My Name Is . . . Eve

By Charlotte Lewis

Clovis Hartford was your average, run-of-the-mill, middle aged woman. She had been married to the same man for more than three decades and had four grown children. One day on her lunch hour, she witnessed the murder of six people. She could identify the shooters. Her entire life was changed as it was determined, after she testified at the trial of one of the shooters, she should enter the Federal Witness Protection Program. For reasons unknown at the time, her husband Harry refused to enter the program with her. She would either not testify or go alone. Clovis had a strong sense of justice and testified. A year later she learns why Harry wouldn't accompany her in what could be the adventure of a lifetime.

She was alone for the first time in more than thirty years. A new name, a new town, no friends...only a US Marshal to call on when she thought she would fail as Evelyn Beale. She found a job as an administrative assistant and nearly blundered with her name at the interview. She recovered the near goof and was hired.

This book takes Eve, as she prefers to be called, through the first few years of her experiences as someone new. Things happen to her that, in other circumstances, would be taken as “stuff happens”. But as a Witness Protection person these things lead to considerable worry that the people from whom she's being protected may have located her. She gradually makes friends and puts together a decent life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664155701

Charlotte Lewis

Charlotte Lewis, a retired accountant, lives in Southeast Kansas. Charlotte graduated from University of Southern California with a major in elementary education and a minor in music. Since retirement, she has self-published several novels and has published in Reminisce Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Hackathon Short Stories, Readers Digest Online, and Mused – an online journal. There's more to learn at charlottelewisonline.com

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

There are times I am so filled with nostalgia I barely know what to do. Perhaps it is nothing more than homesickness, perhaps. Is there a difference between the two? I don’t know. All I am sure of is there are times when I can’t shake memories from my thoughts. My mind reels. The happy memories are the hardest to rid. Though, upon reflection, a few of the sad ones seem ever present. The strangest things become prompts – an ad on the side of a bus, a tune someone whistles as he passes me on the sidewalk, a mother’s admonishment to an unseen child in the market.

We lived in a quiet neighborhood on a one-block long street. All our neighbors knew that if we didn’t have visitors, and it wasn’t meal time, they were welcome to swim in our pool. It was the only swimming pool on the block. No one ever took advantage of that – they were respectful and always asked first even though they knew we’d say yes 99% of the time. Small children were never sent alone. Frequently one or both parents would come along bringing liquid refreshments for Harry and me to enjoy with them at our pool. There is nothing quite so summer as the laughter and splashes of children in a pool.

Our children were pretty much grown by the time of the incident. The youngest, Cheryl, was in her last semester of high school and had been accepted by three universities. Her biggest problem was deciding between the three schools. Harry and I hoped she would opt for USC and live at home. But she was leaning more toward Ball State in Muncie, Indiana or Washington U at Pullman. She had worked all four years of high school and saved enough, she thought, to get her through her freshman year without having to find part-time employment. Her brothers and sister had convinced her it was worth the effort; the freshman year is hard enough without having to work, too.

Harry, Jr. (our oldest) married Roberta on Christmas Eve, the year before the incident. They took a month-long honeymoon and were already talking of buying a home of their own. Both have jobs in the computer industry and are exceptionally well paid. They insisted they weren’t interested in having children for quite some time. They were doing better than fine.

Richard, the second son, flitted from one flower to the next and seemed to never have the same girl friend for more than a few months. He said he was so tired of air heads. All the girls he dated were quite pretty and Harry suggested he should consider dating plainer women; maybe they wouldn’t be such airheads. But Richard countered he thoroughly enjoyed going out with a drop-dead gorgeous woman on his arm. He had just passed the California State Bar and snared a position with one of the oldest, more prestigious firms in Los Angeles. Richard was sure that a trophy wife was the norm and he might as well start looking right away. He didn’t plan on getting married for a long time but felt it couldn’t hurt to shop around.

Sarah was in her junior year at UCLA. She was one of those drop dead gorgeous girls her brother Richard liked so well. However, being her brother, he couldn’t admit that. But Sarah was not an airhead. She was Dean’s List material. Sarah had dated the same boy since her sophomore year in high school. Randy was a studious looking young man but could be quite a cut up. His antics added a lot of fun to our family events. Sarah’s brothers felt that Randy was a perfect match for Sarah but she had no plans to get married any time soon either. Randy was a senior at Loma Linda – he was going to be a dentist. He wasn’t Seven Day Adventist but was a vegetarian – more or less. Sarah majored in Music and minored in Math. She had several leads on teaching positions long before graduation.

And then there was my Harry. We were married for more than 30 years. I still feel married to him but I know I am not. I don’t understand how you can divorce someone without their permission, without their being in the same state, or without their knowledge. That seems criminal to me but it does happen. Harry worked for Ace Hardware, forever it seems. He began in the Garden Department right out of high school and worked his way up. He clerked for several years and then was manager for more than fifteen. Harry knows everything there is to know about tools, gardening, household tasks, light bulbs and even tulip bulbs. There were many Sunday afternoons when our telephone would ring and it was someone asking Harry how to do something. Most of the time they had purchased something in the store on Saturday, and now on Sunday, they had a question on how to use it, plant it, prepare it or whatever. Harry always remembered the person and the sale and invariably could help. The fact that it was Sunday and the store was closed was reason enough for him to take each and every call. After all, he’d made the sale. He believed in service.

Neither Harry nor I look our age. This always delighted our children as their friends were usually surprised when they were introduced to us. We didn’t belong to a health club or anything fancy like that but we did walk and/or swim nearly every day of the year. That was one of the nice things about living in Southern California. The climate is conducive to being out of doors and doing things most of the time.

We enjoyed a small circle of friends. Many we had known since college and a few even before that. I often wonder what Harry told them. Surely not the truth – the truth is so un-Harry like that no one would believe it. At least, I think they wouldn’t. Maybe he gave them a watered down selective version of the truth. Harry’s not a good liar but this is one time I am sure he lied, no matter what version he gave them.

Perhaps the revelation that Harry loved things more than he loved me is what causes me to be so bitter, so homesick. I want things the way they were before that February morning. Part of the blame has to be mine. I insisted on doing the right thing. Harry Jr. and Sarah agreed that I should do what I felt was right. Even after they learned that if I did they most likely would never see me again, they defended my right to do it. They understood that I was just practicing what I had always preached to them. Oh, how I miss them.

Yes, I am homesick. It’s fall now and the leaves are turning colors. At home the mums in the front planter must be four feet tall – that is, if someone remembered to prune them down last winter. I can see the white, yellow and rust flowers swaying in the breeze that always seem to play across the front lawn. At least one of the cats would be curled at the edge of the flower bed, blending into the rust and white flowers.

Those funny prickly seed pods from the liquid amber trees are littering the front lawn and Harry will pay one of the younger neighbor kids two dollars every Saturday to rake them up until they quit falling. I wonder if Harry remembered to reseal and paint the front stoop. That February we had talked about doing it in early fall. That was some time ago, so it may need painting again anyhow.

When the homesickness got too bad, in the beginning, I would go to the library computer room and pull up the Pasadena Star News to find out what was happening in the San Gabriel Valley. At first, I was there almost every day. I wanted to make sure that Cheryl graduated – she did, as valedictorian. Her graduation photo was on the honors page. I had gone with her when she had that photo taken. I recall so vividly how she couldn’t decide what outfits to take; three different were suggested. In the end, after having photos taken in all three, she selected the photo in which she wore her cap and gown. I kept the proofs of all the pictures and framed them for her. After seeing her photo, I had to give up reading the Star News for quite a while.

While I checked the papers on occasion, I didn’t check daily until the following year when it was time for the universities to publish their graduation dates and list their honor students. I was so sure that Sarah would be on one of those lists. I also knew that if she was one of the top three in her class, her photo might be included. I longed to see her face again. And I did. She graduated top of her class. There was a small caption below her photo that I feel spoiled her special moment. Some unfeeling journalist had added Sarah is the daughter of Harry Hartford of Arcadia. Her mother, Clovis Hartford, mysteriously disappeared after testifying in the Court House Murders trial last year.

CHAPTER TWO

The incident was a simple matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

My employer was very active in local politics. It was an election year. And when his favorite candidate’s campaign manager realized there was more than a four hour gap between a campaign luncheon and a town hall meeting, my boss got a call. Would he consider sponsoring a fund raising tea or cocktail hour to fill that time? There wasn’t much going on around town just then and my boss said he felt he could round up forty or so people. Would that be sufficient? He couldn’t guarantee contributions but it would be good publicity. The campaign manager was definitely interested in good publicity.

The drawback to this plan? The event was to take place in two days. That didn’t leave enough time to mail invitations so everyone in the office was asked to hand deliver them. On company time, of course. On the day before the cocktail party, the boss realized that his good friend, Judge Connors, hadn’t been given an invitation. The boss asked if I would mind delivering this one invitation on my lunch hour. Judge Connors would be in session so I should wait until he adjourned for lunch and then approach his clerk. The very nature of my job put me in the court house regularly so I knew my way around. And I certainly didn’t mind leaving for lunch early.

I hadn’t been to Judge Connors’ court for a while so decided to double check with the Clerk of the Court to confirm the room number. I would feel like a fool if I missed him because I had gone to the wrong court. It was Room 201 and I ran for the elevator. Three well-dressed men were getting into the only open elevator. They must not have seen me as they did not hold the elevator and I had to wait for the next available car. I didn’t know it then that that rudeness saved my life. It’s a 3-bank elevator so not a long wait.

When I got to the second floor, one of the three men was standing in the doorway of the elevator, holding it. I thought that was strange. If he was with a security unit, maybe, but those guys wear uniforms, not suits, unless they’re Secret Service or something. He didn’t have the polished look of Secret Service.

I turned the corner into the corridor where Judge Conners’ courtroom was located. I saw two men, those I’d seen at the elevator, enter his courtroom. The courtrooms are set up with a set of double doors, a four foot space and then another set of double doors leading into the courtroom. As I reached the courtroom I saw a sign that said, Closed Session. Usually there is a bailiff or other county law person at the door to enforce the closed session but I saw no one. I stood in the corridor and could see into the courtroom very well. The doors each have a small clear window. It must have been a special arraignment as there were no spectators at all. The defense attorney and the defendant (who was in street clothes), two guards (County Sheriffs), the bailiff (also a County Sheriff), the prosecuting attorney, clerk and the judge were the only people I could see beyond the rail.

The two guys in suits marched up the aisle as though they belonged there.

I watched as the Judge raise his gavel. I couldn’t hear much because of the two sets of doors. The Judge was pounding his gavel and I could tell he had raised his voice. One of the men in suits shot the two guards – bing – bing. They were down. The other man shot the prosecutor and the judge. I am not sure who shot the clerk and the bailiff. It happened so quickly. Both of them just crumpled. The shots were so muffled that I wondered if there had been some sort of device on the guns. Even two sets of heavy oaken doors shouldn’t have silenced the sound so well.

At this point I panicked. The corridor I was standing in is about 20 feet wide and runs the length of the building with courtrooms every so often off either side of the hall. There is virtually no place to hide. No ladies’ room, no closets. Then I saw the one and only telephone booth on the second floor. It was across the hall and 30 feet away from where I was standing. No, I didn’t think of Superman – I thought of trying to hide. If the men saw me, they might shoot me as well – if they thought I had seen or heard anything. I nearly broke my arm getting into the booth. Out of habit, I believe, I grabbed the telephone. I was standing in a glass telephone booth, door closed, phone in hand. How idiotic was that?

One of the shooters was pulling the defendant along. The defendant didn’t look exceptionally happy. The other man started down the hall and then saw me. He ran up to the phone booth. I yelled into the receiver, I don’t care if he has two million dollars in his will for you. I don’t want to cook dinner for your Uncle Frank again. He is a rude man. I tried to keep my head down but, at the same time, tried to get a look at this man. Evidently he thought I had not seen or heard anything and ran to catch up with the others. It was obvious to me now why the third man was holding the elevator. The defendant was not in handcuffs. Perhaps someone, even the judge, may have thought that with two guards, cuffs weren’t necessary.

It was a good plan. When the four men exited the elevator on the first floor they could walk out with no trouble. Street clothes, no handcuffs – no one looked like a fugitive. There must have been a car idling at the curb. I had come in through the west security entrance not the front door so can’t swear to an idling car at the curb. But that’s all that would make sense.

I dialed 911 immediately but they had left the building before any law enforcement arrived on the second floor. The corridor was awash with authority within three minutes but the bad guys were gone. By that time, my knees were like gelatin. I have never been so frightened. I had not realized before that there is no place to sit in a telephone booth. I leaned against it trying to stay erect.

The police asked if I would accompany them to the precinct to give a report. I said I had to call my office first. I had to explain to them who I was, why I was there and I told them my boss could tell them better than I. That is not the answer they wanted. What had I seen? What did I know? I finally told the loudest officer that I thought I was going to fall down. He looked at me oddly and then said, Oh, yeah, sure. He had someone get me a chair. Evidently he did call my boss as Mr. Parker showed up about ten minutes later.

By that time, paramedics had swarmed the courtroom. Both guards, the prosecutor and the clerk were confirmed dead at the scene. The bailiff and the judge were critical and the paramedics were taking vital signs and starting IVs as they ran gurneys down the hall to the elevators. It was organized chaos.

The defense attorney was the only person not shot. That, of course, put him high on the you have to know something list. The poor man appeared to be in shock. I’m not sure he even got a look at the gunmen. I doubt that he knew anything more than I did. In fact, I probably knew more. I did get a close up look at one of the gunmen. And a half-assed look at the other two. The poor attorney was ashen and shaking. One of the paramedics was tending to him. They put him on a gurney and he looked bad. I think he was having a heart attack; he looked that bad.

I realized that if that gun man thought I had seen anything, I’d be on one of those covered gurneys that were being wheeled from the courtroom. That realization produced a violent shaking of my body. Someone gave me a glass of water and I couldn’t hold it still long enough to take even a sip. My boss took the glass and helped me drink. I stopped shivering but that was the extent of it.

My boss has been an attorney in Pasadena for a long while and he has a way with the law and its personnel. The officer in charge agreed I could return to our office with him if he would guarantee I would appear at the police station as soon as I was in control of myself. I had walked to the courthouse but there was no way I could walk those three blocks back to the office. My knees were not cooperating. The boss had driven those three blocks to the courthouse. Thank goodness he doesn’t like to walk. With much effort, he propelled me to his car.

I never imagined that the few minutes I spent at the court house that afternoon would change my life forever.

I worked for Mr. Parker for over a decade. He thinks of his entire staff as family. That afternoon he very gently led me to his car and we returned to the office. It was mid-afternoon and usually a busy time. But when Mr. Parker learned the extent of the tragedy at the courthouse he called back to the office and told the office manager what had happened. He said to close the office. He told them what he knew – that Judge Conners was clinging to life, as was his bailiff. As no one knew where I had gone, he decided it would be a good thing if no one at the office learned I had been at the courthouse. He told the office manager to leave a note for me that the office was closed and I could go home when I returned from lunch. He emphasized that everyone should leave immediately. I realize now that he was protecting me – he knew that my presence at the scene was going to be something big before this was all over. How big? I’m sure even he had no idea.

When he got off the phone, I guess I looked puzzled. He said, Clovis, it is better for now that no one outside of the police know you witnessed this. That includes our own staff. It could get messy. He was right, as usual. All the old attorney jokes aside, he’s pretty savvy. So when we got to the office, no one was there. I was grateful.

Mr. Parker suggested I go to the ladies’ room, wash my face, put on fresh makeup, do whatever I needed to do to feel better. I did promise you would show up at the station this afternoon. You may as well go looking a bit refreshed.

After Mr. Parker made several calls, he took me to the police station where I spent a long time with a police sketch artist. Also, I had to give a formal statement of what I had seen. The artist told me he didn’t need a description of the defendant as they had his booking photo. Could I describe any of the other men? Any of the four?

I told him that I had seen only three men. He acknowledged the fourth had been driving a getaway car.. Who can you describe? Start with the man holding the elevator.

I hadn’t paid much attention to that man. Height, age, weight – that was about all I could tell him. Hair color, skin tones, nothing more. The artist drew a very general sketch – it could have Mr. Parker – but it had the statistics.

"Okay, how about the man that came to the telephone booth?’

The man who shot the judge?

The man that came to the telephone booth shot the judge? Are you sure?

Absolutely. I am positive. I gave him details and it was almost as if the artist knew who I was describing. He drew quickly. It seemed he did so almost before I told him things. When he had finished, the man would have recognized himself. The drawing was that good.

It took nearly an hour to get the third man on paper. I saw him clearly but, for some reason, I couldn’t convey little details to the artist to make the sketch ‘look’ right. Finally, it was close enough. At least, close enough for me. I was thoroughly exhausted.

When the police had finished taking my statement, Mr. Parker drove me back to the office. I gathered my things and went home. I thought it must be terribly late but I walked through the door ten minutes before Harry arrived. By the time he parked his truck and came in, I had changed clothes and was trying to think about dinner. Cheryl had left a note saying she’d be home around 10 as she had a rehearsal for the upcoming senior play. She and her friend Anna would eat at Anna’s. I was greatly relieved. Harry could make his own supper. He wouldn’t mind. If he did, well, too bad.

As Harry was peeling off his shirt, he asked if I had heard the news of the courthouse murders. I looked up at him and said, More than heard it, dear heart. Sit down and let me tell you about my day. He hung his shirt over the back of a chair and sat down. By the time I had finished, I was shaking so badly I nearly dropped the cup I had picked up intending to make myself some tea.

Harry took the cup and set it on the table. Then he drew me into his arms and held me tightly as the tears began to flow.

They shot six people, Harry, and I stood at the door and watched them do it. I cried even harder when the thought I could have been number seven came to mind again.

Whatever possessed you to yell into a dead phone like that, Honey? He put the kettle on and went about making tea while he waited for my answer. I sat there trying to remember what I had been thinking at the moment I realized the man had seen me.

Well, I think that I thought if he thought I had been arguing with someone on the telephone, I might not have heard the gunshots or seen anything in the courtroom. Actually, the shots were quite muffled. Those rooms are well built and have those two sets of doors. But why I came up with Uncle Frank, I don’t know.

He wrapped his arms around me again and whispered in my ear. Thank god you think fast. Otherwise I would be down at Zook’s right now. Zook is one of the local mortuaries.

The tears kept running down my face. Until I actually told the story to someone who cares, I hadn’t realized how frightened I had been, or how lucky I was. The tremors seemed to start at the bottom of my feet and worked upward. I shook and cried for quite a few minutes more.

I blew my nose. Mr. Parker is trying to keep me out of this. He’s going to see if he can find out whose arraignment it was. To kill six people to pull out one defendant – well, it must be a high powered case. The courtroom was closed to the public. That’s why there were no spectators.

Go wash your face, Clovis. We can go to the Moon Palace and have Chinese and a martini.

My face felt it should be washed though I didn’t believe I could handle Chinese. The martini sounded good though. Can’t we just stay at home and drink?

Harry laughed at me. Anything you want, darlin’. I’ll make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for me and a martini for you. Go put on the news. Let’s see if Mr. Parker has kept you out of them.

The news – of course! I needed to see what was being said. And whether or not anyone knew I was there. Until Mr. Parker can sort out the case, I agreed we should keep my involvement as quiet as possible. I flipped channels to NBC – for some reason their coverage of local news is usually pretty good at 6pm. A mug shot of the defendant and the three sketches I had helped create were splayed across the screen as the TV came to life. The news anchor retold the story of the shootings. The bailiff had died shortly after reaching the hospital. The judge was in critical condition. It was the newsman’s understanding that one or both of them had assisted in the sketches of the wanted men.

Harry came in with a sandwich, glass of milk, and a double martini.

The sketches were on the screen again. Those the ones, huh? Strange, they don’t look like bad guys.

He was right. They didn’t look like bad guys. They looked less criminal than the new manager at Republic Federal Savings. Who are they? That was my biggest question. Surprisingly, the news didn’t say much about the defendant. I expected more than a name. Perhaps what he was being arraigned for - or something. But his name was all they released. Harry thought that was not a good sign.

Sleep came more easily than I thought possible. It may have been the martini on an empty stomach. I hadn’t had lunch or dinner and am a light-weight drinker. I didn’t dream at all but slept soundly through the night waking at the usual 5:30am. Over breakfast I reminded Harry that he could talk about this all he wanted but to keep me out of it. He swore he would not let anyone know I had been a witness. He hadn’t slept as well as I had and decided that he would blame a late night for his haggard appearance. I told him he didn’t look that bad – no one would think a thing of it if he’d shave. He ran his hand across his face. He hadn’t realized he hadn’t shaved.

I showered and dressed very slowly. I didn’t want to go to work but knew that, today of all days, I had to be there. When one of the secretaries asked where I had been when all this happened, I told her the truth. Well, a version of the truth. I was delivering the last of Mr. Parker’s cocktail invitations. Judge Conner’s invitation was still in my purse.

When Mr. Parker came in, he invited us all to the cocktail party at his home that afternoon. We demurred saying it was a fund raiser and none of us would be able to contribute much to his candidate. At first, I think he thought we were being funny, or coy. Then he said, It is a fund raiser but yesterday’s tragedy may take some of our guests away. Judge Conners’ presence would have been a big deal. I would rather have a full complement of guests than a full coffer for the senator. He knows this was a last minute thing and I am sure he’s been apprised of yesterday’s events. If we raise even $5000, he’ll be happy. And, none of you have to contribute anything if you don’t want to. Just be there, please. You’ll all be paid to 7pm.

Teri, Mr. Parker’s personal secretary, said, We have to show up. The boss will get his picture in the paper with the senator and we can all sneak into the background.

Mr. Parked laughed and said, Enough of the BS. Be at my house by 3.

It was a successful event spoiled only by the media following the senator. They asked Mr. Parker about his relationship with Judge Conners. And they also asked if Judge Conners had been invited. Of course, Keith was invited. He planned to be here. We are waiting for word on his condition as I speak.

However, by the time the senator, his entourage and more than $10,000 in pledges were ready to leave, word came that the Judge had died. I was devastated. Mr. Parker thanked us all for coming and making the event successful. He was deeply sorrowed by the loss of his friend. We all felt bad there was nothing any of us could do for him. Mrs. Parker suggested the best thing would be to show up for work in the morning and try to keep things as normal as possible.

Of course, the media had a field day. Too bad we couldn’t have had an earthquake or something to get them off the courthouse murder story. The headlines read Six Dead. There were photos of the six victims along with the police sketches and the booking photo of the defendant. We did learn that the four men were members of a very high profile crime family from the East. And while we learned the name of the defendant, there was still no explanation of why he had been charged. Or, with what he’d been charged. Mr. Parker agreed that was not good. He’s been practicing law for more than forty years and can usually weasel all the answers you could want from anyone. But not this time. No one was talking.

Finally, after more than a week and a half of nothing else in the news, the shootings were old hat. No mention of the tragedy was made in the media for more than a week. And then on page eight.

Then, a few days later, one of the men was apprehended crossing into Mexico at Tijuana. It was the man who had shot the Judge and the bailiff. Everything was taken out and rehashed, again and again.

It was at this time that one journalist discovered, or perhaps he just decided, that there had to have been an eye witness. The news media began screaming for an identity. The District Attorney denied any such witness. Over and over he denied there had been an eye witness. Other than the judge and defendant’s attorney, there was no other living witness. All of the information he’d received was from the judge and bailiff before they died. Defendant’s attorney suffered a heart attack that same day and was hospitalized.

But, while denying my existence, the District Attorney had begun preparing me for possible testimony at trial. He was sure a trial would be inevitable. I told him that I was, quite frankly, afraid to testify in open court. Look what had happened already. How did those men get guns into the courthouse? There’s a metal detector that you have to pass through every time you enter the courthouse. How did the guns get through? He kept assuring me that no one would know my identity before trial and I could go into the Federal Witness Protection Program after I testified.

Witness Protection! Holy cow! I hadn’t even thought of such a thing. He tossed out the suggestion so casually, I almost didn’t catch it. How could he be so nonchalant about my life? Witness Protection. OMG. True, I didn’t know much about it at the time but I’ve seen TV shows and read books. Federal Witness Protection sounded like a life altering proposition to me.

I went home and talked to Harry. I thought I had been upset! He ranted and raved. No way was our family going into any witness protection program just to convict a murderer. What guarantee was there he would be convicted? I asked Harry if he didn’t think I owed it to the six dead people to testify? I know this man they’ve caught killed two of them for sure. I saw him do it. I am the only person alive who saw him do it. No one else can testify to that. And he killed someone I knew. Judge Conners was a frequent visitor in our office.

Well, Harry was adamant. IF I wanted to testify and go into a witness protection program afterwards, I could do it alone. He was not giving up a lifetime of work for some damn criminal...no matter how horrendous his crime. He ranted on. It would not be fair to ask Cheryl to give up her friends, her dreams, her accomplishments. And, at seventeen, he wasn’t going to throw her to the wolves to struggle into adulthood on her own just so he could go with me into witness protection. No, Witness Protection was out of the question. Period.

I regretted mentioning it. It wasn’t a done deal or anything. Just something the District Attorney thought was possible. At that moment, a trial date hadn’t even been set.

I was terribly hurt and woefully torn. I had a civic duty to testify. Mr. Parker said I could be subpoenaed and have to testify even if I didn’t want to. In that case, I would be handled as a hostile witness. If I totally refused, I could be held in contempt and spend time in jail. Working for a law firm for years, I knew what he said was true. How could I convince Harry I had to testify? If I want to or not? Things became quite strained at home. Quite strained.

A trial date was set for early April. Talk about speedy trial. I had anticipated a two or perhaps three year hiatus in the proceedings.

The District Attorney contacted the U S Marshal and asked that someone come talk to me about the Federal Witness Protection Program – how it worked, what it meant.

A few days later a handsome young man, maybe fifteen years older than my boys, pulled up in front of the house in a low slung red convertible. He was a U S Marshal. I didn’t believe it but he had all the right credentials. He talked to Harry and me and explained how the program worked and how meticulous they were in creating a new life for each person entering the program.

Harry informed the young man that he didn’t need any pep talks. He was not going into any program that would so radically change his life – no matter how safe it was supposed to be. The Marshal, his name was Steve, turned to me after Harry’s outburst and asked, Are you willing to enter this program without your family?

That frightened me. Go alone? I asked him if he thought I had any choice. He said, From what I know of this case, no. You testify and risk the chance of being dead before you get home. If you are agreeable and enter the program, we’ll make sure you get home.

Harry snorted. The Marshal thanked Harry for his time and asked me if we could speak alone. Harry was livid. He wasn’t interested in the program but he also didn’t want to be shut out of the discussion. The Marshal told him that he needed to talk to me about confidential matters that Harry had just opted out of. Harry snorted, got up and left the room. I was shaken.

As soon as he was gone, Steve asked, Do you know San Diego at all?

I was surprised by the question. Yes, I went to school there. Why?

It so happens we have an identity established in San Diego for a single woman. You wouldn’t be living in San Diego, you would be from San Diego.

I nodded. That sounded good. I have explored San Diego from the marine base at Pendleton to Coronado and know it quite well. I could be from San Diego easily.

Steve said, I am going to talk with Harry one more time. If he still refuses, I’ll be back to discuss your entering the program alone.

That discussion didn’t go well. Harry got rather profane with the Marshal and stomped out of the house. The Marshal said, I’ll be back. I will give Harry some time to cool off and think. Go ahead and prepare for trial. By the time it’s over, we’ll be ready to move you – alone or together.

I thanked him and walked him to his car. My neighbor to the north was in his yard and I waved at him. Steve drove off in his little red car and the neighbor yelled something or other at me. I walked over to him and said, These insurance guys get younger all the time. He agreed and went back to his raking. I don’t know where the lie came from but it was enough to keep the nosy neighbor at bay.

The next morning I slept in. I hadn’t slept well, going from tossing and turning to zonking out so hard I slept heavily for three hours. Harry had been in such a foul mood when I was ready to go to bed, I slept in the guest room. Evidently, he was still in a bad mood the next morning as he didn’t come in to wake me. He made his own breakfast and went to work.

I called the office and told them I was feeling quite under the weather. Mr. Parker’s secretary asked me to hold as he had indicated he wanted to speak to me when I came in. I asked her if she knew about what and she said she thought it was the Wilson brief, or something.

Are you alright? Got a bug? Such a good boss, giving me the option of being sick or not. I told him briefly what had happened the night before; the Marshal’s visit and Harry’s refusal to even discuss Witness Protection. He told me there was nothing so vital at the office that I needed to worry about coming in. If I needed anything, I should call him. I told him all I needed was a husband who could understand my situation. He asked. Would it help if I spoke with Harry, Clovis? I’d be happy to do so.

I told him I was fairly sure no amount of talking was going to change Harry’s mind. Honestly, looking back, I think Harry thought if he resisted enough I would change my mind. But, that’s all water under the bridge now. I didn’t change my mind and neither did he.

I spent the day going through my personal treasures. There were so many things that were engraved. Can’t take them. Then I figured I would have to have a backup story – why I am where I am – before I could decide what to take. I believed, from my discussion with the Marshal, that while they would provide me with new identity, it was sort of my responsibility to deal with the old one. My feelings were so raw that I came up with many wild scenarios that killed off Harry one way or another. Some were so spectacular that I knew they’d never fly but I felt100% better after thinking them. Finally, I decided I would ask the Marshal to insert an obituary in one of the San Diego papers for my new identity’s late husband. And most importantly, save a copy for me. As for children, well, I didn’t want to disown any of them but I guess I have to lose them all. I am sure the new me will have children – with names already in place. I’m sure the Marshal’s done this before; why am I worrying over it?

This is going to be harder than I ever imagined. In fact, even facing the possibility, I couldn’t imagine it at all.

The Marshal and I discussed my resume so that the one they would produce for me would reflect what I actually know. He said it would be represent twenty years of employment history with only two employers. The first would be out of business, the second would verify whatever I put on an employment form. I asked about my education. I would hate to lose all the years I put into college. He said not to worry; everything including my degrees would be handled.

I wasn’t too enthused with my new name but was sure, with time and practice, it would soon roll off my tongue as easily as Clovis Marie Hartford. The Marshal told me that often, when people change their names, the new name still has the same sound to it; the same amount of syllables, etc. Sometimes even the same initials. He said they try to avoid those hazards but it does make learning a new name more difficult. Would I mind being eight months older than I am? At that point my age was the least of my worries. He would bring everything for me to review in a few days.

Harry thought the Marshal was coming around too often and would cause comment. I said, Nonsense. He looks about the same age as the boys. He doesn’t dress like a fed. Norman thinks he’s a pushy insurance salesman. Norman is our neighbor to the north. Harry snorted over that too. I had never realized Harry was a snorter. I could not recall his snorting more than twice in the many years I had known him.

I read and re-read my new history. Evelyn Frances Beale nee Evelyn Frances Ford, born January 19, 1957 to Robert Stanley Ford and Mary Evelyn McGregor Ford in Louisville, Kentucky. Moved to Salt Lake City, Utah at age four. Moved to Cairo, Illinois at age nine and to La Jolla, California at age twelve. San Diego schools and degrees from UC San Diego. Mother was a stay-at-home mom. Father a salesman for a national company selling farm equipment. His territory, while in California, was Riverside and San Diego Counties. Mother wasn’t very active in the community other than the PTA; no girl scouts or brownies or anything. No siblings.

Somehow, having no siblings was a relief. No worrying about screwing up brothers or sisters.

Married to Robert Alan Beale on July 24, 1977 in Carmel, California. A son, Robert Jr, was born October 1, 1978; daughter Mary Evelyn born April 12, 1981. The family disposition was open so I guess that means I can fill in what or when or who. If I can get an obituary for Mr. Beale, great. I’ll figure out what to do with the children later.

I had several questions to ask of the Marshal. Several. My knees were feeling like gelatin again. My stomach was churning daily. Two Tums didn’t help a bit. No matter how often I took them.

The longer I stared at the history and resume, yes, an actual resume was completed, the angrier I became with Harry. He can’t leave his damn hardware store. Cheryl can’t be abandoned – for gosh sakes, she has older siblings. No, she couldn’t be alone. What am I? Chopped liver? Harry seemed concerned with everything and everyone but me. Thirty plus years we’ve been together and he isn’t considering my feelings, or me – at all. I could not believe it. Didn’t the wedding vows say for better or for worse? It’s not going to get much worse than this. Has he been living a lie all these years? Did he ever love me? When did he fall out of love with me? He had to have fallen out of love. I know that at one time he was madly in love with me. You do not treat someone you love with such summary disregard. My anger grew – and grew. It was going to be easy to leave him behind.

The Marshal tried to convince me that this is sort of the norm. The idea of giving up everything you have, or know, is a wrenching experience. Many people don’t handle it well. He said when they were moving a husband, the wife almost invariably agreed to go along. He didn’t need to say that it’s not that way when it’s the wife being protected. He gathered up all the papers I had been studying. I looked at him, questioning.

Because of Harry’s resistance, and state of mind, I can’t leave any of this information with you, Clovis. I’m sure you understand. This is highly confidential and your life depends on it staying that way. I brought it for you to review only so you could get a feel of what’s going to happen. I want you to be comfortable in your new skin. But I have to take it with me. You do understand, don’t you?

I nodded. I understood. I didn’t like it. It intimated that Harry could betray me if he was privy to this information. Yes, I understood. I wondered if he would.

As he left, the Marshal said, "Clovis, most people do not see this information until the day we make the change. I felt it would be easier for you to make your decision if