by Peg Brantley
Almost fifty percent of the cells in my body are luring me toward the doors that spell freedom for me. Almost fifty percent. The other fifty percent-plus know the price Ginger will pay at the hands of Daddy if I leave. I’ve seen him in action. Hell, he makes sure we’ve all seen him action so we all know we’re either gonna cause pain or receive it ourselves.
Instead of leaving, I sit on the arm of her chair and wait. Her soft snoring humanizes her. Softens her somehow. After a minute or two she shifts and realizes someone is near her. With reaction born of personal history, Ginger shoots up ready to fight off an aggressor.
“It’s me,” I say. “Just me. You’re okay.”
“What the fuck?” She looks at her watch then connects her gaze to mine like her life depends on it. “What happened?”
“Nothin’. The appointment ended up being a john with a stamina fantasy,” I smile down at her.
She looks around the empty lobby. “You could’ve left.”
“Yeah. I thought about it.”
“But you didn’t.” She stands and smooths her rumpled clothes. “What the hell kind of moron are you?” she asks me sotto voce, her face angled close to mine. “Why didn’t you run?”
“You and I both know why.” I shove off the chair’s arm and head to the elevator. “And you’re welcome.”
* * *
I can’t sleep. I’ve turned the chair so I can sit in it and look out the dirty window at the night sky. From this angle, with this view, I could be anywhere, but I know I’m in Denver. I know I’m home and for now that’s all that matters.
With appointments booked through tomorrow night, I’m pretty confident we’ll stay for at least one more day. And then what? Salt Lake City? Albuquerque? Las Vegas?
Thoughts of LaTisha drift through the window. I don’t think of her as Amber. That was her street name. Her slave name.
I remember holding her while she died. She was tiny and frail—and pregnant. She hadn’t wanted to die alone. I watched her lips turn blue and her breathing grow more shallow with every breath. Before meeting me that night she’d overdosed on heroin.
Maybe she’s one of the lucky ones.
There’s a quick knock at my door before it opens.
“I wanted to come and say thank you,” Ginger says. “There’s a lot more to you than most of these girls.”
“Don’t underestimate them. You don’t know them.”
The woman nods. “You’re probably right. I don’t want to know them. I can’t afford to know them.”
“And me?”
“I haven’t decided.”
I don’t respond. I turn back to look at the sky out the window.
A moment later I hear the door close.
Only one man had made a profit off of me, but there were numerous men who had bought me, and I felt my anger rise and rise. It began to occur to me that the exploitation of girls could not happen without these men…. Yet calling men who buy sex from children ‘johns’ minimizes the harm they do. At the very least, they are statutory rapists and child abusers.
—Girls Like Us, by Rachel Lloyd
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Darius had called Pamela three times in the last hour, both of them laughing about what a bad john he’d make, calling his wife every few minutes. Still, they both knew that while the security around Jayla might not be as tight as that around Alexis, it was risky. And they both had an idea of the hell Jayla had been through the last six months.
They needed to laugh.
He’d scored a hotel room about twenty minutes away from the base-hotel where they were holding Jayla. Far enough away to have fewer eyes on them but close enough not to draw suspicion.
“How are the girls?” Darius asked for the third time.
“They’re fine, DJ. Home from school and complaining about homework while secretly diving in for a good grade.”
“And our son?”
“Sleeping for the time being.”
“Do you miss having your mom around?”
“I miss having an extra pair of hands. I don’t miss having her tell me how to do things.”
“Or that you should’ve married Paul Blair instead of me.”
“Yeah, that too.”
He could hear her smile.
“Did Mex get there?” Pam asked.
The last time they’d talked, all of fifteen minutes ago, Mex hadn’t arrived.
“Yep, he’s here along with the DPD detective assigned to Jayla’s case and a patrol unit in plain clothes. I’m covered.” A lot more covered here than I was in Monterrey, Darius thought.
“Better than Mexico,” PJ echoed, as if she’d heard him.
“Tell the girls I love them. Tell them I’ll try to be home in time to tuck them in tonight.”
“Tell them yourself.” Pam called the girls to the phone.
“Thanks for that,” Darius told his wife after the two brief conversations were over. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
“And don’t you ever forget it. If you do, I’ll be sure to remind you.”
There was a knock at his door.
“Gotta go. It’s showtime,” Darius told Pammy. “Love you.”
“Love you more,” Pamela said.
“Love you most.”
He disconnected the call and stowed his phone before answering the door.
Darius was unprepared for the young girl standing in his doorway. He’d seen pictures of Jayla in her yearbooks, selfies she’d taken with friends, family photos from last Christmas. The overly made up, cheaply and scantily dressed girl in front of him bore no resemblance to what he’d been expecting. Even her ad on Backpage hadn’t reflected reality. But the biggest shock to his system was that he knew this tired and sad person waiting to come into his room—who would allow him to do anything he wanted to her—was the same girl.
“I’m Cherie. You’re expecting me, right?” She looked doubtful.
He shook off his thoughts and forced a smile. “Sorry. Yeah, yeah, Cherie. I am.” He stepped away from the door so she could enter, then stepped into the hallway to look in both directions. Empty.
Jayla had gone immediately to the bed where she sat and began removing her shoes. “Don’t worry. It can be awkward at first.”
“Stop,” Darius said. “Don’t take anything off.”
Jayla froze. “You don’t like me?”
Darius understood that rejecting a girl could result in harsh punishment. “No, no, that’s not it at all.”
The girl didn’t move. She waited like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Smart girl, Darius thought.
“Your mom contacted my friend and partner. I’m here to take you home.” He knelt on the floor and grabbed her arms.
Jayla’s mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes squinted. She snatched her arms away.
“Jayla, I’m telling you the truth. I’m here to take you home.”
“What did you call me?”
Darius took her hands in his. “I called you Jayla.”
Tears flooded her eyes and spilled into her lap. Still, she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t move.
“It’s true,” Darius said. “We have backup in the hotel, but I have to know what kind of security is attached to you. Who’s making sure you don’t try to escape?”
Jayla closed her eyes and took a breath. Another. “I have a handler because Denver is my home turf. She’s in the lobby. Her name is Leah, but she goes by Ginger.”
“Is she the only one?”
“Yes. But she needs to come with me. If I leave and she doesn’t, her life will be hell. It might even be over.”
“I don’t want to argue the point, but she’s your jailer, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you want to save your jailer?”
“Yeah.”
“Got it. Not a problem. What does she look like?”
“Black. Older than me. Red hair. Hard.”
Darius took out his cell and swiped. “We’ve got anoth
er stowaway. Look around. Do you see a black woman in the lobby? Might look like she’s waiting for someone?”
He gave Mex the particulars. “We’re on our way down.”
Once in the lobby Mex, Darius, and Jayla approached Leah. The DPD detective and officers on scene were asked to stand down for this meeting. When Mex explained the situation they grudgingly agreed.
Jayla reached out and grabbed Leah’s hands. “This is it, Leah. These men are here to save us.”
“You mean you.”
“No. I mean us.”
“I don’t understand. Are they arresting us?”
“No. They’re here to free us.”
Leah shook her head. “No. I have nowhere to go.”
“We can figure that out,” Jayla pleaded. “Please come with us.”
“What would I do?”
“You mean who would take care of you,” Jayla said.
“No. Yes. Who would take care of me?”
“What if it’s eventually you? What if you have help at first, including me and my family? And then you can have your own life?”
Leah stood and turned away. “No. I can’t.”
“Leah, look at me,” Jayla said. “Trust me. Look at me.”
Slowly the older woman faced Jayla.
“Is this what you want?” Jayla asked. “To keep working for Daddy? To be threatened? To turn more young girls, children, into revenue streams for him? We both know what will happen to you if I leave. You’ll be beaten. You might even be killed. And I know you still have a personal quota. Tell me, is this what you want?” Tears flood down Jayla’s face.
“I can’t leave, Cherie.”
“Jayla.”
“I can’t leave. I have nowhere to go. I don’t trust that anyone can help me. I’ve tried it before.” She reached out and hugged Jayla. “You go. You’re young enough. You have family.” She sobbed. “My family is Daddy.”
Darius tugged Jayla away from Leah. “We have to go.” Jayla didn’t move. “We have to go now.”
Jayla looked at Leah for a long moment. “Leah, listen to me.”
The older woman shifted, but didn’t engage her eyes with Jayla’s.
“Listen to me,” Jayla repeated. “I understand where you’re coming from. I would never blame you for choosing Daddy. He’s the evil you know. But if ever you want out, all you have to do is call me. Or Darius. But Leah, I’m leaving. I hate what’s ahead for you, but I’m leaving. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”
Leah and Jayla’s eyes met and locked.
“There’s nothing there for me now,” Leah said. “It’s been too long. My life, whatever it is, is with Daddy.”
Darius watched Jayla’s shoulders slump. He watched her swallow. Once. Twice. He watched as Jayla offered his business card to Leah. “Call him if you change your mind,” she said. “You’re never alone.”
Leah smiled. Reached out for a hug. “I never thought I was.”
After the hug she tore up the card.
“Why?” Jayla asked through her tears.
“Too dangerous for all of us if I kept it.”
[Brock] Franklin allegedly recruited girls by contacting them through Facebook, and meeting them at hotels and nightclubs, routinely using violence, drugs and sexual assault to control and coerce the victims, according to the indictment.
—Seven indicted by Colorado grand jury in child sex trafficking ring bust, by Hsing Tseng, for Fox 31 Denver and Colorado’s Own The CW2
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
ALEXIS
I tug the afghan up to my chin. I’m out on the deck off our family room, sitting in the sun like a pitiful invalid.
The first few days after I got home my phone never stopped ringing. It seemed like I was never alone, so many people filed through my house. But it wasn’t that they cared about me.
They were curious.
I get that. I didn’t blame them. But I wasn’t all that forthcoming. And they sure as hell didn’t know the right questions to ask. I got everything from, “Oh, Alexis! Was it romantic?” to “Were you gang raped?” What idiots. But to be truthful, what would be the right question to ask someone who’d been through what I’ve been through, for one night, or ten, or twenty?
Thank God for Rachel. She keeps me strong even though our stories are totally different. They each hold the horror of bondage. Captivity. Sex and torture. Rachel survived.
I’m not so sure about me.
Oddly enough, one of the other vetted security guards at Montonaldo’s party was a cousin of a former Sergio acquisition. Montonaldo was found hours after everyone had left spread-eagled on one of his own torture devices. There was a body next to his, identified later as the cousin, with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
When I heard about this I thought immediately about those used sandals. A weird part of me hopes she and I shared those shoes. She was at least loved by someone.
My dad got home a couple of days after I did. He hugged me. He told me I was strong and could overcome anything that had happened to me, but he didn’t want to listen. No real change from before. He tried, he did. But it isn’t part of his personality to spend a lot of time on a problem that has been resolved. Even worse, to connect with a daughter who’d been sold to a man wealthier than him for sex. For power. He was home for less than twenty-four hours before heading out again.
Really? A quick pep talk and that’s all he thinks it’s gonna take?
I want to know why my daddy doesn’t love me enough to fight for me. Why an asshole businessman in Asia is more important than his daughter who is dissolving into a puddle of pain in her bedroom.
I figure out that he’s got a void where the family link should be. It’s not his fault, it’s just not there.
I need him. I’ve never needed him more.
Damn him.
Mother, believe it or not, gets more credit. Not much, but some. When Rachel and Cade approached her with a couple of names of therapists who might help me, she did her best to pay attention. I went to see a woman in Boulder, Lynda Hilburn, who is working with PTSD patients and having success with a new type of therapy. I guess I qualify.
Rachel drove me up to Boulder to meet with her yesterday. I liked her. She made me work but she didn’t make me do all of the work. It’s gonna take a while. It might even take longer than college would have. College. Not on my radar any longer. My future consists of visits with a shrink-type from now until whenever.
But it’s all I’ve got.
Right now, sitting out on this deck at my parent’s house, I wonder why I survived. There’s nothing for me here. There’s nothing real about my life before, or my life now. It’s all show.
When I was with Montonaldo, I’d held my attitude as long as I could. I thought my attitude could save me. And now I see it for the freakin’ fake it was.
I have nothing.
I am nothing.
I’ve got another hope besides Rachel. Some girl named Jayla. Seems like we were both held at the same holding pen in Denver. She went one way and I went another.
But we were in the same place.
The women, mostly minors, were lured away from their families by men who appeared to be seeking romantic propositions, but were then kidnapped and subject to rape….Authorities say the women were forced to service as many as 20 to 40 customers a day, with all of the money going to the men….They were either dropped off in brothels or “delivered” to a customer’s home by a driver in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Maryland, Virginia or Delaware.
—U.S.-Mexico Human Trafficking Ring Busted with Seven Men Facing Life Sentences, by Barbara Gonzalez, for Latina November 4, 2016
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
LIVVY
My family is trying. They really are. It’s probably harder for them than it is for me because they didn’t live what I lived. All they can do is imagine.
I’ve seen Maddy a few times but I’m still so ashamed. She tried to warn me. All I do is cr
y. And then she cries. I think we’ll be BFFs again, but it’s gonna be hard. It’s gonna take time. What I know is she loves me. That’s all I need to know for today.
Cade and her friend Rachel help hold me together. Even though Cade’s story is different, with the cult stuff and all, she sure gets me. She understands what I’m thinking. Rachel has smelled the same smells and felt the same hands on her body as I have. I listen to what both of them have to say, and they listen to me without judging. Two angels on my team. I don’t know what I did to deserve them.
But even with my family and Maddy and Cade and Rachel, the person who’s really helping me is Isabella. She’s staying with us until Cade and Mex can formally adopt her. It’s gonna take time for the adoption because the law gets all blind about what’s right when all of the proper papers aren’t in order. That’s good though, because I count on her right now, and Aspen Falls, where Mex and Cade live, is almost four hours from here.
I haven’t gone back to school yet. My mom arranged for lessons to be sent home and we’re going through them together. She doesn’t want me to fall behind. There are days I wonder about the point of it all. Why bother? I’m not the girl I was before all this happened. On the plus side, going over the schoolwork gives Mom and me something to talk about. A bond.
Mex and Cade hired a tutor for Isabella too. We go to different counselors because she doesn’t speak much English. Plus, and this is a big plus, Isabella doesn’t have a family like I do. From what I can tell, Isabella had been practically starving in Guatemala. That’s why she was so desperate. So eager to believe in the story her captor told her.
Her life has sparkles now. She has America. She has Mex and Cade. She’s a hero.
I’m still trying to find my way back to Livvy. Back to my life. Back to my dreams.
In addition to their strategies of control and their paternalistic rationalizations, the other thing that pimps have in common, regardless of who they are, are the damaged lives they leave in their wake. To a girl who’s been beaten because she didn’t make her quota, or put out on the street after a rape and told, “There’s nothing wrong with your mouth,” it doesn’t really make that much difference whether her pimp is a sociopath or not, if he had one girl or ten, if he ever felt bad about what he was doing, if he wished he could do something else with his life. The humiliation, the physical and emotional pain, the trauma, the nightmares all feel the same. The damage is done.
