Beyond a Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  He held his hands up to the ceiling and looked at me, like I expected him to care.

  “It means this sex trafficking case just got bumped to the metro section, below the fold. That’s where stories go to die, in case you didn’t know. And to make matters worse, Chief Walker’s not allowing anyone investigating the case to talk to the press, and I’ve got a grieving father slash federal judge that’s not talking ’cause he doesn’t want anyone to know his precious daughter was cavorting with some guy running a sex trafficking ring in Hollywood. So, unless you and I do something to keep this story alive, it’s going to disappear. And so are a lot of other young, innocent women.”

  Cupid took the shot glass in his hand and for moment, looked like he was about to crush it. His eyes never looked up, the silence between us so strong I could hear the blood pulsating in my ears. I had less than five minutes to convince Cupid we needed to work together.

  “Everything okay in here?” Tyler, with a hand on either side of doorframe, leaned his skinny body into the studio.

  My eyes locked with Cupid’s. Are we okay?

  “Just hunky dory, boss.” Cupid tossed the shot glass into the trash.

  “Carol, your guests are in the lobby. You might want to show them in.” Tyler waved one hand above his head and started to step out of the studio.

  I got up to follow and when I reached the door, I looked back at Cupid. In his other hand, he had a copy of the notes I sent him earlier. He held them in front of his face, fanned them, and smiled. I wasn’t certain if it was a sarcastic gesture or not.

  “Hunky dory?” I asked.

  CHAPTER 16

  I met Detective Browne and Bessie Bixby in the lobby. Bessie was a frail, grey, grandmotherly looking woman, her light brown skin thin with age spots. She stood, holding a cane, next to Detective Browne, coming barely to his chest, and was dressed in what looked to be a secondhand purple pantsuit. On her head was a bright red fedora. She wore them both proudly. I stepped closer to her and noticed, pinned to the lapel of her jacket, was a small jeweled brooch with a photo of her granddaughter Leticia. I recognized her broad smile.

  Bessie greeted me warmly, taking my hand and holding it gently against her heart. “Thank you so much. I hope you don’t mind, but when Detective Browne told me Cupid would be in the studio, I asked a few of my friends to come along. We’re all fans.”

  She pointed her cane towards the glass entrance, her hand shaking in the way that old people sometimes do. I opened the door, the cool breeze in my face. Just outside the station’s tall wrought iron gates were dozens of red-hatted ladies, all dressed exactly like Bessie. From the street I could hear horns honking as commuters passed by. This small but mighty woman had formed a brigade and organized her own street demonstration. Outside the gates, an army of red hats waved posters in the air as the ladies walked up and down the street, shouting: “Help find our missing girls!”

  “Ms. Bixby’s a member of the Red Hat Society.” Detective Browne smiled at me. “I assume you’ve heard of them?”

  Up until that moment I wasn’t familiar with the organization. Detective Browne explained that the red-hatted ladies were a group of mostly senior women who frequently got together for a good time. But today they were here for Bessie and the missing girls. And if possible, they’d love to say hello to Cupid. Most of them had been fans from when he first went on the air, forty years ago, and remembered him fondly for his late night Sweet Notes, messages he’d send out over the air from one star-crossed lover to another.

  It was just the ammunition I needed. I picked up the lobby phone on the wall next to the door and called back to the studio. I told Cupid we had a few minutes before show time, and I had a surprise. Some of his fans were lined up outside the station and anxious to see him. No doubt they wanted to wish him well with his first show. I suggested he come join us on the front patio.

  I then asked the guard if he’d open the gate and let the red-hatted brigade through. I watched as a group of maybe twenty senior ladies, some as unsteady on their feet as Bessie, others still vibrant in their stride, all entered the campus. Like a precision marching band, with their posters in their hands, they made their way towards the station’s front patio.

  Moments later, Cupid appeared from behind the station’s double glass doors, wearing dark glasses, a sport coat and, most surprising of all, a baseball cap sporting KCHC call letters. Despite his pallor, he looked surprisingly natty, not half bad compared to the sallow figure of the man I’d just left in the studio.

  Whether it was the sunlight or the fact that the ladies of the red hat society had instantly recognized Cupid, his ego-drenched transition was phenomenal. I stepped back and watched as they rushed him—not quite like screaming groupies maybe, but slowly and with an arthritic grace—and asked for autographs. I wasn’t certain if it was their presence or that he’d read my notes concerning Hollywood’s missing girls and decided he, or we, could make a difference. The only thing I knew for certain was that as we walked back to the studio, he was suddenly stone sober.

  I opened the show and was in the middle of my on-air welcome, informing KCHC listeners there’d been a line-up change. T&T, our usual hosts, were taking a break. While in their place, we were happy to be welcoming Cupid from the FM.

  I was interrupted.

  “Carol, please let me be the one to say how happy I am to be here this afternoon. After all these years of spinning vinyl and talking shop about the top forty, I now have a chance to share with our listeners some of what goes on behind the scenes. And with the recent news about Monica Channing and Hollywood’s Missing Girls, it couldn’t be a better time for me to lend my voice and talents to helping us all to understand that beyond the glitz and glamor of Hollywood, there can be—for some anyway—a very dark side.”

  What a fabulous transition.

  I thanked Cupid and moved on to welcome Detective Browne and Bessie Bixby. I explained Bessie was Leticia Johnson’s grandmother, and that Leticia, along with her best friend Brandy White, had been missing for nearly two months.

  Detective Browne spoke briefly about his role with LAPD missing persons unit, the number of cases they covered, and that fortunately most didn’t end as Monica’s had, tragically, in a homicide.

  “But, because of Monica’s murder, we’ve gone back and looked at a few cold cases involving what we thought at the time anyway, might just be teenage runaways.”

  “Like Leticia and Brandy,” Cupid said, glancing at my notes in front of him.

  “Exactly, and the more we looked into their disappearance, and that of a few other missing persons over the last several years, the more we began to think there might be a connection.”

  “I’m sorry, but it seems to me if a young girl goes missing in this city you would immediately suspect there was a connection. How is it the police didn’t?” Cupid asked.

  “That’s a good question, but you need to understand this is a big city. We get about thirty-two hundred missing persons a year. I don’t like to point fingers, but a girl like Monica Channing goes missing and everybody in the media knows about it. For days the press covers it, people talk. It’s like she’s the only one missing. Unfortunately, there are places in LA where the cops don’t like to go and where people disappear and nobody reports it.”

  “But that wasn’t the case with Leticia and Brandy,” I reminded him.

  “No, not at all. And I’m thankful you’ve given us time here today to discuss Leticia and Brandy’s disappearance. Leticia’s grandmother reported her missing right away. But, difficult as it may be for your listeners to understand, LAPD missing persons unit doesn’t have the manpower or the resources to solve every missing person case, like they do on TV. It’s just not that simple.”

  “But you have uncovered something that makes you think their disappearance may be related to that of Monica Channing?”

  “We’ve been able
to trace their activity to an internet café in South Central where they had been going after school supposedly to do research. We believe they met someone online and that person gained their trust, and eventually kidnapped them.”

  “Like Monica Channing?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m very limited in what I can actually say here today with regard to the investigation into Monica’s death.”

  “And what about Gabi Garrison, Detective?” Cupid looked up from the report I’d given him. With a pencil in his hand he was making notes. “The Chief of Police said he didn’t believe this case was connected. Do you agree?”

  “With regard to the disappearance of Gabi Garrison, I can only say that we have a person of interest with whom we’re speaking. Beyond that, I’m not prepared to comment. What I would like to focus on today, however, is the danger on the boulevard for young women, particularly those who may go out alone at night.”

  Detective Browne’s statement was the perfect set up for my investigative report concerning Hollywood’s active club scene. I spoke briefly about the popularity of the nightclubs and how I’d seen firsthand how easy it would be for a young woman to be drugged in the presence of friends and to disappear. I deliberately didn’t volunteer that the young woman had been my daughter. I preferred to keep my personal experience and that of my daughter to myself.

  I then introduced my first caller, Freddie Bleeker. I had tried to get Norma Jean, a.k.a. Holly Wood, to call in. I wanted her to expand on the nightlife, the attraction and the types of young girls who frequent the clubs, but she wasn’t returning any of my calls. Freddie had been my second choice. I told him I didn’t want to share my own personal experience with my daughter and that I wasn’t planning on using him for any more than a few brief questions concerning his work inside the clubs. But he surprised me.

  “Hey, I was probably one of the last people to see Monica Channing alive. I remember her coming into the club with an older dude, a regular. Looked like they were meeting up with someone. I don’t know who. But the guy she was with, I’ve seen him around. He comes in from time to time. Fact is, I think I saw him with that pretty young black girl whose picture was in the paper Sunday.”

  “Leticia Johnson?” I hadn’t expected Freddie to reveal anything like this, particularly during a live interview. I glanced over at Detective Browne, then leaned forward and put my hand on Bessie’s shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

  “Yeah, she was in a while back.”

  Bessie touched the locket on her lapel, her fingers gently rubbing her granddaughter’s photo.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Pretty sure. After I saw those pictures in the paper anyway I got to thinkin’ that just maybe she’s with this same guy.”

  “You mean, the man you last saw Monica Channing with?”

  “Could be, but I don’t remember seeing that other girl. The one whose photo was in the paper with ’em.”

  “Brandy White? She would have been shorter, a little younger.”

  “Yeah. I don’t remember her. Not at all. ’Course, that’s not saying she wasn’t there. I don’t work every night, but I do remember seeing that other chick, Gabi Garrison. I recognized her ’cause she used to be on TV. I think she was a reporter or something. She was with her boyfriend. Least they were holdin’ hands, so I guess he was her boyfriend. It was about a week ago now, and they were with this guy and some other dude, having drinks.”

  Freddie was a motor mouth. I wondered how much I could trust what he was saying. He sounded as though he was either nervous or just enjoying the attention.

  I looked over at Detective Browne. I mouthed, Did you have any idea? He nodded, put his finger to his lips and then said, “Freddie, you said the man you thought you saw Monica Channing with was a regular, and that you believe you may also have seen Leticia Johnson and maybe Gabi Garrison and her boyfriend with this same man. Could you describe him?”

  “Like I said, he’s a regular, comes in from time to time. Always well dressed. Like some old Hollywood dude. You know what I mean. Got this small mustache, split in the middle and he’s wearing this fancy suit. Oh, hell—”

  I hit the seven-second delay button. Not that it mattered, hell isn’t one of the FCC’s seven forbidden words, but just the same, expletives didn’t fit with the new light and friendly format and Tyler wouldn’t like it.

  “—could be he’s even one of those fuc—BLEEP—impersonators, or maybe the real thing, a ghost for all I know. They’re everywhere, and there are people ’round there who actually believe in ’em. Anyway, this guy, he always paid cash. Never used a credit card. So I don’t know who he is.”

  We had to pause for a station break. I waited until I knew we were off the air then stood up.

  “It’s Clark Gable. The man Freddie saw. I saw him, too. The night of the pub crawl. I’m certain of it.”

  I felt certain Freddie had revealed the killer’s identity. Browne scribbled a note in his pad as the station went to commercial break and said we’d talk later.

  I opened the second half of the show and invited Bessie to share some of what she knew about her granddaughter. She smiled at me graciously, adjusted the mic and pulled it towards her mouth. Her voice was raspy but surprisingly strong and deep.

  “Before I begin, Carol, I’d like to thank you for allowing me to come on the show today. My granddaughter, Leticia Johnson, and her friend, Brandy White, have been missing for nearly two months, and it wasn’t until you mentioned their names in association with the disappearance and murder of Monica Channing that the press started paying any attention to what we all know has been going on.”

  Bessie paused and looked at Detective Browne.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. I know you’re under orders not to talk about the case, but we need to call it what it is, and to address exactly why these young girls have been kidnapped. So, if you won’t say it, I will. Carol, my granddaughter and her friend were kidnapped for the purpose of sex trafficking.”

  I looked at Detective Browne. He raised his hand and nodded to me that he wanted her to go on.

  “I understand that the judge and his wife may not want admit that their daughter was caught up with a group that was involved in such a thing. Sex has a way of quieting people up. Culturally we don’t want to admit when our daughters have been accosted or violated.”

  Wow. Bessie’s words were hitting home. My own reaction to Cate’s near abduction was suspect. Was it fear or shame that I didn’t want to share what had nearly happened Saturday night?

  “But the fact of the matter is, these girls—our girls—were targeted because men would pay to have sex with them. And the people of this city need to know there is a kidnapping ring for the purpose of selling young women into prostitution operating right here in Hollywood.”

  “Detective?” Cupid leaned into the mic. “If she’s right, and there is a sex trafficking ring operating out of Hollywood, where are they? Why haven’t we heard more about it? Why hasn’t even one of these girls broken away and come forward?”

  “Again, I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to discuss an open investigation. However, in general, most women who become victims of sex trafficking rings are afraid to leave. In some cases, they may believe they’re living better than they did, or might, without the protection of their captors. In other cases, they’re blackmailed. Told if they try to make contact with their families, they, their parents, or their siblings will be murdered. Whatever it is they have on these girls, few of them ever try to escape.”

  Cupid glanced down at the switchboard. The inbound caller lights were blinking nonstop.

  “Detective, since you can’t really talk about the specifics of the case, perhaps we should take a few calls from our listeners. See if someone out there might know something about what Detective Browne’s not able to talk about. What do you say?”

  �
��Caller One, you’re on the air...”

  “Thank you, Cupid. I’m curious, Detective, just how does a business like this operate? I mean, there has to be a certain degree of secrecy among their clientele, or they’d be busted.”

  “You’re right. It’s a little like a private club—like the old speakeasies with a private password—and members of this club don’t speak freely about it. The girls are frequently recruited online and once drafted into service, the more exclusive night clubs are often used as meeting grounds.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Caller Two, you’re on the line.”

  The second caller said she lived on the Westside and couldn’t imagine anything like human trafficking going on in her area and not knowing about it.

  Detective Browne sympathized with her, then said: “You might be surprised to know that not far from where you live there’s a twenty-four hour café and that young high school girls, from a well-known private school in your area, have been sneaking out at night and frequenting the café. Their new social high is taking turns getting into a stranger’s cars and disappearing for hours at a time.”

  “I can’t believe that. You’re telling me they’re prostituting themselves?”

  “I’m telling you things go on in this city that most people don’t even know about. Only difference is most of them don’t end up on the front page of the LA Times.”

  The third caller was altogether different. He identified himself as a man of the world and he spoke with a muffled, husky sounding voice that caught my attention immediately. I suspected he was using some cheap voice-changer to disguise his voice.