by Peg Herring
“What do you mean?”
“Judge Comdon takes a special interest in certain young men who come into her court, usually first-time offenders accused of a serious but not necessarily heinous crime.”
“Such as?”
“Wrecking a car while intoxicated. Injuring someone in a fight. Sex with an under-age girl.”
“Crimes where the judge has leeway in deciding punishment.”
“Right. Say a guy gets drunk and rapes an equally drunk co-ed at a frat party.” Chris shrugged. “That’s a rotten thing to do, and in today’s climate of non-tolerance of the whole boys-will-be-boys argument, he could be punished to the full extent of the law. But hey, he was drunk too, so the judge offers him a deal. He can redeem himself by completing her program, Rehabilitate Louisiana. That’s where the judge takes advantage of the accused.”
“How?” The look on his face stopped her. “They have to—?”
“They don’t have to. They can choose to do prison time and come out with a felony record.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Did Mark ever make you help him get women?”
The memory hit her like an ice cube in the heart. “Twice that I remember. I was supposed to cry about my dead mother.”
“He made me do that a lot, at least until I got too old to get away with it.” Chris fiddled with his wedding ring. “This woman does something similar, pulling her victims in like a spider in a web.”
“How?”
“Rehabilitate Louisiana is supposed to be like community service. Men are ‘confined’ to the judge’s estate, where they do tasks that teach them ‘work skills.’” He made imaginary quotation marks. “From what I gather, they live high on the hog but serve as the judge’s boy-toys.”
“Don’t people suspect this is going on?”
He fiddled with a lever on the side of his chair. “The men aren’t objecting, and as for those involved, professionals tend to protect their own. Corruption in the ranks makes them all look bad.”
“Yes, I ran into that with—I know what you mean.”
Meeting Robin’s eyes to let her know he saw her equivocation, Chris took a drink of his beer. “I first read the accusation on a blog online, and when I looked at the judge’s candidates for rehabilitation—well, you’ll get it when you see them.”
Robin leaned back in her chair. “She sounds like a possible KNP target.”
“And what does KNP stand for?”
She tilted her head to one side. “Maybe once we nail this judge, I’ll tell you.”
***
When she got back to the motel room, Robin began looking at internet articles about Beverly Comdon. She’d occupied the bench in her Louisiana parish for thirty-two years, and her website claimed “Judge Bev” worked to bring “strong, law-based justice” to the people. That got her re-elected term after term.
Robin read an opposing opinion on-line. In a post titled About a Certain Judge, an angry writer accused “a so-called” lady named Bev of being a cougar. Despite misspellings and almost non-existent punctuation, the piece resonated with truth, claiming that Rehabilitate Louisiana needed to be investigated. Since the site operated under a pseudonym and the comment section was disabled, she was unable to learn the blogger’s identity.
The land-line phone on the desk beside her rang, making Robin jump. Guessing it was one of those annoying calls where the management asks if the room is satisfactory, she picked up the receiver and responded with a curt, “Hello?”
“Mrs. Taylor?” The voice was light, the r’s elided. “I’m calling about a crime you recently committed.”
Robin’s throat closed like a clenched fist. “Excuse me?”
“I am aware of what you did in Richmond.”
Her lungs seemed to be filling with cement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We need to meet face to face.”
“Um, I don’t see any reason to—”
“I’m downtown,” the caller interrupted, and something about the o’s said he wasn’t a native speaker of English. “I am sitting on the steps of the monument and facing Starbucks. I’ll wait half an hour. Then I will call the local police and tell them everything I know.”
She gripped the receiver so hard her hand hurt. “I don’t have a clue what—”
“Talk to me or to the police, Mrs. Taylor. Discuss it with your husband if you like, but don’t take too long.”
“Listen, I don’t know—”
“I’m wearing an orange leather jacket.” The call ended.
She stood holding the handset for some time. Should they run? Though her imagination conjured a statewide manhunt, she decided no. If the caller wanted justice, he’d have told the police where they were. He’d called her because he wanted money.
She set the phone in place. “Cam, I need to go back downtown.”
For once he sensed the tension in her voice. “Should I come?”
It was a difficult question. He was big enough to scare the man away, strong enough to fight if the need arose. Still, if the police were waiting to arrest her, she wanted Cam to have a chance to escape.
“Stay here. I’ll call if I need you.”
She put on her jacket and gloves slowly, trying to decide what to do. Demanding a meeting didn’t feel like something a cop would do, but if this guy knew about the KNP, why hadn’t he called the police? Would he offer the chance to turn themselves in? That didn’t feel right. It had to be money he was after.
As she left the room, Robin picked up the bag that held their remaining cash. If she had to, she’d give the mysterious caller all of it, come back for Cam, and get out of Indy. She checked to make sure she had her room key. Cam was already focused on his game again.
Be ready to run if I call. She didn’t say it aloud. She just closed the cheap wooden door with a scrape.
Chapter Eleven
When the guy said his jacket was orange, he wasn’t kidding. Robin saw him from some distance away, a small figure on the steps to the monument, about halfway up. Though the air had been crisp all morning, the sun had warmed the afternoon. In spite of that, the man’s shoulders were hunched and his head pulled into the jacket in a turtle-like pose. He seemed totally engrossed in watching the traffic circle, but when she started up the steps, he stood and made a polite nod that was almost a bow. “Mrs. Taylor.” Up close she recognized him as the one who’d delivered the ransom and taken Senator Buckram home.
If he’d meant their meeting to be discreet, he hadn’t dressed for it. In addition to the jacket, which was by no means a subtle shade, he wore mustard-yellow sweat pants, a green scarf with gold leaves scattered across it, and eyeglasses possibly inherited from a long-dead ancestor. “I’m Hua.” Shyly, he extended a hand, which she grasped only long enough to be polite. She didn’t ask if the name, which rhymed with rah, was his first or last name. They weren’t going to spend enough time together for that to matter.
“You wanted to speak with me about something, Mr. Hua?” She tried to sound as if she had no idea what his call had been about. He knows that’s a lie, or you wouldn’t have come.
“Please sit down.”
Robin obeyed, and the cold stone immediately leached body heat from her thighs. Sitting down beside her, Hua spoke in a tone that wouldn’t carry to the sidewalk below. “You kidnapped Senator Buckram and took a great deal of money from him.”
“I—” Dread stopped her voice, and she had to try again. “I—”
He waved a hand like a magician promising a wondrous trick. “The senator says two men in a gray van took him to a storage unit and demanded money for his release, among other things. He is fairly certain they traveled on the freeway. I called storage places outside the city and asked if someone driving a gray van had rented a unit within the last few days. Once I found the lot, I hacked nearby traffic cameras and found the van stopped at a light just minutes after the abduction. That gave me the license number. The photo showed me the senator was wrong: he was not abduct
ed by two men, but a man and a woman.”
All those mystery shows on TV, and I didn’t remember to obscure the plate with dirt!
“The registered owner of the van reported he recently sold it to Richard and Lynn Taylor. The Taylors were gone from the Merry Motel by the time I located it, but yesterday their credit card was used to book a room near here.” He raised his hands in a “ta-da” gesture. “I called the front desk and was connected to your room.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“I arrived this morning on a Greyhound bus. I have no vehicle and very little money. By consulting a helpful tourist map posted on the station wall, I saw I could walk to this landmark. I also felt it would be easy for you to find, even if you didn’t know the city well.”
“You’re pretty smart.” A little flattery can’t hurt.
“Yes. I have learned quite a bit about your activities. What I don’t know is why you did as you did.”
She wasn’t about to tell a stranger the senator reminded her of her scumbag father. “I want to make cheaters pay for what they do to good people.” She met Hua’s gaze, hoping he’d see it was an honest answer.
“And what did you do with the money?
“We kept half of it. The other half went to charity.”
They’d made a game of it, letting chance decide which nonprofit would get the donation. Em had chosen a time and Cam named a TV channel. The first charity mentioned after seven a.m. on Channel 6 on Saturday morning had received thirty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars, mailed from a West Virginia post office in a Priority Mail box. They’d handled the money wearing gloves, but she doubted the Meals on Wheels program of greater Richmond would look that particular gift horse in the mouth.
Hua’s brow furrowed on hearing of their donation, and Robin felt a tiny glow of satisfaction. There were some things he didn’t know. If she convinced him her motives were honorable, might he keep what he’d discovered quiet?
“You mentioned calling the police. Is that negotiable?” She’d prepared a text message before leaving the car, simply the word run, and she had her phone in her pocket. If there were cops waiting at the base of the monument to arrest her, she’d send the message and give Cam the chance to get away.
“There will be no police. I only said that to assure you would come.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Saturday morning, Senator Buckram ordered me to learn who kidnapped him and took his money.”
“And you’ve done that.” Some of her nervousness bubbled out in anger. “I guess that makes you a great employee, but I have to tell you. Working for a corrupt man makes you a corrupt employee.”
Something flashed in Hua’s dark eyes, but he answered calmly. “You misunderstand, Mrs. Taylor. I am not the senator’s employee. I am his property.”
“What?” It came out louder than Robin intended, and she glanced around to see if anyone had turned to look at them. No one had, so she asked, “How?”
Hua’s lips pressed together briefly. “I was brought to this country nine years ago by...businessmen who deal in such things.”
“They sound like human traffickers to me.”
Hua nodded, allowing her to put her own label on it. “I was one of four orphans taken from my village in Thailand. Our caregivers were told we would receive an excellent education and worthwhile employment.” His lips tightened. “Our friends were happy for us. They thought we were lucky.”
“Instead you were sold as slaves.” Robin was aware that many of the world’s sex workers, domestics, and farm laborers were people tricked into servitude with promises of a better life. She touched Hua’s arm, all thoughts of the police and what might happen to her melting away. “I’m sorry.”
Scratching at a spot on his jacket sleeve with his index finger Hua said, “Senator Buckram was fascinated with the idea of having a houseboy, a servant who was completely devoted to him.”
“Like some millionaire in a ’40s movie.”
“I suppose so. My handlers saw that I was trained to his express wishes. For years I took care of his clothing, kept his apartment tidy, cooked his meals, and even helped when he entertained guests in Richmond.”
Robin rested her chin on her knuckles. “How did he explain your presence?”
“The senator has a pleasant story he tells visitors. In this tale we met when he visited Bangkok. I was a street child who tried to steal his wallet. Despite my thievery, he took a liking to me and offered a job and a home.” Hua rubbed at his smooth chin. “People often remind me to be grateful for the senator’s generosity.”
“What does Mrs. Buckram think?”
Hua’s opinion flickered briefly in his eyes, but his voice remained flat. “We have never met, though I suspect she knows about me. I remain at the Richmond apartment, which she never visits.”
“Has he—Does he...?” She didn’t know how to put it, but Hua got the idea.
“The senator does not love boys. He only loves the idea of owning another person.”
“You’ve been a prisoner for years and people either don’t notice or don’t care?”
His smile was tinged with bitterness. “People see what they will. You yourself have probably seen slaves in your lifetime, but because you are unaware, you fail to notice the signs.”
That she understood. Her own experiences caused her to notice the signs of abuse: odd bruises, eyes that avoided direct contact, children who didn’t cry when they fell or got hit by a baseball. Mark had often warned, “Keep your mouth shut about what happens at home.” Being his kid had been a lot like slavery.
“Does anyone else know your, um, status?”
“The senator’s security expert does. He finds my state amusing. Another man, Senator Buckram’s business manager, felt sorry for me, but he feared losing his position if he questioned the senator.”
“A coward.”
Hua shrugged. “Mr. Dotsun had a prison record and therefore could not find honest work. Senator Buckram hired him to ‘cook the books.’ Is that idiom correct?”
“Dotsun keeps the senator’s secret books?”
“Mr. Paul Dotsun died suddenly a year ago.” Hua put a hand on his heart. “I took his place.”
“You?”
Hua spread his hands. “Mr. Dotsun was an excellent teacher, and I have some affinity for both numbers and computers.”
“But you’re just—I mean, how old are you?”
Hua smiled. “I am not sure. Perhaps eighteen.”
“At ‘perhaps eighteen’ you’re Buckram’s houseboy and his book-cooker. Very economical for him.”
Hua’s eyes clouded. “After I replaced Mr. Dotsun, my life with the senator became less—troublesome. He trusted me more and even taught me to drive his vehicle, because it was worthwhile for him.”
Do what I say and I’ll be good right back at you, Mark used to say. Buckram was like her father in more than just looks.
Suddenly Em’s voice replaced Mark’s in her head. Don’t fall for a hard luck story just because it reminds you of your own!
Robin forced herself to focus on facts. “Once you had access to a computer, why didn’t you call for help?”
Hua’s expression said she couldn’t possibly understand. “The senator often said since I am so small, my body could easily be concealed in a trash can.”
Even during the worst of Mark’s tirades, Robin hadn’t faced the threat of death. She’d had Chris and her mother for support while Hua had been a child alone in a strange country. “Sorry. Stupid question. I can’t imagine what it was like for you.”
He bowed gracefully. “Thank you for understanding.” Rubbing his hands together he began, “On Friday night the senator called me to deliver the ransom you demanded. He did not want others to know what had happened.”
Robin smiled for the first time. “You chose the fluorescent chartreuse backpack?”
“Did you like it?”
“A little showy, but it worked.”
<
br /> Hua pulled his jacket tighter as the breeze swept over them. “I do not think Mr. Buck knew how much he revealed on the way home, but as I listened I thought, ‘Promises of better behavior? Requirement to enter drug treatment? This is a very unusual kidnapping.’ I decided that once I found these criminals, I would study them.”
“Study us?”
“I believe your gang has admirable motives.” He turned to Robin. “Is this an insult, to call you a gang?”
She chuckled. “I’m not sure what to call us.”
“No matter.” Hua’s posture straightened—not that he was a slumper—and he made a formal statement. “Mrs. Taylor, I would like to join you. I believe my skill with computers can greatly benefit your work.”
She took a moment to let that sink in. “I don’t think you know what you’re volunteering for.”
“Do you attempt to stop those who prey on others?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“That is what I am volunteering for. I told Senator Buckram I could find no trace of the people he seeks, and I did what I could to erase all records of your visit to Richmond. Once that was done, I escaped.”
“Escaped?”
“When the senator leaves Richmond, I am locked in my room. There is security, but a window in my bathroom is thought too small to require an alarm.” He grinned. “You have noticed I am not a large person, so I was able to exit there.”
“That wasn’t easy, or you’d have done it before this.”
He considered. “It is eight floors up, so there were precarious moments.”
“You crawled out a window eight stories high?”
“There was a balcony below, and another below that one, and so on. In the end I reached the ground, shaken but feeling rather satisfied with myself.” He tugged at his jacket hem as if reliving the moment it had taken to recover. “I walked several blocks before asking a passerby how to get to the bus station.”
“So you could come here and join our gang?”
“Once I satisfied myself that your intentions are truly good.”