[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  “Mister,” the boy said through tears, “you can just let us out and take the car. We can call and get a ride home.”

  Jerry looked at him. “I didn't mean to take you kids,” he said, “but they will say I kidnapped you and send me back to jail if I go back.”

  “We won't tell anyone, Mister,” the boy said. “We don't want you to get in trouble; we just want to go home.”

  Jerry considered him in the mirror. “If you are good, you will get home. Just not yet. I have to do something first.”

  Jerry told himself that he couldn't go back to his place with kids that don't belong to him. If they figure out who he is, they will be all over the guest house. And they will figure it out; it was just a question of time. Winslow and his wife had seen him. And before too long, Michael and Vickie would learn that he had let them down again. He had no choice. He had to leave town. But how? He had a stolen car and not much money.

  Maybe he could let these kids out of the car close to town or near the police station. He quickly decided that there were too many problems with that plan. He was still here and not going to get what he needed without these kids. They were the leverage he needed to find an exit and to keep him out of prison—he just couldn't go back there. It was then that Jerry remembered the abandoned warehouse next to Sally's Suds. They could spend the night there, and in the morning, he could make a deal and give the kids back.

  “Please,” Katy cried. “I really want to go home now.”

  “You'll get to go home. Just not yet.” Jerry drove in the direction of Sally's Suds, wanting to get there as quickly as possible, before the license plate on the Lexus was spotted.

  After ten minutes of avoiding major streets for fear that the roadblocks would be set up or the license plate would be spotted, Jerry reached the abandoned warehouse. The block-long building made of aluminum was just as he remembered. Jerry pulled a lug wrench from the rear of the car and used it to pry open the padlock on the front door of the building.

  “Okay, you kids. Let's go.” Neither Katy not Joey moved. “Now. Get moving,” Jerry yelled. They released their belts and climbed from the car, following Jerry inside the warehouse. Inside was a cement floor. There were no rooms, just vast open space with a small mezzanine about twenty feet up and accessed by a rope ladder on the far side of the building. There were several piles of rusted metal objects that were broken and scattered. Stacks of rusted metal fixtures protruded from seemingly random locations throughout the building.

  Katy and Joey stood against the wall and watched as Jerry started to drag some of the heavier metal beams and fixtures toward the door. He made about five trips with heavy metal objects until he was satisfied that the access door was completely blocked, and there was no way the kids could get out.

  He turned and looked at the fearful faces of the kids. “We are staying here tonight,” Jerry said. “Tomorrow, we will see about getting you home.”

  “Why are we here?” Joey asked.

  “Because it's safe here,” Jerry said. “You guys sleep. I will be right here.”

  Joey looked around. “There's nowhere to sleep,” he said.

  “Do your best. We just have the floor.”

  Katy and Joey sat down together in the closest corner of the warehouse, leaning against the aluminum wall and keeping their eyes on the man. It was uncomfortable, but occasionally they drifted off to a few minutes of sleep, then they awoke to find themselves in this strange, cold, and empty place. Katy began to cry again. Joey put his arm around her and tried to resist crying so that he could make Katy feel better. The strange man at the door just looked at them. It occurred to Joey that he looked scared, too.

  * * *

  We wait impatiently for something, anything, to happen. I pace, drink coffee, and stare at the wall. I am still suppressing the urge to go out looking, but I know that I can't. Lisa lies on the couch, then walks aimlessly around the house, and in and out of the kids' rooms, crying anew with each look at their belongings.

  “What are we going to do if we don't hear from him?” she asks, terror in her eyes.

  I shake my head. “We can't let ourselves think about that,” I say lamely. Then I take her hand and say, “I don't know.”

  June 17, 2016

  At 3:00 a.m., I can't take it anymore. I pick up the directly connected phone and say, “Are you there?”

  “Yes, sir. Is something happening at the residence?”

  “No, we just can't cope with nothing happening. Do you have any new information? Anything on the identification of this guy? Has anyone spotted the car?”

  “Not yet, sir. Nothing yet. Agents are still questioning employees of Consolidated.” I shake my head in Lisa's direction to let her know that they had nothing more.

  “Okay, thank you.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was a pause and then the voice adds, “We will contact you as soon as we have more information.”

  “Yes, okay.”

  I put down the phone, as Lisa walks over to me. “What are we going to do?” she asks again, in desperation.

  “We are going to get our kids back,” I say with false confidence, but she can always see right through me. She nods and walks toward the stairs. “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “I'm going to clean the kids' closets,” she says. I nod, but say nothing more. She always needs a way to expend energy when she is nervous.

  I stand beside the living room window looking out at the street. I move from one side to the other, hoping for some sign that someone was out there watching us. I need to find the skinny guy with the sunken eyes, but there is no movement and no sign of anyone.

  It is 8:30 a.m. when the phone rings. I race to the phone and pick it up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Scott?” The voice is Donna's.

  “Hi, Donna,” I say, letting my guard down.

  “He just called here,” she says. “He said that you have thirty minutes to be here when he calls back. He also said that it needs to be just you and that he is watching to make sure. Anyone else around, and he does not call back. That was the message exactly.”

  “I need a strong tail wind and no traffic to make it in thirty minutes, but I'm on my way,” I say, slamming down the phone.

  I turn to Lisa. “He called the office and is calling back in thirty minutes. He says anyone comes with me, there will be no call back.”

  Lisa cupped her hands over her mouth and then said, “What do we do?”

  “I don't know. I guess we comply.”

  “What about the FBI?”

  “I'll start for the office. Give me a five minute head start and then pick up the direct contact phone and let them know what's going on. That way if he's watching me leave, he sees that I am alone.”

  “Okay,” she replied, nodding. She kissed me and said, “Go fast. I'll tell them that he has to know it's you alone, so they have to stay out of sight.”

  I run into the garage and open the door. As I pull out of the driveway I search all around me for anyone watching, but I see nothing. I race toward the office as fast as traffic will allow.

  * * *

  Jerry decided to make good use of his time while he waited thirty minutes before calling Winslow's office again. He saw a small used car lot not yet open for business. He walked to the back of the small office and saw a few more cars in the rear yard that were not yet priced for sale. He picked a five-year-old Buick because it was the least visible from the street. He bent down behind it and quickly removed the license plate, replacing it with the plate he had taken from the Lexus. He went back to the Lexus and quickly put the newly obtained plate on it. If the police ran the plate, they would see that it did not go with a Lexus, but at least he no longer had a plate that would be the subject of a stolen car and Amber Alert APB.

  Jerry stayed away from the car and walked two blocks, checking his watch. He dialed the number. It rang three times, and then a female voice said “Law offices of Simmons and Winslow. How may I help you?
”

  “It's me,” Jerry said without inflection. “Is he there?”

  “Not yet. He's a few minutes out.”

  “Five minutes,” Jerry said, and hung up. He checked his watch and paced. He thought about the two kids he left back in the warehouse. They were scared, but soon he would be able to give them back and disappear.

  * * *

  As the light of morning came, Joey and Katy had seen their captor climb the mountain of metal debris and squeeze out the front door. Then they heard the padlock snap closed behind him. They waited a few minutes and then pushed on the door several times, but there was no give. They hit the door, screaming for help again and again, trying to make as much noise as possible, but there was no reply. The warehouse had grown cold during the night, and they were both chilled to the bone.

  “Let's see if there is another door or a hole in the wall,” Joey said, and they began a walk around the interior of the warehouse. Every place that looked as if it might be weak or faded in color, they struck at and pushed as hard as they could. The siding did not give. Joey saw scraps of wood in one corner and picked up a stick about two feet long. He began striking at the building as they walked around, thinking that even if there was no give, maybe someone might hear the noise. They walked the entire building and did not find a spot that would open, crack, or break. As they reached the original starting point, they were out of ideas.

  Katy started to cry. “I'm scared,” she said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Joey said, still looking around the building for anything that might help.

  “Do you think that he will be back?” Katy asked.

  “I don't know. Probably,” Joey said, not thinking that that was good news. As he spoke, Joey focused on the mezzanine in the corner of the building and the rope ladder that could take him up there. “Maybe we can get out up there,” he said. Katy looked worried but said nothing. “I'll climb up there and take a look,” he said, beginning his walk toward the ladder. Katy sat down on the cement floor and leaned against the side of the warehouse, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to get warm. She watched her brother make his way to the rope ladder and look up twenty feet toward the mezzanine floor. He grabbed the unanchored rope ladder and began to climb.

  * * *

  I run into the office as the phone is ringing. Donna visibly tenses as she picks it up. “Simmons and Winslow. How may I help you?” Her countenance relaxes. “Good morning, Ms. Ramirez. Not right now, but I will have him give you a call as soon as he is available.”

  I recognize the client name. As soon as Donna hangs up, the phone rings again. “Simmons and Winslow. How may I help you?” She looks at me and nods. Into the phone she says, “Yes, he's here; hang on one moment.”

  I take the phone, and then I take a deep breath. “This is Scott Winslow.”

  “Mr. Winslow, your kids are okay. I need something from you, and then they will come home.”

  “Let me talk to them,” I respond.

  “You can't right now,” was the cryptic response.

  “Why not?”

  “They are not here with me now.”

  “Damnit, where are they?” I said, raising my voice.

  “They are okay, and if you cooperate, they come home.”

  I know I have to stay in control, so I make myself take a breath. “What do you want?”

  “I want the dismissal of the lawsuit, stamped by the court, and I want $20,000.”

  “Money? This is about money?”

  “No, it's not.” The man was momentarily quiet and then said, “I just need money to leave now. You'll get your kids back, but I need to be able to go away.”

  “I will get both, but I need a few hours. When and where do we meet?”

  “I will call you at your office at noon. Then I will tell you what to do.” Then the man hung up. I tell Donna to prepare a Request for Dismissal of the Walters case with prejudice. I have to call Kevin Walters and Bob Harris about that, but I first start making calls to arrange for the money in a hurry. Two minutes later, FBI agents Sandoval and Edmonds walk into my office.

  * * *

  The rope ladder swung and twisted unpredictably as Joey climbed. With each new step to a higher rung, he had to pause while the ladder's violent movement settled. He was halfway up the ladder, and his hands were tired and his body tense from gripping so hard.

  “Joey, I'm scared,” Katy said, looking up at his moving form. “Come back down.”

  “I have to see if there is a way out up here. Maybe we can get out of here before that guy comes back.” He took another step, and the ladder began swaying and twisting again. “I'm really getting tired,” he told her.

  Five minutes later, with arms and legs hurting, Joey put a knee up and hoisted himself onto the mezzanine. He stood up and looked down at Katy without speaking. She looked up with big eyes and waited for her brother to do what came next. After he recovered his normal breathing, he walked away from the edge and out of her view. Katy could hear the mezzanine creak and groan as Joey walked around. Then she heard him pound on one area of the wall after another.

  A few minutes later, he came back to the edge where Katy waited. “I need that stick,” he said.

  She gave him a puzzled look as she picked up the wood. “How do I get it up there?”

  “Stand on the first step and point it up. I will reach down and get it,” Joey said, looking around to make sure that man wasn't coming back yet.

  Katy held onto the ladder with one hand and the piece of wood with the other. She stepped up onto the first rung of the rope ladder and began to swing and twist, almost letting go of the ladder. “I'm scared, Joey.”

  “I know. Here, just reach up and lean the wood against the ladder.” She did, although it was hard for her to hold the wood upright, even using the ladder as support. “Good, Katy. Hold it there, and I think I can reach it.” Joey stepped onto the first rung of the ladder and found the top moving in different directions than the bottom. They both held on tightly as the rope ladder whipped and turned. As it began to stabilize, Joey reached down toward the wood. “Push up just a little bit more,” he told Katy, and he reached for the wood. Katy pushed with all her strength, and Joey reached down even farther. With one final reach, Joey lost his grip on the ladder. He fell and narrowly missed Katy. His head struck the cement floor of the warehouse with a horrible popping sound, and he did not move. Katy came down off the ladder and ran to his side, yelling, “Joey, Joey, are you okay?” She shook him and called out, “Please wake up, Joey.” He didn't open his eyes. He didn't move.

  * * *

  At noon, Donna announces, “It's him on line one.” I answer as Sandoval and Edmonds looked on. “This is Scott Winslow.”

  “Do you have both things?” the voice asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Here's what you do next. Go to 2316 Western Avenue. There is a bank of three phones in front of the grocery store. The call will come in at 12:50 on one of the phones not in use. Understand?”

  “I understand. What about my kids?”

  “You will deliver the two items to me, and I will provide the location of your children. They are safe. Same rules apply. You come alone, or you do not hear from me.”

  “Okay,” I reply as calmly as I can. “I'm on my way now.” I hang up, and Sandoval nods. We will give you a wide perimeter so that he has no idea you are not alone.”

  “You have to be sure,” I say, imploringly. “You can't scare him off. He disappears and …” I let the words trail off.

  “We get it,” Sandoval says. “Trust me, he will have no clue that we are in the area at all. Now go.”

  I rush to my car, where I already have the Request for Dismissal with Prejudice and a gym bag containing $20,000 in cash. Ten thousand of the money came from our savings, and occupies the top half of the gym bag. The other ten thousand in the gym bag comes from the FBI, and it has been marked and identified, bill by bill.

  After a brief conversation about
what was occurring and the threat to my children, Bob Harris quickly obtains consent from Consolidated to set aside the dismissal and reinstate the action after the dismissal was delivered to the kidnapper. Today Bob Harris is not an asshole.

  I race down the freeway so that I can make the designated location by 12:45 p.m. I see red lights go on behind me. This can't be happening. I say a brief prayer, seeking any kind of help. Then I punch a button and hear, “Sandoval.”

  “I am being pulled over,” I say into the phone line. “If I get stopped, I won't make it in time.”

  “What agency?” she asks.

  I check my rearview to be sure. “Highway Patrol,” I say.

  “Here's what you do. Put on your signal and begin to slow down, but take about thirty seconds to pull over. We'll take care of the rest. I'll stay on the line with you. Do you have your signal on to signify that you are going to pull over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you slowing?

  “Yes.”

  “Current speed?”

  “Forty-five miles per hour and slowing.”

  “Perfect. Just a little longer. Keep slowing.”

  “Okay, I'm down to thirty-five and pulling over.”

  “Just a few seconds move,” Sandoval says. I can hear Edmonds talking in the background. “Okay,” she says, “you should be getting a signal shortly.”

  I look in the rearview, and the lights go off. The Highway Patrol car begins to fall back. I pick up speed, and he stays behind me, moving slowly, no longer following. “Looks like I'm clear,” I say. “He backed off.”

  “Do what you need to in order to get there on time. You won't be stopped again,” Sandoval says.

  “Thank you,” I say, and I accelerate to over eighty miles per hour. I check the clock on the control panel. It is twelve thirty-two. I think I can make it. I race around other freeway traffic, drawing one finger salutes from two different drivers. I race down the off-ramp for Western Avenue and swing a right turn against the red light at thirty miles per hour. Ahead traffic is completely stopped. I don't have the time to wait, so I drive the shoulder between parked cars, and then force my way back into traffic. There is a red light two hundred yards ahead, and traffic is getting through at only a few cars per green. I launch into the opposing traffic lanes and roll down the road at forty miles per hour. As I get to the light it turns green, and I force myself back in with traffic that will make it across the intersection. I strike the front bumper of a green Ford and keep going, weaving in and out of cars on the other side of the light. Three miles to go, and it is 12:44 p.m. I know that I am not going to make it, and I am starting to panic. I am swerving left and right through traffic relentlessly. Twice more I venture into oncoming traffic lanes to pass someone. I double-park in front of the grocery store at 2316 Western and leap from the car. People are blasting their horns as I tie up traffic and run, leaving my car double-parked.