According to TimCast:
This is Part 2 of a multi-part series. You can read Part 1 here.
The following conversation took place between Eliza and myself after I’d returned home from the Quad Cities, but before the publication of Part 1 of this series.
“I thought, maybe it’s time for me to see if that motherfucker is still alive,” she said—in regard to the man who she said sold her for drug money in LA. She asked a friend to Google the man’s name.
“Find anything?” I asked.
“He’s still alive,” she said.
“Why did you think he was dead?” I asked.
“Because the drug use… If I give you his name, do you promise not to put it in the article?”
I promised.
I am not in the business of turning on a source, any source, unless, of course, it involves an imminent threat. I am, however, in the business of doing my own due diligence when it comes to a story—even when it might come into conflict with the reality a source is trying to sell me on.
If I got his name, then I’d be able to look up all of his addresses.
“You’re the second person I’ve shared that name with ever,” she said.
“If I make this accusation public, I have to come out with evidence. I mean, maybe I can make the accusation, and maybe I can talk to him privately if he’s sober, if he’s in a program.”
I stared at photos of the man Eliza accused. I can’t say he’s a household name, but if and when this name does become public, I know many of you will recognize his music.
I found the address that he lived in during and after the time Eliza told me she lived in LA when she was 17. After having searched this person’s name, and cross-referencing details I have put together while researching parts of Eliza’s past, I believe this will make more sense if Eliza were to make this public—if it is the man. But that’s on her—and or possibly even the man himself—seeing as how much traction Part 1 received.
I understand this is asking for a good deal of faith from the reader. We could also wonder if Eliza has reverse engineered this man’s name knowing that I would now go back and find what might just be confirmation bias. It’s also important for the sake of a promise made to a source, and for the sake of not slinging heavy accusations to someone that I can’t 100% prove is or isn’t the man who committed this crime.
I was reluctant to share that I even know the name. I will be called a liar. I will be accused of the same trickery Eliza is has been accused of. Despite my integrity getting picked apart in the digital coliseum for even attempting to write this story in the first place, I’ve gotten this far, I think, by being as honest as I can with my readers. I have my flaws, as a man and as a writer, but I throw them on the page regardless. I am the prism through which you receive this side of the story—so it’s only fair that I let you in on my deepest concerns, rather than putting on an air of objectivity. There is no objectivity in much of today’s journalism. There is only a mask of objectivity—especially when confronted with the kind of outsized scrutiny I’ve tripped into here. This is a strange and dark story from whichever angle you’re viewing it, and you’re watching me attempt to make sense of it in real time while people with massive YouTube channels breeze over my words, leave out entire portions, pick apart my sentences, read only the comments, and call into question my motives.
This new information, for sure, doesn’t also prove trafficking. It shows me that Eliza and this man did seem to live in the same place at the same time. It shows me it is likely that Eliza and this man could have crossed paths—if even briefly. Like Eliza said to me though, there is no proof of the crime. The only way I can think of this being proven would be an admission of guilt from this person all these years later. Or perhaps there could be others who ran in that circle who could corroborate. Perhaps they might see this and choose to come clean or reject it outright. I welcome either.
This is what I know now. I know a name. I know his age. I know the music he made. I know nearly everywhere he’s lived.
His LA address when Eliza was 17 was a three-minute drive from her apartment.
*
Back in Illinois, I sat with Eliza’s mom in her living room. She is retired now from being the dean of Black Hawk College.
The farm has been in her husband’s family since 1840. They grow corn and soybean.
Journalists from various organizations were hitting her up. Her parents’ phones kept dinging from every new email asking for a quote about their daughter.
“They don’t seem like journalists to me,” her father said. “Journalists try to seek to truth.” He’s a former professor-turned-farmer to state representative. He is currently on the board of the district in which they live.
Eliza’s mom told me she thought it was ridiculous that there were all these accusations online. Everything from Eliza fabricating her entire story to her being gifted a Tesla by Elon Musk.
“You can walk through every building on this farm, if you want to,” her mom said. Later on, I did walk through the property. Unless they moved it somewhere more discreet, the only Tesla stuff I saw was the winter coat Eliza wore.
“I look at this stuff, and I think this is all sheer crap,” she said, looking at her phone. “We’re normal people.”
My skepticism runs so deep that if someone tells me they’re normal people, I can’t help but wonder if a normal person would actually say that. I feared for a moment the walls might collapse to reveal a TV studio.
“Maybe you’re all actors. Maybe you all cleaned up and are running a script just for me,” I said, half-kidding.
“How old was Eliza when she moved to LA?” I asked.
“Seventeen,” she said.
“How did you handle her going out there so young by herself?”
“We’ve always tried to be supportive of what she wanted to do. She had done modeling the whole time she was growing up. She did print ads and commercials. I didn’t think that much of it. I guess other than that, well, it’s probably going to be a crash-and-burn because most of those situations are, but I’m not going to tell her she can’t do it.”
“Were you worried about her being out there alone?” I asked.
“[Her father] drove her out because she had a vehicle and all this other stuff. So, Rich was there to see the apartment, the neighborhood… As far as being worried, I think any parent would be. Hollywood was a gritty, nasty place. You could practically see the Chinese Theater from her apartment,” she said.
“How did you find out about Eliza’s overdose?” I asked.
“A doctor from Cedars-Sinai called me,” she said. “Imagine getting a phone call from an Emergency Room in Los Angeles, from a physician who calls you and says, ‘I don’t care what it takes, you get your daughter on a plane, and you get her home.’ He had a foreign accent. And he told me that Eliza’s been abused in a horrible way.”
“Do you know how long she was at the hospital before they called you?”
“I’m not sure about that,” she said.
“How did they know to call you?” I asked her.
“Eliza was still on our health insurance,” she said. “They billed our insurance.”
She’s not sure if she had an ID or health insurance card on her person. Both seem unlikely given the situation she had been in. Her mom remembers one of Eliza’s friends calling her prior to the overdose and warning her that her daughter was getting into trouble. It’s impossible to say, but the latter seems more likely.
