Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit by Paul Goldman (surface ebook reader txt) 📗

documents, to thehead of the prostitution unit. That unit will assign an agent, whowill contact you and ask you to come in and explain your story onceagain. That is, if you’re willing.”

“Absolutely,” I confirmed,feeling a flood of self-importance rush over me. We ended ourinterview, and each crushed my hand in turn. I thanked the agents,and made my way out the door, elated and anxious for my nextmeeting.

My elation turned into frustration, however,when no one from the prostitution unit contacted me for two weeks.Finally, I decided to call them.

I felt the best plan was to speak with thesame agent as before, Agent Portman. Answering my call on the thirdring, the receptionist agreed to connect me. A moment later, Iheard, “Agent Portman.”

“Agent Portman, this isPaul Goldman. We met two weeks ago and I gave you information onthe Audrey Munson prostitution ring. How are you?”

“What can I do for you,Mr. Goldman?” Agent Portman asked coolly, offering nopleasantries.

“Well, I've been expectinga call from an agent in the prostitution unit to arrange my secondmeeting, but no one has called me. Can you tell me please, has theFBI decided to take my case?” Again, his manner was less thancordial.

“I have given yourcomplaint to two desks, the prostitution unit and the high crimesunit, but I am not allowed to tell you anythingfurther.”

“Can you connect me withan agent in the prostitution unit, so I can make the appointmentmyself?” I asked.

“No, I cannot do that.Goodbye.” And before I could ask anything else, the dial toneconfirmed the end of our call. Once again, I was frustrated. Had Ioverstepped my bounds by following up? Was I wrong to assume Iwould somehow play a part in their investigation? Despite what theyhad told me two weeks prior, was the FBI undecided as to whether ornot to take the case? Would justice ever be served?

I remained a man driven byquestions and devoid of answers. Something had to give, and Irefused to let more weeks slip away waiting for a call from the FBIthat might never come. I decided I would kickoff the investigationby getting an investigative reporter involved. I headed right formy office and called Jim Wilson, the contact I’d made at thePalm Beach Post. Hewasn't in, so, I left a message, asking him to call me back. He didcall the next day. I had wanted to wait until all law enforcementavenues were exhausted before giving him the story. Now, sincethose avenues were pretty much kaput as far as I was concerned, Idecided it was time to offer up my tale. Although all I gave himwas the fifteen minute version, Jim said he was interested, and weagreed to meet the following day.

The building occupied bythe Palm Beach Post was far more welcoming than the police precincts I’d beenfrequenting of late. The walls were painted a vivid yellow incontrast to austere gray, the halls were alive with chatter andbustle, and the guard hovering around the reception desk even had asense of humor.

Imagine that.

“This is my first time inthe offices of a major newspaper,” I admitted, signing in on awooden clipboard. “Where’s the newsroom with all the reportersbanging away on their typewriters, like in the movies?” I askedwith a grin.

“They use these strangethings called computers now,” he said with a serious expression,but a twinkle in his eye. “And Clark Kent isn’t in today!” headded, much to the delight of the older woman running the desk. Shelaughed as she looked up at him, shooing him away with her hand. Hechuckled and moved back to his post.

I took a seat on a couch in the lobby untilJim Wilson walked over and greeted me a few minutes later. Iimmediately stood and shook his hand, thanking him for taking thetime to meet with me. Unlike the crisp, neat appearance of the FBIagents, Jim looked like he stepped on his clothes a few times thatmorning before putting them on. His wrinkled, short-sleeved shirtwas untucked and oversized, his corduroy pants were begging for abelt, and his sandy hair hadn’t seen a brush since the securityguard had last seen Clark Kent. To put it kindly, Jim wascasual.

Jim took me back into a conference room tohear my story and take copious notes. This time, however, it wasmore like a conversation than a report, with Jim reacting to everysordid detail and interrupting me at every turn to clarifysomething. I wasn’t sure if his method was any more effective thanthe others, but I sure preferred the interaction and apparentinterest.

“Not to tell you yourbusiness, Jim, but why don’t you use the angle of a woman whomarries men to steal their assets and, by the way, spends herweekends as a prostitute? I’m telling you, uncovering the innerworkings of a prostitution ring by the husband of the madam, you’llwin the Pulitzer,” I predicted, with a smile.

Jim stared straight ahead, perhaps deep inthought, and didn't respond immediately. After a minute, though, heplaced his pen down on the table, intertwined his fingers, extendedthem for a loud ‘crack’ of his knuckles, and sat back in hisseat.

Jim continued to ask me a series of questionsdelving into my life before Audrey, and my own theories about how Igot involved with her. Providing this information for Jim, alsoprovided some welcome release for me. This wasn't a therapysession, this wasn't a testimony. This was two men talking aboutlife. When I finished, it was my turn to ask questions.

“Well Jim, what do youthink of this story for your paper?”

“To be perfectly honest,you seem to be suggesting that we do a sting on Tony Sawgrass tofind out how he operates. We can't do that, because we don't havethe resources.” Jim picked up his pen and began to use it as abackscratcher. “Also, we can't follow Audrey around twenty-fourhours a day, or hire a private investigator to do it.”

“Well, what can you do?” Iasked, a little frustrated.

“I can run a fewbackground checks,” he said, struggling to reach a part of his backnot easily scratched. “I can call some tricks, call Audrey, Royce,and Tony Sawgrass. I can also call some of my friends to look intothe Spencer County Sheriff’s Office