There's a picture in a bright red frame sitting on my kitchen counter. It shows three little girls, not quite 4 years old, huddled on the laps of their moms. The children are holding ice cream cones, and their smiles are ringed with chocolate.
On the left is Barbara and her daughter. On the right is me with mine. And in the middle is Jo Elliott with hers.Jo made the front page last week under a different name: Donna Jean Willmott, one of the FBI's "10 Most Wanted" fugitives.
Our two families had become friends through the day-care center our children attended. The two girls, both named Zoe, slept in adjacent cribs in the infant room. As they grew they became playmates, known to all by their first and last names to avoid confusion.
Our families got together for meals and outings. We traded child care and recipes. We learned about Jo's work co-founding the Children's AIDS Project, which helped AIDS-affected families in crisis, and Tim's work editing a book at Carnegie Mellon University. On Halloween, the girls dressed up in identical cat costumes.
A few months ago, Jo and Tim told us they'd be moving to Chicago so Tim could start a video company with his cousin Greg. We were sorry to hear it.
They were clearly unhappy about leaving. The job sounded kind of uncertain and there was no firm date of departure. Still, Tim said in a sober voice, "I think it's the right thing for our future. I know it is.'
A month passed, and another, and still they hadn't left. We asked about the job a few times, but they were reluctant to discuss it. Jo began looking weary and distracted, as if she wasn't sleeping, and often seemed on the brink of tears. We'd ask if she was OK, could we help with anything. She'd smile wanly, pat us on the shoulder and say no, but thanks for asking.
The day before Thanksgiving, we pulled up to the preschool at the same time. Jo got out of her car, only to lock her keys inside. She seemed to be moving in six directions at once without getting anywhere.
"Look," she said softly, "we need to talk to you guys one night after the kids are in bed. When can you come over?"
Clearly, this was serious business. I called my husband and told him I was scared. Something horrible had happened or was about to. We had to get over there that night.
We arrived about 9:30 p.m. It was the first time I'd ever seen the shades drawn in all the time we'd known them. They sat us down on the sofa, gave us each a glass of wine and proceeded to drop the bomb.
They weren't going to Chicago for a job. They were going for Jo to turn herself in to federal authorities on a 9-year-old conspiracy charge. She and Greg had been involved with the Puerto Rican independence movement, and had been discovered transporting explosives across the country.
I stopped them and asked one question: Was anyone hurt? The answer was no. OK, I said, go on.
It turned out to have been a sting operation. The FBI had them on tape doing the crime. But they'd discovered the set-up and fled before they could be picked up. They'd been living underground ever since.
They couldn't live that way any more, they said, cut off from their family, fearing discovery. They had a child to think about now. They'd been featured on "America's Most Wanted" four times.
They'd contacted a lawyer a year ago and begun negotiating a plea. Finalizing the details had taken longer than they'd anticipated, which explained why the moving date kept changing. But now the deal had been struck and the papers signed. Tim would not be charged, which meant Zoe would have a parent. Jo would serve her sentence, a maximum of five years, and then they would go on with their lives.
They didn't want us to learn about it cold, they said, or to feel betrayed. They wanted us to know what our friendship had meant to them. Most of all, their daughter was in for some hard times and would need all the support she could get.
To say we were dumbstruck is to understate the case. The Jo Elliott we knew would be sticking flowers in rifle barrels. If she was going to break the law, she might lie down in front of a truck at a munitions factory or pass out clean hypodermic needles to drug addicts. But transporting explosives? For the Puerto Rican independence movement? It was so far over the edge as to defy belief.
So there we were with one of America's 10 Most Wanted, about to surrender. And up the stairs, sound asleep, was a little girl with soft blonde hair who could write her name beautifully and work a jigsaw puzzle in record time but not quite tie her shoes, who drew us pictures of rainbows to hang in our bedrooms. I had held her in my lap, read to her, tucked her in at night and sung her lullabies. She was sweet and stubborn and bright and fragile, and as attached to her mom as any 4-year-old girl could be. And she was going to lose her mother to a jail cell, for who knew how many years, and she had no idea what was coming.
As a journalist I would have had a thousand questions. As a friend, I could only see a family hanging on by its fingernails, preparing to let go and hit the ground hard. I didn't feel curiosity or drama. All I felt was sick.
We offered to help any way we could, especially with Zoe while they tied up loose ends. They said a letter of character reference to the judge would be helpful, and we agreed immediately. We would describe the person we had come to know in Pittsburgh and ask the judge to weigh her good acts against her crime when determining her sentence.
After that, it was clear they were bringing this part of their life to a close. They packed up the house, talked with their lawyer, said their goodbyes and contacted family for the first time in nine years. They opened a post office box for their mail and paid their landlord two months rent. Somehow, they managed to jam a party in there for their daughter's fourth birthday.
On the first night of Hanukkah we had them over for the traditional dinner of potato latkes. My mother, who had grown quite fond of their whole family and knew nothing of what was to come, offered a toast to new beginnings. We all clinked glasses and tried to smile. Then we set out two menorahs and helped each child light a candle. We gave them dreidels, and chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil, and identical gifts. We sang Hanukkah songs and danced in a circle.
By the last night of Hanukkah, they were gone.