Betrayed: Powerful Stories of Kick-Ass Crime Survivors

by Allison Brennan

  Joe was in back with family and friends, cooking on a smoker that looked like two fifty-five-gallon drums, split down the middle and hinged. It probably started out that way. Augie parked and grabbed a cooler out of the bed.

  “Hey, Lou,” he said.

  “You know, I was kidding about having to bring meat.”

  “It’s alright,” Augie said. “I can expense it. I also brought a bottle for ya.” He pulled out a bottle of Balcones Single Malt, a whiskey out of Waco, and Lou’s favorite.

  “Steak, whiskey…” Lou said. “You’re gonna want me to put out tonight, aren’t ya?”

  “In a way. You know me.”

  Lou opened the smoker to a blue-grey billow. The coals glowed, their heat liquifying the air above. If the Lone Star State had an official smell, it was hitting Augie in the face.

  “Hey, Jerry, get over here and watch the meat.” Lou held up the bottle. “I gotta whore myself for whiskey.”

  Lou led Augie back to the barn. He motioned for him to sit at the bar, and he ducked behind, whipping out a laptop.

  “From what y’all got yesterday, I did a lil’ digging. I know why Keller took off from the Astrodome. He ain’t Marcus Keller. There’s a welder by that name in Galena Park, also a refugee, but he’s fifty-three.”

  Augie shook his head. “So why would she give me a fat wad of cash to find the wrong guy?”

  “Well, maybe ‘cause this guy had a BOLO out on him.”

  “She said that she filed a missing person’s report.”

  “I searched the database by the description you gave me and the picture you faxed over, checking faces for a match, and I found Jerome ‘JJ’ Johnson. Murderer convicted of killing his stepfather, in the Orleans Parish jail awaiting sentencing. He escaped during the flood and they tracked him as far as the Astrodome.”

  Augie rocked on his heels. Lou opened the repurposed vintage Coca-Cola fridge and grabbed two beers.

  “Did you find anything about Ms. Lunella?”

  Lou coughed a belch into his fist. “She was more straight forward. She’s an executive assistant in the governor’s office. You know, Louisiana’s. She’s a lawyer. One of them ‘sin-eater’ types.”

  They sat there for a moment, sharing a beer, and soon, a smoke.

  “He’s a fugitive,” Augie said. “Why bother paying a two-bit dick like me when you could just sick the marshals on him?”

  “I don’t know, Augie. Maybe they’re looking for a little ‘off-the-books’ action. Watch your tail. Guy’s dangerous, maybe your client, too. You’re still carrying, right?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Start. I got a nice Desert Eagle I’ll sell ya if you want.”

  “Nah, that’s okay. I can pick one up when I gas up on the way home. That big-ass general store still down the street?”

  “Don’t buy any guns there. Here.” He reached around under the bar for a solid half minute, metal clinking. He pulled out a snub-nosed .38 Special.

  “Free. It’s clean, it works. Consider the Balcones as payment. I’ll mail ya a receipt.”

  “Arright. Jesus.”

  Augie and Lou killed their smokes and went outside, where Lou reclaimed his post by the embers of sustenance, and Augie sat and listened as one of the guests played an old Waylon Jennings song on an Ovation acoustic.

  #

  Dark roast fogged up Augie’s bolo, black like they pumped it out of the ground. The Blue Bonnet Café was about as low-class as it got in Montrose. On a block filled with tattoo parlors and boutique thrift stores, it was an oddly cathartic place to do research. Didn’t hurt that the Wi-Fi signal was as strong as the roast. Thirteenth Floor Elevators were singing “You’re Gonna Miss Me.” Augie could groove on them, but his roots were all country, all deep. Not that Austin was all country; Austin was all everything. Kind of why he liked Montrose, and why he put up with the Tejano music of the Third Ward on Friday and Saturday nights, and the rap every other night. If he were gay, he’d never leave Montrose.

  He cracked open his laptop and connected to the Wi-Fi. Lou gave him something other than the meat sweats. A real name: Jerome “JJ” Johnson. A Lexis Nexis search of Jerome Johnson pulled up nothing beyond court records from the trial. He cross-checked Marcus Keller, but there weren’t any tie-ins. Time to get creative.

  Augie got on one of his MySpace accounts and changed the profile to be less conspicuous, using pictures stolen from the internet. A P.I. couldn’t impersonate a law enforcement officer or a public official, not someone who could compel a person to talk. But they certainly could lie, and the best liars made the best P.I.s.

  He tried looking for Jerome’s account, and he found it under “JJ Johnson.” He had his privacy settings at zero, which wasn’t surprising. It did say that he probably didn’t have enough drama going on to hide his posts. It was mostly pictures of JJ in his football uniform, or at Saints games. A few generic quotes about relationships, nothing to suggest he was in one. As far as posts went, his last one was November of 2004. But his friends kept posting on his wall. At first, there were the posts in shock that he killed his dad. Step-dad, that is. A few people cheered the act. Then it dwindled to happy birthday posts in March of 2005 and 2006 with generic shared posts and funny pictures in between.

  Augie scanned the posts after 2004 carefully. In particular, he looked at the ones after the flood. One caught his eye. A beautiful girl named Brandy wished JJ a happy birthday in 2006. A guy named “Robert Jones” replied with “Thank you.”

  Bingo.

  “Robert Jones” was a very blurred-out picture of JJ Johnson. His profile—again, no security settings—was sparse, except for one thing Augie could use. He found a picture with a familiar backdrop—Gulfton, a neighborhood in the southwest, not too far from his office. Why he put that picture up was one of those mysteries Augie couldn’t solve, like why people bragged about their vacation pictures, letting burglars know they weren’t home. Augie hoped this “social media” wouldn’t be just another fad. It would turn out to be a cash cow.

  Gulfton was a quickly filling bastion of sub-par housing for immigrants and, recently, evacuees. Augie wouldn’t find JJ just walking down the street—the neighborhood was too big for that. But if anybody knew anything about anybody from New Orleans in Gulfton, it was Addie Mae Miller, the Executive Director at Southwest Hope, the non-profit to beat. Augie checked his watch. If he left right then, he could catch her before she closed shop. He didn’t know if she’d help him, but if he was at her door, she’d at least talk to him.

  #

  Gulfton was in a part of Southwest Houston not touted on the brochures. If it wasn’t known as the “Gulfton Ghetto,” Augie might not have had an office on the Boulevard. Augie popped a cig out of his pack as he passed said office, in a neighborhood that could’ve catered to the U.N. better than New York. Southwest Houston was the overstock bin of Emma Lazarus’s tired, poor, and huddled masses. And with the influx of Katrina refugees, the neighborhood was feeling like a black hole of desperation.

  Augie took a right on Hillcroft Ave. Amid the upspring of KFCs, Denny’s, Jiffy Lubes, Farmacias, pawn shops, check-cashing spots, and ethnic restaurants sat a building that looked like a small elementary school. Modern brick, with a safety-glass wall covering the vestibule with faux stained glass in a sunflower pattern.

  He parked and finished his smoke. KYRZ was playing Jimmy Dale Gilmore and the Flatlanders, “Waiting for a Train.” He popped the glovebox and fished out his business cards. He was uneasy about passing out his cards. Every two times they’d produced a call back, one time they’d tip someone off. But Augie wanted JJ Johnson to know he was looking for him. He just had to flush him out...

  He got out of the car to see Addie Mae locking up. He cursed his nicotine habit and smoothed his thinning hair.

  “Addie Mae,” he said. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

  “Augie Wilkins,” she said. “You know, they sell phones you can carry with you…”

  “Sorry. I wa
s in the neighborhood.”

  “So, I assume some immigration lawyer hired you to poke around Gulfton?”

  “Actually, no,” Augie said. “I’m looking for a guy who may have come by here, a guy who got put in the Astrodome after Katrina, and they lost track of him.”

  “Augie, I like you. But a lot of people in Houston are pissed at evacuees, some are gunning for them. I’m not going to give up the location of an evacuee unless I know it’s for a good reason.”

  “Well, I can’t say what kind of reason this one is, but it’s about the kid’s mother. Hey, do you want to grab some coffee next door? I won’t take much of your time.”

  Addie Mae agreed to a cup, but only because she was headed there anyway. Augie paid, and they got a table in the back.

  Augie explained the “story” to Addie Mae; JJ’s mother didn’t die in the storm, she was in a hospital, waiting on a kidney, and JJ was a likely match. He showed her the picture.

  “Oh, his name’s not JJ,” she said. “It’s Robert. I think you have the wrong person.”

  “I saw Robert Jones, too. His real name is Jerome Johnson. He may have changed it to get a fresh start.”

  Addie Mae sipped her coffee, stirred it, stalling for time.

  “He works at one of the refineries in Baytown,” she said. “He’s a good kid, Augie. I can’t, won’t, tell you where he lives or what refinery he works at, but I’ll let him know you were looking for him, and what it’s about.”

  Augie handed her his card. “I didn’t tell you everything,” he said. “But when you talk to him, tell him to call me. We can meet, and we can discuss it further. Also, someone’s paying me to find him, not give him a message. I know that don’t concern you none, but it’s my bread and butter. I just told you more than I’d ever tell a contact. Please, do me right on this.”

  “I’ll try,” she said. “Anyone ever tell you that you need a new coat?”

  #

  Augie invested the money Marissa Lunella gave him in rent, Marlboro Reds, and enough Shiner Bock to convince himself that he hadn’t screwed the pooch with Addie Mae. Losing a client sucks, but he told a big enough lie to lose a resource, and that was far worse. He could always tell her that JJ was wanted for murder, that he wanted to keep her out of that. Augie lit up as he hit the 610-Loop. Could JJ tell her the truth? Guess it fell under the category of a Mexican standoff.

  He had his .38 on him. Once he got in and poured Hammy a lullaby, he’d go out to Baytown refinery, pretending to look for a job. Hopefully, he’d catch a glance of JJ. Right then he probably had enough to score some extra pay from Marissa. But an address, even a neighborhood would be the bonus stack.

  He parked in his spot in Corazon International and checked the temp: ninety-eight degrees. A cold front. The weatherman was selling rain on the a.m. show. Augie unlocked and shook off his hangover as he climbed the stairs and unlocked his door. Even though the shades were drawn, it was hot and dark. Augie stumbled to turn on his desk lamp.

  “You Augustus Wilkins?”

  Augie gripped the .38 and heard the cocking of a hammer of a much bigger gun.

  “I heard the gun,” the man said. “Put it on the desk between us. Slowly.”

  Augie followed directions. Every cop part of him told him not to, but he took six to the chest as a cop.

  The man drew the shades, letting the morning sun in. He was silhouetted by it, but Augie could tell who he was by the dreadlocks. JJ Johnson.

  “Look, man, I just want to talk to you. I ain’t trying to shoot nobody.”

  “Okay,” Augie said. “I’m all ears.”

  “I know my mother’s dead,” JJ said. “Do you know why you were hired?”

  “To be honest with you, yes, I know what you did to your stepfather in New Orleans. I know you escaped, and I can guess why they want to keep the search hush hush. Losing a murderer during Katrina is embarrassing for the state. But I get a wad of cash from some woman in a Mercedes, says find you, and that’s what I do.”

  Jerome held the gun still, but lowered it a bit. “I was never a bad guy, Augustus—”

  “Call me Augie.”

  “Okay, Augie. My stepdad, a pillar in the community. Came in when me and Ma was struggling to keep afloat. Gets us the best house in the Lower Ninth. Fixes up the parks in the neighborhood—hell, he gets the ice cream man to come back. Help anybody in need, you know?”

  “Sounds nice,” Augie said. “So why did you kill him?”

  “He started a Boy’s Club, sorta’. Ninth Ward Wee Ones, he called it. Built them a big clubhouse next to the ballfield.” He took a deep breath.

  “It started with my little brother, Emanuel. He was bleeding from his, you know, his backside. We was so stupid, we thought he needed stool softeners. ‘Cause ya don’t—fuckin’—think. Then Manny started acting up, and, I don’t know, at some point the school said something to my mom, and before I knew what the fuck was going on, Child and Family Services was getting’ involved.”

  “So he was molesting your brother?”

  “I went looking for him,” JJ said. “Broke into his clubhouse, and he was in there with three kids… no shirts or pants on… I saw magazines and shit.”

  “So you lost it.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Augie thought of telling him that he should have done the right thing and testified against his stepfather in court, but he knew New Orleans justice was swamped before the storm. Augie couldn’t say JJ did the right thing, but he pretty much did something in its place.

  “Look, the person who hired me was tied to the governor’s office. If what you’re saying is true, why wouldn’t they just sick the marshals on you?”

  “Ever think they ain’t looking to just catch me no more?” Jerome got up, walked over to the desk and pocketed Augie’s gun.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  Jerome let out a laugh. “Ask yourself where all the real bad inmates wound up when they emptied out the jails.” He grabbed one of Augie’s cigarettes. “Ain’t doin’ their bids, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Augie grabbed a smoke himself. “You’re saying the guards killed them?”

  Jerome tapped his first two fingers to his forehead.

  “By the time your ‘client’ can get here,” he said. “I’ll be gone. New name, new state, new job. Don’t chase me. I could’ve killed you this morning, but I’m not that kind of man. I just did what I had to.”

  Jerome made for the door.

  “Jerome,” Augie said. Jerome turned around.

  “Don’t use MySpace anymore.”

  Jerome nodded and left.

  #

  Twenty minutes later, Hammy came in. He took his spot on the couch. “So, what’s our move today?”

  “I found out he works at a Baytown refinery,” Augie said as he pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket. “I’ll tell Ms. Lunella—next week.”

  “You could probably get his address and get an even fatter envelope this week.”

  Augie held JJ’s photograph. He thumbed the image and tossed it in the wastebasket.

  “I think sometimes you get paid not to find somebody.”

  # # #

  14 Days

  By Ava Mallory

  Chapter One

  There wasn’t much difference between what I wanted and what I needed. A quiet evening at home would do enough to calm my frayed nerves and comfort my tired limbs for starters. After several weeks on the road, tending to the ill, the idea of work—housework or any other variety—was out of the question. Sleep, slumber, fourteen days of non-stop zzz’s were enough for me. No work. And no conversations with the outside world.

  Charlie, my new-ish husband—six months and counting, give or take a month here or there—was at another two-week long law enforcement conference, or group hug as I liked to call them, somewhere down south. He may have told me, but who can remember? My former next-door neighbors and near-constant companions, Margie and Nubbin, were away fo
r a couple of weeks, doing whatever it was spry octogenarians did to occupy their time. That left me with my lazy pooch, Barney the Pug, and no less than three full canisters of Bustelo coffee, my current favorite brand, to drink all by myself. Sleep couldn’t come fast enough for me. But someone decided they’d take this moment to interrupt my pre-staycation celebration.

  “There better be a fire,” I groaned as I dragged my too-tired-for-company carcass to the door. I flung it open with the precision of a Speakeasy doorman and the welcoming attitude to match. “What do you want? I’m on vacation.”

  It took me several seconds to recognize her behind the over-sized sunglasses and swollen lips. “Tina?”

  “I’m sorry, Mercy. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  She didn’t have to say another word. “Come in.” She pulled away as I reached for her hand. “It’s okay.”

  After thirty years of caring for people from all walks of life, the sight of a battered woman, man, or child always rattled my nerves. It wasn’t right.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, my voice calm and even so as not to add more undue stress. “Where’s--”

  “He’s at the sitter’s. I can’t let him see me like this,” she answered, referring to her son, Noah. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t believe this is my life now.”

  I hadn’t seen Tina for several weeks. She and Noah lived with me in my doublewide trailer for six months before Charlie and I married and moved into this home. Not long after arriving, she met the perfect man.

  “Did Ty do this to you?”

  When she met Ty, Dr. Tyson Danner, fancy-schmancy plastic surgeon, our circle of friends couldn’t have been happier for her. A doctor? How fitting. She’d recently graduated from nursing school, found employment, and found preschool placement for her son Noah. Life was grand.