“My God, Stu. We're all so, so sorry for you and your family.” Marisa came closer and rested her hand on my back.
“I feel like such a failure as a father, allowing my daughter to get involved with people who do this type of thing,” Stu said, barely able to produce the words.
“I know it's difficult, Stu, but you're a good parent. Kids make decisions that at times we can't control, at least not every minute of every day.” I sounded more like a parental expert than I'd intended.
“You know what they found in her blood? Some type of combination drug that's new to the street—methamphetamine, heroin, and marijuana. She took it through a needle. Can you believe it, through a fucking needle? It's just so sordid,” Stu said. “On top of that, they found semen. She had sex...they aren't sure if it happened while she was conscious.”
“Dear God.”
I paused as Stu's raw emotions filled up the receiver.
“I'm so sorry, Stu.” I knew those words offered little help and I hated repeating them, knowing it wouldn't do a thing to bring back Courtney, unscathed and innocent.
“The police said the first step is to find out who she was with, but right now they have no leads.”
“Stu, you know this, but I'll say it anyway. There's no need to worry about work right now. You take care of yourself and your family, and we'll hold down the fort at the paper.”
A long pause with barely audible waves of sobbing.
“Look, I need to go,” Stu said through a crackling voice. “Please pass this along to whoever you think needs to receive this message.”
“God bless you, Stu.”
Chapter Fourteen
Marisa swung me around and hugged me, a bear-gripping hug, the kind you never want to let go. The fact Emilia was in our home didn't bother us, not in such a poignant moment. Emilia didn't say a word, instead focusing on cleaning up the kitchen.
“This is the fourth teenager to die in the last few months,” Marisa said to her mother as they both worked on dishes.
Emilia was solemn, only nodding her head.
“Michael and his editor are trying to brainstorm on ways to dig for information, to understand why this is happening to our community. But Stu was going to be a major part of this.”
“You know, I just want what's best for you and your new husband,” said Emilia, showing some basic maternal instincts for a change. “You need to be careful not to put too much pressure on yourselves.”
“You want to talk about pressure, you should hear what's going on with our friend and his wife,” Marisa said.
I hesitated, not sure I wanted Arthur's personal trauma shared with anyone. I gave Marisa the eye.
“It's okay. Michael...it's only Mama.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and gazed at Marisa, then over to her mother. Emilia smiled and then looked down at the table.
“I think for her to understand what we're going through right now, it's good for her to hear this. Besides, she doesn't have a care in the world right now. Right, Mama?”
“Life is good.” Emilia spread her arms.
“You don't even know the full story,” I said to Marisa.
“What's happened?”
“Arthur got a package from the kidnappers and—”
“Was it—?”
“No, it's not what you think, thank God.”
I proceeded to walk through the series of events to catch them up to speed, as Marisa filled our glasses with more wine.
“Unfortunately, Mexico, not unlike the United States, has a gang problem,” Emilia said, offering surprising words of wisdom. “I'm sure a few of these guys got together, did some research on the Internet, and found someone who had money...like your Arthur friend.”
Emilia's insight led me to think more about Trudy being kidnapped. I'd never thought about gangs having enough savvy to pull off something like this. The kidnapping appeared more sophisticated. But I wasn't the most knowledgeable about gangs, especially those residing south of the border.
“I'm not sure them being in a gang is even very relevant at this point,” I said. “Trudy is okay for now, and that's most important. Somehow, we hope that Arthur can get them their money, and they'll let her go and put her on a plane back home.”
Saying it out loud made me sound naïve. I wondered if they would ever let her go alive.
Marisa began to yawn, which was our signal to wrap it up for the night. We turned off the lights and told Mama Emilia we'd meet her at the coffee pot in the morning.
***
Emilia closed the door to the guest bedroom and sat in the undersized rattan chair next to her bed. She turned on the small TV, not to watch anything in particular but to create some background noise.
She rummaged through her purse, pulled out her cell phone and dialed the same number that she had twice before that day.
“Have you been able to move all of your product yet? You only have a certain amount of allotted time,” she reminded him directly.
“One of our two trucks had a flat tire just outside of town, so we're trying to make up some time,” the man said.
“You understand the arrangement the same as I do. I give you access to my garage only on certain days of the month, but you must come and go at the times designated. I thought I made myself clear.”
“I can't control everyone in this food chain. And you've been paid quite well for access to your home. My people appreciate it, but at times you need to be flexible.”
“I live in a well-respected, affluent area, and that is why my home is valuable to your operation. You and your people need to understand I can take away what I have given, if you fail to live up to your obligations.” A warm sensation slid up through her neck.
“I'll pass it along, but I'm not promising anything. This is much bigger than you and me,” he remarked before hanging up.
Emilia leaned back in her chair and allowed her mind to roam, eventually refocusing on the TV screen. She glanced at the red-numbered clock on her bedside table. It showed ten thirty-three p.m. She rarely stayed up this late, so she wasn't familiar with the late-night comedy show, this comic, or his jokes. She longed for the days of Johnny Carson.
The longer she listened, the less she understood, although the studio crowd laughed every time he opened his mouth. She wasn't connecting with the show, which allowed her to think more about her daughter. She loved Marisa, her only child. Marisa had always been so responsible, she rarely worried about her. Now she appeared more stable than ever with Michael by her side. Their love seemed authentic and honest, and that's all a mother could hope for.
The emotional bond she felt momentarily allowed a hint of guilt to creep into her mind. The teenage drug overdose deaths, especially the story about the reporter's daughter, was heartbreaking, but she'd been able to separate herself from it, mostly. She knew if she ceased her involvement in the drug trafficking process, someone would replace her instantly. The money she'd made would hopefully go toward worthwhile causes, in addition to helping her maintain a certain lifestyle throughout her retirement years. Paying for her future grandchildren's education was a goal, if she stayed in the business another few years.
Emilia then contemplated the situation with Arthur's wife. Her intuition told her the origin of the kidnapping related to the drug world. Most likely, gangs were the front men for the merciless people who had concocted the scheme. And Trudy had fallen victim, like an innocent butterfly accidentally caught in the web of the deadly brown recluse spider.
Emilia felt a tinge of sorrow for Michael's friend. She sighed, realizing the hopelessness of his plight, pondering if she should try to help. If she didn't, from her experience, she knew Trudy was as good as dead, just like the innocent butterfly. She debated the pros and cons as she drifted asleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Headline: Daughter of Reporter Dead from Drug Overdose
Sub-header: Girl Dropped in Front of Hospital; Fourth to Die in Last Three Months
The
black ink from this morning's headline was like an old razor trying to cut away a five-day-old beard. It was necessary, but it stung like hell. Brandon had called me last night, ensuring I agreed with the wording—the first time he'd ever done that. Both of us needed confirmation that we struck the right balance between the integrity of the story and the sensitivity of how it impacted one of our reporters, one of our friends.
I sat alone at the breakfast table, sipping my hot cup of coffee, perusing the front-page stories like any other person prior to rushing into work. I took a bite of my bagel. The crunch echoed off the walls and linoleum floors. I was concerned a loud noise might wake Mama Emilia. We were up late last night discussing some heavy topics—this latest drug overdose and the kidnapping of Arthur's wife. Mama Emilia was in her sixties, not exactly old and decrepit, but she needed her sleep.
On the drive in, I thought about Stu and his family, waking up to their first day without their daughter, sister, niece. A feeling of emptiness came to mind, the same feeling Tiffany Chambers' mother, Mariann, must have suffered last year.
“Hey, Brandon, this whole drug thing is moving faster than we are. We need a new plan of attack,” I said, poking my head in his door.
“We're meeting in thirty minutes, boss. I hope you can join us.”
Brandon enjoyed being one step ahead of me.
Blue-paneled, three-foot cubicle walls outlined the working spaces for most of our staff in the open newsroom. On this day, the usually frenetic pace was slower, more deliberate...less chatting, eyes staring straight ahead. The overdose death of Stu's daughter was unlike any other story our paper had covered, at least in my tenure. Typically, even the most horrific crimes and distasteful events weren't dwelled upon in a newsroom. Reporters responded like doctors and nurses in a hospital, performing their tasks as required, with their emotions held in check. They just didn't go there.
“How's everyone holding up?” I'd walked into the glass meeting room located at the south end of the newsroom and took my seat across from Brandon.
“Shaken, as you would imagine, hearing the news first yesterday, and now seeing the words in our paper. We both know the power of print. I hope it will have an impact on everyone who reads it, but it's hard to accept when someone like Courtney is swallowed up by the drug tornado.” Brandon shuffled folders and shook his head.
My young editor had a way with words, even when he wasn't setting headlines or tweaking a story. He was a solid copy editor, a good person, and growing into a reliable leader.
“Have you thought about how we're going to provide blanket coverage for this runaway story without Stu's availability, at least for the foreseeable future?” I opened my notebook, then glanced at my editor. “I know you've been busy, so I've—”
Brandon held up his hand while clicking the mouse on his laptop.
“I know we're pretty strapped for resources. I've looked across the entire reporter pool. We're going to have to lean on Rose a good amount. With a bit of coaching, I think she can handle it,” Brandon said with his usual positive energy. “I've also been impressed with one of our interns this semester. I think she can help us out with doing some of the leg work, research, etcetera.”
“That's my middle name, research.”
Both Brandon and I turned our heads, annoyed at having our personal discussion overheard. The slender, jean-clad coed walked around the table and promptly sat in the chair right next to Brandon. Fresh-faced without makeup, she wore a gray, Dri-FIT T-shirt. Tomboy was the first thought that came to mind. Apparently, Little Miss Intern had yet to learn office etiquette. Then again, didn't I want my reporters to be bold? Rose and Hector followed her into the meeting room.
“Nice to meet you. I'm Andi.” She stood over the table, extending her hand to me.
I met her halfway and shook her hand. It was a firmer handshake than I expected—like we should turn our heads and pose for a picture to signify the start of a Middle East peace meeting.“Nice to meet you, too. I'm your boss. Actually your boss's boss,” I said dryly.
Andi bounced back into her chair, one leg folded under her butt, and turned to Brandon. “What's up, boss?” She'd offered finger quotes to add levity to the conversation.
This girl definitely had some cojones on her.
“Now, to further fill in Michael and Andi, I followed up with Rose and Hector again yesterday afternoon to start thinking about our plan,” Brandon said. “To state the obvious, Stu will be out of pocket for a while, so Rose, you'll need to take the lead on this story across the board, not just the education angle. We can start there, especially since you have your contacts in that world. But you need to dig beyond the official press-release story. That's what every other media outlet is going to focus on—the story given to you on a silver plate. We're different; we dig deeper, we push harder. You guys know that.”
“Let's not forget the cops,” I offered.
“Good point. Rose, after this meeting, drop by my office, and I'll give you the contact info for Detective Carl Pearson. A wealth of information, although most of it will be off the record.”
“Don't worry, I'll make you guys proud.” Rose scooted to the edge of her chair and put pen to paper.
Good to see she wasn't backing down from the challenge.
“Okay, thanks. Also, within four days I want to see a themed photo page. Hector, work with Rose to determine the theme; maybe it will tie into the story of the day, maybe not. You'll need to create the copy for the photo taglines,” Brandon said, as everyone took notes.
With pens moving faster than I could speak, the silence was broken by our brash intern.
“I can help write the photo taglines,” said Andi, confidently.
Hector looked at Brandon, wondering if he could trust this college kid.
“I'm open to that,” Brandon said. “Let's try it once and see what you got.”
I expected a grin from the confident intern, but she instead focused on her paper, scribbling a note as if she was just as seasoned a journalist as anyone in the room.
We ran through a few more story ideas to tackle through the next week, knowing new doors would open as Rose and the team began to make headway.
“Any words of wisdom from anyone before we break?” Brandon assembled his mess of papers and folders and began to push back his chair.
“My dad had a few friends in the DEA. I think I can locate them and try to get their input,” Andi blurted out.
Brandon sat back down, rocked back in his chair, and tapped his pen on his chin. The rest of us stared at Andi. Her timing and her delivery needed some work, but I'd begun to wonder if we'd hit the lottery on interns.
“Okay, thank you, Andi, for sharing that.” Brandon glanced at me and swallowed hard, obviously trying to contain his exuberance. “Let's not count on this right now. I'd rather take it one step at a time. No offense.”
“None taken. I understand I'm the rookie, and I have to prove myself,” she said. “I'll gladly accept the challenge. I'll try to have something substantive to share in the next couple of days. But I need to know you'll let me publish something, anything.”
“I just want to be sure where you're going with it all.”
Andi coiled her mouth into a sheepish grin.
“I don't make promises, but if your prose is as bold as your personality, then I'm sure we'll work something out,” Brandon said with a professional wink.
“Just a reminder for everyone. Keep brainstorming ideas. Let's think outside of the box, people.”
Chapter Sixteen
The prominent morning sun split through cracks in the warped boards lining the garage wall opposite of her so-called bed. Trudy lay on her right side to ensure her body felt the least amount of discomfort while her hand was secured via a four-foot-long chain to the bed's rusted metal frame. Her green eyes opened slowly, not surprised to see the sun peering at her. Better it was Mother Nature than the creepy skinny guy that literally made her want to vomit.
She raised
herself onto her elbow and realized her entire right side ached, most likely from sleeping in the same position each night, now going on a week. The days were beginning to run together. She wasn't used to suffering, at least not in the last few years.
She felt her hair, which had lost all shape and smothered her face. It was matted, tangled beyond recognition. She hadn't seen a mirror since the day the gang, or thugs, or whatever you want to call them, grabbed her and never let her go. They wanted money and a lot of it. She couldn't believe the drama she and Arthur had endured. They went from celebrating their five-year wedding anniversary in a land they'd considered their second home, to her being held prisoner in the middle of a jungle. Along the way, she knew her trust in humanity had nearly vanished.
Weeds and other vegetation grew through the crevices in the old garage, the same opening where Trudy had noticed all sorts of bugs, rodents, and other crawling animals entering at will. While still alarmed at the site of the various four-legged creatures, she understood on some level that it was she who had invaded their way of life. At times, she appreciated their basic instincts to search for food, water, and a way to stay alive. Unfortunately, she wasn't afforded the luxury of such independence. She'd tried to drag the bed to the door, but her tiny body had only been able to budge it about six inches during an entire day of pulling. It wasn't worth the effort, given her shrinking stamina.
Her life was in the hands of two forgettable men. Luis and Benicio usually visited twice a day. Thankfully, after a couple of disturbing interactions with Luis, his larger comrade had been able to keep him in check. She hoped they viewed her as more of a valuable commodity than a woman with tits and an ass. She had studied both men carefully. Benicio: while she'd seen tracks on his arms and believed he'd committed his fair share of crimes, there was something about him that made her believe he wouldn't cross the line. Maybe it was the hint of compassion when he gave her food and water after her first night alone. Luis, she believed, was a deviant, and without his bulkier partner around, he might have taken his repulsive looks at her to a more physical level.
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