by Glenn Trust
Reviewing the interrogation of Darren and Dale Tuxton and the involvement of Ricky Sanchez, Andy got to the description of the men who had taken Juanita from the old van and placed her in their box truck as Darren and Dale ran for their lives.
“There were four. Two appeared to be Hispanic, spoke with accents. The other two were big white boys also with accents, southern accents, like from back deep in the country, not metro Atlanta or some other big city area.”
“Okay.” Sharon spoke for the first time since Andy had begun his portion of the briefing. “So they had southern accents from the country, lot of those types around.” She looked across the table and grinned at the Chief Deputy of Pickham County who shared an apartment over a barn with her. “George, for one. It’s still pretty thin, Bob.”
“And two were Hispanic. As I recall, Taft told George that Budroe’s expansion was to the islands, the Caribbean,” Bob said patiently. “Sharon, let Andy finish.” The firmness was once again in his voice.
“They had southern accents,” Andy continued, “and they were from down south. There were other girls in the truck. Darren and Dale saw them inside as they passed the truck’s open door. They were shackled and drugged.”
“They could tell the girls were drugged, just by walking by?” George asked.
“Darren had been doing business with the boys from down south for several months. He knew they were drugged because he had snatched a couple of girls himself, used Ecstasy as his date rape drug, except he didn’t rape them. He sold them to the boys from down south.”
There was silence on both ends of the line. Everyone thought about that…girls being sold, digesting what Andy had just told them.
“I thought slavery ended about a hundred and fifty years ago,” George said softly.
“Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation January 1863,” Andy said. “It only freed the slaves still held in the south during the Civil War. It took the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution to free all the slaves, and that wasn’t ratified until December 1865, eight months after Lee surrendered at Appomattox.”
There was silence again. No one was going to argue with Andy Barnes about the history of African American slavery.
“Sorry, guys,” Andy said. “Just something I know about.” Bringing them back to the here and now, he continued, “Anyway, the older of the two brothers, Darren sold a couple of girls. He says there’s others been doing the same.”
“There much money in that?” Sharon asked.
They get paid cash, a thousand dollars a girl, but it’s got to be the right girl, young, attractive and American. They want girls from the United States.” There was the sound of shuffling papers and then Andy continued. “Did some research today. There is a growing market for girls, and some boys, as sex slaves.” He used the word slave slowly saying it as if it left a bad taste in his mouth, which it undoubtedly did. “As the demand grows the profitability grows. There is some evidence that a girl with the desired qualities can bring as much as two hundred thousand to three hundred thousand dollars at the end market. So you do the math. Just ten sales can bring up to three million dollars”
“More than enough for someone like Budroe to want to move in, no matter what the risk.” George leaned forward as he spoke, eyes on the telephone.
“Right, and the truck was headed down south…south Georgia. That’s what Darren picked up from the good ole boys.”
“Shit.” It was all Sharon could say, and it was what everyone was feeling.
“Yeah, shackled in the back of a truck like…” There was understandable passion in Andy’s words “Like Africans shackled in the hold of some ship.”
The silence might have continued for a long while, but it was time to bring the team together. “All right then,” Bob said. We need a game plan. Thoughts?”
“We have to get inside,” George said immediately.
“Agreed. How?”
Shaklee’s question hung unanswered in the air for several seconds until Andy spoke. “I’ll go down. See what I can do to get close.”
“I don’t like that idea, Andy.” George leaned forward as he spoke. “This is our country. We know how things are down here.”
“All the more reason I should be the one.” Andy’s voice became quiet and reasoning. “George, I am unknown. I can fit in…invisible. I’ve worked undercover before. I know how it’s done. No offense, buddy, but you look like what you are…a good ole boy deputy from down south. There’s things I can find out where you won’t be able to get close.”
Again, there was silence, the group considering Andy’s logic along with the risk he would be accepting.
“Andy’s right,” Bob said. “I’m not comfortable with the risk, but going undercover and getting as close as we can is the only way to break this up. We need intelligence, and we’re only going to get it from someone they won’t suspect.”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” George said. “He saw you Andy. Budroe saw you that day at Pete’s Place during the conspiracy thing.” George always called it a’thing’ and not a case.
“Yeah, he did,” Andy said slowly, thinking. “He saw me, George, but I promise you he won’t recognize me if he’s around down there. What Budroe saw was a black cop from Atlanta in a fancy suit and a fedora. Trust me, that is not what he is going to see this time. There is no way he will put that Atlanta cop with what he sees...the 'niggra' janitor or maintenance man or mechanic…whatever it is I have to do to get close.” Andy stopped and spoke directly to Bob Shaklee. “I can do this Bob. I want to do it.” The unspoken words that everyone on the line heard were “I have to do this.”
There was silence while Bob thought it through. “Okay. You’re it Andy. You go in. I’ll arrange for Rincefield to be our air support. He’ll fly you down tomorrow. You go home and get ready.”
“Good.” The team knew Johnny Rincefield from the GBI task force case they had partnered on. He had saved their collective asses a couple of times during the operation.
Sandy Davies spoke up for the first time. “I know Sheriff Beery in Meacham County some. I’ll arrange a meet with Andy, somewhere away from Meacham. Maybe have Andy fly into some small airfield out of the way. Let him drive in from there after Beery briefs him.”
“Right,” Bob said. “I’ll pull the GBI back from their investigation; let things get back to normal at Nicks Cove. Official word will be accidental house fire. I’ll make sure they don’t mention arson or murder publicly.”
“They won’t be happy about that.” Sharon knew the GBI better than anyone. “You have that kind of clout?”
“Hell,” Bob said with a laugh. “We’re the governor’s Office of Special Investigations. We can do anything…sorta…or at least until they say no.”
The plan was coming together. It would be fluid, dynamic. They would make adjustments as they went. Flexibility was important in undercover work as long as there was some structure behind it. The thought nagging everyone on the call was that they had precious little time to set up the customary structure and precautions.
Sharon chimed in. “George and I should be in the area too, as backup, just in case.”
George looked at Sandy Davies. “You okay with that?”
Davies nodded. “Yeah. This thing started in Pickham County it sounds like. We need to be there to end it.”
The team talked for another hour, setting up signals, reporting and communications protocols and plans for passing information once Andy was undercover. Most important they discussed how and when they could pull Andy out. Every UC operation had to have a mission goal and a point of withdrawal.
That was the hard part. They knew so little. It was difficult to define what that point might be. Pull out too soon, and they might never learn anything about Budroe’s operations or the location of the girls. Too late and Andy could be compromised. None had any illusions about Roy Budroe’s response to an undercover officer found in the middle of his business, least of all Andy Barnes.
/> 37. That Answered That Question
The tires of the black Escalade and silver, heavy-duty Chevy pickup made a soft whooshing sound as they pulled into the clearing, crossing the loose sandy dirt to the shed. The two guards standing in the front of the door raised a hand in a brief greeting and then returned to their casual positions leaning against the shed wall, one on each side of the big door.
“You look pretty casual to be watching over my merchandise,” Budroe called to them, stepping from the Cadillac. The men immediately stood taller and started scanning the tree line as if they actually expected any intruders. Budroe smiled. “Cleet,” he said to the American, one of his boys from Roydon. “Go get that girl, Sonya. Bring her to me.”
The man nodded and walked briskly towards the group of girls gathered across the clearing by the van they used to make the trip back and forth from Nicks Cove. The other guard remained by the shed, looking very attentive and guard-like.
“Dumb chili shitter,” Budroe’s big lieutenant said walking from the pickup. “He probably doesn’t understand a word of English.”
“He understood enough.” Budroe eyed the man who was standing almost at attention, a sentry on guard duty. “So, what do you think?” he asked his lieutenant.
“About?”
“What do you mean, ‘about’?” Budroe was in ill humor. His mood changes were common and always expected by his subordinates, even those as close and trusted as this man. “What have we been doin’ all day?”
Reaching in his shirt pocket, he pulled out a cigar, this one a Cuban. Fuck that weasel, Guzman. Dominican my ass, Cubans were the best. Everyone knew it, he thought, clipping the end. He had a source in Miami that kept him supplied with Montecristos, the real ones, from Cuba. Puffing the cigar as he rolled it over the torch his mood seemed to calm. When the end glowed cherry red, he looked up at the big man and asked mildly, “What do you think about that pissant Klineman? He gonna deliver?”
Nodding, his lieutenant said, “If anyone wants Mackey and Davies to go down, Klineman does.” He thought for a moment before continuing. “He has the connections, the information and the motivation. He’s weak, but he wants back in and this is a way to get back in with minimal risk.”
“Minimal?” Budroe looked at him over a cloud of blue-gray smoke.
“Well, he might not know you like we do, Roy, might not know what he’s dealing with, might have to learn some things about keeping his promises, but in his world, small town politician and all, the risk is small. Everyone else does the dirty work, the heavy lifting, at least as he sees it.” Taking a pinch of snuff from the can he carried in his back pocket, he tucked it under his lip and added laughing softly, “But he did look like he was gonna shit his pants, until you bought in.”
Budroe laughed deeply, nodding and puffing plumes of smoke from the cigar. Turning his head, he saw the guard waiting respectfully at the front of the Escalade. Sonya stood beside him, head down eyes focused on the sand between her shoes.
“You. Come here, girl.”
Head still down, she walked with the guard by her side until she stood in front of Budroe.
“Look at me.” Sonya raised her eyes. “The law been around?”
She nodded. “Sheriff been over to Nicks Cove. Called him like you said.” She shrugged nervously. “Some others too.”
Budroe’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“They was from the state, they said.” Sonya lowered her eyes to the ground again.
“Who got them involved? You?”
Shaking her head emphatically side to side, she looked up. “Don’t know. Sheriff called them I think.” She hesitated before continuing. “They asked a lot of questions.”
“Like what?”
“What we saw, what we heard. That kinda thing.” She hesitated again and then added, “They asked if someone set the fire.”
“They did, huh.”
Budroe’s lieutenant gave a quick sharp laugh and spat a stream of tobacco juice into the sand.
“What did you tell them?” Budroe puffed the cigar calmly, seeming unsurprised by Sonya’s report.
“Told them we didn’t see nothing. Didn’t hear nothing. Just like what we told the sheriff.” Her voice was pleading, begging to be believed. “They left, sayin’ there wasn’t no evidence, and anyone coulda set the fire. They ain’t been around since.”
Budroe nodded. “You know what you’re supposed to do?”
She nodded.
“Say it.”
“Them girls in the shed, feed ‘em, clean ‘em, keep them looked after.”
Budroe nodded. “That’s right. You take care of them. They’re valuable.” He smiled. “You do that and we’ll take care of you. You don’t and…” He shrugged and blew a plume of smoke into the air. “Well, you won’t like what happens then.”
Sonya nodded. “I know. We don’t want no trouble. We’ll do like you say.” Her voice trembled, the memory of the black charred remains of Elma and Jobie Nicks, burned into her mind.
“Hear that?” Budroe turned his head with a laugh. “They don’t want no trouble.”
The big man nodded, smiled and sent another stream of tobacco juice to the ground.
****
Inside the shed, Juanita sat on the cot that had become her new home. Bright light from outside filtered through the cracks around the door. The space was dim, like the dusky gray just before the sun sets. One by one, the others were coming out of their drug-induced torpor. She stood and walked by the cots looking at the girls. Walking around the inside perimeter of the shed, she wondered if they were alone.
Crossing to the big double doors, she gave them a tentative push. The doors moved slightly and then stopped held in place by the hasp and lock on the outside. Her experiment was answered by a loud bang, someone beating on the doors with something hard.
“Get the fuck away from the doors!”
That answered that question. They were not alone.
38. The Irony Was Not Lost
Parking his personal car beside the Department of Public Safety hangar at DeKalb Peachtree Airport in Chamblee, northeast of downtown Atlanta, Andy took the small duffle bag from the back seat and stepped through the glass door. Walking down the long, narrow hall lined with pictures of the old airport, dating back to its days as a World War I army post, he stopped in the men’s room. Andy had flown with Johnny Rincefield before. The Cessna 182 had no restrooms.
Emerging a minute later and stepping into the public area, he looked around. The radio on the desk crackled and spoke cryptically with occasional traffic between aircraft and the PDK tower. Rincefield was nowhere to be seen.
Andy walked across to the room to the door leading out onto the apron and tarmac. Squinting into the morning light, he saw Rince doing his pre-flight inspection of the airplane. Smiling, Andy watched the pilot move with an energetic quickness that seemed almost frenzied, until you realized that quick as they were, each movement was efficient and calculated.
Rince had flown choppers and some small fixed wing spotters in Vietnam. That fact alone told Andy that his pilot had to be in his sixties, although you would never have known it to watch him move briskly around the aircraft. Apparently, the Department of Public Safety was happy to keep him flying as long as he could pass an annual mental acuity test and the flight physical.
Andy was also happy to keep him flying. Johnny Rincefield had saved Andy’s life in the deadly confrontation with the killers down in Pickham County, risking his life and his aircraft, to light and buzz the scene, holding the hit men in place, and in the process giving Andy the warning that they were waiting for him. For his trouble, Rince took a number of high-powered rounds through the aircraft, several barely missing him as they peppered his face with glass fragments. Having Rince on the OSI team gave it a sense of reality and substance, and having air support increased their operational capabilities. Then there was the security in knowing that Rince was there, watching. Andy didn’t mind a bit having a guardian ang
el hovering above, monitoring things from the sky as he went undercover.
“You about ready to go?” Andy called across the tarmac to the pilot who stood beside the plane, making notes on his clipboard.
The grin that spread over Rince’s narrow face forced one equally broad onto Andy’s. “Damn, it’s good to see you.” The wiry little man jogged over to Andy and reached out a hand.
Taking it, Andy pulled him close and gave him a one-armed embrace that made Rince’s grin even broader. “Deirdre sends her best. Wants you to stop by for dinner. We haven’t seen you in a while.”
His head bobbing up and down in the affirmative, Rince said, “Great. That’ll be great. I’d love to see you guys. Been really busy around here for a while. Just haven’t been able to break away. Governor’s on this law enforcement kick since the election so we been flying every day seems like.” He smiled. “Of course that suits me. Day without flying is a damned sad day.”
“Well, I think we’re going to keep you just as busy with this OSI thing. At least we’re starting off with a bang.”
“Big case?” Rince turned his head in interest towards Andy as they walked to the plane.
“Could be really big,” Andy said. “I’ll brief you when we get in the air. Where we headed?”
“Moultrie. Good little airport. Nice town, not too close so we won’t raise any eyebrows in Meacham County flying in and out.”
“Sounds good.” Andy reached out and gave the wiry pilot a friendly slap on the back. “Mr. Rincefield, shall we get on down to Moultrie?”
Rince nodded with a smile and pulled the pilot’s door open and climbed into the aircraft. Moving around to the passenger’s side, Andy threw his bag on the back seat and strapped himself in beside Rince. Five minutes later, they were picking up speed down the runway and lifting gently into the air. Andy looked out at the trees and lawns of the old Chamblee neighborhoods as they disappeared below and then scanned around the sky. Air traffic was normal for Atlanta, which meant busy. Planes in approach, landing and departing at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport on the south side of the city crowded the sky.
