“I have a client. He has a problem.”
“Let me guess. His child is missing?”
“Granddaughter,” I tell her.
“Now that’s a novelty. Usually her victims are fathers with joint custody.”
“Then you’ve seen this before?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How do you know her? Through your department?”
“That and other places. I’ve known her for—ten years, I guess. Since some graduate courses at the U. Early-childhood development. She came to speak one night.”
When my hands stop, she knows I’m interested.
“Child protection. It’s a small universe. We ran in some of the same circles.”
“What else do you know about her?” I start with the fingers again.
“I heard she had a bad marriage. In another life, before coming to town.”
“Sounds like half the people I know,” I tell her.
“No. I mean a bad marriage,” says Susan. “Her husband had money, and a mean streak. He beat her, tortured her, damn near killed her. The man had a weird edge. He was heavily into kink. Manacles and chains. Not the kind you see in novelty shops with cotton padding and phony locks. Word is he chained her in a room in their basement for almost a month. Tortured her. Rape, sodomy—the whole nine yards. The only reason she got out alive is some neighbor heard her screaming and called the cops. The experience touched her personality.”
“I can understand that.”
“She does not like men,” says Susan.
“An experience like that is likely to put you off them for some time.”
“Fact is, she hates men.”
“All of them?”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s a little unreasonable.” I massage Susan’s behind, this time through the cloth of her bathing suit with fingers like feathers.
“Of course, she’s never felt the tingle of your fingertips on her ass,” says Susan.
“How can you be so sure?”
She giggles. “Because you still have your fingers.”
“How did she get involved with runaway mothers and their kids?”
“Call it revenge,” says Susan. “Her way of striking back at the male establishment. Courts with men in black robes. Law enforcement agencies that discount claims of spousal abuse. Of course she’s gone around the bend,” says Susan. “For a while she had her supporters. Even some people in high places, a few legislators, a city councilwoman or two. But she went too far. Abused the privilege. Her answer is not a solution. Turning kids into fugitives is like slitting a man’s throat to put him on a diet. A cure worse than the disease. There have been a few cases—very few, mind you—where mothers she has taken into hiding have been caught and jailed. That’s an entirely new bundle of misery for the children. But you’re not going to tell Zo that. She won’t hear of it.”
“My client is convinced that Suade is involved. She came to his house with the mother and told him either give the granddaughter up or lose her.”
“Sounds about right. She wasn’t always like that,” says Susan. “Not when she started. She formed a women’s advocacy group. Did a lot of lobbying, mostly local stuff, appearances on TV. She tried to intervene in some high-profile custody cases, though the courts slapped her down, wouldn’t let her appear. She’s not a lawyer. Since she wasn’t a party, she didn’t have standing.”
“I see.”
“The judges ruled that whatever she had to say was irrelevant. They wanted nothing to do with her. That was like waving a red flag under Zolanda’s nose. They may as well have painted a bull’s-eye on their own ass. The one thing you don’t do with Zo is ignore her. Somewhere along the way she decided that the courts were irrelevant. She set up her own procedures for enforcing custody.”
“Abduction.”
“She refers to it as ‘protective action’,” says Susan. “Her organization is called Vanishing Victims. It’s part self-help, part social services agency—with no accountability and no appeals. If somebody makes a mistake, and Zo has made plenty, there’s nowhere to go to complain. From what I hear, Zo’s gotten pretty sloppy over the years. She’s actually had a few abusers in hiding. Mothers who complained about fathers who were themselves putting cigarettes out on their kids’ arms and getting a little carried away with corporal punishment.”
“Why haven’t the courts held Suade in contempt?”
“She’s certainly held them in contempt,” says Susan. “Problem is, you have to prove she’s involved. Zolanda operates like the godfather in the mob, the president in the Oval Office; she’s always just one step outside the loop of incrimination. If she and her organization have taken this girl, you won’t find any witnesses placing Zo at the scene. She’s very careful.”
“Who does the snatching?”
“People in her organization. Volunteers. Guys who, no doubt, go to church on Sunday and aren’t bothered by the fact they’re going to grab some kid out of the school lunch line on Monday. Cuz Zo’s told ’em it’s a mission from God.”
“What you’re saying is, fanatics?”
“Let’s just say misguided.”
“And prosecutors haven’t been able to charge her?”
“No. The FBI’s turned her and her organization upside down, at least that’s what I’ve heard. She always uses one of the parents for cover, so it’s not a straight-up kidnapping case, and there’s a reason Suade is set up on the border. Mexico’s not a bad place to lose people.”
“You think that’s where my client’s granddaughter is?”
“If I had to guess. To Zo, the Baja is just like one big halfway house. Move them down to Ensenada, maybe Rosarita for a while, until they can find someplace more permanent. Tell me about the mother.”
“Mom was in the joint, a troubled past, mostly drugs. The grandparents got a custody order from the court. When the mother got out of jail, she showed up at the house with Suade making threats to get the kid back. A week later mom came back alone, under the guise of an on-sight visit. Only there was nobody home but the granddaughter and a baby-sitter.”
“Convenient,” says Susan.
“Mother and granddaughter disappeared.”
“And let me guess,” says Susan. “Nobody saw Zolanda anywhere near the house during the visitation.”
I nod. “And mom and daughter haven’t been seen since.”
“And they won’t be,” says Susan. “At least not under the same names, and not in this city. If Suade could take them to another planet, she would. You can be sure the mother’s hair will change color and length a dozen times in the next year. Your client’s granddaughter may end up looking like a little boy. No one’s going to recognize either of them when Zolanda’s done doing her magic.”
“You’d think Suade would have checked the mother out,” I tell her, “Jessica Hale has a prison record. A history of drug abuse that stretches back to her teen years.”
Susan is silent.
“Your client, does he have a name?” she asks at last. “Is he somebody anyone’s ever heard of? A celebrity?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Zo’s made a big thing of celebrities lately. Word is she’s become afflicted by the need for publicity. It scratches some itch deep down inside. She’s gone after a few well-known locals, the PJ of the local court.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. His son and his ex have been missing for over a year, along with nearly half a million dollars from a joint savings and investment account.”
“You’d think he would have thrown Suade’s ass in the slammer on sheer principle.”
“He did,” says Susan. “She’s got some good lawyers. And as I said, the judge couldn’t connect enough dots to make a picture involving Zo. She seems to
be gravitating in the direction of money and power.”
“My guy’s just a working stiff who’s won a lot of money.”
“How?”
“The state lottery.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You actually know somebody who won that thing? I thought they just called those numbers to keep the mobs happy; government equivalent of the bloody games of ancient Rome.”
“I knew him before he won, but he remembered me. Fondly, as it turns out.”
“How much did he win?” she asks.
“Eighty-seven million dollars.”
“God!” She laughs. “That’s obscene. You’ll have to introduce me. Is he married?”
“Going on forty years.”
“Why are all the good ones taken?”
I press a little with one of my thumbs into her side just above the hip.
“Aow! That hurts.” She giggles a little. “This client of yours. What does he want you to do?”
“He’s desperate. He wants me to throw a legal hammerlock on Suade. Force her to tell us where the child is. And hire a PI to find his grandkid.”
Susan laughs. Shakes her head. “He doesn’t understand what he’s dealing with.”
“He has a lot of resources. And he’s willing to spend every dime to get his granddaughter back.”
“He’ll need it. Let me give you some advice.” She rolls up onto one hip so that she can look me in the eye. “Don’t get involved.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re asking for a lot of heartache, and in the end you’re going to come up empty. Zo has a reputation for winning in these things. She’s never been tagged yet, not by the courts, not law enforcement. Some of the best private investigators in the country have tried to trail her people to find the kids who have disappeared under Zolanda’s wing. They haven’t succeeded yet.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You asked me if I knew the woman. I’m just telling you like it is. She loves what she does. She gets off on it. She has no use for the courts, and she hates lawyers. Her ex hired a good one. He had lots of money, too. The lawyer got him off on charges of assault, kidnapping, and attempted murder. Walked him right out of the courtroom, then turned around and made a pitch for custody of their little boy.”
“Suade has a child?”
“Had,” says Susan. “He was four years old. The court saw no problem in granting joint custody to the father. After all, he had no criminal record. A year later the little boy was dead. A broken neck. He fell off a balcony while visiting with Dad.”
Susan rolls over on her back so that she is now looking up directly at me, one hand shading her eyes from the setting sun. “It makes you understand just a little,” she says, “why Zo Suade is on a mission.”
THREE
* * *
This morning Harry and I meet at the law office on Orange Street, behind the Brigantine Restaurant and the Hotel Cordova. The facade on the street is white plaster in the style of a colonial Spanish hacienda. A green neon sign hisses and flickers over the arched gate leading to the courtyard. It reads:
MIGUEL’S CACTUS RESTAURANT
Inside, and surrounding the open-air restaurant, are boutiques, small shops, and a styling salon connected by a maze of narrow walkways and paths, all of them under a canopy of shade trees and banana plants.
Our office is in the rear among these shops, a two-suite affair with a small wooden porch outside and two steps leading up to the door, a scene from the jungles of World War II.
Inside, it is not palatial. There are no oil paintings or metal sculptures, trappings of lawyerly affluence or corporate opulence. There is a small library that doubles as a conference room, an even smaller reception area, and a larger room that we have divided into two offices.
We have refrained from posting a sign out front or on the door for a reason. Harry and I are not looking for walk-in traffic. So far, we have made it on word of mouth, a few referrals from lawyers up in Capital City who have legal matters pending in San Diego and from the growing number of friends and acquaintances we have made in this city.
The restaurant, hotel, and courtyard are situated at a Y-intersection where Orange Street, the main drag in Coronado, forks, just before passing in front of the Del Coronado Hotel across the street, and Glorietta Bay farther on. A half mile south is the northern edge of the Silver Strand. Our neighbor in that direction is the U.S. Navy, which uses part of the beach for its Amphibious Training Base. At the other end of the peninsula is the North Island Naval Air Station.
From the Ocean Terrace Restaurant of the Del Coronado, overlooking the tennis courts and the beach, the screaming A-4s on approach come close enough to drop their landing gear in your coffee.
From the look of his face this morning, Harry hasn’t shaved in two days. During that period he has been on a mission to find out whatever he can about Jessica Hale, the friends she ran with, her background, perhaps leads as to where she might be. He has dredged up information from the parole board in Capital City, an old friend on staff. He has also copied whatever he could find from the court files in Jessica’s drug conviction.
Harry sits perched on the corner of my desk perusing a good stack of paper, some of it filmy, thermofax documents.
“She’s a troubled young lady,” he says. “From all indications, an addict with a serious habit.”
“Cocaine?”
“Methamphetamines. Lately, she’s moved up the food chain to Black Tar.”
It is one of the two types of heroin on the streets of America; the other being “White China,” from the poppy fields in Asia. Black Tar streams across the southern border from Mexico and has been on the rise as the drug of choice for the last several years. Police agencies will tell you it is a growing epidemic on the streets of the inner cities, and is acquiring a foothold among more affluent users.
“She may have been clean in the joint,” says Harry, “but she had a habit that was running up a tab like the national defense budget when she went in. She had the crimes to go along with it.”
I look at him.
“Mostly burglaries to support her habit. She was on probation when they nailed her with the drugs.”
“Any evidence that she might have been using inside?”
“Not from the parole reports. And she got out in the minimum, which leads me to believe that they had no indication that she was doing drugs while incarcerated.
“Still,” says Harry, “she could have fallen back into the habit when she got out.”
We are looking for a thread here, and Harry knows it. If Jessica was still using drugs, it would present us with a more immediate problem. Mother with a needle in her arm, on the run with a child. But it would also offer the possibility of a lead.
“What are the terms and conditions of parole? Any drug testing?”
Harry looks at the documents in his hand. “Full supervision. Weekly meetings with her parole officer, and drug screening—every two weeks.” He licks a thumb and forefinger, presses the faxed documents onto my desk, and quickly rifles through them looking for the same entry on each one.
“First screening was two weeks out. She was clean. Came back negative.” He flips through a few more pages, passes one, then quickly turns back to it. “She missed the second screening.” A few more pages. “And the third.” He looks some more. “Nothing after that.”
“So she could be using again?” I say.
“I would say that’s a probability,” says Harry. “Why would she fail to comply with probation, unless she had a reason? Something to hide.”
“That’s one possibility. By the same token, why comply with probation if you already know you’re going to run?”
“True.”
“Still, it’s an angle,” I tell him. “Do we know who her supplier was, before she went to prison?”
“I’m still working on that one,” says Harry.
“It could be a lead if she’s using, and if she’s still in the area.” I am figuring the addiction would lead her back to her supplier.
“If she buys off the street and is known to have frequented the same location on a regular basis, we could have somebody stake it out, watch for her, and try to follow her back to the child,” says Harry.
He makes a note to push her dealer up higher on his list of priorities.
“According to Jonah, she was transporting for somebody when the feds picked her up.”
“At San Ysidro.” Harry fills in the blank.
I pick up the parole sheet that he’s placed on my desk, and I study it. The statutory code numbers on the document show convictions based on entry of a plea.
“These are state charges,” I tell him. “Transporting across an international border, that would be federal.”
“If they chose to prosecute,” says Harry. “I am told they did not.”
“Why?”
Harry shrugs a shoulder, like he doesn’t know.
“I’ve never known a federal prosecutor to turn up his nose at a case like that.”
“You think they rolled her for some information?” he asks.
“It’s what I’m thinking. Is there anything from the court file as to who she was carrying for when they nailed her?”
“No. I looked. The feds handed it over to the state, and the prosecutor dealt that away. Jessica copped a plea to counts of possession and possession for sale.”
“Why were they so generous?” I ask.
Harry looks at me. “She had something they wanted?”
“Let’s see if we can find out what.”
He makes another note.
“Also, do we know if they’ve violated her on probation yet? Issued a bench warrant? Jessica has missed at least two meetings with her parole officer and has failed to perform required drug screening. Sooner or later the state will catch up with her, at least in the judicial process, by scheduling a hearing to revoke probation.”
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