Why I Never Lie
March 2004
I’m an honest person. But there was a time in my life, when I was young and eager to impress, that I sometimes stretched the truth. Nothing big, just a little exaggeration here, a little white lie there. Okay, even an occasional whopper. But “What could be the harm?” I figured. And then I found out by nearly getting myself whacked. Let me explain.
Famous Estates Illustrated was a book, actually a series of books, used by estate planners and attorneys to sell their services. It was a book about famous (and not so famous) very rich dead people. A financial planner would sit with his wealthy client, open the book to, say, Louis Armstrong and there, on two opposing pages, would be a big photo of Satchmo, a brief biographical sketch of about 350 words, a summary of the terms of his last will and testament and a breakdown of all his estate’s assets, probate settlement costs and the bottom line—how much dough his family got. ‘See there, Mr. Jones, Armstrong’s assets were about the same as yours and look…see there, the estate was raped by state and federal taxes. Now, we can do a lot, lot better than that.’
Not exactly great literature, but the year was 1971, I was fresh out of college, and I had a degree in English that, according to my parents, was real close to no degree at all. And, of course, my sole ambition in life was to write the great American novel. Making a living writing anything, even something as grimly dry as Famous Estates Illustrated, was light years better than checking groceries at Albertsons. So when I was offered some freelance work—traveling around the country researching probate files and microfiching obits at local libraries and then returning home to write up the profiles–I concocted a scheme. The owner of Famous Estates paid precious little for the research and writing, but he was more than generous when it came to paying expenses, which would include air travel from one city to the next and all lodging, food and incidental expenses. But I’d hitchhike and only fly the long hauls, stay in flea-bitten motels instead of nice hotels and eat lots and lots of Big Macs. With the money I’d save in expenses, along with what I’d make researching and writing, I could afford to write biographies of famous dead people half the time and the great American novel the other half of the time. I had a plan.
To get the hang of it, I did a local trip first and drove my ’56 VW Bug to San Jose, San Francisco, Oakland, Sacramento and then down to L.A. On each trip I’d visit the probate court first, collect information on twenty famous dead people (Jack, the owner, furnished me with a hit list) and then go to the local library and photocopy obituaries. It took me a little over four weeks to knock out seventy-five biographies, seventy-five “Will Highlights” and seventy-five “Probate Abstracts”. (This was about a week longer than I’d planned, but I figured the more I did, the faster I would get—which is what happened.) Then I spent two weeks working on my novel (which amounted mostly of sitting in front of my IBM Selectric typewriter wondering what in God’s name I was going to write about. (Thirty years later and I still haven’t figured that one out.)
My first real research trip, the trip on which I learned never to make up stories, was to the east. I flew to Boston, then hitch-hiked to Providence, took the bus to New York City, then hitched a ride to Philadelphia and finally to Lancaster, PA. From there I’d head home via a Pam Am flight from JFK back in New York. Before flying off to Boston I’d never been out of California except a few times to Tahoe and once to TJ. I was twenty-two, traveling alone, actually a freelance writer and I was tasting life for the first time. It was one of the truly great times of my life. There were huge adventures, life-changing experiences, crazy, crazy people in each of these cities…the two or three days spent in each town could be an entire story by itself. But I’ll tell this one.
I’d been on the road just short of two weeks when I was dropped off at Exit 231 on Interstate 78 just outside of Lancaster; Amish country, but none were in sight. It was a warm summer afternoon, I was on the home stretch and I was happy as a clam. I pulled my back pack on, adjusted the strap, and I walked the half-mile into town. I’d already decided that I would stay in a decent hotel my last two nights on the road and, coming into Lancaster’s main street, I spotted a four story Holiday Inn towering over the rest of the buildings. It was a clean, nice little town, nothing like the big cities I’d just come from, and the street was bustling with activity. As I approached the hotel, I could see a knot of people gathered on the sidewalk in front. There was a white news van with a TV broadcast antenna on top—WLTV—ALL THE NEWS YOU NEED TO KNOW.
“Sir, sir, what do YOU think of the news?” A young woman holding a microphone and wearing a miniskirt had grabbed my shoulder and turned me toward the camera. I was on TV.
“What news?” I asked.
“Spiro Agnew, the Vice President of the United States, has just resigned from office.”
I let out a yelp and danced a little jig.
“Can we assume,” the reporter asked, “that you welcome this news?”
“Welcome? WELCOME? Are you kidding, this is a great day for the U.S. A GREAT DAY.” I yelped again.
“And why is that?”
“Because Spiro Agnew is a crook, a money-grubbing, dishonest politician of a crook who should never have been elected in the first place. And because his resignation brings us one step closer to the big guy who’ll be taking a tumble next.”
“President Nixon?”
“Oh yes indeed, ma’am, President Richard M. Nixon. Millhouse Nixon. Yes, yes, yes.” I was ecstatic. I danced another jig.
“And sir, let me ask, what you do?”
“Do?” I asked.
“I mean, for a living? Are you just passing through?” She was eyeing my backpack.
“Oh, yes, passing through. I’m a freelance writer. Here in Lancaster doing some research. For a book.” Man it felt good to say that.
“Oh, really, what sort of book?” The camera was still rolling.
“Well, ah….” And this, dear readers, is the point at which you meet the real me in 1971. The superficial, eager to impress twenty-two year old with oh so much to learn.
“Well….it’s ah, it’s sort of an EXPOSE’ ”, I said, instantly regretting that I’d lied. Actually, I regretted it in less than an instant. A nano-instant.
“Really,” the mini skirted reporter exclaimed stepping closer. “And what will you be exposing in our fair city?” I could smell her perfume now.
“You know…..the usual. Corruption, graft, ah, general scandal type stuff. Can’t really say more than that.” My voice trailed off and I just stared blankly at the reporter. The next moment she was interviewing someone else. Mine had been about thirty seconds of fame, not fifteen minutes.
My room at the Holiday Inn wasn’t a room at all. It was a palace. My beds, two of them, were the size of regulation snooker tables, there was a television that actually worked, with a remote control that worked and the TV was color. And best of all, I had my own personal, completely unshared, clean bathroom. After nearly two weeks of bare light bulbs, cracked plaster, floral-patterned linoleum floors and the unrelenting fear of the dreaded bed bug, I was back among the living. I showered, put on decent clothes and went down to the hotel bar.
“Scotch rocks,” I told the bartender, loving the way that sounded. Scotch rocks. The Holiday Inn lounge was full, it was the end of the workday and apparently this was one of the downtown after-work hangouts. A minute later I had my drink and was just taking my first sip when the woman sitting on the bar stool to my right nudged me.
“Hey,” she said, “isn’t that you?” She pointed at one of the ceiling-mounted TV’s. I was dancing my jig of joy there on the sidewalk, my huge, bright orange backpack heaving up and down on my back.
“And what’s that on your back?” she asked.
I told the woman my story, truthfully, briefly and with no embellishments. The bartender listened in, and so did the guy on my left.
“So what’s this book about that you’re writing? What’s all this scandal stuff about anyway?” asked Johnny, who was pouring me a drink, this one on the house. I could see others in the lounge were listening now and I suddenly had a sinking feeling in my gut.
“Oh, it’s just some stupid book, boring, really…legal, financial stuff. Nothing anybody would wanna read. It’s just…..ah….some stupid, boring book. A book about probate law. Booooor-ring.” I wasn’t trying to hide anything, it’s just that it really was a stupid, boring book and trying to explain Famous Estates Illustrated to a bunch of half-lit strangers in a bar seemed like a stupid, boring thing to do. Looking back, I believe now without reservation that there was nothing I could have said at that moment that would have been greater proof that I was in Lancaster Pennsylvania to write a simmering, explosive exposé. A piece designed specifically to point fingers, to get someone in trouble.
When I emerged from my hotel room the next morning, I was transformed. I’d arrived in town in dirty jeans and tennis shoes and an orange backpack. As I walked businessman-like down Main Street, Lancaster PA, I was in a pin-stripped shirt, madras tie and corduroy sport coat. And I was carrying a brief case, not wearing a backpack. Half way to the county courthouse I was stopped by a Lancaster Observer roving reporter who wanted to know what I thought about Agnew’s resignation. No, it’s true. I swear, it’s true. I told him what I thought, briefly (no dancing this time). He took a head shot with his camera. The young newspaper reporter, about my age, asked me my occupation. I told him free lance writer….that was it, nothing more.
“Oh, right, the “Expose’ Guy”. Caught you on KLTV last night. Hey, man, how about that Darlene Love. Is she one righteous chick or what?” He was speaking of the perfumed reporter, of course. I was beginning to feel cursed.
At exactly 8:00 a.m. I was at the steps of the courthouse when the guard opened the doors and, by 8:45, I was pouring through files and feeling better now that I was back in the grind. The clerk allowed me to take three packets at a time (each containing every single scrap of paper concerning the probate of one of my subjects, one of my famous dead people), and when I was finished with them, she had the next batch waiting for me. I was making good time. If this kept up, I thought, I could finish by noon tomorrow and head back to New York early. I decided I’d take the train instead of hitchhike.
But when I went back for my third bundle of files, the old woman behind the counter only had two. “Where’s Donavan?” I asked, “Daniel Donavan, where’s his file?” “Oh,” she chuckled and rolled her eyes, “you’ll need to come with me for the Donavan file. This way.” I followed the old clerk down a hallway, up one flight of stairs and into a room about the size of a broom closet. “This,” she said, pointing at scores of three inch thick files bound in manila covers with two-hole metal binders that were stacked neatly on metal shelves that reached floor-to-ceiling on three of the four walls, “is Mr. Donavan’s probate file.” The woman turned to leave but then, as an afterthought, said over her shoulder, “We close at five.”
I’d experienced this a few times on my research trips…..probates that involved such vast wealth and were embroiled in such contention and legal turmoil that they could go on for years. Even decades. And the longer the probate case was open, the more paper was generated. (The classic was a case involving an Atherton, CA pretzel heiress who left three hundred and twenty million dollars for the care and feeding of “squirrels and other small pastoral creatures. That one’s probably still in the courts.) Finding the few tidbits of information I needed to write my profile would be like finding a needle in a haystack. I handled this in Boston, and again in Manhattan, by simply skipping the giant files and going down further on Jack’s hit list. But I couldn’t do that this time. Daniel Donavan, city father, land developer, millionaire fifty times over, was the main reason I’d come to Lancaster. Jack wanted Donavan’s profile in Famous Estates Illustrated and I couldn’t go home without it.
By closing time I’d found what I needed in the Daniel Donavan probate file, but I still had well over half my subjects left to research. I’d blown the entire afternoon on one file and, instead of leaving early the next day, I might not get to leave at all. The next day was Friday, which meant I’d have to spend the weekend there, which meant I’d have to find the Lancaster YMCA, if Lancaster had one. I went back to the Holiday Inn and headed straight for the lounge.
“Scotch rocks,” I said, feeling far, far less clam-like than I had the day before. When the bartender returned with the drink, I reached for my wallet.
“Here, let me get that.” A man, well dressed in a dark Italian suit and Italian shoes, had sat down on the stool next to me. He looked to be about forty. “Put it on my tab, Johnny,” he said to the bar keep. “Sure thing, Mr. Bella.”
“Hi, my name is Salvatore Bella,” he extended his right hand. “And you’re the young writer from California, here to write about the wild goings on in our little burg. Rick, isn’t it?” He had a firm grip.
“How do you know me,” I asked with surprise, but then instantly knew. We both laughed.
“TV….newspaper, you’re famous, kid. Hell, you should run for office. Like Spiro, eh?” He laughed again, and this time Johnny the bartender laughed with him and so did I.
Tony and I sipped our drinks and talked. He told me he was a real estate agent, had lived in Lancaster most of his life but had secretly always wanted to be a writer. A novelist.
“I admire you, Rick. A young kid, traveling the country, writing books. What a life, what an adventure. Tell me about what you write.”
“Well,” I said, warming up to the chance to talk about what really mattered to me, “mainly I’ve written short stories…had a few published. But right now I’m working on my first novel. I’m just at the outline stage at this point, but I’m beginning to see the characters. You know, they’re just now coming into focus.”
“So you’re here in Lancaster researching your novel? In probate court?”
“How’d you know I was at the courthouse today, “ I asked.
“Saw ya there, hunkered down over some papers. Seems like I spend half my life there filing papers. I’m a realtor, remember?” Tony ordered us another round.
“Oh yeah, right. No, I’m not working on my novel here in Lancaster. I’m doing a free lance job…..collecting material, then I’ll go home to write it all up.”
“Boy, now that sounds interesting. That’s the kinda thing I could get into.” Salvatore lit a cigarette. “So what kind of material are you collecting exactly, Rick?”
I told Sal, (I was calling him Sal now), about Famous Estates Illustrated, about how the book was used to sell estate planning, about how I traveled around doing research and then how I would write up the little profiles, even about how I used my expense money to support my creative writing. When I finished, Sal Bella stared directly into my eyes without saying a word. It was as if he was trying to look past them and into my mind. He just stared, his expression blank. It gave me a little chill.
“Well,” he said finally and stood up. “It was good talkin’ with ya, kid. Good luck with your book and all.” And he was gone.
That morning, at around 2:00 AM, there was a loud rap on my hotel room door. “Bell hop”, came a voice from the hall. I jumped out of bed, pulled on some trousers and opened the door. Sal Bella and two other men came into my room and closed the door.
“Get dressed, someone wants to talk to ya,” Tony said without the least bit of threat or menace in his voice.
“Hey, man, what’s this all about. It’s two a…….”
“Get dressed. Now! No talkin’” A little menace this time. I started dressing quickly and in silence. The two men with Salvatore were both much bigger than him, both well over six feet, both heavy set, both in dark suits and ties like Bella.
When I was dressed Sal motioned to my open brief case on the desk. “That your research stuff?” he ask. I nodded. “Grab it,” he said, “and let’s go.”
The four of us rode down the hotel elevator without a word spoken. It was a long, long ride. I could hear my heart pounding. I found myself hoping that someone would be in the lobby, but it was empty. Parked on the street in front of the Holiday Inn were two shiny black Lincoln Town Cars. Sal opened the door to the back seat of the car in front and told me to get in. When I hesitated, one of Sal’s two guys stepped toward me. I got in, sat down, the door slammed and the car screeched away.
“How do you do, Mr. Cornish, my name is Frank Moretti,” said the man sitting beside me in the back of the Town Car. It was dark and I couldn’t quite make him out, but I could see that he, too, was dressed in a dark suit.
“Hello,” I said. I’m pretty sure my voice cracked when I spoke.
“Mr. Cornish, let me get right to the point. I have a friend who works in the Hall of Records downtown and he told me that you spent the better part of the day going through the probate files of a fella by the name of Daniel Donavan. Why are you interested in Donavan and his estate, Mr. Cornish? And what is your affiliation?” It was a curse. I knew for sure now that it was a curse, and I’d brought it on myself.
“Affiliation?” I stammered.
“WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?” It was Sal in the front seat and menace was now definitely in the mix.
My mind raced. I didn’t want to bring Jack into this. Into WHAT, I asked myself. If I told him Jack’s name and these guys called him and…….
“AFFILITATION,” Morretti said. “NOW.”
“I work for Jack Hanley, a publisher back in California who produces a series of books called Famous Estates Illustrated.” My mouth was dry and I had trouble getting the words out.
“And what is Famous Estates Illustrated and what does Danny Donavan have to do with it?” asked the man in the shadows.
For the second time that day I explained the book, what my job was and why I was in Lancaster. “To be honest, sir, I don’t know why Jack included Donavan on the list of subjects to research. I’m assuming it’s because his estate was so large….about sixty-five million I think.”
“More like eighty. Sonny, I gotta tell you, I’m just not buying any of this crap you’re feeding me,” Frank said.
“Well, ah, let me show you the book. Can I show you the book?”
“What?” asked Frank.
“Famous Estates Illustrated. Can I get it out of my brief case? I carry one with me on research trips to show probate clerks I’m on the level. Can I show it to you? Please?”
“No, keep your hands out of the brief case,” said Sal, “keep them where I can see ’em.” “Give me the brief case.”
As I handed the briefcase over the seat to Sal, Morretti told his driver to pull over and stop. Sal and his boss got out of the car with the briefcase and walked back to the other Town Car, which had been following us. I glanced back and saw Morretti get in and the console light go on. “Eyes straight ahead,” barked the burly driver scowling in the rear view mirror. My head snapped back and I didn’t move a muscle.
It was fifteen minutes before Frank returned to the car and got in. He handed me my briefcase and told the driver to return to the Holiday Inn.
“It was the girl, right? The reporter,” Frank said.
“Huh?”, I said.
“You made up the baloney about the exposé to impress the pretty TV reporter. Right?”
“Ah, I guess so.”
“You guess! He guesses, Sal,” Morretti and Bella and the driver all laughed.
When we pulled up to the lobby of the hotel, Mr. Morretti told me to give him all of the notes I’d made while going through the Donavan file.
“Okay,” he said, taking the three or four sheets of paper from me. “Now I’ve got three things to tell you, kid, and I want you to listen real, real good. Number one. Don’t write nothing about Danny Donavan. Forget you ever heard the name and tell your boss back in California to do the same. Number two. Don’t ever tell anybody about our talk tonight. NOBODY. And number three, don’t ever make stuff up. It can get ya in a lot of trouble. And besides, women ain’t worth it. You understand?”
“I understand,” I said and got out of the car.
And that’s why I never lie.