Chapter 2 

            In most cases that Brent and his staff worked on, there is seldom a need to tape-record or videotape the client.  However, due to the number and style of cases coming in, Brent and Curtis agreed that there may be some value to videotaping their new clients, when possible.  Members of their staff would meet with the new client and question them about the case while videotaping their statement. Hopefully their attorney would be present so they could do a proper deposition of the case at the same time.  The staff member handling the case would contact the attorney's office for all of the out-of-state cases to get a video deposition, or at least an audio-taped deposition.

            Clara, Brent, and Curtis sat at one side of the conference table in the PI's office as they watched one such videotape deposition.  The client was Mark Wilson of Austin, Texas.  He had been charged with drug trafficking, a very serious crime in Texas.

            Mark Wilson was a black man, 26 years of age, a graduate of the University of Texas, with a B.A. in Computer Science.  He was a programmer for a leading computer manufacturer in the Austin area.  The videotape showed a stressed out man wearing a light blue short-sleeve casual shirt with a small gold chain around his neck and a man who wore his hair short and natural.  His voice was a bit shaky, with an average male monotone voice.  On the whole, there was nothing to indicate he was gay.  He took his time answering the questions his attorney addressed to him.

            "Mark," said a soft female voice, which belonged to Mark's attorney.  "Let's start with a few basic questions.

            "First.  Do you use drugs?”

            "No," Mark responded.  "I find it dulls my senses and it makes my job harder to do."

            "You said, 'it dulls my senses,' which means you had used drugs before.  When did you stop using, and what type did you use?"

            "I haven't used pot for a couple of years.  I tried it in college when I first arrived, but like I said, it didn't do much for me."

            "Any other types of drugs?"

            "No.  Just the pot."

            "OK.  Tell me what happened on the night you were arrested."

            Mark turned his eyes down, giving some thought to the answer with the stress of the incident becoming more evident on his young face.  He took a deep breath to talk.

            "Jack, my lover, and I were driving back home from dinner when we were pulled over by a cop.  He asked to see my driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance.  I asked him what the problem was, and he told me that I had not come to a complete stop at a stop sign a couple of blocks back."

            "Did you?"

            "I honestly don't remember.  And to be honest, I probably didn't as the streets were pretty empty in that area of town."

            "Go on."

            "Well," he said taking another deep breath, "the cop went back to his car with my ID.  He came back a minute or two later and asked me to get out of the car.  I asked him if anything was wrong, but he didn't answer me.  Instead he looked at Jack and asked for his ID and told him to remain in the car.  He then asked me to step to the back of my car, which I did.

            "The cop went back to his car again for another minute or so before coming back to me.  He told me that I had a warrant out for my arrest.  I was shocked at the statement and before I could say anything, he told me to turn around and spread my hands on the back of my car.  I stared at him as I was in shock, trying to understand what was happening when he grabbed my arm and forced me to turn around.

"At this point, Jack opened his door to get out, but the cop ordered him to stay put.  I could see Jack’s face through the rear window as he sat back down in his seat.  He was watching everything with a confused and worried look on his face.

            "I then asked the cop what the warrant was for, as I could not think of any outstanding tickets or anything else that I would be arrested for.  He told me it was for the sale of drugs, 'trafficking,' as he put it.  I was completely stunned by what he said.

            "After he finished patting me down and then escorting me to the cop car, he went to Jack and told him what was happening.

            "I sat in the back of the cop car getting furious at the situation.  How could I be arrested for something I didn't do?  Hell, I didn't know of any drug dealers.

            "As the cop car pulled away, I saw Jack get into the driver’s seat of my car.  I could only hope that he would bail me out and save me from this dream, this nightmare, I suddenly found myself in.

            "Do you know what it's like to be in jail?  To be harassed, embarrassed, by the system?"  These questions of Mark's were out of anger, frustration, not of any reality, or necessity.  "Hearing those steel doors close behind you.  Having your rights taken away from you, all of it, for no valid reason."

            Mark's attorney allowed him to voice his anger.  She was surprised by the tameness of his statements; she knew her outbursts would have been probably louder, maybe even physical in some way.  After he collected his thoughts, Mark continued his narrative.

            "Some time the next evening, Jack was able to bail me out.  The bond had been set at $50,000.  Thank God we had some savings put aside."

            "Have you ever sold drugs Mark?"

            "No," came a very firm and defiant response.

            Clara stopped the videotape as she began to talk.

            "I read over the attorney's notes and she states that when they appeared in court, the DA couldn't find any case history for Mark.  It was as if he didn't exist for them."

            "What about the warrant?" asked Curtis.

            "That's the strange part.  There's no paper trail for it either.  It’s as if it just appeared out of thin air."

            "That doesn't make sense.  A detective or the DA's office will always have a case file."

            "What happened to Mark?" asked Brent.

            "They postponed the case until May." Clara looked through the paperwork to find the date.  "May 22^nd.  In just a few weeks."

            "So what does the attorney want us to do?"

            "A complete background check on Mark and Jack.  She wants to make sure there are no skeletons in his closet."

            "How far along are you?" asked Brent.

            "Done.  They’re both clean.  A couple of traffic tickets over the years. No bad credit.  They're clean."

            "So why are we here Clara?" asked Curtis.

            "Yeah.  It seems you have it under control," added Brent.

            "Yes and no," she responded to them before taking a second to gather her thoughts.  "Brent, I have 20 to 30 cases on my desk with the same scenario.  Someone is arrested for a crime, but when they get to court, there's no file on them."

            Brent sat forward in his chair.  What he had just heard didn't make sense.  Curtis rose from his chair to walk around the conference table as he began to talk.

            "One, maybe two cases, a year at best has a file been misplaced.  It’s usually filed in the wrong place."

            "But 20 plus," said Brent.

            "Clara, what's the status on your other cases?"

            "Most of them have been postponed.  A couple have been dropped due to lack of evidence."

            "What are we doing with the dropped cases?" asked Curtis.

            "Filed away as closed."

            "Pull them for me."

            "Sure.  What about the others?"

            "Keep Curtis posted," said Brent as he rose out of his chair and left the conference room.

            Clara followed Brent out to retrieve the files for Curtis.  Curtis followed Brent to his office to further discuss the implications.  Before he got the chance to talk, Brent was on the phone to Lawrence.

            "Lawrence, can you come upstairs for a minute?  Great.” Brent looked up at Curtis to hear what he had to say.

            "Right off the bat, this looks strange.  But keep in mind that that is less than half a case per state and like I said, even New Orleans had misplaced a case or so per year.  It's human error."

            "But Curtis, these are all involving homosexuals, not just random cases.  That is strange in itself."

            "True.  But let's see how things pan out first."

            Lawrence knocked on the office door before he stepped in.

            "Lawrence, where are we on that program?"

            "Just about done."

            "Good.  I would like for you and Curtis to test it out on some cases Clara has for him."

            "What are we looking for?"

            "That's a good question," sighed Brent uneasily.  "Let's hope nothing."

            Lawrence looked at him, confused.  He wasn't prepared to look for nothing, as that went against his work ethics.  Curtis saw the confusion on his face and decided it was time to begin work.  Curtis patted Lawrence on the shoulder and guided him to the door.  They met Clara on the stairs as the three of them went to Lawrence's desk to enter the information into the new program.

            Sitting behind his desk on the raised platform that was left over from the souvenir shop, Michael was busy at work going through the mail.  One pile was for new files, and another asking for guidance or suggestions on a variety of subjects.  Another pile was for Brent's fan mail and a pile each for the staff members.  The largest pile was Brent's fan mail.  But the second largest file was for new cases that were coming in quicker than Michael could create folders for and distribute them.

            "Hey Michael, how's it going today?" asked Brent as he stepped down from the stairs and walked toward Michael's desk.

            "Busy these days, Brent," he responded as he reached over for Brent's fan mail. Handing the pile over to him, Michael added, "Brent, when you going to hire someone to respond to your fans?"

            "Hopefully never.  I figure they should dwindle down real soon.  Besides, I don't feel right about someone else talking for me."

            "Well boss, I hope you’re right.  Our workload is still increasing way too fast."

            "You’re still tracking the mail in the database right?"

            "Yeah, as soon as I open the mail, I log them in and categorize them."

            "Do me a favor, will ya?  Before you go home tonight, print out a list by category and by state going back to January of 2001.  Sub group them by the month that they came in as well.  OK?"

            "Sure.  What's up?"

            "Not sure," Brent responded trying not to look too concerned.  "I just want to see how things have grown over the past year."

            "No problem, boss."

            "Thanks. You can leave it on your desk.  I'll pick it up when I lock up tonight."

Ñ Ñ Ñ

            "It's time to add a new dimension to this project, Julio," said a male voice with a lightly higher pitch.

            "About time man.  This needs something exciting," Julio responded as he looked up at his boss standing behind his PC monitor.

            "I want you to create a 10x10 room, painted black.  In the middle of that room, I want a small table for a PC with DSL or faster access on it."

            "T-line boss?"

            "Whatever you can have done by next Tuesday."

            "Four days boss.  That's not much time."

            "I know you can do it, Julio."

            "What's it for man?"

            "Don't worry about that. Just have it done and fully functional to access the web and nothing else.  Got it?"

            "Done boss.  What about this project we're doing now?"

            "Have the staff crank it up.  We've done all the preliminary work, so kick them into gear and bring those fags down.”

            "You’re the boss," Julio finished as he watched his boss walk back to his desk.

            Julio had been hired by this man, who would only allow himself to be called 'boss.'  He told Julio that secrecy for what they were doing was of the utmost necessity.  Everyone who was to work on this project would go by a single name, any name they chose, just not their real name.

            Boss sat at a glass and metallic desk in a far corner of a deserted warehouse.  He wanted to be seen, just not heard.  It was his responsibility to manage the cases and to keep the project focused and on line for as long as his boss wanted it done.  His boss paid him and the staff well, and they never hurt for expenditure money.  He had complete control of the project which added to the enjoyment of what he was doing-- humiliating the queers and lesbos around the country.  Soon the homos would be too busy saving their own lives that if they tried for their special rights, they would be laughed at and humiliated beyond belief.  It would be the end of the gay rights movement.

            His newest weapon was a man who he would just call Mr. Reader.  The boss had known this man for a few years and valued his expertise.  In fact, Mr. Reader had told the boss where to find the current staff of three men and one woman, all of whom were more than qualified in their field of expertise.

            It would be up to the reader to add a new level of intensity to the project and to bring on board an array of workers to the project, without the new workers even knowing it.

Ñ Ñ Ñ

            Sitting in a soft cloth chair in her living room on a cold night in Peterson, Missouri was Patricia Summers, a single woman in her mid50s.  Fresh from a divorce, she had moved to Peterson about 10 years earlier to begin her new life as a school teacher in an elementary school.  She was content with who she had become and with her life today.

            Her usual routine was to open the mail while she watched the evening national news.  This day was no different.  She quickly discarded the junk mail, opened the bills, which were few, before she came across a plain white envelope addressed to her in a neat feminine print with no return address.  It was marked personal.  This intrigued her, a mystery she thought to herself.  She looked at the cancellation post mark; it came from Albany, NY.  She thought for a minute trying to think of anyone she knew from NY, but her mind came up blank.  With her curiosity getting the better of her, she turned the envelope around and tore it open.  There was a single piece of paper in it that had written on it in unusually large type:  "Are you ready for another life-changing moment, Mr. Summers?"

            A shriek escaped Patricia's lips when she read the note.  She didn't know what to do; she was lost and darkness and fear had entered her mind as she stared at the paper and reread the note.  Finally she let the paper fall to the floor as she began to cry, bending her head down into her hands.

            The next day Patricia decided to contact Brent's office to see what she could do to protect herself.  She had been given his number by the Missouri chapter of the Transgender and Friends Support Group (TFSG), the first group she had talked to that morning.  TFSG had told her that there was no crime committed so the police and FBI would be useless.  The only thing she could do was hire a PI to investigate who sent her the letter.

            DJ sat back in his chair and listened to Patricia's story with earnest while making notes on his yellow legal pad.  When she was done, he told her to mail the letter and envelope in a plastic bag inside of a large envelope so he could check for any DNA evidence which would be helpful if they could find out who sent it.

            In the meantime, he had to tell her to prepare herself for being outed to her employer at least. Maybe a few others might find out but not likely.  DJ knew that this would not sit well with her, so in an effort to help keep her calm, he decided to tell her why he handled these types of cases.

            "Ms. Summers, I realize this is a shock to you, and that you were probably hoping I could wave a magic wand to make it go away, but I can't.

            "What I can do is tell you this.  My uncle is now an aunt.  She chose to make the change when she was in her fifties, and like you, she started her life over.  I love my aunt and I understand what she went through, and what you probably went through as well.

            "For that reason, I will do my best to track down the person who did this to you.  Please understand that my boss and I take your case seriously.  We just ask that you help us as much as you can, and please be strong.  This may take some time, OK?"

            "Thank you, DJ.  I appreciate your honesty and support.  You'll have the package tomorrow."

            "Great.  In the meantime, if you get anything else, call me immediately.  Alright?"

            "I will," Patricia said, allowing some dead silence to exist before she finished.  "I hope you get the bastard, DJ.  And thank you for your help."

            "You're more than welcome, Ms. Summers.  Bye for now," DJ finished as he hung up the phone.

            Without skipping a beat, DJ got up from his desk and walked over to Michael's.

            "Here's another case, Michael.”

            "OK, leave it here," Michael responded pointing to the inbox.  "I'll have the file back to you later."

            "Thanks."

Ñ Ñ Ñ

            The warm humid air of the Gulf Coast had started to work its way into Galveston since early May, allowing for more tourists to begin arriving on the island in the hopes of enjoying the thaw out from winter and spring.  For both Curtis and Brent, it gave them the opportunity to enjoy the patio.  Both men enjoyed nude sunbathing, which they could do on their private patio with no worries or concerns of being seen by their neighbors or passerbyes below. The occasional Coast Guard helicopter would past by while it did the hourly beach patrol.  But even that did not appear to be of any concern as the helicopter was farther out over the water, far enough to see figures on the roof but not close enough to make out any details.

            Brent laid out on his lounge chair flat on his stomach to tan his round, hard butt and backside, a view that Curtis always enjoyed seeing. Brent's head hanged over the edge of the chair so he could read over the report Michael had printed out a few days earlier.

            Curtis also laid out on his lounge chair about a foot away from Brent, but unlike Brent, he was laying on his back, allowing for his dark hairy chest, tight stomach, and well-endowed groin to get as much sun as possible.

            Both men knew the dangers of suntanning, but they also enjoyed a good tan.  So they compromised on using a tanning lotion with an SPF factor of 15.  It would take longer to get a dark tan, while it still allowed them the enjoyment of sunbathing.

            "Curtis, I know I'm hammering this to death, but look at these figures."

            "What figures?" asked Curtis as he rolled onto his right side to look at Brent.

            "Here," Brent said as he turned to meet Curtis.  "My case load has grown over a thousand percent over the past six months.  See..."

            Curtis took the report from Brent and looked at the numbers Brent had circled.

            "See, the first six months of 2001 we had a small increase in cases, but over the last six months it jumps each month, and the past five months it jumps to 200% or more each month."

            "I see it," Curtis said as he continued reviewing the report.  "But why?"

            "I wish I knew."

            "Lawrence is almost done with the final touches on the program.  From what I understand, we should be able to cross-reference each case to see if there is a link between them."

            "I hope so, Curtis," Brent said in a soft low voice.  "It doesn't make sense and my gut is really acting up on this one."

            "I know.  Ever sense Clara showed us that videotape, I've been concerned about it too.  Something is going on, but we don't have a clue.  So, for now we can only work the cases the best we can, and if you don't relax on the weekend, you’re not going to be any good during the week.  So put it away and chill out.  Be in the moment with me here enjoying this warm sunny day and a couple of cold drinks.  OK?!"

            "Okay...okay...I'll chill."

Ñ Ñ Ñ

            In a simple cookie-cutter house located in a Ft. Lauderdale suburb were Floyd and Jesse, a gay couple who had adopted two children of Cuban descent: 1 boy and 1 girl.  They had been raising the brother-sister team for the past 10 years, since they were just 2 and 3 years old respectively.

            The family had lived together in harmony, sharing the Hispanic background of Jesse, a flamboyant ex-dancer, and Floyd's Jewish background that supported the family as a business owner of several businesses in the Ft. Lauderdale area.

            They had some growing pains as Jesse and Floyd tried to explain why the children had two fathers and no mothers, but they survived it by being honest with the children, explaining the adoption process and reassuring them that they were loved just as much as if they were their own children.  And as far as Jesse and Floyd were concerned, there was no difference; they were their children and they loved them very much.

            A couple of years earlier, the local children services program had contacted Jesse and Floyd about being foster parents on a temporary basis.  It was a decision that all four family members had talked over and agreed to.  Several children of different races, sexes, and ages had come and gone through the house with great success--that was until the last child had left.

            When the phone call came from child services saying that they were discontinuing using them as foster parents, and that they were now under investigation for child abuse, Jesse, being the overdramatic one in the family, flew off the handle, demanding an explanation.  The response he received from child services was plain and simple. "During a normal review of our records, we have become aware of a complaint alleged against you for abuse of a minor.”

            Jesse argued with CPS for several minutes trying to get more information, but to no avail.  No one at CPS would or could say who filed the complaint or how the abuse had even taken place.  But it was there in their computer, and that was all they needed to initiate an investigation.

            Floyd, realizing that his family was about to go through hell, knew that an outside investigation would be required to prove their innocence to this charge.  They contacted Brent's office for help.  Sarah took the call, put together the file of information, and tried the best she could, in a mother’s tone, to calm both Floyd and Jesse down.  As a mother, she could relate to their pain and she promised to do the best she could under the circumstances.

            When she was done talking to the two of them, Sarah looked at her desk and the pile of files on the floor next to her and wondered what was going on.  Her case load was getting heavier than she could ever imagine.  Most of the cases had come from Florida, but not all of them.

            Florida's shift from granting adoptions to homosexuals had shifted dramatically.  Even their use as foster parents was stopped by the request of the governor’s office.  But the number of abuse cases had grown overnight, a very frightening and never before seen growth.  Had their reporting system changed, or had their rules on what abuse was changed?  How many heterosexual cases had been reported?  Was it in a fair proportion or one sided?

            Sarah knew that she could call anyone necessary to help in processing the cases and she did.  Calls went out all across Florida to find out what was going on.  It would take some time to pull it together, but it had to be done, and quickly, before more families were thrown into the mixer.

Ñ Ñ Ñ

            Brent was deep in thought when the intercom buzzed before Michael's voice announced a call from Sergio, a reporter from OutNow magazine who wanted to talk with him.  Brent said "thank you" to Michael as usual, but he hesitated a moment before he answered the call.  Sergio had interviewed him before for OutNow.  The interview turned out to be a full article on him and the GAPH case, which helped his business grow as did his popularity.

            "This is Brent."

            "Hi, Brent. It’s Sergio from OutNow."

            "Hey Sergio, what's up?"

            "A lot from what I hear."

            "Sorry..."

            "I hear you and Curtis have moved in together and combined your resources."

            "How did you hear that," asked Brent, surprised by the statement.

            "A friend told me."

            "Well...yes.  Why?"

            "The editor thought it would be a great follow up on you.  It's been a couple of years after all."

            "You know that might help me out.  Sure, why not.  When?" Brent said with a slight grin on his lips as a plan began to form in his mind.

            "I could be there this weekend if that works?"

            "Sure, and I've got a guest apartment you can use as well."

            "Perfect," said Sergio as he paused for a minute, wanting to follow up on a statement.  "By the way Brent, what did you mean, 'help you out'?"

            "It can wait until you get here."

Other Books by B. Alan Bourgeois

God's Army to Purge Homosexuality

Spirit Never Dies
Extinguishing the Light
Patients the Paramedic Pup