Isabel's Run

by M. D. Grayson

  “Of course,” I said, smiling. “I’ve got my own book in the Old Testament.”

  He laughed. “Indeed you do, young man. Indeed you do.”

  Toni looked at me. I could tell she was much impressed with my biblical acumen. I’m full of surprises.

  We followed Reverend Jenkins through an office area where two women were seated.

  “Luella,” he said, “I’m going to be with these folks here for about thirty minutes or so. How’s that fit in?”

  “You’re good,” Luella said. “Your next meetin’s not till three thirty.”

  “Thank you.”

  He held the door for Toni and me, and then closed it behind us.

  * * * *

  “Have a seat here,” he said, pointing to a couple of chairs across from his desk. The surface of his desk was neat and organized—a man after my own heart. The walls, like the hallways, were covered with photos. What impressed me was the fact that there weren’t any pictures of politicians, no celebrities, no famous people at all. Instead, except for a PhD in Theology diploma from Liberty University, the common theme of the photos was Reverend Jenkins and children. Either in a classroom, or on a playground, or at a hospital, I didn’t notice a single photo without a child.

  When we were all seated, I said, “Thanks again, Reverend Jenkins.” I nodded to the diploma. “Or should I say ‘Doctor Jenkins’?”

  He smiled. “Don’t do either one of those,” he said. “I always thought that ‘Doctor’ sounded a little pretentious—particularly around here. We’re a long way away from any ivory towers. Just call me Reverend Art. That’s what everyone calls me around here.”

  “Okay,” I said. I nodded in the direction of the wall. “Looks like you have a soft spot for kids.”

  He smiled again. “I do,” he said. “I do indeed.”

  “Any children of your own?” Toni asked.

  “Six,” he said. “Six children—all under the age of seven.”

  “Wow,” Toni said. “How—?”

  Before she could finish, Reverend Art said, “Before you accuse me of either spousal abuse or polygamy, they’re all adopted. We have our own little Rainbow Coalition going in the Jenkins household. We’ve got three sets of siblings—two from Vietnam, two kids from right here in the neighborhood from a member of our congregation who ran into some legal problems a while back, and the twins—two little ones we just adopted from Romania.”

  “Your wife must be really busy,” Toni said.

  “She is, she is,” he said, laughing. “Maybe it is spousal abuse after all?” He laughed again, a twinkle in his eye. “Nah, she loves it. She considers it God’s work. And, of course, she’s right. We are truly blessed. People are always saying what a wonderful thing we’ve done for these children, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. No one seems to recognize that we’re getting back twice as much as we’re giving out with these little ones.”

  “Even so,” I said, “you and your wife are to be commended. It really is a wonderful thing you’re doing for these children.”

  “Well,” he said, “just as you’re trying to do the right thing for this missing girl.” He smoothly segued into the purpose of our meeting. “Tell me about her and what’s happened.”

  We spent the next fifteen minutes filling Reverend Art in on Isabel—her attempt to flee the horror of her home life, the text messages that told their own ominous story, and our meetings with both Nancy Stewart and Annie Hooper.

  “Isn’t that Carla Nguyen an impressive young lady?” Reverend Art said. “She’s a poster child for what motivates a lot of good people to step up and get involved.”

  “She’s been through a lot,” I agreed.

  “She’s been through a living hell,” he said. “And she’s making her way back. Step by step, she’s turning back into a sweet, caring girl. Young lady, really.” He thought about it for a minute. “She’ll never be able to forget what she went through—what was done to her—but she’s learning how to deal with it.”

  “It seems like she’s not going to let it define her,” Toni said.

  Reverend Art looked at her. “Exactly. It’s not who she is. It’s what was done to her, but it’s not who she is.” He turned to me. “So now, we’ve got to yank Isabel out of this situation before she falls into the same trap.”

  I nodded.

  “And Carla said something about the North Side Street Boyz? And you said Isabel’s text message says the names were Crystal, Donnie, and Mikey?”

  “Yes. Does any of that ring a bell with you?”

  He leaned back and nodded. “I’m afraid it does,” he said. “Part of it, anyway. I don’t know anyone named Crystal. But the North Side Street Boyz is a gang that split off from a Central District gang that called themselves the Madison GDs.”

  “GDs?” I asked.

  “Gangster Disciples,” he said. “They’re like the Bloods and the Crips. They started in Chicago, and they’re pretty much nationwide now. Anyway, there’s a young man named Donnie Martin, used to live around here. Based on what you’re saying, I imagine he’s the ‘Donnie’ referred to in Isabel’s text message. He was a member of the Madison GDs. Some time ago, he splintered off and formed his own gang in the area north of the U-District. Down here, the GDs focus mostly on drug dealing. I understand Donnie’s taken the NSSBs in a whole new direction—they’re totally focused on prostitution. Basically, they’re organized pimps.”

  “Any idea how big they are?” I asked.

  He thought for a moment, and then he shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. Probably not very big, be my guess. Donnie never impressed me as the organizational type. I don’t think he was overly worried about growing anything. Except his own wallet, maybe.”

  “So you know this Donnie Martin personally?” Toni asked.

  “Oh, yeah, indeed I do. In fact, as a youngster, around about ten years ago, he used to come to Sunday school here off and on. His aunt was a member of our congregation, and he mostly stayed with her back then. Sadly, she passed away earlier this year—I think it was February. Of course, Donnie hadn’t been to services in years, but he came to her funeral. He was driving a white BMW with tinted windows. He was dressed really sharp. I asked him what he was up to, and all he’d say was that he’d moved up north. So later, I started asking around—kind of subtle-like.”

  “People talk to you?” I asked.

  He smiled. “I’m the pastor, aren’t I?” he said. “I’m not ashamed to say that I have no problem snooping information from the members of the church in order to protect them from some of the bad apples around here. And, of course, they talk. Most of them, anyway. Sometimes, the gang members come back and spread some of their money around. That tends to quiet folks down a little. But not everyone, and not forever. So I talk. And I listen. A little hint here, a little hint there, eventually the whole picture starts to emerge.”

  “Do the guys themselves ever talk to you—other than Donnie at his aunt’s funeral?” I asked.

  He smiled. “When they were children, they did. When they grow up—well now, that’s different. They don’t have so much to say now. Every now and again, one of these guys will step back in for a talk. And if they’re trying to do something positive with their lives—why then I’ll help ’em, of course. But if it’s just business as usual for them, then they know about me and who I am. They know better than to tell me anything if they’re involved in something illegal. I’ll turn from their best friend into their worst enemy in a quick minute.”

  “What do you mean—they know about you and who you are? You mean in your role as a minister?”

  He looked at me. “Annie didn’t tell you?”

  I was puzzled. “No. Tell us what?”

  He smiled. “I was one of ’em,” he said. “I was one of these guys. Before I was ordained, I spent seven years in Folsom State Prison in California for drug trafficking. I spent seven years of my life in prison because I was moving drugs for the Stone Canyon Bloods in east
LA. I did that every day for years, and I finally got nailed. Praise God I didn’t get killed. I was in the gang for almost twelve years before prison, and for another couple in prison before I woke up. These guys up here?” He stopped and smiled. “They got nothin’ on me.”

  * * * *

  “For some reason that I don’t understand and cannot explain, the Lord Jesus Christ has seen fit to give me not one life but two—the first life before I accepted Him as my savior, in which I didn’t do a single thing I am proud of—at least, nothing that comes readily to mind, and the second life after I accepted Him—in which I’ve made it my life’s work to make up for the first one. Maybe God wants this humble servant to be His instrument in my small part of the world—I don’t know. But I know one day, sitting in my cell by myself, that a light went on—figuratively speaking. You may think I’m crazy, but I actually heard a voice—all but commanded me to change my ways. There was a faith-based group within the prison, and I joined. Not long after, I left the gang for good. I took my newfound faith in the Lord, I got my GED, and then I actually used the rest of my time to get a bachelor’s degree in divinity from Lincoln College. When I got out, I became an ordained minister.”

  “That’s a pretty incredible success story,” I said.

  “I’ll say,” Toni added. “A remarkable turnaround.”

  “Could’ve turned out a lot different,” Reverend Art said. “I owe it all to a power bigger than little old Arthur Jenkins. I owe it to the Lord.” He paused, lost in thought. His eyes were closed—perhaps he was praying. I couldn’t tell. Then, he opened his eyes suddenly. “And to some good people who saw something worth salvaging in me. But one thing’s for certain,” he added. “I am left with a pretty thorough knowledge of what makes these young people around here think the way they think and live the way they live. I’ve been there. And I can tell you—it’s real simple. In fact it comes down to two things: money—,” he held up one finger, “—and respect.” He held up another. “These guys think if they get one, the other’s gonna follow.”

  “And being a pimp gets them plenty of money.”

  “Oh, it sure does. A lot of money. From their perspective, it’s like selling drugs, only better. After you sell the drugs, they’re gone. These guys sell these girls over and over again. Carla tell you how many times she got sold?”

  We nodded.

  “That’s tragic,” he said. “Another thing. With drugs, you actually have to get your hands a little dirty. You got to make pickups and deliveries. There’s guys with guns all over the place. With pimping, the girls do all the dirty work. The guys stay home and get stoned. All they have to do is keep the girls in line. It’s a perfect gig. That is, long as you don’t care that you’re stealing somebody’s soul.”

  “And you think this sounds like it could be Donnie Martin in this case?”

  He looked at me and nodded. “Yep,” he said with resolution. “If it’s the North Side Street Boyz who are involved, I’d say it’s almost certain. This is right up Donnie’s alley.”

  Great, I thought. Now it’s confirmed. “What can you tell us about this guy?” I asked.

  “He’s probably twenty-one now, maybe twenty-two. Tall guy. Good-looking. Turned into a sharp dresser. Spent some time in juvenile detention—a couple of years. I wish I had an exact address for him now, but I don’t—best I can give you is a general area.”

  He paused and thought for a second before he continued. “Like I said, I talked to him at the funeral. I can say that he may be a disturbed young man, but he’s smart. Course, he won’t tell me too much, but I remember he did say that he’s living north of the university. Says he’s working in ‘entertainment.’ Yeah, right. So later, I start talking to people, piecing things together, you know what I’m saying?”

  We nodded as we both wrote down the information in our notebooks.

  “Here’s what I find. You know you got your typical gangbangers all over the south side of Seattle getting into prostitution right and left. But Donnie? No. I find out that Donnie’s gone north, just like he said. Everybody else working south; Donnie’s working north. Smaller market but almost no organized competition. He’s probably got everything north of Lake Union marked as his territory. Apparently, he and some other guys run a string of prostitutes up there.”

  “Would one of those other guys be this Mikey character?” Toni said.

  “Mikey,” Reverend Art said, slowly. “Yeah. I think that’d most likely be DeMichael Hollins. He’s Donnie’s usual sidekick. He grew up here in the neighborhood, too.”

  We wrote this down.

  “What’re these guys’ natures?” I asked. “What are they like? Are they dangerous? Psychos? The kind of guys that hurt people for fun?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Wow,” he said. “Let me think about that. I’ve got to try and recall my college psychology classes here.” He pondered the question for a few moments, and then he leaned forward and said, “I wouldn’t say these boys are crazy—not in the clinical sense, anyway. I don’t believe they were born with some sort of physiological deficiency that made them into the guys they are now. That’s the good news. The bad news is, it doesn’t matter. They still show many of the same symptoms. Mostly, I think they’re just fools who grew up without the proper guidance and developed the wrong moral compass. It happens all the time around here. They didn’t start out bad—they just grew into it.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “In the end, what’s the difference?”

  He smiled. “Maybe something in the nature of reformability, I suppose. Can’t really cure a guy with a loose screw in his brain. But you might be able to reshape someone who grew up bad. Look at me. I was a pretty bad dude, myself. Not like Donnie, but I was no saint. I wasn’t mentally ill, though. So when the calling came, I was able to answer, praise the Lord.” He paused for a moment, and then he said, “But as to your real point—what’s the difference? Ain’t no difference at all if either of ’em’s got the drop on you. Don’t matter if the guy holding the gun is a natural-born psycho or if it’s someone who just grew up mean and stupid. Either way, they don’t care about you, and you’re going to be dead right quick.”

  He paused again.

  “Just so you understand clearly,” he spoke slowly, “I can flat out guarantee you that Donnie for certain—and that probably means the other guys, too—they’re all armed to the teeth. I know Donnie well enough to say that he’s not afraid to pull out his gun and start shooting if he feels threatened.” Reverend Art leaned forward. “And the thing of it is, he’s likely to feel threatened over almost anything—you can’t tell. He’s like one of them rattlesnakes some of those crazy preachers in the South hold. They pick it up and stroke it twenty-five times. Snake’s cool with it. Flicks his little tongue out at ’em, but he don’t do anything else. Then they pick it up the twenty-sixth time—wham! Snake bites ’em right in the neck for no reason anyone can see. Snake knows—but no one else can tell.” He leaned back and looked at us—first one and then the other. “Case you’re not getting me, don’t take this kid too lightly just because he’s young. Word on the street is that he’s vowed to never go back to jail. He says he’d rather die shooting. He’s a dangerous young man. I agree 100 percent that you need to get in there and rescue Isabel, or else Donnie’s going to consume her like Satan himself. But when you do, understand that Donnie’s not just going to sit back and watch you. He’s going to put up a fight.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Reverend Art. We’ll watch out.”

  Chapter 7

  I WAS HOME by myself later that night. I’d just popped in Songbird by Eva Cassidy. As is my usual custom, I automatically skipped over track one—“Fields of Gold.” Don’t get me wrong, I like the song. I’m not what you’d call a “weeper” (okay, just a little) but to this day, I can’t listen to Eva Cassidy sing “Fields of Gold” without breaking down and becoming a useless, blubbering fool. Doesn’t matter where I’m at or who I’m with—if that song comes on, I have
to get out before I lose it. Even if they played it at a friggin’ Seahawks game, I’d still have to bolt for the tunnels (me and probably forty thousand other people). I love all her music, but with that particular song, she reaches into me and touches something, and I’m a goner. I think it probably starts with Eva’s incredible voice. Then I think of her sad story, and then I move to thinking about all the friends I lost in combat, and then I think of lost relatives, and then it just spirals completely out of control altogether. Happens fast, too. It leaves me a wreck. So I generally do the safe thing and skip it.

  Especially tonight. Toni was having dinner with her mom and sister. Cool. I mean, I need my space, right? Give me time to get some stuff done around my place. Guy stuff. So I picked up my guitar and twanged through a couple of songs I’d been working on. I’m a decent guitar player, but it wasn’t happening tonight, so I put it away. I picked up an epic James Jones novel I was halfway through, read about half a page, and then I stalled out, so I set it down. I sat there on the sofa and looked around for a minute. I got up and turned the stereo off and the television on. Five minutes later, bored, I got back up and turned the TV off and the stereo back on. I went down and sat at the table with my laptop.

  Eva sang “Wade in the Water” while I stared a hole right through the computer screen, lost in thought. Damn! What was the matter with me? What the hell was going on around here?

  I shook my head and refocused on the computer. Maybe I could do some work. I’d already mapped out the NSSB area north of the U-District where Reverend Art had said Donnie was living. Tomorrow, Toni and Doc and I were going to split up and start canvasing all the businesses. Our idea was to start showing pictures of Isabel around to the shop owners in hopes someone might recognize her and help us zero in on her. A bit of a long shot, to be sure. But at least we’d be doing something.

  Now, I found myself staring at a map of what the Seattle Police Department calls the Track—a high-activity prostitution area just south of my apartment. The area—bounded on the north by Mercer, Westlake on the east, Fifth Avenue on the west, and Lenore on the south—is primarily a business district loaded with business-type hotels, meaning Holiday Inn, Travelodge, Comfort Suites—that sort of establishment. At the same time, it’s such a high-profile area for prostitutes that the city has actually designated it as what they call a SOAP zone—“Stay Out of Area of Prostitution.” Penalties for prostitutes with arrest records who are arrested again in a SOAP zone are high.