I met Justin and his girlfriend, Debra
1, at a sports bar on the outskirts of Portland on a chilly spring evening. The Grille is their regular Thursday night haunt, where Justin sings karaoke and Debra looks on wistfully, sipping Fireball on the rocks. I took a cab through divided highways dotted with RV dealerships, no-tell motels, car washes, and 7-Elevens. I arrived at the bar ludicrously early, and instead of going inside and minding my own business over a pint of one of the million cleverly named microbrews on tap, I sat outside on a bench, smoking cigarettes and trying to look mean. I wasn’t sure how they treated unescorted ladies at the Grille, and I wasn’t in any mood to find out.
What brought me to Portland was the opportunity to interview Justin about the time he faked his death and got caught, and his most recent plan to disappear again...