Page 43 of Holding On

Chapter Ten

Maya Hamilton

I may have the definition of “double agent” technically wrong, but it’s exactly how I feel stepping into what Nic calls their “safe-house.”

It took three hours to get to the Seaport Hotel in Boston. Colton Security maintains three sites in three different hotels so they can move people fast. After we talked and I read the background on the young woman I would be speaking with, Deshaun, I slept and woke just as we were pulling into the parking garage.

The glass and stone and steel monolith that is the Seaport Hotel smells of lavender and efficient cleaning supplies. The elevator is a testament to the powers of technicians who could create a feeling of security simply by the plush, muted sound of doors sliding open and closed.

The luxurious teal carpeting under my leather penny loafers feels thick, substantive, and important. The ceramic planters filled with flowers, sprays of eucalyptus, and exotic grasses, make clear we’re in the presence of people with money who feel comfortable with things around them that remind them of home.

I’m lucky if I can even keep my six-inch jade plant alive.

After several turns, we walk all the way to the back of the hall to a room with no number, just a “B.” It looks like a door to housekeeping. Nic stands outside the door for a moment and sends a text. Then he raps twice, and after a quick flurry of metallic sounds, the door opens and Jackson ushers us inside.

Though small, the place seems elegantly appointed. The blinds are down and it’s a little hard to see, but there’s clearly a woman sitting at the far end of a black leather sofa.

Jackson sits down at the other end. Nic gestures toward an overstuffed matching chair. I settle and look at the woman. Most of her face is in the dark, but judging by her clothes and the way she carries herself, I figure she’s in her early twenties. She’s wearing rhinestone-studded sandals, and her toenail polish matches the lacquer on her fingertips: glitter-gold.

“Deshaun, this is Maya. She’s here to help you.”

I swallowed hard. This girl has had a rough life. If half the stuff I’ve learned about her is true, it’s lucky she’s alive.

“You’re a lawyer?” Her suspicion is almost a fourth character in the room.

I clear my throat. “No. But I’m working with a judge right now in Maine.” Jackson glances at me and almost imperceptivity shakes his head. The movement is so slight, I’m not sure I’m reading him correctly.

“Judge Pratchett. Audrey Pratchett, I mean.”

“Why the fuck should I trust you?” She pushes at her hair, which is long, much longer than mine, but beautifully braided in hundreds of braids half the width of a pencil.

“You shouldn’t,” I say. My hands are sweating. “Mr. Silvano and”—I realize I don’t know Jackson’s last name—“Jackson told me you have details about someone who hurt you? If that’s true, my judge can help you.”

“Bullshit. Look, I told these two I’d talk, but you’re a kid. I don’t want to say anything now.” Glancing at the two men, she adds, “You think because she’s Black, I’m going to spill to her and ruin everything I’ve worked for?”

Nic starts to speak, but I raise a hand. “First, I’m not a kid. Second, I work for a judge. Get it? A judge. Third, we aren’t asking you to stand up and take the stand. I’m the one taking the risk here. Even talking to you is risk. How do I know you won’t run to Oliver Barr and tell him what we’re doing?”

She sinks back into the sofa. “Is that his name?”

Nic pulls up the ottoman and sits on it. His legs are so long, and he looks uncomfortable. “Just tell Maya what you told us.”

“Again?”

Jackson nods, reaches over, and takes her hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it breaks my heart.

I take a deep breath. “Nic and Judge Pratchett already told me about your past. I just need to know the details of what happened at first, and then how you were moved and how you escaped.”

I’d woven together the pieces from both Nic and Audrey. Nic focused on the psychological details. Deshaun’s parents were incarcerated in Florida, and she was sent to foster care with an older cousin who turned her on to drugs—prescription opioids and then heroin. At fourteen, Deshaun disappeared and didn’t resurface until she was nineteen, when she walked into the police station in Jamaica Plain and said she’d been a victim of the sex-slave trade and wanted protection.

Her story caught the attention of a social worker, Jeremy Pines, who took her under his wing. Through a set of legal maneuvers, he got her to a halfway house for abused women downtown and found her a counselor who specialized in victims of sex trade. She found a job working as a barista, and at twenty-one, she finished her GED. Now, two years later, she’s about to start her second year of college at Bunker Hill Community College.

Audrey’s focus was on the legal uncertainties. How could she have disappeared so fast when a sting operation busted in two days after Deshaun was snatched from the corner, a block from her home? One person mentioned a person high up in the food chain, rumored to be a judge. Why did she constantly move every three months? Why wouldn’t she ever step forward with the prosecution even after the ring of fourteen men were caught?

The prosecution and FBI don’t need her testimony—they have enough to convict—but Audrey is certain Barr was involved and escaped the net. I’m unclear how Nic found her, but in old testimony, when she first stepped into that police station in Jamaica Plain, she was in bad shape and talking about a person called “The Judge.”

She never mentioned this person again.

This is why the gesture from Jackson is so sweet. He’s humanized this moment. He trusted her to accept his touch, and she found the strength to take it.