“I know, but I’m so scared. What will happen to us?”
She continued to watch the woman who did not appear to be listening. She seemed harmless and probably didn’t speak English, but looks could be very deceiving. Who knows what kind of weapon she might have under that scarf thing?
Finally, she answered her friend’s question. “You know what is happening as well as I do. We’re being sold.”
She observed the soft padded walls upholstered in subtle shades of tan and cream leather. Her eyes shifted to the plush white carpet and the tasteful fabrics.
Recalling the sumptuous décor in the bathroom, she added, “At least whoever is buying us is wealthy. Who knows if that is good or bad.”
She recalled the promise she’d made to herself that she would die before accepting slavery. Then she looked back at her friend, who was shaking with fear, and knew she would watch out for her companion as long as possible no matter what happened.
The woman buckled her seat belt and gestured for them to do the same. Up front, the first officer spoke to the tower in near-perfect English. After receiving clearance for their flight to Doha, Qatar, with a refueling stop at Eden Airport near Oran in northern Algeria, the captain taxied out to the runway.
Already far away from Las Vegas, the two hapless street teens journeyed to a foreign land, where their new lives defined by servitude and submission would begin. As happened, both girls were sold to the same wealthy businessman. For many years, they would perform household chores and provide sexual favors to their owner and his friends.
They would in fact watch over each other and nurse each other’s cuts and bruises inflicted by drunken, violent partygoers and by their owner, who meted out harsh punishment for even the smallest disobedience.
Their owner would assure them that before they reached the used-up age of twenty-two, he would release them and provide a small stipend with which they could set up housekeeping in a low-class section of the beautiful modern city of Doha.
Having no idea whether to believe him, they would nonetheless learn to speak Arabic and to act and dress appropriately in the predominately Muslim country. Neither would ever return to the United States, and over time, their previous lives—and America—would become distant memories.
10
Day 3
“Hi, you two,” I said, approaching the same booth at the El Cortez for the second morning. This time, Tom was already seated with Don, and I slid in beside him as the waitress approached.
“Just coffee, black please,” I said to her. “How was your flight, Tom?”
“Fine, I’m looking forward to trying to be of some help here, but Don is telling me kind of a disturbing story.”
“I assume you mean the trafficking and Asian gang problems.”
“Yes, this is a little more complicated than I expected.”
I noticed then that Don was fidgeting. Scrambled eggs and toast sat untouched in front of him. “Are you okay, Don?”
“No, I was just telling Tom that I have to go back to Seattle to take care of some things.”
“Oh? Are Charlie and Penelope all right?”
“Physically, yes. But the school called, and her teacher says she has been disruptive in class. Charlie says he can’t get her to talk about it.” He slumped to the side with his hand on the seat beside him.
“I’m exhausted from everything that’s happened … or rather hasn’t happened here. Look, I need to tell you both something. I went back to the motel again early this morning. There were two girls who looked about fourteen out by the curb, smoking. So I asked them if they knew Pammie. They stared at me like they were out of it—maybe on drugs or just spooked, I don’t know. Then they shook their heads and almost ran inside one of the rooms.”
“I’m so sorry, Don. Why don’t you go on home and let Tom and me poke around some more here. We’ll keep the appointment at STAY and let you know if we find out anything about her.”
“That’s what I’ll have to do, but there’s more to the story. When the girls went into the room, a guy stepped outside. He was black or at least very dark, and I swear it was like something out of a movie. Ultrabaggy pants, silver and black high-top athletic shoes, cap on backward, and, believe it or not, a bunch of gold chains around his neck. It was almost funny, except for the way he glared at me. I didn’t want any trouble, so I took off walking back here.”
I suddenly had a more hopeful feeling. Maybe the guy was someone we could talk to who might know Pammie, even if she’s no longer staying there. I wondered if that was remotely possible.
I asked, “Didn’t Brooks and the cops say that when they first found Pammie at the Green Door, there was a pimp wannabe taking care of the kids? Maybe that was him.”
“Yeah, my thoughts too. Will you go back there for me, Tom?”
Tom cringed. “We can try, but we can’t force anyone to talk to us.”
For the next ten minutes, Don and I filled Tom in on everything Craig Hollister told us. Don said, “He told us more than 50 percent of sex trafficking is something called domestic pimp control. It’s where a pimp controls one female or multiple females and plies them in the sex trade. I guess they are adaptable guys. They’re going wherever people are buying sex.”
“Yes,” I added. “To find child victims, cops scour the city’s streets, motels, and hotels, as well as the Internet. Craig said that last year, Metro’s vice section rescued 120 juveniles from the sex trade, including five boys—60 percent of those victims were from right here in Nevada. They’re runaways or kids from broken or poverty-stricken homes.”
After breakfast, we said goodbye to Don, and he went up to his room to pack. He planned to take a taxi to the airport and find a quick flight to Seattle. Tom and I enjoyed small talk a while longer. I was careful to keep it light and not too personal. He asked how Mick was doing, and I decided to be honest.
“I really don’t know. He seems better, but I think he doesn’t want to be a burden or have me worrying about him. It sounds as if he’s going to ask Rachael to come for a visit.” I hardly realized I was shaking my head.
“What, you don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“Oh, it isn’t that. I’m just afraid she won’t agree, and he’ll be even sadder.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. He’ll deal with it.”
“By the way, he wants you to call him. Maybe you can help with another problem. He wants to contact Murray.”
Tom’s eyebrows raised above his coffee cup. “Another problem?”
After summarizing Sid’s phone calls and the excellent chance Paul Denezza was behind them, he gave a low whistle.
“That asshole again? Will we never be rid of him?”
A dark cloud of emotion passed over his face. I knew he was thinking about his own near-death experience at Paul’s hand and the doomed romance also orchestrated by Paul, which he’d so tragically misread.
11
We left the hotel in my rental for the short drive to STAY. The complex occupied half a city block between Las Vegas Boulevard and Bonneville Street about five blocks from downtown. As we approached the gated front entrance, we learned what the acronym meant. A white wooden board attached to thick stakes rose from the narrow strip of dry dirt between the sidewalk and the street. Several cacti planted at its base barely clung to life. Even they looked hot and thirsty. Hand-painted green letters on the sign read Street Teens at Yurts (STAY).
“What does that mean?” I asked, but it took only a moment to gain an understanding of sorts. I pushed a button on the voice-activated security system, and a female voice invited us in. The sturdy gates opened, and we pulled into a small parking lot next to an odd-looking group of structures that appeared to be part building and part tent.
“Hey, look at that!” Tom pointed straight ahead. “Yep, those are yurts,” he chuckled. “I haven’t seen one in
a long time. I used to hike and camp in California, and I stayed in one from time to time.”
“I’ve heard of them but never saw one up close.” I studied the odd tentlike structures. “This is no hiking trail. Aren’t they kind of out of place?”
We got out and proceeded up a walkway toward the closest structure. A typical wood outer door held a sign indicating this was the Office and Club House. The surrounding doorframe and wall appeared to be a combination of plastic and wood struts covered with plastic.
Additional larger yurts were erected in a half circle behind the office. Each had brightly colored vinyl stretched on the outside walls—brick red, blue, green, and yellow. They all had white domed tops, giving the whole complex a cheery circus vibe.
Inside, Lorraine Parkins introduced herself and her assistant, Lucy Sanchez. We explained that Don had to leave town suddenly and that Tom was stepping in to help us search for a particular girl whom we believed was living in Vegas.
Physically, the women made an odd pair. Parkins was tall and appeared to be around fifty with long frizzy gray-blonde hair. Her attire reminded me of the hippie movement except that over the peasant skirt and long tunic, instead of flowers, she wore several gorgeous authentic-looking Indian necklaces with flawless robin’s egg blue turquoise and hammered silver links. One featured a large traditional squash blossom pendant studded with coral and turquoise hanging low between her ample breasts.
In contrast, Lucy Sanchez had a short, squat build and a once-pretty face with hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Despite the Hispanic surname, her almond eyes and high cheekbones imparted an unusual exotic look—possibly Asian. She looked older than she probably was. Stress lines drew her mouth down at the corners, and in a way, she looked like she should be living at the shelter herself. Her clothes were ill fitting, and I suspected they were thrift shop hand-me-downs.
Parkins offered us seats at a round dining table and asked if we wanted coffee or water. We declined and spent a minute looking around at the interesting design elements. More wood struts surrounded the room. White vinyl stretched across curved rafters that met at the center point of the domed ceiling while red vinyl formed both inside and outside walls. The main living space held two desks and a sitting area with a sofa and two comfortable-looking chairs.
The kitchen was finished in a more traditional sense, with stucco walls to accommodate a refrigerator, range with cooktop, and a sink and laminate counters. A door set into the only interior wall stood open, revealing a typical bathroom. A second door presumably led to a bedroom.
Seeing our obvious curiosity, Parkins waved her hand in the air and smiled broadly. “I don’t know how familiar you are with yurts. I know I wasn’t before this.
“They were first built five hundred years ago by nomadic tribes on the steppes of central Asia. The design is very strong. It uses the circular arch architectural principle, I’m told. Same with the domed roof.”
“It’s really charming and cozy inside,” I said.
“Yes, they are quite comfortable. In addition to this one, we have six thirty-foot yurts. Each one houses up to five teens. This is very low-cost construction compared to regular building materials and works well in this desert climate with a swamp cooler and propane heater on each unit. It’s an environmentally sound and economical way to provide housing for the kids. So we can accommodate up to thirty at a time with the existing space.”
“Is that enough?” I asked, assuming it probably wasn’t.
“No, not by a long way.” She got up and poured herself a mug of coffee with an eyebrow raised toward us.
“No thanks,” we both answered.
She returned to the table and slowly reseated herself as if she was tired or feeling weak. “So,” she sighed, “we can’t have kids who don’t want to cooperate. We implement a strict set of guidelines for length of stay based on how much work they’re willing to do to improve their lives.”
Tom was still looking around, obviously captivated by the unique housing solution. “How did this come about, Ms. Parkins? I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Please call me Lorraine. The land was purchased in 2009 for next to nothing using donations. That was when the commercial real estate market tanked. We didn’t have much funding then, and someone on the city council gave a presentation on yurts and asked why this wouldn’t work for the kids. Safety turned out to be the only valid objection, so there’s a perimeter fence with a gate, as you saw.
“The kids must follow basic rules and curfews, but they’re encouraged to consider these dwellings home. They can come and go as they please when they’re not engaged in structured activities or school.”
She turned to her assistant. “Lucy, do you have anything you want to add?”
Lucy’s head dipped, then moved slowly from side to side. She seemed shy or possibly not very assertive.
I filled the awkward moment with a question. “What is your criteria for acceptance?”
“We accept teens from all over Vegas Valley who are living on the street. They can stay for six months or until age eighteen as long as they are drug-free and participate in programs, including counseling. We have holiday parties, roller-skating, bowling, art classes, and birthday celebrations. However, the kids have to be involved in their own development in order to get on their feet. Eventually, of course, they have to work and live on their own.”
Lucy nodded her head and spoke in a surprisingly strong voice. “We also have contracts with low-income apartments, where kids can live with roommates once they get jobs. This facility provides stability, and the kids who accept the help and work at it always know they have a safe place to go. Some kids have terrible histories of neglect and abuse and are not easy to reach emotionally. A lot of them can’t go home.” She paused and glanced at her boss. “Home is not a safe place. We have to provide a safe haven for them.”
The pitch of her voice was rising as she talked. Clearly, she felt passion for the mission. “The authorities say they want to end homelessness,” she continued. “But it is a very big problem, and our efforts are hindered by adults and other kids on the street who lure them into prostitution and drugs.”
She seemed to catch herself and then leaned back in her chair with another nervous glance at Lorraine, who turned to us with a serious expression.
“Lucy is correct. Sometimes we feel we’re losing the battle. Right now, there are seven thousand teens on the street at any given time. They’ve moved into a high-risk street life over a period of time and rarely by choice. It takes time, resources, commitment, and a personalized process to get them out of that environment.
“Unfortunately, most of our homeless teens were sexually or physically abused before they ran away. As Lucy said, they don’t have the option of returning to a safe home.”
Lucy spoke up again. “Things got a lot worse with the economic downturn. We had a lot of families on the streets that never lived like that before. They didn’t necessarily know how to ask for help, and in some cases, the stress led to more teens ending up alone out there.”
I was getting sadder and more depressed about this problem by the minute. “Um, you know we are interested in what happened to Pamela Fleetfoot. She stayed here for a while, right?”
Lorraine sucked in a breath and nodded. “Mr. Freeburg explained that to me over the phone. I’m afraid Pammie wasn’t one of our success stories. She refused to take advantage of programs we offered, like the GED and job assistance, even though it was obvious that she was quite smart. We knew she’d recently lost her mother, and the father was serving a life sentence. We tried to get her to accept counseling, but it seemed as if she just wanted to go back to her friends downtown.”
“You know, she went to Seattle for six months to live with the adoptive parents of her biological sister. They tried to help her there too, but she ran back here, apparently.”
�
�Yes, we were told that. There’s nothing we can tell you about her now.” She looked over at Lucy again.
“Right,” Lucy answered. “We don’t know anything. Lots of teens need and want help, and we have to spend our time and resources on them, not those who are ungrateful …”
Lorraine cleared her throat. “Yes, well, be that as it may, there is one place you might check. One of our wonderful financial supporters is the Strohmayr German Deli. It’s owned by a couple. And the wife, Deborah, is the only person who seemed to get through to Pammie at all. She’s very good with the street kids in general, and a lot of them hang out there. Anyway, even she could not convince the girl to give up the street life entirely.”
I noted that Lucy seemed agitated or impatient. Her fingers silently drummed the table. When Lorraine took a breath, she jumped in.
“We want the kids to have successful lives. Pammie is too old for foster care now. She had her chance, and it sounds like she should have stayed in Seattle. Some of the kids are beyond help, and it is depressing when they won’t respond to our efforts.”
I realized she had tears in her eyes and wondered why she would be so emotional. You would think she would be more used to the frustrations of the job. Maybe she was a new employee. Regardless, I couldn’t help but notice an odd reluctance or ambivalence to provide information. Then when she did speak, it was as if she said too much accompanied by emotional outbursts.
Lorraine stared at her assistant for a moment. She seemed to want to put a gentler spin on the story.
“A lot of the girls are victims, the ones under eighteen anyway. They get pulled into the sex trade by abusive pimps who are gang members. Many of the girls are very young. Last year, we had more than ever before. That’s partly due to a shift in law enforcement. Now they tend to see these girls who’ve been forced into prostitution as victims rather than criminals, and they try to help them.
“It really is appalling. We’ve had girls show up here for help with their pimp’s tattoo on their body. I mean an actual brand that indicates his ownership. That is a clear sign they are victims of sexual slavery. Human trafficking is a global problem, and we have our share here.”
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