by Webb Hubbell
I put my phone in my pocket, determined not to forget it. Maggie eyes were wet, but her voice was firm. “We’re going to Little Rock, right now.”
“What? You heard Clovis. There’s nothing we can do and what’s with the ‘we?’”
“Do you really think either of us is going to get any work done until Micki’s safe? And does it matter? Micki’s been kidnapped—if it’s not that Novak character, it must be connected with Dr. Stewart. I don’t know what we can do, but the answers aren’t here.”
She was right, of course. I canceled my lunch with Peggy Fortson, and Maggie phoned Walter’s pilot. We agreed to meet in at the airport in an hour. I raced home, dumped my dirty clothes on the floor, grabbed some clean ones and was soon on my way back to National. Maggie and Walter, who had come to see her off, were already there. Sam called while we were waiting to board—his attempt at objectivity didn’t wash. He sounded both angry and worried, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me exactly what the police were doing.
Once we’d taken off, I tried to engage Maggie in what had happened at the office since I’d been gone, but neither of us could muster up much interest. My thoughts went to my first meeting with Micki and how we’d bonded as a legal team, playing off each other as we defended Woody Cole. Now she’d been kidnapped. It didn’t do to think about what she might be going through, if she wasn’t dead already. I put that thought out of my mind quickly.
THE PLANE TAXIED to the exact location it had been less than twelve hours earlier, and I saw Clovis standing by the Tahoe.
“Any news?”
“Not really. Sam is pushing Novak’s people hard, but they swear they don’t know anything. Novak’s in Dallas and has been interviewed by the Dallas Police. No surprise—he’s got an airtight alibi. If he’s behind it, he’s planned it well.”
“I don’t give a shit who’s behind it, we need to find her. What about her boyfriend?” I found it increasingly hard to keep my voice under control.
“The police have been all over him. Yes, they spent the night together. No, they didn’t argue or fight—they made love. He didn’t do it, Jack. He would have had to get out of bed without waking Micki, go outside, attack Charlie, then come inside and subdue Micki. How would he even know Charlie was watching the house? You think he had the balls to shower while she was unconscious, take her somewhere and dump her, and then show up fresh at work with a big smile on his face? No, I’m sure he’s telling the truth. That man’s in love with Micki, he’s not the kidnapper.”
“Okay—I know you’re right. This has all the makings of a well-planned abduction, not a lover’s quarrel. I want to speak with Eric, but I need to talk to Debbie first. She’s our only real link to Novak. It’s not that I don’t trust Sam, but my gut tells me our time is short, and the police can’t move fast enough. Constitutional rights and proper procedures restrain them. I won’t interfere, but I’m not going to wait until she’s found dead.”
My efforts to remain calm had gone out the window.
We found Paul pacing the front porch when we got to Micki’s. He looked like hell. Micki abducted, Charlie in intensive care, Debbie almost comatose with fear—it was just too much. Maggie made sympathetic noises, and I suggested he should either go to the hospital or get some rest. He didn’t budge.
“Leave him be—he’s not going anywhere.” Clovis answered for him. “He and Micki are good friends. He’s the one who introduced her to Eric after the Pepsi 10K. This thing’s as personal to him as it is to the rest of us.”
Mongo came out to meet us, and I introduced him to Maggie. Apparently Debbie had gotten hysterical, and he’d given her a couple of Xanax.
“She’s resting in Micki’s private room–Moira’s with her. She’s awake now; I think she’ll talk to you. But please be gentle—she worships Micki—this is really tough for her.” Great—now Mongo was both her physician and her therapist.
I motioned Clovis to follow me. We found Debbie curled up in the day bed. Her face bore the evidence of smeared make-up and tears; you could almost smell her fear. She sat up, looking a little confused, tugging on her blouse as we walked in. From what little I knew, former victims of sex trafficking find it very difficult to talk about what had happened, what they had done. In order to live with the experience, they put it in a mental box and bury it deep. I needed Debbie to talk, to remember.
Before I could say anything, she gulped and blurted, “Oh, Mr. Patterson, I’m so scared. None of this has anything to do with me, does it?” Moira handed her a bottle of Mountain Valley water. She took a sip, shaking so badly she had to clutch it with both hands.
“No, Debbie, none of this is your fault. I know how much Micki means to you and you to her. But we think your old friend Novak may be involved. I need to ask you some questions.”
“Oh, God, if it’s Novak, it is my fault.” Sobbing, she slumped back down onto the pillow.
“Debbie, please stop, please sit up,” I said forcefully, and then scolded myself to be patient. I tried to take her hand, but she recoiled, pulling it away.
“Debbie, listen to me. I need your help. Micki needs your help. It could be Novak. We just don’t know. We need to find her—that’s what matters. Novak is our only lead. I need you to tell me what happened when you first got to Little Rock. How did they keep you in line, and most importantly, where did they take you? This is going to be hard. I know you’ve tried to forget it all, but your memories may be our best chance of saving her.”
She mumbled, “I can’t remember much about the early part, except that it was awful. It’s just too hard.”
“Debbie, I can’t imagine how bad it must have been. But it’s over now. You have to trust me. Would it be easier to tell me what happened to the other girls?”
Debbie steeled herself and sat up. “Well, Novak’s recruiters promised us all pretty much the same thing: an education, a job, and a chance to meet eligible men. Most of us were around sixteen years old, our families were poor, and the dream of coming to America was more than we could resist. We wanted to meet American men, get married and send money home to our families.
“When we got off the plane, we thought we were going to the apartments we’d been promised, but instead they took us to what they called a ‘training facility.’ They took all our papers, our passports, and our visas, just for safekeeping. They said we needed to be trained for our news jobs and more importantly, how to act and behave like Americans. The rooms were mostly empty except for beds, and the windows were covered with dark shades.
“That first night we were all brought together for a party in the rec room. At first we just stood around, not sure what to do, but there was music, good-looking guys, and lots of food and booze, and they encouraged us to just have fun. They said it was part of our training. Americans partied all the time. So we relaxed, drank, danced, and the next thing I knew I woke up in my room with a big headache. I couldn’t remember how I got there.
“Like I said, there was just the bed, a lamp, and a chair. My clothes had been folded on the chair, but that was it. Someone had dressed me in gym pants and a tee shirt. The door was locked. I yelled and banged on it until a woman in a nurse’s uniform came in. She told me that the door had been locked for my protection. She said I had gotten out of control—they’d had to sedate me. She said it happened to a lot of girls their first night. I found out later on they’d given me a roofie.”
I must have looked confused, because she gave a ghost of a smile and said, “You know, a date rape drug.” I managed a weak smile in return, wondering how much Beth knew about “roofies.”
“We spent that day in small groups learning to wait tables and flirt with customers, and that night there was another party. They were nice, even gave us manicures and new hairdos. I tried to ask a few questions, but the instructors just laughed, said we needed to get used to the American way of life: good times, music, dancing, booze, and food. Each morning for a week, I woke up in the same empty room. At some point I found an empty syringe on the
chair, but by then I didn’t care about anything but the next party.”
Her story wasn’t unexpected, but it wasn’t getting me anywhere. She had slumped down with her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor.
“Debbie, are you okay? Can you try to jump ahead?”
She pulled her head up—I could see she was trying to focus. It wasn’t easy to be patient.
“Sorry. I’ve tried so hard to put all this behind me.” She took a sip of water from the bottle. “So, one morning one of Novak’s men brought me coffee. He said they were going to have to send me back home. He said I had turned into an addict, that I wouldn’t make it here and I owed Novak a lot of money. The thought of going back was worse than anything I could think of—how could I face my parents?
“I told them I’d do anything to stay. He gave me a hard time for a while and finally said he’d try to convince Novak to let me stay if I did exactly what he said. Novak knew some very rich and influential men who enjoyed the company of pretty girls like me. I could work as a cocktail waitress in the evening and some of the other girls would teach me how to make men happy. When I learned how to take care of Novak’s customers, I could start paying off my debt and even make some ‘real money.’ I might even meet some rich guy who would pay off my debt to Novak and take me away with him. What choice did I have? “For weeks, I was trained by older girls and the guards how to please men. The vodka and the drugs made the training tolerable.”
The room was chilly. She shivered and pulled up her knees to her chest. I didn’t want to know what “training” entailed.
“Finally, they said I was ready. At first I worked at a casino in the south part of town, but I quickly graduated to the Quarter, where Novak’s best customers gambled and were given ‘special treatment.’ I serviced some of the richest and most powerful men in Little Rock in that house.
“I never went down to the tables. The customers came to me, sometimes escorted by Novak himself. I was a quick learner and very good at my job. Novak was happy, but I wanted out more than I can tell you. I did my level best to stay off the drugs and booze, but sometimes after a bad night I went back to the drugs just to keep going. After a while, I became numb to what I was doing and what the men did.”
Again she stopped, looking up at me. Her eyes were dull, like she’d quit feeling again. I felt like a heel.
“So maybe the rest doesn’t matter, but Novak went out of town for a few weeks and he put a real jerk in charge. Novak protected his girls from the real sickos. I know you won’t believe me but Novak really took good care of us. He was kind. This guy didn’t care what the men wanted to do as long as they paid. What they made us do was awful and sick and before long I fell completely off the wagon, forgot my promises to myself, and didn’t care about anything except the drugs and vodka. It didn’t take long before my looks suffered, so I was booted down to the projects where for fifty bucks men simply had their way night after night. It didn’t matter to me. I just wanted to die.”
This was almost impossible to hear. How could this have happened to an innocent teenager hoping for a better life? I couldn’t imagine what it cost her to relive it.
“In the projects I wasn’t allowed a night off except during my period. At some point my friend Shannon gave me Micki’s address. I don’t know how I found my way to her doorstep, but I did. You know the rest. Twice since I’ve gone out with friends, had way too much to drink, and ended up back in the projects. Each time Micki found me and brought me back. I owe her my life.”
I asked, “Where was the training center?”
“I don’t know. The casino used to be in the Quapaw Quarter, but Novak moved them both after Sam got elected and turned up the heat. Now I hear the casino is somewhere in western Little Rock, maybe Maumelle, where the customers feel safe. Novak knows his best customers don’t want to go into the projects at night. The new training center is somewhere near the airport.”
“Debbie, try to think about the old training center. Do you remember any landmarks? Please try to remember.”
“I remember seeing an old ball field. It was run over with weeds, looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time, but like I said, Novak moved it several years ago.” I begged her to describe as much as she could remember, and she did her best until she couldn’t remember anymore. She looked miserable, pretty well done in. I wanted to fold her into my arms.
“Debbie—I’ve got to ask. If Novak’s behind this, will he kill her?”
Her voice was now very matter-of-fact. “Oh no, Micki’s too good-looking for him to waste. He’ll treat her like every other woman he owns. He’ll fill her full of drugs, brand her, and then offer her to his customers. Micki will draw a hefty price.”
Clovis interrupted, his voice shocked. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “Brand her? Like a cow? What do you mean?”
Debbie didn’t say a word. She lifted her hair off her neck to reveal a raised scar:
AN
Clovis closed his eyes, Debbie lowered hers, and my stomach turned.
“A plastic surgeon told me he can remove it, but it will be expensive—Blue Cross won’t cover it. Micki’s offered to pay for it, but I won’t let her until I’m sure I’ll never go back.”
Blue Cross wouldn’t pay? I wondered vaguely what sort of insurance plan would cover involuntary human branding.
Debbie brought me out of my fog, her voice rather matter-of-fact.
“If Micki fights back, they’ll tie her up and let some of his sick clients have their way until she begs for the drugs. They’re animals—believe me, I know. It’s much better to cooperate, but knowing Micki, she’ll fight, at least for a while. It will only turn the bastards on . . . poor Micki.” Her face crumpled, and she began to cry. Moira wrapped her in her arms, muttering soothing sounds. Her eyes were full of pity and strength as she motioned me away.
Clovis and I stepped back into the hall, and I felt both relieved and guilty. I took a breath and let it out quickly. The very air felt lighter.
“Clovis, we’ve got to go—now. Tell Paul to come with us and get Sam on the phone. Will Debbie be safe with Moira?”
“Safe as houses—don’t worry about her.” He said a few words to Moira, grabbed Paul, and punched in Sam’s number, handing me the phone as we got into the Tahoe.
“Sam, I don’t have time to chit-chat. Do you remember a big dark green house around the block from Butler Field?”
“Sure, it’s on Winkler—Mr. Kavanaugh’s old home, remember? What’s up? Where are you?” Sam asked.
“I’m headed there now. Look, I can’t explain, just meet me there in fifteen minutes. No sirens. It’s just a hunch, but I think the Kavanaugh house was Novak’s old training center. It’s worth a shot.”
“Wait till I get there, Jack. Don’t do anything stupid.” Sam warned, but I’d already clicked off.
“Clovis, Winkler Street across from Butler Field. Let’s get moving.”
Clovis said, “It would help if I knew what you think we’re up against. A whole gang of men or some isolated nut?”
“If I’m right, we’ll probably have to deal with a couple of guys. But then again, it could be a dozen, or we might find just a nice family with three kids who bought the house without a clue.”
Paul asked, “Why do you think it won’t be a big group of Novak’s thugs?”
“If Novak had come back to the neighborhood, with people and cars going in and out, someone would have called the police by now. No, I’m betting there’ll just be one or two men and Micki. The curtains will be drawn, no lights to raise suspicions. I sure hope I’m right about this, and God, I hope she’s still alive.”
We pulled up, followed immediately by Sam and two squad cars. I recognized the house—it had once been a stately Victorian with a manicured front lawn. Now the paint was peeling, sagging draperies shaded the windows, and there sure weren’t any kids playing on the lawn.
We all stepped out of our cars, the uniforms holding guns at the ready, w
atching to see if anyone appeared. Sam spoke quietly.
“My office checked. Novak owns the house. Looks empty. What do you have in mind?”
“Thought I’d ring the doorbell, see if anyone’s home.” I didn’t smile.
“We can’t go in without a warrant, you know that,” Sam cautioned. “But I guess it’s okay to ring.”
He waved the cops around back, but Clovis and Paul stayed with us, weapons drawn. I walked slowly toward the door, Sam right behind me. No doorbell. I knocked and listened for footsteps. Hearing none, I did what I’d seen a thousand times in the movies. I kicked the door right below the handle as hard as I could. It budged, but it didn’t give way. My leg felt like it had kicked a tree. I was about to try again when Clovis shoved me out of the way and gave the door a huge sideways kick. The lock shattered, and we rushed in.
Sam’s face reminded me of Billy’s in Beverly Hills Cop, but like Billy, he followed me in. Clovis and Paul fanned out into the main rooms, but I trotted up to the second floor where Debbie said the women had been kept. We found a single, long hall with doors on both sides like in a hotel. Sam and I opened each door in turn. None were locked; all were empty except for a bed, a nightstand, and a lamp. We reached the end of the hall. No Micki.
“You know, you’re in big trouble for breaking and entering. I’ll catch hell as well,” Sam said quietly.
“No, you won’t. I’ll swear you told me not to do it, not to come in. I rushed in, and you followed in hot pursuit.” I didn’t smile. Jeez, what did it matter? “Sam, she’s here. I feel it. You do, too.”
He nodded and pointed to the closet in this last bedroom. We rushed to the door, opened it, and Micki slumped out, pale as a corpse. I was terrified. Sam reached his hand to her neck.
“There’s a faint pulse. I’ll call an ambulance.”
I yelled for Clovis, and he and Paul came running. They picked up her naked body gently and placed her on the bed. I ran to the adjoining room, grabbed a blanket off the bed, and covered her up. She was unconscious, barely breathing. I was afraid to touch her. We waited for what seemed to be an eternity for the medics to arrive. Sam begged us not to disturb anything. He ordered the policemen to search the house, but it was empty. Inside the closet were ropes that had been used to tie her up, syringes, and residue of what Clovis told me was top-grade heroin. Worse yet, we found a blowtorch and a branding iron under the ropes. When I covered her up, I noticed the angry burn at the edge of her collarbone—N.
