Isabel's Run (11 page)

“We don’t actually arrest all that many kids anymore,” Nancy said. “Not unless it’s the only way to help them. A few years ago, the law enforcement community finally came to the realization that thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girls being coerced and manipulated by an older man into prostitution aren’t really the criminals in the equation. They’re actually the biggest victims of all—even if they are doing something illegal. That’s when we changed the name of our unit from just plain ‘Vice Squad’ to ‘Vice and High Risk Victims Unit.’ It turns out that the
kids
are the high-risk victims—have been all along. They’re subjected to physical violence from either the johns or their own pimps. They’re exposed to deadly diseases. If they live through it, they almost always have emotional scars that last the rest of their lives. It’s enough to make you cry. You wouldn’t have thought that it would have taken law enforcement so long to figure that out, but bureaucratic inertia sometimes takes a while to overcome.”

I nodded. “I was in the army,” I said. “I understand how large organizations work. Let me ask, then, where do the kids go now if they don’t go to juvenile hall? Some sort of shelter?”

“A shelter or back to their home if it’s possible, although a lot of the kids can’t go home. Like with Isabel, a lot of kids had their problems start at home in the first place.”

I pictured Tracey Webber. “I agree 100 percent with that,” I said. “There’s no way Isabel can go back home with her stepfather still in the picture.”

“Agreed,” Nancy said.

“Any hints on the best way to tackle finding Isabel?” Toni asked. “I think we’re basically planning to treat it like a missing person case.”

“We don’t spend much time hunting down specific individuals,” Nancy said. “But I think you’re probably on the right track. You said the mother was going to file a missing person report? When she does, that will get the case entered into the NCIC and WACIC databases. After that, like you say, it’s pretty basic stuff—a lot of interviewing and legwork.”

“But it’s made all the more difficult because your subject is a minor,” Tyrone added. “She’s not going to be leaving any electronic traces—no credit cards, no bank withdrawals, nothing like that.”

Nancy thought about this for a second. “On the other hand, there are a few things that might help you out. First, if there’s a gang involved—and odds are that there is—then you might be able to work another angle and get some help from our Gang Unit. They might have some information on the gang itself. Can I see those text messages again? What were the names of the people Isabel ran into?” She looked over the transcripts.

“Crystal, Donnie, and Mikey.” She turned to Tyrone. “Any of these sound familiar to you?”

He thought about it and then shook his head. “No.” He looked at me. “But don’t read anything into that. Unless we’re dialed in on someone as a subject of one of our investigations, we probably wouldn’t bump into them during our normal course of business, and we’d have no reason to know their names. The Gang Unit might, though. They bounce around in those circles all the time. I’ll hook you up with those guys before you leave.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Nancy continued. “The second thing is that, as I was saying, whoever Isabel’s gotten herself involved with is going to try and prostitute her—most likely on the Internet. That may be what led to this last message—the one that reads ‘too good to be true.’ She may have finally been exposed to the big picture—the timing seems about right. She might have even tried to resist. As distasteful as it is, I’d start monitoring the Backpage.com website. Leave us a picture, and we’ll keep an eye out, too. That’s something we can do—we monitor Backpage all the time anyway. That’s where most of the pimps run their ads. There’s a reasonable chance that you’ll see a picture of Isabel in some provocative pose posted there. Brace yourself.”

The thought disgusted me, but the tactic made sense.

“Another lead we can give would be to talk to Annie Hooper at Angel House. Angel House is actually a series of houses that the city has recently purchased and fitted out as safe long-term places where these girls can live while they’re trying to break free from their pimps. They keep the locations pretty secret, and they’re heavily securitized, although from the outside, they look just like a regular house. Each house takes six or eight girls. They’re able to stay in a safe, structured place without having to worry about their pimps coming after them. If you’d like, I can call Annie and see if she’d agree to a meeting.”

“That would be great,” Toni said.

“Annie likes to encourage her girls to speak out. She feels that it can be therapeutic for them if she can get a girl to the point where she’s actively trying to help other girls break free. It’s possible one of her girls might recognize these names. If it’s okay with you, I’ll pass on that information as well and get back to you with meeting arrangements.”

“Fantastic,” I said. “That’d be a big help.”

“I wish we could do more,” she said, “but we’re not set up to hunt down individuals. It sounds like what you were planning is the right approach—you need to do some missing-person-type work to try and find Isabel.”

“Agreed,” I said. “We specialize in missing persons. I’m betting that we’ll find her.”

“Good. When you do, I’d like you to call us before you try any sort of intervention. It could be that us going after her pimp might be the safest way to rescue Isabel. Besides, if Isabel’s pimp is a gang member—highly likely—then that makes it quite probable that he’s armed and dangerous. We can certainly match our resources to the specific problem. We should definitely work together.”

“Agreed,” I said again. “We’ll gladly take whatever help you’re willing to provide.”

NANCY CALLED ANNIE Hooper before we left and put in a good word for us. It must have worked because Annie agreed to meet us for lunch at noon at a popular Caribbean-style restaurant in Fremont called Paseo. “Do you know where it’s at?” Toni asked as we headed north. I was trying to get on Highway 99, but it was closed throughout a good part of the city for construction work.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s on Fremont Avenue just north of Forty-Second Street. Just off 99.”

“You ever been there?”

“No. But they have one in Ballard—I’ve been to that one. It’s spicy stuff. You’ll like it.”

“Good,” she said. We fell back into silence for a few minutes.

“Did you ever do it with a prostitute?” she asked.

I suppose I should have seen this coming.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Would it make a difference to you if I had?”

She thought about this. “Maybe,” she said. “Depends on the circumstances.” She turned to me. “Why? Did you?”

I stared straight ahead and didn’t answer for a minute. She continued to look at me.

“I came close once,” I said. “Long time ago.” I paused for a few moments.

“What do you mean—‘close’?”

I turned onto Aurora at Denny. I finally had a clear ramp to get on 99 northbound. “It was at Fort Benning in Georgia. We’d just graduated from Advance Infantry Training like two days before New Year’s. I was all of eighteen years old. We’d all just received our new assignments and were set to ship out the next week. Three of my buddies and I had passes for New Year’s Eve, so we were out to do some celebrating. Naturally, we got completely shit-faced at one of the local redneck bars down there and—well—there was this place you could go—this house. One of the guys heard about it, so we got a cab to take us there. Turned out to be a full-on whorehouse—set way back up off a country road. Had a red light out front and everything. The place was full of soldiers—soldiers everywhere. We actually had to wait our turn. But they had beer and loud music, and everyone was hootin’ and hollerin’ and having a good time, so we didn’t care. I was young and stupid.”

“What happened?”

“We finally got our turn and went inside,” I said. “They had this lineup of girls—women really—they were older than I’d expected. They all looked like they were in their thirties—maybe forties even.” Despite being halfway drunk at the time, I remembered the lineup. I guess something like that is one of those things that gets permanently burned into your mind’s memory chips.

“Were any of them cute?”

I shrugged. “A little, I suppose. They weren’t ugly. Remember, I was a little shit-faced by then. Anyway, I was last in our group to pick. When it got to be my turn, I looked at the four women who were standing there.” I shrugged, seeing the women in my mind. “They were okay-looking, I suppose. They were all wearing this slinky lingerie, supposed to make ’em look sexy. And as I looked at them, that’s when it hit me.” I shook my head. “They didn’t look sexy. Far from it, really. They actually looked kind of sad. I looked in their eyes and
bam!
—the switch got thrown, and I was instantly turned off.” I paused for a moment, remembering. “They all had sad eyes. It changed things for me—kind of woke me up, I guess.” I paused for a moment, remembering. “So then I just turned and walked back outside. I had another couple of beers and waited for my friends.”

Toni thought about this for a few moments, then she said, “Do you imagine under different circumstances—?”

I shrugged. “What is this? A test? Who knows. I do know that that’s the closest I’ve ever been to being with a prostitute. And there’ve been plenty of opportunities since then.”

“Like you got close to the fire once, and you don’t want to go back.”

“Got that right—I definitely don’t want to go back. It was twelve years ago and today—just thinking about it—mostly all I see are those sad eyes.”

* * * *

“We’re buried.” Annie Hooper was sitting across from us at an outside table at Paseo, explaining the shortcomings of Angel House. We’d just finished lunch. Annie was a cute, vivacious woman, I’d say in her early forties. She had wavy red hair that fell to her shoulders. Her bright, infectious smile was made all the more endearing by the band of freckles on her face. She wore a black dress with a black necklace. “We’re up to six houses now—that means beds for thirty-six girls—a couple more in a pinch. And that means that at any one time, I probably have four more girls on a waiting list—girls I don’t have room for.”

“There’s that many girls trying to get straight?” Toni said.

“That’s right. The girls are all minors—by our charter with the city, we can only accept minors. Nearly all of them have been working for pimps. We give them a safe, secure home. We try to keep the locations secret to keep the pimps from coming by. They tend to find out anyway, but we have cameras, alarms, and heavy locks—and nearly instant response from the police. If a pimp shows up, he gets hit with a restraining order and a pretty firm warning. After that, most of them figure it’s not worth the trouble, and they don’t show up again. Most of them seem to get the message. At least so far. We’re diligent.” She smiled. “And maybe, just a little lucky.”

She paused and then continued. “Anyway, we work with the girls. We have classes and counseling for them. We encourage them to get their GEDs. The houses have normal house-type rules and structures, but we don’t have real heavy-handed enforcement. And it’s all voluntary—it’s not jail. The girls are all there because they want to be. If they want to leave, they can. But if they want to stay, they have to follow the rules.”

“How successful are you?”

“Let’s have Carla answer that,” Annie said. She turned to the dark-haired girl sitting to her left. When we’d arrived, Annie had introduced herself and Carla Nguyen. Carla was a pretty Asian girl, probably about eighteen years old. She lived at one of the homes in the Angel House network.

“It works pretty good,” Carla said. “The girls are uncertain when they first get there, but they’re surrounded by other girls who’ve already been through it. After a while, most of the girls take it pretty seriously.”

“You went through all of this?” Toni asked. “Out on the streets?”

Carla nodded. “Yeah. I worked. I had a pimp.”

“How long, if you don’t mind me asking,” Toni said.

“I don’t mind,” Carla answered. “Four years. I started when I was twelve. I got arrested for the fourth—no, the fifth time when I was sixteen. That time they told me I could come to Angel House. The first house was just opened then. I got to meet Annie.” She turned and smiled at Annie, the love and respect easy to see. “I’ve been there almost two years. My time’s about up now.”

“You’re happy?” I asked.

She smiled. “Yes. Happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life. For the first time, I feel like I’m in control of my own destiny. I got my GED. I’m already enrolled in U-Dub for the fall semester.”

“That’s great,” Toni said. “Danny and I went to U-Dub, and my little sister’s going this fall, too. What are you going to study?”

“Psychology, I think,” Carla said. “I want to be a therapist. I want to be a counselor for girls in the same position I’ve been in.”

“See?” Annie said, fairly beaming. “What a success story. And Carla’s not the only one. All of these girls are special—every one of them. They all have something to offer this world. They just need a little love and encouragement—sometimes the first they’ve received in their young lives. And protection. They need to be protected. They need people to stop taking advantage of them. We give them that at Angel House.”