by Joan Mauch
"I want to stay with them," she protested.
"In case you haven't noticed, nobody gives a shit what you want," the guard said, and gave her a shove. "Now move."
"What about the judge?" Jackson said.
"What about him?" Impatience was woven into the fabric of the man's expression.
“When do we get to see him?"
"In about a month—if you last that long." The surly guard looked pointedly at Zac then threw back his head and laughed.
Chapter 86
Patricia Maxwell was tall for a woman, slim with a rack that made most men drool. She had large brown eyes and thick black hair that reached her shoulders. She was dressed in a business suit that did nothing to hide her voluptuous figure. Her lips were full and just begging to be kissed. The woman was a looker, that’s for sure. Even in the dire straits in which he found himself—or perhaps despite them, Leon wasn’t above appreciating the sight of a beautiful woman.
“Mr. Donatello? Did you hear what I said?”
Leon’s eyes snapped up from where they’d been focused. “Uh, I’m sorry, what?”
“I said we need to face facts. You’ve been caught in the act. The police discovered those women in your basement. And you were the only one in the house at the time. Considering the circumstances, it’d be ludicrous to tell a judge you were unaware of what was going on.”
“But I didn’t load them up in that van and drag them into my house. They came willingly.” Leon thought he’d made a good point. Maybe Miss Good-looking Attorney sitting across from him in her short skirt with her long legs crossed, would agree.
“But where did they think they were going?” She leaned in to the table and waited for him to respond.
“How do I know? I don’t speak their language. I mean, I was just a middle man, providing lodging for the night and passing them on to the next buy…uh, er, person who would take them to their final destination.”
“Okay, let’s say that’s true,” Ms. Maxwell said. “Then how do we account for the ledger the police found?”
Unaware that his notebook had been discovered, Leon was shaken. It provided a complete record of the sales that had taken place and was in his handwriting. His mouth parched, he swallowed hard then took a swig from a bottle of water that had been provided.
“How do they know it’s mine? Maybe the previous owner left it there.” That was a Hail Mary pass, but worth a try.
“Well, we could argue that but then how do we explain your name on the front cover?”
“My name’s on it? You sure?” He specifically remembered erasing it. They couldn’t possibly know it belonged to him.
“They traced it from the indents the pen made.” The attorney’s patience was wearing thin.
At this point Leon realized he had no more wiggle room; it was time to start dealing.
Chapter 87
A sea of orange greeted Zac, as he, Jackson and Charlie headed out to the prison courtyard. The baggy jumpsuits encased some of the meanest looking men he’d ever seen. No stranger to barroom brawls, he wanted nothing to do with this bunch. Despite their weapons, the guards were greatly outnumbered and couldn’t be counted on for protection, especially since several had taken an obvious disliking to him.
He stood next to Charlie who leaned against the wall and rubbed his temples. “Guys, I’m sorry about all this. I really thought I could make it to Mexico and back undetected. I’ve done it several times and never had a problem. Guess old Captain Tom decided to take his lady friend for a ride. In case you didn’t notice, there was a full moon out last night and it was spectacular.”
Zac looked at Charlie as if the man had lost his mind. They had not only been trying to escape from Mo—who considered them one step above dogs—but now they faced felony-theft charges. And the guy who’d taken them from a desperate situation to an impossible one was commenting on the moon? Seriously? There were no words. He’d trusted this guy and look where it had gotten him. How long would they be in this hellhole? And would they survive?
Even if they managed to avoid getting beaten to death by that bunch of lunatics, he glanced at a fight in progress, they still had to survive the prison’s medieval conditions: polluted drinking water, spoiled food—what there was of it—and getting bit by God only knows what kind of insects.
Maybe he’d manage to stay alive, but what about Jackson, not to mention Izzie. Neither of them had been subjected to the brutality and primitive living conditions they were facing. Zac couldn’t do anything to help them—not a single thing.
As he took several steps from the wall, an inmate bumped into him. “Hey, watch yourself.”
“You ran into me.”
“Say what? You better apologize and be quick about it if you know what’s good for you.” The man’s eyes drilled Zac with an almost maniacal intensity.
Zac rarely ever walked away from a fight, but sizing the guy up he thought this might be the time to start. The man was well over two hundred-fifty pounds and several inches taller than he was. Well-developed biceps bulged from the sleeves of his jumpsuit. Scars, recent cuts and bruises on his face, arms and hands broadcast his willingness to exchange blows.
“My bad. Sorry man, I didn’t see you.” Zac offered to shake hands but the man refused.
“I’ll let it go this time,” he said. “Don’t let it happen again.” He walked away without another word.
The other inmates resumed whatever it was they were doing. Zac assumed they felt deprived. Watching an American receive a good beating would have provided a badly needed source of entertainment. Oh well, Zac realized, they knew there’d be another opportunity to revisit the situation—most likely soon.
In the meantime it was around noon and his stomach began to remind him he hadn’t eaten since the poor excuse of a breakfast four hours earlier. He approached a scrawny inmate, thinking he could easily defend himself against this one if the need arose.
“Hey Dude. When do we eat?”
The guy gave Zac a puzzled look. “Eat? We already ate. You didn’t get anything?”
“Well, yeah, I had a sandwich with cheese for breakfast.”
“So?”
“So when do we get lunch? I’m starving.”
The man shrugged. “What can I tell you? You shoulda saved one a them pieces of bread to eat later. Supper isn’t till six. And don’t ask me what time it is now ’cause I don’t know.” He pointed at the empty place on his arm where the contrast between his dark tan and lighter skin bore witness to the absence of a watch. Then, seeming to notice he’d begun to attract unwanted attention from the yard bullies, he quickly walked away leaving Zac and his rumbling stomach to fend for themselves.
Chapter 88
While her friends were just trying to stay alive, Izzie faced problems of her own. Although not required to don the orange jumpsuits their male counterparts wore, conditions in the women’s section were no better and in some respects worse. The guards openly lusted after the more attractive females and were not at all subtle in reminding them that if they wanted to improve their situation they needed to cooperate. Their intentions weren’t lost on the women; they knew exactly to what they referred.
Izzie was by turns exhausted, terrified and just plain hungry. The previous night she’d tried to sleep on the cold cement floor. With no blanket to keep out the dampness or stop insects from biting, she had little success.
“So, what ‘cha in for?” Her cellmate was an attractive woman Izzie judged to be in her thirties.
“My friend borrowed a boat. Now we’re accused of stealing it.”
The woman nodded in sympathy. “Oooh, too bad. That’ll get you a couple years for sure.”
“What? Why? We didn’t do anything wrong. Just borrowed a friend’s boat to go for a ride.”
“Stealing, isn’t that what they say you did?”
Izzie nodded.
“Judge doesn’t like thieves.”
Izzie could feel her heart sink. “We haven’t seen
a judge yet. Maybe after he hears our story, he’ll let us go.”
The woman laughed, her face crinkled into a broad smile. “Okay, you hold onto that thought. It’ll help get you through the next month.”
“Month? Why a month?”
“That’s when the judge comes ’round next.”
Izzie was so crestfallen, she wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. How could she possibly last in these miserable conditions a whole month? The food was horrible; she’d gotten no-end of bug bites and the guards? How long could she fend them off? The one, she thought his name was Roscoe, had made his intentions very clear: he could make her life easier or impossible. It was up to her.
“How about you? What’d they get you for?”
“Murder.”
“Murder? Really?”
The woman nodded.
“Who’d you kill?”
“They say I killed my boyfriend, that I stabbed him because he raped my little girl.”
“Your little girl? How old is she?”
“Just ten.”
“Did you?”
“I found him with her and screamed at him to leave her alone. He came at me with a knife. We struggled and he tripped, cutting himself in the stomach. By the time the ambulance got there, he’d bled to death. I told them what happened, but they didn’t believe me.”
“What about your daughter? Couldn’t she tell them?”
“She did, but they said I coached her. They found me guilty and sentenced me to twenty years, maybe less with good behavior.”
“And the guards? Are they after you too?”
She seemed to blush then said, “They were till you got here. You’re lucky, you know. They can make things a whole lot better if you give them what they want.”
Izzie’s stomach clenched; she thought she’d vomit at the thought of what she’d have to do to survive.
Chapter 89
"He ready to spill?" Detective Anders said to Leon's lawyer. He enjoyed doing battle with Patricia Maxwell. They'd dated briefly several years ago, before he settled down and got married. He was faithful to his wife, Beth, always would be. Still, he wasn't above noticing an attractive woman, especially when she sat right across the desk from him.
"Absolutely."
"Gonna give us something we can use?"
"Depends on what he gets in return. You have to understand: the guy he turns over—the operation he exposes—could mean a death sentence. Before he risks his life, he needs assurances that he'll be protected, as in witness protection, and not just some half-assed effort on your part either."
Man, that woman had a mouth on her. Anders leaned back in his swivel chair. "Like I told you before, depends on what he gives us and what he can prove. Just telling us the candidate for the mayor of Chicago is involved with human trafficking isn't enough. We need hard proof. I mean, imagine the explosion his allegations are going to make—not only in Chicago, but across the country. We're going to look like a bunch of fools if what he says doesn't hold water. Know what I mean?"
"I do. Look, talk to him and see what you think."
****
Five minutes later, Anders joined the attorney and her client in the interview room. "Let's get this party started. What’ve we got?"
Ms. Maxwell looked at Leon. "You're up," she said.
Leon began to talk and the story he told was nothing less than startling to Detective Anders. He claimed he’d known Seymour Cottingham, prominent citizen of Chicago and candidate for mayor, since they were both in a street gang as teens. From there they’d graduated to the mob, but whereas Leon repeatedly ended up in jail for a variety of petty crimes, Seymour kept his nose clean. He had no record whatever—a model citizen that one.
“All right, I get it,” Detective Anders looked at his watch. “You claim the guy, who’s never been in prison a day in his life, is a big-time trafficker for the mob. That what you want me to believe?”
Leon nodded. With dark circles under his eyes and a troubled expression, he looked exhausted. He’d been held for over twelve hours now with no sleep and little to eat. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. He’s the one calling the shots.”
Anders ran his hand through a head of thick wavy hair. If what Leon was saying was true then this was big. A case like this could make or break a guy’s career. He had to handle it right or it’d blow up in his face.
“How did it work? I mean did he call with specific orders or what?”
“Naw, nothing like that. He knew if’n he did that, there’d be a trail and he’d get caught. He had to keep his hands clean so if anything went wrong, nothing could be traced back to him.”
“Then how do we know you’re telling the truth? You could be making this up to save your own skin.”
“But I’m not. Look, this is how it worked.” Leon stopped. “Any chance I can get something to drink and maybe a burger? I’m starving.”
Anders pressed “pause” on the interview recorder and signaled to the policeman sitting next to him at the table. “He’ll get you something. In the meantime, let’s proceed.” He pressed “record” and nodded at Leon. “You were about to tell us how the operation worked.”
“Yes. All right. Seymour, er Mr. Cottingham, set me up in that house in Tampa your guys broke into last night. His contacts in other countries attracted young people, mostly girls but some guys too, telling them and their parents they’d get them into this country and either into schools for an education or good paying jobs so they could send money home. They bought the lie and went willingly. My role was to receive the poor suckers, and sell them to whoever wanted their ‘services’.”
“That’s where that notebook of yours came in?”
“Right. I had to keep a record of some kind, so I’d know if Seymour was cheating me. He wasn’t above doing that, you know.”
“How did you get paid?”
“Cash only. The asshole,” Leon paused and looked at Ms. Maxwell, “Sorry, I mean Seymour covered all his bases.”
“So we’re right back where we started from then?” Anders’ patience was wearing thin. They were going round and round in circles. The bastard was playing him. “We’re not getting anywhere. Book him.” He signaled to someone behind the two-way mirror.
The door to the interview room opened and the policeman walked in with his food followed by another who appeared ready to do as the detective requested.
“No, wait, I’m not finished,” Leon protested. “There’s more.”
“Well, get to it. Either you can prove Cottingham’s involved or you can’t. I don’t have all day.”
Leon opened the bag and dug in. The smell of a hamburger and fries filled the room.
Detective Anders’ stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It made him even more eager to finish this and be done with it. He turned the recorder back on.
“How’d you stay in touch?”
“Cottingham called from time to time, but always said I was never to call him. He was clear about that.”
“How’d you get paid?”
“He had one of his flunkies drop off an envelope of cash each time we handled a shipment.”
Leon’s business-like approach surprised Anders. For a run-of-the-mill street thug, he was surprisingly organized. “So you never had occasion to call the guy? Nothing ever went wrong?”
“Well, there was that thing with the girl who killed herself. That was bad.”
The hair on Anders’ neck prickled; a chill ran down his spine. “What girl?”
“The one that showed up on Clearwater Beach ’bout a month ago. You remember, it was all over the news.”
Indeed he did remember. They’d tried everything to identify her. No one claimed the body and they’d finally buried her in a pauper’s grave. “You had something to do with that?”
“Whoa, wait a damn minute. I didn’t kill her. Lemme be clear on that. I admit she was a ‘guest’. Somehow she got hold of my gun and shot herself in the head. I didn’
t know what to do, so I called Seymour. He freaked out, said I’d jeopardized the whole operation and to get rid of the body. Dumping her on the beach was my idea.” Leon seemed proud of that.
“You have a record of who she was?”
“Just what I have in my notebook.”
“But you can point that out?”
“Sure. Be hard to forget that one, it caused me so much trouble.”
“Okay, we’ll get back to that later. Tell me about Zac.”
“Zac? What about him?”
“He works for you, right?”
Leon’s eyes bulged. “How’d you know about him?”
“Never mind that. Just tell me what he did and where he is now.”
“Him? He did odds and ends for me, nothing much. I sent him out of the country to deliver a shipment about ten days ago.”
“A shipment? As in a trafficking victim?”
“You could say that.”
“I thought your victims were foreigners. You traffic U.S. citizens too?” Good God, this was getting more complicated by the minute.
“Sure. But we usually move them around within the country. I mean when I get a girl from here, I make sure she’s sent across the country. That makes the possibility of getting caught a lot less. See what I mean?”
“What made this one different?”
“It was a guy nosing around. I couldn’t take any chances.”
“So how’d you get him out of the country?”
“In a trunk.”
“A trunk? On an airplane?”
“No, by boat. A plane would have been too risky.”
Anders began to wonder if that was what happened to the other Taylor. What was his name? Jackson, the news photographer, that was it. He was Zac’s brother. He’d been concerned about his reporter friend. Claimed she’d disappeared and wasn’t about to let it go.