story. The entire wooden façade was painted ivory, and the traditional square-shaped windows were framed by turquoise slatted shutters. On either side of the long stone walkway leading to the front door were two halves of a large green manicured lawn, dotted with oak trees. The house was situated in mid-town, on a quiet tree-lined street, in the area known as the ‘fabulous forties’, where many of the homes commanded prices in excess of a million dollars. It was a huge house for Harry and his wife Charlotte. They had no children, but frequently entertained and were well-respected in the community for their charitable tax-deductable contributions and appearances at important public events.

Jan parked her car in front of the huge imposing house and walked quickly up to Harry’s front door. Moments after she rang the bell the door opened and Charlotte Finegold appeared. A well groomed woman in her mid sixties, Charlotte had been to the salon earlier in the day; her short, thin silver hair had been colored strawberry blond. She wore contemporary rimless glasses that rested on a rather long, thin nose which divided a pair of powdered, well-rounded cheeks. She was dressed for an event, in a tasteful two-piece brown suede suit, honey-colored nylons, and a pair of light brown flats. A long pearl necklace lay draped around her neck. This woman reeks of money, thought Jan, as Charlotte’s frosty smile greeted her.

“Hello Charlotte.” Jan returned the frosty smile. She knew that Charlotte didn’t much like her; for years she thought Harry had a ‘thing’ for her.

“Janet, what brings you here?” There was little curiosity in the woman’s voice.

“Is Harry home?”

Charlotte nodded, turned her head and shouted, “Harry, someone’s here to see you.”

A few moments later Harry appeared, wearing a white yarmulke on his balding head. He was dressed in a white suit, a blue shirt, and a bright red tie. As he came to the door he was putting a brown loafer on his left foot.

“Jan?” His voice was deep, uninviting. Harry was not pleased to see her.

Jan offered a sweeter than usual smile. “Harry, I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

He glanced at Charlotte. “I’ll get our coats,” she said, and shuffled away.

“I’d invite you in,” said Harry, “but we’re getting ready to leave. We have a fund raiser at the synagogue this evening.”

Jan glanced at the yarmulke on Harry’s head. “That yarmulke suits you better than the toupee.”

“What’s going on, Jan. I left you a message.”

“I heard your message Harry. I didn’t care for it. But that’s not why I’m here.”

Harry stepped outside and closed the door. “Okay, tell me.”

Jan put excitement in her voice. “I found a manuscript. It sounds hot, really hot. It could be the blockbuster you’re looking for.”

Harry looked annoyed. “That’s good Jan, but you didn’t have to come to my house to tell me this. It could have waited.”

“You wanted something big, and this could be it. Why wait?”

“Who’s the author?”

“Her name’s Louise. I met her at Starbuck’s by accident. She was working on the manuscript over a latte and we started talking. I was curious, so she showed me the first three chapters. It reads like a classic Harry, a terrific combination of mystery, suspense and romance. Some of the narrative is set right here in Sacramento. Great characters, good plotting.”

Harry relaxed a little. “Sounds interesting. Does she have an ending for it?”

Jan thought for a moment. “No, the ending hasn’t been decided yet.”

“Does she have an agent?”

“No, but we can negotiate with her.”

“All right, bring me the first three chapters and a synopsis next week.”

Harry turned to go back in the house. “Wait a second,” she said, stopping him in his tracks.

“I’ll bring this author on board on one condition. If this makes the bestseller list, you cancel Peter’s contract.”

Harry yanked the yarmulke off his head. “Jan, I’m running the business. I make the rules and the conditions. If you want to compete with Peter go right ahead. Competition is always a healthy thing in business. But I won’t cancel a contract based on that.”

Jan relented. “All right, I’ll have those chapters on your desk on Monday.”

“We’re closed until Thursday Jan. Some people are enjoying the holidays.”

“Enjoy your fund-raiser, Harry.” She started to walk away.

“By the way, that manuscript is fiction, isn’t it?”

Jan continued walking toward her car. “Pure fiction Harry…pure fiction.”

Half an hour later Jan sat at the desk in her apartment searching for Carter’s “free” public arrest records on her laptop. The web site required first name, last name, city and state. Jan quickly typed in Louis Carter, Sacramento, California. A list appeared; she selected the first entry: Louis H. Carter. Addresses: Sacramento, Folsom, San Francisco. Jan clicked on his name; another screen appeared. Jan frowned – it cost $39.95 to access the records.

“Cheapskates,” she muttered, as she went to the pay screen and entered her banking information. Moments later the records appeared. Jan scrolled through the information until she saw something she didn’t like. Her eyes narrowed. “Son-of-a-bitch…Carter!”

Jan jumped up, grabbed her purse and ran out of the apartment.

Carter didn’t see her coming; she stood behind the onlookers on the sidewalk until he finished playing. When the spectators left she walked over to Carter and poked her finger at his chest. “You lied to me Carter.” Her voice was calm, and deadly serious.

He lowered his clarinet and looked at her. “Lied to you how?” he said, sounding sincere.

“You gave me this big sob story about being arrested and jailed for a rape that you didn’t commit.”

“That part’s true…I didn’t commit rape.”

“According to the police records you committed armed robbery.”

Carter hesitated to reply. “All right…you caught me. You want your bail money back? I’ll let ‘em lock me up.”

“That’s what I should do. God, what a sucker I am. I paid twenty thousand for you to B.S. me, and I only paid thirty nine ninety five for the truth.”

Carter started to pack up his clarinet as they continued talking. “You could have asked those cops about my record, but you didn’t. Why? Because it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered to you is that they arrested me for something that I didn’t do. When you’ve been in jail you’re marked…you’re marked for life. You aren’t ever looked at or thought about in the same way after you’ve been in jail.

If I told you the truth about my record – that I had actually committed a crime – you would have looked at me like you’re lookin’ at me right now. You would have been thinkin’ about me like you’re thinkin’ about me right now. That is the truth lady…the God’s honest truth.”

Carter finished packing away his clarinet. He put the few donation dollars in his pocket and started to walk away from her.

“Wait a second!” she shouted. He stopped and turned to look at her. “The public record didn’t tell me who you robbed, or why.”

“That night club owner…Mister Corelli. I went into his office after the club closed, pointed a gun at this head, and told him to open the safe. I told him to give me twenty two hundred dollars…one week’s pay for me and my band. That was money he refused to pay me after he found out that Evelyn and I had an affair. I loved her and she loved me. When he found out he fired me and the band, told me to leave town the next day, and he refused to pay me. When I threatened to shoot him he gave me the money and I ran off. But the cops caught me at my hotel and arrested me.”

“And Evelyn?”

“I never saw her again. I hope she had a good life…a better life than me.” Carter turned around and walked away.

That night, Jan showered away the day, put on a blue bathrobe, and walked out to her living room. She picked up Eleanor from the sofa, walked over to her desk, sat down, and looked at the blank laptop monitor for a full thirty seconds. Then she turned on the computer, brought up the word processor, and on the blank white page she typed Chapter One: ‘When she was twenty one she knew what she wanted her life to be, and when she turned thirty one she knew it could never be – until one day, when the scarecrow came to town.’

“Not bad,” Jan said to herself, as she paused to re-read the line. “What do you think Eleanor?” The cat purred softly, and Jan continued typing.

Sometime later that evening she came to the end of Chapter Two but couldn’t continue. She didn’t know what would happen in Chapter Three. Eleanor was asleep on the sofa. “Chapter Three starts tomorrow,” she said, looking over at the cat. Jan turned off the laptop, picked up Eleanor, and went to her bedroom.

In the middle of the night Jan woke up. A river of sweat ran down her cheeks. She heard a girl crying, and then came the pounding on the door. Jan covered her ears but she couldn’t stop the deafening noise. Again she ran through the apartment to the front door, wearing only a nightgown. But when she reached the door the girl stopped crying…and the pounding ceased. Jan didn’t open the door; instead she went to the kitchen sink, tossed cold water on her face, then walked back to her bedroom, where Eleanor lay sleeping on the bed beside her. For Doctor Janet Lehman it would be another long night.