Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (13 page)

Kit drove back to Norfolk while David slept. On the way, she called her neighbor and told her she was going to stop by to collect her mail. Ellen was a perpetually cheery brunette given to long skirts and flowers in her hair. Kit thought she would have done well in the '60s. She'd brought Kit brownies when she moved in, invited her to church three times, and volunteered to care for Kit's nonexistent pets. On sunny days, Ellen proclaimed it delightful. If it was dreary, she pronounced it a nice change.

Kit pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex and touched David's arm. “I'm going in to collect my mail,” she said when he opened his eyes. “Back in a few minutes.”

Ellen threw open her door when Kit knocked. Today, she wore a patchwork denim skirt and a flowered shirt. She handed Kit her mail, caught her up on the current gossip, and then said, “Some reporter's been around looking for you,” Ellen said. “Name's Piper something. I gave her your cell phone number. Hope you don't mind.”

Piper Calhoun from the
Norfolk Times
. Kit's heart sank. Actually, she did mind. Very much. “That's a private number, Ellen. Please don't give it out again. These reporters . . .”

Ellen waved her hand. “Oh, I know. They can be a pain. Sorry if I messed you up. I think I got the last two digits reversed, anyway. She said she couldn't get through. You can tell her to lose the number. You may see her. She called me a while ago and I said you were coming by.”

“You told her I was coming here?”

Ellen blinked. “My bad.”

Kit was still fuming when she returned to the SUV. David was awake, standing outside, leaning against the passenger door, looking toward her building. “Get in!” she commanded.

He responded quickly. “What's up?”

She turned the key in the ignition and started to tell him about Ellen when a young woman pulled into the space next to her and rolled down the passenger-side window of her battered Ford Focus.

“Kit McGovern?” the young woman called out, peering over her sunglasses.

Kit's mouth straightened into a line. She shoved the car into reverse.

David sat straight up. “What's going on?”

“Reporter.”

The young woman jumped out of her car and raced to the driver's door. Kit turned around to back up. “Wait!” the woman called, slapping the hood. “Wait.”

“Hold on,” David said suddenly, grabbing the dash.

Kit slammed on the brakes. She turned to look forward. That gave the young woman time to race to Kit's door and grab on to the handle. Kit shot David a look. “I could have gotten away.”

The reporter was wearing khaki pants and a black top, and the tattoo of some kind of vine wound up the left side of her neck. “Miss McGovern, I'm Piper Calhoun.”

“I have no comment,” Kit said, turning again to back out. She took her foot off the brake.

“But you're investigating that murder on Assateague, right?” The woman had her hand on Kit's door and was following her at a jog.

“No comment.”

“But wait, stop.”

Kit stepped hard on the brake. “Look, Miss Calhoun. All inquiries need to go through the press office downtown. You're getting nothing from me.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Kit began backing out again.

“So I guess . . . I guess you're not interested in the possibility that human trafficking is involved?”

Kit froze. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Check this out,” David said.

She glared at him. “I can't! That's how I got in trouble before! Do you want me to lose my job?”

“Then let me.”

T
HEY FOLLOWED
P
IPER
C
ALHOUN TO A DINGY APARTMENT NEAR THE
Norfolk Naval Base. “It's all I could afford,” she said apologetically as she stood outside Kit's car. “Reporters don't make much, you know.”

Kit didn't know. All she knew was that contacts with the media had to be cleared through the press office, a step she decidedly hadn't taken. “I'll wait here,” she said.

“Be right back,” David replied.

Kit rolled her eyes and laid her head back on the headrest.

Piper Calhoun led David into her building. “I've been working on a story for three months, maybe more,” she said as she inserted a key in the lock. “Some people in the newsroom are ticked. They think I'm not carrying my weight. But hey, they'll see eventually.” She pushed the door in. “Come on in.”

David stepped into the small living room. It smelled of food—garlic and something else, cilantro maybe? A worn brown couch covered by a colorful blanket was pushed against one wall. Above it hung a movie poster advertising “Twilight.” Two worn armchairs and a beat-up coffee table completed the
décor. A bead curtain covered one window and newspapers lay piled in the corner.

“Hold on,” Piper said, disappearing into the back, where David presumed the bedrooms were. She emerged a few seconds later, followed by a small, thin Hispanic woman dressed in a bright, orange top and a long black skirt.

“This is Patricia, a friend of mine,” Piper said. She pronounced the name the Spanish way,
Pa-tree-si-a
.

The young Latina stared at the floor. David asked her something in Spanish, and the woman's eyes lit up. She looked at him, her eyes searching his face, and then she answered him, hesitantly at first, then with more fluency and as her story came out, he grew increasingly focused.

David emerged from the building after fifteen or twenty minutes. He walked over to Kit's driver's door. “You need to speak to this woman, Patricia.”

A curious chill ran down Kit's spine. “David, I . . .”

“You need to talk to her.” David opened Kit's door.

When Kit walked into her apartment, Piper looked triumphant. “Sit down.”

Kit took an armchair, giving the couch to David and the Hispanic woman. How old was she? Twenty-five, maybe? The sorrow around her eyes aged her, Kit thought.

Piper couldn't stay quiet. “I volunteer with a women's shelter, you know?” she said to Kit. “One day, they brought Patricia to me. When I listened to her story, I decided to bring her home.”

“What kind of shelter?”

“A shelter for women and children who need to be away from, you know, from abusive partners or . . . or other stuff.” Piper glanced at Patricia.

“Like what other stuff?” Kit asked.

Piper took a deep breath. “Like forced labor.”

“Here? In Norfolk?” Kit looked quickly toward David to see if he was catching this.

“Yes!” Piper's eyes were an odd light blue and right now they were shining like ice chips. “They bring them in from all over. Some of them end up in massage parlors near the Navy bases, others in private homes, and the rest . . . well, we don't know where they're headed.”

Kit blinked. “Go on.” She could tell the rescuer in Piper was engaged.

“I've learned a lot. Here's the way it works.” Piper sat forward in her seat. “They come here to be domestic workers, or so they've been told. You know . . . maids or nannies. They get here and their ‘employer' takes their passports and forces them to work for pennies. It's human trafficking, the new slavery!”

Kit's mind raced. Could some of the ag workers be part of this scheme? She looked at Patricia, who twisted a tissue in her hands.

The Latina had been sitting quietly. She looked quickly at Piper and began speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. Kit heard the word “ice”—ICE—and realized the woman was asking Piper if she, Kit, was an immigration agent. When Piper responded in the negative, the woman visibly relaxed.

David moved forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He said something in Spanish to Patricia, then turned to Kit. “I've asked her to tell you her story.”

The woman began, speaking in broken English, her large brown eyes shifting between Piper and Kit.

“I am from Mexico,” Patricia said. “My family very poor. One day I meet a woman at the market. She say she get me work in America. I am nineteen years old then, the oldest of six children, and my mama says ‘Go. Make yourself a life. There is nothing here.' So I go.

“This woman, she takes me to a house, very bad smelling. She gives me to a man. He was not nice. He put me in the back of a truck with twelve others, men, women, and two children. We drive for a long time. It is so hot, I think I die. He gives no water, no food, nothing. Finally, the truck stops. We get out. It is night. I ask where we are. ‘Hickory,' the man say.”

“That's Hickory, North Carolina,” Piper explained.

The Latina continued. “Some people go there. Me and one other, we get back in truck. Then we here, in Norfolk.” She took a deep breath. “The man, he take me to a house, a big house. Very beautiful. He tell me if I work hard, I could live like that someday. This is America. He tells me if I leave the house, the ICE will get me. Put me in jail forever. He scares me very much.

“The people in that house, the ones I am to work for, they not nice. I work twelve, fourteen hours every day. Hardly no food. At night, they lock me in a tiny room in the basement. No light, no windows. Nothing. I am very afraid.

“I work there a long time, cleaning, cooking. The wife, she beat me. She think her husband like me. I stay there long time . . . two, three years. Then one night, they not lock my door. They are drinking, smoking . . . and they no come down and lock door. I wait . . . and I wait . . . and when all is quiet, I run. Where I go? I hide in the woods. I am very, very hungry. For two days, I walk. Then I see a priest. I run to him . . .”

Piper interrupted. “The priest brings her to our committee meeting, and voila, here we are. Meanwhile, I'm thinking this is a great story. Then I get sent up to Chincoteague to cover the body on the beach. And you know, I'm thinking there's a connection.”

“What connection?” Kit said.

The reporter shook her head. “I dunno.”

“Just because the boy was Hispanic?”

“Look. I'm willing to bet he wasn't on vacation. Yeah, maybe he was out fishing with his illegal dad, but that doesn't make sense, you know? How many illegals have the money to do that? All I know is, I'm giving you the lead. It's your job to connect the dots.”

“How long ago was all this?” Kit asked.

“Patricia's been here a month. At first, she felt terrified all the time. So afraid the people would find her. She's much better already.”

“Are there a lot of trafficked workers in Norfolk?” Kit asked.

“I don't know how far the problem goes. We know there are some people here as domestics, like Patricia, who live in virtual slavery. There are others who are in brothels, like I said. But another thing I'm interested in is migrants. You know, we have a lot of migrant workers up on the Delmarva Peninsula, and I'm wondering, are they all there voluntarily?”

Kit's heart was drumming.

“Patricia, have you heard of people being brought into the U.S. by boat?” David asked.

The Latina looked puzzled, so David said it again, in Spanish. “No,” Patricia said, shaking her head.

“But remember, she's been locked in a house for over three years,” Piper said.

“What were their names?” Kit asked.

“Who?”

“The people who held her. What were their names and where do they live?” Kit pulled out her notebook and pen.

“Patricia only remembers their first names: Robert and Rhonda. And part of a house number: 167. She can't get past that.”

David looked skeptical and Kit had to agree with him. Patricia knew more than she was telling. She looked at Piper. “What do you want out of this?”

“A career-changing story. I'm ready to blow this joint. Try CNN or something.”

Kit looked at her curiously.

Piper sighed. “All right. A little justice would be nice, too. It blows my mind that people can treat others like that. I feel sorry for her, and I don't know what to do next.”