Anybody's Daughter (Angela Evans Series No. 2) (10 page)

C
lint marched out of Shep’s house pissed off at the task he’d been directed to carry out. They had a smooth-running operation that had been working without a hitch. But Shep’s ego was about to mess everything up.

Inside his Escalade, Clint tapped a button on the navigation screen, which speed-dialed Freda.

“We gotta expedite everything,” he said. “Shep wants to put Brianna out there A-S-A-P. So get her profile up online. Make sure you only use the body shots we took. Not her face.”

“I know what to do,” Freda fumed.

“Okay, then,” Clint said. “Just do it.”

Brianna’s face would attract a lot more hits than her body because she looked so young, but photos of her barely budded breasts would do the job. There were enough perverts out there to have ten dates lined up within seconds of uploading her pictures. It would be stupid to post the face of an underaged girl on the Internet. That constituted child pornography, which carried much stiffer penalties than trafficking.

They’d taken extreme precautions to protect their online operation, running it through an international website with firewalls that made it next to impossible to trace any of the profiles The Shepherd posted back to him. Though Clint had tried to talk Shep out of branding his girls, he’d been overruled. As brilliant as he was, Shep’s ego sometimes interfered with what Clint considered sound business judgment.

“That girl ain’t ready for no dates yet,” Freda complained. “It’s going to take some time to break her down. And I wanna help with that process. I got a scar on my face because of her.”

“I don’t care about your face. It’s your fault that you let a thirteen-year-old kid jack you up like that. And I didn’t call you to get into a debate. Just do what I told you to do.”

“I’m callin’ Shep,” Freda insisted. “We don’t need to be—”

“You ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

It pissed him off when Freda refused to take orders from him. Half the time, she acted as if
she
was running things.

“I just told you how it’s going down. So do it.”

He ended the call.

Clint thought it was a mistake to have a woman like Freda so heavily involved in their operation. On the other hand, it was good to have a female on hand, because it was easier for her to win the trust of the girls.

Though Freda could be just as callous as any dude, Clint knew she had ulterior motives. It wasn’t just about the money for her. She’d been bucking to be Shep’s bottom bitch ever since he pulled her off the pole. Nobody had really fulfilled that role for Shep since Loretha. And nobody
could
fill it like Loretha. That ho’ had a business sense keener than Shep’s. On top of that, you could trust her with your life. She always had Shep’s back. No matter how many times he’d kicked her ass, put her down or threw her out, she always came back, begging to do better the next time.

Clint had been floored when Loretha finally turned her back on them and returned to the square world. After all the dirt she’d done, it amazed him that she was out there trying to save ho’s from the life. He was equally surprised that Shep agreed to let her do her thing as long as she never tried to recruit any of his girls. Since they no longer had girls walking the track, it was unlikely that Loretha would ever run into one of their girls. Still, Clint had tried to get Shep to shut her down, but he refused.

Exiting the Harbor Freeway at Gage, minutes later Clint pulled up to the house where he’d deposited Brianna the day before.

Freda met him at the back door, hands on her hips. “I don’t appreciate you hangin’ up on me.”

Clint continued past her. “Get outta my face.”

“I don’t care what you say. I’m still callin’ Shep and tellin’ him not to—”

He stopped and turned back to her. “Go ahead. Call him. Let’s find out once and for all who has more pull. You or me. You keep trippin’ and you’re gonna find your ass on the street.”

“You can’t threaten me.”

Clint shrugged. “I just did. Your problem is, you don’t know when to shut your trap. That’s why Shep don’t have you staying at his crib. If you were really his woman, that’s where you’d be.”

Freda’s lips tightened. He could see that he’d hit a nerve and that pleased him.

“And just in case you didn’t know it, he’s got Sareena living with him now.”

That was a lie, but Clint wanted to mess with her head. Sareena was twenty-one, smart and sexy. Though Shep had claimed her as his own, he still shared her with his high-end clientele—businessmen, athletes and entertainers who were willing to fork over a few grand for an hour or two of what he got for free.

Freda’s eyes glazed with anger. It had been almost a year since she’d shared Shep’s bed.

“So go ahead,” Clint said, continuing with his taunt. “Call over there with your attitude so I can remind Shep why he should keep Sareena as his main broad and not you. That girl knows how to keep her mouth shut and do what she’s told.” He paused. “In addition to having the baddest body on the planet.”

Clint continued down the hallway, expecting a fiery retort that didn’t come. Freda wouldn’t question Shep about Sareena living with him. If she did, Shep might just put her ass back on the street. But nobody wanted a twenty-nine-year-old ho’. It was all about the young girls now.

He stopped halfway down the hallway, pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the three deadbolts. Brianna was huddled on the bare mattress in the fetal position, naked. The room smelled like piss. He wished he could open a window, but he couldn’t risk the girl calling out to someone on the street.

“C’mon,” he said, glaring down at her. “You’re going home. Your uncle’s been looking for you.”

A smile ignited Brianna’s drawn face. “I knew he would come get me!” she whimpered. “I knew it!”

“C’mon then. I got some clothes for you in the other room.”

Brianna tried to stand, but her weak legs couldn’t hold her up and she tumbled back to the mattress. She tried again and got halfway erect before Clint grabbed her upper arm and started moving toward the door. He dragged her across the hallway to the room he used when he spent the night at the house. It was one of only a couple of decent rooms in the place.

“What about Kaylee?” Brianna asked. “Can she come with me?”

“No,” Clint snapped. “Kaylee was smart enough to get with the program. She’s on a date right now.”

Clint tossed Brianna onto the bed, then turned around to lock the door.

He hated what he was about to do. This girl barely had breasts. He doubted his dick would even get hard.

Pulling Brianna’s iPhone from his pocket, Clint turned it on and fiddled with it until he found the camera. He was about to start the recording when something hit him.

Why did Shep want a video of him breaking Brianna
in
?

If the video got into the wrong hands, he would never see daylight. He and Shep went way back, but was his boy trying to set him up?

Brianna’s weak voice interrupted his thoughts. “Where are the clothes?”

Perched on the edge of the bed, she glanced around the room. Her arms were crisscrossed in a futile effort to hide her nakedness.

Clint would give Shep a video of the girl all right. But his face wouldn’t be in it.

Stepping up to the bed, he punched Brianna hard in the chest. The force of his blow sent her tumbling to the floor. He knew from experience that if he beat her before he had sex with her, she’d be much more compliant.

Clint reached down and grabbed Brianna’s arm and tossed her back onto the bed. Instead of remaining there, she charged at him and sank her teeth deep into his forearm.

Clint yelped in pain and tried to pull her off of him. When he finally did, he saw blood seep through the sleeve of his shirt. “You little bitch!”

He backhanded her across the face. In seconds, Brianna’s jaw puffed up like a water balloon.

Damn!

Shep didn’t allow hitting the girls in the face, but he couldn’t restrain himself. His arm hurt like hell.

“My Uncle Dre’s gonna get you.” Brianna’s words came out slow and garbled, as if she was drunk. Blood spewed from her lips.

With his right hand, Clint aimed the iPhone at Brianna and pushed
record.
Using his free hand, he yanked Brianna by the hair and slammed her head into the oak headboard over and over again.

Brianna used her fists to fight him off, but her punches felt like taps. The words coming from her bloody mouth no longer made sense.

Clint was careful to keep himself out of the video. He also didn’t say a word so the recording wouldn’t pick up his voice. He aimed the camera lower as he released Brianna’s hair and started punching her in the ribcage.

She cried and gasped as her chest heaved up and down. Suddenly, she stopped fighting him and was struggling to catch her breath.

He hoped the girl wasn’t having another asthma attack.

As Brianna fought for air, Clint backed away toward the door, his heart hammering, the camera phone still aimed in her direction.

No way this girl was going to die on his
watch.

He stopped the recording, shoved the iPhone into his pocket and tore down the hallway. He found Freda sitting at the kitchen table, sulking.

“Get me that inhaler,” Clint yelled. “Now!”

A
ngela pulled her SUV into the gated parking area behind the Kenyon Juvenile Justice Center in Watts and turned off the engine. She needed a moment of solace to brace herself for another heart-wrenching day.

Around seven that morning, Angela remembered a friend who was an administrator with L.A. Unified School District. Despite the early hour, she’d given her a call and asked her to find out if there was a teacher at Crenshaw High School who had a son named Jaden Johnson. Her friend also agreed to find out whether there was a Jaden Johnson enrolled at Foshay Middle School.

After saying yet another prayer for Brianna and Dre, Angela grabbed her satchel and climbed out of her car. She greeted the sheriff’s deputy on duty at the rear door and passed through the metal detectors. As usual, the waiting area for juveniles who had matters before the court was as crowded as a hospital emergency room during flu season. She made a left at the end of the corridor and entered courtroom 264.

Juvenile court did not resemble traditional courtrooms. For one, there was no jury box, witness box or formal seating area for court watchers. Two long tables faced the judge’s elevated bench. A couple rows of folding chairs served as the gallery. The court-assigned probation officer sat off to the right with the bailiff stationed near the door.

“Hey, Carol. What’s on the calendar for today?”

The probation officer handed Angela a stack of papers. “The Public Defender’s Office had conflicts on all six of those. So they’re all yours.”

Angela thumbed through the petitions. “This is crazy.”

“You’re telling me,” Carol said with a shake of her head.

Angela quickly scanned the petitions. All six cases were juvenile girls picked up for soliciting prostitution. “Are any of them here yet?”

Carol looked down at a list on her desk, then reached up and flipped through the petitions that she had just given to Angela.

“That one, Jolita Allen, is in the back. Two others are in transit from juvenile hall.”

Angela quickly read the scant paperwork for her newest client. This was the girl’s second arrest for soliciting prostitution. After the first arrest over a year ago, she’d served six months at a juvenile camp. Angela entered a door to the left of the bench and walked down a hallway to the holding tanks.

“I need to see Jolita Allen,” she told the deputy.

She followed him as he unlocked the cell.

Jolita stood up, arms folded. “When am I gettin’ outta here?”

When Angela met a new client charged with soliciting prostitution, the girls typically displayed one of two demeanors: fear or defiance. Jolita fell into the latter category.

She was a tiny little girl, tiny even for fourteen. Her orange jailhouse jumpsuit swallowed her up. She was the color of vanilla ice cream and her dirt-brown hair was braided at the nape of her neck.

“Today’s your lucky day,” the deputy joked as he opened the door of the tank. “Your lawyer’s here.”

The guard escorted Angela and Jolita a few feet across the hall to an interview room which contained a table and three stackable chairs.

Jolita sat down lazily, plopped her right elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm.

“I’m Angela Evans and I’m your attorney,” Angela began. “I’m representing you on the solicitation charge. We need to go over some things before your arraignment today.”

Jolita rolled her eyes.

“What I’m saying is very important. So I want to make sure you’re listening to me.”

“Yeah, I’m listening.”

“Okay, then. What’s my name?”

Jolita smiled for the first time. “Uh, tell me one more time.”

“Angela Evans.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll remember.”

Angela began, as she did with all of her juvenile clients, by reading the pertinent parts of the petition.

“You’re being charged with Penal Code Section 647b, soliciting prostitution. You have a right to a trial or you can plead out. It’s a misdemeanor punishable by six months in a juvenile facility.”

“I can’t go back to no group home,” Jolita said. “You gotta get me outta here.”

“Where do you live?”

Jolita hesitated, which told Angela everything she needed to know. She probably lived with her pimp, but wasn’t about to admit that to her lawyer or anybody else.

“My friend, Nay-Nay.”

“How old is Nay-Nay?”

“Same age as me. She live with her older brother. He’s eighteen.”

“What’s his name?”

She hesitated again. “Ronny Green.”

According to the police report Angela had read minutes earlier, Ronny Green was a known pimp.

“The judge isn’t going to allow you to stay with them. Do you have any family members who can take you in?”

“Yeah, probably. My grandmother. But she on drugs.”

“Then the court won’t let you stay with her either.” Angela exhaled. “Where’s your mother?”

“I don’t know.”

She decided not to even ask Jolita about her father. “I’m going to see if I can find a suitable placement for you.”

“Please don’t let them send me to Dorothy Kirby. That’s like being in prison. And the girls in there are crazy.”

Her clients always begged not to be assigned to Dorothy Kirby Mental Health Center.

“Do you have a social worker?”

“Yep.”

Over ninety percent of the juveniles picked up in L.A. County for soliciting prostitution had cases with the Department of Children and Family Services. The fact that Jolita had a social worker meant that she’d been neglected, molested or subject to some other form of abuse, making her ripe for the picking by a pimp.

“What’s her name?”

“I forgot.”

Angela folder her arms. “And what’s my name?”

Jolita laughed, snapped her fingers and wiggled her neck. “Angela Evans. See, you thought I forgot. I’m very smart.”

The tragedy of her work was that most of the girls Angela represented were indeed extremely bright. If they hadn’t been raised in abusive, dysfunctional families, they never would have ended up in the hands of a pimp and likely never would have had any involvement with the criminal justice system.

Angela nodded her approval. “Very good. Let’s go over the police report. According to the undercover officer who picked you up, you were standing on Long Beach Boulevard at four in the morning waving down cars. He claims you leaned into his car and offered to, quote,
suck him
dry
.”

Jolita shot up in her chair. “He lyin’ on me. I don’t even talk like that.”

“What about the rest of his account? Were you flagging down cars?”

Jolita slumped back in her chair. “Look, I was hungry. I was just trying to make some money to…to feed my baby.”

Jolita’s file didn’t mention anything about a child.
Good
God.

“You have a child?”

“Yep. Deon is two,” she said, glowing.

“Where is he?”

“He live with my Baby Daddy’s Mama.”

“I thought you said you were trying to get some money to feed your baby?”

“I was. Babies need a lot of stuff. You don’t know how much Big Deon’s Mama be sweatin’ me. I try to give her some money every now and then.”

“Where’s Big Deon?”

“In jail. But he didn’t rob no store. The police lied on him.”

Angela didn’t even want to guess how old Big Deon was.

“You’re going to go before the judge to be arraigned in a couple of hours. We’re going to plead not guilty and I’m going to see if I can get you in the STAR program.”

“What’s that?” Jolita asked.

The acronym STAR stood for Succeed Through Achievement and Resilience. The pilot program funded by a state research grant, treated juveniles arrested for prostitution-related charges as victims, rather than criminals, focusing on providing them with the resources to help them become independent, productive adults.

“It’s a program that’s going to help you get your life on track,” Angela explained. “You’re going to be closely supervised, and if you do everything the court requires you to do, the charges against you will be dismissed.”

“I don’t need nobody all up in my business.”

“Would you rather go to Dorothy Kirby?”

Jolita made a sucking sound. “Hell, no. I don’t belong in no crazy house.”

“In the STAR program you’ll have a treatment team that will—”

“I don’t need no treatment? I ain’t sick.”

Angela ignored the interruption. “You’ll be assigned a counselor and a mentor who used to be on the streets. You’ll have to get counseling, go to school every day and meet with your probation officer and social worker when you’re required to. Do you think you can manage that?”

Jolita feigned boredom, but Angela saw through it.

“That sound like it might be okay. So when can I get out of here?”

“When we go before the judge, I’ll have to see where they can place you.”

Angela would repeat this conversation with little variation at least five more times today. She had an active caseload of another dozen girls charged with solicitation whose cases were at various stages. Something was definitely wrong with the world.

Heading back into the courtroom, she asked the bailiff if any of her other clients had arrived yet. As the bailiff made a call, Angela checked her smartphone. No call or text from Dre.

She prayed that Dre found his niece soon. If he didn’t, Angela didn’t have to imagine the horrors Brianna would face. She knew them all too well.