Before writing up the agreement, Evan insisted that Marie leave the studio in case she felt under any duress or threat.
“If you really mean to go through with this,” he instructed her, “then come back in a half hour. We’ll be waiting for you.”
Next he was walking her to the recording room door, and then he was opening it for her, and this time the door closed behind her and she was gone.
Evan returned alone. “This is the sleaziest thing I’ve ever heard of. The whole thing fills me with unhappiness.”
Although I respected Evan, I couldn’t help thinking, You weren’t there. So easy to judge when he wasn’t there, in that car, with Jeffrey yelling at me to drive. I really had thought somebody was dying. Had Evan been behind the wheel, what would he have done? Sat there in the Milk-n-Bread parking lot and sorted out the confusion? No. When your friend shouts at you to drive, you drive. You step on the gas. And what about the moment he figured out there was no injury? Would he have stopped then? Maybe. Or maybe he’d have hesitated for just an instant with the knowledge that somehow his entire life had become wrapped up in what he did in those next few seconds. The thought would be unavoidable. So he thinks. He hesitates—just for an instant. But when you’re behind the wheel, a couple of seconds is a very long time. Long enough to be down a road you never imagined taking.
You weren’t there, I wanted to say again. Instead, I looked at my watch and prepared for the longest half hour of my life.
Less than five minutes later, she was back.
“So can we pretend a half hour has passed?” she asked. “I’d really like to get this show on the road.”
In addition to drawing up a contract, Evan wanted a recorded statement from Marie. I set up a microphone and fed a roll of blank tape into the reel. Marie stood in front of the microphone and began to read what Evan had written for her:
My name is Marie Craft, and today is Sunday, April 25, 2004. Nolan Albright, Will Walker, and Jeffrey Hocks have been working with me to record music at Snakepit Recording Studio. They promised me a recording contract. However, I am now told that such contract will not be forthcoming. As compensation for my time, and for termination of the verbal agreement that we would be making a record together, I am accepting their payment of two million dollars. This payment is contingent upon my remaining forever silent about everything having to do with the recording contract, its termination, my whereabouts this past weekend, the source of the two million dollars, and this agreement itself. This agreement has been signed by all parties, and this statement has been made by me voluntarily, under no duress or threat.
She could always change her story, of course. She could go to the police, or claim she was pressured into signing something that wasn’t true. But if she did any of those things, it would be hard for her to explain away the two-million-dollar wire into her checking account.
We listened back to the tape. Then each of us signed one of the four copies of the contract that Evan had handwritten. We each were to take a copy and deposit it in a safety-deposit box that nobody else had access to. Marie folded up her copy and stuck it in her back pocket like it was a grocery list.
Monday morning, she would call me at the studio with her checking-account number and wiring instructions. Evan told me to tape-record that call—additional evidence of our mutual agreement—and put it into my safety-deposit box along with the contract. Nolan and Jeffrey would wire their shares of the money to me by the end of day on Thursday. By noon on Friday, I would wire the entire two million to Marie.
We actually shook hands like business partners. And without another word, she left.
The sound of her fading footfalls filled me with relief, but new anxieties were already building. Like being not only a felon but also flat broke. We all were. And I sensed that in spite of the agreement we’d all reached, or maybe because of it, I’d never sleep soundly again for fear of being awakened in the night by a heavy fist on my front door.
Her footfalls continued to diminish, and then all trace of her was gone. We waited for the second hand on my watch to circle five times. I rewound the tape, put it back in its case, and shut off the console and studio lights. Then we walked down that same hallway and outside to the world from which we’d removed ourselves some forty hours earlier.
Outside, the sun shone obscenely. I made a visor with my hand and looked left and right down Lincoln Avenue. Cars passed, a few pedestrians were out for a Sunday stroll, but she was nowhere in sight. Was she in some nearby building calling for a cab? Calling the cops? Had she already flagged down a passing squad car?