A Walk Across the Sun

by Corban Addison

  “It’s a circus,” Samantha admitted. “That’s why we get so few convictions. Even when the evidence is airtight, the perpetrator absconds or the victim refuses to testify or the lawyer pulls some stunt with the judge and delays the case so long that the file starts to grow mold.”

  “If the whole system is broken, then why are we doing this?”

  Samantha gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. “Sit down.”

  When he did, she went on, “I’m sure you’ve heard the old Burkean maxim that evil prevails where good people do nothing. It’s a nice hoary statement, the sort of thing politicians throw around on the stump and activists put on bumper stickers. But Burke was right. Bombay is a den of thieves because people sat on their hands and let it become that way. When CASE opened this office, everybody said we would close our doors in a year.”

  She paused and swept her arm around.

  “Well, we’re still here and, by God, we’ve made a difference. The pimps are afraid of us. The police are starting to think twice about accepting bribes. Girls who were once being raped in the cages fifteen times a day are recovering in our private homes. It’s small, but it’s a start. The question you have to answer is simple: do you want to be a part of it?”

  She leaned forward in her chair and placed her hands on the desk. “I imagine Jeff gave you the spiel about sticking around for the duration. He does that with everyone. But this is my department. If you reach a point where you want out, I’ll run interference with headquarters. I don’t need to remind you that you’re not getting paid.”

  Samantha meant the statement as a joke, but Thomas winced. She had no way of knowing that, if not for that coward Mark Blake and the threat from Wharton Coal, he would be back in the District, billing $325 an hour for his time. CASE’s work was commendable, but he hadn’t signed up for moral reasons. He was different from the other volunteers. The world of human trafficking sickened him, but he was on a career path with a defined objective: the federal bench. He would stay the course here because it was the only way back into the arms of grace.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said, standing up again. “I’m on board.”

  “I thought so.” Samantha grinned. “So here’s your test. Make the Jogeshwari brief sing. Make it so compelling that the judge can’t wait to send that bastard to the jail at Arthur Road.”

  On Saturday night, Dinesh invited Thomas out to dinner in Bandra with a couple of his friends. The friends were single, white-collar types who had studied in Britain. They ate on the porch at Soul Fry, a hip hangout serving traditional cuisine with a modernist flair.

  Dinesh’s friends demonstrated absolutely no interest in Thomas’s work at CASE and spent most of the meal questioning him about American girls. Thomas avoided the subject of Priya, thinking that one of them might know her family. But they didn’t ask about her, and Dinesh had the good sense not to bring her up.

  After dinner, the foursome climbed into a pair of rickshaws and made the twenty-minute trip to Dinesh’s favorite club—a place called White Orchid. The club was located on the third floor of a commercial building that housed a clothing boutique and a travel agency.

  As the lift ascended, he heard the muffled sound of throbbing bass and tinny vocals. They were met in a lobby by three bouncers wearing white shirts and black pants. One of Dinesh’s friends shook hands with a bouncer and whispered in his ear. The man nodded and gestured his assent. He waved the group through another set of doors.

  As soon as Thomas entered White Orchid, he understood that the main attraction was neither alcohol nor fraternity. The club was circular, its perimeter lined with plush couches and square tables. Men of all ages sat on the couches, sipping drinks. At the center of the room was a wooden dance floor with two floor-to-ceiling brass poles. Between the poles stood eight young women adorned like princesses in gold, jewels, and elegant pantsuits. Unlike the performers in an American strip club, these girls were fully clothed. Yet there was an unmistakable sensuality in the way they stood, they way they looked at the men, and the way they danced.

  The girls took turns at center stage, only one dancing at a time. The rest stood by, casing the room with their eyes. If a man liked a girl, he offered her a tip. The girl would saunter over to the man, take the bill with a smile, and then return to the bar line. Occasionally, a man would place a stack of rupees in his hand and wink at a girl. Drawn by the more generous tip, the girl would dance for him alone. At no time, however, did the girl and her admirer touch.

  To enforce these rules, several muscle-bound waiters stood by, scanning the patrons for any hint of impropriety. The waiters collected orders and delivered drinks, but their primary duty was obvious. Thomas took a seat beside Dinesh and tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. The girls eyed him, searching for a sign of interest or the appearance of money in his hands. His options were limited. Either he could be rude to his friend and walk out of the club or he could stay and watch with the rest.

  He glanced at Dinesh. His friend looked relaxed, unselfconscious. He and his buddies had ordered drinks and were munching on peanuts provided by the club. Thomas motioned to the waiter and asked for a Kingfisher. He wished that Dinesh had warned him about what to expect. Then again, if Dinesh had, he probably wouldn’t have come.

  Thomas watched as a girl dressed in an emerald-green salwar kameez danced alone. She was lovely, with lotus-shaped eyes and an almond complexion. She closed her eyes and moved with such open sensuality that Thomas felt a stirring within him. After a moment, he caught himself and turned away, awash in guilt. He searched his mind for a polite excuse to leave, but none came to him. He was frustrated with Dinesh and angry at himself.

  Sometime around midnight, one of Dinesh’s friends stood abruptly. He had spent the evening lavishing a bar girl with five-hundred-rupee notes. He looked at the girl and then nodded at a nearby waiter. He shook Dinesh’s hand and headed toward the exit. The girl, meanwhile, left the dance floor, heading toward the back of the club.

  “Where’s he going?” Thomas shouted into Dinesh’s ear.

  His friend opened his palms as if he didn’t know, but at once Thomas understood. He sat back and studied Dinesh. His friend was enamored of a tall girl with long eyelashes. He had offered her at least three thousand rupees over the course of the evening, and she had danced for him a number of times. She was in the bar line now, gyrating to a song that Thomas vaguely recognized. Dinesh reached into his wallet and took out eight five-hundred-rupee notes and held them out to her like a falconer calling down his prize bird.

  The girl’s eyes lit up and she glided across the room to stand before him. She looked at no one but Dinesh and then she began to move, first her hands, then her arms, then her shoulders. The movement spread inward from her extremities until it found fullest expression in her core. Thomas watched the spectacle unfold, seeing now what he hadn’t seen before. He was watching a ritual as old as time.

  His friend turned to him and shouted over the din, “You know how to get home?”

  Thomas met his friend’s gaze. He nodded.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Dinesh said and stood. The waiter led him to the door, and the bar girl retreated to the back of the club.

  Watching them go, Thomas knew what would happen next. Dinesh and the girl would meet again on the street. They’d take a taxi to a hotel somewhere in the city. In the privacy of their room, Dinesh would pour his passion into her until he was spent. And then she would take his money and walk away. Another night, another john. She would use the money to feed her children, or she might buy herself a new outfit on Linking Road. Then she would dance again. Tomorrow, probably, and then the next day and the day after that. The ritual would continue, and Dinesh would be forgotten.

  Until he decided to pay again.

  Thomas finished his beer and left a hundred-rupee tip for the waiter. Bidding the last of Dinesh’s friends farewell, he left the White Orchid, feeling disgusted with himself. He wondered wha
t the people at CASE would think of him for patronizing such a place. He wondered what Priya would think or whether she would care.

  He hailed a rick and told the driver to take him to the Bandstand. Tuning out the racket of the engine, he wrestled again with his mother’s idea. Twice in the past week he had been on the verge of dialing Priya’s number, but he had stopped short. How was it that the thought of looking into her eyes again could strike such terror in his heart?

  Searching for a distraction, he pulled out his BlackBerry and checked his e-mails. That morning, he had written a missive to his mother to calm her fears—she had always been a worrier—and to reassure his father that one week in India hadn’t altered his long-term goals.

  Elena had replied to his e-mail:

  Thomas, I’m delighted you are safe. Your father is off on another one of his obsessions. Ever since you left, he has been reading nonstop about the sex trade. The postman just dropped off a box of books he ordered. I’d prefer a more pedestrian topic to hear about at the dinner table, but I shouldn’t complain. I’m glad he isn’t dull. Please stay in touch and come home soon.

  Her words brought a smile to Thomas’s face. He continued to scroll through the list of unread e-mails. Among a host of spam solicitations, he saw a message from Andrew Porter.

  Hey, Thomas, I thought you’d like to know that we heard from the Fayetteville police about the incident you mentioned. Nothing concrete as yet, but we’re moving on it. It’s nasty here—lots of sleet and ice. Be happy you’re in a warm place. I envy you.

  Thomas typed back:

  Thanks for keeping me posted. Right now I’m breathing exhaust fumes. Not quite paradise, but I guess it beats the sleet.

  After sending the message, he scrolled farther down in his inbox and saw her name. He closed his eyes, wondering why life had to be so complicated. He should have told her directly that it was over. He considered deleting the e-mail, but curiosity made him read it.

  Tera had written:

  Thomas, I’m a fool, but I can’t help missing you. Where are you? The partners won’t say anything except that you took a leave of absence. It’s cold here. I miss your warmth.

  He sat back and looked out at the lights of the city. She was a decent, generous girl. He had encouraged her feelings and then cut her off at the knees without explanation. She was a fool, yes. But so was he.

  Lost in thought, he didn’t notice that the rick had come to a stop outside Dinesh’s apartment building. The driver turned around and glared at him, pointing at the meter. Thomas handed him the bills and wandered through the gate. The elevator was waiting for him. When he reached his friend’s apartment, he poured himself a glass of brandy and went out onto the veranda. He stood at the railing, inhaling the saltladen air and trying to make sense of his life.

  When at last he grew tired of the subject, he went to his room and dressed for bed, listening to the sounds of Bombay filtering in through the open window. He lay down on the mattress and closed his eyes. Sleep, when finally it came, was a blessed relief.

  On Monday, Thomas went to see Nigel McPhee after the morning meeting. A thought had been nagging at him since he left the White Orchid and had intensified after Dinesh returned home on Sunday afternoon wearing an untroubled smile. By the time the weekend was over, Thomas needed an answer.

  Nigel motioned for Thomas to take a seat. “What can I do for you?”

  Thomas got to the point. “A friend of mine took me to the White Orchid on Saturday.”

  “Ah,” Nigel said. “And you weren’t prepared, I take it.”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “Like I said before, this whole town is a brothel.”

  “Which brings me to my question. The White Orchid didn’t feel like a brothel. And the girls didn’t look like slaves.”

  Nigel regarded him thoughtfully. “What does a slave look like to you?”

  “I have no idea. But these girls seemed like they wanted to be there.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “So you’re saying they were trafficked?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. Most of them were born into it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re Bedia girls. Women from their caste have been prostitutes for centuries. You noticed, I take it, that all of them were gorgeous?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Their blood is a mystery. But their stories are all the same. Their parents groom them for this. They bring them here when they’re teenagers and put them on the bar line. They’re not controlled like the girls in the brothels down south. They live on their own. They have spending money. But it’s hard to say they’re free. It’s the only thing they know.”

  “Do the customers realize this?” Thomas thought of Dinesh.

  Nigel laughed. “The customers don’t care. A bar girl is a fantasy. The guys convince themselves that the girls are in love with them. They’re not buying a prostitute. They’re giving a gift to a girlfriend.”

  Thomas pondered this. The logic was twisted, but it made sense of Dinesh’s behavior.

  “What is CASE’s position on the dance clubs?”

  Nigel shook his head. “Places like the White Orchid are untouchable. The police take bribes from the club owners and say the girls are dancing because they want to. And they might be right. The only bars we take down are the beer bars in the suburbs where the pimps keep the girls locked away.”

  “You know,” Thomas said, “my wife once called Bombay the city of maya. I’m starting to understand what she meant.”

  Nigel nodded. “Everything is an illusion in this place.”

  Thomas thanked him and returned to his desk. Grabbing his laptop, he went to the CASE library and read every published decision he could find on trafficking prosecutions. He found a few quotes that he could use in the Jogeshwari brief, but the pickings were slim.

  Around noon, he returned to his seat in the legal department, determined to restructure the brief in his mind. He sketched out the main points on his laptop and then bulleted ideas for the headers and subheaders. Half an hour later, the logical framework of the argument was in place. He glanced at the clock and wondered about lunch.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of excited voices in field operations across the room. Though the three departments—field operations, legal, and rehabilitation—shared one large common area, most conversations were muffled by a trio of massive air conditioners that rattled and hissed from morning to evening.

  He stood up and saw three Indian field agents and a case officer enter Nigel’s office.

  “What’s going on?” he asked Eloise, an expat from the Bronx.

  Eloise set down a volume of the All India Reporter and looked over the partition at the nearly empty field operations division. “What gives, John?”

  The case officer looked up from his computer. “Rasheed got a tip. Two minor girls in Kamathipura. One of them is ‘sealed pack.’ Nigel wants to move quickly.”

  Thomas’s heart quickened. “Who gets to go on a raid?”

  Eloise smiled. “Ask Greer. He’ll probably let you tag along.”

  Soon, Nigel and his entourage emerged from his office, and Nigel went to consult with Samantha. Not long after that, she appeared and briefed the legal staff.

  “Rasheed was down on M. R. Road last night. He engaged a girl who had given him information before. She said that the pimp who ran her brothel had brought in two minor girls before New Year’s Eve. We’re going in tonight. Deepak will be the bogus customer; it turns out he knows the brothel owner.”

  After the briefing, Thomas went to Greer’s office and found him on the phone.

  “Exciting times,” Greer said when he hung up. “Rasheed’s pounding the pavement to confirm the tip.”

  “Would you mind if I go along?” Thomas asked.

  Greer took only a moment to think about it. “Now is as good a time as any,” he said.

  At five o’clock that afternoon, after a whirl
wind of preparations, Greer and Nigel assembled the field team that would participate in the raid. There were six of them. Deepak, Rasheed, and Rohit were the field agents who had knowledge of the brothel. Ravi was a field agent who often doubled as the driver of CASE’s Land Rover. Dev Ramachandra was the case officer handling the investigation. And Anita Chopra was the rehabilitation specialist assigned to provide support for the minor girls.

  Nigel asked Rasheed for the most recent report. Rasheed leaned forward in his chair.

  “The word on the street is that Suchir made the purchase about two weeks ago. Nobody knows where the girls came from, but my contacts say that he made sixty thousand rupees on the first one. There is no word on whether the other girl has been broken in.”

  “Deepak,” Nigel asked, “tell us about the layout.”

  “It’s a typical welcome brothel,” the field agent replied. “There is only one entrance I’m sure of, and that’s at the front. I’ve heard rumors that there might be an escape route, but I’ve never seen it. The lobby is on the third floor of the building. The sex rooms are behind it. Suchir has fifteen or so girls. His son, Prasad, works with him. I know he has an attic room, but I don’t know how to access it.”

  “What level of violence can we expect?” Nigel asked.

  Rohit spoke up. “I’ve never known Suchir to carry a weapon. His madam is very submissive. Prasad is the wild card. He has a temper.”

  Nigel spoke to Greer. “Make sure the police know about that.”

  “Will do.” Greer scribbled a note to himself on a notepad. “How much can we trust the Nagpada cops?” he asked Dev. “It’s been a while since our last operation down there.”