started to sound like noise when I turned thirty, blaring from inside.
I rang the doorbell again and then banged on the door. I felt him
standing behind me while we waited on the porch in silence. When I
heard the music get lower and footsteps approach the door, I looked at
him over my shoulder. "That was nice of you. To bring her some
dinner, I mean."
"Thanks."
I couldn't tell what Kendra Martin looked like when she answered the
door, because her face was obscured by a big pink gum bubble. It
popped to reveal a thin pale girl with doe eyes and full lips. Her
wavy, dark hair stopped right below her shoulders. She wore an Eminem
sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that looked like they'd fit my father.
So far, she seemed like a typical thirteen-year-old.
She looked past me at Chuck. "What're you doing here?"
"I came by to see whether you listened to anything I told you on
Sunday. What did I tell you about looking out the window to see who's
here before you open the door to anyone?"
She shifted her weight all the way to one leg and swung her hip one
direction and tilted her head in the other. "I guess I forgot this
time. Anyway, it was you, so it's OK, right?" She twisted a lock of
hair with her fingers. Obviously Chuck Forbes's magnetism was not lost
on this new generation of teenage girls.
"OK, we'll treat that as a test run. But I mean it: From now on, you
have to look before you open that door. If it's someone you don't
know, you don't answer. Got it?"
"Yeah, I got it. Whaddaya doin' here?"
"I brought someone over who I want you to meet. This is Samantha
Kincaid."
Kendra looked at me without saying a word. Then she smiled at Chuck
and popped her gum. "She your girlfriend?"
Chuck looked at me and raised his eyebrows. "No, she's not my
girlfriend. But she is a really good friend of mine, and she's a DA.
She's going to be handling your case."
I held out my hand to her. She shook it but looked down at the floor
while she did it.
"It's nice to meet you, Kendra. I've heard a lot about you. Detectives
Walker and Johnson tell me you did a real good job helping them at the
hospital last weekend."
"That's funny. They told Chuck and Mike I acted like demon spawn."
"They might've mentioned something like that to me too. But they also
said you were very helpful. Do you mind if we come in?"
She looked at the box in Chuck's hand. He said, "I thought you might
be hungry. The fries are still hot."
"Come on in." She took the box from Chuck. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. It was Sam's idea, anyway."
"Thank you," she said to me.
I looked at Chuck. "It wasn't a problem. Really."
The Martin house wasn't what I expected. I had braced myself for the
worst. Unfortunately, I'd gotten used to the fact that an entire
segment of the population raises its children in filthy homes that
don't look like they could possibly exist in the United States. Last
year, police went to an apartment on a noise complaint and found nine
children alone in a one-bedroom apartment. They all slept on the same
bare, stained mattress on the bedroom floor. The carpets were soaked
with cat urine and feces. The kids had been alone for a week and were
living off of dry cat food and some candy bars that the oldest child,
an eight-year-old boy, had been given to sell for the school choir.
Their mothers, two sisters in their early twenties, had left on a meth
hinge. As they later told police, they lost track of time and never
meant to leave their kids alone. It turned out that maternal neglect
was the least of the kids' problems. By the time the investigation was
over, police learned that all of the children had been sexually
assaulted. Their mothers had accepted drugs and money in exchange for
permitting various men to take the children of their choice into the
apartment's bedroom alone.
From what I'd heard about Kendra Martin's troubles and her mother's
parenting style, I had expected their house to be a hellhole. I had
jumped to the wrong conclusion. The house was cleaner than my own and
reflected the efforts of someone trying to do her best without much to
work with. A crisp clean swath of blue cotton was draped over what I
suspected was an old and tattered sofa. In the corner, a thirteen-inch
television sat on a wooden tray table. In a move that Martha Stewart
would envy, someone had made a lamp base out of an old milk jug.
"Kendra, I don't want to tell you things you already know, so let me
start by asking you whether you have any questions about what a DA
does."
"Not really."
"What do you think my job is?"
"You're kind of my lawyer, right?"
"Well, technically my client is the State. But in this case, my goal
is to help prove who did this to you and then convince the court to put
them in prison for a long time. When we do go to court, I'll be the
one who asks you most of the questions. So in some ways it will be
like I'm your lawyer. Have you ever testified before?"
"No. I got in some trouble after Christmas." She looked at Chuck.
"She knows about that, right?"
"Yes, I know you were arrested on Christmas."
"Well, I went to juvie on that, but no charges were filed so I didn't
have to talk or anything."
"You're going to need to testify this Friday, but you don't need to
worry about that. Friday's going to be in front of a grand jury: it'll
just be me, you, and seven jurors. The man the police arrested won't
be there, and there's no defense attorney or judge. I'll ask you
questions, and the grand jurors will listen to your answers. Then
they'll decide whether to charge him. Assuming he's charged, there
might be a trial later on, and that's more like what you see on TV.
Does that sound OK?"
"I guess."
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"Not so good."
"You staying clean?"
"Yeah, so far. I didn't really think it would be this hard, though."
I could tell she was having problems. She wasn't as bad off as older
addicts I've seen withdrawing in custody, but it wasn't going to be
easy for her. I suspected the only reason she wasn't out using again
was that she didn't have any money and was scared shitless to hit the
street again.
"Is it alright if we talk about what happened?"
"I guess so. Is it OK if I go ahead and eat?"
I hadn't noticed she'd been holding off. "Go for it."
She opened the box tentatively and ate the fries one by one, taking
small bites and chewing slowly.
"Had you ever seen either of these men before?"
"Unh-unh."
"So you don't think they were ever customers of yours or knew you from
somewhere before?"
"I don't know where they'd know me from. They didn't look familiar or
anything like that."
I couldn't tell if she was avoiding my question about prior customers
or if she believed she'd already answered it.
"So, you're sure th
ey weren't customers?"
"Yeah. I'm pretty sure I would've recognized 'em if they were. I
haven't done it that many times."
Poor girl. She probably justified what she did by telling herself that
she wasn't really a prostitute if she didn't do it often and stopped
before she was older.
"Was there anyone else around when they were talking to you or when you
got pulled into the car?"
"No. When they stopped the car, I looked around to make sure no one
was watching before I started talking to them. I didn't want to get
caught again after what happened on Christmas. I think there might've
been one homeless guy sitting on the corner, but he looked really out
of it."
I looked over at Chuck. "We canvassed the area and didn't find any
witnesses," he said. "We found a guy who usually sleeps on that
corner, but he didn't see anything."
"Kendra, the police have already told me what they know about what
happened. But, if it's alright with you, I'd like you to tell me in
your own words. I need you to be completely honest with me, even
though parts of it might be embarrassing. No one here is going to be
mad at you or get you in trouble for anything you say."
She started from the beginning and told me everything. I never needed
to prompt her, and she continued talking even when she was clearly very
upset about what happened. Her statement was consistent with what she
told Walker and Johnson the night of the assault. She would make a
great
GO
witness, but unfortunately she did not reveal anything I didn't already
know. I'd been hoping for some new avenue of investigation.
I told her I understood why she initially kept some information from
Detectives Walker and Johnson at the hospital, but that I'd be asking
her to explain it to the grand jurors.
"I don't even remember much about when they first came into the room.
Whatever that doctor gave me had me feeling really sick. I just
remember being mad."
"What do you remember telling them?"
"Well, I said I was on Burnside to go to Powell's. You know the real
reason I was there. I just didn't want to tell them, is all. It's
embarrassing, and I could get in trouble for it."
"Do you remember telling them you didn't know how heroin got in your
system?"
"Not really, but then later on, when they came back with that lawyer
guy, he told me he knew I'd lied about it. So I figured I must've said
it. I didn't want to get in trouble, is all."
"Is that the only reason you lied?"
"I don't know. It's hard to explain. It's like, I guess I was pretty
sure they wouldn't arrest me or anything since I was in the hospital
and all. But I thought if they knew what I'd been doing, they wouldn't
believe me about what happened. Or maybe they'd believe me but not
really care, since I, like, you know, kind of got myself in that
situation. And I wanted them to believe me and go out and find who did
it. So I told the truth about what they did to me, but I didn't tell
them the parts I figured didn't matter as much. Does that make any
sense?"
"It makes a lot of sense. Are you still doing that? Are you still
leaving things out that you think aren't important?"
"No. Detective Walker said he'd work on my case even if it turned out
that I had been doing something bad before it happened."
"Good, because he meant it. I think you're a very smart young woman
and you've been brave to tell the truth."
She stuck her chin out, rolled her eyes, and tried hard to hide a
smile. "Thanks." She probably wasn't used to compliments.
"I know you don't know us very well, but can you tell us why you don't
like living here?" I asked.
"It's actually OK right now."
I'd forgotten how frustrating it is to try to talk to a kid. "Why do
you run away?"
"Last time I left was because I was going crazy here. I felt really
sick and wanted to get some horse. The doctor says I've gotten to
where my body wants it, even if I don't think I do."
"Is that why you started in prostitution?"
"I wouldn't really call it prostitution. I mean, I guess it's gotten
to that, but that's not how it started. It was just like I'd hear
about somebody who was, like, holding and then I'd find them and try to
get some. But most of the time I didn't have any money. At first, I'd
offer to go to the Kmart and, like, shoplift something in return. That
was working OK, but then all the stores around here started telling me
not to come in anymore.
"So then, last summer, some guy told me he'd give me the stuff if I'd
you know, if I'd, like, let him put it in my mouth. And that seemed
like a way for me to get what I wanted without getting caught stealing
or anything. Once I started getting it that way, I started to, like,
use even more of it."
"When did you start using heroin?"
"The middle of seventh grade, so like maybe a year ago?"
"Do kids at your school do that already?"
"No. Some of the kids smoke pot and stuff."
This was like pulling teeth. "So how did you wind up using heroin in
the seventh grade?"
"If I say, are you gonna tell my mom?"
"Not if we don't have to."
For a second, I thought that wasn't going to be good enough for her.
Kendra looked down at Eminem on her sweatshirt and started rubbing out
a blob of ketchup that had fallen out of her hamburger onto his pecs.
It was like she forgot we were there. Without raising her head, she
said, "Mom already feels real bad that I'm, like, the way I am. She
thinks it's her fault or something for not being with me more. If she
knew how it started, she'd, like, really freak out and blame herself
and stuff."
"You're very considerate to be concerned about your mom. I know she
works hard to keep everything going around here, and I won't tell her
things that you tell me unless the law requires me to."
She thought about that for a moment. "It started a while ago. My dad
doesn't live with us. I don't know him, actually. Mom works all the
time, so I'm usually here alone. I don't really mind. But every once
in a while, she has a boyfriend start living here. I don't know why
she dates these loser guys who don't even have jobs and stuff when she
works so hard.
"Anyway, last year this guy named Joe was staying here with us. He
said he was a contractor, but he like never left the house or anything.
I guess one day while I was at school, he went nosing through my stuff
in my room. I had a little bag of pot hidden in my dresser. I'd only
smoked it once. Me and my friend got it from this guy at school, just
to try it.
"So anyway, when I got home, he's sitting on the couch holding this
bag. He said he was gonna tell Mom unless I could keep a secret about
him. And then he goes into Mom's room and brings out his gym bag. He
had a bunch of pot in there, but he had heroin too. He told me he
didn't tell my mom or anything 'cause of how she feels about drugs, but
&
nbsp; he'd let me use some. I didn't want to, 'cause that seemed like way
more major than pot. But Joe said popping wasn't really like shooting
up or anything and wasn't as big of a deal. And he said if I didn't
try it, then I wouldn't be in on his secret, and he'd tell Mom mine. So
I tried it."
"Is that the only time you used heroin with him?"
"Yeah, right. He wanted me to do it with him again like a week later,
then it was more and more, until he was waiting for me almost every day
after school."
"Kendra, did Joe ever touch you or do anything sexual to you?"
"Not really. He'd like touch my hair and stuff when we were high. Gave
me the heebie-jeebies. He was totally gross. After a couple months, I
guess Mom found his stash and kicked him out. I was happy he was gone,
but then I didn't have any way to get the heroin."
I didn't know what to say. This poor girl had destroyed herself out of
fear that she would create one more source of stress in her overworked
mother's life. Now, even after all she'd been through, she still
worried more for her mother's well-being than her own. I hoped Andrea
Martin deserved the concern.
"Before you started being with men in order to get the heroin, had you
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