Chapter Seven – Incident in the Suburbs

Ten nights later, his cell phone rang, awakening him in his sleep. With sleep-encrusted eyes he was able to make out that his digital alarm clock read “1:48 A.M.”

“Hello,” he said, his voice thick.

“Marcus . . . Marcus . . . is that you?” the voice was breathless, desperate and high pitched. A young girl perhaps?

“Yes, this is Marcus,” he said. He was alert now.

“I need help, please Marcus,” the voice said.

“Jefferson, is that you?” Marcus asked, realizing he was hearing the voice of Jefferson Turner.

“You need to come get me, Marcus. I’m scared. They’re going to rape me and kill me.”

“Who is? Where are you? Now just calm down and tell me what’s going on.”

“Yes, Marcus. I’m sorry, but I need help.”

“OK, where are you?” Marcus persisted.

The boy eventually calmed down and said he was hiding in the bushes at a small park in Madison Heights, one of the posh suburbs of the city. He was near the corner of Cypress Lane and Park Avenue.

“OK, I’ll be there in about 20 minutes. How did you get so far out of the city, Jefferson?”

“It’s a long story. Just hurry.”

“Stay hidden until you see an old dark blue Chevrolet Cavalier,” Marcus said. “That’ll be me.”

Marcus rushed into the bathroom, relieved himself, splashed water on his face, ran his fingers through his long flowing hair and quickly brushed his teeth, hoping to rid his mouth of its sour sleep-induced taste. It was a chilly early autumn evening, but Marcus hardly noticed the chill as he ran for more than a block to find his car that he had parked at the only space he could find the previous evening. He was thankful he had purchased the car just a week earlier, thanks to a loan he got from his mother to help with the down payment.

As he drove the Park Freeway out of the city into the fashionable suburb of Madison Heights, Marcus used his cell to call Amy. As a fairly inexperienced driver, he knew he shouldn’t drive and use the phone, but he felt this was an emergency; fortunately, there was little traffic on the road at the time.

“What are you planning to do with him?” Amy asked when he told her of his early morning rescue plans.

“I don’t know, ‘cause I’m not sure what his problem is,” Marcus responded.

“It sounds like maybe the police should be called, Marcus,” she said.

“Maybe we shouldn’t just yet ‘til we know why he’s out in the bushes in Madison Heights.”

Amy agreed, but said he should call her the minute he knows anything further. “I’ll stay up. So call, please.”

Thanks to the GPS system on his phone he was able to locate the small park easily. He looked at his watch; it was 25 minutes after he had talked to Jefferson and he realized he was five minutes later than he had promised. He hoped the boy hadn’t thought he’d deserted him.

He drove slowly down Park Avenue. The park was on his right and he passed several clumps of bushes, realizing that they weren’t the ones where Jefferson must have been hiding. Finally, he saw the street sign for Cypress Lane and a heavy clump of bushes crowding the park perimeter.

“Those must be the bushes,” he said aloud to himself. He stopped the car.

He looked to see any sign of Jefferson perhaps from a rustling of the bushes. Instead of a boy emerging from the dark greenery, he was shocked to see an African-American girl run out. She wore tight mini-shorts, exposing bare, lovely legs and ballet flats. She had wrapped a colorful wrap around herself and her dark, braided hair was disheveled. It didn’t take long for Marcus to realize that the girl was Jefferson Turner.

“My God, Jefferson,” Marcus said, as the door opened. “What is going on? Are you hurt?”

Before the boy could answer, a sharp, blinding white light beamed into the car from the rear, and a voice came from a speaker: “This is the police. All occupants get out of the car and raise your hands high. If we see anything in your hands, we’ll shoot.”

Marcus looked at Jefferson; both sets of eyes registered fear.

“Get out. Now. Move.” The voice said again.

Marcus and Jefferson did as they were ordered and Marcus could hear the boy sobbing as they stepped out of the car. Both turned to face the spotlight from the top of the police car. Slowly two officers approached them, one on the right headed for Jefferson and the other headed toward Marcus. Both had guns drawn.

The two officers stopped when they were about ten feet away as another squad car arrived, its lights flashing, but without a siren. Marcus realized that the pampered citizens of Madison Heights didn’t appreciate being bothered with police business that was noisy. He also knew the sight of his aging Chevy was a rare one in an area where late model SUVs and BMWs and Mercedes were the norm. Obviously, the police must have been suspicious that the driver of such a car was up to no good.

Two other officers approached. Though his eyes were blinded by the spotlight, Marcus could see that one of newly arrived officers had sergeant stripes on his sleeve and he apparently took command of the scene. The officers moved up to approach Jefferson and Marcus, ordering them to turn toward the car, to put their hands on the car and spread-eagle their legs.

Marcus could feel an officer pat him down; his touch was rough and Marcus felt it was unwarranted. He was probably looking for either a gun, knife or drugs and Marcus was clean. He hoped Jefferson was too. The officer removed Marcus’ wallet and handed it to the sergeant.

On the other side of the car, he could hear Jefferson crying and whining to the officer patting him down. “Please don’t hurt me. Please. Ouch. You’re pinching me.”

“Quit crying bitch,” said the officer. “What’s a kid slut like you doing here?”

Jefferson continued his crying. It was a pathetic sound. When the pat-down was completed, the police handcuffed both Marcus and Jefferson, completing the task so roughly that Jefferson squealed in pain and Marcus felt as if his arm was being ripped from its socket as the officer pulled his hands around to his back. Neither was resisting arrest in any way; yet, the officers treated Jefferson and Marcus with undisguised contempt. They were led to the sergeant. He was a huge man with a massive belly, reminding Marcus of a professional football defensive lineman who had let his muscle turn to fat. Nonetheless, he commanded attention and Marcus could see the disgust in the man’s face as they approached.

“We don’t need your kind of trash in our community,” he boomed. “Let’s just take ‘em down to the station and see what the hell they were doing here. Put the slut in Hector’s squad car and you take this one, Percy.”

Jefferson, tears streaming down his face, looked to Marcus. “Can’t you do something?” he asked in desperation.

Several times Marcus had asked the officers why they were being arrested, but none of them responded, except with orders to “be quiet,” “keep your hands where I can see them,” and “later.”

“Officers let me explain,” Marcus attempted to say.

“Shut up and get in the squad peacefully or else, young man,” the sergeant responded.

*****
Marcus was shoved into the back of a squad car, his hands still cuffed behind him, forcing him to lean forward awkwardly. One police officer, a young, tall slender man, reached in to buckle him up in his seat belt. He talked softly as he completed the task, “Just relax easy young man. You’ll be OK.”

Marcus looked up at the officer, who smiled at him, and he felt somewhat reassured. The young policeman’s behavior was the first sign of humanity he saw that night. He noted the officer’s name tag: Percy Lafferty. Marcus responded with a weak smile. Forced to lean forward, Marcus could see little as the squad car headed toward the suburb’s police station. Instead he looked down onto the floor, surprised to see how clean the car floor carpet was; it was unlike any squad car he had seen in the city, where they were kept too busy to spend much time on cleaning them out. He knew that the suburban police were able to sport healthy budgets that likely afforded the luxury of employing regular cleanups for the squad cars.

When he strained to look up, he saw a heavy mesh screen that separated the backseat area from the front and the backs of the heads of the two officers. Officer Lafferty drove and the other officer had said nothing.

Remembering the gentle tone from Officer Lafferty, Marcus considered trying to talk to him; he had seemed sympathetic and might even listen to Marcus’ story.

“Officer, I can explain everything that makes this arrest all wrong,” Marcus began.

“Just shut up or I’ll give you all the explanation you’ll need.” It was the other officer answering and Marcus took the words as a threat. He realized some police officers were not above using undue force and felt he was at the mercy of these two officers in the dark of night in this wealthy suburb.

Marcus decided not to answer and resumed looking down at the floor of the squad car. He began worrying about how Jefferson was doing; the boy was scared, he knew, and likely felt he had been deserted again. He remembered the boy’s history of threatening and once even attempting suicide and became concerned that tonight’s events might just trigger some form of self-destruction. The boy was terribly fragile.

*****
The squad car carrying Jefferson had reached the station before Marcus’ squad car. He was handled roughly by the other officer as he was led into the bright insides of the building. It was unlike any police station Marcus had seen in real life during his semester internship as a social worker assigned to work in several district stations of the large city. Tasteful lighting offered a calming environment with light colored walls, decorated with pastoral scenes.

A reception desk stood at the back of a large foyer where a police sergeant sat. His desk was neat and the room was dotted with comfortable chairs, racks with magazines and potted plants. It looked more like a reception area for a high-priced attorney’s office than a police station.

Marcus saw Jefferson being held up by two officers who flanked him on either side. The boy seemed to be sagging, hardly able to stand up. He could hear the boy’s quiet sobs.

“Come on, girl, stand up,” one of the officers holding Jefferson commanded, jerking the boy upward.

“Now I’ve seen everything. You found this school girl hiding in the bushes in the middle of the night?” the desk sergeant asked the two officers.

One of the officers handed a small purse to the sergeant, commenting, “This is her purse and her school ID says she’s Jefferson Turner, a strange name for a girl, but you know how screwy those people are in naming their kids.”

Realizing he had a responsibility to speak up on Jefferson’s behalf, Marcus began, “Hey, you have this all wrong, Jefferson’s not . . .”

He was interrupted when he felt his cuffs pulled hard, causing him to wince in pain. “I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut,” it was not officer Lafferty who spoke, but the other one, whose badge identified him as Matt Smith.

“Since she’s a juvenile, we better put her in Interrogation Room Three. I’ve called in Officer Heilmann; she can give her a good pat-down,” the desk sergeant said.

Marcus watched as they led Jefferson away, still dragging his feet and not attempting to walk.

“Now this must be the girl’s pimp,” the sergeant said as Marcus was led to the desk. “This disgusts me, a pipsqueak like this pimping for a young girl.”

“I’m not a, I’m her . . . ah . . . his …,” he started but was stopped by another rough yank on his cuffs and a warning to “shut up.” He was not permitted to say a word to the desk sergeant. He was quickly booked after his wallet, cell phone and wrist watch were taken from him and put into an envelope. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it all back,” was all the sergeant would say.

He was led toward a bank of several cells, only one of them occupied, a man curled up on a bench snoring uneasily as he slept. Marcus’ cuffs were removed and he was roughly pushed into an empty cell next to the occupied one.

“Is there anyone you’d like to call?” Officer Lafferty said, once the door to the cell was locked. “You get one call.”

Marcus took the opportunity to call Amy.

*****
Amy didn’t arrive at the Madison Heights police station until after five thirty in the morning, a full three hours after Marcus and Jefferson had been taken to the station. In the interim, Marcus was left alone in his cell; several times he yelled out to the sole police officer whose desk was located near the bank of three holding cells, but the officer merely responded that he’d be seen soon. Once after about an hour, he brought a bottle of water back to Marcus, but said only, “If you’re thirsty, here you are.” Marcus tried to protest, asking, “I need to know why I’m here. Please.” But the officer turned his back and walked away. All of his protests largely went unanswered, except for one police officer – a short, stout older man who looked like a wrestler – who responded gruffly, “Riff-raff like you aren’t welcome in Madison Heights.”

It was a shock to Marcus to be thought to be “riff-raff;” normally he was a well-groomed, respectful and well-spoken young man; yet, this morning, due to his haste in leaving his apartment in the middle of the night, he recognized how scruffy he must have looked. He had not brushed his longish hair and had put on only a pair of sweatpants and a stained navy blue sweatshirt with faded gold wording “Panthers” for the sports teams of his alma mater.

Mostly though he worried about Jefferson; the boy, he knew was hardly equipped to withstand the badgering he was likely to get from the members of the Madison Heights police force who by now must have discovered the “girl” they had arrested was really a boy. They probably were ridiculing him mercilessly and he could picture the slender, fragile boy crying and whimpering in fear. From where he was located, Marcus couldn’t tell what was going on. Marcus worried that the boy might hurt himself and he had tried to tell the officers that Jefferson had a history of threatening and even attempting once to kill himself, but they wouldn’t listen.

Several times he heard raucous laughter from the officers and one of them yelling out, “Can you believe it? That black kid. He’s a fucking guy.”

“A pathetic fairy,” another added.

Another officer, however, interjected. “Shut up you guys. He’s a juvenile. We gotta be careful. You know all those ACLU bastards are on our necks these days.”

The conversation ended when the officers moved away from the cell area.

Marcus didn’t realize Amy was in the building until he was roused from sleep. “Marcus, it’s Amy,” the words came to him as if he was in a dream. For a moment, he thought he was in bed with her warm body next to him following an evening of tender caresses and kisses.

“Oh, my God,” he said, when he finally remembered where he was. In spite of the tension he felt, Marcus realized he must have dosed off. He felt stiff from laying on the hard bench that constituted a bed of sorts in the holding cell.

“Sorry, I’m so slow in getting here, but I wanted to get our attorney to come with us and I had to awaken the director first,” Amy said.

Marcus noticed a tall, slender young man in jeans and a blue spring jacket standing with her. He was identified at Josh Spencer, a lawyer that occasionally represented the Opportunities, Inc. agency.

“You’re getting out of here, Marcus,” the lawyer said. “They had no cause to arrest you.”

“I thought so,” Marcus replied. “But what about Jefferson?”

“That’s a different situation, but let’s get you out of here first and then we can discuss Jefferson’s case,” Amy said.

A few minutes later, the police lieutenant who identified himself as being in charge of the district during the early morning hours directed an officer to unlock the cell to release Marcus. The lieutenant suggested that Marcus, Amy and Josh Spencer follow him to his office.

“We’re sorry for arresting you, Mr. Whiting,” the officer began after identifying himself as Lieutenant Paul Lightfoot. “Miss Dacosta here explained you were only doing your job in seeking to rescue young Turner.”

“I tried to explain that to the officers on the scene, but they only seemed to want to throw me in a squad car, but what about Jefferson, sir?” Marcus said.

“Yes, the men may have acted hastily, Mr. Whiting, but you must realize it was dark and in the middle of the night and you were in an older car and picking up what appeared to be a young schoolgirl. What do you expect?”

“A little more respect, in spite of the fact that he’s got an older car,” the attorney said sharply.

“It’s OK about me, but what will happen to Jefferson?” Marcus asked. “I’ve been trying to tell you he’s fragile and suicidal.”

“Well his situation is quite serious and puzzling,” Lt. Lightfoot said. “He won’t tell us what he was doing in the bushes in a park in Madison Heights far from his foster home and dressed like a schoolgirl.”

“I don’t know, lieutenant,” Marcus said. “I was as shocked as anyone when he bounded out of the bushes in a skirt.”

“We can hold him for violating our sixteen and under curfew and that might do some good,” the lieutenant said. “He might open up if he feels he might spend some time in juvenile detention.”

“Come on, lieutenant, he’s just a kid and a scared kid,” Amy said. “We’ve been working closely with him. He was recently picked up in the city bloodied and beaten late at night, but even then he wouldn’t admit to what he was up to. We’re working with the officers in the juvenile division on that.”

“Where will you take him if we let him go?” the police officer asked.

“I don’t think he wants to return to the Harrisons, his foster parents, but won’t say why,” Marcus said.

“It’s a tough one for us,” Amy explained. “The Harrisons as far as we can tell have been model foster parents and there’s no good reason we’d have for not housing him there. But Mr. Whiting is correct: Jefferson seems scared to stay there.”

Lt. Lightfoot looked up at the clock in his room. “It’s ten after six and there’s nothing we can do about this now. Why don’t all of you good get some breakfast and come back about eight o’clock. By then, I’ll get a hold of our state attorney’s branch here and talk to someone in the juvenile section.”

“Will you release Jefferson to us now?” Marcus asked.

“No, Mr. Whiting, but we’ll feed him and keep him comfortable. Besides he needs a little sleep. We have a nice room for juveniles here. He’ll be safe. Out here with all these wealthy families, we sometimes pick up rich kids for their hi-jinks and we hear it from their folks if we don’t treat them with kid gloves,” the officer said, smiling.

“That’s sounds OK, lieutenant, but remember his suicidal tendencies,” Amy warned.

“There’s good diner across the street and a block to your left. You’ll get a good breakfast there,” he suggested.

*****
It wasn’t until after eleven o’clock that Jefferson finally was taken from the Madison Heights Police Station; in the interim, the police had contacted Sgt. Simbach at the city police department’s juvenile division and the State’s Division of Child Protective Services and come to the conclusion that Jefferson would be placed in a temporary youth shelter, Hope Place. It was a highly regarded and well-financed agency that had recently constructed a 15-bed facility on the fringe of the city’s tougher neighborhoods to serve as emergency shelter.

When Marcus learned the Madison Heights Police were to transport Jefferson in a marked squad car using two officers, he complained, “Is that necessary? You’re treating him like a criminal.”

“He’s violated Madison Heights laws and we’ve still got a hold placed on him until we find out what he was doing in our town, dressed as a girl at two in the morning,” retorted a stern, gruff overweight police officer who wore the badge, “Lt. Hildebrand.” He was the day shift commander, having replaced Lt. Lightfoot whose shift had ended.

Marcus again warned the lieutenant of Jefferson’s suicidal background, suggesting that the escorting officers should treat the boy gently and to keep him under constant surveillance.

“They know their business, young man,” Lt. Hildebrand retorted.

“Marcus, let the police do their business,” Amy said, stepping into the conversation to head off any further animosity. She knew of Marcus’ personal concern for Jefferson and worried that in his zealousness Marcus might create more difficulties with the police.

The lieutenant allowed Marcus and Amy to visit Jefferson to inform him of the plans to take him to Hope Place. The boy’s face was puffy and his eyes were red and watery, indicating he’d been doing a good bit of crying. His plaid, schoolgirl skirt was askew and mussed, his stockings badly run and several braids of hair were disheveled. The boy received the news of his pending stay at Hope Place with no expression or comment. It was as if he hadn’t heard what Amy told him.

“What do you think, Jefferson?” Marcus asked.

“Dunno. Will I have to go back to Mrs. Harrison?”

“Not for now,” Marcus said.

The boy gave a faint smile. Finally, he said, “Can I go to the bathroom? I need to fix my makeup. Where’s my purse?”

A few minutes later, Jefferson was escorted to the men’s bathroom in the company of a police officer who had a smirk on his face; he apparently had no sympathy for a boy who dressed like a girl and was worried about whether his face was made up properly. Jefferson emerged from the bathroom, looking far more presentable and definitely feminine. His skirt hung properly, though it was a bit mussed and his face looked less puffy. It was obvious he had fixed up his makeup and washed his face.

Marcus was surprised that even in the harsh fluorescent light of the police station Jefferson truly made a lovely, fetching teenaged girl. His short steps and swaying of his hips betrayed a natural girlishness. They watched Jefferson being hauled off in the police car, escorted by a male and female officer.

“I think Hope Place is best for him right now, Marcus,” Amy said, as they moved to their respective cars. “They have a great staff and try to keep the kids busy and they’re used to handling kids who are having difficult times like Jefferson’s. I know they’ve dealt with gay kids and, I suppose, with transgender kids.”

“You agree then that he’s likely transgender?” Marcus asked.

“Of course. I think it’s pretty obvious.”

It was decided that Amy would go to see Mrs. Harrison to pick up Jefferson’s clothes and any other of his items and explain to her that the agency would be removing the boy from her care temporarily. She knew the women would complain, likely because she’d lose the monthly payment she’d get from the state for caring for the boy.

Marcus went to Hope Place where he briefed the social worker who was to handle Jefferson while he was there. Tatiana Helios was maybe a year older than Marcus, but she seemed to be caring and knowledgeable. Nonetheless, he had hoped for someone a bit more mature as he considered the depth of Jefferson’s problems.

The social worker was about Marcus’ height and had sharp features, piercing dark eyes and long black hair. She wore a stylish dark sleeveless dress that framed her slender frame. The skirt ended in mid-thigh, exposing pretty legs in coffee-colored stockings. She had strangely porcelain toned skin that to Marcus’ eyes negated what could have made her a beauty queen. She was the antithesis to what could be perceived as a social worker who served troubled kids.

Tatiana and Marcus took Jefferson to a side interview room which was a surprisingly cheerful place with framed posters of current entertainers and sports stars. Rather than an austere interview table, there were comfortable upholstered chairs in orange and teal blue arranged around a coffee table. Marcus told Tatiana about Jefferson’s background, relying on his memory since he didn’t have files with him. He told her that some of the dates were a bit fuzzy and that he’d have to get back to her with the specifics.

“That’s OK, Marcus. I’m really more interested in your observations and conclusions about Jefferson,” Tatiana said.

Marcus summarized the boy’s situation finishing up by commenting, “Jefferson’s very sensitive and I think he’s a bit vain. Yet, he’s being told almost constantly that he’s not a good human being. It must be destroying him inside.”

“You seem to understand him quite a bit, Marcus,” Tatiana said with a smile.

“I suppose.”

“Do you think he’s transgender? Does he want to be a girl do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do Marcus. I think you understand him very well. Aren’t you a bit like him?” she said. Her voice was soft and pleasant.

It was the second time someone asked the question about Jefferson’s possible transgender status. Marcus reddened and was pleased he didn’t have to answer the question because the door opened suddenly.

Amy Dacosta entered with a suitcase and a black plastic bag. “I’ve got Marcus’ stuff,” she announced.

*****
When they had arrived at Hope Place, Tatiana and a male social worker led Jefferson to a room equipped with a closed-circuit video camera.

“We’ve got him in a comfortable single room where we can keep an eye on him,” Tatiana assured Marcus. “Thank you for informing us of his past suicide tries. We want to keep him safe.”

“Thanks, he’s a most troubled boy and he thinks the world has betrayed him,” Marcus said.

“But he seems like a sweet kid.”

“He is but he feels weak and powerless.”

When Amy arrived, the three decided to interview Jefferson about his activities. “Maybe he’ll tell us something he was afraid to tell the police,” Amy said.

Marcus doubted the boy would explain why he has shown up twice now dressed as a girl in the middle of the night. He didn’t talk after he was severely beaten and he didn’t appear to respond any differently after being found in the bushes in the posh suburb of Madison Heights earlier that morning.

Jefferson was sullen and communicated only in grunts and one-word answers when Amy, Tatiana and Marcus interviewed him in the same comfortable room. He refused an offer for a drink or food.

“You didn’t eat much at the police station, Jefferson. You must be starved,” Marcus pleaded with the boy.

“How about a pizza?” Tatiana asked. “We had that for lunch today and our cook does an amazing job at it. Best I’ve ever had. Why not try it, Jefferson?”

“Not hungry,” the boy answered in a hardly audible voice.

“Well I’m hungry. I’d like a piece, Tatiana. Shall I eat it in front of you. Jefferson?” Marcus asked.

“Don’t like pizza,” the boy grunted.

“I think you do.”

“Not.”

Marcus passed on eating the pizza, knowing it would not help in opening the boy up to discussing his feelings and after a half hour of fruitless questioning, the three social workers called it quits. They left the room and stood outside the corridor to discuss what to do next. They left Jefferson in the room, but they could still see him on a video screen from the closed-circuit camera in the room. He was crying.

Amy and Marcus knew that both the Madison Heights detectives and the city police juvenile detectives would continue to pursue the case, possibly in the belief that the boy was a victim in some sort of child trafficking scam. Getting Jefferson to say anything about his experiences that night, they knew, would be difficult, it was apparent.

“Do you have any appointments this afternoon, Marcus?” Amy asked.

“Have to see the Ougawale family at three o’clock and they’ve been hard to schedule an appointment with,” he said.

“You’ll have time to stay a bit longer here then and see if you can get Jefferson to open up to you alone,” she said, and then turned to Tatiana and said, “Marcus seemed to gain a bit of rapport with the boy. Maybe if he goes in there alone, he might learn something. OK with you, Tatiana?”

“It’s worth a try,” the Hope Place social worker replied.

“Are slices of that pizza still available?” Marcus asked.

“Sure, do you want some now?”

“Not now. I just want to see if I can talk Jefferson into joining me in a pizza lunch.”