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“Quinze ans,” he said quietly, his eyes downcast.Fifteen.
Jesus Christ,I thought. I lightly touched his face. Now came the hard part. Still speaking French, I asked him who had hurt him. He looked frightened when he answered in English, “Gerard. Bad man.”
I asked him about his parents, and he told me they lived in Jersey City, which was about an hour north of us. He told me he ran away after they found out he was gay. They were going to send him back to Haiti to someone who would cure him of his deviance. Gerard had found him sleeping in the PATH station and told Jean-Pierre he could find him work. Gerard had bought Jean-Pierre some food and something to drink, and the next thing he knew, he’d woken up tied to a bed in a room he didn’t recognize. Gerard had brought in men one after the other to violate him until Jean-Pierre passed out from the pain. He’d only been allowed to leave the room to use the bathroom and shower.
I wanted to scream. This poor child. He’d fallen into the hands of a trafficker because his parents were too rigid and ignorant to accept him as he was.
I asked Jean-Pierre how he got away, and he told me that one of the older kids heard him coughing and snuck him out of the house they were being held in. He’d found the clinic with the help of an older Haitian man who’d walked with him right to the door. Thank goodness for good people.
Jean-Pierre was weeping silently by the time he finished speaking. I wanted to hug him and promise everything would be all right, that he was safe now, but I couldn’t do either of those things. First, I had to find a safe place for him to go. I didn’t know his immigration status, which could cause problems for him and his family. I also knew that since he was a minor, I had to call the police. I wasn’t sure how he would react to that.
I found a blanket and draped it over Jean-Pierre’s shoulders. Then I sent a text to Tony.
Me: How much do you know about human-trafficking laws in NJ?
Tony: What happened? Do you have someone there?
Me: I can’t say much. I’m worried though.
Tony: Ok. Hang tight. We were on the way to Home Depot. We’ll divert to your location.
Me: Ok. Thank you.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Je peux t’aider.”I can help you.I explained that I would have to call the police, but he would be safe because the police would protect him from Gerard.
Jean-Pierre shook his head vehemently. “No.” He paused, trying to find the words in English. “Gerard has my papers. He said I would get…deported without them.”
This one I knew the answer to. “There’s a record of your immigration status. If you have a green card, you’ll be okay.” He frowned and tilted his head like he didn’t understand, so I explained it as best I could in French.
A shout from the waiting area startled both of us. Jean-Pierre’s eyes went wide with terror. “Il ne doit pas me trouver,” he gasped.He must not find me.
“Shit.” I wasn’t sure why, but my first thought was to contact Tony and Marco.
Me: We might have a problem here. I think my patient’s trafficker is in the building.
Tony: Get someplace safe. We’re almost there.
I slipped my phone into my pocket. It was a nice sentiment, but there was no way I was leaving Gloria alone to face this asshole. I urged Jean-Pierre off the exam table and quickly guided him down the hallway to my office. I opened the door and ushered him inside. “Reste ici,” I said.Stay here.
I locked the door behind me and hurried up to the waiting area. The man, who I assumed was Gerard, was leaning over Gloria’s desk, shouting at her. Poor Gloria had pushed her chair back as far as it would go. She was pale and shaking. If there had been any patients in the waiting room, they were long gone. Gerard was a big guy, a little taller than me and muscular enough to look intimidating. I felt a surge of rage against everything Gerard was.
I walked up to the man and shoved him away from Gloria’s desk. “Get out,” I said.
“The fuck I am!” Gerard shouted. “I’m not leaving here without my son!”
I looked him up and down. Gerard was a blond, blue-eyed white man. I met his furious gaze. “Your son?” I asked flatly. “There’s no one here who resembles you.”
His lip rose in a sneer. “He’s adopted.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You can’t have him.”
“What?” he asked incredulously.
“You heard me,” I insisted. “You. Can’t. Have. Him.”
“You little shit,” he growled. He took a swing at me, which I ducked easily. I may have stopped taking tae kwon do in high school, but I still remembered how to defend myself. He tried to hit me again, but I blocked him with my forearm. Huh, my reflexes were still pretty fast. Good to know. But I knew if the guy got a solid hit on me, he would probably knock me out. Maybe I should have stayed in tae kwon do after all. “Gloria, call 911.”
“I already did,” she replied.
