Undercover Girl – Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve – A Hare-brained Scheme?

“Everyone who saw me Saturday at the park thought I was a high school girl,” Marcus argued as he sketched out an idea he had. It was the Tuesday morning after the long weekend, and Amy and Latesha sat quietly in Amy’s office, listening.

“But, you could get beat up or even worse, killed,” Amy said, her voice rising in angry disbelief that Marcus could be serious about the scheme. “It’s a hare-brained idea.”

“Maybe and maybe not,” he said, trying to deflate the danger.

In his own mind, of course, Marcus was not as certain that the plan was such a good idea; yet, it intrigued him. He had also been a scaredy-cat as a boy. He never rode anything more exciting than the merry-go-round at the fair and, even then, he was afraid he’d fall off the wooden pony. He remembered screaming once when he saw a spider on his book in school and Billy Evans accused him of acting like a “scared little girl.”

For some reason, as Miranda, he found himself summoning up all sorts of courage. Of course, he was determined to find out about this ring of wealthy, evil men who were preying upon young boys and girls and to give Jefferson Turner some sense of security. Maybe, however, he was motivated by his own selfish needs to justify himself as a worthy human being, instead of being a needy, pathetic, weak man.

Perhaps because of his persistence, Amy and Latesha let him continue to outline the plan. Even though Marcus didn’t go into detail, they agreed that it might just work, even though Amy said the agency could not be directly involved in what he’d be doing.

“Look, Marcus,” Amy explained, using his male name as she always did during working hours, “If you get hurt or injured or you cause others to be harmed, the agency will be sued. I’m going to have to forbid that you perform such an activity, you understand. What you do on your own time, I don’t have any control over.”

Marcus nodded. He had expected that he’d have to do this on his own and to spare them connection with his actions he didn’t go into further detail.

“For the record then, let me say that I have told you not to act outside of your normal duties on this case and that you are to do nothing that involve the agency without my direct approval,” Amy said, her tone quite matter-of-fact. “Latesha White has witnessed this.”

“I understand,” Marcus said.

He got up to leave her office, but Amy ordered him to sit down. “I want you to call Sergeant Simbach and tell him what Jefferson told you. The police will have to interview him now.”

“But I’m not sure he’s ready to talk to the police,” Marcus argued, worried about the boy’s fragility.

“Nonetheless, the police need to be informed,” Amy said firmly. He could see she was acting like a boss now; he didn’t like this side of Amy, but he understood that she had to occasionally assume her role as stern supervisor. She ordered Marcus to call from the phone in her office.

“Do you need me anymore? I’ve got a ten o’clock home visit,” Latesha said, rising from her chair.

“No, go, Latesha. We can take it from here, but if you have any thoughts let me hear them, OK?”

“OK, Amy,” Latesha said, leaving the office.

When she was gone, Amy asked Marcus to close her door to the outer office. “I’m sorry I had to act so bossy, Marcus. I know you want to do all you can to help Jefferson. But, I care for you so much and I don’t want to see you hurt. Please take care.”

“I will and I’m really frightened over the whole idea, but I have to do it, Amy. I just have to.”

“I know, dear,” she said. Marcus could see tears forming in her eyes.

Amy said nothing but got up from her chair and directed him to her desk to call Sergeant Simbach. She knew of his reluctance to involve the police at this point and he guessed she wanted to make sure he would make the call.

The sergeant accepted Marcus’ call and expressed his pleasure at Marcus’ ability to finally get the more of Jefferson’s story. Marcus said he was worried that Jefferson might refuse to talk to the police just yet. “He’s scared stiff, sergeant,” Marcus said.

He only gave the police sergeant the general outline of Jefferson’s story, not even indicating that there was a chance there may be a major pedophile ring that recruited fragile young boys.

“Maybe I might scare the boy off from talking,” Simbach said when Marcus finished. “Might not it be better to have Officer Jelacic have a try at him? Maybe he’d accept a woman a bit better.”

“I don’t know, since she arrested him in the first place,” he said. “And she treated him a little tough, but I think she could probably win his trust. It’s worth a try.”

He told Marcus to set up a time for Officer Jelacic to meet with the boy, along with Marcus, preferably at Hope Place. Marcus agreed and thanked him for how he was handling of the case.

*****
Heddy Jelacic greeted Marcus warmly when they met in the waiting room at Hope Place. He was pleased to see that the police officer was not wearing her uniform, but instead wore a dark brown pencil skirt, beige blouse and violet cardigan sweater. Her blonde hair was brushed, and he found her to be warmly attractive. As Heddy approached, Marcus was talking with Tatiana, the caseworker who had been assigned to the boy.

“I don’t know how cooperative he’ll be this morning,” Tatiana said. “He’s been sort of morose since your visit on Saturday.”

“Really? He seemed so upbeat when I left, like he had gotten a burden off his soul,” I said.

“I thought he was as well, but his attitude changed Sunday,” she said. “He got a call from Melody, his foster sister at the Harrisons. And, you know, he didn’t have to accept any calls, but he said he’d like to talk to her and we didn’t see any harm in letting the call go through. His attitude changed after that.”

“Oh no,” I said.

“Yes, Saturday after you left, he got in a game of Monopoly with a couple of the girls here and they had a great time,” Tatiana said. “Can you imagine, Monopoly? Such an old-fashioned game, but one of the girls found the game buried in a cabinet in the game room and wondered how it was played. And, Dennis, our security guy on weekends knew how to play it from his youth. You know Dennis is older than dirt.”

Heddy laughed. “Actually, I played the game a lot as a kid, with my grandpa. He lived with us and he liked to play the big capitalist, which was a lark, since he’d picked up garbage for 35 years for the city and never had a pot to do you know what in.”

“Anyway, Marcus was fine until he got that phone call on Sunday, and then something changed,” Tatiana related.

Marcus was concerned; obviously, Melody told Jefferson something that caused him to go back into a funk. The whole business was troubling and this further convinced Marcus that the Harrisons were somehow involved in this whole mess. Even though both Melody and Larry had been removed from the Harrison household and placed into other homes, it was possible that they may have held some threat over them.

A few minutes later, Tatiana led Jefferson into a cheerful room that had a sofa, two side chairs and a table with four chairs at one corner. Officer Jelacic and Marcus were already seated at the table, both with coffee and several mini-Danish sweets on a plate in the middle of the table. Jefferson said he wanted tea, which Tatiana fetched for him.

The boy kept looking downward after they sat at the table, glancing up only perfunctorily to acknowledge any comments. His response was grudging and more like a grunt. He refused to look anyone in the eye.

Heddy was quick to recognize the boy’s mood and tried a little small talk to warm up the meeting. Jefferson answered using only one syllable words, often grunting his replies so that they were barely audible. The only time he warmed up was when Heddy mentioned the Monopoly game.

“Yeah, I won,” he said. “I was the richest since I got Boardwalk and Park Place early in the game. Just like Donald Trump.”

Marcus scowled at the answer. Jefferson knew Marcus’ feelings about Trump and he quickly added, “Well, rich like Donald Trump, but not nasty and mean like him.”

“OK that’s better,” Marcus smiled. “Now, Jefferson I want you to tell Officer Jelacic just exactly what you told me Saturday, OK?”

“I’ll try,” he said, looking down at the table top, averting his eyes from the others.

The story he told that day hardly matched his earlier account. He did describe the scenes at the house and his escape pretty much as he had told Marcus, but he became strangely vague as to how he got to the mansion in the first place.

“Didn’t you tell me that both times Mr. Harrison took you to a place where he met up with another group of men and then they put you in another car and drove you blind-folded to the house where the men were? Didn’t you tell me that, Jefferson?”
He nodded, still looking down. “Maybe I did, but I was lying. I just wanted to place the blame somewhere else. I wanted to go to that house since I heard they were nice to boys like me and so they picked me up in a car and I didn’t look out the window so I don’t know how I got there. That’s all. I lied.”

Jefferson never looked up as he talked.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Jefferson,” Marcus said. “Why can’t you tell Officer Jelacic what you told me?”

“I’m not lying now,” he said, finally looking up at Marcus.

He started to cry and Marcus sought to put his arms about the boy, but he shied away. “Leave me alone,” he said, bolting from the room. They could hear his sobs as he darted down the hall.

They didn’t pursue Jefferson realizing that he would have nowhere to go and that the staff at Hope Place would seek to calm him down and comfort him.

Heddy looked at Marcus, who merely shrugged his shoulders, apparently uncertain what to think.

“He’s lying now, I’m sure of it,” Marcus said.

The police officer nodded. “I think so, too.”

“Obviously, something Melody told him made him change his story. It’s made him scared, either for himself or for Larry and Melody, or for all three.”

“And you’re convinced the story he told you Saturday is true?” Heddy asked.

Marcus nodded.

“It sounds like we got something deeper going on here than merely one boy getting violated,” she said.

The two discussed the case for a few more minutes, deciding to share the Danish sweets that had not been touched. Jefferson’s tea also was untouched.

Heddy agreed to share her and Marcus’ suspicions with Sergeant Simbach; Marcus said he would be discussing it further with Amy and Latesha. Both had to return to other cases; Heddy had to get to juvenile court for a twelve-year-old girl who had been arrested for soliciting and Marcus had an appointment to see LaGrande Marquis and his foster mother, Florence Jenkins.

*****
It seemed that LaGrande had violated the city’s eleven o’clock curfew for teenagers, having been found by a police squad car returning to the Jenkins home around midnight on Sunday night of the Labor Day weekend. To make matters worse, he had argued with the cops, causing them to handcuff him and take him to the station; fortunately, Mrs. Jenkins was able to persuade them to release the boy, explaining that he had been returning from a jazz concert where LaGrande had “sat in” with a jazz group and dazzled them playing a sax loaned to him by one of the band members. (LaGrande always carried along his own mouthpiece just in case such opportunities might develop.)

Nonetheless, LaGrande was to appear before juvenile court to face possible penalties which could jeopardize the boy’s chances of going to the Performing Arts High School. Mrs. Jenkins called me to ask if I’d vouch for LaGrande’s otherwise good behavior before the court and I decided to stop by to discuss the matter with them.

*****
“They even drew their guns on me, Mr. Whiting,” LaGrande said. “I was only coming home from the jazz concert and they stopped me for no reason at all. I wasn’t doin’ nothing.”

As he told of the experience, LaGrande was still resentful over his treatment. “They just stopped me ‘cause I’m a black kid,” he protested. Marcus had no doubt the boy was correct, since the Jenkins house was in a neighborhood that was largely white.

“It was past curfew, LaGrande,” Mrs. Jenkins said.

“But why pull guns on me?” the boy protested.

LaGrande, Mrs. Jenkins and Marcus sat at the kitchen table in the Jenkins home, a comfortable 80-year-old bungalow that was well-maintained, as the boy explained how he happened to be stopped by the police. Both Mrs. Jenkins and Marcus were worried that hopes of aiding the boy’s potentially positive future might be dashed by the incident. It could grow hopeless, they knew, if the juvenile court system decided to punish him.

The more the boy told of his arrest, the more Marcus began to boil over at how the police escalated the situation. If what LaGrande said was the full story, Marcus felt that perhaps he could get the ACLU or some other advocacy group interested. After all, the Trayvon Martin incident in Florida and similar police shooting incidents still reverberated in urban communities; Marcus was aware that the city leaders had hoped to avoid similar incidents and were working with law enforcement officers to show more understanding in dealing with minority populations.

Marcus said he’d check with the police and the district attorney’s office to see if he could block any further court action against the boy.

“School starts tomorrow,” Marcus told LaGrande, “And you’re still to start at the Performing Arts School. Make sure you get there tomorrow and don’t get into any trouble until we get this straightened out. OK?”

“I promise, Mr. Whiting. I promise.”

*****
Marcus called Sergeant Simbach the first chance he got, and he quickly agreed to check on the LaGrande Marquis case. Simbach called back less than an hour later.

“Sorry, Marcus, but I can’t get anything much on the case,” he said. “It turns out it’s become a very sensitive case here and it’s been turned over to an assistant chief.”

“Oh, that is not usual, is it?” Marcus asked.

“Right. It only gets to the level of assistant chief if it’s got the City Hall involved. Your best bet is to go to the DA’s office. Try the juvenile division there, ask for an assistant named Harrington,” he advised.

Marcus thanked him and hung up. He felt a slight bit of excitement and fear since he was certain the sergeant was referring him to Emery Harrington, with whom he had worked on the Ethel Mitchell case several months earlier. He had been easy to work with then, Marcus recalled. A few weeks after that case, Harrington was introduced to “Miranda” at Luke’s while he was having after-work drinks with Amy, Latesha and Mollie. He openly flirted, until Amy reminded him that “Miranda” already had a “significant other.” It didn’t stop him from giving “Miranda” a discreet wink as he parted then.

It was fortunate that Luke’s has very low-level lighting, and Emery Harrington never linked Miranda and Marcus. Now, if Marcus was to meet Harrington in person in the bright light of the juvenile court building, he feared he’d see the connection. And, then what?

*****
As it became September, the Wednesday “girls’ night out” adventures ended, partly because of the heavy workload everyone carried; also Mollie had begun working toward her masters at the local university and had classes three nights a week. Latesha in the meantime found her evenings often being occupied by a new boyfriend, a tall, broad-shouldered and extremely handsome sheriff’s deputy named Mohammed Ahmed.

Thus, it was that Amy and Marcus, who was dressed as Miranda, were together at Paddy’s Irish Pub, a sports bar convenient to Amy’s apartment. Most Wednesday nights, after drinking, the two would often spend the night in Amy’s bed, both half drunk on pinot grigio and enraptured with each other’s bodies.

As is usual whenever they went out for drinks, Marcus was asked to verify his age; rarely were any of the others asked. That problem was solved the first time it occurred; Marcus knew his male driver’s license would cause questions to be asked and Amy and he decided to tell the bartenders or waiters something that bordered on the truth, that Marcus was a male who was planning to transition to female. In these days and in larger cities, bars and restaurants were growing used to customers sporting IDs that didn’t match their gender appearance. Of course, Marcus hadn’t yet decided to transition, but it certainly was something he was considering, so it wasn’t a complete lie.

The barmaid at Paddy’s identified herself as Colleen and her pale, freckled face fit appropriately into the Gaelic theme of the place. She was indeed a pert Irish lass.

“I’ll need to see your ID miss,” she said, a gruff tone seemingly at odds with her cute appearance.

Marcus produced it from his purse and Amy, as she usually does, quickly explained my situation. She closely examined the picture.

“You’re the same young lady in the picture, I see,” she said, handing my license back. “But I can’t believe you’re twenty-three. You look like a high school freshman.”

Marcus smiled back at her, adding, “Thanks, you know we women always like to look younger than we are.”

It wasn’t the first time that Marcus was accused of being a high school girl when dressed as Miranda. Even as Marcus, he was often accused of being young-looking for his age, and apparently when he wore a dress he looked even younger. That realization reinforced his decision to go undercover in trying to find the secrets that were troubling young Jefferson Turner, alias Margot.

*****
The District Attorney’s Juvenile Division offices were in the euphemistically-named Children’s Welfare Center that housed Children’s Court and the holding cells for juveniles being held for hearings. Security was strict, requiring everything short of a strip search for anyone entering the building. Emery Harrington was called to the lobby to greet Marcus and led him back to his tiny private office, where his desk was stacked with file folders and his desk chair was crammed between file cabinets. He beckoned Marcus to one of two simple straight-backed chairs. His smile was warm and beguiling and even though he looked tired (it was four in the afternoon and he was obviously exhausted) he still looked as handsome as he did that night in the pub.

“You look familiar, but I can’t figure out where. Have we met?” he asked.

“Yes, just once. I had a case with you several months ago,” Marcus replied, not telling the whole truth.

He shook his head. “Yeah, I remember that case, but still I think a met you somewhere else. Oh well, I guess I’m mistaken.”

Marcus was tempted to blurt out that he was “Miranda” and that they met at Luke’s.

“Now tell me about this case you’re interested in, Marcus,” he said, apparently satisfied the two had only met once before, and that was in their professional capacities.

“Actually, it’s two cases,” Marcus began.

“You’ve been busy, it seems.”

“Well, the first involves a boy named LaGrande Marquis, one of my foster clients,” Marcus said. “Seems he was out after curfew, but he wasn’t into mischief. He was stopped by the police and they began hassling him and he got defensive and they had to handcuff him. Now, he’s being charged with several things and if he gets a record, I’m afraid his whole future will be ruined. Besides, I think the police escalated the case, just because he’s black and wears dreadlocks.”

“Don’t throw that discrimination stuff into this, Marcus.”

“Just check into the case and judge for yourself, Mr. Harrington.”

Harrington nodded, “OK, but what was he doing out after curfew?”

“Returning from a jazz gig and that’s just it,” Marcus continued. “We’ve got him enrolled at the High School of the Arts, and you know they’ll kick him out if he gets a record. He’s got a great brain and he’s truly talented. He’s had a tough childhood, but I think he can have a great future. Please look into it.”

“I will, Marcus, but I hate to buck the police if I don’t have to.”

“I know the NAACP and ACLU are both interested in what happens here.”

Harrington scowled. “We don’t have to go there, do we?”

“We’ll see,” Marcus said.

“Now what’s your other case,” the assistant DA said, leaning back in his chair.

“It involves another of my clients.”

It took about fifteen minutes – including his interruptions with questions – for Marcus to complete the story.

Harrington, still leaning back in his chair, sighed. “I’d really like to help you in this case, but you really haven’t enough evidence here for us to pursue the case.”

“It just seems so obvious . . .” Marcus argued.

“Being obvious is not evidence, Marcus,” he said. “Besides, do you know how busy we are, how many kids we’re trying to save here? Look at this desk. These are all active cases.”

“But . . .”

“There are no ‘buts,’ I’m sorry.”

Marcus got up and didn't know how to respond. He had thought the young prosecutor truly cared about matters involving those who are often overlooked in the justice system. He headed to the door.

“Marcus,” Harrington said. “I’m really sorry I can’t help you. You do have a case of this kid being mistreated, but as it stands now, there is not enough evidence. Bring me some more and we’ll try to help your young man out.”

Marcus turned back to look at Harrington and was surprised to see the concern on his face. “Thank you, I’ll see what I can do.”

Harrington smiled. “By the way, Marcus, why don’t you stop by some Wednesday night at Luke’s. I know the women from your agency used to be regulars there on Wednesday, but I don't see them much anymore. I’ll buy you a drink, if you’d like.”

Marcus left the room, feeling inspired to continue his efforts to get to the bottom of Jefferson’s ventures, but also amused by the fact that Harrington had seen him at Luke’s several times, but only as Miranda, never realizing who he really met.
(To be continued)
(With valuable proofreading and editing help from Eric)