Isabel's Run (13 page)

“Very impressive,” I said, turning to him. “How long have you been here?”

“Fifteen years this past April,” he said.

I smiled. “Well, judging by the mood of the prayer group that we saw, you appear to be doing a good job.”

He laughed. “Thank you. We have ourselves a good old time. I’ll let you in on a little secret: when you say ‘bible study’ to most people, they almost immediately form an image in their minds of a quiet, somber, studious-type group, all huddled up over their well-worn King James. Except for maybe a Benedictine monk, who’d want to act like that? So around here, we spice it up. We make it a little more human. Think about it. Who gave us our sense of humor?” Before we could answer, he continued. “It was the good Lord, of course. He made it so that we can laugh and have a good time. And we figure that since the Lord saw fit to give us a sense of humor—the ability to laugh and to be happy—why, then he must have wanted us to use it. So we decided to have some fun with our bible study group—lighten things up a bit.”

“Looks like it’s working,” I said. “Everyone seemed pretty happy outside there. Who knows—might even make me want to come to a meeting and check things out.”

“You’re welcome anytime!” he beamed. He opened his arms up wide. “Come on down, brother Daniel!” He smiled for a second, then he said, “You know that Daniel is a historic biblical name, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I said, smiling. “I’ve got my own book in the Old Testament.”

He laughed. “Indeed you do, young man. Indeed you do.”

Toni looked at me. I could tell she was much impressed with my biblical acumen. I’m full of surprises.

We followed Reverend Jenkins through an office area where two women were seated.

“Luella,” he said, “I’m going to be with these folks here for about thirty minutes or so. How’s that fit in?”

“You’re good,” Luella said. “Your next meetin’s not till three thirty.”

“Thank you.”

He held the door for Toni and me, and then closed it behind us.

* * * *

“Have a seat here,” he said, pointing to a couple of chairs across from his desk. The surface of his desk was neat and organized—a man after my own heart. The walls, like the hallways, were covered with photos. What impressed me was the fact that there weren’t any pictures of politicians, no celebrities, no famous people at all. Instead, except for a PhD in Theology diploma from Liberty University, the common theme of the photos was Reverend Jenkins and children. Either in a classroom, or on a playground, or at a hospital, I didn’t notice a single photo without a child.

When we were all seated, I said, “Thanks again, Reverend Jenkins.” I nodded to the diploma. “Or should I say ‘Doctor Jenkins’?”

He smiled. “Don’t do either one of those,” he said. “I always thought that ‘Doctor’ sounded a little pretentious—particularly around here. We’re a long way away from any ivory towers. Just call me Reverend Art. That’s what everyone calls me around here.”

“Okay,” I said. I nodded in the direction of the wall. “Looks like you have a soft spot for kids.”

He smiled again. “I do,” he said. “I do indeed.”

“Any children of your own?” Toni asked.

“Six,” he said. “Six children—all under the age of seven.”

“Wow,” Toni said. “How—?”

Before she could finish, Reverend Art said, “Before you accuse me of either spousal abuse or polygamy, they’re all adopted. We have our own little Rainbow Coalition going in the Jenkins household. We’ve got three sets of siblings—two from Vietnam, two kids from right here in the neighborhood from a member of our congregation who ran into some legal problems a while back, and the twins—two little ones we just adopted from Romania.”

“Your wife must be really busy,” Toni said.

“She is, she is,” he said, laughing. “Maybe it is spousal abuse after all?” He laughed again, a twinkle in his eye. “Nah, she loves it. She considers it God’s work. And, of course, she’s right. We are truly blessed. People are always saying what a wonderful thing we’ve done for these children, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. No one seems to recognize that we’re getting back twice as much as we’re giving out with these little ones.”

“Even so,” I said, “you and your wife are to be commended. It really is a wonderful thing you’re doing for these children.”

“Well,” he said, “just as you’re trying to do the right thing for this missing girl.” He smoothly segued into the purpose of our meeting. “Tell me about her and what’s happened.”

We spent the next fifteen minutes filling Reverend Art in on Isabel—her attempt to flee the horror of her home life, the text messages that told their own ominous story, and our meetings with both Nancy Stewart and Annie Hooper.

“Isn’t that Carla Nguyen an impressive young lady?” Reverend Art said. “She’s a poster child for what motivates a lot of good people to step up and get involved.”

“She’s been through a lot,” I agreed.

“She’s been through a living hell,” he said. “And she’s making her way back. Step by step, she’s turning back into a sweet, caring girl. Young lady, really.” He thought about it for a minute. “She’ll never be able to forget what she went through—what was done to her—but she’s learning how to deal with it.”

“It seems like she’s not going to let it define her,” Toni said.

Reverend Art looked at her. “Exactly. It’s not who she is. It’s what was done to her, but it’s not who she is.” He turned to me. “So now, we’ve got to yank Isabel out of this situation before she falls into the same trap.”

I nodded.

“And Carla said something about the North Side Street Boyz? And you said Isabel’s text message says the names were Crystal, Donnie, and Mikey?”

“Yes. Does any of that ring a bell with you?”

He leaned back and nodded. “I’m afraid it does,” he said. “Part of it, anyway. I don’t know anyone named Crystal. But the North Side Street Boyz is a gang that split off from a Central District gang that called themselves the Madison GDs.”

“GDs?” I asked.

“Gangster Disciples,” he said. “They’re like the Bloods and the Crips. They started in Chicago, and they’re pretty much nationwide now. Anyway, there’s a young man named Donnie Martin, used to live around here. Based on what you’re saying, I imagine he’s the ‘Donnie’ referred to in Isabel’s text message. He was a member of the Madison GDs. Some time ago, he splintered off and formed his own gang in the area north of the U-District. Down here, the GDs focus mostly on drug dealing. I understand Donnie’s taken the NSSBs in a whole new direction—they’re totally focused on prostitution. Basically, they’re organized pimps.”

“Any idea how big they are?” I asked.

He thought for a moment, and then he shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. Probably not very big, be my guess. Donnie never impressed me as the organizational type. I don’t think he was overly worried about growing anything. Except his own wallet, maybe.”

“So you know this Donnie Martin personally?” Toni asked.

“Oh, yeah, indeed I do. In fact, as a youngster, around about ten years ago, he used to come to Sunday school here off and on. His aunt was a member of our congregation, and he mostly stayed with her back then. Sadly, she passed away earlier this year—I think it was February. Of course, Donnie hadn’t been to services in years, but he came to her funeral. He was driving a white BMW with tinted windows. He was dressed really sharp. I asked him what he was up to, and all he’d say was that he’d moved up north. So later, I started asking around—kind of subtle-like.”

“People talk to you?” I asked.

He smiled. “I’m the pastor, aren’t I?” he said. “I’m not ashamed to say that I have no problem snooping information from the members of the church in order to protect them from some of the bad apples around here. And, of course, they talk. Most of them, anyway. Sometimes, the gang members come back and spread some of their money around. That tends to quiet folks down a little. But not everyone, and not forever. So I talk. And I listen. A little hint here, a little hint there, eventually the whole picture starts to emerge.”

“Do the guys themselves ever talk to you—other than Donnie at his aunt’s funeral?” I asked.

He smiled. “When they were children, they did. When they grow up—well now, that’s different. They don’t have so much to say now. Every now and again, one of these guys will step back in for a talk. And if they’re trying to do something positive with their lives—why then I’ll help ’em, of course. But if it’s just business as usual for them, then they know about me and who I am. They know better than to tell me anything if they’re involved in something illegal. I’ll turn from their best friend into their worst enemy in a quick minute.”

“What do you mean—they know about you and who you are? You mean in your role as a minister?”

He looked at me. “Annie didn’t tell you?”

I was puzzled. “No. Tell us what?”

He smiled. “I was one of ’em,” he said. “I was one of these guys. Before I was ordained, I spent seven years in Folsom State Prison in California for drug trafficking. I spent seven years of my life in prison because I was moving drugs for the Stone Canyon Bloods in east LA. I did that every day for years, and I finally got nailed. Praise God I didn’t get killed. I was in the gang for almost twelve years before prison, and for another couple in prison before I woke up. These guys up here?” He stopped and smiled. “They got nothin’ on me.”

* * * *

“For some reason that I don’t understand and cannot explain, the Lord Jesus Christ has seen fit to give me not one life but two—the first life before I accepted Him as my savior, in which I didn’t do a single thing I am proud of—at least, nothing that comes readily to mind, and the second life after I accepted Him—in which I’ve made it my life’s work to make up for the first one. Maybe God wants this humble servant to be His instrument in my small part of the world—I don’t know. But I know one day, sitting in my cell by myself, that a light went on—figuratively speaking. You may think I’m crazy, but I actually heard a voice—all but commanded me to change my ways. There was a faith-based group within the prison, and I joined. Not long after, I left the gang for good. I took my newfound faith in the Lord, I got my GED, and then I actually used the rest of my time to get a bachelor’s degree in divinity from Lincoln College. When I got out, I became an ordained minister.”

“That’s a pretty incredible success story,” I said.

“I’ll say,” Toni added. “A remarkable turnaround.”

“Could’ve turned out a lot different,” Reverend Art said. “I owe it all to a power bigger than little old Arthur Jenkins. I owe it to the Lord.” He paused, lost in thought. His eyes were closed—perhaps he was praying. I couldn’t tell. Then, he opened his eyes suddenly. “And to some good people who saw something worth salvaging in me. But one thing’s for certain,” he added. “I am left with a pretty thorough knowledge of what makes these young people around here think the way they think and live the way they live. I’ve been there. And I can tell you—it’s real simple. In fact it comes down to two things: money—,” he held up one finger, “—and respect.” He held up another. “These guys think if they get one, the other’s gonna follow.”

“And being a pimp gets them plenty of money.”

“Oh, it sure does. A lot of money. From their perspective, it’s like selling drugs, only better. After you sell the drugs, they’re gone. These guys sell these girls over and over again. Carla tell you how many times she got sold?”

We nodded.

“That’s tragic,” he said. “Another thing. With drugs, you actually have to get your hands a little dirty. You got to make pickups and deliveries. There’s guys with guns all over the place. With pimping, the girls do all the dirty work. The guys stay home and get stoned. All they have to do is keep the girls in line. It’s a perfect gig. That is, long as you don’t care that you’re stealing somebody’s soul.”

“And you think this sounds like it could be Donnie Martin in this case?”

He looked at me and nodded. “Yep,” he said with resolution. “If it’s the North Side Street Boyz who are involved, I’d say it’s almost certain. This is right up Donnie’s alley.”

Great
, I thought.
Now it’s confirmed
. “What can you tell us about this guy?” I asked.

“He’s probably twenty-one now, maybe twenty-two. Tall guy. Good-looking. Turned into a sharp dresser. Spent some time in juvenile detention—a couple of years. I wish I had an exact address for him now, but I don’t—best I can give you is a general area.”

He paused and thought for a second before he continued. “Like I said, I talked to him at the funeral. I can say that he may be a disturbed young man, but he’s smart. Course, he won’t tell me too much, but I remember he did say that he’s living north of the university. Says he’s working in ‘entertainment.’ Yeah, right. So later, I start talking to people, piecing things together, you know what I’m saying?”

We nodded as we both wrote down the information in our notebooks.

“Here’s what I find. You know you got your typical gangbangers all over the south side of Seattle getting into prostitution right and left. But Donnie? No. I find out that Donnie’s gone north, just like he said. Everybody else working south; Donnie’s working north. Smaller market but almost no organized competition. He’s probably got everything north of Lake Union marked as his territory. Apparently, he and some other guys run a string of prostitutes up there.”