AS I DROVE, I dealt possible scenarios in my mind for contacting Laura’s ex-husband like solitaire cards, only to discard each in disgust.
“Hi, Paul. You don’t know me, but I used to sleep with your ex-wife, and now she’s missing.”
“I’m sorry to bother you at the office. Any chance you, your ex-wife, and a guy named Randall P. Schiff were caught up in a love triangle two decades ago in law school?”
“Apologies for hitting you out of the blue with this, especially given the way you broke your ex’s heart that morning at breakfast—”
I shook my head. I could do this all day and not get it right. I checked the time on the van’s dashboard. Not quite nine. Hard to know if Paul would even be at his downtown firm in Columbus yet. I decided to find out.
“Paul Thayer’s office,” a female voice said after I penetrated the firm’s defensive shields and was transferred back.
Given the circumstances, I decided against obfuscation. I identified myself by name and asked for Thayer. She informed me he wasn’t in yet and would I care to leave a message. I waited for her to mention voice mail, to no avail. Old school. OK, then. I gave her my number and asked if he could return the call.
“May I let Mr. Thayer know why you’re calling?”
“Tell him it’s about Randall Schiff.”
“Could you spell that, please?”
I did so.
“All right, Mr. Hayes, I’ll let Mr. Thayer—”
“Randall Schiff, and Judge Laura Porter.”
A pause. “Excuse me?”
“Tell Mr. Thayer it has to do with Randall Schiff and with Judge Porter.”
Fifteen minutes later I pulled into a gas and convenience store complex on the edge of Ashland—“World Capital of Nice People,” according to the sign at the exit. I’d have to fact-check that another day. After I filled up and replenished my coffee cup, I glanced at my e-mail and saw a new message from Bonnie. She was flagging something else about the sentencing of the woman who’d threatened the judge.
Check out the comments. Kind of interesting. If you’re still working on something with that judge, I mean.
Squinting at my screen, I read the comments popping up below the article. They were about what you’d guess given the racial animosity surrounding the case. Supporting Laura were posts such as Long live the Velvet Fist and Anybody surprised a boy like that had a baby mama like her? Presumably referring to the woman’s son—the beneficiary of the long sentence that led to the outburst.
Posts expressing outrage at the woman’s treatment included comments such as First driving while black now talking like black??, an ironic #whitelivesmatter doncha get it?? and So much for the First Amendment. But it was a comment near the bottom that caught my attention.
That lady’s just lucky she don’t get blamed for messing with the judge’s son too
The writer was someone named SouthSideMama99. Her icon was a generic silhouette. I tried to imagine what she was talking about. Had something happened to Laura’s son? Dave? No. It came to me. Daniel. The college drop-out. Lived in Columbus but not with either parent, as far as I knew. Laura hadn’t mentioned anything about him in our brief conversation in her car. I thought back to the call she received. The man whose caller ID photo I caught a glimpse of. Daniel? But if so, why hadn’t she said anything? I realized I didn’t even know his last name, Porter or Thayer. I tried Google searches with both, to no avail. Certainly nothing that resembled a news report of something bad—violence or an arrest. Strange.
There was no way to contact SouthSideMama99 directly, so I simply replied to her post, including my phone number.
This is interesting to me. Could you give me a call?
I waited a few minutes in hopes of receiving a response from her or a callback from Paul Thayer, but my phone stayed silent. It was all right. I had enough feelers out. It was just a matter of waiting to see which line bobbed in the water first.
Turns out, it didn’t take long.