Free A Picture of Guilt by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page B

gonna go over and start talking to ’em, you know? But I grabbed her and pulled her down. ‘How do you know who these guys are, MJ?’ I says. ‘They could be creeps.’” Rhonda’s voice wavered. “‘Criminals, sex maniacs, drug dealers, you know?’”
    “Go on,” I said softly.
    Rhonda ran her tongue around her lips, succeeding in smearing her lipstick more than it already was. “So MJ turns around and says—she says, ‘What makes you think I don’t already know about shit like that?’”
    “Shit like what?” I asked.
    “I asked her the same thing, but she shakes her head and says, ‘Nothing…forget it.’ But then she says, ‘If there’s any shit on that boat, they’re hiding it pretty well. Look at all that crap.’ So I look and I see the boat is filled with junk.”
    “Junk? What kind of junk?”
    “I don’t know, sort of logs, you know, like fireplace logs, but they were metal.”
    “Metal?”
    “You could see them in the moonlight, but I didn’t really take a close look ’cause I had to pee.” She paused. “I should never have done that.” Her voice cracked. “But I couldn’t hold it.” She dabbed at her eyes with her scarf.
    I waited while she pulled herself together.
    “There are these trees at the other end of the parking lot, and I went behind them. I must have been longer than I thought, because all of a sudden I hear voices. First MJ, then a man, then her again. Then she’s saying ‘Hey—stop it!’ Then I hear someone running across the parking lot. And then she screams, ‘Run, Rhonda, run!’ And there’s more steps. And then I hear the shots…and, and…” She covered her face with her hands.
    “My God, Rhonda.”
    She dipped her head, as if she were answering a question. “Then they started across the grass. Coming right toward me. I could hear them talking.”
    “What were they saying?”
    “I couldn’t tell. It sounded like they might have been cussing. But they were whispering. Like they knew they had to stay quiet.”
    “Then what?”
    “Thank God there’s this hole in the fence behind the trees. With this red building behind it. A garage or shed or something. I was able to find it, and I squeezed through. Then I ran as fast as I could. I thought I was safe. But now…”
    I saw the fear in her eyes.
    “I think they’re following me. They figured out who I am.”
    “From the trial.”
    She started to cry. “I didn’t want to testify, but they made me.”
    “Rhonda, why didn’t you go to the cops? This would have blown the case wide open.”
    “By the time I got it together, they’d already arrested Johnnie. I was afraid that if I went to the cops, the guys that killed MJ would come after me. Or my kid.” She touched her fingers to a gold cross at her neck. “But now, they’re coming anyway.”
    “Even more reason to go to the police. Or to Ryan.”
    A horrified look swept across her face. “I can’t. He’d put me away for sure.”
    “At least you’d be safe,” I said. “What do you think I’m going to be able to do?”
    Her eyes flicked back to the head of the passageway, as if she feared whoever was following her might appear at any moment. “I saw you at the trial. I heard what Ryan said about you. You’re one of those TV people.”
    “Not really.”
    “Yes you are. Like that blond on ‘Inside Edition’? You know.”
    “Deborah Norville?”
    Her face brightened. “Yeah. Her.”
    “Rhonda, I—”
    She cut me off. “You know people. I bet you can fix it so they won’t put me in jail. You know, make me one of those secret sources or something.”
    “You want me to interview you, is that it? Put you on TV—without revealing your identity—to tell the real story of Mary Jo Bosanick’s murder? Is that what you have in mind?”
    “Well, yeah. Maybe.”
    A flash of heat shot through me. “How about we put you on with an exclusive report? We’ll call it a special investigation, hype it with a sexy headline: