Storm Rising

by Sara Driscoll

  Van Cleave picked up his flip case and slipped it back into his inside breast pocket. “Thank you. We appreciate the help.” He held out a hand for Meg and Hawk to precede him and then followed. As they approached the double doors, a loud buzz vibrated the metal, accompanied by the sharp metallic snap of the locks releasing. Meg opened the door and walked through with Hawk, and Van Cleave pulled the door closed behind them.

  The facility looked like any standard industrial building—cinder-block walls, dull, light gray paint, no adornments, and not a single splash of color.

  “This place is depressing,” Meg said under her breath.

  “It’s essentially a prison,” Van Cleave countered. “One meant for inmates nearing the end of their confinement, so you’d assume therefore on their best behavior to get the hell out of here. But still a prison.”

  The second doorway on their right was open; they passed through it into a small office and walked into an explosion of color. A petite woman with hair a shade of red that had to come from a bottle, wearing a dress of brilliant electric blue, sat behind a desk covered with multicolored file folders, a vibrant vase of wildflowers, and a selection of mismatched framed photos. Bright knickknacks and tiny flags cluttered the tops of filing cabinets surrounding her, and burgundy curtains waved gently in the breeze coming in the open window. The resulting clash of tones was nearly migraine-inducing. Meg could only assume that the occupant of the office did it in self-defense to ward off daily depression.

  The woman looked up as they entered, her eyes instantly dropping down to Hawk, a bright smile curving her hot-pink lips at the sight of the dog. “Well, hello there. And who is this fine representative of the FBI?”

  “This is Hawk. Hawk, say hi.”

  Hawk immediately sat down and politely raised a paw in greeting.

  The woman behind the desk let out a squeal that nearly went ultrasonic as she jumped out of the chair to shake his paw. “Well, haven’t you just made my day.” She took a moment to stroke his head and murmur to him, and was rewarded by the thump of his tail. She reluctantly straightened. “I’m sure you didn’t come in today to treat me to a visit. How can I help you?”

  Van Cleave pulled out his ID again, flipping it open and extending it. “FBI Special Agent in Charge Walter Van Cleave and FBI handler Meg Jennings. We don’t have an appointment, but we’d like to see Mr. Pate, please.”

  “Let me see if Mr. Pate is available.” She took her seat and picked up her phone, her long, blood-red nails clacking on the buttons as she keyed in an extension. “Mr. Pate, I have two FBI agents in the office here to see you. No, they don’t have an appointment, but they’re asking if you’re available to meet with them. Of course, sir.” She placed the handset back in the cradle and pushed her rolling chair back from her desk. “Mr. Pate can make a few minutes for you now.” She led them over to a door on the far side of her tiny office and opened it for them.

  Van Cleave went through and Meg and Hawk followed, the door closing behind them with a soft click. They found themselves back in mind-numbing industrial neutral tones again, right down to the beige suit and brown tie worn by the man with mouse-brown hair behind the desk.

  Van Cleave extended his ID and held out his hand. “Special Agent in Charge Walter Van Cleave.” The two men shook.

  Meg stepped forward, Hawk heeling at her knee. “FBI K-9 handler Meg Jennings and my partner, Hawk.”

  Mason Pate was a tall, portly man, slightly balding, his rounded stomach giving him an air of joviality matched by a sunny smile and a vigorous handshake. “Come in, please, sit down.” He indicated two chairs in front of his desk and then took his own tall-backed leather desk chair.

  Meg sat and gave Hawk a hand signal—down—while Van Cleave took the second chair.

  “This is rather unexpected,” said Pate. “Is there a problem with one of our residents?”

  Residents, not inmates.

  “Not any of your current residents,” Van Cleave answered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and passed it across to Pate. “This is Luke Reed. Do you recognize him?”

  Pate took a long moment to consider the mug shot Van Cleave had printed back in his office. “He doesn’t look familiar to me.” He laid the photo down on his desk and continued to study it. “While I manage this facility, it’s only one of several I’m responsible for, and I’m only rarely in contact with our residents. We have competent staff doing that job, and I leave them to do it without the boss staring over their shoulder and micromanaging.”

  Meg settled back in her chair, comfortably crossing her legs. “Mr. Pate, can you give us an outline of the role of this facility? Many inmates are simply released at the end of their sentence and return to society. What does this center do that’s different?”

  “That’s a good question, Ms. Jennings. We’re a facility dedicated to ensuring that our residents have the best chance of success once they leave incarceration. It’s a relatively new process—forty years ago, a facility like this didn’t exist. Recidivism rates are often high, so sociologists, lawmakers, law enforcement, and prison management put their heads together to find a way to decrease the chances of reoffending. Reentry programs were what they came up with, starting about a decade ago. There are a number of levels of reentry. Some reentry programs are done in custody, but by and large those facilities are already maximally stressed simply caring for often violent inmates, let alone preparing some of them to reenter society. At the Harper Group, we run facilities that accept inmates from both the state-run and private prison systems. We have facilities like this one that are residential facilities. We also run day reporting centers for men and women out on probation who are trying to rebuild their lives but need additional support. Many of them are unemployed, and the lack of structure in their lives often drives them to re-offend. Our programs give structure and purpose and teach them life skills that many never learned at home, often because of stressful family environments when they were younger.”

  Pate swiveled in his chair and reached for a framed photograph that sat on the wide windowsill behind him. He passed it across to Van Cleave, who tilted it so Meg could see. The photograph showed a dozen young men and a few women, all of them under twenty years of age, most of whom were African American or Hispanic, lined up in two neat rows. They all wore blue graduation gowns and caps, held black folders, and all were smiling. “That’s one of our graduation classes.”

  “You have actual graduation ceremonies?” Meg asked.

  Pate chuckled. “You probably think it’s silly, but we believe these ceremonies are important, especially for our juvenile residents. Most of them have never been to a graduation ceremony because they dropped out of high school. And many of these kids are multiple re-offenders already, which is why they were referred to us in the first place.”

  Van Cleave handed the framed photo back to Pate. “Who refers the kids to you?”

  “A variety of people. Sometimes a judge makes it part of the sentencing. In that case, it’s often a judge who has seen the same kid more than once in his courtroom, or sometimes he’s read their full record and sees the pattern and knows they need a little boost to get started in the right direction. Sometimes a prison social worker will recommend an inmate for reentry. Sometimes it’s the inmate himself who knows he’s not ready to be on his own yet and has heard about the program and will request entry. As long as the warden approves, the inmate can move to a residential service like this one. If the warden does not approve, sometimes that same inmate can attend a day reporting center once he or she is released.”

  “Who pays for that?”

  “It’s covered by the Virginia Department of Social Services. They have some of their own programs as well, but not enough to meet the need. The VDSS knows that in the long run, it’s cheaper to help inmates integrate into society than it is to house them for years or even for life, depending on the crime. When you’re looking at approximately twelve thousand ad
ults and five hundred juveniles released from prisons in the state every single year, services like this are essentially prevention. The end goals are keeping costs down and increasing public safety. Reentry programs do both.”

  “What specifically do you do to help inmates reintegrate successfully into society?” Meg asked.

  “We have a variety of programs and services in both the residential and day reporting centers. You need to remember that some of these behaviors are so ingrained, it can take significant effort to turn them around. We offer one-on-one cognitive behavioral therapy to change both the base criminal mind-set and the thinking patterns that come from it, as well as group therapy where residents see that others have the same hopes and fears they do. This also helps them make connections and friendships based on common bonds they can then take out into the world. We teach life skills to promote independence once they are outside these walls. We help those who need assistance with the immigration process, as many are illegal immigrants. A facility like this is essentially a minimum security, dual-service facility that in the end costs the state less money because the reentry program overlaps with the end of inmate sentencing. But the day reporting centers are important too, and serve a different function. We do daily check-ins, can assist with drug and alcohol testing, and help make sure parolees make regular contact with their parole officers. Individual inmates and parolees have different needs, so we cover all the bases to fill those gaps. However, they all want to repair their relationships with their children and the rest of their families, get clean and sober and stay that way, and find employment. If we’ve done our job right, we hope to never see them again.” Pate sat back in his chair with a rolling laugh. “And I sound like I’m pitching to a room full of investors.”

  “But isn’t catering to your investors really your end goal?” Meg asked. “This is, after all, a business, so isn’t your job to ensure profits for the investors? Doesn’t hoping to never see them again go against that? If that happens, you lose your chance to make a profit from them.”

  Pate’s smile dissolved as his brow furrowed and the light in his eyes dulled. “That’s a very cynical outlook, Ms. Jennings.”

  “It is a business outlook I’m sure some of your investors hold.”

  “Maybe they do, but it’s not mine. We do good work here, and let me assure you, we have no lack of clients. We have a long way to go before we work ourselves out of business. And, sadly, new future criminals are being born daily. I don’t think there will ever be a lack of need for us.” He tapped the printed image spread open on his blotter. “Now that you have an idea of what we do, what does this gentleman have to do with us?”

  “He came through this facility,” Meg said, taking care to meet Pate’s gaze before saying, “Twice.”

  Pate winced. “Sometimes we don’t do the job as well the first time as we’d like. Hopefully the second time was more effective.”

  “Not exactly,” Van Cleave said. “We’ve tied him to a human trafficking ring. Forcing little girls to work the sex trade is his current business acumen.”

  Pate started to say something, then closed his mouth. He sighed and tried again. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. It looks like we tried and failed twice.” He turned to Meg. “Inmates aren’t stupid. They know we expect to hear certain things and see a certain attitude, and some of them project that, even if they are just doing it to get out faster.” He picked up the photo and stared at it. “And it’s hurt others in the process. I assume you’re looking for him?”

  “Yes. And when we find him, we’re going to be adding two counts of involuntary manslaughter to the mix. You won’t have to worry about him failing out of your facility a third time.” Van Cleave’s tone was biting. “I’m going to make sure he’s put away so tight, release from prison is never going to be something he’s going to worry about.”

  “Manslaughter? You said he was trafficking little girls.”

  “That’s correct. However, he also tied them up in a van and left them to drown during the hurricane, so I’ll be pushing the D.A. for the full penalty for manslaughter.” Van Cleave looked away and gathered himself, his fingers on the arms of the chair clenching tight, then releasing. “My apologies. Parts of this case are infuriating, but I don’t have to take it out on you.”

  “No, no, I understand. It’s a special kind of hell when children are involved. Is there any other way I can help?”

  “We think he may have been making some of his victim contacts inside this facility. We’d like to know when he was here and we’d like lists of what inmates attended at the same time.” He paused for a moment. “We understand if you are uncomfortable with the request. Please understand that I’ll be back tomorrow with a warrant for that, and possibly more, if you are unwilling to cooperate today. He trapped twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls in the sex trade, and now they’re dead. I’m certain I can get any judge in town to agree to sign a warrant for me. Your choice though.”

  Pate squinted as if pained. “I absolutely understand. And I can give you all the adult names. But I need you to realize that we’re a mixed group of juveniles and adults here. And while the two groups only mix to a minimal extent, there is some contact.”

  “You let the two groups intermingle?” Meg asked. “That’s unusual. Usually juveniles are kept separate.”

  “That’s what we used to do, but we tried it as an experiment and we found that the adults would often mentor the juveniles. And that had some major advantages. You’re a teenager, just about to get out of prison, and you’re still pretty cocky and full of yourself. You’re just unlucky that you got caught and these social workers and their life lessons are full of garbage. Then you meet a guy who’s re-offended and is trying to turn his life around. Sometimes it’s that guy who will get through to you when absolutely no one else will. That’s the guy who will make an impression and make you stop and think that maybe you don’t have all the answers. It’s always fully supervised, and if any of the juveniles feel pressure of any kind, they can come to us and ask not to be involved in the mixed group settings. We’ve had very few of those. The overwhelming majority of kids said that they valued the insight of the adults because they look at them and realize that they could screw themselves up just as badly. Sometimes the insight that you’re at a turning point in your life is priceless. And sometimes you need to look at someone else’s mistakes to find that insight.”

  Van Cleave sat back and crossed his ankle over his opposite knee. But his white knuckles belied his casual stance. “You can give us the adults, but are refusing the juvenile names?”

  “I have to.” Pate spread his hands wide, fingers splayed. “My hands are tied when it comes to our underage residents. Come back tomorrow with a warrant from the judge ordering me to provide the names and I’ll do exactly that. It protects all of us from a later lawsuit. You know I’m obligated to protect the underage in our care. I’d be revealing not just your potential victims, but everyone who deserves their privacy. Didn’t we all screw up as kids and don’t all kids deserve the chance to move past those mistakes?” He turned to his keyboard. “Now, you said his name is Luke Reed? Let me look him up and I’ll give you the complete adult roster from that time period. Then can I take you for a tour of the facility? It might help to see for yourselves how any connections might have been formed.”

  “Sure.” Van Cleave’s single-word response was tight and clipped.

  Pate started tapping and clicking and muttering to himself about dates and cell blocks and therapy groups.

  Meg touched Van Cleave lightly on the sleeve and gave him a small smile when his head finally turned in her direction, revealing the full force of his frustration.

  She tried to convey the best message she could without saying a word.

  Don’t beat yourself up. You’re doing the best you can.

  He’s not wrong; he has to protect the children.

  Even a small step forward is still in the right direction.

 
Tomorrow was going to be a big day. By then they’d have McCord on the scent and a warrant in hand.

  That’s when the dominoes would start to fall.

  CHAPTER 17

  Consequence Management: Disaster response focused on minimizing loss of life, suffering, and damage.

  Monday, July 24, 6:23 PM

  Greenbrier Grill House

  Chesapeake, Virginia

  “There he is.”

  At Meg’s words, Webb turned around to where McCord, tall, blond, and sporting wire-rimmed glasses, stood in the doorway of the roadhouse. Raising an arm over his head, Webb waved McCord over.

  Grinning, McCord wove through tables. “Great to see you guys.” He clapped them both on the shoulder before taking the chair next to Webb, letting his leather laptop bag slide off his shoulder to prop against a chair leg. “I have to admit, your call caught me a little off guard. I wasn’t expecting to see you until I got home.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to get pulled into a criminal investigation,” countered Meg. “This was supposed to be just a search-and-rescue mission, but we made a big left turn. Before we get into all that, how was experiencing the storm firsthand?”

  “Not something I had on my bucket list, and now that I’ve done it, not something I will ever feel the need to do again. You see the pictures on TV, watch the reporters get tossed around by the wind, and you just don’t have a clue as to how bad it is. I mean, it looks bad, but I’ve never been in a storm that made me think I might die. It was scary. And I spent three years in a war zone, so that’s saying something.”

  “Glad you made it through in one piece.” Webb picked up his beer and toasted McCord.