Hush in the Storm Page 18

  Two hours later, I answered the door to find a familiar Hispanic woman on my stoop. I leaned against the door jamb, one eyebrow arched. “Well, Agent Hernandez. Long time no see—face-to-face—that is. What has it been? Three days?”

  She humphed and gestured with a wave. “Car’s waiting. You get to go yourself—with me.”

  The idea of having the freedom to see other than my four walls exhilarated me. With money to burn, I was the kid let loose at the carnival. I wandered aisles, drove my companion bonkers, and spent $326.92 on groceries, cosmetics, and “see-buys.” I was only pestered by the press twice in the store and once in the parking lot as we loaded the bags of groceries. A definite improvement.

  Afterward, I decided it was time to return the six messages the office had left on my answering machine. The operator put me straight through to my boss without any hesitation.

  I refused my old job, which of course they had already filled. My boss stumbled over his words in relief.

  “Legally, we had to offer it to you. I mean it wasn’t your fault you didn’t report in per policy. And you did have a history of exemplary work.”

  “I need time off to recover, both physically and mentally,” I confessed. “I’m just not sure how long. It wouldn’t be fair to take an undetermined amount of leave of absence. Just tell HR to pay me for my sick leave, vacation, and overtime.”

  His chair squeaked. “That is very generous of you, Mrs. Westlaw.”

  His sudden formality in addressing me made my stomach flip. I wondered if “Legal” was listening in.

  “Of course, I probably won’t sue you either.” I let that statement dangle.

  He cleared his throat. “For?”

  I humphed. “For hiring a psychopath who likes to kidnap coworkers, and for not screening him properly, of course.”

  The chair squeaked again. I heard muffled whispers. I stifled my giggle. This was fun.

  “Uh, let me check with the partners, but I am sure we can throw in the bonus we were going to offer you when your next anniversary came up in November. As I said, your work was—”

  “Yes, I know. Exemplary.” I swallowed down a burst of laughter. The firm never gave out bonuses. They were too bottom-line conscious. “But, just a bonus for all the harassment and horror I’ve been through?”

  Silence. I counted to ten.

  Another throat clearing sound came through the phone. “Would say...” His voice briefly faded then came back. “...Uh, $45,000 be fair?”

  I decided to release the fish from the hook. In spite of my animosity for the job itself, I held very little for him. “That seems fair to me. Of course, I’ll need it in writing. And I assume the figure is after taxes. Plus, I’d like you to pay my COBRA benefits and still contribute to my 401K for the next twelve months.”

  “Yes. Of course. It seems like a reasonable severance package. Good day, Mrs. Westfall. We will have Legal draw it all up along with your termination papers. You can expect that and the cashier’s check by Fed Ex tomorrow.”

  “Good day, Mr. Abernathy.”

  I hung up and squeezed Tom Cat. “That, my friend, just bought me some breathing room and you more cat food.”

  * * *

  My dilemma was how to find the girls without endangering them. I’d received two calls from publicity agents asking if I wanted to write a book about my ordeal. The idea intrigued me. Maybe that would be one way to get my message out. Write my memoirs. I wasn’t sure I was quite ready. However...maybe in a few months or so.

  I replayed the messages from the reporters who wanted me to interview for talk shows. That would be another way. I recalled Agent Hernandez’s warnings. But I could keep it vague, and concentrate on social awareness. At least I might get people to call and want to help out. Maybe, since I had witnessed the horrors firsthand, it would be my foot in the door to agencies who dealt with this issue of human trafficking.

  I wrote down the phone numbers to call each one. In a matter of hours, I was booked on a complimentary flight to New York, complete with private escort to a swanky hotel room. I was to appear on FOX Sunday, and do a taped interview with one of their well-known interviewers. Then on Monday, I was to appear live on the Today Show. The producers of a nighttime talk show in L.A. would make arrangements in another week or so, then get back to me.

  I decided to try the local news first as a trial run. Channel 11 agreed to interview me in my apartment. At five minutes to ten the next morning there was a slight tap on my door. A middle-aged woman in business attire and a camera man stood on my stoop. “I’m Veronica Wells. This is Joe.”

  A man in jeans and a baseball cap lugging a black case gave me a wave. Behind him, Agent Shelly bounded up the stairs.

  “Wait a minute. What’s this about?” She flashed her badge at the reporter.

  “They’re here to interview me.” I kept my voice nonchalant and steady.

  Agent Shelly raised an eyebrow. “Uh, no they aren’t.”

  I ushered the two inside. “Yes, they are.” This time I was the one to close the door and flick the bolts. It didn’t matter. I figured the Feds would hear the whole thing anyway. I was fairly certain my apartment was bugged. I asked the reporter to be seated, and then I poured glasses of ice water for them and one for myself.

  “I have never done anything like this in my life,” I admitted after a few gulps of fortifying H2O.

  “Few people have. Their horrific stories make the news. You can’t prepare for that.”

  She walked me through it all, and knew what questions to ask, when to stop the camera, and when to resume.

  I thanked her profusely at the end. She smiled genuinely. “You did well. I hope they find those two girls, and the man who terrorized you.”

  “But he didn’t. Really. I didn’t give that impression, did I? He protected me.”

  The reporter turned to her cameraman. “Joe, I’ll meet you in the van in a minute, all right?”

  Joe nodded, packed up his gear, and shook my hand. “You did fine. Pleasure to meet you. Glad you’re safe.”

  Veronica turned to me after he’d softly closed the door. “Jen. May I call you Jen?”

  “Sure.”

  “Jen, I see trauma victims all the time in this business. Do you have someone who can talk you through this? If not, I know some names.”

  I waved her comment away. “Yes, I do. I know all about Stockholm Syndrome. It doesn’t apply to me.” I wanted to scream, Tom is not crazy and neither am I.

  She patted my shoulder. “Good. It’ll take time to sort through all that has happened to you. Don’t rush it.”

  With a smile, she rose, smoothed her skirt, shook my hand, and left.

  Agent Shelly, who had camped on the stairs leading into my unit, scowled at me as I motioned she could enter my apartment. The rest of the afternoon, she kept giving me the “look.” I was obviously in detention. I felt like strapping on a penitent face and getting down on my knees to recite the 51st Psalm, just as I had in girl’s school—well, sort of.

  At last she divulged what had obviously been relayed through her earpiece. “Your little stunt cost you more quality time with me, lady. Congratulations.”

  “It’s my apartment. I can invite whomever…”

  “Not if you know what’s good for you.” She shook her finger at my nose. “Our job is to keep you safe. The other taxpayers are paying for this, you know. So why not give us all a break and cooperate, okay?”

  I gave her a silent nod. But I was still going to New York.

  The days dragged on while I waited to hear from the stations in New York. I decided to log a diary into my laptop while all the recent events were fresh in my head. It passed the time. But the more I wrote, the more anxiety crept back into my day. I couldn’t sleep for more than two hours at a time. Normal apartment living noises, like my lead-footed neighbor upstairs, made me jumpy.

  I fumbled through my desk to find the prescriptions the police doctor had given me. I sent Agent Shelly to get
the real one filled, while I called the number scribbled on the back of the other. She answered in three rings, which surprised me.

  “Doctor Jacobs? It’s Jen. Jen Westlaw.”

  “Mrs. Westlaw. I am so glad you called. How are you?”

  “It’s starting to sink in.” My hand quivered, as did my voice.

  “Did you fill that prescription?” Her tone sounded maternal.

  “Yes, I did. Just now. Do I take them any time?”

  “No more than one of them four times a day, but yes. Just be careful, and do not drive or make any legal decisions.”

  “When will it stop?” My voice pleaded for her to say soon.

  “Would you like the name of a counselor? I know a very good one who specializes in trauma. It might help you, Jen, to sort through your experience.”

  I thought for a moment. “Would everything I say be kept confidential?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s the law.”

  “I agreed to go on talk shows.”

  She sighed deeply into the receiver. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

  “I thought I was. Now, I’m not sure. I did one interview for Channel 11. It was like opening Pandora’s box. All the emotions just poured out.”

  “Jen, I’d advise against it from now on. Don’t be the latest thing on the news. You don’t need it.”

  I closed my eyes and felt strength surge back into my heart. “I know. But two other girls do.”

  “I’m not sure I follow...”

  I sighed. “Doc. Thanks. I appreciate you letting me call. Really. If I need the counselor, I’ll call back for the name and number.”

  I clicked off before she could respond. Rude of me, I know, but I was still a novice at how to act more assertively, and yet remain cool, calm, and in control. Anyway, I figured with these interviews, Tom would keep track of me. Maybe I could send him a cryptic message over the airwaves. But how? It would have to be an innocent remark that had no meaning to anyone else. Something he’d said or I’d said which related back to our experience. Something the Feds would not pick up on. Maybe about Snickers or Agritos.

  I’d think about that… and how to convince these Feds to back off so I could travel.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Agent Hernandez stood in my foyer. After ten minutes of bantering, she and Agent Shelly finally admitted no one could stop me from going to New York, or L.A. or anywhere else. I was not under arrest, but both of the Feds advised against it.

  “You think, if I begin my public speaking career, I might be in danger?”

  Agent Hernandez nodded. “There are lots of advocates against human trafficking, Jen. Non-profits, lobbyists. You don’t have to fight this battle.”

  “I witnessed it. I have to tell what I saw.”

  She placed her strong hands on my shoulders. “We can’t protect you. Unless you agree to come into WITSEC.”

  “Witness protection?” I took two steps backwards. “New name, new life? Like on the TV shows?”

  “Yes.” Agent Shelly chimed in. “Tell us everything you’ve held back. We’ll relocate you and protect you. Then, when these coyotes are arrested, you can help us shove them into a deep, dark hole by testifying.”

  A thought gripped my heart. How would Tom ever find me then? “If I did, would it guarantee Tom, well, Travis to you, immunity?”

  Agent Hernandez clucked and released her grip. “How do you know he’s not knee-deep in it?”

  I shook my head. “What?”

  She stepped back and leaned against the wall. “Look. You said he told you he ran drugs for them that night.”

  “So?”

  “So, they just let you two go in return?” The agent huffed. “Trust me. It doesn’t work that way. They would’ve shot him in the head and let the buzzards find him, then they’d have trafficked you.”

  I wrapped my arms around my waist and stared outside my sliding glass door, not really seeing anything. “He wouldn’t be involved in that.”

  Agent Shelly stepped into my line of vision. “How can you be so sure?”

  I pointed to my chest. “My heart tells me so.”

  Agent Hernandez sighed. “Jen, hearts lie.”

  “Look, you two can gang up on me all you want. I am flying to New York. Now I’d like to take a nap.” I walked down the hall to my bedroom and, once inside, slammed it shut.

  * * *

  I arrived at JFK International at 2:26 p.m., with new clothes in my bag thanks to a mega shopping spree with Becky. I wasn’t sure why my bodyguards let us go alone, but I’d relished in the freedom. I bought two pair of shoes, seven outfits complete with jewelry, and had my hair styled in a more chic, New York-ish style. Surprisingly, only three reporters recognized me during our outing and I wasn’t about to be interviewed via Smartphone tape-recording apps. We told them to shove off and they did. Having power over them felt good. My inner confidence dial increased a few notches.

  Standing in front of the mirror in my plush room at the Waldorf Astoria, I had to admit the new tailored business suit and slightly feminine blouse also gave me a boost of self-assurance. So did the bling of the earrings dangling beneath the edges of my new cropped hairdo. Tomorrow I’d look put together and professional, even if I did say so myself.

  A young woman called my room. She asked if I’d found the schedule which had been faxed to me. I located it on the desk in a sealed envelope with my name, next to a bouquet of yellow roses. “Did the studio send these?”

  “Yes. And dinner in your room is on us. Order what you wish. The T-bone is succulent, by the way.”

  Yellow roses and T-bones? Was it because I came from Texas? How cliché. “Thank you. What am I to do now?”

  “Rest. Tomorrow will be a full day.”

  She proceeded to go over the itinerary. The studio would pick me up at 5:45 a.m. What followed would be a blur of directions, makeup, advice, and rehearsed answers to questions before the Sunday morning five-minute segment, which was scheduled for 7:35 a.m., right after the news cap. Then, I would be given a tour of the studio and introduced to several other people. I was to wait in the green room with a catered brunch until around 10:00 a.m. before the taping of the other show.

  The studio rep was professional, yet warm and caring. Together we walked through what would happen and how I should respond. After a half hour, I had exhausted every possible question my brain could muster, so we hung up. I sniffed the roses once more, poured myself a glass of Diet Coke from the mini fridge, and walked around my expansive, four-room dwelling, feeling like mini-celebrity.

  I’d just slipped into the cushy white hotel robe and was preparing for a steamy bubble bath soak when the phone rang. A lady’s voice was at the other end.

  “Mrs. Westlaw? My name is Juanita and I am with the NHTRC.”

  “The what?”

  “The National Human Trafficking Resource Center. How long are you going to be in New York?”

  “Another day, I guess. I have an interview on FOX News, then a taping, and then another for the Today Show.”

  “Good. I’d like to drive up from D.C. and meet you tonight, if that is okay? Do you have dinner plans?”

  “No. I was going to eat in my room.” A thought hit me. “Do you want to join me here?”

  There was silence. “Sure. Why not. That way we can speak in total privacy. I’ll see you around eight o’clock. Okay?”

  I hung up, and then realized I didn’t know this woman from Eve. How naive of me. Did the National Human Trafficking Resource Center really exist? How had she gotten my number at the hotel? A brief chill surged through me.

  Was this a plot by one of the operatives Tom worked for, or perhaps Mae Lin’s group? Had my “Mother” just called me? My mind raced.

  I opened my laptop and Googled NHTRC, which did indeed exist. But a nagging thought tugged at me. How did I know the woman coming to my room was from there?

  I called the concierge and asked for the number that had just called my room. I dialed
it and Juanita answered. My heart sank back into my chest.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I—I just wanted to make sure...”

  “Mrs. Westlaw. I apologize. I should have explained. FOX News contacted me for a comment about your interview and gave me your information. They interviewed me about three months ago. They didn’t tell you I’d call?”

  “No.” I sank into my hotel bed with relief. She sounded legit. I rubbed the perspiration from my left temple. “No matter. I’ll see you at eight. You have my room number, right?”

  * * *

  At five after eight, I answered a rap on my door. A young woman in a tailored business coat with ponytailed, black hair and beautifully chiseled cheekbones stood on the threshold. She extended her hand, then immediately two men busted in as well. One grabbed me and gagged my mouth with his fist before I could scream. The other flicked out a blade, then shoved it under my chin.

  “Don’t say a thing. Listen to us.”

  I nodded more with my eyes than my head, since the blade already pressed against my skin.

  The woman smirked. She brushed my cheek with her manicured nails. “Good. Then listen well. You are calling off all of these interviews. You suddenly became very ill. Got it?”

  I blinked what I hope she’d interpret as a yes.

  She nodded to the goons and they shoved me to the couch. One stood behind me, blade still at my throat. The other towered over me. He had to have been a fullback in college football. His muscles rippled as he punched one hand into the other. He was dressed in a uniform with a NYFD insignia. Why? In my peripheral vision I saw the arm of the other man was covered in the same uniform color. What was this?

  The woman took off her long raincoat. She was in surgical scrubs. She sat on the couch beside me. “By the way, I am not from the NHTRC, you idiot.”

  “So I gathered.”

  She grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. “You never met those girls. You were just making it up to get attention.”

  I jumped to face her, but was shoved back into the couch. The knife blade pressed against my throat again. The male voice behind me growled with a Hispanic accent. “Sit still or I’ll cut you good.”