Friday, September 12, 1997
I tried to get Allie out of the house as much as possible that week. On this particular day, we’d gone to the local petting zoo. She was obsessed with the llamas. When we pulled into her driveway, Allie hollered from her car seat, “Scottie!”
Joseph Garrison stood on the porch. His toddler, Scottie, sat in the grass, giggling to himself. As Allie ran over to her buddy, I approached the porch where Joseph and Caleb were yelling.
“Caleb, please,” Joseph said, “I was just trying to do the right thing.”
“The right thing? By branding me as a suspect? I was fucking venting to you. Venting.”
“I know! But on the off chance that…I mean, you know…what if…”
“What if I killed my wife?” Caleb asked. “Is that what you were going for? Really?”
“Caleb, I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
“Right. I got that part.”
Caleb noticed me standing behind Joseph, but didn’t say anything. “What happened?” I asked.
“What happened?” Caleb snorted. “I just got back from the station. This jackass took something out of context and blabbed to his brother. And now, apparently I killed my wife because she was fed up with my physical abuse and was trying to leave me.”
“We don’t know that she’s dead,” Joseph interjected.
“Get the f— off my porch,” Caleb said.