Hush in the Storm

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  Then, the reason became as clear as if I was reading it off newsprint. The news media wanted to know about me and my delusional coworker turned kidnapper. The connection with Tom was the newsmaker—not social awareness issues—which would make audiences tune in. Even if I tried to steer the conversations to trafficking, my story and his were at the heart of it. The interviewers at my door had twisted their questions to be about him and his treatment of me. So would the national ones. My testimony would have put the paparazzi on a man hunt for Tom. The under-funded police detectives might give up, but the press wouldn’t. They’d find him, and then the Feds would swoop in.

  What an idiot I had been. In the effort to keep him from danger I might have shoved him further in. Maybe he didn’t know the goons roughed me up so much. I had to tell him. Was he still in the store?

  I scanned the parking lot and noticed a familiar white van. Mae Lin leaned against it as she filed her claws.

  Tom brushed past me. Before I could speak, he sauntered over to the van. He placed his hand on Mae Lin’s waist and whispered into her ear. She grinned as she zeroed her eyes on me. They turned to thin slats in her round face.

  I got in my car and left. In my rearview mirror, I saw her wrap one hand around the back of Tom’s neck and a long, skinny jean and boot-clad leg around his thigh. She planted her mouth firmly over his.

  At least this time no syringe had been jabbed into me. Only a dagger to my heart.

  My eyes stung. “I hope you will be very happy together.” I spoke in a choked whisper.

  CHAPTER NINE

  For the next week, I spent a good deal of time online reading about trafficking and illegal immigrants. It gave me something to focus on besides the image of Tom with Mae Lin, which still haunted me. I became fascinated with peeling the onion of information beyond the surface search results. Each article provided another clue, another source to Google. Somewhere, imbedded in all this information, were roads which might lead me to Monica or Marisol.

  Poor Marisol. I made up a calendar and figured out her due date as best I could. I handed the flyers out in pregnancy clinics hoping, that if she would have been filtered through this area and dumped by the coyotes, she would seek them out for help.

  Because she was Catholic, I doubted she would’ve gone to an abortion clinic, so I didn’t visit any of those. How could I? My own memories prevented me.

  Marisol would be too far along by now anyway. It was almost Thanksgiving.

  * * *

  The National Human Trafficking Resource Center clerk took down my information. She explained they were mostly in the business of assisting already discovered victims with health and legal services. Trafficked victims can receive free assistance in exchange for information on their abusers. If Marisol ever contacted them, they’d ask her permission to contact me.

  Maria Gonzales-Taylor was assigned to be my local contact. I met her over lunch in a diner just a few blocks from campus. She carefully went over the program with me.

  “We intervene by requesting the local law enforcement officials grant immunity to any girl who has been prostituted in exchange for information. By law, if they lead us to their captors, the girls get cash assistance as well as medical and social services.”

  “So, they agree to help you?”

  Maria shook her head. “Very few actually do. You have to understand these girls came to the U.S. to make money so their families could have better lives. The coyotes say they will send the money home. These girls have revealed where their families live. That’s the hold over them.”

  I gave her a blank look. “So?”

  “They have been told their families will suffer the consequences if they do not obey.”

  “Aw.” I sighed back the tears. Marisol’s frightened face loomed in my mind. “That’s why it’s hard for them to break away?”

  She nodded. “Exactly. Unless the vultures are caught first, they fear they’ll be endangering themselves and their loved ones back home. But they’re also afraid to be part of the process to catch them.”

  I shook my head. “What a hold those scumbags place on these poor girls.”

  Maria stirred sweetener into her coffee. She took a sip, grimaced, then reached for another packet. “The coffee is strong here.”

  “Sleep-deprived students like it that way.” I leaned toward her. “So I have to first convince Marisol and Monica their families will be safe, when I find them.”

  She shook her head again. “Fear keeps some from running away. But it isn’t always the case. Some of these girls were abused at home. They escaped to the U.S. to get away from that.”

  I handed her the bowl of individual creamers. “But then they are sexually abused here as well.”

  Maria clinked her spoon around the ceramic mug. “Yes, but it is all they know, so it seems, well, normal. It is what men do. At least here, they are told, they will make good money letting men do that. They will receive decent living quarters, clothes, good food, and cash to send home. They are told if they get pregnant or come down with something, their ‘uncle,’ so to speak”—she used her fingers as quotation marks—“will take them to clinics who do not ask for papers and get them treated.”

  “So, the girls figure this is better than life back home.” All this seemed so unbelievable, yet after what I had seen in the New Mexico desert, very believable to me. “They just want a better life. These young women have been convinced they don’t have the power to achieve it on their own.”

  Maria took a gulp of her coffee and nodded. “Exactly. But the opposite is true. Once they get here in the U.S., they live in squalor. All the money goes to the trafficker. If they become pregnant, they are often dumped out somewhere to fend for themselves, or they are killed.”

  My heart jolted. Was Marisol still alive? “Why?” I squeaked.

  “Once they begin to show, they are useless. Abortions cost too much money. These girls are expendable commodities, Jen, not people. Only occasionally will one of the coyotes pay for an abortion, if the girl is particularly popular with his clients. Sometimes, they let the girl stay pregnant, then once the baby is born, sell it on the black market.”

  “So maybe Marisol is being cared for?”

  She shrugged her shoulder. “Maybe. But that kind of situation is rare.”

  My eyes welled. I blinked and turned away.

  “Of course, most of them get hooked on drugs they are given to keep them skinny and, well, tireless. That is the other bond their pimps have on them. I wish I could be of more help.”

  I handed her a piece of paper. On it were sketched renditions of Monica and Marisol. “I hired a street vendor artist to draw their faces from my memory. He did a great job. I want to make these into flyers to plaster in and around the Metroplex. I thought I’d start with the DART light rail commuter stops and bus stops.”

  Maria shook her head. “That kind of action could make their traffickers take them elsewhere, or just get rid of them. Their clients won’t want to be with girls whose faces are known. They will no longer be useful.”

  “They’ll die?”

  She looked me in the eye. “If these girls are in the Metroplex, and they very well may be, you have to be careful about how many waves you make.”

  I nodded and looked at my sketches. My finger rubbed across the innocent faces staring back at me. I renewed my vow to find them. But how?

  “Jen?” Maria’s voice softened to a tender whisper. “Don’t do this alone. If you spot them or their captors, call me. We know how to take it from there.”

  I smiled back and clasped her hand. “I will. I promise.”

  She slipped me her home phone number and cell phone number. “Good.”

  * * *

  On Sunday, Jake pulled me aside at the coffee hour after services.

  “I’ve been praying for you.”

  I grinned. “I have something to tell you. I’ve talked with the government agencies in that pamphlet you gave me.”

  “And?”


  “I was assigned a local contact. I told her all about Marisol and Monica. She gave me good leads.”

  “Be careful, Jen.”

  I patted his sleeve. “I will. I know who to call if I spot the girls, or the men who have them.”

  “I’d like to see you again.” His eyes pleaded, then widened. “I mean in counseling of course. We have some unfinished business concerning your feelings about certain men in your life. You still have some issues to sort through, no?”

  My back straightened. “No. I’m fine. Really. Washed that man right out of my hair, as the old song goes.”

  “Ahhh.” Pastor Jake’s expression didn’t waver. “But is he out from under your skin, as another old song goes?”

  I shifted my gaze to my shoes. Was I that transparent, or was he that intuitive?

  I felt the weight of his warm hand on my shoulder. “Call Mrs. Edwards to set an appointment for this week.”

  Soon, he was off to chat with another member of the congregation.

  Meeting with him was the last thing I wanted to do. Perhaps I was swallowing my feelings, but I was tired of tasting them in my mouth all the time. Was it so wrong to want to bury them deep in my gullet like the whale did to Jonah in today’s church reading? I wanted to taste only the sweetness of normalcy for a while.

  As I watched Jake move among his flock, I bit my lip and wished he was twenty years older and balding, instead of being so close to my own age. Why did young ministers look so handsome?

  Tom’s crude comments echoed in my head. I had to get a grip. Right now what I needed the most was to stay away from all men.

  * * *

  The holidays were a blur to me. I didn’t have family and didn’t feel like celebrating with anyone except Tom Cat. I went to church services, then spent the rest of the time downloading movies. I told myself Jake was too busy for counseling sessions, and even phoned Mrs. Edwards to tell him I’d make an appointment after the New Year. To pass the time until my classes began, I searched the Internet for more anti-trafficking organizations. I sent checks to several missionary groups and hosted a jewelry party in my apartment complex and at the church to raise money for one called Women at Risk, or W.A.R.

  * * *

  Time marched on. Cliché as it sounds, it really seemed that way. Once my courses started, my life became regimented again. I made several friends in the same classes. None of them knew what had happened to me, which was a blessed relief. It felt good to be normal again. I did tell them I was widowed and seeking new avenues. Vivian, another widow who was twenty years my senior, tried to talk me into attending her grief group. I told her I was in private counseling.

  The lies just kept rolling off my tongue. I never made an appointment to see Jake. I’d quit going to worship. I didn’t feel like being asked any more questions. I wanted answers.

  Instead, I contacted another resource in Washington, D.C. which was a key player in the war against illegal immigration abuse. A woman named Rebecca headed their anti-trafficking department. I emailed her, saying I was doing a research project for my degree. Yes, another lie.

  In a conference call, she and one of the education coordinators for moral issues, named Steve, told me more about the plight of these victims. I learned sex was not the only angle.

  Many worked in restaurants as dishwashers and in motels as maids, sixteen to eighteen hours a day. All of the money went to their traffickers. Boys, too, were trafficked, though more often they were put to work on farms picking produce. But some were used for sex as well.

  “My world has been so sheltered.” My voice weakened. “I had no idea.”

  “I felt that way at first as well.” Empathy softened Rebecca’s tone. “If these women try to leave, or turn these men into the authorities, they are threatened with their lives, and the lives of their loved ones back home. That is why TVPA is not very effective.”

  “Yes,” Steve agreed. “Plus, they are often hooked on drugs to further create a bond of dependency. The coyotes give them meth so they don’t gain weight and have more energy.”

  “And if they get pregnant?” My voice carried an ounce of hope for Marisol.

  “Well,” Rebecca heaved a deep sigh. “The good money makers have illegally acquired pills shoved down their throats to make them abort. Otherwise, they are tossed on the streets to fend for themselves.”

  I choked back the tears. I knew all too well about that pill. Again I lied. “Yes, it’s what the local agent for the National Human Trafficking Resource Center told me.”

  I heard the woman shift in her chair. “Did she explain this life is all they know, so if these girls are tossed out, they find other drug dealers and other pimps?”

  “Yes. It seems so...useless.”

  “You feel helpless to do anything, right?” The coordinator’s voice filled with empathy. “We understand, trust us.”

  “How do you do this day in and day out?” I swallowed. “How heartbreaking.”

  “We pray together a lot.” A clear, sweet faith echoed in her voice. “We also keep hope that, through public awareness, we can put enough pressure on these coyotes to make a dent.”

  I hesitated to ask the next question. “How do men find these girls? You know, the ones who want to, well...”

  Steve spoke up. “Different communities have different symbols. These men know what they are. You’re in Texas, right? Watch for cowboy boots with spurs. If you see them on a logo for a business, trafficking may be going on in the back rooms. Not just sex, but slave labor, too.”

  “The DFW area is a prime spot because so many Interstates connect there,” Rebecca added. “The main routes of trafficking follow the Interstates because they can get their victims to their locations quicker. Besides, the traffic volume is greater so they can maintain anonymity.”

  It began to make sense. The pieces of the puzzle became less gray. “Because bigger cities are easier to hide in?”

  “You got it. Also, remember, these girls do not trust police because in their countries government is so corrupt. If they spot law enforcement, they will scatter like flies.”

  I learned from talking with them that Hispanics are not the only victims. Girls from Asia, Africa, and even European countries are enticed to the U.S., then thrown into the world of trafficking. I also read a true story about how our nation’s girls are trafficked by other cultures here in the U.S. For political reasons, some Arab men enjoy abusing white American girls and pay top dollar to do so. Such was the case of blond-haired, blue-eyed teenager Theresa Flores.1 Her middle class East Coast parents never knew. The more I read, the more confused I became about how to proceed.

  What could I do besides wander the streets, or patrol in my car at night, trying to get a glimpse of young Hispanic women, in the hopes one of them would talk and lead me to Marisol or Monica? That seemed not only dangerous but impractical. How could I, an Anglo, tawny-red haired, American woman with hazel-blue eyes, ever enter such a world and come out unscathed?

  I couldn’t. Nobody could.

  * * *

  I chose to write letters to congressmen and speak to women’s church groups. At least locally I had a bit of something akin to fame. My name, thanks to my faked death and resurrection, still opened doors. I concentrated my talks, however, on the trafficking issue, saying my story was less important. My answer became rote. “God protected me and yet opened my eyes to greater horrors through the experience. Because I was kidnapped, I can relate to these girls even though my captor treated me well.”

  I was careful not to mention his name. Either one of them.

  Word spread throughout the Metroplex. I even got on two talk show radio programs and was a keynote speaker at the Rotary Club’s meeting. The agent with a top publishing house contacted me again, but I turned them down for now.

  “I want to concentrate on my primary goal.”

  The literary agent’s voice was metered but kind. “We’d already assigned a ghost writer. You know that.”

&n
bsp; I remained silent.

  After a moment she agreed. “You know, if you actually find the girls, it would make it an even better book. Maybe even a TV movie.”

  I promised I’d stay in touch.

  * * *

  I never heard from Tom again. Not even a stealth Snickers on the door stoop for Valentines or sneaked into my Easter basket. I shoved his memory to the back of my heart.

  The weather turned warm and sultry, as springtime often does in Texas. I was getting the hang of Spanish, surprised I actually recalled as much as I did. So far I had made B’s on the pop exams Señora Ybarra loved to throw at the class. The tests were a manifestation of her unyielding power over the eighteen of us, who ranged anywhere on the spectrum from businessmen to housewives, from young twenties to early sixties. As an exercise, I learned to pray in Spanish for Monica and Marisol. Somehow, I hoped it would help them get the message that someone cared. Marisol must be almost six months along, if she was still pregnant.

  * * *

  After Easter, I sat with two women I’d met in one of my classes, Mindy and Vivian, the older widow. We were in a busy Mexican restaurant, a popular local chain with both indoor and outdoor seating. We sipped Diet Cokes, chomped on nachos, and talked about study schedules so we could prep for our term exams.

  I excused myself to go inside to the ladies’ room. As I walked the corridor to the restrooms in the back, I heard a clamor in the kitchen and raised Hispanic voices. A man stormed out. As the double-doors swung, I saw a young girl being slapped to her knees. A shock gripped my heart when she turned toward the door. I knew her face. Monica.

  I rushed to the door. In an instant, two strong hands pulled me back. “You lost, Señora?”

  I turned to see a tall man with tattoos on his arms and neck. “Restroom?”