ALL THE MONEY

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

The phone rang and I was surprised to hear a male voice asking if was Deborah Elliott-Upton, the writer. I usually don’t get business calls at that particular number. When I answered, “Yes, I am,” he said he’d gotten my name and number from another writer who thought I might be able to help him.

“Help you with what?”

“I have a story to tell, but I don’t know how to write it, so I want to give it to you.”

Every writer has heard this scenario, usually following an introduction where your name is followed by the words, “she’s a writer.”

I was mentally preparing to deliver my stock answer of each person should try to write his story himself first — as only he could. Writers usually have ideas stock-piled already and adding another that belongs to someone else is more of a burden than not. Although I am sure there are many ghostwriters out there making a comfortable living writing the exposés the rest of us passed up in favor of writing our own short stories that may or may not be published, the odds are, unless the story belongs to a celebrity of some type, it’s probably one that publishers wouldn’t be interested in either. It’s rare that a story belonging to someone who is nowhere near the fringes of celebrity is worthy of an editor’s time. This is where self-publishing works, and especially as gifts for family and friends.

I took a breath and was about to explain this as nicely as I could, when he added, “I’m in the Witness Program, but I’m willing to tell my story to you because I think it could help keep some kids from getting into trouble like I did. It was bad, really, really bad stuff that went down. We gots to save the kids.”

For a half second I was intrigued, but something didn’t seem right. I’ve learned to respect my gut feeling.

When he added, “And you can keep all the money,” I knew something wasn’t kosher.

My observation training kicked-in. From his voice tone and phrasing, he was young, but not a kid. His accent seemed West Texas, but a glance at the Caller I.D. let me know he was indeed in my town. The number told me what part of town and was listed in a woman’s surname identical to his, but her first name was popular generations ago. I was guessing this was his grandmother, unless a family name had been passed down or the woman’s parents didn’t want the same-old, same-old type of name for their child.

He rushed on, claiming he had been a witness on a case that had gone to trial four years back. I could verify the facts and his name, etc., in court documents which he would get to me, or I could check them out myself, whichever I wanted.

Okay, maybe he was being somewhat honest, but this is where his story started falling apart. He said he’d been relocated to a city only six hours away. The FBI had allowed him to keep his own name and the reason he was in town now was to visit his grandmother. None of this works in the Federal Witness Program. Maybe he had turned states’ evidence, but he wasn’t in the Protection program. Already, I am envisioning a scene from Red Riding Hood with this guy as the disguised wolf. Like in the cartoon version, the disguise wasn’t very good.

He wanted to meet with me, wherever I chose. He would bring his “proof” about the crime to me and I would write his story and then the children would be saved from a life a crime like his had been. He provided some background on the case I didn’t know from the paper, that may or may not have been true. The whole thing could have been a gag, but if so, he’d gone to extreme limits with the details. He either knew this first hand or was a great liar who was quicker speaking on his feet than most beauty contestants. He sounded serious, but he wasn’t pushy. Just enough held back to make me think it might be a better-than-average con.

I told him I’d think about it and he gave me a number to call him back. It was the same number on the Caller I.D. “Ax for Junior,” he said. “’Cuz dat’s what they call me here. Otherwise ya gets my pop.”

The first call I made was to my friend in the sheriff’s office. He said, “I don’t think you should meet with him at all, but if you do, I’m going with you.”

I had no intention of meeting this guy alone. The crime he had referred to was splashed all over the front pages about the time he claimed, so I already knew some about the case. The sheriff’s deputy told me more. “This whole thing stinks. I’m going to check into it and get back to you.”

This never progressed further because I didn’t return Junior’s call and when he called again, I said I couldn’t help him and that he should write the book himself, explaining there were guides to writing in any library. He thanked me and I haven’t heard from him again.

Different people have had differing reactions to this story. Was he conning me? Surely, he wasn’t being completely honest. Would he have hurt me when he met me? Maybe, but there’s always a threat in meeting someone you don’t know. Did I want to take the chance? Definitely not. I’m not a true crime writer although I have been approached by a couple of lawyers who thought their clients’ stories were worthy of book buyers. If the right prospect tumbled into my lap, I’d consider the project, but probably I’d be more likely to take it on from a lawyer, police officer, or victim/victim’s family than I would from the criminal. Other writers might choose that arena and I welcome them to it.

I write fiction. I like it and yes, they let me keep all the money.