Stocks & Blondes
22
Exactly what is ‘safe’ about a safe deposit box?
ONE GOOD THING about the impending destruction of all privacy rights in our country: It will be hard to blackmail anyone. Our lives will be laid open and bare for all to see. As a person who makes her living uncovering secrets, the destruction of privacy rights spells disaster for my income.
Banking
I spent extra time Monday morning putting my makeup and clothes together. Taking a day off is always dangerous. I have to remember every detail of who I am and rehearse my role in front of the mirror as I put on my alias. I have to think, “Now where did I put my watch? That’s not my watch. Whose watch is that?” every time I see something out of place for my persona. I’m not that person. I’m this person.
I wasn’t planning to return to Georgia’s house today, so why be so careful with the makeup? Today was ‘Safe Deposit Box Day.’ I had a key from the fake fuse box in the basement. I was going to march into a new bank and show my credentials as representative of the estate in order to get access to that box. No one at this bank would simply glance at me as a regular customer and pass me through. Everything had to be perfect.
I was still worried about people following me, so I walked from my hotel to the Hilton about half a mile away, and caught the hotel shuttle to the airport. Once there, I walked across to the parking garage where the taxi stand is. In a few minutes, I had a cab that took me directly to the bank.
I asked to see a bank officer. You don’t want to talk to just anyone in a bank. There may be ten ‘personal bankers’ waiting to serve you and another ten tellers but you only want to do business with one person who can make decisions without having to go talk to a supervisor. Big banks have dozens of vice presidents. It doesn’t mean anything except that they are bank officers and can make everyday decisions without getting permission. I was ushered into the office of Vice President Smith. Smith? Really? Is anyone really named Smith? Apparently so.
“How can I help you, Ms. Chester,” Mr. Smith asked.
“Yes. I am the authorized representative of the Estate of Georgia McFearin. She passed away on Christmas Day and I have only recently discovered that she had a safe deposit box at your bank and may have other accounts as well that should be closed and brought under the control of the estate,” I answered. I’d worn a conservative and matronly business suit today and tried to assume my most businesslike tone. I laid my leather portfolio on the desk, opened it, and turned it to Vice President Smith so he could read the various letters from the state and the death certificate.
“These appear to be in order,” Mr. Smith said. “Let me see what I can find for you.” He turned to his computer and after tapping in a few lines came up with a screen-load of information. “Ah, yes. Ms. McFearin had a modest savings account and a safe deposit box. We only rent safe deposit boxes to account holders.” He showed me the screen with a balance on it. $324.40. Just enough to justify renting a box. “Of course, it is no problem to have a check cut for the amount, but it will take a few days to have the safe deposit box drilled and opened. I assume you will want to be here for that, and of course, there will be a fee for replacing the box and locks after drilling it open.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I have a key.”
“Oh! In that case, all we need to do is make copies of the paperwork for our records and you can open the box. I can have a check cut for you while you are sorting out the contents.” Well, that seemed like he wanted to get rid of us. I guessed in the greater scheme of bankism, a $300 savings account and the amount of rental they get on the box wasn’t enough to consider Georgia a worthwhile customer to have. In five minutes, I was inside the narrow vault lined with boxes. Mr. Smith and I inserted our keys and he slid the box out. Then he left, closing the grate behind him. Now let’s see what you’ve got, I thought.
It was a little startling and a little puzzling. There was a thick padded envelope with CDs or DVDs in it. Five $100 bills in an envelope. A set of car keys. I bet I knew what car. And a list of names and addresses—a long list of names and addresses. I put the items in my bag and rang the buzzer to be let out of the cage. Mr. Smith had a check waiting for me and I signed the necessary papers to close the account and relinquish the box. Mission accomplished.
Outside the bank, I caught a bus and rode downtown to Pioneer Square, had an early lunch, and called a cab back to the airport hotel.
The dope on everyone
If Georgia killed herself, it’s a miracle no one else got to her first. She had something on everyone. And my guess was that the seven DVDs that I had in my hands were what she was holding over seven people who were paying her handsomely to keep them under seal. From my perspective, they were seven motives for murder and they were now in my hands. Her four girlfriends, her landlords, and her so called boyfriend were all implicated with a couple of other women I hadn’t met. These disks contained explicit video of each of them, not only in flagrante delicto, but also chatting about their families and friends in settings they probably thought were safe from cameras. I needed to go through the house again and look for mini-bugs, not just for webcams.
I didn’t get how it all worked. Apparently, all the women rented from Rick and Susan. Rick and Deon are partners and have partnered with every one of the women, including Susan, who seems to have a separate house of her own as well. Now that is freakin’. But at least it explains why Rick’s business is called Rick Thomas Productions. I thought it was a weird that he had a company that got all its income from rent and a bar but had ‘productions’ in its name. Apparently, he’s got quite a following for his adult DVDs. Of course, most of the names I have for the ladies I’ve met are their ‘stage names.’ Georgia kindly documented their real names, their husbands or boyfriends, their parents, their churches, their children.
They all had a lot to lose if their real identities came out. As much as I dislike the industry, I don’t have any interest in exposing any of them unless they are a murderer. Let’s face it, there are a lot of reasons for people to become sex workers and none of these seemed to have been coerced. But now that I’ve got all this information in my hands, how could I ever convince them of that?
Comments
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