Street Dreams (8 page)

Jaylene Taylor held the title of Girls Vice-Principal. She was tall and big-boned with a broad forehead, long equine teeth,
and dark eyes. She wore a beige blouse that sat over navy slacks and sensible flats. When I told her why I was there, the
dark eyes narrowed and her mouth screwed up into a distasteful look.

“I can’t just hand out names of our students. Everyone has rights, even minors.”

Not technically true, but now was not the time to get legal.

“Besides,” Jaylene continued, “you don’t want pregnant students, you want girls who were formerly pregnant. You know the dropout
rate we have with pregnant girls?”

“I bet it’s high.”

“Skyscraper high. We’ve got all these state-mandated testing-program requirements.
Our
main problem is getting the students to show up and put in the hours to graduate. Academics?” She stuck out her tongue. “What’s
that?”

“I went to public school.”

She threw me a sour expression that screamed:
Look where it got you!

“All I want to do is talk to them, Ms. Taylor.”

“They’re scattered, Officer Decker.” She was regarding me with contempt. Or maybe that was contempt at life in general. “We
don’t run a school for wayward teen girls who can’t say no.” Under her breath: “Although sometimes it feels that way.”

“Don’t these girls have special classes?”

Her laugh was mirthless. “They have an entire major. It’s called Household Arts, although you don’t have to be pregnant to
declare it as your area of study.” She rolled her eyes. “Diaper changing 101.” A sigh. “It’s not that bad. And I suppose it’s
a lot more relevant to the girls than Shakespeare.”

“I would think
Romeo and Juliet
would be very relevant to a teenage girl. Relevant as well as romantic.”

“Your assumptions are predicated on their being able to read.”

I stopped being adversarial and resorted to pleading. “Ms. Taylor, the mother dropped her infant in a Dumpster like garbage.
Maybe if we can
impress
upon these girls that there’s no reason to
ever
hurt their babies, that there are ways to give up infants that are legal and anonymous, then maybe we can save a life in
the future.”

“You don’t think we
tell
them?”

“Of course you do. But there’s nothing like a real-life case to illustrate it. You know, kinda bring it home anecdotally.”

She twisted her mouth and glared at me. Then, abruptly, her face softened and I knew she relented. “We offer a fourth-period
prenatal class for pregnant girls who are excused from regular gym. I suppose hearing it from an officer won’t hurt.” She
eyed me with suspicion. “It would have helped if you had come in your uniform.”

“I’m doing this on my own time. If it’s a big success, I’ll go through official channels next time.”

“All right. Let’s go. Don’t get your hopes up. And don’t believe everything they tell you. These ladies are notoriously good
bull-shitters.”

There were twenty-three girls, none of them married, and in most cases, the boyfriends were peripheral. Most were from broken
homes, and none had any money. What kind of future did these girls have? How were they going to support their children and
themselves without becoming a statistic on the slippery slope downward?

I tried to speak to them without condescension, lecturing with passion and honesty. But after the first couple of minutes,
I had lost 90 percent of the attention in the room. Their restless eyes went to the wall clock and skipped around space. They
regarded their long, polished nails; a couple of them refreshed their mouths with generous lipstick applications; several
girls pulled out copies of
Teen
magazine and thumbed through the pages as I spoke. So I concentrated on those who still deigned to make eye contact with
me.

I started off with the laws concerning infant abandonment. If the child is dropped off in front of a police station or at
a hospital, the mother will not be prosecuted if she has given birth within twenty-four hours. And even if the child is abandoned,
the mother can still escape prosecution if she makes herself known within seventy-two hours. There was no reason
ever
to discard an infant.

When I brought up last night’s case, I detected a whiff of interest from some of the girls. Just a whiff, though. Mostly,
the girls continued to shuffle their feet, clear their throats, and watch the clock. Ten minutes before class was up, I asked
if anyone knew of a desperate pregnant girl who might be the mother. I told them that the mother needed psychological help
and medical attention. Surely they could understand her emotional position. I directed my pleas to a girl sitting in the second
row, left-hand side. She wore a sleeveless russet tent dress, the hemline resting against smooth thighs. She had round brown
eyes and long, straight blond hair that reached her shoulders. A pretty little thing, even with the butterfly encased in a
heart tattooed on her left shoulder. Her right shoulder held the name
CARISSE
done in florid script.

Her eyes took me in, although as soon as the bell rang, she was out of her seat, her books pressed against her ample bosom
and oversize belly. I called out the name etched in blue on her skin. She turned around.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Carisse waited.

I said, “You seemed to be paying attention … focusing on what I was saying—”

“I’m gonna be late for class.”

“I’ll write you a note.”

A swish of the hair.

“C’mon,” I prodded. “Help me out. You know who I’m talking about?”

“No.” A shake of her head. “It’s not like I know every knocked-up girl in the city.”

“Okay, so you don’t know her personally. But maybe you’ve
seen
a girl who fits the picture?”

Carisse shifted the books in her arms. “Not too far from here … maybe … a couple of blocks east … maybe more.”

“Yeah?”

“At a bus stop at night. It’s not far from where I live. I seen this girl sittin’ on the bench. She never goes on the bus,
and I never seen her comin’ off the bus, either. She just sits there. Like, I’m not saying she’s homeless. And I’m not saying
she’s preggers. But she is fat and dressed weird. Just sittin’ on the bus bench, readin’ the same book. I haven’t seen her
for a couple of weeks … maybe longer. I was wonderin’ if like … you know, something happened to her.”

“Like what?”

“Hey, you’re a cop. This far east … it ain’t Beverly Hills, you know. Lots of hustlers and lots of poor slobs.”

“Hey, Carisse, I know who you mean.”

I turned to the sound of the voice. This one had short black hair, white foundation, and black lipstick and eyeliner. She
wore a black dress that fell past her knees. Her boots disappeared under the ragged hemline. I thought the Goth look was long
gone, but I guess I was wrong. She stuck out her hand. “Rhiannon … like the witch in a Fleetwood Mac song.”

Carisse rolled her eyes. “It’s really Roseanne—”

“It’s whatever I want it to be,
be-ach.”

“Hold on!” I broke in. “Let’s keep it friendly.”

“Fine!” Rhiannon clutched her books to her chest and regarded me with wounded eyes. “I think I seen her, too. That homeless
girl. She carries a purse made outta shells.”

Carisse nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“I’m not saying she
was
pregnant, only that she was fat and was readin’ this book.”

I said, “Do you remember the title of the book?”

Carisse shook her head. “You know, she didn’t look like she was really readin’ it. Just like … looking at the pictures.”

“Why don’t you think she was reading the text?”

“’Cause she was moving her lips as she went through the book … like turnin’ the pages
way
too fast. And mumblin’ as she turned the pages. Like talkin’ to herself.”

“Can you describe her?”

“She had a pink face and she was fat,” Carisse told me.

“She was Caucasian, then?”

“Yeah, she was real white … like pink.”

“Something’s wrong with her.” Rhiannon twirled an index finger next to her temple.

“And she talked to herself?” I repeated.

“I dunno,” Rhiannon said. “Never got that close.”

“Like I said, she mumbled,” Carisse told me. “She dressed weird, bundled up in layers of clothing. You could tell she was
hot. She was sweating. Her face was covered in sweat … kinda piggish looking … real pink, you know.”

I nodded encouragement. “Eye color, hair color?”

“Blondish hair,” Rhiannon volunteered.

Blondish hair. For Rhiannon to have noticed blond hair at nighttime, it must have meant that the woman was very blond. Also,
it meant something else to me: that the woman’s hair was relatively clean. Even blond hair gets dark when it’s dirty and greasy.
Neither girl mentioned anything about her smell, usually the first thing people noticed when dealing with the homeless.

“And you haven’t seen her for a while?”

“I haven’t looked for her,” Carisse said. “You asked me for ideas, I gave you some.”

“Thank you. You’ve both been very helpful.” I gave each of them my business card. “If you see her again, you’ll give me a
call.”

Rhiannon squinted at the card. “‘Cyn-thi-a Decker.’” She looked at me. “That’s you?”

“That’s me.”

“How long have you been a cop?”

“Two years.”

“So you’re still, like, new at it?”

“I’ve been around,” I told her.

“You like it?”

“Very much.”

“So, like, what does it take to be a cop?”

There was the long answer. Being a cop for me meant a passionate desire to help people and a fierce determination to seek
justice. It meant courage, fortitude, physical stamina, and a tolerance for long, lonely nights. It meant having a clearly
defined sense of self, a scrupulous honesty, and comfort with alienation. It meant wrestling with demons in nightmares that
sometimes come true. It meant all those things to me, and a lot more.

But I gave her the short answer. It takes a high school diploma and a warm body. Oh, and if you have a clean record that always
helps, although it’s not
mandatory.

What’s a misdemeanor drug possession between friends?

I
didn’t get a chance
to check up on the blood work.”

“Okay.” Dad didn’t say more. He was expecting my next request.

I shifted my cell from one ear to the other. “I don’t suppose you’d like to make a phone call to the hospital?”

“Cindy, it’s not my place. Also, maybe Van Horn placed a call. Did you check?”

I knew Greg was twelve hours away from vacation time … not a chance. “I don’t think so. I just thought it would sound more
official coming from a lieutenant. But you’re right. I’ll make my own call. Get my own feet wet, right?”

“Why don’t you coordinate with Detective Van Horn?”

“I will in two weeks, when he comes back from vacation.” Silence over the phone. The Loo wasn’t rescuing me. “It was nice
seeing you this morning, Daddy.”

A long sigh breathed over the line. “What did you do after breakfast?”

“I went to Mid-City High School per your suggestion. It was a good one.” I related the conversation I had with Carisse and
Rhiannon. Decker picked up on the blond hair as well.

“If Rhiannon could tell she had blond hair, it means to me that the woman probably has access to a shower or bath. Any idea
of the age?”

“No.”

Decker said, “If there’s something off about her, maybe instead of homeless shelters, you should try looking into vocational
schools for the developmentally disabled. Maybe the girl was well cared for, but retarded.”

“That would be so sad,” I said. “A retarded girl giving birth in the back alley of Hollywood. She must be so frightened. And
what kind of chance does the kid have?”

“Some people are remarkable survivors.” A pause. “I’m talking to one of them.”

I felt myself smiling. “Funny, Decker. I was going to say the same thing.”

After such an extraordinary night, I was glad that my shift contained the usual suspects: drunks, hookers, hustlers, and other
various and sundry miscreants. I rode with my sometimes partner—Graham Beaudry—who wavered between hours on the Day and Evening
watch. He was one of the few men in the department whom I didn’t absolutely distrust.