THE LOST SON OF SAM LETTERS

The Thief

As she waited for my answer, I looked over at the old man in tan socks. He smiled.

"I'm her lawyer."

"I'm not a tabloid journalist," I said sternly. "I do not work for the National Inquirer and I certainly do not pay sources."

She got up, saying, "Then I don't talk about Tim."

It was funny to me how, at that moment, he wasn't "Timmy" anymore; he was Tim, a commodity, a memory to barter with.

"How 'bout we come to a deal," the lawyer suggested. "Can she co-author the book or something, maybe you can give her a percentage? She's a wonderful writer and has a unique perspective on this story."

I dropped my head. "Look, if she doesn't want to talk to me, I'm leaving."

"You can't really tell this story without her," he said, trying his best to sound threatening.

She started pacing in the kitchen.

"If you," she said, pointing at me, "print anything bad about Tim, I will sue you. He wasn't a thief, as everyone says. And if you say that in your book, you'll be sued."

Tim had been committing burglaries with Evans. They had known each other for many years. I had a photograph of Tim planting a kiss on the barrel of sub-machine gun.

Timothy, victim

"I'm tired of people talking about Tim like that and I will sue you, Mr. Phelps!"

"You can't really write your book without my client's help," the lawyer added.

I ignored him and asked her to take a breath and sit down.

She did.

"Your husband was a convicted burglar, ma'am," I said. "That's why I'm here. I want the complete story, not just the side of Tim that was a thief. I want to know who he was as a father, a husband. You know, the good times."

"Tim was no thief. He was a good man. And if you print that he was a thief, I'm just warning you that you will be sued."

I reached inside my briefcase and pulled out Timmy's mug shot. "You see that," I said, sliding it toward her, "that qualifies your husband as a convicted thief. Would you like to see the police reports and arrest record I have on Tim?"

She ran out of the room. I got up and left. The old man stopped me on the way out and said he'd call me if she changed her mind.

"She just wants a little bit of money," he said, doing that thing with his fingers—you missed it by that much!—to make a point of what he meant by a little bit.

I left my card with him and took off.

Weeks later, he called. "She's not going to talk to you unless you pay her."

"Tell her I said good luck."