Anybody's Daughter (Angela Evans Series No. 2)

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “Let’s count that as a victory,” Judge Spratt said. She picked up another file. “Precious Norwood. How’s she doing?”

  “So-so,” Diana, one of the probation officers, volunteered. “I saw her last week. She hates the facility she’s in and wants to go home. Home meaning back to her pimp.”

  That news was met with a long, collective sigh.

  Marcel, Precious’ social worker, held up a finger. “I got a call from one of her teachers yesterday. Precious used the phone of a friend at school to contact her pimp.” Her lips pursed in frustration.

  “I’ll definitely have to have a talk with her about that,” Judge Spratt said, making a note in her file.

  “Her mother is her biggest problem,” Marcel continued. “She came to visit her a few days ago. They got into a loud argument. Looks like she’s still using.”

  The judge shook her head. “Let’s see if we can get the mother in a drug treatment program. Is her father going to be in court today?”

  “He said he would be,” Marcel said.

  “Great. He seems fairly responsible. I’d like to get her back home with him if we can.”

  “We’ve done an assessment of the father’s home and it’s suitable for her to return there. The stepmother, however, is worried about Precious being a bad influence on her three daughters. I get the impression that she’d prefer not to have Precious back home.”

  It took another hour to review the status of the rest of the girls. The judge called for a short break. The chairs were rearranged into two rows along the back wall to make space for family members to sit once the judge started hearing cases.

  Judge Spratt returned, dressed in her black robe now, and took the bench. A court reporter sat below her.

  “We have a couple of arraignments to get out of the way first,” the judge began.

  She called the first case and the bailiff ushered Angela’s client, Jolita, into the courtroom. She sat in a chair next to Angela.

  The judge directed her attention to Jolita. “Young lady, you’ve been charged with Penal Code Section 647b, soliciting prostitution. Has your attorney explained to you what that means?”

  “Yes.”

  “Counsel, do you waive formal reading of the petition and statement of rights and enter a denial on behalf of your client?”

  “Yes,” Angela replied. She glanced down at a file in front of her. “Your Honor, I’d like to request that Jolita be placed in the STAR program. I’ve explained to Jolita what that means and she understands everything she’ll have to do.”

  “Is that true?” the judge asked, her voice gentle. “Do you understand what the STAR program requires?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Jolita said, her voice barely audible.

  “Okay, then, tell me what you know about the program?”

  Jolita’s eyes darted up at Angela. “Um…I have to go to school and get counseling and talk to my probation officer on time and stuff like that.”

  “And you have to make good grades in school. Can you do that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your Honor,” Angela said, “I’d also like to request a suitable placement for Jolita. There’s currently no family member who can meet DCFS requirements.”

  The judge looked over at the probation officer assigned to her courtroom. “What do we have available?”

  “We can probably get her into Diamondale,” she said.

  “Is that a nice place?” Jolita whispered to Angela.

  Angela smiled and nodded.

  Judge Spratt turned back to Jolita. “I want you to understand that it’s a privilege to be part of the STAR program. You’ll have to abide by all of our rules. You can’t have any contact with your friend Nay-Nay Green or her brother Ronny Green. Do you understand that?”

  Jolita poked out her lips. “They’re my friends. Why can’t I talk to them?”

  “Because your friend and her brother aren’t good influences for you. If I learn that you’ve been to their house, talking to them on the phone or even texting them, you won’t be able to continue in the program. Do you understand?”

  Jolita rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

  “I don’t allow girls in my courtroom to give me attitude.” Judge Spratt’s tone went from gentle to firm.

  Jolita’s eyes fell to the table.

  The judge shuffled through some papers in front of her. “I have a report here that says you used to make pretty good grades in school.”

  “Yep,” Jolita said, lighting up a bit. “But that was before my mama left with her boyfriend and my grandmamma got on drugs.”

  Jolita’s matter-of-fact explanation for her bad grades set off a chain of head shaking.

  “Well, I want you to start making good grades again. Your probation officer is going to give me a report from each one of your teachers.”

  “Okay.”

  The judge turned her attention back to Angela. “I’ll see you and your client back in ten days for the pre-plea report.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Jolita’s probation officer had to prepare a report stating whether it was in her best interest to remain detained in a group facility. At her next court appearance, Angela would try to get the charges dismissed or reduced. If she was unsuccessful, Jolita would go to trial.

  The judge called another case and a different attorney stepped up to the defense table with his young client.

  Angela used the short break before her next case was called to step into the hallway to check her messages. No voicemail or text message from Dre. He should have made it to the address she’d given him by now. Why hadn’t he called to let her know that he’d found Brianna?

  Angela fired off a short text and prayed for some good news.

  Chapter 31

  Day Two: 10:30 a.m.

  Dre spotted the yellow house the second they turned onto 67th Street. His mind was now racing as fast as his heart was pumping. The house was exactly as Leon the crack head had described it. High iron gates surrounded the home and thick shrubbery lined the front like well-trained bodyguards.

  He parked his Jetta half a block away and was relieved to see Apache pulling up behind him.

  His cousin hopped out of his Benz and ran up to Dre’s car. “This is it, man!” he yelled in excitement. “We ’bout to go get little shorty.”

  “Hold up,” Dre said, climbing out. “We need to have a plan. We don’t know what we’re going to find inside.”

  Apache pulled his Glock from his waistband and waved it in the air. “I got my plan right here, cuz. Let’s do this!”

  “Put that thing away!”

  Dre’s eyes zipped up and down the street. He wanted to rescue Brianna, but he preferred to do it without facing an assault charge or a murder rap in the process. He wasn’t worried about what they’d done to Leon coming back on them. Leon and his two cronies were probably still terrorized from Apache’s threat. He just hoped they’d gotten him to the hospital before he bled to death.

  He looked Apache squarely in the eyes. “Man, listen to me. I only want you to use that thing for self-defense. Don’t shoot first.”

  Apache smirked, then laughed. “Yeah, okay.”

  Dre figured there had to be a couple of dudes guarding the girls and he assumed they’d be armed. But he had enough adrenalin built up to take them on with his bare hands. He reminded himself that they were dealing with kidnappers, not killers. Still, it was possible that something could go wrong once they got inside the house. If he was able to safely deliver Brianna back to his sister, he would pay the cost. No matter what that was.

  “We’re going to hop the fence,” Dre said, “then go around to the back of the house. Follow my lead.”

  “I’m with you, cuz.”

  The two headed in the direction of the house, their steps unrushed. They both easily scaled the fence and walked in tandem down a wide driveway.

  “Let’s check the garage first,” Dre said, drawing Apache away from a back door that appeared
to lead into the house.

  He grabbed the handle and tried to pull the garage door upward, but it wouldn’t budge. He figured it must have been controlled by remote. He spotted a side door and opened it. The garage was dark and musty. Dre spotted rope, soiled sheets and a pile of discarded clothes. Something caught his eye.

  Dre stepped further inside and held up one of the items of clothing. His throat went completely dry. It was a Lakers tank top. The one he’d bought for Brianna. He was sure of it.

  “This is the right place,” Dre said, growing both excited and anxious. “This is the place.”

  He stuffed the shirt into his back pocket. “Let’s head inside.”

  Dre walked over to a small window to the left of the back door. The window was blacked out, but a small section of the glass was missing near the bottom. He had to stand on his tiptoes to see inside. He could make out a messy kitchen, but nobody was in it.

  Apache examined the wrought iron door. “We ain’t gettin’ in here without making a whole lot of ruckus. This place is locked down tighter than a prison.”

  Dre stepped away from the window and grabbed the knob of the door, prepared to rip it off with the sheer strength of his anger. To his surprise, the knob turned and it creaked open, revealing another door. This one made of wood.

  “Looks like somebody got sloppy,” Apache said with a smile.

  Dre reached for the knob of the inside door, but it was locked.

  “No biggie,” Apache said, pushing him aside. He pulled a long screwdriver from his back pocket and stuck it into the lock. In seconds, a metal part popped out and the door knob turned easily.

  Apache looked over his shoulder, smiling. “I got skills.”

  Dre eased the door open, then waited. They’d been as quiet as possible, but Dre was surprised that they hadn’t alerted anyone inside. If they were running the kind of human trafficking operation Coop had described, they probably had cameras posted, though Dre had not spotted any. He feared they could be walking into a trap.

  Apache tried to walk past him, but Dre grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Hold up.”

  They both stood still, just inside a short hallway that housed a washer and dryer, listening for the sound of movement. Dre took a few more steps and found himself in a kitchen. The sink was piled with dishes. On the counter next to the refrigerator, he spotted discarded paper plates with bones and wadded-up napkins. Someone had recently had a meal there.

  Apache was rocking from heel to toe, his fingers caressing the Glock. “Man, let’s bum rush ’em.”

  “No,” Dre said gruffly. “Just stay back and follow my lead.”

  Though it was mid-morning, with all the windows covered, the house was nighttime dark inside.

  They heard what sounded like the slap of a window shade. Both men froze in place. They stayed that way for several seconds before proceeding out of the kitchen, past a small den and down a dark hallway.

  Dre spotted a door on his left and stepped inside. He flicked on a light switch. The room held a bed and dresser, but no other furniture. He understood now why the place was so dark. No light seeped into the house because the windowpanes had been painted black.

  Where the hell is she?

  Dre backed out of the room and spotted another door on the right. This one had three deadbolts, but no doorknob.

  He pushed the door open and what he saw sickened him. He spotted a puddle of dried blood near a window. A soiled mattress took up most of the room. The scarred hardwood floor held the scent of urine, feces and body odor. Dre covered his nose with his forearm.

  Dre stormed out of the room, no longer concerned about being quiet. He ran down the hallway, flinging doors open, and kicking them in if they were locked. He found a bathroom, and two other small rooms. He tore through every inch of the place. But there was no sign of Brianna or anyone else.

  He wailed and punched the wall, sending plaster flying in all directions. In seconds, his fist swelled, sending a throb of pain up his arm. But it was no comparison to the pain twisting in his gut.

  Brianna had been here. The Lakers shirt he had tucked in his pocket proved that.

  But where was she now?

  Chapter 32

  Day Two: 11:15 a.m.

  Shep relaxed on his front balcony in a cushy patio chair, sipping a concoction of kale, celery and carrot juice that he made himself. He found the images on the screen of his iPad quite entertaining. He tapped a button, rewinding the video and watched the entire sequence for the third time.

  Initially, he’d been amused as he watched Dre and his long-haired sidekick tear through the house on 67th Street. His amusement had slowly simmered into anger, but he successfully restrained it.

  Shep had installed cameras all over the house to keep an eye on his girls as well as the people he paid to watch them. The cameras had never been of much use until now.

  This Dre cat had some big balls, Shep thought. He still couldn’t believe the way Andre Thomas was disrespecting him.

  Shep was just glad he’d made the decision to move the girls out of the house only minutes before Brianna’s uncle had broken in. Shep had a sixth sense which often alerted him when trouble loomed. He’d been successful in the trafficking game not just because he was smart, but because he had an instinct that told him what and what not to do. He never panicked when faced with a crisis. You didn’t have to when you had the kind of intellect he possessed.

  He set his iPad on a side table and positioned himself more erect in the chair.

  So hum, he repeated mentally. So hum.

  Closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils, he allowed the air to slowly escape through his mouth. He did this non-stop for thirty minutes.

  After finishing his meditation, he walked inside, retrieved his journal and reviewed the quote he’d written down at six that morning: “Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.” –Confucius.

  Yes, he told himself, he would handle this situation. He found his smartphone and speed-dialed Clint.

  “Hey,” Clint said gruffly.

  “You still have the girl tucked away?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Keep a close eye on her. She’s precious cargo. You break her in?’

  “Uh, yeah.” Clint didn’t offer any details.

  “So how was it?”

  His response was slow in coming. “It got a little rough. She wouldn’t cooperate. Her face is a little swollen, but it’ll heal.”

  Shep sat up. “How many times do I have to tell you?” he said sternly. “Don’t hit my girls in the face. I don’t sell damaged goods.”

  “She bit me,” Clint explained. “I just reacted. She’ll heal.”

  Shep was about to continue the scolding, but gave it some thought. It would be better to send Brianna back with both mental and physical scars.

  “I think it’s time for me to make contact with Businessman,” Shep said. “Set up a meeting.”

  There was no response from the other end of the line.

  “Is that a wise move?”

  “Everything I do is a wise move.”

  “This dude ain’t no rookie. He knows the streets.”

  “And so do I. It’s one thing to go around town disrespecting me, but this guy had the audacity to come onto my property uninvited.”

  “What?”

  “I’m watching the video right now. He broke into the house on Sixty-seventh about thirty minutes ago.”

  Shep figured that Clint was probably bracing himself for a lecture. After all, Clint should’ve been able to control this situation. But Shep had more important matters to attend to first.

  “Contact Businessman and tell him I want a meeting with him at City Stars. And tell him to come alone.”

  “He’s not going to do that.”

  “He will if he wants that girl back.”

  Chapter 33

  Day Two: 12:10 p.m.

  Brianna awoke to the sou
nd of laughter. It took her eyes almost a full minute to come into focus. Every inch of her body ached and she was woozy with hunger pains. She glanced at her surroundings and nothing looked familiar.

  She was no longer on a mattress in a cold, dark room. This place looked like an actual bedroom. She was sprawled on a twin bed now. There was another bed across the room. Piles of clothes littered the floor. A boxy, older-model TV sat on a dresser at the foot of the bed.

  “Hey, sleepyhead. ’Bout time you woke up.”

  A face she didn’t recognize was peering down at her.

  “What’s your name?” the girl asked. She was wearing so much makeup she looked like a brown-skinned clown.

  “Brianna,” she said, realizing that it hurt to talk. Her throat felt like it was on fire.

  “I’m Kym and you already met Tameka.” Kym pointed toward a girl standing in the doorway. She hadn’t been there a second ago. Or had she?

  “You must’a really messed up bad, cuz you got hit in the face. They don’t never hit us in the face. It’s gonna take a whole lot of makeup to cover up them bruises.”

  Brianna pressed her hand to her face and winced. Even the lightest touch fired sharp jabs of pain in all directions. She remembered now. Clint had beaten her up. He had stopped when she’d faked an asthma attack. She had no recollection of how she got to this room though. They must have drugged her again.

  “You have to help me get out of here.” Brianna began to cry. “I don’t belong here.”

  Both of the girls laughed. “Don’t worry you’ll get used to it. You’re in the life now, girl. So just deal with it.”

  “What are you talking about? What life?”

  “Just wait,” Kym said. “After a while, you won’t even miss the square world.”

  Brianna felt like these girls were talking in code. She managed to sit up, but did not have full control of her body and fell back onto the bed. She also did not remember changing into the cut-off shorts and bra-like top that she was wearing now.

  “Freda gave you a shot,” Kym said. “Enjoy the high cuz it’ll wear off soon.”

  “Where’s Kaylee?”