Locked (The Heaven's Gate Trilogy) (15 page)

“Thanks, Dad,” I said,
flinging my arms around him for a great hug.  He looked down at me, surprised,
as he wrapped his arms around me and patted my back.

“You’re welcome, Hope.” 
Awkwardly, as if he was afraid I would reject him again, he brought his great
hand up and patted my head.

It wasn’t until later, in
the silence of my bedroom, that I really began to realize the implications of
what he’d said.

*****

I welcomed the visit to
the shelter the next day – anything to distract me.  I figured between
Tabitha’s constant chatter and the interview itself, I would have plenty to
keep me from thinking about Dad’s dreams, Michael – or what any of it really
meant.

By the time we got to the
center, I had heard all about Tabitha’s time with Tony on Friday night, as well
as a vivid description of her father’s sermon earlier in the morning.  All the
while, I kept stealing glances at the Sunday “cleaned up” Tabitha – rings and
tattoos removed, face scrubbed clean, hair its normal shade and pulled back,
wearing a prim sheath in sleek navy.

“I can see you,” Tabitha
finally threatened as we pulled into the parking lot, prompting me to hide a
smile behind my gloved hand.  “You’re so backwards, Hope.  You stare at the
‘normal’ girl and hang out with the freak show,” she said, shaking her head in
mock disapproval.  “Let’s hope you do better inside,” she said as she rolled
her eyes.

The doors to the center
were locked, a numbered keypad, camera and visitor’s button conspicuously
visible next to the entry.  We pressed the button and waited.  The loudspeaker
buzzed to life.

“Who to see?” a
disembodied voice called out from the intercom.

“Delores Blankenship,”
Tabitha replied promptly.  “We’re Dunwoody High School students, here to
interview her and some girls.”

There was a long silence
before the intercom crackled again.  “Can you show your ID’s in the camera?”

We dug in our purses and
brandished them before the tiny lens.

We didn’t hear the voice
again, but a loud whirring signaled the door was unlocked.  We pushed our way
through and entered the lobby. 

The lobby filled me with
hopelessness.  It was windowless, lit only by long, fluorescent tubes in the
ceiling, giving the entire space a drab, lifeless feel.  A grey steel desk was
pushed up against the wall, stacks of papers spread out all over it and a
steaming cup of tea testament that someone had been there not long ago, but the
desk itself was empty.  Two, lonely folding chairs sat in front of the desk. 
Everything was utilitarian and slightly varying shades of gray or beige– the
industrial linoleum flooring, the tiled wall, even the ceilings.  Someone had
done their best to cheer up the place, taping up posters and strategically
placing plastic pots of dusty fake flowers around the room, but the attempt
only underscored the drabness.  A heavy door, its tiny window criss-crossed
with bars, stood in one corner.

“Now what?” I asked
Tabitha, but she just shrugged and started walking around, showing an
inordinate amount of interest in the dated calendars and posters.

The click-clack of high
heels echoed from behind the door, signaling someone’s approach.  We stared at
the door, expectantly, and were met by a burst of color and noise as it swung
open toward us.

The woman was tall and
large, obviously comfortable in her own body.  She’d dressed in layers of flowy
knits, a mix of violets, magentas, pinks and blues that enveloped her in warmth
and light.  Long chains, punctuated by polished agates and stones, fell in
layers from her neck and jingled as she rolled through the door. The busy look
was topped by a fuzzy knit beret, perilously perched on the side of her head.  She
overcame the entire dreary room with her presence before she’d ever opened her
mouth.
“Hello, girls!  I’m Delores, Street Grace’s Executive Director.  You must be
Mona Carmichael’s daughter?” she asked, nodding at me as, with one graceful
move, she swept her reading glasses onto her nose.  She did not pause for my
answer.  “Fantastic.  I am so glad to have the opportunity to help you today. 
I don’t know your mom, but she’s been a good friend of a member of our Board,
so I am happy to help you.   I thought we’d start here, where I can give you
some background information about Street Grace and tell you about the girls,
before we take you inside to their living quarters.”  She gestured to the
folding chairs as she stepped behind her desk and sat down.

Tabitha nodded mutely,
seemingly in awe of the energy and force that was Delores.  I was just amazed
that anyone had managed to get Tabitha to be quiet.  We quickly took our seats
as Delores launched into a speech she’d obviously given before – not that it
was rote.  Her passion for her cause exuded from every pore.

“Street Grace works with
all sorts of women and children in need – getting them off the street, helping
them prepare for employment or school.  We opened our doors in 1965 and have
been in service, more or less, ever since.  Some of the people we serve are
simply victims of homelessness.  Some are runaways or women who have turned to
prostitution for whatever reasons.  But our recent focus has been on human
trafficking – that’s the work you’re interested in, right?”

She paused to take a sip
of her tea – the only pause since she’d started barreling through her speech. 
She didn’t wait for us to answer before she jumped back into her story.

“In the past few years,
we’ve seen a surge of people trafficked into Atlanta for a variety of
purposes.  In some cases, they’ve been lured from their home countries with the
promise of a better life, only to find out later that they’ve really signed up
for slavery.  In other cases, they are sold by their families, or outright
kidnapped.  In about half of all cases, the victims know the trafficker who
‘recruits’ them.”  Disgust flickered across her face as she pushed a stack of
papers across her desk toward us.  “I hate that term, ‘recruits.’  As if they
had a choice.”

Tabitha snatched up the
papers, scanning them quickly.

“Nobody knows how many
people are brought into slavery that way each year,” Delores continued.  “The
figures are all over the place -- partly because these are hidden populations,
and partly because our definitions are imprecise.  Globally, we’ve heard
everything from a few tens of thousands to up to 30 million men, women and
children trafficked annually.  But really, nobody knows.”

My eyes nearly popped out
of my head to hear such great numbers.

Tabitha interrupted
then.  “But what about here, in Atlanta?”

Delores leaned forward,
clasping her hands together.  “The very things that make us a great city for
trade make us perfect for human trafficking, a strong transportation system
being at the top of the list.  We’ve been listed as high as 13
^th
in
the world for the amount of trafficking activity in our city.  Who knows how
bad it really is?  Our point of view is that even one person trafficked is one
too many.”

“What happens to them,
once they are here?” I ventured.

“All sorts of things,
none of them that wholesome,” Delores admitted.  “Some become domestic workers
– cooking, cleaning, that kind of thing.  Some do farm work, or restaurant
work.”

“That doesn’t sound so
bad,” Tabitha said.  Delores’ eyes flashed with anger.

“It doesn’t sound so bad,
having to work 18 hour days without pay? Being threatened with physical
punishment, humiliation, or even worse – retribution against your family, back
home?”

Tabitha shifted
uncomfortably in her seat, fingering her demure pearls.  “I didn’t mean…”

Delores slid her
eyeglasses on top of her head, and sighed, closing her eyes as she sought to
regain her patience.  She re-opened her eyes and smiled brightly, reaching
across the messy desk to pat Tabitha’s hand where it still rested on the stack
of papers. 

“No, I’m sorry, dear.  Of
course you didn’t.  You’re just trying to learn.  My temper just got a little
away from me.  There are a lot of people out there who don’t see this for what
it is – outright slavery.  I know you meant no harm.

“And in a way, you’re
right.  That kind of work is not the worst thing that can happen to these
people.  Forced prostitution or sexual slavery is the worst thing.  And
unfortunately, it happens frequently to the youngest and most vulnerable
children who are put into this disgusting trade.”

She slid another stack of
papers across the desk.  We held them up and realized they were photos: a black
and white shot of a filthy room, full of bare mattresses laid end to end so
that they covered the entire floor, shackles and chains the only other visible
things in the shot.  A series starting with a basement trapdoor that then led
to a crowded room filled with girls in nothing but their underwear, their faces
mercifully blurred in an ironic nod to privacy.  They were so…tiny, and not
just because of their ages.  Their knobby joints, their protruding ribs gave
mute testament to their obvious hunger.  A truck caught in some border
crossing, its back opened up to show it packed with girls who stared with
unseeing eyes into the flashlights wielded by their saviors.

I could feel the sweat
start to trickle down the back of my neck, felt my Mark burning into me.  My
nervous fingers fluttered up, touching it like a talisman to remind myself that
it hadn’t happened to me.

Delores’ voice broke into
my musing, snapped me back into reality.  But instead of the voice of the
confident public speaker, selling her cause, I heard a voice tinged with
sadness and futility.

 “$90 is all it takes to
buy one of these girls. $90.  Less than the cost of an iPod.  Less than the
cost of a new pair of Nikes.  How can anyone place so little value on a human
life?”

Her voice broke, causing
her to draw up short.

I tore my eyes away from
the photos and caught her eyes – they were shiny, brimming with tears.  But she
blinked the tears away without a word and cleared her throat.

Her voice was steadier
now.  “You cannot underestimate what these girls have gone through.  By all
accounts, what they have been through is a nightmare, and many of the girls
here are not sure that it is over.”

I sucked in my breath,
wondering how it could get any worse.  “What do you mean?”

“You have to understand,
most of them were terrified of their…owners, for lack of a better word.  To us,
it might seem unfathomable that they didn’t run away, didn’t ask for help.  But
they were terrified.  And many don’t speak English very well, couldn’t have
communicated even if they had managed to somehow get away.  Most of the girls
here are here only because someone eagle-eyed noticed them, or the conditions
they were living in, so that the authorities were brought in. They live in
constant fear that the system will fail them; that their owners or traffickers
will find them and punish them.”

She smiled a grim smile. 
“And sometimes, sometimes they happen to be right.  When the system treats them
like criminals, complicit in their crimes, then often they do get sent right
back to the same, sorry situation.  Only now, with a criminal record.”

Tabitha had been silent
up until now, afraid of being chastised again, but this last injustice broke
through her intimidation.  “That’s not right!” she burst out.  “Can’t you stop
that from happening?”

Delores just spread her
arms, shrugging while smiling a knowing smile.  “If the girls come to us on a
prostitution bust, and the D.A. doesn’t get it, then, no, there’s nothing we
can do.  Except explain to the girl that we’ll still be here if she can manage
to get away.  Again.”

I looked at the picture
with the mattresses again, and thought of the cruelty of sending someone back
to that life, especially after having raised her hopes.  I offered up a silent
prayer,
there but for the grace of God
….. 

“I bet they are scared,”
I whispered, thinking of the girls behind the heavy door.

“Like nothing else,”
Delores agreed.  “And it spreads like wildfire.  One of them gets out and the
rumors start to fly.  When that happens, it’s all we can do to keep them here,
safe; forget about rehabilitation or training.”  She briskly straightened some
of her papers, getting back down to business as she popped her glasses back to
her nose.  She peered at us over the rims of her reading glasses.

“Maybe you can understand
why we were reluctant to let you talk to any of them in person.  But there is
one girl, one who is slightly older than the others, whom we think might
actually benefit from the opportunity to tell her story.”

She pulled a file out of
her pile and handed it to me.  Tabitha kicked me under the desk,
surreptitiously shooting me a sour look as she lifted the file out of my hands.

Delores tried to keep the
corners of her mouth from curling up as she witnessed our exchange.  “Her name
is Maria Delgado.  At least, that is the name she gave us and the police. 
She’s been here for a little over a month, was brought in after an FBI raid. 
She’s been very skittish, won’t give us any other information that might help
her get home.  We thought that maybe she might warm to you.”