Anybody's Daughter (Angela Evans Series No. 2) (19 page)

A
ngela sat in Harmony House’s Trust room on the twin bed opposite a sleeping Peaches.

Sitting there, Angela acknowledged for the first time that she’d built a professional wall between herself and her juvenile clients. She represented girls like Peaches every day. She was no different from Shenae or Jolita or any of her other clients. Angela had always been willing to go to the mat for them on the legal front, but when she walked out of the courtroom, she filed them away with the rest of her cases, refusing to let their tragic lives intersect with hers.

She had an excellent excuse. Becoming personally involved with a client would be unprofessional. Any good lawyer would agree. That didn’t mean, however, that she couldn’t do something to help those girls who weren’t her clients.

Over hot chocolate and donuts, Peaches had shared her story. She began in an emotionless, matter-of-fact fashion, as if there had been no pain. But soon, cracks in her stony demeanor unveiled a battle-weary little girl. The child’s story burned a hole through Angela’s heart.

Peaches had been living the life of a normal little girl in nearby Inglewood when her father was killed by a drunk driver two days before Thanksgiving the year she turned eleven. Her mother sank into a dark depression and three months later, took her own life. Peaches and her ten-year-old brother were passed around from one relative to another, each one resenting the burden they posed on already-tight resources.

Somehow, Peaches weathered these difficulties and did well in school. While walking home alone one day—she had never managed to make many friends—four boys from the neighborhood jumped her in an alley, pulling a train on her. The traumatized child ran home to an aunt who blamed her for
being fast.
Her grades started to plummet and she became combative toward her aunt, who eventually put her in foster care. That was where she met her twenty-four-year-old
boyfriend
, Gerald. A pimp with a long history of targeting emotionally scarred young girls, he promised to marry Peaches and she readily ran away with him. Within two months, he’d put her on the street, forcing her into submission with verbal and physical threats, tempered by occasional acts of kindness.

“He used to take me to the Red Lobster,” Peaches had proudly announced as if she was referring to a five-star restaurant.

Gazing across the room at this sleeping child, Angela declared to herself that this one little girl would be hers to save. She closed her eyes and prayed for Peaches. Then prayed yet again that Dre found Brianna before she could be sucked into this sick world.

Peaches finally began to stir. She sat up against the headboard and rubbed her eyes. She winced in pain at her own touch, having forgotten about her bruised face.

“Why you starin’ at me like that?” Her words came out garbled due to her busted lip.

“I’m sorry,” Angela said, turning away. “I didn’t mean to stare. Do you want something to eat?”

She puckered her lips. “Look, I don’t need you crowding me. I can take care of myself.”

Angela had already been prepped by Loretha as well as by her own experience with sexually trafficked girls. In the beginning, they carried mountain-sized chips on their shoulders. Their way of protecting themselves from further hurt and disappointment. It would take time to tear down her wall of distrust.

“Okay then.” Angela got up and started toward the door. “Just let me know if you get hungry.”

She had stepped into the hallway and was about to close the door when she heard Peaches’ distorted voice.

“So what they got to eat?”

Angela held her smile inside and reentered the room. “Let’s go downstairs and find out.”

In the brightly colored, lime-green kitchen, Angela found chips and tuna salad and made a sandwich for both of them. The other girls were in a group session at the moment. Peaches would join them tomorrow, after an orientation with Anamaria.

They sat on stools at an island in the middle of the kitchen. Five minutes passed without a word between them.

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me,” Peaches said between chews.

“Who said I’m feeling sorry for you? Just because I made you a sandwich doesn’t mean I feel sorry for you.”

“Well, I just wanted you to know. Don’t nobody force me to do what I do. I make my own decisions.”

“Okay.”

They continued to eat in silence. There was so much Angela wanted to say and do for this child. But she knew too much enthusiasm too fast would be met with rejection.

“You lucky,” Peaches said after a while, her eyes on Angela’s hair. “You got good hair.”

Angela laughed. “Yep, I do have good hair. And so do you.”

Peaches’ face scrunched up like a balled-up piece of paper. “No, I don’t. My hair is way too nappy.” The girl’s dark brown hair was a mass of thick, shapeless strands pulled back behind her ears.

“Your hair’s not nappy,” Angela said. “It’s actually curly.”

“You trippin’.”

Angela reached across the table and felt the texture of Peaches’ hair. “I bet I could show you how to make your hair look like mine.”

“I bet you can’t.”

Angela stuck out her hand. “Okay, then, it’s a bet.”

Peaches clutched Angela’s hand. “So what we bettin’?”

Angela thought for a moment. “If you win, I’ll take you to see a movie, provided it’s okay with Loretha. If I win, then I’ll take you to see a movie.”

That made Peaches crack up. “Okay. That’s a good bet.”

Angela took the last bite of her sandwich and stood up.

“You leavin’?” Peaches asked, almost wistful.

“Yep.” Angela tossed her paper plate into the trash can near the side door. “Have to go to a meeting. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“So when you gonna do my hair?”

Angela silently cheered. She was making a connection.

She pulled a small plastic container from her purse. “Here’s the gel I use. I’ll have Loretha show you a YouTube video. It’ll teach you how to use it. I want you to give it a try first.”

Peaches opened the container and took a whiff. “This smells good. But I’m tellin’ you, my hair is really, really nappy. My Aunt Gina used to call me beady bead.”

“Just give it a try. I think you’re going to be surprised.”

“Don’t forget about our bet.”

“I won’t.”

Angela walked around the table and gave Peaches a hug. She stiffened, as if she was uncomfortable with being touched. After a second or so, Peaches politely squirmed free.

Angela placed the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Okay, see you later.”

“You comin’ back today, right?”

This time, Angela didn’t suppress her smile. “Right.”

“I
really think you should give this some more thought,” Wainright pleaded. “This isn’t going to go down well.”

What Ortiz was directing him to do was nothing short of retaliation and he wanted no part of it. Unfortunately, it was his job to carry out all the unpleasant tasks the principal was too much of a coward to do himself.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Ortiz ranted. “Just do it. Bonnie Flanagan disobeyed a direct order and she needs to be taught a lesson.”

Wainright left the principal’s office, shoulders slumped. He had his instructions, and if nothing else, he was a soldier who knew how to follow orders. He checked the teachers’ schedules to confirm the time of Bonnie Flanagan’s free period.

Bonnie was cleaning the whiteboard when he entered her classroom. He closed the door behind him.

“How’s it going?” Wainright asked.

“Hey, Rich.”

She sounded as if she was glad to see him. That would soon change.

“I have some good news and some bad news,” he began.

Ortiz had come up with a legitimate educational reason for his decision, but Wainright knew Bonnie wouldn’t buy it.

Bonnie stepped over to her desk. “I’ll take the good news first.”

“Your Honors students performed exceptionally well on the last round of state testing. Your students ranked the highest in the school and the district. Your teaching strategies have produced some phenomenal results. Ortiz is very impressed with what you’ve achieved.”

“Thanks,” Bonnie said, sounding wary about the other half of his message. “So what’s the bad news?”

“We’d like to try out your teaching strategies on some of our lower-performing students. So Mr. Ortiz has decided to do some mid-year juggling of classes. Ms. Williams started maternity leave last week, so you’re being reassigned to teach her classes. Effective tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! You have to be kidding!” Bonnie locked her arms across her chest. “Those are the most unruly students in the school. And what happens to my students? I have three Honors classes.”

“A sub will take over your classes using the teaching strategies you’ve developed.”

“Not on your life! How can you—” She froze as if a light bulb had just clicked on in her head. “This is retaliation,” she said, slowly. “Mr. Ortiz found out that I spoke to Brianna Walker’s mother. That’s why he’s doing this.”

Ortiz had, of course, instructed Wainright not to mention the visit he’d had from Brianna’s mother and uncle. It was Ortiz’s position that this was an administrative decision with no connection at all to that visit. As weak as it was, that was the principal’s story and Wainright was sticking to it.

“It has absolutely nothing to do with that.”

“So he knows?”

Wainright didn’t answer.

Bonnie picked up a cloth and started polishing the whiteboard with enough force to unhinge it. “Did Brianna’s mother call him?” She looked at him over her shoulder.

“Actually, she came to the school along with Brianna’s uncle and met with both of us.”

“So what did Ortiz do? Tell them I was some kind of lunatic?”

“No. But he made it clear that we didn’t think there was a connection between Brianna’s disappearance and those other students.”

“He doesn’t know that. Not for sure. And neither do you.”

“Well, actually
we do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please keep this to yourself,” Wainright said. “I made some calls to the other girls’ families this morning. Ortiz instructed me not to disclose what I found out to anyone else because of the girls’ privacy rights.”

Bonnie darted over to him. “What did he tell you?”

Wainright went on to explain that Leticia Gonzales had indeed disappeared, but at the hands of her mother. Leticia’s parents were locked in a contentious divorce and her mother feared losing custody. Her family suspected that Leticia and her mother were in hiding somewhere in Mexico.

Imani Johnson had run away from home. She returned months later and was sent to Birmingham to live with her grandmother. Jasmine Smith had run away from an abusive family situation. Months later, she was found living with an older boyfriend and put into foster care.

Bonnie slumped down on her desk. The information left her stunned.

“Oh my goodness.” She pressed a palm to her cheek. “I have Brianna’s mother thinking her daughter’s been snatched by some kidnapping ring.”

“That wouldn’t be the case if you had followed Ortiz’s directions. But don’t worry about it. Ortiz doesn’t know it, but I called Brianna’s mother and shared what I found out.”

Bonnie accepted the scolding because she deserved it. “Well, I’m glad I was wrong.”

Wainright smiled. “Me too.”

Bonnie put her hands on her hips and stood up. “Regardless, that does not give Ortiz the right to retaliate against me.”

“Look, Bonnie—”

“I’m not giving up my Honors classes,” she said firmly. “If we need to take this to the teacher’s union, I will.”

“C’mon, Bonnie. There’s no need to go there.”

“If you expect me to give up my cream-of-the-crop students for Ms. Williams’ little demons, there most definitely is.”

M
ossy, Apache, Gus and D’wan were now sitting around the kitchen table, as Dre finished a telephone call.

“That was Terrell,” Dre said hanging up. “He and Bobby have been scoping things out. They only have two bouncers during the day, instead of the four they have at night. The club is packed right now with the lunch crowd. Terrell said both of the bouncers are walking around socializing with the girls. One of them was getting a lap dance.”

“Sounds like a pretty lax operation,” Mossy said. “I hope it’s like that tonight too.”

“Me too,” Dre said.

“And if it don’t go down like it’s supposed to,” Apache said, “we should wait until Clint is ready to leave and shoot him in the foot.”

Mossy gave Dre a look that mirrored what he’d been saying all along.
Your knucklehead cousin is going to get us all
killed.

“It ain’t goin’ down like that,” Dre groaned. “We need to use our heads. This is a chess game. And we’ve got the queen.”

“Queen?” Apache said. “I’d rather have the king?”

Mossy chuckled. “See what I’m talkin’ ’bout?”

Apache looked from Mossy to Dre. “What?”

“Never mind.” Dre grabbed a pad and scanned the notes he’d written down earlier.

“I just can’t wait until we get the dude,” Apache said, waving his stun gun in the air. “After I give him a jolt of the right motivation, he’ll be chirping like a sparrow.”

“Have they sent you that picture yet?” Gus asked.

“Naw,” Dre said.

“Maybe they don’t really have her.”

That thought pained him. If they didn’t have Brianna, Dre wouldn’t know where to begin searching for her.

Dre cracked his knuckles. “He’s supposed to send me a picture before we agree to a location to do the exchange. I’m not going to make a move until I see it.”

“I don’t mean to be negative or nothing,” Gus said, “but if this don’t work, you gonna pay the money?”

Dre felt confident that his plan would not fail. “If that’s the only way to get her back, hell yeah.”

“You actually got that kind of cash sitting around, cuz?” Apache asked.

“Yep.” Dre pointed at a duffle bag on the floor near the door.

Apache walked over to the bag, unzipped it and peered inside.

“Wowza! I ain’t never seen this much cash before. I can’t believe you gave up slingin’ drugs behind some broad.”

“Sit your ass down,” Dre said. “You’re making me nervous.”

“These are some cold dudes,” D’wan said. “I don’t understand how they think they can just snatch somebody’s kid off the street and turn her out.”

Dre shook his head. “Apparently, they’re doing a lot of it and nobody’s stoppin’ ’em. Until now.”

A quick buzz from Dre’s smartphone signaled a new text message. It was from an unknown sender. Dre snatched it from the table. “This might be it.”

The guys crowded around him as Dre braced himself for what he was about to see. He paused a few seconds before clicking on the link.

Once he did, instead of a photograph, a video began to play.

From the very first frame, Dre felt bile rising in his throat. As his fingers gripped the edge of the table, he fought the urge to hurl the device across the room. Seconds later, he shot up from his seat, dashing for the trash can. He didn’t make it in time and vomited on the floor.

Mossy held up a hand and took a step back. “Goddamn!”

Each man who looked at the video uttered his own expression of shock.

The short portion of the video Dre watched showed Brianna being repeatedly punched. She was naked, coiled up in the fetal position, with bruises all over her body, crying.

“These muthafuckas are goin’ to hell,” Apache said. “I’ma personally show ’em the way.”