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

“Sex traffickers often recruit children because not only are children more unsuspecting and vulnerable than adults, but there is also a high market demand for young victims. Traffickers target victims on the telephone, on the Internet, through friends, at the mall, and in after-school programs.”

—
Teen Girls’ Stories of Sex Trafficking in the
U.S.
ABC News/Primetime

A
ngela Evans zigzagged her Saab in and around the slow-moving cars inching up Hill Street, ignoring the blaring horns directed at her.

“Shoot!” She pounded the steering wheel.

The lot where she normally parked for court appearances had a
Full
sign out front. It could take another twenty minutes to find a place to park. Twenty minutes she didn’t have.

She spotted a two-hour parking meter a few feet ahead and swerved into it. Grabbing her purse from the front seat, she tumbled from the car, not bothering to put change in the meter. She’d just have to deal with the fifty-dollar ticket.

When she rounded the corner, the line of people waiting to enter the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center was at least fifty deep. The line for attorneys and staff was half as long. She strolled up to a middle-aged white guy in an expensive suit near the front of the attorneys’ line and flashed him a hopeful smile.

“Cuts? Pretty please?” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I’m way late.”

The man grinned and allowed Angela to step in front of him. A few people behind them had started to grumble, but by that time she was already dropping her purse onto the conveyor belt and walking through the metal detectors.

She jogged down the hallway and squeezed into an elevator seconds before the doors closed. The car shot straight to the fourth floor. When she finally reached the courtroom, Angela frowned. Shenae was supposed to be waiting outside.

Inside the courtroom, Angela was glad to find that the judge hadn’t taken the bench yet. She grew incensed, however, as she scanned the gallery. Her client was sitting off to the right, next to a man in a sports jacket and tie. Angela presumed he was the detective who had picked her up from the group home. On the opposite side of the courtroom, Angela counted four women and five men. The whole rowdy, tattooed group looked as if they’d just broken out of county jail. One of the men craned his neck in Shenae’s direction and scowled, confirming exactly what Angela had assumed.

She marched into the well of the courtroom and straight up to the deputy district attorney.

“Why haven’t you cleared the courtroom?” she demanded. “If you don’t get them out of here, I’m advising my client to take the Fifth.”

“Good morning to you, too, Counselor,” Monty Wyman replied with a forced smile. “I was going to do it. We haven’t started yet.”

Wyman was in his late twenties, with sandy hair and black-rimmed glasses. His doughy midsection publicized that exercise wasn’t high on his agenda.

“If you want my client to testify, do it now.” Angela cocked her head and smiled. “Pretty please.”

Wyman had spent the last six months of his young legal career in the sex crimes unit. He knew how traumatic it was for a twelve-year-old child to face her pimp in court. It irked Angela that the defendant’s homies were even allowed to be in the same building as Shenae.

Angela walked over to Shenae, greeted her with a hug, then escorted her to a bench in the hallway.

“You okay? You still want to do this, right?”

Shenae’s timid eyes fell to the floor. “Uh, yeah.” The thin, gangly girl never made eye contact for more than a few seconds.

Six months earlier, Shenae had been arrested for solicitation to commit prostitution. She was one of a dozen under-aged girls forced into prostitution by a pimp named Melvin Clark. Yet the justice system treated
her
like the criminal.

Angela represented Shenae in juvenile court on the solicitation charge and had arranged for her to be sent to a group home. As part of a special program, if she did well in school and stayed out of trouble for at least a year, the charge would be dismissed.

Angela was in court today to lend moral support.

“If I tell ’em everything I did, are you sure they’re not gonna arrest me?” Shenae asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Angela placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve already negotiated that with the prosecutor. You have full immunity. That means nothing you say can be used against you. Ever.”

Just then, the defendant’s cohorts were ushered out of the courtroom by the bailiff. Angela pulled Shenae close, blocking her face from the glares of her would-be intimidators.

Wyman stuck his head into the hallway. “We’re ready.”

Shenae wrung her hands. Her khaki pants and black sweater seemed a size too big. Her hair was gathered into a small puff that sat atop of her head, drawing attention away from her sad, round face.

“I know it’s scary,” Angela said softly. “But you can do it. You did really good when we practiced last week. Candace will be here any minute.”

Angela glanced down the hallway, praying that Candace Holmes would indeed appear. “Just keep your eyes on Candace or me. And whatever you do, don’t look at Melvin.”

As if conjured up by magic, Candace Holmes raced up to them. “Sorry,” she panted. “I had another client on the fifth floor.”

Candace, who was not much taller than Shenae, worked for Saving Innocence, a non-profit group that provided an array of support services to sexually trafficked children. She was here today to serve as Shenae’s witness advocate.

Candace swept her reddish-brown bangs off her face and bent to look Shenae in the eyes. “I’m proud of you. I know you’re going to do great.”

Angela opened the door of the courtroom. “Let’s go.”

Shenae didn’t move. She looked up at Angela. “I…I would feel better if I could take your purse up there with me.”

Angela glanced down at her camel-colored Dolce Gabbana bag.

“My purse? Why?”

“It’s a nice purse,” Shenae said, her lower lip quivering a bit. “If I had it with me on the witness stand, I would look important. Like you.”

A pained look passed between Angela and Candace. Angela handed the bag to Shenae and led the way inside.

The judge, jury and defendant were all in place now. Melvin, dressed in a suit and tie, sat next to his lawyer, a veteran public defender who’d obviously pulled the short straw. A portly man with a hard face, Melvin looked much older than twenty-eight. He glanced back at Shenae, but turned around when his lawyer tapped him on the arm.

Judge Willis Romer, known for both his shoe-polish-black hair and for nodding off on the bench, peered through his thick lenses. “Call your first witness, Mr. Wyman.”

“I call Shenae M to the witness stand.”

Shenae slowly rose to her feet and marched down the aisle, followed by Candace. After taking the oath, Shenae propped Angela’s purse on her lap and curved her small fingers around the pearl handle. She sat arrow straight, chin forward, her face blank of any emotion.

Candace was sitting in a folding chair just to the right of the jury box, facing Shenae.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the judge began, “Ms. Candace Holmes is a witness advocate. She is here for emotional support for the witness, who is a juvenile. You should give no weight, pro or con, to her presence.”

Wyman rose from the prosecutor’s table and smiled warmly at Shenae. “Can you tell us your name for the record?”

“Shenae Mar—”

Wyman held up both hands. “That’s okay. Since you’re a juvenile we don’t need your last name. Is it okay if I call you Shenae?”

The girl smiled. “Yes.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Do you know the defendant, Melvin Clark?”

Shenae nodded.

The judge leaned toward Shenae and spoke in a fatherly voice. “Shenae, we’ll need you to speak out loud. The court reporter can’t take down a nod of your head.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Yeah, I know him.”

As instructed, Shenae did not take her eyes off of Candace, not even to face the judge.

“And how do you know Mr. Clark?” the prosecutor asked.

Shenae swallowed. “He was my pimp.”

Melvin shifted in his seat, then angled his head and stroked his stubbly chin.

“Where did you first meet Mr. Clark?”

“At the Kentucky Fried Chicken on Crenshaw and Imperial. He bought me some chicken and fries cuz I was hungry.”

“How did Mr. Clark know you were hungry?”

Shenae’s slender shoulders rose, then fell. “I guess cuz he saw me eat somebody’s leftover food after they walked out.”

For the next few minutes, Shenae stoically recapped her tragic young life. At ten, she’d been placed in a foster home after her mother’s boyfriend molested her. In the foster home, she was physically and verbally abused and ultimately ran away. She was eleven when Melvin offered to let her stay at his apartment.

“At first, he was nice,” Shenae explained. “He didn’t even try to have sex with me or nothing. He took me shopping and let me buy whatever I wanted.”

“Did that ever change?” the prosecutor asked.

Shenae lowered her eyes. “After about a month we started having sex. But by then, he was my boyfriend, so that was okay.”

One of the jurors, an older black woman who’d been carrying a Bible, puckered her lips.

“And then what happened?”

“One day, he told me that cuz he spent a lot of money on me, I had to make some money for him.”

For the first time, Shenae stole a quick glance at Melvin. She clasped the handles of the purse even tighter.

“How did he want you to make money for him?”

The courtroom grew quiet as Shenae’s eyes watered. “He put me on the track.”

Angela took in the jury. A few faces appeared shocked, others displayed confusion.

“Tell the jury what the track is?”

Shenae began to gently rock back and forth, still holding onto the purse. “Where johns go to pick up ho’s for sex.”

“What did you do on the track?”

Shenae did not answer for a few seconds. Wyman waited.

“At first I…I just sucked…I mean…I gave blow jobs. I got fifty dollars every time. I gave all the money to Melvin. But later on, he put me in a motel room so johns could come there to have sex with me.”

“I see a tattoo on your neck,” the prosecutor said. “M-M-M. What does that mean?”

Shenae’s hand absently caressed her slender neck. “Uh, it means Melvin’s moneymaker.”

Two female jurors gasped.

“How many men did you have sex with on a single day?”

“A lot,” Shenae sniveled and wiped away a tear. “Sometimes up to twenty.”

Several jurors winced. The black woman cupped a hand to her mouth.

“Did you want to have sex with those men?”

“No.”

“What would happen if you refused?”

Shenae was weeping softly now. “Melvin would beat me.”

Judge Romer spoke with genuine sympathy in his voice. “Shenae, are you okay? Are you able to continue?”

Shenae finally let go of the purse. She pressed both hands to her face and sobbed.

“Your Honor,” Wyman said quietly, “we’d like to take a short break.”

W
hen Brianna’s voicemail clicked on again, Dre cursed under his breath and hung up.

That was the second time this morning that he’d tried to call his niece. He didn’t even know why he even bothered calling her. Anybody under twenty only used a smartphone for texting. Talking took time away from their texting.

He chuckled to himself, then pecked out a text.

call
me

Dre and his buddy Gus were installing tile in the bathroom of the two-bedroom house he’d recently picked up at an auction. The two men had done time together at Corcoran State Prison. Gus was good with his hands and Dre was happy to have the help.

Dre reached for a towel and wiped sweat from his shaved head. He was surprised when he didn’t receive an instantaneous response from his niece. The girl was usually glued to her phone.

Brianna had gotten a real kick out of the fact that
he
had called
her
to help him pick out a nice restaurant for his date tonight. His niece wasn’t your average thirteen year old. She was smart as a whip and knew almost as much about sports as he did. The fact that she looked more like him than his own son was another reason he loved her to death.

Dre had asked Brianna to go on the Internet and find him a nice restaurant in Marina Del Rey. He wanted just the right place for his reunion with Angela. Not super casual, but not too highbrow either. Brianna had given him three great choices.

Dre wanted to let Brianna know which restaurant he had selected. But he hadn’t told anybody that he was hooking up with Angela tonight.

“Hey, man, what’s going on?” Gus asked. He was in his late forties, with a lean, muscular body, perfected during his time behind bars. “Why you smiling so much today?”

“Didn’t know I was smiling.” Dre stroked his goatee. He was close to six feet with the kind of body built for hard work.

“Yeah, you were. Smiling
and
whistling. So what’s up?”

Dre grabbed another tile and carefully set it into place. He wasn’t sure he wanted to spill the beans about his plans tonight. It was as if doing so might jinx something. But he was excited as hell, so he had to tell somebody something.

“I’m taking Angela out tonight,” Dre said.

Gus nodded, but left it at that.

“You don’t have nothin’ to say?” Dre asked.

“Hey, bruh, who you go out with is your business.”

“Sounds like you think it’s a bad idea.”

“Ain’t for me to judge.”

Dre was surprised at Gus’ response. His buddy was never one to keep an opinion to himself.

“Well, I’m asking.”

Gus set aside the tile he was holding and looked over at Dre.

“You put it all on the line for that female and she left you hangin’. So if you ask me, hookin’ up with her again might not be the best decision you could make.”

This was no doubt the same reaction Dre would receive when he told his sister and mother that he was seeing Angela again. Unfortunately, they’d never gotten a chance to meet her. If they had, they’d surely feel differently. The only thing they knew about her was what they’d seen in the news reports. And that was bunk.

When Dre first met Angela at the Spectrum Athletic Club, she was weeks away from marrying some control-freak judge. She eventually broke off the engagement and they’d hooked up. Angela’s ex, however, had refused to accept the breakup and started stalking her.

In the midst of that drama and before Dre could tell her himself, Angela found out that he’d been in the business of dealing crack cocaine and had served time for possession with intent to sell. She then broke it off with him too.

Worried about her safety, Dre stayed close and had been there to intercede when Angela and her ex were wrestling over a gun. The judge took a bullet to the gut and Dre took the rap. The media immediately jumped on the story. A love triangle involving a federal prosecutor, a superior court judge and a drug dealer made salacious news. No charges were ever filed because the shooting had been ruled self-defense.

Dre had been both pissed off and hurt by Angela’s decision to move on, but the girl
was
a lawyer. Part of him understood her reluctance about having a relationship with an ex-con. He still kicked himself for not having been up front with her about his situation from day one.

It still amazed him that a woman he’d only known for a few weeks could take hold of his heart the way Angela Evans had. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t kick her. It had been three months since he’d last seen her. Last week he’d gathered the nerve to ask her out to dinner and to his relief, she accepted.

Now that he was getting a second chance at being with her, Dre didn’t care what anybody thought. He was taking it.

He checked his smartphone again. Brianna still hadn’t texted him back. She was probably already in class by now. He called her again anyway. No answer.

Dre couldn’t wait to tell her about his date. At least Brianna would be happy for him.