A rose by any other name

would smell as sweet, so the phrase goes. But, a person by any other name is not the same. Once I investigated the death of a little boy in an apartment fire and discovered that his mother and another lady had just gone to bed at 10 am after a night of partying with a teen aged house guest. The two ladies were high on crack and alcohol when they laid down to sleep.

To find the truth I first had to find the people involved in the fire and after several years of searching, I finally found one of them, totally by mistake. She was "working" in Greensboro under an alias and called herself Robin Dee Lynn. Shortly after I made contact with her she was arrested by the Greensboro Police Department and it was while she was incarcerated that I discovered that she was indeed Tammy James, the person I had searched for.

Since I had figured it out, she admitted to the authorities that she was Tammy James, which at the time saved her some jail time as she was not prosecuted for filing false documents, i.e., lying under oath about her name.

While she was in prison, a detainer was issued by Cumberland county against her. I know detainer is not a real word but it is a term used by the NC Prison system designating that an inmate is wanted and when their term in prison is up, they are to be remanded into custody of the detaining party.

At the time I spoke with the DA of Cumberland County and solicted an agreement that they would drop the detainer and not seek to prosecute Tammy James as long as she agreed to stay out of Cumberland county. She willingly did so as she was facing a year in prison at the time.

Five years later she was arrested and is now in the Cumberland County jail on those charges.

I have since discovered that law enforcement believes that her real name is Robin Dee Lynn and that Tammy James is an alias. If Tammy James really doesn't exist, then my agreement with Cumberland County is null and void.

Her use of another person's identity has come back to bite her.

There was a little girl who told a little lie, white of course.

Good for her

69-year-old Ala. woman shoots 18-year-old intruder
Published - Aug 31 2010 02:19PM EST


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(AP Photo/Decatur Daily, Jeronimo Nisa)

Sixty nine year-old Ethel Jones poses with her .38 caliber snubnose revolver behind the glass door window she shattered when she fired three shots at a burglar who broke into her Decatur, Alabama home Monday, August 30, 2010. An 18-year-old suspect was taken to Huntsville Hospital with a gunshot wound to the abdomen.
DECATUR, Ala. — A pistol-packing 69-year-old woman in northern Alabama believes intruders will think twice before messing with her again. Police said Ethel Jones shot an 18-year-old man in the stomach when she found him inside her bedroom at her home in Decatur. Jones said she sleeps with her gun under a pillow next to her and said she grabbed it after hearing a door rattle shortly before 3 a.m. Monday.

Police said the suspect removed a window air conditioner to get inside the home. He was in the hospital and faces a charge of second-degree burglary.

___

Information from: The Decatur Daily, http://www.decaturdaily.com/decaturdaily/index.shtml

It's Not Mine

I'm sure the cops are tired of hearing this excuse but wrong doers keep thinking that this denial will be convincing and the police will let them go. One man said the pants he was wearing were not his, one man said the wallet with is ID and money and credit cards were his but the drugs in the wallet were not. On man claimed that although he was the only person in a car being pursued by the police and was behind the wheel when police pulled him from the vehicle he wasn't driving.

If you have ever watched just one episode of Cops you will have heard at least one person claim the drugs found in their car, in their purse, in their wallet, tied to their scrotum via a string, and even insert in their anus was not theirs. so it doesn't surprise me that Paris Hilton, with all her money, had to borrow a purse and did not notice the vial of drugs inside it. Everything in that purse was hers except for the drugs, of course. Now one would think that someone as rich and wordly as Paris Hilton could have come up with a line a little more original that "it isn't mine."

From that it's hard to believe her stupidity is just an act.

Copper

I read the law log every day and it seems the most common target of thieves in this area is copper. Air conditioning units, industrial sites, new construction, and gas lines seem to be an inviting source of copper for these thieves. it might be a good idea to check out your property checking for copper and if one can afford it, replace the copper or if not, then maybe enhance security of that copper to make stealing more difficult.

The finger

My neighbor has two boxer pups. Back in the spring I saw one of them digginh up flowers in my flower bed but I had no idea then where the dog came from. I called animal control but they said I had to call the police so I did. On several occasions after that the dog, or as I found out later, dogs have been in my yard and for some reason feel they have to dig something up or tear something down. Each time i have notified the police but they say they can't do anything about the dogs unless the police actually see the dog off the owners property.

Now why does that sound familiar? (See my post abpout being attacked in Morganton a few months ago).

Two weeks ago one of the dogs jumped into my water pond. I had wondered why one of my baby koi died and now I have a good suspicion as to how and why. Anyway, i called the police again and again the dog was back home before the cops got there. Thursday I went to Hickory to see Mom and my wife called me to tell me one of the boxers tried to get into the pond but seemed confused by the net. She said she told the neighbor her dog was trying to get into the pond and the lady shot my ife a good view of her middle finger and said "F..k you and your f..king husband."

When the police arrived the women told the cops the only pet problems in the neighborhood was our cat coming in their yard and bothering their dogs. first of all, we don't have a cat and secondly I can't believe two boxers would be intimitated by a cat.

The responsible thing to dowould be for either our neighbors make sure to follow the law and lease their pets or build a fence (even if it is an invisible fence) or find another home for their dogs. Boxers are fairly large dogs and not the most friendly of pets and they have caused me plenty of property damage. i hate having to call the police but the people next door keep promising to take proper precautions but repeatedly fail to do so.

Clorox is good: just not this good.

I saw a clorox commercial today where Clorox was used to clean a toliet. the last line of the commercial stated "Clorox : keeping toliets clean for a hundred years"

I seriously doubt that any product will clean my toliet doe a hundred years. a couple of days, max.

.

committe to elect a democractic senate

Tell Sarah: Keep Your Claws Off the Senate

Sarah Palin is playing kingmaker: she’s traveled the country building up candidates she calls “Mama Grizzlies” – super conservatives who’ll use Palin as a political role model.

It’s time to put the “Mama Grizzlies” in a political cage before they get loose in our nation’s capital.

Sign the petition below, and give Sarah Palin a piece of your mind. Tell her to go back to ignoring the people of Alaska instead of playing political games with our nation’s future.
No, you can't sign the petition here. I like Sarah Palin but not as the President of the United States. But she would be much preferred over Nancy Pelosi.


I'm not sugesting one vote Republican this Novmber--just don't vote for a Democrat.

I suppose that in the minds of the present leadership they believe they are doing a good job but in reality they arn't. The economy is stagnant, jobs are hard to come by, everyone place is trying to raise revenue to keep in place progrmas they have already passed (though some may need to be cut or eliminated).


In my family, if my income goes down, I have to look for ways to cut expenses or increase my income. government does the same thing except that government produces nothing. They claim they do things for the public good but in reality they can only take from you and give to some one else.

I have no way to combat higher sales taxes but to spend less. if we go to the value added tax, I may have to resort to making my own stuff or getting rid of some of the stuff I already have.

I like to grill out but charcoal is expensive. I enjoy my fish pond but I may have to drain the pond and eat thr fish. I may have to learn to make candles and turn off a few lights around the house. I don't need any more fairy tale "hope I can believe in" promises, any more good for me government programs, or nervous feelings about an uncertain future.

Like me, the government needs to learn to spend only what they have and to let the normal ebbs and flows of life take it course with only gentle guidance from above, a more dimplomatic approach to solving the worlds problems and more pragmatic solutions to solving our own.

We don't need political parties unwilling to solve the immigration problems because they are trying to woe the minority vote in order to remain in power. We don't need a dominate political power because once we have such a system in place, the ballot box no longer controls the politicians. Just like the econmy gets out of wack and needs a guiding hand to lead it back in the right direction, our political system gets out of wack and needs a vote to steer us correctly, Lately, things have gotten so out of whack and Republicans and Democrats have become enemies insteak of just adversaries that the pulls, pushing and jerks of the wheel are threatning to tear this country apart rather than gentle guide it down the path.

we need candidates that can tell use why they should be elected rather tahn candidates telling us why their opponents should be defeated. We don't need to remake this country into something different but we do need to keep it on course. Our country was designed to be controlled from the bottom up and not the top down and I believe our leaders have forgotten that. we need a way to find our way back to where we were so we can continue to be the great nation we once were.

American Released

Mr. Gomes was released from a North Korean prison this week after former president Jimmy Carter visited that country seeking Gnomes' release. It is speculated that Gomes may have crossed into North Korea in protest of another American arrested there a month earlier. He may have had his own agenda but his reasons will be up to him to state.

Gomes was sentenced in April to eight years of hard labor and fined $700,000 for illegally entering the country. Gomes' relatives have declined to say much about him or his situation, though they pleaded for his release on humanitarian grounds after North Korea's state-run media reported last month that he'd attempted suicide.

North Korea has a lot to learn from the United States. To reach our humanitarian standards, mr. Gomes should have been provided with a job, an apartment, food stamps and welfare payments, and free dental and medical care. And if any North Korean officials didn't like the fact that he was there then the President of North Korea could have filed a lawsuit against them like we do here in America.

Harold Dow 1947-2010

48 hour mystery, a CBS production, was one of my favorite shows and Harold Dow, was one of my favorite reporters. He will be missed.

Miss Universe

Miss Mexico won the Miss Universe contest proving once again that it is a polical contest. it seems that want ever the hot bed issue is involving another country, the lady from that country wins.

Cookie-Cutter Communities

Communities, towns,and cities were build near rivers and lakes as a reliable source of water was needed to feed the animals, run the factories, and quench the thrist of its citizens. People built stuff because it was needed or wanted and each place was different. Sure, each town had places to eat, schools and churches. and retail shops but maybe Mabel in South Fork baked a better pie and Sally in in Smithtown but the Smithtown blacksmith was more reliable than any other.

Communities gained their reputation by how good the residents were at fufilling certain needs whether it be farming, manufacturing, entertainment, or the basic needs of life. Today, it is still the indiviual businesses that give a place charater and charm. Like Seagrove (which is neither by the sea or filled with groves). When one thinks of Seagrove one thinks of pottery but I travel there only to visit Jugtown cafe and their Rueben sandwich.

Unfortunately, too many towns are becoming like Randleman. There is a Wal-mart, a toco bell, a bonjangles, a mcDonalds, a waffle house, a papa johns, dominoes, and a hardees. Don't forget an auto zone and the quick lube place. Randlemans latest addition is a McPersons bar and grill.

They call in Randleman lake but you can't get to it from Randleman. Downtown is full of antique stores, really stores filled with old stuff that gives some lonely soul somewhere to go and sit all day and fell like they have a purpose but only serves to fill up a dirty old building with something.

There is the cupcake store which sells cupcakes that aren't all that special. The young ladies who run the place are cute and try hard and offer a large variety of cup cakes that can make an occasion special like my Mom's birthday. But it is places like that that give a town aa scence of character and uniqueness and charm. Read "Our State" magazine and when they feature a North Carolina town it isn't the chain stores that get featured but the things the locals do that is different than from anywhere else.

I suppose that is one of the reasons I dislike the big box stores so much. maybe they enable a small town like Randleman to survive but maybe they rob places of their identity.

winterizing my pond

It's a little early, I know, but with the neighbor's dog constantly jumping into the pond I thought it might be a good idea to do the big one anyway. It really doesn't take long if you don't mind getting a little wet.

The first thing you have to do is remove all the floaters. I started with five; three in the big pond and two in the small pond. I had over 1,100 in the big pond when I cleaned them out. Floaters don't winter over and will die and decay if not removed. Do not throw them in the lake! use them for fertilizer for your gardens.

The next step is to trim all your pond plants.

Once the plants are taken care of, just cover with a pond or tree net and you are good to go until next year.

Yahoo insight

"Even big-name celebrities can end up on the wrong side of the law. Check out photos of famous mug shots.…" is the opening line in a photo shoot display.

The truth is, Congeressmen, senators, both federal and state, governors, presidents, and even preachers, youth pastors, and Sunday School teachers end up on the wrong side of the law. Hell, even hospital adminitrators, doctors, nurses, and dentist do wrong. Can't think of any group of people whose members are blaneless.

alan Comb's show

I don't know if that is how he spells his name-it's a talk radio show-liberal Alan Comb had a guest host the other night would made the opening statement that he didn't believe americans spit of Vietnnam War veterans.

They did.

Thelast few years I've had a few people say "Thanks" for your service but no one has every said "i'm sorry" for the way vets were viewed and treated. Until I get an "I'm sorry" it is impossible to feel good about a thanks.

The commitee to elect a Democractic Congress

Sign our Petition

Demand that Rush Help Clean Up the Spill

Rush Limbaugh said, “The ocean will take care of this on its own…It’s as natural as the ocean water is.”

Cyanide is natural too, but that doesn’t mean we should let it into our water supply.

Rush Limbaugh should see for himself that there’s nothing “natural” about birds, fish, beaches and marshland coated with oil. Demand that Rush pull on some rubber gloves and go help with cleanup effort. It’s the least he can do after a career of spewing his own crude over the American airwaves.



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Rush Limbaughi isn't running for any office. Why are the Democractics campaigning against him?

To build or not

There is a lot of controversy about whether to allow a Mosque to be built near ground zero in New York. Those against cite the building would be an affront to America and to the victims of 911 (we all are victims to some extent). Others cite our freedom of religion as a reason we should allow it to be built. One writer to the Asheboro paper says that to allow the building of the Mosque would be a victory for the America way of life and a loss for the haters of America.

Refusing to allow the building of the Mosque is not a freedom of religion issue. preventing the building does not restrict anyone from practicing Islam. There are already 30 Mosques in New York City. people just don't like the idea that the enemy can rub our noses in the 9-11 tragedy.

It isn't my decision to make whether to allow the building of the Mosque or not but I do not agree with Obama that it is a religious issue either. Its kind of like when the president of BP went to the yacht races right after the oil leak. It was an affront to the people of the gulf coast but not illegal by any means.

if the Mosque is built, which it probably will be, then perhaps we, meaning America, would best be served by building something that not only memorializes the victims of the twin towers, but promotes peace and harmony and tolerance and understanding towards all people and their beliefs, including those who do not believe in any deity. in other words, build something that embodies the America spirit and the American way of life, or what represents the way America was meant to be.

Courtesy, yea right!

I had a good chuckle while reading the article on the reson banking rule changes, especially now that customers have to opt in to get the "overdraft protection" from banks that they once extended to all customers as a courtesy. That is as big a bunch of crap as I have ever read. The way overdraft protection workds is this:

Let's say you wrote five checks, one for your car payment for $350.00, one to starbucks for $12.75, one for $60.00, for for $14.52 and one for $23.00. The five checks total $460.27 and you check book shows a balance of $461.00 so you think you are okay but are shocked to discover that a $1.00 fee had been attacked to your checking account when you used your ATM to purchase gas so you are 27 cents short of having enough to cover your checks.

Your bank charges $35.00 per bounched check and as hard as that wuill be for you to deal with it is something you will survive. All five checks show up at the bank at the same time and to your additional horror you discover you had made a mistake in your accounting and your balance was only $360.00. Still enough to cover four of the five checks.

The banks, explain later that they figured you would rather pay the larger account first, pays your car payment and bounces the four smaller checks. Actually, they didn't bounce them, they extended you the courtesy of overdraft protection. Because of this protection you now owe the bank 4 times $35.00 or $140.00 because they made a judgement call on your behalf and extended you a courtesy.

Now the bank wants you to sign up for the same rip off scheme they had been pulling on their customers for years.

Back when I was young, the banks paid the smaller checks first, and if you were a really good customer and the amount in the bank and the amount of the check were close in amount, the bank would pay it for you so you owed no one anything.

When I was it college I had to work and payday was Tuesdays and every Tuesday I deposited my paycheck. One day for whatever reason I had more checks outstanding than money in the bank but knowing that I deposited money on Tuesday, the bank paid my check on Monday and got their money back the next day. Today, that smae bank would have charged me as a struggling college student a $35.00 courtesy fee for that $150 mistake.

So when the bank offers you this overdraft courtesy, smiles sweetly and say Thanks but no thanks.

Old system

Now that I have a new desk top (my wife is getting the laptop) Ihave an old one that needs a good home. It is a windows XP Athlon tan in color. The only flaw is the front ports don't work but other than that it is a good system. Anyone know of a deserving family that would appreciate and use it?

Customer Service

it seems the incident with the flight attendant has highlighted customer/ service personnel relationships from the employees point of view. I have worked in retail most of my life and sometimes situations develop that are hard to control. My first really bad incident came when a small boy tossed an item he was looking at in a place it didn't go and as part of my job, I picked the item up and placed it back where it belonged. For some reason, this act upset the child's father who preceded to rant at me and even threatened me with bodily harm My manager engaged the customer, explained I was only doing my job, and that he needed a better excuse to get angry than he didn't like my looks.

Once I had a customer pull a gun on me and promised to kill me. Unbelievably, he had already called the police to have them force me to let him into the store which wasn't open yet due to a power outage.

Once when i worked a second job in a convenience store, a woman preyed using a credit card for gas on pump 10. She went to her car and them moved it from pump ten to pump eight. When the pump won't come on, she came back into the store. I told her she moved from one pump to another so I had cancelled that transaction and would set her up on pump eight. I asked for her card again and she said she had already paid. I told her no, that transaction had been cancelled. She wanted me to issue her a credit and I said I could not because she was never charged.

She refused to move from in front of my register and the line was backing up. In just a few minutes I had over twenty people waiting behind her I finally told her that if she continued to interfere with business I would have to call the police.

One other time a customer became upset because I refused his ID as proof of age in order to purchase beer. He said he wasn't leaving the store until he got his beer and accused me of refusing to sell it to him just because I didn't like him. i explained that an out-of-state ID card was not acceptable in NC for proof of age to purchase alcohol but he only became more belligerent. He calmed down when I offered to call a policeman to explain the law to him. He liked that idea. unfortunately for him, the policeman placed him under arrest for carrying a concealed weapon.

I could write a book on bad behaviour of customers but suffice it to say that no matter how bizarre a person's actions were, I have never gotten angry, felt like striking them, or retaliated in any way. I understand that sometimes people are under stress, don't understand the procedures, or are just looking to cause trouble. If I can't handle the situation, I refer it to a higher authority.

Eye Candy

Contestants in the 2010 Miss UNIVERSE CONTEST. One of my managers is from Guatamala, as is the woman from the top and the bottom photo. His wife and he just had a baby who they named Maximillian. Out manager trainne and his other half just had one too, who they named Thor. Thor was airlifted to another hospital where he was placed in an incubator. although he had a healthy weight, his lungs were filled with fluid and he is to be in the hospital for at least a week, which is through this coming Monday.

no justice

A lady takes a dirty diaper and smears it on the back window of another person's car and is arrested for harrassment. I have a man jump out of a vehicle, try to open my door, break my window, and then dent the top of my car with his fists-not once but twice- and the Morganton, NC police make no arreasts or issued any charges.

I guess such behaviour is acceptable in small Southern towns.

RayCriscoe

A while back, I mentioned (http://daleesperling.blogspot.com/2010/07/ray-criscoes-follies.html) an article that appeared in a weekly column in the newspaper about opposition to seat belt use. It seems the columnist, Ray Criscoe, had just received his second ticket for not wearing a seat belt. He criticized the law, critized the police officers who wrote the ticket, and expressed the notion that we should not be punished because we disobey the laws we don't believe in.

I asked readers to send him copies of reports when people are hurt or killed because they didn't wear selt belts. In todays paper, Monday, 8-9-10, Jeffrey Wayne Beck, 43was thrown from a vehicle and died. I bet if he could have a do over, he would not have ridden with a person who had been drinking and if he didn't change that part, he would have worn his selt belts.

But he doesn't get a do over.

Buckle up!

The finger

most people have five digits on each hand and each have different meanings when held in the air. The little pinkie calls into question ones masculinity, the index finger means we are number one, the thumb means "way to go" or "give me a ride", the ring finger just means "I got a ring" like in a wedding ring. The middle finger, however, leaves no question as to its meaning. The giver of the finger is expressing his/her angry at the recipient. Once one receives the finger, it is common to give it back and often heated words are exchanged and sometimes vilolence occurs.

Today I was a recipient of the middle finger. What I did was legally correct but i drive a little red car and the giver drove a black mercedes sports car. A person backing a car has to yeild to traffic, leggaly anyway, but courtesy sometimes prevails and another driver will yeild. most days I do because I know it isn't always easy to back into traffic. Today I didn't.

The man chased me down and pulled close to my back bumper to draw my attention to him and his extended middle finbger. He was hoping from a reaction from me. He was disappointed. Not6 one to be deterred, he followed me and again gave me the finger when I made a right hand turn. Again I didn't react.

It would have solved nothing and changed nothing. Maybe it made him feel better and it gave me something to write about.

Most often I find I find when people give me the finger it is because they did something wrong and even though they almost caused an accident, can't realize what they did wrong. like the man who was in the inside left turn lane and I was in the outside left turn lane. He made his turn but into my lane. He leaned out the passenger window, called me an idiot and gave me his finger.

Neither or both

LOCKPORT, N.Y. — Authorities trying to solve a shooting in New York have zeroed in on identical twin brothers _ but now they have to figure out which one to charge.

A prosecutor on Wednesday won the right to photograph 31-year-old Niagara Falls residents Edward and Raymond Nickens with their shirts on and off to see which one might match a witness' description in the May shooting.

The brothers wore matching clothes and goatees in court. But tattoos visible on their arms were different.

Edward Nickens' attorney argued photos should be taken after charges are filed. Raymond Nickens' attorney said police have already taken pictures.

But the judge allowed the photo session after the Niagara County prosecutor said the brothers could change their appearances to look even more alike.

____

Information from The Buffalo News: http://www.buffalonews.com


Charge one with obstruction and the other with the orignal crime or let both go.l
.

Southgate

Dedication
I would like to dedicate this book to the memory of young Tyler who never had
a chance to live his life, and to his mother, who never had the chance to see her
son grow into a man. I would also like to remember young Joshua who will forever live with the
scars on his body from the fire, and the scars in his mind due to the actions of his parents.
The people in this book are victims of abusive parents; parents with carefree lifestyles, parents
who did not know how to handle children, and a system of care not designed to deal with their
parents’ problems. They are also victims of bad environments, the drug culture, people ready to
take advantage, men who seek out prostitutes, and their own personalities.
Still, I will not excuse them for their actions as adults, because there is help for
them, yet they refuse to seek it.
There are people who care about them and yet they seek to take advantage of them. They are
responsible for their own actions. The choices they make are their own choices and there is a way
out. They do not have to wait until they hit rock bottom to have a change of mind.
This book is written for all the people who love these girls and boys and have
been deeply hurt by their actions—be they parents, siblings, friends, or their
children. I also want to dedicate this book to all the honest police officers that
serve to protect our communities from the predators on our streets. There are
some who care for these girls, but there are a few who take advantage of them.
Those police officers are an embarrassment to themselves, to the community,
and to the good name of police officers everywhere.
One of the girls of the Southgate has just given birth to a beautiful baby boy, the
son of a law enforcement officer. This tiny child was conceived not from love
shared by two people, but by the lust of one man and the fear of one lady.
After learning this prostitute was pregnant with his child, the officer gave her
several hundred dollars to have an abortion. Instead, she purchased crack cocaine with the
majority of the money, and now has another neglected child by a man
who denies he ever knew her.
Lastly, I want to dedicate this book to my friends who have suffered through having to read it
several times and listened to me talk about what was happening as it unfolded—yet they still
remained my friends. Their encouragement was invaluable in my being able to complete this
book.


2
Foreword
The Queen of Southgate is a real story. The people in the story are real, the fire was real, the
death of the little boy was real, and the pain was real. It is, perhaps, a true story as some would
claim, but I will not be so bold, as the truth can be elusive and is based on an individual’s
interpretation.
There is a purpose to this book, but it is not just the telling of a story for there is too much pain
for some people to have to relive these events. It is not for clarification of why things happened,
for understanding would not change the events or ease anyone’s suffering. It is not for
entertainment, nor is it for financial gain.
I hope this book brings about some type of change for the better in the life of the reader, either to
change an attitude or a behavior. I believe the purpose of this book is best told through the life of
one lady. Her life is not unique, but lived by thousands of people every day. In fact, it is because
her lifestyle is so common that I feel her story must be told.
It is my sincerest hope that by reading and learning about this person that some of us will come to
a better realization that the decisions and choices we make affect others and not only ourselves.
Often we hear a young person exclaim, “What I do is no one else’s business.”
I have found that what we do in private often manifests itself in the lives of others.
If the publication of this book can change the situation for even one family or one person, then all
the work and all the expense will have been worth it. My heart aches so much for some of the
people whose lives have been filled with so much hurt and disappointment that they can no longer
trust anyone, and who are now so angry that they will no longer allow themselves to care about
anyone, not even themselves.
They are so determined to prove to the world that they need no one but themselves to survive, and
so determined not to be controlled by anyone—or anything—that they fail to realize that they are
controlled beyond their wildest imagination by the substances that they abuse and the
environment that they place themselves into.
The environment of evil they live in is so strong that it will take the strength of a Hercules, the
will of a Corey Ten Boom, the patience of a Mother Teresa, and all the grace of God, to break its
hold.
It is my sincerest prayer that no one ever has to live like this and that families become the safe,
nurturing, supportive entities that God intended them to be. Too often, it is what is legal,
acceptable, and tolerated that leads to another’s destruction and not at all what we perceive to be
evil influences.


3
“But take heed, lest by any means this liberty of yours becomes the stumbling block to them that
are weak.”
–1 Corinthians 8:9


4
Chapter 1
It’s called “paying last respects” but I had never met the lady in life and certainly didn’t
want to view her in death. My presence at the funeral home was only as a favor to my
lady friend, Rae. After watching her hug a few people and suffering through several
introductions to people from her past, I longed to be elsewhere. Recalling a small store
next to the parking lot, I turned to Rae. “I’m going outside and get a newspaper. I’ll wait
for you by the car.”
I slipped quietly from the funeral home, being careful not to draw the attention of
those people pretending to be grieving from the passing of a casual acquaintance. Some
people go to funerals because they really do care about the person who has just died,
others come to comfort the living, while most are just doing their social duties. In some
cases, like famous people and heads of state, people come because death affords them the
opportunity to see a celebrity that would have been unapproachable in life. As for me,
funerals make me uncomfortable and I avoid them except in extreme circumstances. I
never view the bodies because if I did care for the person in life, I want to remember
them as a living person, not a nice looking corpse.
I felt uncomfortable in my coat and tie and ditched them as soon as I was outside. I
hesitated at the grassy divider between the funeral home and the parking lot of the
convenience store; the store’s parking lot strewn with stray papers, beer bottles, and an
assortment of other trash. The red sign over the entrance declaring “Quickie Shop” was
now a faded orange with a coating of a chalky white substance and the glass doors bore
evidence of years of neglect.
A look around the area convinced me that all seemed quiet at the moment so I
hastened into the store, purchased a copy of the Fayetteville Observer, and hustled my
butt out of the store back to relative safety. Once back to my car, I opened the passenger
side and sat done to peruse my paper. It was a nice day for mid-December but still a little
too cool to be sitting outside on a hard curb. Besides, I didn’t want to draw attention
from any of the people that might visit the store next door.
“We’re going to Margo and John’s.”
“Who,” I said, startled into attention by the sound of Rae’s voice.
“Margo and John’s—you know, the lady who just died—Margo. She was my best
friend and John wants you and I to come over.
I didn’t dare argue with her. I looked into her blue eyes and saw them sparkle—
maybe an evil glow or the sun reflecting from her bright red hair, I wasn’t quite sure, but
I did know that serious look when she had it. She was surprisingly understanding when I
left her to deal with the bereaved alone and for what?-a newspaper? But now I knew it
was payback time. If there was one thing I disliked almost as much as funerals was


5
visiting in a strange home surrounded by people I didn’t know. But I owed her this
and she knew it.
“I found an interesting story in the paper”
Rae glanced towards me with her face forming the questioning look. “It must have
been. Normally you would be quizzing me about the people we are going to see. You’ll
have to tell me later as we are almost there. Just turn right at the third house on the left—
yea, the yellow one.”
While Rae and John and some of the closest of friends visited with each other, I sat in an
easy chair in the corner nursing a soft drink and thought about the story in the paper.
It was a typical December day in this part of North Carolina, not particularly cold but
requiring a light jacket to feign off the chill. What was not typical was what occurred at
11 am. on this twelfth day of the month at 2134 Grand Prix in Bonnie Doone at the Mark
I apartments.
According to the newspaper accounts, Tammy James smelled smoke coming from the
children’s bedroom. She kicked in the door and grabbed one of the two boys and ran
downstairs to warn the others about the fire. She carried the boy she had grabbed outside
while Toni Harris and a house guest attempted to put the flames out. When the fire
fighters arrived, they rushed into the burning apartment in a vain attempt to save the other
child.
“That’s a tragic story but just what do you find so unusual about it?” John asked.
Less than two weeks before Christmas and eleven in the morning and these two
mothers are sleeping while their toddlers are up. That’s not normal behavior. And why
are they entertaining a nineteen year old male house guest? There is much more to this
story than they told the authorities and I plan on finding out.
“How you figuring on doing that?”
“I’ll have to find the women involved and get them to tell me the truth.”
“How you going to find them?”
“I have a computer. I’ll track them down using it. It’s the fastest and cheapest way I
know.”
“Don’t know nothing ‘bout computers but I don’t know how one could help ya trace
someone.”
One would assume, as I did, that from John’s command of the English language, or
lack thereof, that he wasn’t very educated or successful in life. Margo was only fifty-two


6
when she died and John was only a couple of years older. His balding head and gray hair
made him look older than his years, and his plaid shirt stretched tightly over his grossly
overweight frame, made him appear as lazy as he was old.
John and Margo’s home was small but tastefully decorated although the couch had
long seen its better days. She died of cancer but without knowing the family I could not
guess whether her smoking or the second hand smoke from John’s chain smoking habit
killed her. Apparently John took no heed to the lessons taught by his wife’s early death.
Even with the funereal tomorrow John showed no concern for his own health even
though he was hooked to an oxygen bottle with a “flammable” sticker on it.
I was glad when Rae joined me on the couch and was able to change the subject away
from computers and my quest for the truth of the death of that three year old boy. I really
didn’t want to have to explain to John why I cared about a child I had never met and
probably never would, had he lived . To me, the answer is obvious, and it is as hard for me to
realize that few people feel the same way as I do as it is to visualize all the horrific things
people do to other living things.
During victim impact statements, parents talk about not seeing their child grown up, not
walking their daughter down the aisle, not holding their grandchildren. They talk about how
they lit up a room, or their constant laugh, or other good endearing qualities that made
their son or daughter special. No one ever says my daughter was a fat, lazy person who
was dirty, and didn’t care about other people, laid out of school because no one liked her
and she was too stupid to learn, or how their son was anti-social, would like to pick on
smaller kids and had a drug problem. Even the relatives of crack addicted prostitutes
who fall victim to serial killers have relatives who stand up in court and say “I know my
sister didn’t live the best life but she had many people who loved her and she didn’t
deserve to die this way.”
It is more than that though. We all have our dreams. No one wants to just get married.
We want to marry Price Charming or the home coming queen. Even in our conformity
we want to be seen as unique, special, and likeable above all others. It doesn’t matter that
one aspires to be President and another president of their local club. As for me, I would
like to make a difference in this world and of course I’d like to be remembered by others.
The truth is, not many people where I work know who I am and not all of them even like
me. But that does not prevent me from trying to write the “Great American novel” or
striving to make a difference in this world.
It isn’t always the bright pretty people that make a difference. They are all too often
living vain and selfish lives. Name some people who really made a difference: Mother
Theresa, Gandhi, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and you notice there isn’t a
pretty one in the bunch. One man, born rich, well-educated, handsome, charismatic,
married to a beautiful woman, and President of the United States cheated constantly on
his wife, leading to the death of a famous actress, and was assassinated just before
congress considered impeachment proceedings because of his relationship with a
Russian spy.


7
No, I’m not one to value a person because of their education or looks nor because of
their accomplishments either. One man was highly influential in his home town, serving
in the political arena, and even showed his love for kids by entertaining as a clown.
Another young man volunteered with Ann Rule, a famous true crime author, on a suicide
hotline, and was an outstanding young Republican, once the second most influential
Republican in his home state. He was quite handsome and charming. The first man was
John Wayne Gacy and the other was Ted Bundy.
Quite often, I judge a person by their potential. To me, the fat ugly stupid girl, who can
go back to school and get her GED, learn to dress properly and accent her best features
can serve as an inspiration to many. She is potentially worth more to society than the
beauty queen who marries the quarterback and lives a socialite’s life, being the life of the
party.
I have no way of knowing who the little boy would have turned out to be. He could
have been someone important or he could have been just another street thug, but he
deserved that chance to be. More likely, he would have turned out to be just like the vast
majority of us, struggling to get by and do the best we can until we die. We like our life
and don’t want it taken away from us. Once, when a street thug pulled a knife on me and
told me I was about to die, all I asked him was to explain to me why. If I was going to die
I wanted to at least know why. I think the kid in the story would like someone to know
why he had to die.


8
Chapter two
I began my search as soon as I returned home from the funeral. My first computer was
a 56k with dial-up and it was one of the best and fastest on the market when it was built.
Shortly after I started to search into the fire, I upgraded to a 256 with Pentium 1 and
Windows 98. That meant that I only had to wait 2 to 3 hours for some things to load
versus a day or two otherwise, or so it seemed. Being a novice with a computer, I soon
realized its potential and how little I knew.
I started by downloading all the newspaper accounts of the fire I could get and after
identifying all the people present at the fire, I started my search for them. The mother of
the deceased boy, 3 years of age, was Toni Harris and the other woman present was
Tammy James. They were reported to be cousins and both twenty-eight years old. The
guy was nineteen, according to the papers but other than that he didn’t seem to exist.
Even the town the papers reported him as being from didn’t exist.
According to the newspapers, no one knew for certain if Ms. James actually lived at
the apartments with Ms. Harris or if she was just a house guest. What I did learn about
the fire was that the two boys were in one bedroom on the second floor adjacent to the
bedroom occupied by Ms. James. Ms. Harris was reported to be sleeping in a downstairs
bedroom and their house guest was sleeping on the couch. Ms. James smelled smoke,
kicked open the door to the children’s bedroom, grabbed into the thick smoke for a child
and ran out of the apartments, warning her cousin of the fire.
It was a neighbor who called the fire department. Ms. Harris lost her son and Ms.
James’s son was severely burned and was medivacted to a burn center while Ms. James
herself was hospitalized for burns to her feet and chest.
There just wasn’t but a few articles in the newspapers about the incident and all I
learned from subsequent articles is that investigators ruled the fire an accident and no
charges were to be filed. I didn’t believe it was an accident but knowing and proving are
two entirely different matters.
Using my computer, I download all the phone numbers for James’ and Harries from the
Fayetteville phone book and called them to see if anyone was familiar with the two
women to no avail. Their names were not listed among area high school graduates
either. Feeling frustrated, I was about to give up when I received a response from one of


9
my letters to the neighbors in the apartments where the fire occurred that the letter writer
believed that the two women were from Raleigh.
Beginning my search anew I again checked all the phone numbers and again I had no
luck. Checking high school graduates yielded a hit. A Tammy James had graduated
from Broughton High School in 1985. A check with the school provided me with an
Mary Hart
Mary Hart
address at the time she graduated, 1208 Cleveland School Road in Garner, NC. There
was no Cleveland School in Raleigh or Garner and no Cleveland School Road either. I
wrote to a Todd Johnston, director of the Johnston County Heritage Center in Gardner
and he informed me that “They renumbered all the houses several years ago. I think 1208
in the 80’s would have been near the Johnston-Wake county line in the vicinity of the Old
Drug Store and the present I-40 and Highway 42.”
My search ended there. I couldn’t find anymore information about either woman or
James Cassel, the house guest, so I put everything I had learned into a folder and filed it
away. It would be several years before I would need that file again.


10
Chapter 3
“It’s a girl,” exclaimed Dr. Julian T. Brantley as he recognized the sex of the baby he
had just delivered.
It was 6:40 on the morning of November 3, 1966, when Margaret Arlene Bailey
delivered her third daughter. The first two had been delivered years earlier while she was
still in high school and she had been living at home with her parents. She had been too
young to be a good mother back then and had let her parents raise her first two daughters.
Margaret Arlene was much older now, in her thirties, and was married so maybe she
could be a real mother for a change. Her husband, Glen Robert James, was sixteen years
her junior but at twenty-two he was a supervisor with the company they both worked for.
True, it wasn’t a well paying position and selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door
didn’t provide either a good or steady income, at least he worked and would provide
some sort of home for her and her new daughter.
They liked Greensboro but without family and few friends, Arlene realized that she
would either have to give up her job, which the family couldn’t afford for her to do, or
find someone to help her with the baby. Glen was originally from California and had no
dependable family there. Margaret Arlene did have two daughters, both out of high
school who lived in the Raleigh area. Maybe they could help her out some. She knew it
was a lot to ask but how else was she and Glen and baby Tammy going to make it?
The trio settled into an old house at 1208 Cleveland School Road in Raleigh and raised
their daughter there. Arlene received a little help from her two daughters but they were
still young and were trying to get established in their own lives. The three families did
remain in touch with each other over the years but the relationship between the older
daughters and their mother could never be described as close.


11
Tammy was a rebellious child and Glen and Arlene were never sure how to handle her.
Tammy was smart though and in spite of her uncooperative and independent ways she
did manage to graduate from Broughton High. She hated the area where she grew up and
disliked school almost as much. She would often complain that the other kids were
snobbish so she developed an in-your-face attitude and finally quit caring what the other
students thought of her. In spite of her anti-social leanings, Tammy attended a
cosmetology school after graduation and found employment in a small beauty salon not
far from the Duke University campus.
Tammy’s mother, Margaret Arlene Bailey, wasn’t there to see her graduate. She had
passed away three years earlier. Her father, Glen James, died a few years after Tammy
graduated. The only family Tammy had left was her two much older sisters and a cousin.
Her cousin was the same age and the two had a close relationship over the years.
When Tammy began working at the beauty shop and had met and was dating a new
boyfriend, her cousin decided to strike out on her own. She left Raleigh and moved to
Fayetteville and Tammy moved in with her boyfriend. Not long after her cousin gave
birth to her first baby, Tammy discovered she was pregnant.
Life was tough for Tammy. Her boyfriend couldn’t, or wouldn’t hold a steady job, she
wasn’t making much money at the beauty saloon, her boyfriend slapped her around
sometimes, and with the cost of cigarettes, booze for her drinking problem, and money
for her drug habit, there just wasn’t much left over for food, rent, and medical expenses
for her unborn child.
Tammy named her first born child, a boy, Joshua. After a few weeks of recovery, the
happiness of being a new mom began to wear thin and Tammy longed for her old
lifestyle back. One night she hit her favorite bar, not stopping drinking until she was too
drunk to drive safely. She hadn’t gotten far after leaving the bar when she saw blue lights
behind her. To her dismay, it was the very same cop that had ticketed her before for
DUI.
Joshua was only six weeks old on that August 23, 1994 day when his mother received
her second DUI conviction and had her driving privileges suspended. Life had seemed
almost impossible to her before and this had only added to her problems. Her
relationship with her sisters, while never close, had deteriorated as had her relationship
with her live-in lover. Not realizing that changing locations is not a solution to bad lifestyle
choices, Tammy made the decision to move to Fayetteville to be with her cousin.
Tony, not living with the father of her child, had her own apartment and seemed to be
doing fairly well. At least she seemed to be fairing much better than Tammy.
Maybe, she hoped, her life would be much better there.


12
Chapter 4
Tammy Jean James had not realized that on the December morning when she had rescued her
son from the fire she was pregnant. On July 16, 1995, she gave birth to a girl. Less than two years
later, on July 5, 1997, less than two weeks away from her daughter’s second birthday, Tammy
Jean James was pulled over again for another DUI offense. Ironically, Tammy was leaving the
same bar, and it was the same patrolman that had given her the previous two DUI tickets. This
time she pulled six months in prison, serving from May 8, 1998, until January 8, 1999, at the
Women’s Correctional Institute in Raleigh.
It was during her incarceration there that her family sued for custody of her two children in the
courts. The family won the case.
“That cop ruined my life,” Tammy later claimed. “Hell, I got high on crack before I’d even got
off the prison grounds on the day I was released,” Tammy then bragged. “My boyfriend picked
me up and we partied all the way home.”
She was happy that day, but things did not go well for her for long. On June 27, 1999, while
living in Raleigh, she was once again arrested, this time charged with unauthorized use of a motor
vehicle and felonious theft of money. Before her court date, she sat at home with a friend and
smoked crack.
“I was bored and a friend came over to the house. We shared some crack and my friend
suggested we just take off, so I said okay,” she told me.
This turned out to be another bad decision. The wisest thing I ever heard Tammy Jean James
say was, “I can see now where the decisions I made opened the traps I find myself unable to
escape from now.”
Tammy and her friend went to Fayetteville where Tammy soon found herself in a very bad way
by year’s end. After an arrest there, she ran to a place she felt in her heart was home.
********************************************


13
I pulled into Kyle’s Amoco on Randleman Road next to the Southgate Motor Inn in
Greensboro, NC, on my back to work from lunch, stopped to get my Diet Red and my Doral
Lights. As I exited my 1999 Ford Ranger, a man approached me. He threw up his hand as if in
recognition as he walked towards me. He was taller than me by at least four inches and thin, his
clothes neat but not of the best quality. His beard was short and scruffy and he walked with that
attitude that many blacks do. I figured he wanted to bum a cigarette, but he said, “TJ is looking
for you.”
“Who?”
“TJ,” he replied. “She said the guy in the white Ford pickup.”
“You must have the wrong person,” I said. “I don’t know a TJ.”
I was wondering why she was looking for me. I was confused and apprehensive.
Was this legitimate or some type of scam?
“Well, she said the guy in the white pickup. That is your white Ford, ain’t it?” he asked.
“Is she a tall, skinny blonde?” I asked. “I worked with a TJ once that was tall and skinny, a
young girl about nineteen or twenty.”
“No, TJ is short with brown hair, green eyes, and long nipples,” he answered. “Just wait here
and I’ll go get her for you.”
After he walked away, I entered Kyle’s hoping to make my purchase and leave before he got
back. Nevertheless, as usual whenever I was in a hurry there was always something, or someone,
to slow me down. In this case, it was a little, old, homeless lady trying to purchase a beer almost
as large as she was, with change that consisted of mostly nickels and pennies. By the time I left
the store, the man was back.
“Hey, man, can you come back in fifteen or twenty minutes?” he asked me. “TJ’s busy making
forty right now.”
I did not know what “making forty” meant, but I was glad to get out of there.
“Sure, I’ll catch you in a short.”
I later learned that she was in a room at the Southgate with an older man who paid her forty
dollars for sex.
The next day—while returning to work after lunch at a KFC—I saw a woman walking up
Farragut Street toward Randleman Road. She was dressed in faded jeans, white tennis shoes, and
a man’s plaid shirt. She looked just like the woman the black man told me about, TJ, so out of
curiosity, I stopped and asked her name.
“TJ,” she said.
“Am I supposed to know you?” I asked.


14
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”
“Some man told me you were looking for me.”
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Can you give me a ride?”
“I’m late for work now. Maybe I’ll catch you later.”
Several weeks later, while I was returning home from the downtown Centura bank, I saw TJ
walking alone on Martin Luther King Boulevard, or MLK, as it is better known.
“Need a ride?” I asked.
“I’m hungry. Can you get me something to eat?” she replied. “I like Arby’s.”
TJ asked me to stop at a convenience store first where she purchased a bottle of Wild Irish
Rose wine. I then took her to Arby’s where she ordered a Big Montana with extra dipping sauce,
and a large order of curly fries. She ate as if this was the first time in quite a while. After she ate,
I took her back to MLK. I offered to take her home, but she said MLK would be fine. She said if
I ever wanted to find her to just give any guy on the street five bucks and he would find her for
me.
It was a few weeks later when I saw her again. I pulled up beside her and she
jumped in the truck and said, “Same routine as last time?”
I took her to the convenience store and then to Arby’s. Again after she ate, I took her back to
MLK. We had not really talked the first time, or this time either. When I dropped her off, she
asked me my name .I pointed at a street sign and said, “When you pass that street, think of me.”
“I will, she replied.
I had wanted to drop TJ by her residence, but she said anywhere on the street
was fine. “How do I get in touch with you if I want to see you again?” I asked.
“I stay wherever I want, but you can generally find me around this area off MLK
at around 2:30.”
Even though TJ was poorly dressed, and apparently had a drinking problem, she seemed
intelligent, confident, and in control of her situation. I was curious as to
why the woman appeared to be homeless. She was young and healthy, and did
not seem to be a mental case, or fit any other notions I had about homeless people. But she was
wild and I was not so sure I was curious enough to want to spend any time with her. I was
intrigued by the possibility that this could indeed be the lady from the fire but I knew it was a
million to one shot. Her initials were TJ and the woman from the fire’s name was Tammy James.
This will be the last time I will ever see her, I thought to myself as I dropped her off.
About a week later—while working at Harris Teeter—I received a phone call.
The lady on the phone identified herself as Holly, a friend of Robin Dee
Lynn, and informed me that Robin was in jail. She said that Robin had
remembered where I worked and asked her to give me a call. Robin, Holly told
me, wanted me to visit her. .


15
Just to be nice I told Holly that I would, but I had no idea who Robin Dee Lynn was and why
she would have someone contact me.
The next week, Holly called me again.
“Robin is very upset that you haven’t been to see her,” Holly said. “I am just a friend of hers. I
met her while I am pulling weekends in jail, and she asked me to contact you.
She seems like a really nice person and she says you are all she has. Please visit her,” Holly
pleaded. “She also told me to tell you that she is TJ, whatever that means.”
I was confused.
“Dale, she has no one she can ask for help, and she can’t call you unless it is a collect call.”
Curiosity killed the cat and I was about to enter a world I did not know even existed. Very few
things hold my interest for long, and I like things neat, organized, and in order. However, when I
am interested in something, I put my whole self into it until I master it. This woman peaked my
interest.
I was nervous and very apprehensive when I entered the county jail to visit this person,
whoever she was. The jail had a very strict visitation policy, and one had to be on a visitor’s list.
After verifying that I was eligible to visit Robin Dee Lynn, I was led through a big metal door. I
was then told to empty everything from my pockets before proceeding through a metal detector.
Any contraband—like cigarettes and lighters—was to be placed in the lockers provided. I
proceeded onto an elevator where I was taken to the floor where the women prisoners were held.
Stepping off the elevator, I proceeded to a small room containing five open booths with glass
windows at the front. Telephones hung beside each window and there was a chair in each booth.
After waiting a few minutes, the prisoner was led into the room and sat on the other side of the
glass before she picked up a phone. Robin, or TJ, whoever this woman really was, was dressed in
an orange jumpsuit and flip-flops. I noticed that her hair was neatly combed, and that her fingers
were white and clean. The physical features of the woman led me to believe that this was TJ, the
woman from the fire I had been searching for, but she insisted that she was Robin Dee Lynn, and
she had been booked under the name of Robin Dee Lynn.
Robin Dee Lynn began to explain why she had asked Holly to contact me. She told me that
Holly was the wife of a businessman who had been away on a business trip, but had returned to
Greensboro earlier than expected. He had phoned Holly from the airport asking her to pick him
up. At the time, Holly had been relaxing in front of a fire sipping a glass of wine. She was pulled
over on her way to the airport, given a ticket for DUI, and sentenced to serve six weekends in jail.
That was how Holly and Robin had met.
Robin was hoping I would bail her out. She told me her social security number, and said her
birthday was July 10, 1966. She also asked if I could leave her some money for her canteen. A
canteen is funds set aside for a prisoner to buy snacks, personal items, books, stationary, and
stamps. She said her trial was due the following week.
I told her that there was no way I could bail her out, but I did leave her some canteen money
before I left. I also promised her that I would visit her again. She seemed calmer than she had


16
been when she was on the streets, and appeared rather attractive, even in the institute’s orange
jumpsuit.
At home I checked the NC DOC website for information on Robin Dee Lynn, and I soon got a
hit. However, according to the vital statistics given there, Robin Dee Lynn was five feet, six
inches tall, weighed 135 pounds, and had blonde hair and brown eyes. No picture was given,
since she was not incarcerated at the time, but the physical description did not match the woman
claiming to be her, although her birthday was indeed July 10, 1966.
According to the DOC website, there were two women with prior incarcerations named Tammy
J James, both around the same age and from the same county and with similar arrest record.
Neither shared TJ’s stated birthday. One was listed as March 17, 1968 and the other as
November 3, 1966. Both had similar physical descriptions. One’s middle name was listed as
Jean; the other as Jane. Both women’s physical descriptions matched closely that of the women
who called herself TJ.
I paid Robin another visit and asked her about the discrepancies. Robin told me that her real
name was indeed Tammy J. James, and that Robin Dee Lynn had been a friend of hers.
“When I was arrested,” TJ explained. “I was scared and did not know what to do, so I gave
them Robin’s name. I hope that after I am released I will have a clean slate under my real name
and I can start life over again.”
“If I can figure it out on my little PC, don’t you think the state of North Carolina can piece this
together? After all, it is their job to know.”
Robin then told me she had been convicted and sentenced to ten months, less time already
served, and was to be transferred to Raleigh the following Wednesday.
“Please write me,” TJ begged.
“I will keep in touch,” I promised.
I did not believe what I had just heard. Her real name was Tammy J. James. That revelation
narrowed the possibility that I had found the women from the fire considerably. Maybe it was my
good luck but luck has never been good enough; maybe it was God’s intervention, I thought.
Robin Dee Lynn was transferred to Raleigh the following week. She sent me a picture; a pencil
drawing of a bird which showed a lot of talent. She also wrote me a letter.
“Hey,
It’s me! Guess what? I went and told them my real name—Tammy James. Have you
forgotten about me? I haven’t gotten any mail from you. I would love to see you. Did you get my
letter? I am not under Robin Dee Lynn anymore.
TJ”


17
Chapter 5
Tammy J. James was sentenced to ten months in prison for breaking and entering. I never did
ask her what she broke into, or how she was caught. I did not consider that important, because to
know the answer changed nothing and benefited no one except maybe someone who does not
want to get caught committing the same offense. I find the fewer questions one asks, the less lies
one is told. If I really wanted to know what she did, or how she was caught, I would ask the cops
or the courts–not her.
There was no way to find John Cassell, because his hometown, as listed in the paper, did not
exist. Toni Harris just seemed to have disappeared. I found two arrest warrants for a Toni Harris,
one in Wake County and one in Johnston County, that were probably for the Toni Harris I was
looking for, but those only gave me a moment in time, nothing to connect her past to the present.
Tammy James was a different story. It seemed that there were two people from the same area,
and about the same age, that could be the Tammy James I sought.
I wondered if they were three different people or the same person using different names.
When I asked her what TJ stood for, she had told me Tammy J. James. “What is the J for?” I
asked.
“Jean.”


18
There are thirty-nine Tammy J. James’ in the state of North Carolina, and thirty-eight have the
same middle name—Jane. The only one who had a middle name different than Jane was the
woman who had told me her name was Robin Dee Lynn. Her middle name was Jean.
In the newspaper account of the fire, the Tammy James mentioned was named Tammy Jean
James. I was almost positive that this was the Tammy Jean James from the fire but if she could
lie to the cops and the prison system, then she could also lie about her middle name. I knew I’d
have to get her to tell me the truth or do a lot more digging to prove that this is the person I had
been searching for.
Tammy wrote to me about once a week. She was concerned about her canteen and having
enough money to purchase cigarettes, certain lady things, a properly fitting bra, and snacks. She
had been assigned to the cafeteria, where she worked hard for fifty cents a day. Her main priority
was to have a steady flow of cash for her canteen so that she did not have to beg, or borrow,
things from other inmates.
After six weeks, Tammy was transferred to the Fountain Correctional Center in Rocky Mount,
North Carolina. There she was assigned to janitorial duties, which was a much easier job than she
had done in Raleigh. Before her transfer she had made a good impression on at least one of the
officials there. Tammy was offered a job as a counselor at Raleigh, which she could qualify for
by remaining clean and sober, and not being rearrested for one year after her release. Tammy was
told she showed leadership potential, and seemed to have a much better attitude than any of the
other prisoners.
Tammy sent me several of her drawings, all done in pencil, which were actually
quite good. The discipline it takes to draw in such detail, as well as the quality
of her work, impressed me. She asked me to save the drawings for her so she
could have them when she was released. Tammy almost always started her letters with, “Hey
Baby,” and signed them TJ. She always drew a picture for me on the envelope. She once drew on
a card for me in color and ink.
At Fountain, she attended art and craft classes, where she made several key chains and a
bedspread. She took a beginners computer class, an anger management class, and attended
church. She was selected to attend a course at the local community college, which taught her the
skills needed to perform a job in civilian life.
Tammy’s biggest concern was having a steady flow of cash to her canteen. Her biggest
complaint was that it was not replenished every week. I reassured her that money was sent every
week on a regular basis, and if it was not deposited on a regular basis it was the system’s fault,
not mine. The way she carried on about it, one would think I owed her something. It was my hope
to write a story about a recovered drug addict, and I was hoping Tammy Jean James would be a
success story, both for herself, and for me. If I didn’t help her, it seemed that no one else would.
As time went by, she became more concerned about having her driving privileges reinstated.
With my help, she obtained her birth certificate, her social security card, a copy of her driving
record, and a list of the requirements for getting her license back. She was also concerned about
her past, and needed my help to discover what other charges were awaiting her. I found a
“detainer”—a NC DOC term meaning that a hold is placed on a prisoner upon their scheduled
release, because they were wanted by another jurisdiction—from Cumberland County stemming
from the appeal lodged against her conviction on drug and shoplifting charges in December 2001.


19
She also told me about further possible charges for trespassing, from Raleigh, but she said they
were misdemeanors, so I put my time and energy into the Cumberland County charges.
I worked very hard on those charges, even appearing in the governor’s office, before
Cumberland County finally agreed to place the charges on hold, agreeing not to prosecute as long
as Tammy did not commit any other offense in the county.
Tammy seemed to want to succeed, and I was working hard to make things happen for her
when she was released. She was excited about the college course Guilford Technical Community
College had selected for her. She made arrangements to move into a halfway house upon her
release, as she believed she would have a better chance of “making it,” if she lived in a
transitional home, than if she was on her own.
TJ often told me in her letters that she would like me to visit her, but I let her know that
because I worked two jobs in the retail industry, there was no way I would ever be able to visit
her on a Saturday, the only day of the week when she could receive visitors.
She wrote once to me, “I worry about death out there prostituting. It’s no joke! Please help me
never to do that again. That is not me. You are my best friend. Thank you and I thank God for
putting you in my life. TJ.”
I decided to find a way to visit her after that. I informed her I had a surprise for her.
She wrote, “What’s my surprise? I have thought and thought what it might be. I have no clue.
You got me on that. Please come visit me as soon as possible. TJ.”
Our first visit was rather pleasant. It was a Saturday afternoon at two o’clock. Visitors had to
sign in at a guard’s shack, and then wait in an open-air shelter until visitation time. At two, we
were led about a hundred yards up a sloping sidewalk to a grassy area filled with picnic tables.
There were two dark blue port-a-johns with white tops at the back of the field. At the top of the
field, female prisoners staffed several long tables filled with snacks and soft drinks. Visitors and
prisoners could have their picture taken with a Polaroid camera—for a small fee, of course. After
the visitors were settled in, the prisoners were allowed to come to the picnic area. There were
strict rules to follow, like no touching except for an initial hug, no sharing of clothing, feet must
stay on the ground, and hands on the table.
We talked about her legal problems, things she wanted to do when she was released, and she
asked me to send her some new jeans. She had gained weight and now wore a size ten. Her hair
was neat, washed and combed, her hands were clean and white, and her complexion had cleared
up. She still had that distinctive walk and that easily recognizable laugh, and she flashed her smile
just a bit more often now.
Her aqua-colored top was too large, her jeans too small, and her shoes were in poor condition.
She still had her pretty smile and her infectious laugh. She seemed a little cocky, but excited
about her forthcoming release, and the chance for a new beginning.
I asked her why she moved to Greensboro when she grew up in Raleigh and still had family
there.


20
“It was December 1999, the house I was staying in was very cold, and I had no food. I only had
old clothes, and I was very hungry. There was a grocery store on the other side of the highway, so
I decided to go shopping. I did not have any money, so I picked up some deli items that I could
eat while I shopped. I had some grapes, cookies, and stuff like that. I was pretending to shop
some of the other aisles, putting stuff in the buggy, so I would have time to eat. While I was
going down this one aisle, a man approached me. I think he worked in the meat department.”
“Do you have money to pay for that?” he asked.
“I just shouted in his face. ‘I’m security too. I’m here to test the alertness of the employees.’
Then I rolled my buggy to the checkout, and waited while the cashier checked out my groceries.
The man followed me to the register. I just looked at him and said, ‘I do not have to be treated
this way. Just keep your stuff.’ Then I walked out of the store.
“I jumped the fence and started across the highway when a police car pulled up beside me. The
officer asked me for my ID, and then handcuffed me and placed
me on the back seat. I had a crack pipe on me, which I slipped down between the cushion and the
backrest. I thought I was clever, but he found it, and I was
charged with shoplifting and possession of drug paraphernalia. When I went to
court, I was sentenced to one year in prison. I could not do a year, so I yelled
appeal.
“I did not have any money, but the bail bondsman accepted my jewelry for the
bond. However, he forgot to sign it so I knew he could not come after me. As
soon as I hit the door, I ran as hard and fast as I could. I did not stop running
until I got to Greensboro. I do not know why Greensboro, but it seemed like
home to me.”
We had a nice visit, even though the bench soon became hard, and the air became cool. We
had our picture taken together. Tammy said that she wanted
to put it beside her pillow. I watched her walk back to the prison yard.
I was glad, from a physical standpoint that the visit was over. My butt was numb from sitting on
that hard bench, I needed to make a bathroom call—I detested
using port-a-johns—and I was cold. Tammy didn’t talk about how she felt, but
she did seem to be more relaxed and open than she ad been before entering prison.
I would like to have walked her back to the gate and given her a hug before we
both had to go. As it was, she just walked away, leaving me standing beside the picnic table
feeling cold and empty inside. Still, I had been touched. I was
beginning to see her as a real person and not just as a subject for a story.
My next visit was about a month later, and it was cold outside. I dreaded the
thought of sitting on those cold tables out in the open. Surely, they would have a warmer area for
us, I thought. We were led from our little open-air shelter into
what looked to be an old gym. It was filled with little round tables, and I chose
one at the front. It would be easier for Tammy to find me I figured. She was, like
the first time, one of the last to come in. She did not have on a jacket, and I scolded her for that.
She did have on the boots I had sent her, but she was even bigger now, and the size ten jeans were
much too small.


21
I told Tammy that I wanted to write a book and she became excited about the idea. I asked her
how she had ended up as a prostitute, and she told me that there had been three tragedies in her
life.
“One of them was a house fire in Raleigh, and another one was the devastating effect of losing
my children.”
She never told me what the third one was, nor did she discuss with me any of the details about
the fire.
I was upset by the story she had told me of how she lost custody of her children, and how she
had walked out on them. She seemed so cold and callous when she talked about people she
should care deeply about. It was a long drive home.
I did not have a chance to visit Tammy again before her release six weeks later. Tammy had a
chance to start over, but I was having second thoughts. I was not sure why, because she was
attending the college class, she was staying out of trouble, and she was making plans for the
future. I wrote to tell her that I was seriously reconsidering our relationship, and that angered her.
She wrote to tell me that she had written me a very nasty letter, but something she read in the
Bible changed her mind about sending it. I figured that if she could forgive me, I could forgive
her.
Her college course was suspended for the holidays and she would not be able to complete the
course until two weeks after her scheduled release date of January 20, 2003. She wrote to say that
she would need a place to stay for a week and some clothing. She had written to some churches
for support. All she wanted from me was a nice outfit to wear home—something in black.
Just four days before her release—on her last day of class—she met a man, not a prisoner, who
was also a student there. She told him she needed clothes when she was released, as she had
nothing to wear. He gave her his phone number—writing it on her school folder—and told her he
had a sister who would give her some clothes. That night, the guards pulled her school folder
from her locker, charged her with a rules violation, and kicked her out of the school program. She
also got two extra days in prison.
She had to tell me, as I was her ride home. I was upset by what had happened. She had lied to
me about the clothes, and she had tried to hustle a man she had just met.
Was this just extremely poor judgment on her part? Or was there some deeper secret she was
keeping from me?


22
Chapter 6
January 22, 2003. Nothing particularly special about this day, except it was the
day TJ was set free from prison. I had written her a letter telling her I was not
coming to pick her up. In it I had said that I was very disappointed about the
incident with the man at college. Maybe she was still the same type of person
that she was when she had been locked up. All the plans, all the dreams, and all
the promises she had made to me, and to herself, might just have been lies.
Still, I had made a promise to her, and I decided my commitment to her was
greater than any doubts that I had. If I did not show up I would be just one more person who had
cast her aside. So, I cranked up my truck and headed for Rocky Mount. This is really stupid, I
thought.
It was a few minutes after nine when I pulled up to the prison. Has the bus left already? I
wondered. Will Tammy be mad at me for telling her to take the bus? Will the Department of
Corrections let her off the bus and let her go with me? I had a lot of questions running through my
mind.
“I’ve come to pick up Tammy Jean James,” I said to the guard on duty. “She’s being released
this morning. She’s supposed to take the bus. She doesn’t know I’m coming.”
“She doesn’t know you are coming?” the guard quizzed. “The bus has left already, but I will
check for you.” The guard picked up a clipboard and scanned it for TJ’s DOC number, 0460200.
“She’s still here. She’s not being released until ten o’clock.”
“Thanks.”


23
I wonder why she did not take the bus and how she would feel if I had not shown up. She might
have had to spend an extra day in prison, or would have been sent outside with no place to go. I
was not sure how the prison would have handled that.
No matter how many clothes she now possessed, I knew that everything was old. I wanted her
to begin her new life in a new outfit, so I had purchased a very nice matching set of clothes for
her. The pants and two tops—one for casual wear and one for dressing up—were made of black
silk with fancy lace edging. There was also a top that went with it to keep her undergarments
from showing and, of course, she needed undergarments, and shoes to match. I was excited at the
thought of seeing her in the outfit.
It was well after ten o’clock when Tammy was finally released, but when she came through the
gate, she was wearing black jeans and a black sweater. At least she was wearing the shoes I had
sent her to go with the outfit.
She explained that she had gained more weight—almost sixty pounds—since being
incarcerated. Even though I had purchased the outfit in a larger size than she had said she would
be able to wear, it was still not large enough. Yet Tammy was free, and that was the most
important thing.
“I will wear the outfit for you when I lose enough weight,” Tammy explained.
After loading five big boxes of her things in the truck, we headed for Greensboro. Tammy was
excited by the prospect of her story being told and wanted to title it, “It Could Happen To You”
Her idea was to tell of her fall into drug addiction and prostitution, and then her recovery.
I finally had the chance to ask her about the fire. The story she told me was almost exactly like
the newspaper account, and I wondered if she remembered the fire at all, or had she just
memorized the story in the paper. While we were talking about the halfway house, and her plans,
I missed the exit for Greensboro and ended up in downtown Raleigh.
“Don’t worry about getting lost,” Tammy said. “This is where I grew up.”
She showed me the Duke University campus, the streets she used to run as a
child, the hair salon where she used to work, and told me the story of how she
lost custody of her children. I was not convinced it bothered her as much as I
thought it should. I become very emotional when I talk about my son who disappeared in 1992.
Timmy worked in an Italian restaurant in Colorado Springs, Colorado, for a few months after his
discharge from the US Army. I last spoke to him on Thanksgiving Day and he said he was
coming home. He transferred his mailing address and sent some personal things ahead, but he
never arrived.
After we found our way back to the interstate, Tammy told me of her plan to make money. She
wanted to do a documentary about the effects of crack cocaine on a person. I listened in disbelief
as she laid out her plan, but I refused to comment on it. She seemed excited, and it was the first
time I had seen her show any genuine feelings for anything, so I let her talk. By the time she had
finished laying out her plan, we were back in Greensboro. As we approached the
Randleman Road exit, the Southgate Motor Inn came into view. I noticed that Tammy was
studying it intently.


24
“It is quieter than it was,” I commented. I knew she had spent a lot of time at that motel and
was drawn by the excitement of the lifestyle, the game as I later learned it was called, and the
high of crack cocaine. I did my best to discourage her interest without appearing to be too
condescending.
“You just don’t know the Southgate,” she replied.
“The police are trying to control prostitution and drugs in this area. Many people have left.”
“Can we stop for a few minutes?”
“Not now. I have to go to work soon and we have a lot of things to do.”
“But I want to see my old friends, and give them the presents I made for them
while I was in prison.”
“I just can’t right now,” I explained. “There will be time tomorrow afternoon.
I need to get you settled, and then get myself ready for work.”
Tammy’s extra two days in prison had cost her the chance to check into the transitional home
that week, so I’d had to make other arrangements for her. Tina—the pretty night manager at the
Lodge America on Stanley Road—had graciously worked with me to reserve a room for Tammy.
Tina had not yet reported to work when Tammy and I pulled up to the motel,
but she had kindly left word for the day manager to take good care of us.
After Tammy had checked into her room, and we had got all her stuff carried in, Tammy asked
me where she might do some shopping.
“Is there a dollar store here?” she asked.
“I will show you around the neighborhood.”
After a quick tour of the area we stopped at the Pop Shoppe—where I worked part-time—and I
introduced her to some of my co-workers. Then I dropped her back at the Lodge America, and
asked her to write out a grocery list so that she would not have to eat out all the time.
“When will I see you again?” she asked.
That is an odd question, I thought.
“You can come to the Pop Shoppe if you want to, after you finish shopping and get some rest. If
you don’t feel like it, just give me a call. I will see you at eleven after I get off.
Here is some money so you will not be broke.”
“I do not ever intend to be broke again,” she replied.
I wondered what she meant when she said that. “I have to go now,” I told her as I turned to
leave.


25
Tammy walked over to me, put her arms around my waist and gave me a kiss. I was shocked, a
little uncomfortable, and unsure how to respond.
“I’ll see you later,” I said, as I left for the Pop Shoppe.
I liked my clerk’s job at the Pop Shoppe. For the past ten months, I had worked seventy hours
per week, and spent my off-time researching ways to help Tammy. My full-time job left little
time for interacting with people, and my research had left me with very little time for a social life.
In the two years I had worked there, I had come to know many of the customers very well, and I
enjoyed the human contact. It didn’t pay much, but I enjoyed it nevertheless.
My thoughts were centered on Tammy that night, though. The sun goes down early in January,
and the temperature with it. The wind was strong that night, and I knew Tammy did not have a
jacket, so I worried about her walking up here in the cold. I was somewhat relieved that she did
not come up, but I was not happy that she had not, at least, given me a call. Maybe she fell asleep,
I rationalized.
I stopped by her room after work and was troubled, and puzzled, by what I saw. All the lights
were on, the TV was playing, and the curtains were open. Her things had been put away, and the
bedspread she had made in prison was on the bed, but there was no sign of Tammy. I waited until
almost midnight—thinking that she might have run out for a soda after a long nap—but she
never returned.
The next day, I stopped by after finishing my shift at Harris-Teeter—where I was employed
full-time as a meat-cutter—and I found her room exactly as it had been the night before. It was
obvious that she had not spent the night there, and I wondered what could have become of her.
Surely, she did not go to the Southgate? I thought. I knew that was the best place
to start looking for her.
As I pulled into the grounds at the Southgate Motor Inn, I saw a tall lady, white, attractive, and
somewhere around thirty years of age. She had long, medium-brown hair that was pulled back
into a ponytail. She was well dressed, and did not look as
if this was the proper environment for her.
“Have you seen TJ?” I inquired of her.
“TJ is in prison,” she informed me.
“No,” I replied. “She was released yesterday. If you see her, will you let me
know?” I said, offering her a piece of paper with my work phone numbers on.
“My name is Lisa and if I see her, I will let her know you are looking for her.”
I asked some other people, but they were of no help to me. Finally, one girl said
she had seen her.
“TJ? Oh yeah, she got beat up last night. She tried to push her way into a room
after saying, ‘I am TJ, I’m back, and I’m taking over.’ The other girl told TJ to
get out and when TJ refused, the girl beat the hell out of her.”


26
“Is she okay?” I asked.
“Not really. She got beat up and I don’t know where she went.”
No one else had seen her recently, at least no one that I asked at the Southgate, or the Budget
Motel. I checked out Martin Luther King Boulevard (MLK) and found several people that had
seen her earlier. One told me she had purchased a bottle of wine, and several mentioned that she
had been beaten and looked bad. All of them thought she was at the Southgate, and all the people
at the Southgate thought she was on MLK. Someone told me she was at The Preacher’s.
I returned to the Southgate, and checked with the man known as The Preacher. I had never really
sat down to talk with this man. I figured he must be some really spaced-out creature to call
himself a preacher, and live among druggies and hookers, but he certainly knew everyone, and
could get a message to someone if he deemed it important.
The Preacher was a black man in his sixties, who lived in a corner unit of the Southgate. He was
a heavyset man, who wasn’t as weird as I thought he might be.
He informed me that he had not seen TJ, and she was not in his room.
“Someone told me they saw her come in here,” I told him. I had spotted a woman duck behind a
wall when he had opened the door. I believed it was TJ, but I had no right to enter his room, and
if he said she was not there, I had to accept it.
As I left The Preacher’s room I saw a young girl called Shorty. She was a white girl, as most of
the street hookers were, stood about five feet tall, and probably weighed less than a hundred
pounds. She was about twenty years old, with medium-brown hair, and was cute in a homely kind
of way. She said that she did not know TJ, but promised to keep an eye out for her, and to let me
know if she learned anything.
“Come by tomorrow and I will let you know what I found out,” she told me as I left.
Because of my work I had to wait until the next night to stop by. I hoped Shorty had some news
for me as I knocked on her door. No one answered and after several tries, I decided to leave. Just
as I started back to my truck, the door to the room next door opened. A tall, athletically built man,
of around forty, invited me to step in after I informed him I was looking for Shorty. He wore
black slacks and a white tee shirt, and held a set of hair clippers in his right hand.
When I entered the room, I noticed there was someone in the bed, but they were completely
covered, so I could not tell who they were. The figure was too large to be Shorty, and I was
hoping it might be TJ. The man who answered the door had been cutting the hair of another
fellow who had a towel wrapped around his upper body, and was sitting in a chair in front of the
dresser. He was rough looking, needing a shave as well as a haircut. He looked really displeased
when he saw me, but obeyed the barber when he was told to move to another room.
“I’ll finish cutting your hair there,” the barber told him.
I tried not to pay too much attention to the men I met around the Southgate, because it seemed
to make them uncomfortable for a clean-cut, white guy to be hanging around the area.


27
On his way out of the room, the barber motioned toward the bed. “Tammy, you have a visitor,”
he said, as he passed by the bed, giving her foot a shake. I was hoping it was TJ, but I doubted I
could be that lucky.
The figure in the bed stirred. Arms appeared first, stretching to rid the body of some of the sleep
that was left. Finally, a head appeared and it was covered in blonde hair.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Tammy,” she replied. “Who are you looking for?”
“I am looking for TJ. I was supposed to meet Shorty, but she isn’t in.”
“I’ve heard of TJ, but I don’t know what she looks like.”
Tammy removed all the bed covers and stood revealing a beautiful woman with flawless,
suntanned skin, and an hourglass figure. Her long, blonde hair fell over
her shoulders as she slipped out of her nightgown, revealing ample breasts, and
long, shapely legs. She reached out with her right hand and led me to her bed, revealing a
perfectly shaped behind.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked me in a sweet, seductive voice.
“Yes! If you see TJ, please let me know.”
I gave her some information on TJ, and how to contact me if she saw her. Just as I was leaving
the room, the door to the next room opened.
“I thought you were coming to see me?” asked Shorty.
I motioned to the passenger side of the truck as I hit the unlock button and slid into the driver’s
side. Shorty told me she couldn’t find TJ, and it was too dangerous to
be asking too many questions.
After I arrived home, I downloaded a few pictures of TJ from the NCDOC website, gave one to
Shorty, and asked her to please contact me with any information. She promised she would.
After I dropped her back at her room at the Southgate, I spoke to another girl.
“She was in that room last night,” the girl told me, as she pointed to a room. I knocked on the
door. A young black girl answered the door. She was about five feet-
eight inches tall, with very dark skin. She was very pretty, and had the cutest
butt I had ever seen. Her only visible flaw was way too skinny legs, appearing as
skin on bone.
“Have you seen a girl named TJ?” I asked.
“Not since I beat her up.”
“You beat her up? Why? What happened?”


28
“She showed up last night and informed everyone that she was TJ, and that she
was back and taking over. She told my man to come with her, that he belonged to
her now. She pushed me aside and grabbed my man. She pushed me again, so I
beat the hell out of her.”
“Do you have any idea where she went?”
“I don’t know where she went, but I heard she is in The Preacher’s room. My
name is Juanita. Is there anything I can do for you? I’ll take better care of you
than TJ can.”
“Just let me know if you see her.”
It was no use checking with The Preacher. I had already been to his room and he denied
knowing her. I did not want to upset him. I kept looking. Every day I made the rounds of the
Budget, the Cavalier, the Southgate, and MLK. “She’s bound to show up soon,” I kept telling
myself.
I thought I might have got the break I had been looking for, when I found a black male standing
on the corner near several suspected crack houses. The man claimed that he knew where TJ was. I
had been driving around the area, stopping whenever I saw someone who I thought just might be
the type of person who would know the whereabouts of a particular prostitute. His clothes were
of the cheap and well-worn variety, and it was obvious that personal hygiene was not a top
priority with him.
“I know exactly where she is,” he said. “Give me five bucks and I’ll take you there.”
He took me to an apartment complex off Florida Street, near MLK. When we pulled into the
apartment’s parking lot, we saw a tall black man standing outside. My rider got out of my truck
and the two men talked for a few minutes.
The man was clean-cut and much better dressed than my rider. He had a muscular body and
was rather handsome.
“I found a white girl last night who had been beaten up,” he told me. “She said she had not slept
in two days, so I told her she could crash here. I don’t know her name.”
I asked if I could see her, but he said no. A rough-looking, blonde woman, maybe in her late
twenties, was standing at the door to his apartment. He handed her the picture of TJ I had shown
him, and asked her to go check their visitor to see if she looked like TJ.
“Yeah, she looks like the girl in the picture, but she’s still asleep. I’m not really positive it’s her
though,” the girl said when she returned. She seemed extremely nervous though, and I got the
feeling that she wasn’t sure what the man really wanted her to say.
I asked to speak to the sleeping girl, but the man told me that he would not allow it.


29
“You can come back at three and talk to her then. The girls will be hungry then, and you can
bring them some food. I give them a place to sleep, but I will not feed them,” he said. “I don’t
need your money,” he said, as he flashed a huge wad of cash.
“Give me a ride to Bo Jangles,” the blonde said. “It’s just a couple of miles up the road. I don’t
have any money and we are all hungry.”
I gave the first guy his five dollars, and agreed to take the woman to get her
breakfast biscuits, so I wouldn’t be forced to give him a ride back.
Once we were on our way the woman informed me that she needed some money.
“I am broke,” she said. “I need some money real bad. I will give you a blow job for ten dollars,
or sex for twenty.”
“Just make sure that TJ is here when I return at three o’clock, and I will give you some money,”
I promised her.
“Make sure she does not leave before I get here.”


30
Chapter 7
It was still early and I had my doubts if the people on Florida Street were telling me the truth
about TJ being in the apartment, so I swung by the Southgate to see what I could learn there. I
asked a few people and one told me that TJ was in room 102 on the backside of the motel.
I knocked on the door to room 102, and a tall girl, Lisa, answered. I asked her if she had seen
TJ. Lisa stepped out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her, but not before I had noticed
another girl in the room. I did not get a good enough glimpse at the person in Lisa’s room; just
enough to know that it was a white female.
Lisa gave me a big hug. “I know how much you care for TJ, and I think it was great what you
did for her in prison,” she told me. The shiny, black slacks and white blouse she had on looked
much more expensive than what most of the Southgate women wore.
“I am having trouble finding her. A lot of people will not talk to me because they think I am a
cop,” I explained.
“I will help you look,” she offered.
While we were talking, a black man approached us and told Lisa that she needed to be taking
care of business. I’d seen the guy around a few times. He was maybe thirty, or a little older,
usually dressed in worn, brown polyester pants, raggedy tennis shoes, and a white polo shirt. I
usually saw him hanging around the service station, or in the Southgate compound trying to
hustle some business for his girls.
“I am taking care of business,” Lisa retorted. Looking at me she added, “And I am very good at
what I do.”
Lisa and I rode down to the Budget Motel where she spoke to a man. He hadn’t
seen TJ, but he remembered me. We then headed up to MLK and asked around. Lisa did most of
the talking. Her dirty blonde hair was neat and I noticed that she spoke better English than most
of the girls did. She seemed more like a typical housewife than a street prostitute.
We saw some of the people I had talked to earlier, and while they were still skittish, they were
more cooperative with Lisa than they had been with me. Still, the result was the same.
We headed back toward the Southgate, stopping at Bo Jangles for breakfast. After
we ate, I dropped Lisa back at her room and she gave me a hug.
“I’ll call you if I see TJ,” she told me.


31
I was confused by Lisa’s behavior. She genuinely seemed to care about TJ, and actually seemed
to be trying to help. Not only did she try to help me, but she did not ask for money nor offer me
sex in exchange for money. That was very odd behavior for a prostitute.
It was still only eleven when I dropped Lisa off, so I had plenty of time to kill
before my three o’clock appointment on Florida Street. I stopped by my house
to do some cleaning, and then grabbed a good book to read. I figured I might as
well catch up on my reading after I found a good vantage point to view the
apartment from, in case TJ tried to sneak out before three.
I left my home at around 12:30 and headed up Randleman Road toward Florida Street. Just as
the Southgate came into view, someone caught my eye on the road across the street from the
motel.
There, walking up Farragut Street, from the direction of the Budget Motel, was TJ.
I made a quick left and pulled up next to her.
“We need to talk,” I told her.
“I thought you were my friend,” she replied. “I was in The Preacher’s room when you came to
his door. I saw you go into that girl’s room. I wanted to come down there, but The Preacher
wouldn’t let me. I thought I could trust you, but you are like everyone else. I can’t believe you
took that other girl to your house and gave her a picture of me. I was proud of what you had done
for me, but then everyone started telling me stories. I trusted you and told you things I had never
told anyone before.”
“Shall we go somewhere and talk?” I asked her.
“No, I need to get some money for a room. I have not had a place to sleep for three days, and I
want my own room.”
“I will get you a room.”
“And I want a bottle of wine,” she added.
With the promise of a bottle of cheap wine, TJ accepted my offer of a ride. I made no attempt to
talk with her as it was only a few blocks to our destination.
I pulled into Kyle’s Amoco with TJ, and picked up my Doral Lights and Code Red, while TJ got
some Wild Irish Rose, and some Newports. We then pulled over to the Southgate where TJ
registered for room 146.
We went there, and after just a few minutes, people started knocking on her door. One girl, a
loud-talking, black woman tried to borrow five dollars from TJ saying that her rent was late and
she was short of cash. TJ admonished the woman, telling her she needed to take care of the rent
before she did crack.
The door to room 146 never seemed to stay closed more than two or three minutes. There were
always at least three visitors, and sometimes as many as six, in the room.


32
“Time to leave,” TJ told everyone. “If you want to find me I will be here, in this room, or
around the Southgate somewhere. I am not going anywhere. I will call you all later. I need to take
a shower and get some clothes.”
The next day I stopped by TJ’s room to speak with her. She had a new roommate, a black girl
who seemed nice, though a bit young to be hanging around TJ. She was in her early twenties and
quiet. Some of the girls liked to keep a low profile to avoid trouble, and she seemed to be that
kind. On the other hand, TJ not only didn’t avoid controversy, she liked to create it.
“This is my new friend, Tonya, and we are going to share this room to cut expenses. I am going
to get this place organized. Everyone is doing their own thing and things are out of control. If
they will listen, we can make some real money and stay out of trouble.”
“I thought you wanted to get out of here and start a new life?” I asked TJ.
“I do. I have to take it one step at a time. I have to get some clothes, and then I am going to get
a job at the Lost Dimensions.”
The Lost Dimensions was a strip club, featuring low-caliber entertainers, located opposite the
Southgate.
“I am not sure that is a good idea,” I replied. “Living in the midst of drug dealers and prostitutes,
and dancing at a topless bar is not the way for a prostitute to change her lifestyle.”
Besides, TJ had gained at least sixty pounds while in prison, and frankly, she just wouldn’t
entice too many men into giving her money to see her topless. Of course, she did not plan to
make her money dancing. Working the club only provided her with the chance to be in the middle
of a lot of potential customers, ones already drinking and worked up by being surrounded by
semi-naked women who they would pay to see a little closer.
“I have to do things my way if it is going to work,” she retorted. “Come on, I will introduce you
to everyone.”
After taking me around the Southgate and introducing me to a few of her fellow residents, we
made plans to have dinner together the next day, so we could discuss the book.
TJ was not there when I stopped by the next day, or the next two days, either. Whenever I asked
about her whereabouts I was always told, “She is somewhere around here,” or, “She just left,” or,
“She’ll be right back.” Seldom did I ask a woman about TJ without being offered sex.
Do these people not have any pride or loyalty to each other? I thought.
On TJ’s seventh day out of prison I received a phone call from her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
That was a strange way to begin a conversation.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Where are you?”


33
“I am in jail. I was walking from Howard Johnson’s to the store to get something to eat when a
cop stopped me and arrested me on the old charges outstanding in Raleigh. Can you come and get
me out? It is only a five hundred dollars bond.”
“Will you go to the halfway house if I come and get you?”
“Yes.”
The magistrate informed me that TJ was booked under the name Robin Dee Lynn and she was
charged with two counts, with a thousand dollar bond on each count.
I did not have that kind of money, and I would not risk it on TJ even if I did. I
left her some canteen money and hoped for the best.
Several days later I received a letter from her.
“Hey baby,
Well, I guess you are wondering where I am? I’m in the Wake County Jail
under a thousand dollars bond. I need $150 to get out. The twenty dollars you
left me I could not use, because they had put me under as Robin Dee Lynn.
Well, I am under Tammy James here. I could not remember your home phone number. Well, I
did see the outside for a few days.
So, how have you been? Yes, I know we need to talk. I was very surprised, and confused, when I
found out what you had been doing, and with whom. Will you please either come and get me, or
send me some money so I can get stuff in this place. My court date has been set for February 20. I
don’t know what to do. I have no one. I thought I had you.
Regardless, I need you. Yes, I was, and am hurt. I truly believed in you. But right now let’s do
this. I’m tired, Dale. I need you. If you don’t come and get me, at least write me and let me know
someone cares.
PLEASE! I can’t take too much more.
Love,
TJ”
I was not quite sure what she had been told I had been doing. Sometimes, I took Donna some
things she left with the lady taking care of her baby, and occasionally I also bought her some
food. I had met Donna Brown many years before when she worked as a cashier in a convenience
store. I saw her again the day before she was arrested and she asked me for help in locating a
relative. She was pregnant and afraid the state would take her baby if she was in jail when it was
born. I didn’t know at the time that Donna was addicted to crack and worked as a prostitute.


34
I also helped another lady—a waitress who had been badly beaten by a boyfriend. Every week
or so, I took her the left over pizza from the Pop Shoppe on my way home. Maybe to TJ’s friends,
I was doing something wrong.
Maybe while doing good, I gave the appearance of doing something evil. If I could undo that
image, I would, but we only get one shot at life and we had better make it good.
I decided that it might help the situation if I paid TJ a visit, so on the Monday I headed over to
Raleigh.
“Visitation day is Saturday, two until four,” the deputy at the jail informed me. Knowing that I
could never make it there on a weekend, and hoping I could salvage something of my relationship
with TJ, I decided to bail her out. It also seemed to be the only way I would ever have time to sit
down and talk with her about what happened to cause the fire, why young Tyler died, and what
roles the various players had in the incident. Maybe, I hoped, it would give me another chance to
understand TJ’s lifestyle and how I could help her change if that was what she wanted. I walked
across the street to Ryal’s Bail Bonds. and spoke to a young lady there, LaShonda.
It was a small two-story office with a large green leafy plant next to the glass wall and a
cluttered desk visible on the other side, although just barely as the glass hadn’t been thoroughly
cleaned in quite some time. I wasn’t sure what to expect although all the shows about bail
bondsmen and bounty hunters always showed ugly tattooed guys and muscle bound black men. I
was sure the thin, pretty, well-educated young lady sitting at that cluttered desk must be a
secretary. She introduced herself as LaShonda, the sister of the owner and just working part-time
to help her sick brother out.
LaShonda asked me about my relationship with TJ and seemed to be doing her best to talk me out
of bailing the woman out. Against her better judgment she said she would but only after she
talked with her. She locked up her office and walked across the street to the sheriff’s office
where she identified herself and asked to speak to TJ. I had to wait outside in the main lobby
while LaShonda and TJ talked in the big glass room with the heavy curtains that was just off the
right entrance to the jail. It seemed like it would take LaShonda forever to make a decision about
TJ but finally satisfied about me, not her, she arranged the bond for TJ, and after about an hour,
TJ and I were on our way back to Greensboro.
“I am going to stay with Pop at the Cavalier Inn. He has got me a job where he works. I’ll be
putting up stock two days a week for sixty dollars a night, and he will get me a room for free. The
money isn’t much, but it will pay for food, and I won’t have to pay for a room. You can always
find me at Pop’s, or The Preacher’s,” TJ told me.
We stopped at the Cavalier when we got back to Greensboro and TJ introduced
me to Pop. He was in his seventies, bald, and looked frail. Pop had a reputation for helping the
girls by giving them a place to crash for a few hours, or even a whole night. Pop told me about
the arrangement he had made with TJ for the job and the room. I then took TJ to get her
belongings that she had left at Lodge America. Tina had very kindly taken care of her stuff for
me.
After getting her things, I took TJ to Pleasant Garden, the home of Mrs. Lynn Chandler-Willis,
author of The Unholy Covenant and editor of the local paper. Mrs. Chandler-Willis had shown


35
some interest in helping with the book I was working on. We talked about the plot and purpose of
the book, as well as the role each of us would play.
TJ was dressed in her oversized flannel shirt, with its extra large, dark blue, light blue, and
white checks. It was still covered in blood from her fight with Juanita.
She wore her too-short, baggy jeans, and a pair of tennis shoes that were six
sizes too large for her, and were turned up at the toes, making a sight that was
hard to take too serious.
Even though TJ had been out of jail less than two hours, she was already on her
way to becoming drunk. She had bought a bottle of wine in Raleigh and had been drinking it ever
since.
While Mrs. Chandler-Willis and I were talking, TJ switched to her tough guy personality and
informed Mrs. Chandler-Willis that the title of the book was to be, “It Could Happen to You,”
and what she wanted the book to be about.
“I am going to write the book because nobody can say how I feel but me,” she informed us. “I
am very intelligent, and I know what I am doing.”
After we left the newspaper office, TJ said, “I think I made a good impression on
her. I can be charming when I want to be, and I think you have met your match
when it comes to intelligence.”
On the way back to Greensboro, TJ informed me that she was psychic.
“I am not the kind that conjures up visions of the past, or predicts future events;
I just know what people are going to do before they do it. I can make my eyes
change color too.”
TJ then leaned toward me with her eyes open as wide as she could get them and stared at me.
“Can you see my eyes change color?” TJ partly asked and partly demanded.
TJ was getting a little too weird for me, and I almost changed my mind about the book. Maybe
she was a mental case and not a proper subject for my story? I was not so sure I needed her to
write the story, anyway. I could figure out another way to do it without her. If she wants to tell
her own story, then I will let her write her own book. There were only two things important to me
right then. Firstly, I had to get this weird woman out of my truck, and secondly, I had to make
sure she showed up in court.
When we finally got back to Greensboro TJ wanted to see The Preacher and give him his
presents. TJ had made some key chain holders and had drawn him a picture, and she insisted that
she had to see him immediately. I pulled into the Southgate and parked near room 211. There was
a group of people—three guys and two girls—standing just outside The Preacher’s room when I
pulled up. As soon as TJ got out of the truck, the five people started to leave.
“Get back here and get my stuff out of the truck,” TJ ordered. The three guys came back and
unloaded her things for her.


36
“Did you see that?” TJ asked me. “Do you know why the women left, and the guys did exactly
what I told them to do? They are afraid of me. It is because I am the Queen…the Queen of
Southgate. I am home…I am back…and I am the Queen of Southgate,” she shouted.


37
Chapter 8
Even though TJ had freaked me out the day before, we still had a bond and a project to work on.
Pop told me he had not seen TJ since the two of us came by the day before.
“Try The Preacher’s room, 211, at the Southgate,” he suggested.
The Preacher told me he had not seen or heard from TJ either. “She called a taxi, loaded up her
stuff, and was gone fifteen minutes after you dropped her off yesterday. She didn’t tell me
anything, just left in a taxi.”
I thanked The Preacher for his time and concern. I wondered what TJ was up to now. When I
had asked her why she had not called me when she had been beaten up, she had said, “I am back
smoking crack and you told me you would have me arrested if you caught me smoking crack
again. I was afraid of you.”
I did not remember ever saying such a thing, but that was what TJ told me, to show me how
elusive she could be, or to demonstrate her control over her environment? She boasted that the
street people would protect her and she could easily become invisible.
On the trip home yesterday, we had talked about my efforts to locate her and I had mentioned
the apartment on Florida Street where Jody now lived.
“How is Jody?” TJ had asked. “I would like to see her.”
Maybe that would be a good place to start. I knew that TJ was not at the Southgate or the
Budget. She had neither money nor a room, and she had not been back in town long enough to get
reestablished. Her going three days out of prison without a room was proof enough of that. She
may be the Queen of the Southgate, but many of the people that were here with her last year had
moved on. It was an ever-changing environment.
The “cash man” opened the door when I knocked at the apartment on Florida
Street. I never caught the man’s name, so I decided to call him the “cash man” because of the wad
of bills he pulled from his pocket when I had first met him,
telling me, “I don’t need your money.”
“Is Jody here?” I asked.


38
He motioned toward the next room. I entered the apartment through the kitchen. A blanket was
hanging from the doorway, screening the view into what was supposed to be the living area, but
was now a makeshift bedroom. I found Jody sleeping on a cot on the other side of the blanket.
“Have you seen TJ?”
“No.”
“She has not been here?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“No!”
I gave up on Jody. If she knew anything, which I believed she did, she was not going to share it
with me.
“Hey!” the cash man called out to me as I was leaving.
“You looking for TJ? She was here last night. She got real drunk. She had a bad attitude. I told
her this morning I didn’t like her attitude and to get out and never come back.”
“Do you have any idea where she went?”
“She went to Motel 6.”
“Did she take a taxi?”
“I never saw no taxi. She left in an old, faded light blue, Oldsmobile, I think.”
“Thanks.”
At Motel 6 I asked the desk clerk if she had a Tammy James registered there. She did, but she
would not tell me the room number. “Shall I call her and inform her that she has a visitor?” the
clerk asked.
I nodded and watched the keys being punched on the phone by the clerk.
“There is no answer. Would you like me to try again, or would you like to leave a message?”
“That’s okay, I’ll try again in the morning.” I did not want to see TJ; I just wanted to track her
movements.
On Friday night, I was parked at the video store on Farragut Street, which gave me a good view
of the Southgate, the Budget, the Cavalier, and the entrance to the Waffle House off JJ drive. I
was there only a few minutes before I saw TJ exit Kyle’s Amoco carrying a bottle wrapped in a
brown paper bag. She got into the passenger side of a black Ford Ranger pickup truck.


39
On Monday, I found her back at the Southgate, in room 146. She showed no emotion when she
answered the door and saw me standing there, but she did invite me in.
“I thought you were going to stay with Pop?”
“Shorty and I called a cab and took my stuff to Pop’s. Then the manager came over and said that
Shorty was banned from the motel, and that we would both have to leave. We left to find us a
place to stay. When I got back to Pop’s he was throwing my stuff in the dumpster.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Your number was in my stuff. I couldn’t get everything out of the dumpster before the
manager ran me off again.”
“I have been looking for you.”
“You can’t find me unless I want to be found.”
“Well, I have found you three times so far.”
“What three times?”
“I found you at Motel 6 and—”
“I have never been to Motel 6!” TJ cut me off.
“Yes, you have,” I continued. “After you left Jody’s place on Florida, you went in a light-blue
Oldsmobile up to Motel 6, where you registered a room under your own name.”
“Oh, yeah,” TJ acknowledged, “I forgot about that. What two other times did you find me?”
“Friday night, at 10:30 at the Amoco station, black Ford pickup truck, remember? And, of
course, I just found you here. I learned a lot about you during your first week out of prison.”
“I am not hiding now. You can always find me here. I am back and I am staying.”
“All I want is your cooperation in writing the book. You wanted your story told, and yet you are
always running from me.”
“Get me a computer and I will have the book written in just a few hours. I am going to write the
book myself. In fact, I have already started on it. I do not need that lady. Why did you talk to her
anyway?”
“She is a professional writer who has been published. We can use her help in getting
published.”
“I do not need her help, and I don’t need you, either. I have friends in the Mafia who can get my
book published.”


40
“TJ, I just don’t think it is that easy.”
“I do not need her to write my book and I do not need you. You cannot write about how I feel.
Only I know how I feel.”
“Okay, have it your way. But the book will be written with or without your help.
Just answer me one thing. Are you going to show up for court?”
“Yes, I am going to court. I am the Queen of the Southgate and I am staying here. You can
always find me here.”
“Then will you have dinner with me tomorrow?”
“Yes, I would like that. Pick me up at twelve o’clock.”
The next day at twelve o’clock I swung by the Southgate to pick TJ up. I was standing outside
her door when one of the resident hustlers, asked me if I was looking for TJ.
“TJ is not here. She moved to the Budget. Said it was not as hot there.”
I called the Budget and was informed that TJ was not registered there. As I was
about to leave, I spotted Lisa.
“If you are looking for TJ, she is in room 117. Do you want me to call her for you?” she said.
About that time Teardrop came to her door. “I will call TJ for you.”
I was not sure I trusted Lisa, so I took Teardrop up on her offer. Teardrop picked up her phone
and dialed 1-8-8.
“Hey, Baby,” I heard TJ say. “I will be down in about five minutes.”
Teardrop invited me in and offered me a seat in her easy chair. We started talking
and Teardrop told me about her abusive ex-boyfriend, and her move here to get
away from him.
We were chatting away when I began to realize that TJ had still not shown up. I checked the
time and realized it had been over an hour since Teardrop had talked to TJ. I excused myself and
walked over to room 188.
TJ came to the door when I knocked. “What are you doing here? Who gave you the right to
bother me? I could have been in the middle of something. How did you know I was here?”
Before I could utter a word, TJ continued her interrogation of me. “Who told you? Teardrop?”
“No, I just—”
TJ wasn’t interested in my explanation. “We are going to her room to get this straightened out,
right now.”


41
TJ was livid as she barreled into Teardrop’s room. “I want to why you told him where I was. I
don’t care how much money someone gives you, you know better than to say where someone is.
You’ll get yourself hurt doing that.”
Eventually, I got TJ calmed down and convinced her that Teardrop and I were only talking
while I was waiting for her.
“You should have called if you were too busy to meet me.”
TJ walked out of the room, telling me to go away and not to bother her anymore. “You look like
a cop and I do not need anybody who looks like a cop hanging around me.”
Two girls were watching us. They asked TJ if she was having a problem with me.
“No, he is just mad because I will not sleep with him,” she told the girls.
“What do you mean?” I interjected. “Have I ever asked you for sex? This is not what this is
about and you know it. You owe me an apology for saying that.”
TJ calmed down and walked back over to me. She apologized and gave me a little kiss on the
cheek.
“We need to go somewhere and talk for a few minutes,” she said.
TJ led me to a room, and asked the black lady there if we could talk. The woman was of average
height, but slightly overweight, and her skin color was dark-brown.
Even though it was evening, the woman’s hair had that, “just woke up,” look, and I found her
rather unattractive.
“Hi, I’m Sharon,” the woman said, as she left the room so that TJ could have her say.
“I am the Queen of the Southgate and when I am here no one can find me unless I want to be
found,” TJ stated. “What happened tonight should not have happened, and it will not happen
again. Life is like a chess game and the Southgate is my chessboard. I will wipe you out in two
moves if you come looking for me again.”
“I can see you know very little about chess. The fastest way to beat someone requires three
moves, and is called fools mate. If you want to play, then I will give you the Southgate, but
remember, the rest of the world is mine. The players you are depending on are drug dealers, drug
addicts, liars, cheats, thieves, and prostitutes, and I know what motivates them. I can manipulate
them any way I want. I do not have to set foot on the Southgate to defeat you. I do not want to
play that game, but it is your call, not mine.”


42
Chapter 9
TJ had invited me to dinner, so I swung by the Southgate to pick her up. There was a new
Chinese restaurant just up the street; and since TJ expressed a liking for Chinese food, I thought I
would take her there. Maybe I could get some information for the book; at least that was my plan.
TJ was not in her room when I got there, which did not surprise me at all. While I was waiting,
two girls approached me and asked if I was looking for TJ. When I acknowledged that I was, one
of the girls pointed toward Randleman Road.
“TJ just left in that black pickup truck. She should be back in a few minutes.”
I recognized the black Ford pickup as the same vehicle that had picked TJ up at Kyle’s Amoco
last Friday night. I was irritated that she had accepted a “date” when she knew she was supposed
to meet me. I decided to go home and contact her later. She owed me a good explanation for this.
“Hey, Baby,” TJ answered when I called her later in the evening.
“Did you forget about our date?” I asked.
“I’m just entering the shower. Call me in fifteen minutes.”
When I called again, a man answered her phone. “TJ just stepped out,” he told me.
“Have her call me when she gets back.”
TJ did not call, so I decided to ride by the Southgate to find out what the problem was. I
stopped by her room—117, but there was no one there. As I started to leave, I saw the black Ford
pickup round the corner and head toward the back of the Southgate. I pulled back around just in
time to see TJ seated in the passenger side of the truck, but the driver was not there. TJ never
even acknowledged that I was there, even though she stared right at me and was only twenty feet
away.
I started to back up and leave, but I hit a patch of ice on the slope beside her room. My truck
was stuck, and I felt embarrassed trying to get off that ice patch while TJ ignored my plight. She
still didn’t acknowledge me when she got out of the truck and went into room 117.
My struggles had started to draw a crowd. I was starting to feel really stupid. I certainly didn’t
want to be there when TJ and the owner of that black Ford left her room.


43
My book project was now very important to me. My original idea had been to write a book
about why a kid died in a fire, and I still intend to find out exactly why, but then I decided to
write a success story of how a addict overcame her addiction, and made something decent of her
life. But now that seemed impossible, at least with TJ’s help. I still wanted to know what made
her the way she was and why she preferred to stay that way. I decided to give TJ an ultimatum, so
I wrote her a letter.
“Dear TJ,
I know the way you have been acting toward me isn’t right. The truth is that you
have been trying to avoid me since the day you came home from prison. It has nothing to do with
me talking to those girls or looking like a cop. Everyone here knows who I am and that they have
nothing to fear from me.
I am only interested in completing the book, which is a way to generate funds for your education.
If you are no longer interested, then all you have to do is say so
and the matter will be dropped. If you want to do this project, then you will have
to cooperate with me.
I will give you two days to let me know what you decide. If you do not let me
know your decision within two days, I will assume that you were serious about your challenge
and your threat to have bodily harm done to me. I will accept your challenge and it will be either
you or I.
Dale”
TJ not only didn’t contact me during the next two days, but I also discovered that she had
moved out of room 117. I called the front desk and was informed that TJ was no longer registered
there.
Often times, a drug dealer will share a room with a prostitute. The prostitute directs customers
to the dealer’s room, so that he doesn’t have to expose himself, and he provides her with a room
to stay. TJ sometimes shared a place with a guy, a dealer and pimp, although she preferred to
work on her own sometime things got too hot, from the possibility of arrest or maybe pissing the


44
wrong people off, that maybe she feels she needs a little extra protection or income to survive.
Maybe she was still around, just registered with some one else.
I wasn’t sure if TJ had put the room in a guy’s name to keep me from finding her, or if she really
had moved to another room. I gave my next move a great deal of thought. TJ had above average
intelligence, although she was not very well educated. She had a great deal of talent, and had
shown some leadership abilities—both on the streets, and at the Fountain Correctional Institute.
I was learning more about crack addiction and about the people who were addicted to chemical
substances; and I had learned that before they could recover, they must hit rock bottom.
For some, bottom can be as simple as losing a job or a spouse; but for others, it can be the loss
of freedom. It may even be as serious as almost losing one’s life. I did not know where bottom
was for TJ; but I did know that until she found it, there was no way she would ever be able, or
willing, to climb out of the pit she was in right now.
I knew that what I was about to do could be very dangerous for TJ. She was an addict—
addicted to crack cocaine and cheap wine. She was also a street prostitute, a liar, a thief, and had
no compassion, or use, for anyone except those that were of immediate benefit to help maintain
her lifestyle. She was not someone you felt sorry for, and no one cared for her except for what use
they could make of her for their pleasure or for their immediate financial gain.
Even so, she was still a human being whom God loved, and I felt that she could still turn her life
around. She had the intelligence and talent to make a good, honest living, and the leadership
ability to help many others that had fallen prey to the trap she was in. There must be something
that would wake her up to the harsh realities of her lifestyle, and make her want to change.
I wrote another letter.
“Dear Miss James,
Thank you for your cooperation with this agency. As a result of your work, several arrests have
now been made. However, we do have some concerns about some of your activities; therefore,
we need you to come into the office on February 20.”
The letter was placed in an envelope, addressed to TJ at the address she used on Omaha Street,
stamped, sealed, and conveniently lost while shopping at Kyle’s Amoco. I had no idea who would
find the letter or what would become of it. I knew that most people finding such an object would
be kind enough to mail it, while others might simply throw it away. Some people would even
dare to open it, but anyone with half a brain would know that the letter was a plant.
However, I knew I was not dealing with most people, or even intelligent people. When TJ was
telling me about the chess game, I told her that the people she relied
on for protection were drug dealers, liars, thieves, con artists, and were only motivated by greed
and self-preservation, and that I could use them against her. I wondered if I was right. Several


45
days later, I decided to take a ride to the Southgate, and just as I drove by The Preacher’s room,
TJ ran out of his room, yelling at me.
“We have to talk, and we have to talk right now!” she screamed.
I followed her to The Preacher’s room. TJ was holding the letter and demanded
that I confess to writing it.
“Do you know what happened to me? I had a gun put to my head—twice! You
know Dwayne, the biggest drug dealer at the Southgate. He threatened to kill me because of the
letter. I had to convince everyone that this letter was not real. Do you realize you could have
gotten me killed? I want you to tell everyone here that you wrote this letter and why.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told her.
“Come in the bathroom, I need to talk to you alone,” TJ demanded.
Reluctantly, I followed her into the bathroom. She closed the door behind me.
“You screwed up. Your signature is on the letter. It’s your handwriting. You committed a
federal crime. I almost had you arrested. Who did you give the letter to?”
“I didn’t give the letter to anyone. I didn’t have to. As I told you before, I didn’t have to set foot
onto the Southgate to defeat you at your game. I just dropped the letter on the floor at the
convenience store. I used the character of your friends against you.”
At first, she just did not want to believe me, but I finally convinced her that it was only a plant.
“I told you that if you did not call me, I would take you up on your challenge. Your challenge
was a threat on my life, and I am tired of playing this game with you.”
“I told you I was going to court with you, and I am,” she said. “I trusted you and look what you
have done to me. I have had a gun put to my head. You want me to leave the Southgate, but I am
still here.”
“No,” I explained. “I just want you to live up to your potential. You are intelligent, you have a
lot of talent, and you have leadership ability. You have no reason to live like this. I did not pay
anyone to deliver this letter, nor did I give the letter to anyone. I just lost it at the Amoco station
on the way to the Post Office. I told you that I would rely on the character of your people at the
Southgate to defeat you in your game. An honest person would have mailed the letter. Now, do
you understand what kind of people you rely on?”
TJ seemed totally unimpressed with my heartfelt speech. In fact there was no reaction from her
at all, even though I waited for one.
“I am sorry that your life was threatened, but you need to find a way out of this lifestyle,” I
continued.
“I am going to court with you tomorrow,” TJ said.


46
“Okay, TJ, I will pick you up at the Amoco station at six-thirty in the morning.”
“My name is Tammy.”
In a letter I wrote to her while she was in prison, I commented that I would never call her TJ, as
that was her street name. Until now, I had never called her by any other name except Tammy. She
was not stupid by any means, and she knew exactly why I had just called her TJ. Still, I had failed
in my mission. Instead of giving her a wake up call, I believe all I did was to stiffen her resolve to
stay where she was. One thing we both realized was that this game was too dangerous to be
played again.
I still had a lot to learn about why TJ—and others like her—stayed on the streets. I once thought
that it was because they had no other choice, and if you talked to them, that was the impression
one was left with. They want you to believe that they do not like being prostitutes, and only use
drugs to cover the pain and shame of their lifestyle. Yet, with the opportunity of a lifetime to step
beyond that lifestyle, they still chose to remain.
I know now that crack cocaine is a non-addictive substance (in the traditional use of the term
addiction) but it still has a powerful hold on people who are abusers of it.
What I do not know is why it holds such power over people. I made the assumption that being
in prison allowed an addict to remain drug free for the period of their incarceration, but I have
since learned that is not necessarily true. I was told by some of the girls who had been to prison
that crack is actually easier to get in prison than it is on the streets. Maybe that was why Tammy
fell back into using it so easily after her release.
I had so many questions. Is the feeling crack produces so overwhelmingly
satisfying that one would actually choose to live life as a prostitute when other choices were
available? Was the pain in her life so bad that she would not allow herself to be drug free and to
feel again? Just what was she seeking on the streets that she could not find in a normal, healthy
relationship?
I hoped to find the answers to those questions during my interviews and relationship with
Tammy Jean James. I knew from what I had read that for many of the girls,
and the men too, that the problems lay not in the income level of the parents, but
in the permissive environment in which they had been raised. People with
vulnerable personalities do not always become chemically dependent. I know
people who have tried various drugs and did not like the effects. From my
subsequent studies, I have learned that the stronger the moral values of a family,
the less drug and alcohol abuse is present in that family. The less tolerance of
drug, cigarette, and alcohol use in the environment that a person grows up in, the more likely it is
that the child will not try addictive substances, and it is more
likely that they will not like using them if they do try them.
The Proverbs state, “Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is
old, he will not depart from it.” It is not a fact that a parent doing everything
correctly will raise the perfect child. It is equally false that a child growing up
in the worst possible environment will become a bad, ill-adjusted adult. Each
person is unique, and if two children grew up under the exact same circumstances, one will
choose to react one way, while the other child may react completely the opposite way.


47
Notwithstanding individuality, people have the same needs and wants; and what motivates and
influences one person will most likely motivate and influence
another in the same way.
Given my hypothesis, it would be safe to say that Tammy Jean James grew up in a home where
alcohol was abused, or addictive substances were used and tolerated within the immediate family.
It is most likely that her family had a low income
and lived in neighborhoods occupied by low-income people, and within an environment with low
moral and religious values.
More than likely, one parent was overly strict or ill–tempered, and Tammy, being
an aggressive personality herself, felt a lack of control over her situation, and
became rebellious at any attempt to control or modify her behavior.
Growing up without access to many of the economic and material advantages available to her
middle-class classmates, she probably felt snubbed by them, so she sought the acceptance of
others in her similar situation, and would be more likely to try—and become addicted to—
chemical substances.
Many of the people that she associated with would have suffered ill effects from an abusive
environment as well, including lying and developing an antisocial personality. These
circumstances would make her more vulnerable to becoming an abuser and an addict herself.
Even so, it was possible for her to maintain a reasonably normal lifestyle, unless, or until, some
dramatic event occurred in her life, like the death of a close loved one, a betrayal by someone of
trust, or the loss of her freedom.
From what I had learned so far, Tammy’s life fitted into this hypothesis. I had not as yet located
any other person involved in the fire, or any other member of her family. I did know that
Tammy’s parents had passed on, and she had two sisters, but I did not know their names or
whereabouts.
The more I learned, the more I came to realize that I could not help Tammy. To seek recovery
was a decision she had to make on her own. I became an observer and expanded my research to
include the total environment.
How do these people survive? How do they avoid arrest? And, more importantly, how do we
prevent the next child from becoming one of the street people?
These are tough questions. Sometimes, during my research, I just wanted to quit, but I knew I
couldn’t.


48
Chapter 10
On Wednesday I called TJ to let her know that I was working out of town. I wanted to be sure
that she was still in room 117. She told me she was catching a cold, and asked me to bring her a
beer and some cigarettes when I came by that night. I told her it would be 10:30 when I got there,
and she said she would be waiting.
At exactly 10:30, I knocked on the door of room 117, but the man who answered
the door said that TJ was not there.
“She just stepped out, but she will be right back. She said for you to come in and
wait for her.”
As I entered the room, I noticed a young white girl sleeping in the bed with an
older black man. He noticed the look of curiosity on my face.
“She tried to break up an argument between a man and his wife, and she was
beaten up for her trouble. I am just letting her rest here until she feels better,” he explained.
I took the chair offered to me in the back of the room, next to the table and lamp.
I lit up a cigarette and told the man that I had brought some things that TJ had wanted, as well as
a sandwich from McDonalds for her.
“Do you smoke?” the girl asked me. Since I had just lit a cigarette, I was sure she meant crack.
“No, I don’t. I don’t drink either. This beer and food is for TJ.”
“Well, what good are you?” she asked as she rolled over, putting her back toward me.
“I think I am a lot of good. I have two jobs, a truck, a house, money in the bank, a retirement
fund, and I am the best friend TJ has ever had. I helped her while she was in prison, and I will
help her start a new life if and when she decides she wants something better,” I retorted.
“I’m sorry, I guess I should not have said that,” she said as she nestled back down in the bed.
It was almost eleven when I got up to leave.
“Please wait,” the man implored me. “TJ will be back in a few minutes.”
“No, just give her these things and tell her I will see her first thing in the morning.”
First thing in the morning came too early for me, but I was at the Amoco station at 6:30 waiting
on TJ. I had my doubts that she would show up, so I was very surprised when she arrived, and
only five minutes late. However, I was curious as to who the man was with her, and why she had
brought him.


49
“Hey, Baby. Come to my room—room 109.”
“No, I don’t think so. We need to be going. The traffic is heavy, and I want to stop and get
some breakfast before court.”
“It’s too early. I am not leaving until eight. Now, come to my room.”
“If you want to talk, we can talk on the way to Raleigh.”
“You will be safe in my room, I promise. I am not like you. I would not set anyone up.”
“How do I know that?”
“You know.”
“I thought I did, but I have no idea who you are anymore,” I answered.
“How do I know if I get in the truck you won’t kill me?”
“I am not a violent person. Besides, with all these people witnessing you leaving with me, do you
think I would be so stupid as to harm you this morning? You have never been safer with anyone
before in your life.”
“Just come to my room. I promise we will leave in ten minutes.”
I could see that I was losing this argument. TJ really did not care if she went to court, or not. She
had never shown up voluntarily before, and she saw no reason to today, except for me. I had more
to lose than she did and she knew it. So I conceded and followed her to her room.
She had invited some of her “associates” over. She told me that one does not have friends on
the streets, but associates, and I knew exactly what she meant. When I
saw six people—four of them men—I hesitated about entering the room. She
assured me that we were only going to talk.
As soon as I was in the room, TJ turned from a kitten into a tiger. “This is the man that wrote
that letter,” she screamed at everyone while pointing a finger at me.
“Now admit it and tell everyone what you did—and why.”
“TJ threatened me. She claimed that the Southgate was hers and told me if I ever
set foot on the property again she would have me wiped out. I told her that I could beat her at her
own game without ever having to set foot on the premises. The
letter I wrote was in response to her threat against me.
“I just wanted to prove a point to TJ, that I was tired of playing games with her,
but if she wanted to play, she would know she was in a serious game with a worthy opponent.”
I expected the guys to jump me, but as soon as I finished my explanation, TJ
ordered everyone to leave, except for Tonya, the woman who was sharing the room with her.


50
They shared a twenty-dollar hit of crack before TJ made a phone call to someone
and invited them to come over.
Just a few minutes after TJ hung up, a tall, muscular man, maybe thirty, came
to the door. He knocked twice and then just walked on in. The man and I tried
to talk, but TJ kept interrupting, so he told TJ to stay put in the room while we
talked in the bathroom.
“I lost $160 because of that letter you wrote, and I want you to give it back. I
think it only fair, since it was your fault I lost it,” he explained.
“There’s no way I can give you that much money,” I
protested.
“You know, I almost killed TJ over that letter, and I’m still not convinced she
isn’t a narc.”
“I told TJ not to play games with me, so if she gets hurt because she wants to be stupid, that’s
her business. I could run to the bank and get you sixty, but that’s all I can do.”
I half expected him to pull a knife, or just pounce on me. Instead he stood there shaking his
head from side to side. He had no leverage to make me return, so he settled for the forty bucks I
had on me. I had no way to escape if I did not give him some money, so I guess we both felt we
got a good deal.
When he left, TJ entered the room and did not see it that way. She was livid that I gave him any
money at all.
“I could have had that money,” she fumed as she thought about him shaking me down for the
forty dollars. She tried to get him to come back. She wanted him to give back the money.
She calmed down some when I told her, “TJ, it is only money, and I can earn the money back.
That is not a problem. It was my money and my loss, and it won’t do you any good even if he
does come back and return the money to me. This whole thing was your fault to begin with. As
far as I know, you had this shakedown planned with him and planned to split the money.”
“I’ll go as soon as I have another hit. Give me twenty dollars,” she ordered.
“TJ, you know I just gave that man all the money I had.”
She placed a call to the Budget and someone there agreed to give her a hit on credit.
“Come on, let’s go,” TJ said. “Take me down to the Budget. I can get a hit there.”
We climbed into my truck and on the way out she spotted two men in a car leaving the
Southgate.


51
“Wait!” she said, as the car—an old Ford—turned right onto Randleman Road. By the time I
saw the car, it was too far ahead to recognize the occupants and already in traffic. I knew I
couldn’t catch up to them, and I figured it would be a bad idea even to try.
“That’s the guy I was supposed to see. Just take me to Kyle’s and get me a bottle of Wild Irish
Rose,” TJ demanded.
TJ drank the entire bottle on our way to Raleigh. It was almost ten o’clock when we left
Greensboro—an hour and a half away from the Wake County Courthouse.
I asked TJ to forgive me for my mistakes with her, and I would forgive her the mistakes she had
made. She agreed that we should put things behind us, but she continued to mention my mistakes
over and over again. Maybe, if she were more understanding and forgiving of others, she could
see her way past her own mistakes. She was just not the forgiving kind.
TJ was a captive audience during the ride and I decided to use the time wisely. I asked her
questions under the guise of small talk. TJ must not have realized I was interviewing her. She
asked me about her pictures, her birth certificate, and her social security card. I think she believed
I took those things out of her stuff, but I finally convinced her they must have fallen out of her
things by accident.
“Why do you like living at the Southgate?” I asked her.
“It is fun. I can move from place to place, do what I want, meet different people. I can escape
through the back fence and slip across the highway. Everyone knows
that I am TJ. I am the only white girl that can do the things that I do. The others would get beat
up, or worse.”
I was beginning to understand her motivation better now. TJ wanted the same
things we all want: acceptance, friendship, and respect. She also wanted her independence, and
the chance to express herself. At the Southgate, she had all that she felt she needed to be happy.
Plus, she had a sense of adventure that many people missed in their lives.
In her view, she had a good life.
We were soon in Raleigh. I parked in the BB & T parking garage. We had to
walk around the block to get back to where we needed to be. As we did I noticed
that TJ became nervous as we neared the office of Ryal’s, the bail bondsman. I
saw her relax when we passed the office.
Once seated in the courtroom, I walked to the front and motioned for the DA.
“I just want to let you know that Tammy James is here.”
“Tell her to come on up,” he instructed me.
I motioned to TJ as I heard the bailiff call out, “Tammy Jean James.”
“We had a flat tire on the way here from Greensboro. There wasn’t anyway we
could call, because we didn’t have a cell phone,” Tammy explained to the DA.


52
The smell of alcohol was strong on her breath. She was drunk, late, and her
attorney was not in the courtroom or in his office. I was afraid she would be in trouble, but to my
surprise, she was given a new court date of March 7.
I can’t believe I have to go through this again, I thought.
TJ had a big smile on her face as we left the courtroom, and I could see her confidence building.
But, once out of the courthouse, she knew we must pass
the bail bondsman’s office again. I sensed she was afraid that I had set her up and would have her
bail revoked, because the closer we came to the bondsman’s office, the faster TJ walked, walking
up to fifteen feet in front of me. There was a sign—about half the size of a billboard—bolted to
the sidewalk, and TJ passed on the street side of the sign, thereby ensuring that I could not reach
out and grab her.
TJ was very shabbily dressed in a pair of black britches that were way too big, and the same
blue and white-checkered shirt she wore when I had bailed her out. She looked exactly like what
she was—a street prostitute. A young black male, in his early twenties, walking in the opposite
direction noticed TJ and tried to gain her attention, but TJ was not stopping for anything, or
anyone, until she felt she was safely past Ryal’s office. Only then did TJ slow her pace and relax.
She allowed me to catch up to her by the time we got back to the garage.
We only had one small obstacle to overcome before we could leave. I only had two dollars left,
and the fee for my truck was three dollars.
Reluctantly, TJ handed me her only dollar so we could leave the garage and head for
Greensboro. TJ refused to talk to me on the entire trip back.
In the courtroom TJ had laid her head on my shoulder for comfort and support. But instead of
softening toward me, I think it made her even more resentful because she had showed a soft and
vulnerable side that she tried so hard to hide from the world.
When we arrived back in Greensboro, I took her to the Southgate and pulled to a stop outside
room 109.
“Why are you stopping here?” she asked. “This is not my room anymore.”
I did not answer her, nor did I offer to go to the bank and get her some money for a room, which
I knew was what TJ had on her mind. I was not about to offer her anything, and TJ was not about
to beg. She just stared at me for a few seconds, opened the truck door, and slid out, without
saying another word.
It was two o’clock and I had to head off for work. TJ wanted me to feel sympathy for her,
because she was homeless again. She tried so hard to portray that image to me. I felt as if every
decision I made concerning that woman was the wrong one. I wondered if there was a way to
reach her, or were all my attempts futile. Tammy saw every move I made with suspicion, and I
was not sure I had the energy to deal with her anymore. I thought dealing with Donna Dee—
Donna Brown’s new street name—was difficult, but she was a piece of cake compared to TJ.
I had gotten in touch with Donna’s aunt for her while Donna was in jail in High Point, so the
aunt could keep Donna’s baby until she was released. Things didn’t work out between Donna and


53
her aunt, so I contacted another lady who agreed to take Donna and the baby in. Donna kept
running away and the lady would call me to go find her.
I knew that if I did not have a place to stay, or money, or a job, then I would be homeless until I
got a job, and then got paid. I doubted that it would take TJ long to find money and a place to
stay. I thought about how much money she had to make to maintain her lifestyle.
The Southgate Motor Inn rents rooms for thirty-five dollars a day plus five dollars to turn the
phone on for outgoing calls. I knew that TJ smoked at least forty dollars a day in crack, probably
much more. That equated to $245 a week, $980 every four weeks, or $12,740 a year just for the
rent, plus an equal amount for crack. Allowing just five dollars a day for food, TJ would have to
earn over $26,000 a year to maintain her lifestyle in that sleazy motel. If she had a legitimate job,
she would have to earn another five to six thousand dollars for taxes and deductions, plus another
three to five thousand dollars for insurance.
In other words, she would have to find a job that paid her at least eighteen dollars
an hour. There was not much chance of that ever happening.
As soon as I got to work, I called the Southgate and asked for room 109.
“Hey, Baby!” the female voice on the other end of the line said.


54
Chapter 11
TJ had asked me to set up an appointment with her attorney. I gave her a call at the beginning
of the following week to discuss the arrangements.
“Hey, Baby!”
“Hi. I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“I’m on the toilet. Can you call me back in a few minutes?”
“No, I just want—”
“I am really on the toilet. Call me back.”
After five minutes I redialed her number.
“Hey, Baby! Can you come by at two o’clock?”
She would not talk to me on the phone and I had my doubts that she would be in her room when
I got there at two. She was still playing games with me. I called the room before I left and no one
answered. I called again after a few minutes and a man answered this time.
“TJ is not here, but she said you were coming by. She told me to let you in and to have you wait
for her.”
When I got to the room, neither TJ nor the man was there. While I was waiting, a woman two
doors down in room 111, stood in her doorway. She was around forty years old, maybe four foot
ten, with a great body. She was attractive, but her lifestyle showed on her face.
“No one is there, but I can take care of you as well as she can,” the lady beckoned
to me.
I walked down to the woman’s room. “Have you seen TJ?”
“Are you Dale?” she asked. “My name is Shorty.”
“Shorty? There is another girl here named Shorty. Are you the one TJ went to the Cavalier with
the day she was released from jail?”


55
“Yeah! I am. I lived there for over a year and then they kicked me out. Said I received too many
phone calls. Can you believe that? Anyway, TJ said you were coming by. Want to come in and
wait?”
I was amazed at Shorty’s room. She had lots of paintings on the wall, a dresser, lots of clothes
and accessories, a nice lamp, a desk, and a computer. Her room was cramped but very clean and
well organized. The room had two single beds, and both were neat and had bedspreads on them.
We chatted about her furniture for a while, and I offered to connect her computer for her.
“That would be great,” she said. “I’m not sure how to hook it up in this room.”
We talked for a few minutes before Shorty gave the space beside her a couple of quick pats,
indicating for me to go over and sit beside her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to do something while you wait for TJ?” she asked.
“I’m sure. I just came over to talk to TJ.”
“Do you mind if my roommate joins us?” she asked.
Of course, I had no objections. Another woman, in her early-to-mid-twenties came out of the
bathroom. I had never seen this woman before. She was well over six feet tall and rather homely,
with narrow shoulders and a rear end well out of proportion to the rest of her body. She took a
seat in a chair at the back of the room while Shorty told me about TJ.
“I helped TJ out, giving her some clothes and some underwear. You would think she would be
grateful—”
Before Shorty could finish, someone knocked on the door. Shorty invited them in and when the
door opened it was TJ.
“Did you come to see me, or are you taking care of Shorty now?” she asked.
I thanked Shorty for her hospitality and followed TJ toward her room.
“Wait, I have something for you,” I said. While TJ was in prison, I quite often sent a computer generated
rose in her letters. This time I had a real one for her. TJ smiled real big.
“Thank you,” she said and gave me a little kiss. It was just a little peck on the cheek, but it
showed a tender and caring side of TJ that she tried hard to keep hidden.
“I have something else for you,” I said.
I handed TJ a letter, explaining it was a letter of apology. She asked me to read it to her, so I
did. I watched her face, and I could tell that she was touched by the sentiments in the letter. I also
knew that it was a hard thing for her to do, because it meant she was showing emotion, and she
could not allow herself to do that.


56
“Wait,” TJ said. “Come to my room.” There were two guys in her room already. TJ made a
phone call and a couple more men came over. After she was satisfied that everyone she wanted
was present, she handed me the letter and asked me to read it out loud.
After I finished reading it, TJ took it from me and read it to herself. Then she reread it aloud,
stopping at the end of each thought to critique it, and to make me out to be a liar and a scoundrel.
By the time TJ had finished, I felt as stupid and foolish as any man could possibly feel. I did not
know whether to defend myself or leave. I realized this was TJ’s world, and she had to maintain
her image of strength and coldness in order to survive.
I decided to let her have her moment. I told her she needed to see her attorney well in advance
of her next trial date and she agreed, but we needed to set a time, and she was noncommittal
about that. I left without saying another word, appearing like a defeated dog with its tail tucked
between its legs. I don’t know if that was the best choice, but that is the option I choose.
The next time I visited TJ I didn’t call beforehand. I did not want a repeat of the last visit. It
didn’t surprise me that she was not in her room.
TJ wasn’t in, but Shorty was in her doorway again. I walked over to Shorty, and asked her if
she still wanted me to hook up her computer.
“No, I am leaving the Southgate.”
“Are you getting kicked out?” I asked.
“No, I am leaving because some people are too hard to get along with, even after I helped them
out with clothes and underwear. Some people are just so ungrateful.”
Of course, I knew she was referring to TJ. Why would TJ make a fool of me, and feel
threatened by Shorty? Was it because we had talked?
Just as I got back to my truck, TJ walked around the corner. She gave me a hateful look and
stood watching me. I walked over to her.
“Just had to go to Shorty’s, didn’t you? You saw me standing here and you still went down
there.”
“I had promised Shorty I would fix her computer for her, that’s all.”
“Bullshit,” TJ said.
“TJ, why would that bother you? You do not care about me. You have just used me from day
one.”
“My name is Tammy,” she said.
“I just came by to let you know that you have an appointment with your attorney tomorrow
morning. I will pick you up at 9:30.”


57
“I may not be here. I am changing rooms. This one is too hot.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll call you.”
Of course, she did not call. She had a very surprised look on her face when I showed up at the
door to her new room at 9:30 the next morning. She had moved back into room 146 at the
Southgate, just a few doors down from The Preacher.
“I am not going. I am not riding for three hours for a fifteen-minute conversation.”
“You need to connect with your attorney, so he will have time to prepare you a defense.”
“I will call him later.”
“You have an eleven o’clock appointment. You need to call him this morning.”
“I will,” she promised.
“I will not see you again before your next court date.
What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“Seven should be fine.”


58
Chapter 12
It was 6:35 am. on March 5, 2003, when I pulled into the Southgate Motor Inn to pick up TJ
for her second court appearance. I hoped this time proceedings went better than
they had the first time she had made a court appearance.
“What time is it?” TJ asked when she answered the door.
“It’s six thirty-five.”
“Why can’t you show up at the time I asked you to? Drive around and come back in thirty
minutes. I will be ready, I promise.”
TJ watched me walk back to my truck. I did not start the engine, though. I pulled out a book to
read while I waited for her to get ready.
“You can’t park there,” TJ said. “I don’t know why not. It is a parking space. I am not
going anywhere.”
TJ was fuming as she went back into her room. I had read only a few pages when someone
knocked on my window. I looked up to see a uniformed policeman, not one
of the vice squad or detectives, that are usually around. He was a young, white, baby-faced cop,
but I had no doubt he knew what he was doing. I had been so engrossed in my
book I had not noticed him pulling in just a space away from me.
“Yes, sir!”
“Is everything okay?” the policeman inquired.
“Yes, sir. I am just here to pick up someone for court. They have to be in court in Raleigh at
8:30.”
“A lot of men come up here to pick up girls,” he informed me.
“I am sure they do, sir. TJ has to be in court in Raleigh this morning, and I am her ride. I want
to get some breakfast in her before court starts.”
“Have a good day,” he said, before he walked back to his patrol car.
At seven o’clock I went back to TJ’s room. She immediately let me in, before jumping back
into bed. She started to tell me to leave, but hesitated. “Just have a seat,” she said.


59
I took the seat just to the left of the door, because another man was seated in the chair on the
other side of the room next to the bed TJ had got back into. He was a short, stocky, black male.
He looked to be around thirty-five.
“I have to clean out my room before I go,” TJ said. TJ finally crawled out of bed, looking sad,
and moped around the room. She walked over to a pile of clothes, started to pick them up, and
then just threw them back on the floor.
“Will you wash these for me, Rick?” she asked her companion.
The phone rang and TJ answered it. “TJ…Yes…sure.” She threw the receiver onto the floor.
After a few minutes, she went back to the phone and made a short phone call.
I didn’t hear a knock, but when TJ opened her front door there were two young black males
standing there. They could not have been much older than sixteen. I wasn’t sure whether it was as
TJ was leaving, that the two kids had arrived, or if TJ knew they would be standing there. I knew
better than to ask, though. She walked back to her bed, leaving the door open. The kids came in,
closing the door behind them.
“Do you have a twenty?” one of them asked her.
TJ shook her head and the two boys left without another word being said. TJ handed a twenty
dollar bill to Rick. Rick left and returned a few minutes later with some crack for TJ. She asked
me to leave the room for about a quarter of an hour.
“I don’t want to do this in front of you,” she said to me. “Can you just drive around for about
fifteen minutes?”
At first I refused to go. I was tired of her stalling, and I let her know it was time to get ready to
go.
“Look TJ, we need to be going if you’re going to get to court on time. The judge wasn’t happy
with you last time you were late.”
“Just bring me a coke when you come back,” she ordered. “I promise you I will be ready.”
She was still not ready when I returned, but I really did not expect her to be. Now she demanded
that I go to get her prison release papers and her birth certificate. I had absolutely no idea where
they were, but she insisted that she needed them to prove that she had been in prison, and
she hoped she would get time knocked off of any sentence issued in respect of time already
served.
“They could be in my storage locker, at my mom’s house, or at my ex-wife’s,” I told her. “Your
attorney should have your records.”
She insisted that her attorney would not because she had not spoken to him.
“That is what I tried to tell you,” I replied. “You needed to talk to him before today, so that he
could help you and he could have all these things ready. I made you an
appointment and you refused to go. Didn’t you call him like I asked you to?”


60
“No, I didn’t,” she replied.
She insisted that she was not going to court without proof she had been in prison. She insisted
that I go to my mom’s house and look for the papers. That would have been a four-hour round
trip and I refused to do that, especially since I saw no reason to do so. She insisted that I
call my mom to check on the papers. We argued about this for a few more minutes before I went
out to my truck and got my phone.
When I returned to the room, I dialed my mom’s number and Tammy became very paranoid.
Crack does that to a person. I reassured her that it was only my mother that I
was calling and not the police.
Mom looked for me, but said that she couldn’t find the papers. TJ told Rick to get her another
hit while I went to search for some papers I thought might reassure her.
I headed to my house, downloaded her prison record from the NCDOC website and returned to
TJ’s room at the Southgate. TJ looked over the Department of Corrections records I had
downloaded, and appeared to be satisfied with them.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll use these, but we are not leaving until two o’clock.”
“You can’t wait until two,” I explained to her. “The court will most likely be in recess, or
finished for the day. The judge isn’t going to hold court for you just because you
wanted to wait. He’ll probably lock you up and wait until you are placed on a new court calendar.
I really don’t think you will be locked up, but even if you are, you won’t get as
much time as you would if the judge tacks on ‘failure-to-appear’ charges as well.”
“Dale’s right,” Rick agreed.
With that, Tammy finally gave in and agreed to go. She got dressed and grabbed a bottle of wine
to drink on the ride to Raleigh.
She was not only drunk and high when we entered the court; she was also carrying a knife.
“Dale, I’ve got a knife on me,” she said as we prepared to enter the courthouse.
I told her to hide it in the bushes outside the courthouse, which she did.


61
The judge had already signed her arrest warrant and he was very upset that she was late again.
“Tammy Jean James, step to the front of the court,” the bailiff instructed.
“Court started at nine. Why are you late?” the judge, noticeably irritated, inquired.
“Your honor, I’m from Greensboro and my ride never showed up,” Tammy explained. “I called
Dale to give me a ride, but he was at work. He had to wait until he could find
someone to take his place before he could come and get me and drive me here.”
“Is your attorney here?” the judge asked. “You do have one?”
“Dale talked to my attorney.”
“Dale, would you approach the bench?” the judge asked.
“Yes, sir. I called her attorney and explained the situation to him. He requested that I petition
the court for a continuance.”
It was obvious that the judge was really upset by this, but he did, even if reluctant to do so, give
Tammy a new court date of April 17.
“Court starts at nine o’clock. Be here on time,” he instructed Tammy.
When we left the courthouse, Tammy retrieved her knife from the bushes, and walked with me
to my truck. I drove her to Chic-filet for lunch. My chicken sandwich was good, but I was more
interested in the pretty women that were coming in. I’ve got to come back here some day when
I’ve got time, I thought.


62
TJ ordered enough food for two people, and ate like her last meal had been a long time ago. It
may have been, or it could just be the crack giving her the munchies.
After we had finished eating, we walked to a flower shop next to the restaurant to ask them for
directions to TJ’s attorney’s office.
Since it was only two blocks over, I wanted to walk, but TJ refused. I parked in a gravel lot a
half block from her attorney’s office.
Tammy wanted to sleep, so I left her in the truck while I walked to her attorney’s. His office was
on the third floor and easy enough to find, but he wasn’t there.
I left his office and walked several blocks to the police department to check some records, but I
was informed that all records were now located in the sheriff’s office.
I then walked several more blocks to the sheriff’s department, hoping to find the files on some
of TJ’s old cases in Raleigh. My luck wasn’t any better there, as the records office was closed for
some minor repairs.
I had been gone about an hour and was surprised to see Tammy still sleeping when I returned. I
do not think she realized how long I was gone, and if she did, she did not care. She slept the entire
trip back to Greensboro. When I dropped her off at the Southgate, she asked me if I would
have lunch with her the next day.
“You can pick me up at twelve o’clock,” she said.
“I will if you call me and tell me you are ready, and will be here when I show up.”
“I will be ready, I promise.”
The next day I had not heard from Tammy before lunchtime. Shortly after two I received a call
from her roommate, Rick.
“Have you seen TJ?” Rick asked.
“No, why?”
“She left here not long after you dropped her off and I have not seen, or heard, from her since. I
am afraid she may have been locked up. Can you check for me?”
“Why don’t you call?” I asked.
“I can’t. I don’t know her real name.”
While I was trying to get TJ ready for court, Rick had told me how much he loved Tammy.
“We have been together for three years, and I want TJ to get out of her lifestyle and start a
decent life with me.”


63
This man had been with her—on and off—for three years, claimed to love her enough to want
to start a life with her, and yet did not even know her full name. Was that crazy or what? I
thought.
I checked and she had not been arrested in either her own name, or the one she sometimes
assumed—Robin Dee Lynn. I called Rick to see what else he knew. He told me
that she had left with two male friends, and she was going to the Travelodge with them. She was
only supposed to be gone for two hours, but she had now been gone for over a day, and he was
worried.
When I got off work at eleven I checked the Travelodge, but there was no sign that she was
there.
I called Rick back and asked him if he knew the names of the two men she had left with, and if
he might be concerned that they would do her any harm.
“I am not worried about her. I am getting hungry and I want her to bring me some food,” he
insisted.
What an idiot, I thought.
I called Rick back the next day to find out if he had learned anything.
“Hey, Baby!” the voice on the other end of the line said. When TJ learned I was the caller, she
quickly asked me to call her back in five minutes. I had been through this routine enough times,
so I did not bother.
I did call the next day, but did not receive an answer from either her or Rick. I called the hotel’s
office and learned that no one was registered in that room. TJ and Rick had checked out and
moved again, probably changed motels as well.
I checked out all the possible locations for her, but found no trace. I decided to check in person,
since she may be using a different name or be in someone else’s room.
One of the first places I checked was Motel 6. I pulled up to the office and I saw an attractive
young lady leaning over the railing on the second floor. She looked to be in her
late teens, or very early twenties. She had shoulder-length, blond hair, and she had on a blue
nightie. She asked me if I had a cigarette. I stopped to answer her, and another lady
came up to me.
“Hi. My name is Strawberry,” the lady said. Strawberry was around five-feet-nine and slightly
built. She was not homely, but she was not pretty, either.
“Do you have a room?” she asked.
“I’m looking for a friend,” I replied.
“I’ll be your friend,” she quickly replied.
“Do you know TJ?” I asked.


64
“I know where TJ was last night. She was in room 163 at the Budget, drinking wine and playing
cards all night. If you give me a ride to Florida Street, I will find out exactly where she is and
even take you there.”
Florida Street was on my way home so I gave her a lift. TJ was not around.


65
Chapter 13
I had redoubled my efforts to locate anyone who knew TJ and could help me with her
background, but all efforts had proved fruitless. I even went so far as to write letters to
people in the neighborhoods where TJ had claimed to live, including the current occupants of the
houses where TJ had supposedly lived. It was not surprising that I never received a response.
People probably did not want to get involved, knew nothing, or chose not to respond thinking that
maybe I was crazy.
With no new information forthcoming, I visited my mom. Mom didn’t understand my passion
or motivation for my book. She only cautioned me on how dangerous these people were. Mom is
a deeply religious woman who is also understanding and supportive. She was known to talk too
much and cook too well. She is a very special person; the kind the world could use more of. She
married her one and only husband sixty-one years ago, and stayed married to him—until his
death—for fifty-five years.
My father worked hard all his life, and dedicated the last half of it to serving God and helping
people. He loved baseball, and at the age of forty, formed a baseball team that played together for
five years, from sandlot to semi-pro.
My father played first base and pitched. The first year we played together Dad was unsure of
his ability to pitch, so he only pitched the last inning. From that point on he was known as ninth inning
Ed. Our semi-pro league had ten teams and a very organized structure. We even had a
state tournament, which we won once and finished second on another occasion.
Even against teams of scholarship-level college players, and some ex-professional players, we
did very well, finishing first in the league three times, and second once. The last year we played,
my father led the league in home runs and had a 21-0 won-lost record as a pitcher.
I had a nice visit with Mom, who loaded me down with goodies before I left. It was getting late
when I left, and I had a lot still to do. How to arrange the tasks facing me was on my mind on my
trip back to Greensboro. The ringing of my cell phone interrupted the silence and my thoughts.
I answered the phone and was surprised when I heard a female voice, and one I did not
recognize.
“Are you the man looking for Tammy and Jimmy?”
“Yes, I am.”
“My name is Bonnie Johnson. I own the house at 1004 Pagan Street in Raleigh. I built that
house and I am the only one who has ever lived there. I do not know what those people have told
you, but I do not know who they are.”


66
“I wrote for information on a Tammy James and a Mr. Daughtry. How do you know his first
name is Jimmy?” I asked.
“I am Tammy’s sister,r” the caller confessed, realizing I had caught her slip-up. “What do you
want with them?”
“I’m writing a book about the fire that Tammy was involved in, and I have been trying to locate
her relatives.”
“You’re a liar,” Bonnie screamed at me. “I don’t believe you’re writing a book, and if you are, I
think you are a low-life swine for trying to profit from the death of that little boy. You tell
Tammy that if she ever calls here I’ll hang up on her. I don’t want anything to do with her, or
you, either.”
I was shocked. After months of research, I had not only found one of Tammy’s sisters, but I had
talked to her. I felt the earth move a little. I asked Bonnie about Tammy’s children.
“They are not with me, but they are well taken care of. Where is Tammy?”
“Tammy is, or was, staying at the Southgate Motel in Greensboro. I do not know what room,
but a man called The Preacher might know. He stays in room 211.”
“Was she living by herself?”
Why Bonnie wanted to know this I was not sure. She had told me she wanted nothing to do
with Tammy, and would hang up on her if she called. Now she wanted to know where she was
and whom she was with. Something stank.
The earth not only moved the next day, but the mountain moved with it. I was bringing a load
of stuff up from storage when my cell phone rang again. “This is Toni Harris,” the lady said.
“Who gives you the right to write a book about that little boy who died in the fire? He was my
son, and you are a despicable man for wanting to profit from his death. I want nothing to do with
your book, and I will boycott any book signing you have. My daddy has enough money to put a
stop to your book. Have you ever lost a child, Mr. Sperling?”
“Yes, I have. My son disappeared ten years ago,” I replied.
“Oh! Well, have you ever lost a child in a fire?”
“No,” I answered, wondering why the manner of losing a child mattered.
“Well, I have,” she continued. “I have to live with that pain every day. Why did you choose that
particular fire? Hundreds of children die in fires every year.”
Why does she think it would have been better for me to choose another child’s death to write
about? I was not following her logic. I saw no reason to explore this subject any longer, so I gave
no response. I hoped she would soon move on to her point.
“What you are doing is evil, and you should fall on your knees before God and ask His
forgiveness.”


67
With that, she hung up.
I was in total shock by the last two phone calls I had received. However, I now had the phone
numbers of two of the four people I had been searching for, and the name of the fourth. I still did
not have everything I needed.
Toni’s number was from a cell phone, so I could not do a reverse phone lookup, and I still did
not know the name of Tammy’s other sister, or the true relationship between all of them. I was
mulling all of this over in my mind when my phone rang again.
I was half expecting to hear, “Hey, Baby,” before the caller identified herself.
“This is Toni Harris, again…I’m sorry I hung up on you. Do you know how to get in touch with
Tammy? I called the Southgate Motor Inn and she is not there. That other man does not know
where she is either. Tammy’s sister died, and I need to let her know.”
“All I can tell you is that I will try to get a message to her. Sometimes I can find her in a few
minutes, but sometimes it can take days. I will have to ask around and leave some notes for her.
She will not call me, so I will have to find her.”
“What is your relationship with her?” Toni asked.
“I am just a friend. I helped her when she was in prison, and was trying to get her into a halfway
house when she was released. I wanted her to go back to school and try to make something out of
herself. I had planned to use any proceeds from the book to help pay for her education.”
“If you find her, ask her to call me. The rest of the family wants nothing to do with her, but
Tammy and I were close growing up, as we were about the same age. I tried to
help Tammy get off drugs and straighten up her life, once. I was trying to help her the night of the
fire. Where did you get your information about the fire from?”
“All the information I have came from the newspaper. I did once ask Tammy about the fire and
she recited the newspaper article to me.”
“Tammy did not tell the truth. It was her son that started the fire, and I was never interviewed. I
have not been an angel myself, but I have straightened myself out. I live far away from Garner
now, and I have no desire to ever go anywhere near Garner, or Fayetteville, again.”
“How are Joshua and Jade doing?” I asked. I knew it was a dangerous question, but I had to ask
it.
“They are well taken care of and doing well.” I could hear the contempt in her voice when she
answered, so I left off pursuing it.
“Tell Tammy not to call Bonnie’s house because she will hang up on her,” she added. “Tammy
and I go back a long way. We are family, so I am willing to talk to her. No one else wants
anything to do with her, but Tammy is flesh and blood and it is, after all, her sister that has died.”
“I will do my best to find her and let her know,” I promised Toni.


68
After I had unloaded my things in my new apartment, I checked a few of the usual places.
Having no luck, I decided to visit The Preacher, and gave him a letter to deliver to TJ whenever
they saw each other again. Now all I could do was wait for TJ to find me. She will if she has
any love left inside her for anyone, or anything. I wondered if indeed she did.
I hadn’t expected much from the encounter with Strawberry, so I was very surprised when she
called me two days later. “I’ve found TJ for you. Pick me up at room 136 at Motel 6, in thirty
minutes, and I’ll take you to her.”


69
Chapter 14
I left my apartment and headed over to Motel 6 to meet with Strawberry. I needed to get word
to TJ about her sister passing away and to give her Toni’s cell phone number. It didn’t matter
how her family felt about her, TJ still had the right to know about her sister.
I was supposed to meet Strawberry in room 136; the room had been booked out to someone
named Stacy. Room 136 was on the backside of the motel.
As I drove around the building I noticed a tall, young, good-looking, blond-haired man, dressed
like a cowboy, leaving room 121. He was a truck driver, because he got into a big red rig, with a
white trailer parked in the dirt lot adjacent to the motel.
Standing in the doorway of room 121 was a very pretty lady whom the man had just kissed
goodbye. She stood about five feet five, and her alabaster skin seemed to glow.
Maybe it was her jet-black hair, or her dark-blue eyes that made her look so pretty to me. It could
have been her hourglass figure, or her tight-fitting jeans, or maybe even the revealing fringed top,
but I knew she looked very sexy. A lucky man to have such a wife or girlfriend, I thought. As
I drove past the woman, she gave me a big wink, and held up her middle finger toward the
trucker.
I drove to room 136 and parked in front of it. I saw the woman from room 121 walking toward
me along the passageway. I knocked on the door of room 136 and Strawberry answered and
invited me in. The other woman walked into the room behind me.
Strawberry introduced her as Lisa. A man of around thirty, was still in bed, but he was awake
and alert. He had a construction worker’s body, rather handsome with his golden tan and blond
hair. Strawberry introduced him to me as Stacy, but said everyone called him Brad Pitt.
Strawberry held a crack pipe, and she and Lisa shared the pipe while Stacy got dressed. A car’s
horn blew and Stacy grabbed the pipe from Strawberry.
“Give me a hit before I have to go,” he said. He took a big, deep drag and held it as long as he
could before he rushed from the room.
The girls had barely finished their hit when a skinny, young, black male came to the door. He
reminded me somewhat of JJ Evans from the TV show Good Times. Strawberry let him in and
closed the door behind him. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and showed her
a large, off-white substance, shaped like a small rough stone.
“How much?” Strawberry asked. Her eyes got big as saucers when she saw the rock.
“Twenty!”
“I’ve only got ten on me.”
She tried to borrow ten dollars from me, but I convinced her I did not have any money with me.
She rushed out of the room in search of more money.


70
The man left and just a few minutes later, Strawberry returned with the rock.
“Can you believe this?” she exclaimed to Lisa. “A forty-dollar piece for only twenty.”
Strawberry told Lisa that she could share this piece with her, and then Lisa could help her take
care of me. Lisa agreed.
While Lisa and Strawberry were taking their hits we talked.
“Have you ever been married?” I asked Lisa.
“Yeah, I was married for sixteen years. I’ve got two kids. My boy is still in high school and is
doing real good.”
“Where are your kids now? Do they stay with you?”
“Of course, they still live with me.”
“Where do you live? Do you have your own house?”
“No, I don’t own a house. I stay with my mother sometimes, and sometimes I stay with a friend.
Guess how old I am?” Lisa asked.
I thought she might be in her forties, and to be honest I would have guessed forty-six, but to be
nice I said thirty-nine.
“I’m thirty-six,” she replied.
I guess I wasn’t nice enough.
Strawberry was acting a little weird, talking constantly. Sometimes she would talk to Lisa,
sometimes to me, sometimes she would grab a cell phone and make a call, and sometimes she
would just talk to herself. I noticed that Strawberry referred to the scriptures a few times. She
seemed to quote from the Old Testament frequently, especially from Genesis and Exodus. I asked
her if she was familiar with the Bible.
“Just because I smoke crack doesn’t mean I am stupid. I was a Sunday school teacher for seven
years. In fact, it was God who told me it was okay to smoke crack. God is a crack head, and he
said smoking crack is good, as long as I always remember to put him first and crack second. God
and Moses smoked crack on the mountain top, and God was “high” when he wrote the Ten
Commandments.”
Strawberry was very passionate in her storytelling, rising to a fever pitch several times, even
shedding tears as she shared stories from the Old Testament about the times that
God and his followers had gotten high on crack. Strawberry preached for over an hour, until
Lisa’s phone rang.
“It’s the school and they want to see me about one of the kids. I have to go.”


71
As soon as Lisa left, Strawberry excused herself and went to the bathroom. When she came
back out, she was naked and motioned for me to join her on the bed. I looked at my watch.
“Sorry! I am running late and will be in trouble if I don’t get to work soon. Maybe some other
time.”
“I was there when TJ read the letter,” she said. “I think TJ loves you.”
“I don’t think so. If she cared at all about me, why does she never call me? And why will she not
have anything to do with me?”
“She can’t. TJ will not allow you to get any control over her.”
“What control?” I asked. “I do not want to control TJ.”
“To love someone or to let someone love you is to give them control. TJ will not let that
happen.”
Strawberry checked the table and saw that all her crack was gone. “There has to be more around
here somewhere.”
She started looking on the floor and said she saw a piece behind the bed. As I slipped out of the
room, I was left with a view of Strawberry’s butt wedged between the bed and the wall.
“Damn, it is only a piece of lint,” was the last thing I heard her say.
Strawberry hadn’t been any help in helping me locate TJ, but she did help me understand TJ’s
logic. I had asked Strawberry if she knew where TJ was, and if TJ knew about her sister’s death.
I was not lying to Strawberry, as I did have to go to work. When my workday was over, I rode
by the Southgate hoping that I could find someone who had seen TJ. I stopped in Kyle’s Amoco
to get my smokes and Diet Red.
As I was leaving, a black woman, Sharon, was standing at the fence, and motioned for me to
stop and talk to her. Sharon was the girl TJ had planned to share a room with when TJ was first
released from prison. TJ’s boyfriend, Rick, and Sharon had been lovers while TJ was in prison.
When TJ found out, she and Sharon almost came to blows over Rick, but Sharon convinced TJ
that their friendship was more important than he was. TJ agreed and they decided to split a room
together. But TJ spent the night with Rick and that ended Sharon and TJ’s room sharing
arrangement.
The younger Shorty was with Sharon when I drove up. Shorty asked me if I wanted to do
something, but I ignored her.
“Looking for TJ?” Sharon asked me.
“No,” I lied. “I don’t care if I ever see her again. I am just trying to keep track of her so she will
go to court, but I am beginning to not even care if she shows up or not.”
“I know that can’t be true. You will lose your money if she does not show up.”


72
“I know, but the aggravation of dealing with her is making losing my money worth being rid of
her.”
“I know you really don’t mean that. She is around here somewhere, I’m sure.”
“Do you know if she ever received my message about her sister?”
“She went to the funeral. She just got back this morning,” Sharon said.
“How did she get to the funeral?”
“Rick took her.”
“If Rick could take her to the funeral, then Rick can take her to court.”
“Rick can’t take her to court. He doesn’t own a car,” Sharon said.
“If Rick doesn’t have a car, then how did he take her to the funeral?” I asked.
“Rick went with her. TJ called one of her relatives and they came down to get her. In fact, there
she is now,” Sharon said, motioning toward Kyle’s.
I looked over toward the Amoco station and noticed a brand new, customized, white Ford
pickup. TJ slid out of the front seat and looked straight at me. Sharon and Shorty made excuses
and left in haste as TJ walked toward my truck. TJ had a bottle of wine and another package in
her arms as she approached. She did not say a word. She just stared at me, her face less than six
inches from mine. After about fifteen seconds—which seemed like several minutes—TJ turned
and walked onto the Southgate compound, without uttering a word.
I did not see or hear from TJ for several days. I had business on the south end of town, which
meant the best route for me was down MLK. It was late when I headed back toward home. I
really was not paying attention to the people along the sidewalks, but two girls on a park bench
did catch my eye. One was Tracy, a tall, thin woman I had met a few times before, during my
many searches for TJ. She didn’t hang out at the Southgate, but walked the streets around the area
and MLK frequently. Tracy was proof that a girl doesn’t have to be pretty to turn tricks. She
looked like the wicked witch of the west on a bad hair day.
The second girl was TJ. I turned around and when I got back to the park bench Tracy was the
only one there. She started to get in my truck, but I said no, I just wanted to know where TJ went.
She pointed south. I drove down about two blocks before I saw TJ walking. She jumped in
my truck when I pulled to a stop beside her.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “This is a long way from the Southgate.”
“Did you hear about the raids?” she asked.
“What raids?”
“The police raided the Southgate and arrested three girls. Ten others were banned. I have been
banned from the Southgate, the Budget, Lost Dimensions, the Cavalier, and


73
the Coliseum Inn. John Drake did this. I want you to get on your computer and find some dirt on
him. I want his job. He has stuffed half the girls out here and I want his job.”
TJ was visibly angry.


74
Chapter 15
TJ wanted some wine and I wanted some cigarettes, so I drove her to Kyle’s Amoco. Just as we
were leaving the station we spotted John Drake leaving the Southgate. He is a privately hired
policeman working for the North Carolina Rangers. He had been hired to patrol the businesses TJ
was now banned from.
“He is just starting his rounds,” TJ stated. “We are in luck. I need to go to the Southgate and get
my papers and stuff.”
We drove to the Southgate where we visited a black lady in her room. The woman was around
thirty-five, tall, and looked almost like a man in drag. She was very dark-skinned and talked with
a lisp. She was dressed in black leather pants with snaps fitted from the bottom of the legs
all the way to the top.
“Are you checking her out?” TJ accused me.
“No, I am just curious about the pants. Are they stripper pants?” I asked the lady.
“Yeah!” She answered. “Want to see how they work?”
The woman grabbed hold of the bottom of the pants and pulled them open all the way to her
waist. She then sat so that I could see the full length of her leg.
TJ let the subject of the pants drop. She wanted to find Rick and made several phone calls. She
found out he was in room 115, but it seemed he would not come to the phone, nor would he come
down to see her. TJ wanted to go to his room, but the black woman refused to let her go if she
intended to bring him to her room.
“What’s your problem?” TJ asked the woman.
“I don’t have a problem,” the black lady replied. “I don’t want that man in my room.”
“Well, what are we going to do about Drake?” TJ asked.
“What do you mean?” the woman replied.
“I want dirt on him, and I want him dead and buried,” TJ shouted at the woman.
“You’re mad!” the woman pointed a finger at TJ’s face. “Get out of my room…and take your
friend with you,” she yelled.
We left her room and I waited in the truck while TJ went to another room. She returned after
about five minutes with a small stack of pink papers. The papers were her eviction notice, and
three citations for trespassing at the Southgate. She showed me the papers and launched into a
speech


75
about what a lousy person Drake was, and how she wanted me to help her nail him.
After about twenty minutes TJ calmed down.
“Do you know which of my sisters died?” she asked me.
“You went to the funeral, didn’t you?”
“How could I go to the funeral? I only got your letter a couple of days ago.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know which sister died.”
I did not know the name of TJ’s youngest sister, and I was trying to draw it out of her.
“Was it Bonnie? You said my older sister died, and Bonnie was the oldest.”
“I don’t know. I just assumed it was the older one who had died.”
“Vicki was the youngest.”
TJ paused when she said Vicki, because she realized she had just given me the information I
was after. “Vicki gets sick a lot with pneumonia,” she continued. “Did Toni say it was her
mother, or just that my sister died? Do you have Toni’s number?”
“It’s at my apartment,” I told her.
“Well, we are going to your apartment,” she demanded. “I am going to have to use your phone.
I want to call Toni.”
“What for?”
“I also need to use your computer.” TJ ignored my question. “I know a lot about computers,”
she said. “Did Toni say anything else?” TJ quizzed.
“Yeah, you’re not to call Bonnie because she will just hang up on you.”
“Then it had to be Vicki that had died.”
TJ figured she had caught me out, but I had found out all I needed to know. TJ had two sisters—
Bonnie Johnson and Vicki Harris. Vicki was the mother of Toni Harris, which
made Tammy Jean James the aunt of Toni, not her cousin. Now I had to figure a way to get rid of
TJ before we got to my place.
TJ solved this problem for me.
“Could you take me to The Projects?” she asked. “I need to get some clothes together.”
“Okay, no problem,” I replied.
“Just wait down the street for me. I will be about ten or fifteen minutes,” TJ said, as she grabbed
my work hat on her way out of my truck. I really wanted that hat back as it was issued in


76
company colors with a logo patch. The hats were specially issued to the meat department only,
and one had to turn in an old hat in order to get a new one. Without the hat, I would have to wear
a hairnet at work because I was a food handler.
“Hey, I want my hat.”
TJ laughed as she put my hat on her head. “You’ll get your hat back.”
I drove down the street and parked for a couple of minutes in case TJ was watching. When I felt
the time was right, I drove around the block until I had a view of the apartment TJ went into, but I
could not be seen from the apartment. It was just a few minutes later that TJ slipped out the back
and into the dark.
In a way I was glad to see her go, but we still had some issues we needed to resolve. I thought I
might try to find her again the next day. It was the following evening when I again went looking
for TJ. For whatever reason, instead of heading down MLK as I usually did, I turned off Lee
Street onto Martin. At the end of Martin, next to the park, I saw two women standing and talking.
As I drove slowly toward them I recognized the shorter one as TJ.
I saw the look of disgust on her face. I knew she didn’t want to deal with me, but that was too
bad. I pulled up to a stop beside her.
“Boy, I am glad to see you. I need the phone numbers, all of them,” TJ blurted out.
“Here are your pictures,” I said, handing her a large, white envelope.
“What’s this?” she asked, taking the envelope.
“The phone numbers are in the envelope with your pictures. My work number, my cell phone
number, and my home phone number are also in there. Now, don’t lose them. Where are you
staying?” I asked her.
“We are going to get us a room,” she replied.
“Where?” I asked. “With what?”
“That is what I am doing,” she said. “I’m trying to earn the money for a room.”
“Be careful,” I cautioned her.
As I pulled away and headed for home, I suddenly felt that it would feel good to get home, to be
able to just kick back and read the paper. I hadn’t been able to do that in a while.
When I opened the paper to the city section, I noticed the headline:
POLICE TARGET VICE NEAR I-40


77
According to the article by Lorraine Ahearn, in the March 15 edition of the Greensboro News
and Record, police had beefed up patrols around the 2400 block of Randleman Road, which
encompassed the Southgate, the Budget, the Cavalier Inn, and the Lost Dimensions. The
goal was to reduce crime in the area, as well as increase local business. The low daily rent of $35
a day, or $140 a week, attracted many of the city’s homeless and jobless who could not afford to
rent a house or an apartment.
According to police statistics, crimes reported had increased to 1,014 in 2002. That was almost
three crimes a day for one city block. Reports ranged from theft, drug-dealings, prostitution, and
murder. This area was once a thriving business district, but when Wal-Mart opened on
Wendover Avenue, K-Mart closed and the area went into an economic slide.
Police conducted a vice sting on March 14, which netted twelve men soliciting an undercover
cop for sex. That followed thirty-five arrests for solicitation in the first two months of 2003. The
city sent in inspectors to look for violations to building codes. Their aim was to reduce crime
and increase business, not to close the motels, but to improve their conditions. However, if the
situation did not improve the city would move to close them.
Another article caught my eye.
“When Things Went South At The Southgate,” by Lorraine Ahearn, feature writer.
It was built as a first class motel—Holiday Inn South, it
was called—but you would not know that from looking at it
today.
Inside the lobby, there’s an entertainment center, but an
empty space where the TV used to be. The AC unit in the
window is broken, and the desk clerk behind the
bulletproof glass doesn’t look up from a Nintendo game
when I asked, through the metal speaker plate, how much
for a room.
“That depends,” he says, “on the condition of the room,
and how long you want it?”
Things are sketchy these days at the Southgate Motor
Inn, a shambling, mostly vacant complex at the off ramp of
Interstate 40 and Randleman Road.
Like the Smith Ranch before it, it’s achieved a kind of
landmark status—at least for 911 dispatchers and bail
bondsmen—one of Greensboro’s premier addresses if you
happen to be looking for trouble.
What sort of trouble? Well, let’s see. There was the time
police raided an address at the Southgate and arrested a
fifteen-year-old boy, later convicted of selling crack from
his room.


78
Or the time a drifter was beaten by a fellow tenant, then
went back to his room and died.
Or the time a seventeen-year-old boy was shot three
times.
Then there was the motel guest who was arrested for
having sex in public.
Or the guy who fired a shotgun blast and hit five people.
And it goes without saying, there were the assorted
murders, beatings, and robberies that, placed end to end,
could fill a whole newspaper. Except that they would all
sound the same—occurring, “in the early morning hours,”
usually, “after an argument,” over, you guessed it, “an
unspecified amount of money.”
Still, it is worth asking. How exactly does this long, slow
slide from a first-rate motel in the 1960s, along a brand new
Interstate, to a foreboding haven for people the
assistant DAs like to call “frequent fliers?”


79
Chapter 16
High point, North Carolina, is a small city of around 70,000 located south of Greensboro, and east
of Winston-Salem. It is associated with the two larger cities to form an area known as the triad.
Greensboro’s industry is diverse, but is probably best known for its clothing, particularly
Cone Mills. Winston-Salem, as its name might imply, is best known for cigarettes, and is home to
R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company, which makes, among other things, both Winston and Salem
cigarettes.
High Point is best known for furniture, as it is one of the world’s leading manufacturing centers
and lays claim to being the furniture capitol of the world; although Fort Smith, Arkansas actually
makes more furniture. Private citizens often rent out their homes to visitors during the annual
furniture market, as there is not enough motel space in the area for them all. Of course, the market
is a lucrative venture for many of the citizens of the triad. Besides motels and restaurants, most
retail outlets benefit from the market’s presence. One industry that benefits greatly is the sex
trade. Research shows that approximately thirteen percent of men have engaged the services of a
prostitute, and are more likely to do so when out of town. It seems that the more disposable
income a man has, the more likely he is to become a regular.
The vast majority of the visitors to the triad during the furniture market are out of town men
with an expense account, who are motivated not only to purchase the services of prostitutes for
themselves, but also to influence a potential client as well. Even with fifty-three escort agencies
listed in the phone book, there are not enough workers to fill the demand, so some agency owners
recruit street prostitutes to help.
TJ was one of the girls recruited by Sly to work for his agency, at least for the duration of the
market. He made a sizable investment in clothes for her as well as a cosmetic makeover. It was a
small investment to make in return for the profit he would receive from her services. Girls knew
not to cross a man like Sly. If a poor boy with a computer could keep track of a homeless
prostitute in a city the size of Greensboro, it was a safe bet that a man like Sly, with his
connections all over town, could do the same.
Yet, TJ did just that. She sold the clothes that Sly had purchased for her, stole a truck from a
customer, ripped off a drug dealer, and tried to leave town with a couple of girls.
Before she could flee, Sly found her, beat her up, and demanded that she return the clothes, or
return to work. She had sold the clothes, so she decided to flee Greensboro to escape the other
people looking for her—including me for her failure to appear in court—and the police, because
of her outstanding trespassing warrants.
TJ had a habit of making bad decisions and refusing to face up to her mistakes. Living for the
moment was her only motivation, and to fulfill her immediate needs TJ had put her life in serious
jeopardy. TJ thought her intelligence was enough to let her escape from any situation. I knew TJ


80
well enough to know that she would show up in Greensboro—eventually. It was just a matter of
when and under what name.
From my experience and studies, I learned that developing a pathological personality is a
permanent condition; therefore, it is unlikely that TJ will ever get off the streets.
One lady I met—a former clerk of the court from Arkansas—told me about a young man who
came through the court system there.
Everyone in the office had taken a liking to this young man, so the small group of six
employees and one of the judges decided to set him up with a new life. They rented him a fully
furnished apartment, secured him a job, and registered him for college classes. They thought he
was doing well, until he was arrested for selling drugs from his new apartment.
I tried to help TJ, but she didn’t want that. There may be help available for her, but it is help
that I am unable to provide with my limited resources and knowledge. Instead it is TJ that has to
seek change and if she ever calls me saying she wants to get off the streets, I’ll be there for her.
TJ knows that I care and that she can find me whenever she is ready. Until then, I will put my
time and energy into my writing, and into the Guilford County Substance Abuse Coalition—an
organization of private and public agencies and hospitals cooperating with the community to
tackle all phases of prevention and treatment of substance abusers.
I had not seen, heard from, or heard about, TJ since I saw her and the other girl on Martin
Street. On the evening of March 29, 2003, I was heading down MLK. I usually took a right turn
off MLK onto Florida Street, but tonight I needed to stop by the bank, and the closest one was at
the end of MLK where it becomes Alamance Church Road. I kept straight on MLK and I saw the
store—where I had taken TJ several times to purchase wine—coming up on my left.
I was thinking about the astronomical odds of my seeing TJ in the brief moment it would take
me to drive past that little store. To my total shock, there was TJ just leaving with—what else—a
bottle of wine. She jumped into the passenger seat of a white Pontiac Grand Prix, before it
headed north on MLK, and turned left onto Florida. As quickly as I saw her I made a quick turn
and circled in behind the car. TJ must have seen me or recognized my truck, because the driver of
the Pontiac made a quick right onto Randolph Street and pulled over.
I pulled in behind them and stopped. TJ jumped out of the Pontiac and walked back to my
truck. She looked nice. Her hair was neatly brushed and styled.
“Wow! What an outfit,” I couldn’t help but compliment her on her new look.
She had on a medium-green tank top that was covered in glitter, skintight leather pants, and
medium heel pumps. TJ looked very sexy in that outfit, even with the extra weight she carried
from prison.
“I have a lot of nice clothes and I do not want people stealing them. I need to take them to some
place safe. Meet me at the Travelodge in forty-five minutes.”
“What room?”
“I do not have a room. That is what I am working on.”


81
I checked my watch and noticed it was 7:15 I had serious doubts that TJ would show up, and
wondered why she had asked for my help. I would like to forget this whole matter, but I needed
to keep track of her to ensure she turned up for court. With her being banned from Randleman
Road, she was even more elusive than before.
I wondered why she ran rather than talk to Toni, but maybe she knew she would get a lecture. I
wondered many things about TJ, and all the other girls like her. Being a street prostitute was not
about money, nor was it all about drugs. There was something far more sinister at work in
these women’s lives.
I pulled into the Travelodge off Lee Street at exactly eight, and circled the building before
parking near the office. I saw a woman standing outside the motel near the pool, but no sign of
the Pontiac, or TJ. After about fifteen minutes, I left my truck to stretch. The woman was still
standing by the pool, so I walked over to her.
The lady appeared to be in her early thirties, and had shoulder-length brown hair. She wasn’t
pretty, but not a clock stopper, either. She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a plaid shirt, and
the seemingly obligatory running shoes. She could have been anyone’s wife, sister, or daughter
just stepping outside her motel room for a smoke, except I knew the moment I saw her that she
was a working girl. I can’t describe how I knew, as the signs can be extremely subtle. It may be a
look, or a way of standing, or a scent only a searcher can detect, but the signs are there.
“Hi!” I said. “Are you a guest here?”
“No! Are you a cop?”
“No, are you?” She just chuckled.
“Do you know any of the girls from the Southgate?” I asked.
“No, I have only been here two days. I am just visiting a friend of mine and his wife, Gail. I am
from High Point. What are you up to?” she asked.
“I am supposed to meet a friend of mine, a girl called TJ, to help move some clothes for her. Do
you know her?”
“I don’t know anyone called TJ. What is her real name?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. Privacy was important to these girls, and this woman knew that.
She must know TJ, and I guessed she had a problem with her, or she would not ask such a
question. I really would like to find out what her interest in TJ was.
“Have you ever been to Motel 6?” I asked her.
“No, why?”
“You mentioned that your friend’s name was Gail. I met Strawberry at Motel 6, along with a
man named Stacy. I called his room once looking for Strawberry, and he told me she was not
there, but Gail and another woman were coming by. I thought it might have been your friend
Gail.”


82
“Stacy was busted last night, I heard,” she told me. “Stacy was married to my ex-husband’s
sister. I heard that Tammy and a girl named Gail were arrested in the raid on the Southgate, along
with another girl.”
“But not TJ?” I asked.
“I don’t know a TJ,” she repeated.
“What is your name?”
“Rhonda.”
“Look, it is 8:45, and TJ has not shown up, so I am going to head home. Would you like to
come and talk?”
As we headed toward my apartment she noticed my wedding ring.
“Who else is at your house?” she asked.
“Just me and my cat.”
“Your cat! Where is your wife?”
“Oh, I am not married. I just like to wear a wedding ring.”
She asked me how I had met this TJ and why she had not shown up.
“I had my doubts that she would show up. If I didn’t I would not have talked to you. There isn’t
much I don’t know about Tammy.”
“So, that’s her real name, is it? Miss Tammy and some of the other girls have been talking
about going to South Carolina.”
“There is no way that girl is going to leave Greensboro, not for long, anyway. Even if she did,
she has enough warrants on her that South Carolina will just send her back She will not be gone
long, if she ever decides to leave.”
“Tammy told me that she had only been homeless for about six months. She said she and her
husband had a big, beautiful house in Raleigh, with a pool and several cars. She had many nice
clothes, and anything else she wanted. She said that she caught her husband cheating and stabbed
him fifty-three times, and left him on the living room floor with his guts hanging out.”
I laughed. When we got to my place, I downloaded a picture of Jimmy Daughtry from the
NCDOC website, and showed her where the “husband” was six months ago. I downloaded TJ’s
file as well, and showed her that TJ was in prison at the time, and could not have done what she
had claimed.
“Could TJ be an undercover cop?” Rhonda asked.
“I doubt that,” I said.


83
“Well, I heard that she was. Some of the big dealers that used to deal with her will not have
anything to do with her. There has to be a way to find out.”
“No way that I know of. Being undercover means working in secret. Extra care is taken to
protect those people. I know of no way except to be observant, watch where they go, when they
make phone calls and to whom, who they talk to, and when they disappear. It is like putting
a puzzle together. Put enough pieces together and you have your picture. Why do you think she
may be undercover?”
“Several girls that had been with her were arrested, but she wasn’t. I have seen her talking to
the same cop several times. She accused my friend Gail of stealing her clothes. Sly took up for
her. I have known him a long time. He picked me up, gave me a place to stay and nice clothes to
wear, and never asked me for sex. Now, that is a real man. Sly is my friend, and I want to protect
him, but he just does not believe me about Tammy.”
Rhonda said she liked to read, so I gave her a couple of Ann Rule novels. On the way back to
her motel she asked to borrow my phone.
“Hey, Sly. I got proof about Tammy. This guy showed me everything on his
computer…Really…Just get me a tape recorder and I will prove it.”
This encounter explained many things. With the International Furniture Market now taking
place in High Point, Sly needed more girls for his escort service. He had probably picked TJ up,
cleaned her up, and bought her some really nice outfits in exchange for TJ working for him
in his escort service. Apparently, someone went through TJ’s new clothes, and fearing that Sly
would be mad, TJ accused Gail of taking the clothes. Sly chose to believe TJ, getting Gail into
more trouble, and Rhonda wanted to help Gail discredit TJ. Either that or TJ sold the clothes and
accused Gail of stealing them to cover the theft.
If Rhonda succeeded in convincing Sly that TJ was trouble, then TJ could be seriously hurt, or
even killed. I did not want to see any harm come to TJ, but if she was going to play those games,
she would have to pay.


84
Chapter 17
Being in contact with TJ was a dangerous proposition by now. With Rhonda trying to set her
up, and “Operation 2400,” in full force as the police tried to end prostitution and related crimes in
the 2400 blocks of Randleman Road—especially the Southgate—and a new, “zero tolerance,”
stance being taken on prostitution, in which the police used any method to arrest anybody
involved, looking for TJ could get one in trouble with the law, or worse.
Lamont, one of my co-workers, had asked me several times what TJ looked like, and I promised
to show him her picture, but never did. This led to him getting in trouble with the law. He later
told me how it had happened.
One night he decided to find out for himself, so he went to Randleman Road. He saw a lady
standing at the fence at the Southgate, so he stopped to talk with her, he told me later. Maybe this
was TJ, or she knew her, he remembered thinking. After talking with her for a few minutes he
pulled away, only to be stopped by a patrol car and ticketed for soliciting an undercover cop.
He was already in trouble with the law on a totally unrelated matter, so he discussed this
incident with his attorney. He told his attorney he was going to use my book as a defense, at
which his attorney laughed, and said that I was probably just a scorned lover who was obsessed
with TJ, and there really was no book. When Lamont showed his attorney a copy of the rough
draft, he changed his tune.
However, when Lamont discovered that his conversation with the lady cop had been recorded,
he changed his mind about how to plead and admitted his guilt. I told him that he made several
mistakes. His first was trying to pick a prostitute up to begin with. His second was talking to the
woman while she was outside his vehicle. His third was to keep the conversation going after she
refused to tell him what her name was.
“You deserved to be arrested for being so stupid,” I said.
When I got home from work I called the Econolodge, room 315, to speak to Rhonda. She
invited me over to talk.


85
I arrived at the Econolodge and knocked on Rhonda’s door. To my surprise, Shannon opened the
door and invited me in. Shannon was the other woman who was supposed to have come to
Stacy’s room the last time I had talked to him. Shannon had pretended to be Rhonda when she
had answered the phone.
She was rather attractive, tall and not too thin, with a decent figure. She was in her mid-to-late
twenties with shoulder-length light-brown hair that hung straight. It didn’t have much body, but it
did appear to be clean. Shannon was barefoot and dressed in a cotton nightgown that hung to just
above her knees.
The other woman in the room appeared to be a few years older and twenty pounds heavier. She
was about four inches shorter, with medium-length brown hair that had a little natural wave in it.
She had on sports shoes, blue jeans, and a blue denim shirt.
There was a figure in the bed, covered head to toe with a blanket. Whoever it was was too large
to be female. I asked Shannon where Rhonda was, and she told me that she was taking a shower
and would be out in a minute. There was another lady in the room who offered me a seat
in a chair next to her. She was wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt. She had a pleasant face, but
was much too heavy for my taste. When I sat down she asked my name.
“I’m Dale. You must be Gail.”
“How did you know my name?” she inquired.
“I know something about almost everyone, and a lot about many of you girls.”
We chatted for a few minutes and I asked to use the bathroom. There was no one in the
bathroom, as I suspected. When I returned to the room I asked again about Rhonda. I explained
that I was really looking for her as she had some information for me. When I explained that I had
given her a few books to read, Gail got excited.
“Hey Sly…Sly,” she said to the figure in bed. “This is the man with the computer.”
When she said that, Sly sat up in bed and gave me a long, hard look. He was in his thirties, bald,
thin, and appeared very tall. Sly did not say anything, he just stared.
Gail apologized for Rhonda not being there and asked if she could take care of me instead.
“I have nice breasts,” she said, as she lifted her shirt over her head, revealing two large, firm
breasts.
“You certainly do. Just have Rhonda call me when she returns,” I said, as I left the room.
I left the Econolodge and made a left-hand turn onto High Point Road. I followed it as it turned
into Lee Street and drove past the Econolodge. I was thinking about TJ. It was apparent from the
conversation I had just had with Shannon and Gail that they did not know where she was. That
meant three things. Firstly, no one had harmed her so far, as they could not find her. Secondly,
she was no longer working with the escort agency, and lastly, she was back working the streets.
I started to go down MLK to pass by the Southgate, but I changed my mind. It is better to leave
this alone, I thought. I turned left onto a side street and then circled the block to Bragg Street,


86
which would lead me back to MLK, and then to home. Just as I made the left turn onto Bragg I
heard someone yelling, “Dale…Dale.”
I checked my mirror and saw a gray vehicle following me, with TJ hanging out of the passenger
window waving her arms to get my attention.
This is a big switch, I thought, TJ following me.
I pulled over and the primer-gray Ford Bronco II pulled ahead of me and stopped. I got out of
my truck and walked over to the Bronco.
“What the hell is wrong with you? We have been following you for four miles. Didn’t you see
the flashing lights behind you?” TJ yelled at me. “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?”
“Looking for you,” I replied.
TJ got out of the Bronco and waited for me to approach her. The other Tammy—the blonde—
was sitting in the back. I said hello to Tammy, and she smiled and said something to me, which I
didn’t hear, but TJ did. Whatever Tammy had just said upset TJ, and she gave Tammy that
“go to hell” stare of hers, and told Tammy to shut up. A young, white male was driving the
Bronco, which was filled with clothes, most of which were piled in the back, crowding Tammy.
“I have been trying to call you, but those people at Harris-Teeter will not give you a message,
and the girls at the Pop Shoppe are so rude.”
“Well, here I am. Why have you been trying to call me?”
“I heard you were looking for me. I ran into Jody and she told me you gave her some money.
How much money did you give her?”
“I didn’t give Jody any money.”
“That’s a lie. Big-titted Jody doesn’t do anything without getting money for it.”
“Yes, I had Jody at my house. I wanted to interview her for the book. Someone had slapped her
around, and she was in bad shape. I let her stay overnight and cleaned her up.”
“Save it, Buster, I know better than that,” TJ explained. “This guy is from out of town, and did
not cash his payroll check before coming to Greensboro. We cannot find a place to cash it. The
check is for $750, and since you work at Harris-Teeter…they might cash it for you.”
TJ wanted me to go with them to get the check cashed. “You lead the way and we will follow,”
she instructed.
I pulled out and headed for the store on Church Street. That was my home store, and I knew that
they would not cash it, as there was a $500 limit on payroll checks. I knew TJ, and I knew of
Tammy. They will take that man for every penny he had before the weekend was over, and I
really did not want to help them. The only place that will cash the check without a huge fee was a
grocery store with a bank, which the store on Church Street did not have. The banks stay open
until nine, and it was now 8:30, so I had to stall them for thirty minutes.


87
The man and I went into the Church Street store, and I talked to the manager. He told me what I
already knew. He explained to us that there was a control on the computer and no one could
override the system. He suggested we go to a store with a bank.
The nearest one was about a mile away on Pisgah Church Road, but that would get us there
before nine, so I headed for the one off Battleground at the Westridge Shopping Center instead. It
was a few minutes before nine when we arrived, so I took the man to the customer service
counter instead of the bank.
By the time the man behind the counter had explained that the check would have to be cashed at
the bank, it was past nine, and the bank had closed.
The man said he was going to relieve himself, so I went outside to let the girls know what had
happened. TJ asked me about Jody again.
“TJ, Jody and I did not have sex, and I did not give her any money. Someone beat her up and
she looked really bad, so I offered to let her come over and clean up, and rest at my place for the
night. In exchange, she answered some questions for my book and said she would help me to find
you. I did not give Jody any money.”
“Then Jody is a liar. Wait until I talk to her about this.”
“Why? What difference does it make to you?”
“I’ll worry about what I want to worry about. I don’t like being lied to. Either you are lying, or
she is, and I choose to believe you.”
I never did tell TJ that the reason I was looking for her was to let her know that the girls from
the Econolodge thought TJ was a snitch, and wanted to harm her. I decided that as long as
Tammy Jean James wanted to live her life as TJ, then the “Queen of Southgate” would have to
take her lumps as they came. If she wanted to be in total control of her life, let her figure
everything out on her own.
“How much money do you have?” TJ asked me.
“I don’t have any money,” I lied. I actually had two hundred and fifty dollars on me.
“You never have any money on you when I need some. The reason you never have any money
is because you spend it all on those other bitches.”
“You know the only reason I ever talk to any of the girls is to find you. You have been running
from me from the day you were released from prison.”
“I have not,” TJ defended herself.
“You have too. You have never had time for me.”
“That’s because you spend all your money on whores.”
“You’re one.”


88
TJ grabbed my jacket sleeve. “Let’s not go there.”
She let go of my jacket and pulled some money out of her pocket. “This is all I have. Twenty six
dollars. Do you want to count it? I need a place to lay my head tonight. I want your phone
numbers…all of them,” TJ demanded.
“I gave them to you when I gave you your pictures.”
“I lost the pictures,” she confessed.
“You know how to get in touch with me if you really want to. Just call HT, the Pop Shoppe, or
the operator. I know HT and the Pop Shoppe will not give you my number, but if you tell them it
is important, they will call me and give me a message.”
For a streetwise girl, she could be so stupid at times. Our conversation was solving nothing. She
was drunk, and she was just using me to get a check cashed so that she and Tammy could “shack
up” with this guy until they had spent all of his money. I was not about to finance this
rendezvous.
“We are going to get this check cashed tonight. We will get a room at the Oaks,” TJ insisted.
TJ, Tammy, and the man left to find another method of cashing the check. I looked the Oaks up
in the phone book, and discovered it was a motel on Summit Avenue—between Wendover and
Cornwallis—not far from where I worked.
The next morning I passed by the motel and saw the Ford Bronco there. I knew the police
wanted TJ and Tammy, and I also knew what would happen to the poor guy that was with them. I
had a friend on the police force, so I let her know what was going on, hoping that the new
policy the police had on street prostitutes would lead them to intervene before the guy lost
everything.
TJ was due in court in a week and I would feel much better knowing she was in jail. All I could
do was wait to see what happened.


89
Chapter 18
TJ’s court date was scheduled for April 17, 2003, and so the sixteenth would probably be TJ’s
last day of freedom if she chose to keep her court date. Ordinarily, I could find her hanging
around the Southgate, but since she had been banned from the area, she seldom went up there
now.
I had seen her in the area. I had been to my storage unit, and was heading back home when I
saw a woman working JJ Drive. At first I did not pay much attention to her until I
saw a black Ford pickup stop to pick the woman up. I recognized the driver as the ugly man that
TJ had spent a lot of time hanging around with while she was staying at the Southgate. He was a
big fellow, over six feet and with a belly bigger than it should have been. His dark hair was
uncombed, greasy, and his pale complexion was marred by a bad case of acne.
I stopped at Kyle’s Amoco to pick up a pack of smokes and a Diet Red. When I came out I saw
the same woman in front of the Southgate walking toward the Amoco. As I started to pull away, I
recognized her—it was TJ. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she had a baseball
cap on, backwards as was the current style. She asked me to give her a ride to the Travelodge,
which I did.
When I dropped her off, she asked me to meet her in room 161 when I got off work that night, at
eleven.
Police cars had the room surrounded when I showed up at a few minutes after eleven. I was
very hesitant about stopping, so I called the room. A man answered the phone and said that
someone had stolen his truck, and it was okay for me to come in. He said TJ had told him to ask
me to wait for her.
I watched the end of the Duke ladies basketball game in the NCAA Basketball Tournament,
which they won, beating South Carolina 77-60 to advance to the Final Four. When TJ had not
arrived by midnight, I left.
Apart from this day, I had not seen or heard from TJ since the night she had asked me to help
get a check cashed five days before. Not a long period of time, but considering the fact that
Rhonda, Gail, and Shannon were trying to do her harm, I was a little concerned. I needed to find
her to ensure that she was going to show for court tomorrow.
I had asked around, and all the information I could gather led me to believe that TJ was around
the Southgate somewhere. With the police patrolling the area, she would have to stay in a room
while on the premises or face a good possibility of being arrested for trespassing. That made it
more difficult for me to find her, but not impossible.


90
My luck was not good that night and I could not narrow my search in the area. I left the
Southgate and turned onto JJ Drive to pass the Cavalier, then on to Elm Street, before
heading over to catch MLK home.
Just as I made my turn onto Elm Street, I noticed a blond using the pay phone at the service
station across the street. I turned into the lot to get a closer look, and recognized her as Tammy,
the girl who had been in the Bronco with TJ.
“Where’s TJ?” I asked.
“I have not seen TJ since Saturday. I only stayed a couple of hours with her at the Oaks. All the
man wanted was some company, so he gave me a hundred dollars to talk for a couple of hours. I
don’t like staying in a motel room long, so I left. As far as I know, TJ is still at the Oaks.”
Tammy Barker had shoulder-length blonde hair, a perfectly symmetrical, oval face with a cute
nose, and smooth, flawless skin. Being about five-feet-six inches tall and weighing around one
hundred and twenty-five pounds, she looked like the type of woman only found on the arms
of a wealthy man, not on the streets.
Tammy’s boyfriend, Fresh, was the man that was giving his friend the haircut when I had first
encountered Tammy.
Tammy asked me to purchase her a bottle of wine, and then she would come back to my place
so we could talk. I did as she asked.
I got the impression from talking with Tammy that she was exceptionally bright and well
educated. I wanted to explore her background to find out more about her.
“The guy you saw TJ and I with was named Larry,” Tammy said. “He gave me a hundred
dollars just to party with him, but I only stayed the one night. I get paranoid staying in a motel
room with other people. Anyway, on Monday, Larry gave TJ the keys to his Bronco so she could
get them some more crack. TJ never came back, and Larry was broke and had no way to get
home.
“I heard he was going to file a police report on TJ, but I don’t know if he ever did. I have no
idea where TJ is at the moment, but I figure she is either back at the Oaks, or at the
Southgate.”
Tammy relaxed with a bottle of Peaches and Crème wine, and a cigarette. Tammy once again
told me about TJ spending seven years in prison for killing her husband with a knife. She said TJ
had stabbed him more than fifty times. TJ had convinced Tammy that she had just been released
from prison for that offense when she showed up in January at the Southgate. How TJ explained
me I did not know. I did learn from Tammy that TJ had tried to have a contract put out on me, but
that no one wanted any part of it.
Tammy asked me about my relationship with TJ.
“I’m writing a book,” I explained. “The book started out to be about a house fire, and then, after
I met TJ, it was going to be about one woman’s successful fight against crack cocaine. I’m not
exactly sure where the story is going to go now, but I do know that what TJ told you about


91
herself isn’t true. Here, look at this,” I said, as I handed her the stack of letters and research
papers I had collected on TJ.
Tammy was shocked when she found out that I had never had sex with TJ.
“Why not?” she asked. “That is what TJ does.”
Tammy shared with me part of her life’s story. She was presently married to a man serving time
for theft and fraud. Tammy and her husband had a heroin habit, and to finance it they pretended
to start a lawn care business. They went to Home Depot and Lowe’s and purchased $30,000
worth of equipment and supplies, charging the items on a credit card. They then called the credit
card company and canceled the transaction. They would then return the items for store credit
before selling the store credit at a discount, using the proceeds to purchase heroin.
Tammy said that she had five children, two from her first marriage to Stacy—the guy I met in
room 136 at Motel 6, and known as Brad Pitt. The other three children were from her second
marriage, and included a set of twins.
Tammy said her mother, concerned about the children, reported her to the police. When the
cops discovered she was using heroin, they arrested her. The courts took away her right to see the
kids.
Tammy said that she had never used crack until she tried to kick her heroin habit.
“I lay in a room at the Southgate for three days, wishing that I could die. The only way I
survived was by using crack to ease the pain of my heroin withdrawal.”
“I suffer from depression, as do most of the girls at the Southgate. I want to get off drugs, but
when I try to quit I get so depressed thinking about my kids. If I could get them
back, I could get off crack.”
Tammy said that her first drug use came when she was twelve. “My mother was a barmaid and
drank heavily. My step-father never worked, claiming he had a bad back. He was biker and was
heavily into trying different kinds of drugs. Even at twelve, I was well developed. I looked like I
was eighteen. One night my stepfather brought one of his biker friends into my bedroom and
drew three lines of coke on my dresser. He invited me to try a line. At twelve I was curious as to
what my stepfather and his friends were doing, so I tried it. Afterward, my father and his friend
had sex with me.”
Tammy had a bachelor’s degree in accounting, and had once been employed as an accountant
on $55,000 a year. As her habit increased, her work performance suffered. Before long, even her
salary was not enough to pay for her habit, so she quit her job and found illegal ways of making
enough money to support her habit.
I let her use my computer and she knew her way around the keyboard like a pro. She told me
one of the city’s vice cops had a crush on her, but she would not give me his name, though she
did tell me he was black.
“If I ever get off drugs, he said he would marry me. I was raised to be prejudiced against blacks.
My mama would kill me if she knew I was in love with a black man. TJ is in love with a black
man, too. Did you know that?”


92
“Yes, a guy named Rick,” I replied. “I have met him a few times. Why do you think you fell in
love with a black man? Is it an in-your-face kind of thing?”
“No, I guess I just want someone I know I can’t have. He doesn’t love me anymore than Rick
loves TJ. They are just using us and we know it.”
“Do you think the antisocial personality brought about by crack use is a permanent condition, or
if it will recede once use of the drug stops?” I asked her.
“When I was drug free, or using very rarely, I loved to shop. I had many friends, nice clothes,
went out to dinner often, and took pride in both myself and my home. As my drug usage
increased, my interest in other things decreased. I did not care about my house, my clothes, my
job, my friends, or anything else. All I cared about was getting high.
“Once I was so sick of that life that I bought seven bags of heroin and tried to do them all at
once. I took enough to pass out, but my mother found me before I had died. When I got out of the
hospital, I came to the Southgate. I could not live in my house without my kids. My car had been
repossessed. My husband had just been released from prison and I went to see him and the kids.
He still loved me and wanted us to start afresh, and drug free. I told him I would, but I never went
back.”
“Do you think any of the things that TJ wrote to me from prison were true?” I asked. “Or, was
she playing me for what she could get?”
“Well, you know, she was in prison and…”
She never did finish that sentence, and I think she knew she didn’t have to.
I once had high hopes for TJ, with her intelligence and ability to influence people, and her raw
talent as an artist, I thought she could make something of her life. I realized now that TJ’s
lifestyle was a personal choice, not a situation forced upon her by circumstances. I knew that
there are certain situations that make it more likely that one person will become addicted and
another will not, but even so, we all make our personal choice. No one has ever become addicted
if they chose not to try an addictive substance in the first place.
My mom has made love with only one man during her entire life, and that was with her husband.
TJ had been a prostitute for more than eight years, and at the current rate has three encounters
each day just to maintain her drug habit. That was over a thousand a year, over eight thousand in
less than a decade.
Why does anyone want to smoke crack?


93
Chapter 19
Thursday April 17, 2003, was a beautiful, calm, cloudless day, with the temperature in the
sixties. I had looked forward to this day with a mixture of both anticipation and dread, because
this was the day TJ was due in court.
Tammy Jean James, was to be tried for theft of monies from a motor vehicle, and unauthorized
use of a motor vehicle in Wake County during 1999. It was these charges that had caused her to
flee to Fayetteville where she was arrested, convicted, and released on appeal, subsequently
fleeing to Greensboro.
I had no idea where TJ was, but I sent her word that she was to meet me at Kyle’s Amoco beside
the Southgate at seven that morning. I really did not think she would show, but I fulfilled my
obligation to her and made an effort to take her to the trial. I honestly did not believe she would
receive any jail time and felt that it would be far better for her to go and face the court, and put
this behind her once and for all. TJ had never been to court without having been taken there
straight from jail—until she met me—and then she fought going.
To make matters worse, Special Ranger J. L. Drake, the security officer who had ticketed TJ
three times for trespassing, was sitting in his car at the Southgate. He noticed me and must have
thought something was about to go down. He will just have to wait to figure it out, I thought. If
TJ was at the Budget or the Southgate, Drake would see her before she could get to me, and I
knew he would arrest her once again for trespassing.
I had to figure out a way to decoy Drake. If I left the area for fifteen or twenty minutes, Drake
might continue on his way. However, if TJ was looking for a chance to sneak out to join me, she
would see me leave, and might think I had gone to Raleigh without her. I decided it best to pull
into the Southgate and stop at The Preacher’s room. I would still be available to TJ, and I could
out wait Drake.
When I pulled into the compound I noticed Drake’s old, rust-red Plymouth K-car pull around to
the backside of the Southgate. He was watching my every move. I found The Preacher at home
and he came out to meet me.
“Good morning. Looking for TJ?” he asked.
“Yeah, she’s due in court this morning. With Drake circling around over there, TJ can’t meet
me, even if she was here, which I doubt.”
“I haven’t seen her.”


94
“Here’s my cell phone number. I’m going to leave, and hopefully Drake will see and continue
his rounds. I’ll be back shortly, maybe thirty minutes or so. If you see TJ, tell her to wait for me,
or she can give me a call.”
We watched as Drake circled the compound slowly, keeping an eye on me. He watched me for
a while in what he must have thought was a hiding spot, and when he was apparently satisfied
that I was doing nothing illegal, he continued on his rounds.
This was the first chance I’d had to talk with The Preacher without a ruckus going on around us.
There were still homeless people, prostitutes, pimps, dealers, and hustlers milling around, but far
fewer than there would be later in the day, and those that were up were much more watchful and
cautious. Still, one could feel the tension in the air, the feeling of being watched by predators.
“Ah, what a beautiful day the Lord has made,” The Preacher said loudly.
“Yeah, it is nice and it’s kind of quiet around here too.”
“That’s why I like to get out early, before the people start hassling me.”
The Preacher appeared cheerful this morning, and obviously felt like chatting. It wasn’t long
before our conversation turned to TJ.
“I have not seen TJ in over two weeks,” The Preacher stated. “Last time I saw her she told me
she had secured a room at the Budget, but I never bother to write what TJ says down. I know a
snowball will last longer in hell than TJ will in one place.”
“Have you any idea where she might be?” I asked. “Or what she has been up to?”
“A man came by the other day looking for TJ. He said that she had borrowed his truck and not
returned it. He said he had walked here from the Oaks Motel on Summit.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. He was a construction worker from out of town. He was driving a
primer-gray Ford Bronco II when he picked up Tammy Barker and TJ. The three of them chased
me down and tried to get my help in cashing his $750 paycheck. All I know about him is that his
first name is Larry.”
“He will never see his truck again. The girls will take the vehicle and sell it, or trade it in for
whatever they can get for it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I remember once,” The Preacher continued. “Something told me to get out of my room. I did
not want to, but something told me I needed to. Some big, white dude had TJ by the throat and
was demanding his money back. He claimed TJ had ripped him off, taking $300 from him and
she was refusing to give it back. She said she had already spent $160 of it, and she refused to
return the rest.”
“TJ is so full of anger,” I told The Preacher. “She told me that there were three things that
dramatically affected her life. I know that two of them were the fire and the loss of custody of her
children. I don’t know what the third one was, but it was probably something that had happened
during her childhood, maybe something involving the death of her mother.”


95
“That’s the trap,” The Preacher said. “It reaches out, grabs you, and brings you down. I tell the
girls that if they want to get their life back on track they need to go back to when it first got
derailed.”
“I know it is hard to forgive someone we feel did us a grievous wrong, but the only person being
poisoned by our hatred and resentment is ourselves,” I added.
“One thing I do know about you is that you are good to TJ,” The Preacher said. “I told her she is
lucky to have someone like you in her life.”
“Then why does she run from me?” I asked.
“Guilt!” The Preacher replied. “When she is around you, is she not sweet and kind? She sees
your character, and your caring, and your concern, and compares you to herself and feels guilty
for the life she lives. TJ does not like to feel guilty. In fact, she does not like to feel anything, so
she runs from you.”
“Much like our reaction to the love that God has for us,” I said.
“That’s so right,” The Preacher agreed.
“When we compare ourselves to Christ we come up short, so we try to find fault in him to
justify our actions toward ourselves.”
“Exactly! Anyway, you know TJ didn’t even care about her sister,” The Preacher said. “She was
staying in a room on the corner the day you brought the letter about her sister to me. I sent word
to her that I needed to see her and that it was urgent. She did not come by until late in the
evening. She read the letter, but did not show any emotion. She didn’t care.”
“Someone told me Rick took her to the funeral.”
“TJ didn’t go to the funeral,” The Preacher corrected me.
“Yes, I know that now. TJ didn’t even know which of her sisters had died. TJ’s niece and TJ are
the same age and were close as they grew up. Although it was her niece’s child that had perished
in the fire that TJ’s son had supposedly started, she was the only member of TJ’s family still
willing to talk to her. Yet, TJ was not interested enough even to talk to her.”
“I told TJ that she had two choices,” The Preacher told me. “You can stay in your present
lifestyle and die from the drugs, be murdered, or die of exhaustion from running and partying, or
you can clean yourself up and get out of here.”
“What did she say to that?” I asked.
“Not a thing. Most of these girls do not have a chance to get out. I know no matter what, you
will be there for her. You are a true friend. She just does not want to listen. I told her that if she
drives you away she will have lost the only good thing in her life that she has, and that is a true
friend.”


96
“When we are together, just the two of us, she is kind-hearted and nice, but as soon as we cross
the threshold and there are other people around, she turns from a kitten to a tigress and tears me
apart,” I lamented.
“That’s right,” The Preacher agreed. “She has to maintain an image of toughness, of being on
top, and of being in control.”
Our conversation was interrupted by a tall black man, maybe in his late forties, selling cleaning
products. When The Preacher expressed his disinterest, the man asked if he could leave his things
there until two in the afternoon. The Preacher said no to his request.
By now, too many people were up and stirring, and so many wanted to stop by and chat with
The Preacher. It was still only nine o’clock, but two things were obvious, one being that our
conversation was over, and the other was that TJ was a no show for her ride to court.
I wished The Preacher well as I walked to my truck. As I got in it, I turned and said, “There is
no use asking you to have TJ call me, because I know that she won’t.”
The Preacher chuckled; he knew I was right.
On my way home, I saw Tracy, the homely one that was with TJ the night I saw her by the
bench on MLK. I stopped and offered her a ride.
“Do you have any idea where TJ is?” I asked her.
“I know she is not anywhere around here…she is probably not even in town. She has too many
people looking for her. She sold a bunch of clothes a man had bought for her, and I heard he
found her and beat her up. I hear he is looking for her again, because he thinks she then set him
up for a drug bust. I also heard she ripped a dealer off for six hundred dollars, and stole some
guy’s truck, someone she was staying with at the Oaks. He even came down to my place looking
for her. What do you want with her, anyway?”
“Nothing now. I was TJ’s ride to court this morning, and she didn’t show up.”
“Oh yeah, I remember you now. You are the guy that turned around the night I was with TJ on
MLK and asked where she went. TJ had walked off, and she told me to make sure you picked her
up.”
At least she told the truth about that, I thought
“Why is she so possessive of you?” Tracy asked.
“I wish I knew the answer to that.”
“TJ is in serious trouble on the street. She had better hope you find her before someone else
does. Someone is going to kill her.”
“I know. It is like she gets wilder and bolder every day. I think she may have a death wish, and
she is getting meaner and meaner. She seems bent on self-destruction.”


97
“It’s not just the drugs,” Tracy added. “She drinks too much of that cheap wine. Drinking for her
is like pouring a devil into herself, and little horns grow on her head. I stay away from her when
she is drinking.”
“Me too,” I agreed.
“I need to make some money,” Tracy said.
“Yeah, I bet this zero-tolerance program has slowed things down around here.”
“It’s killing me.”
“How much do you make in a good day?” I asked.
“Hey, I am not a full-time prostitute. I once had my own business as a house painter, but now I
draw disability. I do this to make ends meet. Sometimes I make between two and three hundred a
day. Some days I only make sixty. Today I have made nothing, and I need to make eighty
dollars in the next hour and a half.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
“I’m desperate. What can I do for you for a few dollars?”
“I’m sorry, but I am more broke than you are.”
“I doubt that,” she said.
Little did she know.


98
Chapter 20
It had been two days since TJ had failed to show up for her court date, and still there was no
word about her from any of my sources. I didn’t know how slow things were in the justice
department. Even at my age, I had learned about the power and speed of computers, and one
would think that the various law enforcement agencies would be able to keep abreast of available
crime fighting tools, especially methods of transferring information from one department to
another, and from city to city. I was about to learn the awful truth.
On my lunch hour, I gave the Greensboro police department a call to inquire about the warrant
on TJ emanating from Raleigh.
“It takes a few days to reach us, and until it does, there is nothing we can do,” was the response I
received from the watch commander.
TJ had just stolen a truck, was wanted by the Greensboro police department for trespassing, and
also wanted in Raleigh for another failure to appear.
If I were running, I could be anywhere I wanted to be within two days. One thing I had learned
about TJ was that she had a way of disappearing that bordered on the magical. Another thing I
had learned about her was that no matter where she went, she always ended up in trouble, and
it was just a matter of time before she was arrested somewhere. My main concern was that if she
was arrested after the judge signed the order for bond forfeiture, I was out of a lot of money.
The thing between TJ and me was no longer my trying to help her start over again or trying to
get information for my book any more. It gets personal when it hits my pocket, and I was not
going to let TJ slide on this one. I had spent many hours trying to get her out of trouble, and many
hours trying to keep her out of trouble, but now I WAS trouble looking for her. I knew this was
not going to be any easier than any of my other dealings with her.
I was facing another dilemma.
I had talked to many girls who did not like, nor trust, TJ and who would be glad to rat her out for
a few dollars. If she still had that Ford Bronco or she was still in town, someone, somewhere
would find her for the right fee.
So far it appeared that Larry had not yet filed a report with the police department. Maybe he had
not wanted to face the embarrassment of having to explain to the police why he had handed over
his car keys to a crack-head street prostitute.
I considered trying to track Larry down, but even if I did, he probably would not share any
useful information with me.


99
TJ had once talked about going to South Carolina. If she did, I figured she would have two
choices: Fort Jackson or Myrtle Beach. Fort Jackson would make more sense for her
as a street prostitute, because of the big military base there, and all those lonely boys away from
home; most of them for the first time. The birth mother of my first foster child worked in Fort
Jackson as a stripper. She married young Marines shipping out for their first tour of duty,
knowing that they could not take her along, and the first tour was usually the most dangerous. If
her husband was killed, she collected his insurance. If he returned, she filed for divorce
and married the next one.
I figured TJ would do well in Fort Jackson, but getting there was a long drive, and required her
to pass through Cumberland County. I seriously doubted that TJ would attempt that length of trip,
and was even more doubtful that she would dare enter Cumberland County in a stolen vehicle.
No, if she were going to South Carolina, I figured she would head to Myrtle Beach. If she had
gone there with an escort service, she might have found it a lucrative venture, but on her own, I
think she would have been overwhelmed by the vastness of it and the lack of an affordable place
to stay. She would not last long there without friends, and at first she would know no one there.
Wherever she was headed, it was a safe bet that she would soon return to Greensboro, and to her
adopted home—the Southgate. After all, a queen is not going to stray too far or stay too long
away from her realm.
I had no idea how long it would be before she returned. That question was answered as soon as I
got off work on April 18. I had filled in at the Guilford College store, and had an hour to kill
before I was due at the Pop Shoppe at four. I checked my cell phone and found that I had a voice
message waiting for me.
“Firstly, I am not going to tell you who this is, but I hear you are looking for TJ,” a disguised
female voice said. She talked very low, slowly, and had a slight lisp. “Well, she is with Rick in
room 114 at the Southgate. Thank you.”
Before I took the message seriously, I analyzed it to try to determine who the caller was. If I
could determine the identity of the caller, I could determine if the message was legitimate.
I listened to the tape several times. Whoever it was spoke with a lisp, and I knew of only one
person who spoke that way; the black girl who wore the stripper pants the night TJ took me to the
Southgate to get her citations. I figured that it could not be her. The tone of the voice, the
pronunciation of certain words, and indeed, the choice of words all indicated to me that this was
not her voice, but the voice of a white girl.
The caller had made no demands or even hinted that she wanted anything for the information.
Therefore I surmised that it had to be someone I knew, and someone who knew that I wanted to
find TJ.
That ruled out all the current residents of the Southgate, and I doubted whether Shannon, Gail,
or Rhonda would give me that sort of information—at least not for free. If they knew, they would
probably share it with Sly.
This narrowed my search to one of three possibilities. I eliminated one for the simple reason that
I doubted she would help me, especially after I had refused to help her the last time we had met.


100
Of the remaining two, one I ruled out simply on the grounds that we had not talked in quite a
while, and she could not know that I was looking for TJ.
Of the last possible candidate, she was white, knew I was looking for TJ, had my number, and
had talked to me recently. I could think of no reason why she would do this for me. Either TJ had
angered her recently, or something I had said to her had caused a spark of caring in an otherwise
dissolute soul. I hoped it was the latter, because if it was, there was still hope.
The caller had given me the location where TJ was allegedly hiding with Rick, her boyfriend.
Of course, I still needed to verify that information, so I staked out the Southgate Motor Inn from
JJ drive, keeping a close watch on room 114, the room where TJ and Rick were supposed to be.
The interstate separated JJ drive from the back of the Southgate, but I figured I was close
enough to recognize TJ from her mannerisms, but not close enough to be able to give a positive
ID on someone I didn’t know. I watched the room for an hour and a half, but saw nothing that
would confirm her presence. I soon got bored sitting there, so I decided to check out Motel 6,
hoping to find someone I knew that might help me.
I drove around the building, but didn’t see anyone that I knew. Just as I pulled onto Greenhaven
Drive, heading back toward the Southgate, a car’s horn honked, so I slowed to let the car behind
me pass.
The car—a nice BMW convertible—stopped beside me, and I instantly recognized the girl in the
passenger seat.
“Did you get my message?” Tammy Barker asked.
“Yes, I did. Thank you.”
“You deserve better than what TJ has done to you. I did this for you,” she said.
I knew she had. It also proved that I was correct in my analysis of the voice that had left the
message.
“Thanks, Tammy. I appreciate what you have done for me.”
I guess I watch too much TV, but I was quickly finding out that it did not bear much resemblance
to real life.
I called the Greensboro police department at two-thirty on Monday afternoon to see if a warrant
had come in for the arrest of TJ. My call was transferred to the detective’s division, which in turn
transferred me to the front desk, which transferred me to the special warrants division, which told
me I had to call the Raleigh police department.
I called Raleigh and got through to the front desk, which transferred me to the detective’s
division, which transferred me to special warrants, which told me to call the sheriff’s department.
I called the sheriff’s department, where I was told I had to call the clerk of the court. I called the
clerk of the court, who put me on hold for fifteen minutes. When someone did eventually come


101
on the line, I was asked the nature of my call. I wanted to tell them that I had been on the phone
for so long that I had forgotten what I had called about, but I didn’t.
When I told the girl that I wanted to know if a warrant had been issued for TJ, I was told that a
warrant normally takes two weeks to reach them from the courthouse. I found this incredible,
because I knew the courthouse was only on the opposite side of the same street.
“I have located the woman,” I told her.
“That sort of information cannot be taken over the phone,” she replied. “You will have to send
us the address in a letter.”
“She’s a homeless prostitute,” I protested. “How can I send you a current address for a homeless
person?”
“If we do not have a current address, then we will not be able to serve the warrant,” she replied.
“She is staying in a motel, and I know where she is at this precise moment, but she will not stay
there for long,” I pleaded. “By the time I send you the address in a letter, she will be staying
somewhere else.”
“I understand that,” the lady continued. “But that is the way it has to be done.”
Frustrated by the conversation, I called LaShonda Ryan—the bail bondsman. LaShonda was an
attractive young lady with a college degree in marine biology. She was very professional at her
job of running her brother’s bail bond business. She had a very warm and understanding
approach to her job that made one feel as if they were dealing with a friend. LaShonda was like a
breath of fresh air after dealing with the characters at the Southgate—who only told the truth if it
served them monetarily—or with the police who were emotionally detached and could sometimes
make an honest citizen feel like a criminal filled with evil intentions.
“TJ didn’t show up for court on Thursday,” I told LaShonda. “I reported her location to the
Greensboro police, who told me to report her to the Raleigh police, who
in turn told me to report her to the clerk of court, who told me to write them a letter.”
“I’m sorry TJ didn’t show.”
“Is there anything I can do about this situation?” I asked. “Do I have any authority to pick her
up?”
“I don’t know. It all depends on what type of order the judge has issued. I am sorry, but I am not
in town today. Is this your cell phone number?”
“Yes!” I answered.
“I will check with the judge and call you tomorrow afternoon.”
Knowing that LaShonda was the one making the promise and having someone who understood
what I was going through made me feel better. I may not like what she had said to me, but I knew
I would hear back from her and that made me feel less stressed.


102
I worked a few hours at the Pop Shoppe that evening. Later, on my way home, I saw Jody on the
streets. I stopped to talk to her.
“Hello, Jody.”
“Hi! Can I get a ride over to a friend’s house?” Jody asked. “I’m not feeling well and need to
rest a while. It’s on your way if you are going home.”
“Hop in.”
“Have you seen our friend lately?” Jody asked. I knew she was referring to TJ, so I filled her in
on what had happened recently.
“I have talked to her since I saw you last,” she said.
“Yes, I know. TJ told me and she was clearly upset that you went over to my place. I don’t
know why she gets so mad whenever I talk to anyone else.”
“The only thing she is upset about is that she didn’t get any money from you. I know how it
works out here. I can find her for you, if you want? It should be no problem. I know the crack
dealers where she gets her stuff from, and they will tell me.”
“I have heard there are different people looking for her,” I replied. “She is in real trouble this
time. She has been jerking too many people off.”
“Yeah, I believe she sold the clothes that Sly bought her, stole a car, and ripped a dealer off.”
“I heard.”
“Two girls are missing,” Jody told me, suddenly changing the subject. “The girl with one leg
and another girl. Someone is killing us again. A few nights ago a black guy picked me up and
made me get undressed at knife point. When I had my clothes off, he said, ‘You are the one with
the store-bought titties. I’ve heard of you.’ I was very scared. I managed to get out of his car and I
started to run. He turned his car around and chased me, but I cut through some back yards and ran
into a house. I am almost too afraid to walk the streets anymore.”
“Are you all right now?”
“Yeah!” Jody remarked. “I want to be in your book. I am just as important as TJ.”
I dropped Jody at her destination and again started for home. About a mile down the road I
spotted another young woman walking the street. She looked like Mariah, the wild young lady I
rescued one night after her car had been stolen. No one had seen her in a long time.
I pulled to a stop beside her, thinking it was Mariah, but when she turned to look at me, I saw
that it was someone else. She was young, about five-feet-four and very thin, probably weighing
less than a hundred pounds.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Whatever you want it to be,” she replied.


103
“I don’t want anything from you except some information. I’m a writer.”
“My name’s Pam. I’ll talk to you if you give me a ride,”
she offered.


104
Chapter 21
It has been almost a month since I had last seen or heard from TJ. The last time I saw her was
just before she had spent the next four days with a construction worker named Larry, at the Oaks
Motel on Summit Avenue. That was just before she had taken his Ford Bronco. The last
information I had received about TJ was that she had stayed in room 114 at the Southgate, but I
never verified that information.
She was not there on May 9—when I next tried to find her—because I was told that the room
had been vacant for over two weeks.
That information had come from Jody, the big-breasted girl with a heart tattooed on her left
temple. The same night I talked to her, I had met a young woman named Pam. Pam was allowed
to sleep in the backyard at her parent’s house, but she was not allowed to enter the house. Her
only companion was her Siamese cat.
I tried to locate Suzanne, Jody’s sister, in the hope that TJ might even be with her.
However, I found out that Suzanne had since been arrested and charged with being a habitual
felon.
Donna was still in prison, but vowed to get her act together for her own sake, and the sake of her
newborn baby and her other children.
I needed a break from the book and all of the street people. Unfortunately, Lisa Smith—the Lisa
that had helped me look for TJ when TJ first got out of prison—was now in jail herself. Lisa
called me fifteen or twenty times a day, giving me different names of people to call to try to
arrange bail for her. Even when I told her I would not be home, she still called the house, so I was
forced to unplug my phone to get some peace and quiet.
On the evening of May 9, I had—marinating in my refrigerator—two perfectly-aged, Back
Angus, thick-cut, rib eye steaks. I had set my table with fine China, and had a bottle of wine
ready. The little red potatoes were simmering in sweet butter sauce, and steam rose from the
sweet corn and stewed tomatoes in their separate pans. Coconut cake was chilling in the
refrigerator, waiting its turn to be served with a butter-almond ice cream. The coffee had been
percolated, and two empty cups were waiting beside the fresh garden salad with blue cheese
dressing. The flame from a solitary candle flickered.
My dinner date called to say that she was running about an hour behind, so I blew out the
candle, cooked the steak, and ate it with my salad. After enjoying the rest of the meal, I set out for
a little drive.
I cruised past Motel 6 on Greenhaven Drive, and was about to head back toward home when I
decided to take a second look at the couple standing in the office. When I pulled up slowly, it was
then that I noticed that the place where the couple was standing was not an office, but a small
laundry room. The couple, a black male and a white female, had just finished loading the dryer
when the girl turned to leave.
A look of total shock and fear embraced the girl’s face when she saw me sitting outside the
laundry room. TJ quickly left the laundry room, and walked toward the front of the motel, and


105
around the corner. Maybe she thought I had not seen her. Even when I called her name she did
not stop. I had to break into a run.
“What is wrong with you?” I asked.
“I’m not going back to jail,” she yelled at me when I finally caught up with her.
TJ was wearing a light blue halter-top, blue jeans, and blue tennis shoes. She had slimmed down
from her prison weight, but she was still much heavier than when I had first met her.
“Why didn’t you show up for court?” I asked. “You know you probably would not have faced
jail time.”
“I didn’t have a ride.”
“Yes, you did. I was at the Amoco station at our appointed time, waiting on you. I waited two
hours for you so that you would have no excuse.”
“I was out of town…stranded.”
“You still could have called,” I said, clearly irritated. “You know how to call me.”
“Everything all right?” Rick asked, as he approached us.
“No!” TJ turned toward him. “You stand right there,” TJ ordered. She turned back to face me.
“I have been here for two weeks, and I am not going back to jail. Do you understand?” she
shouted at me.
“What did I ever do to you, TJ? Why do you always run from me?” I asked.
“You have never done anything to me,” she said, as her eyes shifted from side to side,
seemingly looking for a way out of this situation or for help to arrive.
The motel security guard walked up to us, either because he had been called or he had noticed
the commotion. He was a big man—at least six-feet-four—and weighed at least three hundred
pounds.
“This is the woman I have been looking for,” I told him.
“I am glad you found her,” he said, as he turned and walked away.
“What did you tell him?” TJ asked.
“I don’t know what you mean. I asked the man if he had ever seen you, that’s all.”
TJ looked around quickly. “Where did he go?”
“Upstairs,” Rick said.


106
“Wait. I need to talk to you,” she yelled at the security guard, before she broke into a run to
catch up to him.
I was right behind TJ when she finally caught up to the guard.
“Wait, I need to talk to you,” she said to him.
Turning to me, TJ said, “You stay right there. This does not concern you.”
TJ and the security guard chatted for a moment, before the security guard asked me if I had the
papers on me.
“LaShonda has the papers. Mine have been sent in the mail. I was just trying to locate TJ to talk
to her tonight.”
“Do you want me to call the police?” the security guard asked me.
“Yes, call the police…that would be good…yeah, call the police,” TJ said, in a desperate
attempt to diffuse the situation in her favor.
I was not sure what to do, so I called LaShonda.
TJ had a look of fear in her eyes. Did she think I was really calling the police?
While I was waiting for LaShonda to answer, TJ took the security guard aside and talked to
him. I could hear very little of the conversation.
I heard the guard tell TJ, “That is none of your business.”
TJ said something else, before I heard the guard say, “No, I don’t have to tell you that.”
Finally, apparently fed up with her, I heard him say. “You will both have to leave…right now. I
want you all off my property.”
TJ appeared shocked. “You can’t do that. I’m a guest here in room 240,” she screamed at him.
“I need time to get my things.” She realized she was being kicked out, and in desperation pleaded
for a chance to retrieve her belongings.
“No, you have to leave right now,” she was told.
When LaShonda finally answered, I told her, “I have TJ at Motel 6. She is staying in room 240.”
“Whatever you do, do not touch her,” LaShonda instructed me. “I will be down in a few days to
pick her up. Be careful.”
“The security guard is throwing us both off the property.”
“Call the police, call them right now!”
I dialed 9-1-1 and told the operator I needed assistance at Motel 6 to apprehend a woman wanted
on a felony warrant.


107
“There is a two-hour response time to this type of call,” the operator informed me.
TJ started to run away from me. I tried to follow her.
“Are you chasing her, sir?” the operator asked. “Why are you chasing her?”
“How else will I know where she goes, if I don’t follow her?” I replied, wondering why the
operator would ask such a question.
TJ ran around the corner of the building on the second floor. When I reached the corner, she
was nowhere to be seen. She had gone into one of the rooms, but I did not know which one.
I walked back to my truck where the security guard met me. I told him the police had told me it
would involve a two-hour response time.
“No, it won’t. I called them myself, and they will be here in a few minutes,” he informed me.
I called LaShonda to fill her in.
“You are not in any trouble, are you?” LaShonda asked me. “Did you touch her?”
“No, I’m not in trouble, and no, I didn’t touch her. Do you need to talk to the police?”
“No, just call me back in five minutes and let me know what is going on. Please call me back.”
The police arrived within two minutes, and two police officers went to room 240, the room TJ
and Rick had supposedly been sharing. There was someone in the room, but they would not
respond to the police.
“Open this door now or we will come in and get you,” the officers yelled through the door.
After receiving no response the officers asked me if I actually saw her go into the room.
“No sir, by the time I got to the corner, she was gone.”
The guard offered the police the room key, but they declined to use it.
“Unless you or a witness saw her enter, we have no probable cause to enter the room,” a
policeman stated.
They instructed me to watch the room, and if I saw her I was to call them and they would come
right back.
The two officers, the security guard, and I walked down the stairs on the right-hand side of the
building. Just as we got to the bottom of the stairs, we heard a door slam followed by running
footsteps. I ran outside to get a view upstairs and arrived just in time to see TJ being handcuffed.
Instead of running to safety, she had run directly into two officers posted at the left-hand side of
the building.


108
I called LaShonda to inform her that TJ was in custody. LaShonda’s first reaction was, “Hell! I
think we just lost our…” She stopped, composed herself, and inquired what
was going on.
“The police have three local warrants on her,” I told her.
“Tell them to book TJ on those warrants only, and I will come down tomorrow to bring her
back to Raleigh.”
I asked one of the officers about that and he informed me that it was a decision for the arresting
officer.
“I am checking the system now,” he said.
Another officer told me that TJ wanted to talk to me. I followed him to the squad car where TJ
was handcuffed in the back. The back window was rolled down three or four
inches so I could hear her talk.
“I don’t want to go to jail. Please, Dale, I will do anything you want. Please, do not let them
take me back to jail,” she begged, as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Once upon a time I would have let her performance tug at my heartstrings, but not anymore.
“I have already done all I can for you,” I told her. “Tell your problems to Rick. I supported you,
encouraged you, and worked hard to get you out of and to keep you out of trouble. The only time
you needed me was when you were in trouble. There is nothing more I can do for you. The
decisions you made, you have made on your own.”
“Please, Dale, I will do anything you want.”
“TJ, you have done things your own way, made your own decisions, and now you have to face
the consequences. What do you expect me to do, bail you out again?”
Rick, standing on the second floor balcony, asked to speak to TJ.
“You can talk to her from there,” an officer told him.
“Please bail me out,” TJ begged him.
“How much is the bail?” Rick asked a policeman.
“There are three warrants at five thousand dollars each, so you will need fifteen thousand
dollars.”
“Whom do you want me to rob?” Rick asked TJ.
“The warrant from Raleigh is not in the system,” the arresting officer told me.
I called LaShonda to let her know that TJ was only being held on three trespassing warrants.


109
The only good news was that LaShonda now had the chance to serve the Raleigh warrant and
protect our bond money.
“I am concerned that Rick will raise the money and have her out before I can get there from
Raleigh,” LaShonda said.
“I don’t think that’s a problem,” I replied. “Rick and TJ live for the moment and probably have
no spare money, so he will have to raise it. He needs to find fifteen thousand dollars and I don’t
think he can do that in just a few hours.”
“Yes, you are probably right,” LaShonda replied.
“Then he will have to borrow a car, since he does not own one,” I added.
“I will come down and get her right away,” LaShonda told me.
“Okay! I will call you back when I find out where they are taking her.”
I approached the arresting officer and asked, “Where are you taking her?”
“To the Guilford County Jail downtown,” he replied.
After the police pulled away, taking their prisoner with them, Rick came down to talk to me.
“Did TJ lose her temper with you? Is that why she ran off?” he asked.
“I tried to reason with her, but she always wants to do things her way. Yeah, she got mad and
would not talk to me,” I replied.
“That’s TJ,” Rick muttered. “She’ll never learn.”
When LaShonda came down to pick her up, the Greensboro police could not turn TJ over to her.
They said they did not have her.
When LaShonda informed me of this, I went to see the magistrate, who confirmed that there was
no Tammy Jean James in custody. I asked him to check for a Robin Dee Lynn.
“Yes,” he said. “There was a Robin Dee Lynn, but she was booked under a twenty-dollar bond.”
If Rick had cared anything about TJ, he could have had her out of jail, I thought. Even that
lowlife could afford twenty dollars for the woman he loved.
I notified LaShonda that TJ was booked under the name of Robin Dee Lynn. LaShonda
immediately came to Greensboro, paid the twenty-dollar bond, and served the
Raleigh warrant.


110
Chapter 22
It was a cool, crisp morning on December 12, 1994. Nearing eleven o’clock in
the morning, it seemed that most of the residents of the Mark I Apartments, 2134
Grand Prix Drive, Bonnie Doone, North Carolina were either at work, at school,
or on their way to the stores in search of that perfect Christmas gift. Some of the people had
things to do at home, and after a good night’s sleep, were up, having gotten their families off to
their day, and were now busy taking care of toddlers, wrapping gifts, or finishing up on the
decorations for the upcoming holidays.
Two mothers were still sleeping on that Monday morning, having just gone to bed as their
toddlers lay upstairs in a bedroom. One of the mothers, twenty-eight-year-old Tammy James was
asleep in the bedroom adjacent to the two boys. The other mother, Toni, Tammy’s niece, also
twenty-eight, was asleep downstairs, as was the house guest of the evening, nineteen-year-old
John Cassell from Boden, Pennsylvania.
Joshua, the two-year-old son of Tammy and three-year-old Tyler, were already awake and
already into a little mischief. Joshua entered his mother’s room and slipped a cigarette lighter off
the nightstand next to his sleeping mother. He took it back to his bedroom where he and Tyler
soon began to play with it. Even at the tender age of two Joshua seemed to be fascinated with fire
and liked watching things burn.
Tammy, still very groggy, really did not want to get up to quiet the two children. All she wanted
to do was drift back off to sleep, but somehow she sensed something was wrong this morning. At
first, Tammy was confused about what her senses were attempting to tell her. Still half asleep, she
did not respond quite as quickly as she might have.
She soon realized there was a problem. There was a different smell in the room. “What is it?”
she wondered.
“Smoke!”
Fighting off sleep, she was suddenly on her feet, rushing to find the source of the smoke.
“The children’s room,” she shouted. “Oh, my God!”
She frantically tried to pull open the bedroom door. It was swollen shut, apparently from the
searing heat. Got to get this door open, she thought as she kicked at the door with all her might.
Suddenly the door gave way and thick, black smoke bellowed out of the bedroom.
“The kids…oh my God…the kids!” she screamed as she frantically felt her way around the
room. The smoke was so thick that she could not see a thing, but she could hear the two boys
crying. In a moment that seemed like it would last forever Tammy finally felt the body of one of
the children. Grabbing the child in her arms, she rushed downstairs to get the child to safety and
to warn the others.


111
“Fire! Get up! Fire!” she screamed as she banged on her niece’s door. “The kid’s
room is on fire! Get out! Get out!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. Toni and John
were rudely awakened from their deep sleep. They rushed into the kitchen to find
something to help dash the flames. “Pots and pans…fill them with water…
got to hurry,” John yelled.
Now in much pain from several burns, and still cradling the burned and frightened child,
Tammy rushed from the apartment in search of fresh air, safety, and help. Once outside, she
finally looked at the child in her arms. Filled with horror, she realized that the child was badly
burned and the other child was still in that room. She wanted to rush back in to save the other
boy, but her chest and feet were too badly burned, and Joshua was screaming so loudly.
She knew her son was in severe pain. “Oh God, won’t help ever get here?” she thought.
Hearing screams, twenty-five-year-old Diane Pegues, who lived in an adjoining apartment,
rushed out to see what was happening. Realizing there was a fire, and cradling her own newborn
baby, she ran back into her apartment to dial 911.
The firefighters from the Bonnie Doone fire station responded quickly to the call from the
frightened young mother. When they pulled into the apartment complex, they aw Tammy, Joshua,
and the other residents standing on the front lawn. As soon as they learned that there was still a
child in the apartment, one squad of men rushed in to find the missing three-year-old. The smoke
coming from the bedroom was so thick that the firefighters could not see anything. After a few
minutes the fire and smoke were contained and the men began to search for Tyler. In one corner
of the room they found the little boy. He had pulled toys around himself in an apparent attempt to
protect himself from the raging flames and searing heat. He had no visible burns as he lay there
but it was still too late. He had breathed in too much smoke.
The boy’s mother was treated at Cape Fear Medical Center for smoke inhalation
and released, while Tammy and Joshua were rushed to the Jaycee Burn Center
at UNC on Chapel Hill.
A hospital spokesman reported that, “Tammy James had been treated for smoke inhalation and
third-degree burns on her feet, hands, and chest and then released after an overnight stay. Joshua
had been burned over sixty percent of his body, and while not deemed life threatening, he was
still very seriously ill and he would require extensive hospitalization.”
Toni Harris was left to deal with the aftermath of this tragedy. It was really too
much for one person to bear alone, so Toni moved back to Raleigh to be nearer
her relatives.
John—probably a soldier at Fort Bragg—went on his way, probably never
forgetting that day, but not having to deal with the pain and suffering he left
behind. Tammy had her own pain and also had her young son to nurse back to
health. Joshua would hopefully one day forget his pain and might even forget
this day, but it would be a day that poor Toni Harris would have to live with
forever
.
In its coverage of the fire, The Raleigh News and Observer reported that the fire department
interviewed all the survivors. In subsequent interview with me, Toni Harris said no one from the


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fire department ever talked to her. Tammy told the investigators that it was Tyler who was
fascinated with matches and watching things burn, but Toni claimed that it was Joshua who had
started the fire.
According to the newspaper article, “It is not certain whether Mrs. James lived
in the apartment, or not.”
The fire investigators ruled the incident a tragic accident after completing their investigation.
I’m not so sure. TJ confessed to me that she had been up all night drinking and smoking crack
and had just gone to bed a few minutes before the fire started—just about the time one would
expect children who had slept during the night to wake and become active.


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Chapter 23
In writing this book, I came across some interesting and unusual people. Some I liked and some I
didn’t. One I have absolutely no use for; the former boyfriend of TJ and father of her second
child: Jimmy Daughtry.
Jimmy Daughtry is the father of the youngest child, and only daughter, of Tammy Jean James. He
was an average-looking man with dark brown hair that hung below his shoulders. His full lips sat
on his oblong face and were surrounded by a mustache and goatee.
I had searched for his identity for many months before discovering his identity from a slip of the
tongue of Tammy’s sister, Bonnie. I wrote to Mr. Daughtry immediately after I learned of his
identity, and after finding him on the North Carolina Department of Corrections website.
Knowing TJ, I figured that Jimmy had to have a criminal record, and I was in luck. He was at the
time serving a sentence for drug trafficking.
Jimmy Daughtry had a long rap sheet, but did not have a wide variety of crimes. His record—and
that of his former girlfriend—were remarkably similar, involving DUI, drugs, and theft. Jimmy
was a little bolder in the execution of his crimes, but no more adept at avoiding arrest.
Mr. Daughtry’s first brush with the NCDOC came in New Brunswick County on March 5, 1986,
when he received a suspended sentence and probation on a charge of breaking and entering.
Although Jimmy and Tammy are the same age, Jimmy’s first brush with the law came eight
years before Tammy’s. Jimmy’s next brush with the NCDOC came in March 1989, when he was
charged with possession of schedule II drugs. According to the NCDOC web page, Jimmy served
almost six months active time in Wake County for his convictions, both felonies.
A week before Christmas 1994, Jimmy was again charged with DUI. His girlfriend’s son was
probably still lying in a hospital recovering from the third-degree burns he had received just five
days earlier. The child’s mother was at the hospital with her child and Jimmy should have
been available to take care of their needs. Instead, he was out drinking and driving without regard
to his own safety or the safety of others. At the time he clearly did not care about the needs of his
loved ones.
Jimmy was arrested again in 1994 on charges of willful injury to property in Wake County. He
was also charged with driving while impaired. Apparently those charges stemmed from an
automobile accident. Just five months later, Jimmy was arrested again for DUI, and again
received a suspended sentence.
Jimmy Daughtry had received a ten-year sentence for his first conviction of possession, which
was probated. His probation was revoked, but Jimmy only had to serve two months of that
sentence active, from September 24 until November 22, 1996.


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Jimmy Daughtry was convicted on August 8, 1997, in New Hanover County, for driving with a
revoked license. That was only one month after Tammy Jean James had been sentenced to serve
time in prison. It is apparent now that Jimmy was neither willing, nor capable of taking care
of his child. Tammy lost custody of her children while imprisoned. I have not been able to verify
the children’s whereabouts, but evidence suggests that Toni’s parents, TJ’s sister Vicki, and
Vicki’s husband, raised them.
Even losing his girlfriend and child did not send a wake-up call to Mr. Daughtry. He was arrested
once again on March 13, 2000, for trafficking schedule II drugs. Two young children
subsequently lost both parents, because their parents refused to grow up.
Jimmy was scheduled to be released in July 2003. In the previous seventeen years he had been
arrested eight times, but served less than three years in prison, even though three
of his convictions were for felonies. His criminal offenses were despicable enough, but I found
his lack of care and concern for his own child to be reprehensible.
In a response to my letter, Jimmy Daughtry wrote, “What gives you the right to write a book
about the death of a young child?” I have never answered Jimmy’s question personally, but I
would like to take a moment to respond to his question now.
I drove drunk once. Even though I was the only car on the road for four lanes in each direction,
and only had eight blocks to drive, I realized before I had driven two blocks that I was doing a
stupid thing. I pulled over, and I have never driven after drinking since, and I would never
consider doing so again. That night, I learned something.
When I was sixteen years old, I was arrested for forcible trespassing. I realized what I did was not
funny, but was in fact hurtful to others. I have never stolen another thing in my life, nor
considered doing so. That night, I learned something.
When I was a college student, I watched as friends and acquaintances got “high” on their drugs of
choice, and I did not like what I saw. I learned something.
Jimmy, your girlfriend was staying with her niece in Cumberland, using drugs and getting drunk;
while you were racing around the streets of Raleigh with alcohol in your system and peddling
illegal chemicals. Even after almost losing both your girlfriend and your child in a deadly fire,
what did you learn? Apparently, nothing!
This book has been written partly as a warning to you and all the other people who believe that
there is no harm caused by using illegal drugs, abusing alcohol, or who just don’t care what
happens to others who use your poison. Even though alcohol is legal, no one has the right to
abuse it. Even in the privacy of your own home, you do not have the moral right, because what
you do affects the lives of others.
Jimmy, you may disagree, but if you do, just answer a few questions for me. Which one of us has
a criminal record? Which one of us has pulled jail time? Which one of us is currently in prison?
Which one of us is raising our children? Whom do you blame for your situation? Why is
your ex-girlfriend, Tammy Jean James, addicted to drugs and alcohol? Why is she a street
prostitute?


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You, and the people like you, have failed to learn from your mistakes. You need to learn to deal
with your problems and quit taking your anger out on society. You need to stand up and behave
like an adult, and take responsibility for your decisions and your actions.
You asked, “What right do I have to right this book?” A better question would be why should I
not write this book? You asked, “Why Tyler instead of another child?” Why not Tyler? Has Tyler
died in vain?
I see the destruction of people’s lives every day caused by the abuse of drugs and alcohol. I
almost lost my first wife to the abuse of legal drugs and eventually I did lose her to the abuse of
illegal drugs. If I can change one life because of this book, then all my efforts will have been
worthwhile.
What happened to you is not the reason you are the way you are. You are that way because you
have chosen to be. You are an adult and need to take responsibility for your actions. That’s one of
the things that makes an adult different from a child. Quit blaming others. Instead of criticizing
someone who wants to accomplish something for the betterment of others, you should do
something to contribute to the effort.
Being tough and doing what a man has to do is the image of a macho man. A real man is one that
takes care of his family and takes responsibility for his actions; thus, making society safe for
himself, the ones he cares about, and all the other people around him.
Rhonda considers Sly a real man because he took her off the streets, cleaned her up, gave her a
job, and did not ask for sex. Oh really! The job he gave her was working as an escort in his escort
service, and he made a nice income from her illegal activities. A real man? I don’t think so.
I wrote Jimmy Daughtry a second letter to inform him that my contacting him was not an
opportunity for him to make money from me in exchange for information. I did offer him the
opportunity to contribute to this book, but he has failed to respond so far.
If I sound angry with him, it is because I am. I am angry with him and all the other low-life drug
dealers like him who steal our children’s lives for profit. I am angry that he dared to question my
integrity and motive for writing this book, when he has demonstrated many times that he cared
for no one but himself.
I once asked TJ if she had ever been in love.
“My former boyfriend used to slap me around sometimes, but I guess I kinda loved him a little.”
In my opinion, even Tammy Jean James is a better woman than Jimmy ever deserved.


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Chapter twenty-four
Tyler lived just a short life and few people knew him. Neither he nor his parents were rich or
famous and his passing affected few people. Scores of people are murdered in cities the size of
Greensboro ever year and yet most go unnoticed. It isn’t until some one of note is killed that the
public takes notice.
Mrs. Chambers didn’t want to help me with this book because no one knew or cared about
Tammy Jean James or Joshua or Tyler but that is exactly why I felt this story needed to be told.
The truth is, most of us are just like TJ and Tyler. Few people know us and our passing would go
unnoticed by the vast majority of people. Outside of the few people who knew us in life, few
others would even care.
Gene Owens, in his weekly column in the Greensboro News and Record wrote “The national
news media gave the event perfunctory treatment. The children were neither celebrities nor
offspring of celebrities. They were not the children of fame or affluence. Their names tell the
story….”
I suppose one of the reasons we tend not to care is because we have no envy of these people and
they are so common. They are many girls of the night; so many in fact that I have forgotten the
names of many I’ve meet in the course of writing this book. I do remember many though.
Brenda, Carolyn, Strawberry, Peaches, Mariah, Jody, Suzanne, Lisa, Donna, Becky, Ruth, Tracy,
Tammy, Toni, Diamond, Jewel, Crystal, Kim, Shorty, Teardrop, Nicole, Rachael, Pam, Sherry,
Mary, Laura, Shannon, Sharon, Juanita, Melody, Patricia, Cheyenne, Tonya, Tina, Jennifer, Jade,
Christy, Gail, Marisha and Rhonda are just a few. Each have families that care for them and
love them. They all have their own stories and their own dreams.
Each woman represents broken families, unrealized dreams, lost opportunities, crippling
addictions, and a waste of taxpayer dollars in law enforcement way out of proportion to their
percentage of the population.
In Ann Rule’s book, “Green River Running Red,” Ms. Rule tries to give a brief background on
many of Gary Ridgway’s victim’s. What is striking to me is the number of the girl’s who came
from seemingly well-adjusted normal families who provided good homes for the girl’s. Many
seemed happy at home until the age of thirteen and then seemed to transform into uncontrollable
kids. One never knows when someone we love may change. Studies suggest that from one to
one and a half percent of all females will go into some form of prostitution.
Even though the percentage seems small, it is too large not to care.


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The Little White Lie
There was a little girl
Who told a little lie.
It was white, of course.
It was easy, caused no harm
She felt no remorse.
She had a little drink,
And drove a little faster
Than she wanted to do.
It was easy, caused no harm
Why make a big ado?
She smoked a little joint,
And tried a little crack.
It was done for fun.
It was easy, caused no harm
Now she’s on the run.
She turned a trick,
And fleeced a john.
It was just a game.
It was easy, caused no harm
In jail just the same.
There was a little girl,
Who told a little lie.
It was white, no doubt.
It was easy, caused no harm
That’s what this is about.
The girl now stands,
Behind prison walls.
She’s a sight to behold.
It was easy, caused no harm
The little lie she told.
Dale E. Sperling


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The End