Randy White - Seduced

What I found reminded me not to judge others in haste, including Lonnie Dupree.

A Tallahassee Democrat story about Raymond Caldwell, age twenty-two, jumped out at me. He was the big-city son of a man who owned car dealerships in Jacksonville and Atlanta. Despite his advantages, Raymond had taken a dangerous turn. He’d been in trouble numerous times for DUI, and drug possession, including a pound of cocaine. It was a felony charge that ended his career as a college linebacker and, some believed, a shot at the NFL.

I’m not a football fan. To me, the stunner was that he had been charged with sexual assault three times while a student yet his football scholarship hadn’t been revoked until the cocaine incident. One of the assault cases was still pending when his family reported him missing on January fifth. The local sheriff’s department had issued a BOLO, a “be on the lookout,” but took a different view of the disappearance. They also issued an arrest warrant, citing parole violations and Raymond’s failure to appear at a preliminary hearing scheduled for January fourth. His family was forced to forfeit a $100,000 bond.

“We’re watching airports, and agencies in all border states have been alerted,” a spokesman was quoted as saying.

For a year, the media hyped the story, but interest faded. The last follow-up piece was ten years ago. In it, a former roommate remembered Raymond Caldwell talking about how much he loved South America. He had spent summers there as a teen, working on a cattle ranch owned by a friend of his father’s.

The implications were obvious, but Caldwell was never extradited because he was never found.

I had no proof that Lonnie Dupree had known Raymond Caldwell. I had no proof she was one of his assault victims, yet the timing was too eerily similar to believe otherwise. I was on overload when I pushed away from the computer and carried a mug of tea to the stern of my boat for some air.

If Lonnie, or Harney Chatham, had murdered the young man, they had chosen the perfect victim and the ideal time. Yet, I felt no remorse.

As I am aware, a presumption of innocence is a cornerstone of law. I am also aware I have a bias that borders on fury when it comes to sexual assault-particularly if the suspect has been charged multiple times. If people, not just men, would give the subject serious thought, they would understand why only a small percentage of women are willing to report such a crime. The courage it requires! Not only must the victims share the humiliating details, they must then endure the sneering insinuations of attorneys paid to paint the truth as a lie.

From what I have experienced, and from secrets shared by women, the only difference between sexual assault and cold-blooded murder is this: rape victims are destined to relive their subjugation nightly, yet without the redeeming hope that the monster in their dreams will be banished by the electric chair.

I admit my bias, just as I admit I believe rape should be punished as a capital crime. It’s not a conviction I discuss in church, nor with anyone but my closest friends. I’m a hypocrite-another personal flaw of which I am aware.

Just researching the subject caused my stomach to knot, so I switched topics and looked up the drug Reggie had mentioned. Devil’s Breath. I’d never heard of it, didn’t expect to find much. But there it was, although better known as scopolamine, a pharmaceutical made from the seeds of a plant that grows in the Amazon Valley. Huge, drooping white blossoms; a striking perennial that, in the wrong hands, also produced what some articles called “the world’s most dangerous drug.” The seeds, ground into powder, can be slipped into a victim’s drink, or even blown into the face to inhale. The effects were horrific. Victims remained conscious, but lost all short-term memory, as well as their free will. They could be led around like zombies and submitted to whatever they were ordered to do. Surprisingly, it was prostitutes who most often employed the drug, to separate clients from their billfolds, their debit card numbers, sometimes even the title to their homes. Streetwalkers were known to make a paste, rub it on their breasts, then invite potential clients to kiss their nipples. That’s all it took.

Men used it, too, of course. Once again, I was back on the subject of date rape. This was enough for one night.

The dock my Uncle Jake built zigs and zags through the mangroves, then two hundred feet out into the bay. I walked to the end, where there is a cleaning table and a power switch for the gooseneck lamps spaced along the way. They were off. I flicked a separate switch, and the water beneath my feet was illuminated by a floodlight. Mullet exploded around me in a chain reaction while night herons squawked from the trees. A school of ladyfish, with golden tubes for eyes, scattered into darker water. I stood watching a slow flow of life-shrimp and dollar-sized crabs, and a couple of sea horses-riding toward whatever destination tonight’s mindless tide might determine.

Melancholy is an emotion I occasionally suffer and its weight blossomed within me. The chill of Mr. Chatham’s dead lips on mine when I did CPR; Reggie’s stories of lost love, tragedy, possibly even rape and murder-all kited through my head, then taunted my heart.

It was a Friday night. To the west, across miles of black water, a halo glow reminded me that people were having fun on the islands of Sanibel and Captiva, yet I was alone.

The only person to blame, I decided, was me.

It was still early, just a little after eight. Thanks to my uncle, I grew up fishing the backcountry waters of Southwest Florida, so running a boat at night was safer than risking drunks on the highway. I stepped aboard my fishing skiff and confirmed it was set to go. Unlike the 37-foot Marlow that is my home, it is a fast little boat, built flat as an iron to run shallow yet is as stable as high ground.

After I’d transferred some safety gear from the Marlow to my skiff, I returned to the house to check on Loretta. She had moved from her bed and appeared to be asleep in a recliner, but the lingering sweetness of marijuana proved this was a ruse to shoo me away.

“I know you’re awake,” I said, gently. “Smoke what you want, I don’t care, but open flames are a danger in a house this old. It’s your safety I worry about.”

She pretended to be startled by the sight of me standing in the doorway but soon dropped the act. “It’s your snooping that worries me. Your holier-than-thou attitude, too. First, I can’t attend bingo; now you accuse me of doing god-knows-what.” Her eyes followed mine to a nearby ashtray, where there was half a joint and a lighter. “Where’d that come from?” she asked. Said it with a theatrical innocence that would’ve fooled anyone else.

“I’m going out for some dinner,” I responded, “but not until you’re in bed and the doors are locked. Keep the phone close. Just hit the Redial button if you need me. Come on… back in bed, and stay put this time.”

It took some mild bantering; the typical back-and-forth, during which I was seldom sure if her mind actually wandered or if her rambling oddities were said for dramatic effect. Insults aimed at me were typical subject matter, as were her tangents that embraced the supernatural. My mother has always had a witchy side. There is a reason. Our old house sits on the remains of a shell mound that, according to archaeologists, dates back two thousand years. The previous inhabitants were a favorite topic of Loretta’s, particularly their king. She claimed the king often spoke to her; that they had long conversations, and he sometimes even slipped into her bed at night-uninvited, of course.