Joey was drunk, he tells us, as drunk as drunk could be. He exited a bar on Kuhio and stumbled through the streets of Waikiki in search of Shannon. The night sky was crystal clear, but he was in a fog. Too many tourists were walking ahead of him and behind, far too many to the left and to the right. So he escaped to the quiet, empty beach. He walked along the water for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. He grew dizzy, then dizzier. So he stopped and seated himself on the stairs of a deserted lifeguard station on an isolated stretch of sand.
Joey sat there for a bit, thinking thoughts drunk, desperate men sometimes think. He immersed himself in the silence and solitude, until the silence was broken and the solitude was no more. The voice sounded like hers, but it couldn’t be. Could it? It could, yes, and it was, because the laugh, the laugh was unmistakable. It could belong to no one but her. It angered him that she could laugh at a time like this. It angered him more that she was not laughing alone.
Something prompted him up those steps. It could have been fear, but with all the liquor coursing through his veins, it likely wasn’t that. It could have been curiosity. It could have even been something sinister, that much he admits. Whatever it was, it led him up those steps and through the unlocked door. It put him on his haunches and pressed his nose and lips to the glass. It was dark. But it was her. All five foot ten without heels and a body that could kill.
And there was him. Joey didn’t know his name. He couldn’t see his face. He didn’t know his occupation, his religion, or the color of his skin. All Joey knew was that he hated him.
Joey watched as the pair plunked down together on the sand. He felt sick but managed not to puke. He kept silent and watched. He watched as they undressed each other. He watched as they did things to each other, things he cannot now say aloud.
It was all too much for him. He collapsed backward, knocking over a metal first-aid kit. He froze, certain they had heard the noise. A couple seconds that seemed like hours passed, then he heard her tell him, “Stop.” He wanted to see what was happening, but he knew he could not pop his head back up, or he would surely be discovered.
And so he waited.
“My recollection becomes vague after that,” Joey says. “I heard her sob, and I didn’t know what to do. I was angry and sad and terrified. Then I heard two other voices, a man’s and a woman’s. They were speaking loudly; it sounded like they were drunk. I think they said they were on their honeymoon. Anyway, I smelled marijuana, and sure enough, a few moments later, they offered Shannon a hit off the joint they were smoking. After some coaxing, Shannon took a puff, and the couple asked her if she was okay. I heard one of them say she was bleeding.”
I am listening to Joey’s story, and even as I recall the newlyweds’ statement to the police, I’m wondering how much to believe. Under any other circumstances, I’d say nearly none of it. He fooled me once; why risk being fooled again? But he speaks now with a certain sincerity. And if nothing else, I feel compelled to listen to the end.
“So when I was certain the couple had walked away, I opened the door to the lifeguard station and quietly walked down the steps. I said her name. She turned and saw me. She was startled at first, and then she seemed scared. I told her I didn’t care what she did or what happened. I just wanted to hold her, help her, bring her back home.”
“How did she react?” asks Jake.
“She yelled at me and called me a stalker. She demanded that I leave her there on the beach. The situation, her being drunk and crying, reminded me of the night back at her apartment in Manhattan, the night that led to my arrest. So I did what she said. I kept my mouth shut and I left.”
“What happened to your sneakers?” I ask.
“My sneakers were wet from the surf and covered in sand. So I tossed them somewhere. As for the blood, Shannon was bleeding; some blood may have dripped on them when we spoke. I picked up a cheap pair of flip-flops at an all-night convenience store and wore them the rest of the night.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier, Joey?” I ask.
“Because I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I did.”
You’re probably right. “What does that tell you about what the jury will think, Joey?”
“That’s why you have to find who killed her, Kevin. That’s the only way you’re going to get me home.”
Easier said than done. “I’m trying my best, Joey.”
“I promise I’ll make it worth your while, Kevin. After all, I can assure you, I’ll be a returning client.”
“Oh, yeah, Joey? How’s that?”
“Because as soon as I know who murdered Shannon and I get out of here, I’m going to go out and find him.”
And then what, Joey?
“And then, I’m gonna kill the motherfucker.”