James Brown - The Payback

MUSIC FROM THE PORCH

January 5, 2018, 2100 hrs – Figueroa Street / Los Angeles

Her first customer pulled to the sidewalk around 2130. Smiling and waving at lone male motorists, a couple of cars made u-turns and drove past her a second time, but none had stopped. Stacy welcomed some action. 

She sauntered to the passenger side of a four-door Honda Accord and bent down sideways on the window ledge to allow the trick to check out her cleavage and ass at the same time. He was Latino, mid-thirties, unshaven, and otherwise unremarkable. "Hey Big Boy. Whatchu' doin' tonight?"

He tried to be nonchalant, but the trick’s death grip on the steering wheel gave away his nervousness. "Nothing. How about you?"

"I'm just chillin' baby. It's a nice night for some fun, if you know what I mean."

The Human Trafficking team called these types of exchanges "word games." The goal was to encourage the target to make the first mention of sex, so he couldn't claim entrapment later. In the meantime, Stacy would engage in small talk and flirtation. 

"Yeah it is. You working?"

"I am. Whatchu want?"

"Thinking about trying to get a date with you." 

"Oooh, that sounds nice, baby." Stacy licked her upper lip, allowing her tongue to linger for a minute, while the trick gulped.

"How much do you charge?"

"Depends on what you want big boy."

"Man, I just want to fuck." 

Stacy laughed. "I like a man who gets to the point. Sex is gonna cost you two-fifty, but it's worth every penny." 

"Two-fifty? The going rate's like a hundred out here." 

All the undercovers competed, the decoys for real money, and the safety officers for street change as they posed as beggars. What they didn’t book into evidence, they donated to the Friederich’s Ataxia Research Alliance, a personal charity for one of the officers. As much as it hurt to admit, Stacy made more posing as a sex worker than she did from her hourly salary. 

As she stared at the middle-aged man who drove a poorly maintained Accord, she doubted he would pay much more than one-fifty. "Baby, do you think I'm some hundred-dollar whore?"

She tried wearing a wire once, but it was impossible to pick up the john’s side of the conversation with the noise from passing cars, idling engines and car radios. Plus, now the detective could adjust her bra, and show off even more cleavage, as the trick's tongue nearly popped out of his mouth. "How much for head?"

"One-fifty. Look baby, I'll give you a sloppy blowjob and the best fuck of your life for one seventy-five. See that market? There's an ATM inside. Walk in, buy me a water, and get some money. Can you do that baby?"

He paused, considering. Stacy was a sexpot. "Yeah, that works. Will you wait for me?"

"Of course, I will, baby. I'll be standing right next to those concrete barriers. You ain't a cop, are you sweetie?"

It was urban legend that police were obligated to reveal themselves when asked, but the johns liked hearing it and the question added a level of authenticity to the operation. 

"Nah, I'm not a cop. Are you?"

"Do I look like the police, baby?"

"Nah, you look too good to be a cop."

"Ahh, you're sweet. Now go get that money. It's cold out here, and I can't wait forever for what's inside of those pants." 

Stacy peered down at the trick's crotch, causing him to blush. She strolled towards the concrete barrier as he drove to the market, then walked to the meeting point. Moments later the john pulled up besides her. The team was still about thirty seconds away, so she took her time. "Hey Papi, did you get my water?"

The man handed her a bottle of water. She took a long sip of it. "Thanks baby."

"Anything for you. Damn, you're fine." 

"I like the compliments. So, what's up?"

"I could only withdraw one-forty." 

"Pass it here.” So irritating. 

He counted out seven twenties and passed the money to her through his open window. So busy watching her, he never saw the police officers surround his car. 

"Baby, next time you want to catch a date, jump on Tinder. And don’t be so damn cheap." Stacy walked away as the take-down team pulled out their badges, identified themselves as LAPD, removed the suspect from his vehicle, cuffed and searched him, then hustled the soon-to-be-defendant off to the waiting van, all in less than two minutes. It was surgical.

3-day human-trafficking sting in California leads to 339 arrests | ABC7

Biggie Smalls - Ten Crack Commandments

MUSIC FROM THE PORCH

Alternate Universe from The Porch

“If you ain’t getting’ bagged stay the fuck from police. If ni**as think you snitchin’ they ain’t tryna listen.” (See, Rule Number Nine, The Ten Crack Commandments, by Notorious B.I.G.).

He fucking hated standing when the jury walked in. He had shit to do – getting the exhibits ready, trying to figure out how he was going to get this commercial sex worker to admit she was a victim. But the defense attorney stood. And so did his client, dressed like Malcom X in his bowtie, white shirt and black, boxy glasses that probably weren’t even prescription. So the D.A. stood too, impatient, watching as fourteen random people he picked last week took their seats in the jury box.  

“Calling the People v. Darius Jones, represented by Martin Lupinsky, and District Attorney Jimmy Sweeney for the People. Continuing with the direct testimony of Faith S. Ma’am, do you understand you’re still under oath?” The Judge looked down at Faith from his elevated perch on the bench. 

“Yes, your honor,” Faith mumbled. 

“Ma’am, you either enunciate clearly, or else you speak into that microphone in front of you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your honor.” No more mumbling. 

Sweeney smiled to himself. Judge Donnelly was gruff so Sweeney didn’t have to be. “Good afternoon, Faith. We spoke for a few minutes yesterday.” A juror’s kid got sick the day before, so they broke early. “You identified this man,” Sweeny said as he pointed to Darius, “as your boyfriend?”

 “Yes sir.”

“Are you familiar with the term ‘working’?”

“Yes.”

Like pulling teeth. Sweeney continued. “Please tell the jury what ‘working’ means.”

“It mean hoeing.” She looked at the prosecutor like he was dumb. “Fucking fo’ money. Oh, shit, am I not allowed to say fuck in court?” Laughter from the jury.

“These jurors have heard cuss words before,” Judge Donnelly said. “Please proceed.” 

Sweeney couldn’t hide his smile this time. “That means yes, Faith. If that’s what makes you feel comfortable.” Sweeney saw Faith’s shoulders relax, just a bit. There was an art to getting information out of an uncooperative witness. “What’s a bottom bitch?”

“A bottom bitch? That’s like, a pimp’s mos’ trusted bitch, the one he go to. The one mos’ down for him.” She stared at Darius, who stared right back, like they were having sex with their eyes.

“Does she enforce the rules for him?”

“Yeah, sometimes she ‘spose to.”

“Like she might engage in violence against other females who were out of pocket?” Sweeney asked.

“I mean, I guess. It’s possible.”

“What’s out of pocket, Faith?”

“That’s a ho who not following the rules.”

“What’s a gorilla pimp?”

“That’s a pimp that chops a bitch.” Sweeney raised his eyebrows and Faith sighed. “Chopped means gettin’ hit.”

“If a pimp hit a fifteen-year-old child, would you consider him a gorilla?”

Faith squirmed a bit and snuck a look at Darius. “I mean, yeah, I guess.”

“If you have a gorilla pimp, who does he hit the most?”

“Objection, speculation.” Lupinsky interrupted, surprisingly quiet until now. 

“Sustained,” the Judge turned to faith. “That means you don’t have to answer.”

“Okay,” Sweeney tried again, “is it consistent with the Game for a pimp to go hard on his bottom bitch?”

“Objection,“ Lupinsky interrupted again. “She’s not an expert. Speculation.”

“I disagree,” the Judge quickly shot back. “She testified that she has engaged in prostitution on the streets for several years and is familiar with the Game. I’d say that qualifies her as an expert and she may answer a hypothetical.”

“She testified that she’s a renegade. A renegade is someone without a pimp. Hence, she’s not an expert when it comes to pimps.” The defense attorney gave it right back.

“Mr. Lupinksy,” Judge Donnelly had quite the history with him. “There will be no further speaking objections. The fact of whether she has a pimp, and who that is, is what’s in question. Based on the circumstances, I’m finding she is qualified to testify. Do you need the question read back to you Ms. S.?”

“No sir,” Faith said. “Yeah, pimps go harder on they bottom bitches.”

It was time for Sweeney to begin driving home his point. “So, if another girl in the same stable wasn’t working, and the pimp had told the bottom that they better both be catching prostitution dates when he arrived, that could be bad for the bottom, right?”

“It could.” Faith shifted in her seat. 

“And that could result in the bottom getting chopped, if they both weren’t working, right Faith?”

“Objection. Leading.” Lupinsky was trying to rattle Sweeney. It wasn’t going to work.

“Overruled,” the Judge quickly answered. “I’m making a finding that this witness is hostile. Mr. Sweeney, you may ask leading questions.”

Sweeney fucking loved this Judge. “Faith?”

“Yes, the bottom could get chopped” she reluctantly admitted. 

“Now, you said you’re Darius’ girlfriend?” Faith nodded, and Sweeney continued. To hell with the Court Reporter. “And you engage in prostitution, yet he’s just a boyfriend?”

Faith nodded again. 

“So, he’s not a pimp, or he’s not your pimp?”

“He’s not my pimp. I mean, I don’ know if he a pimp. He just not mine.”

“The phone found in your possession, where someone told you that Di, the girl an officer observed you hitting, better be working or else you were going to get beat. You’re saying that was your pimp who texted you, but that wasn’t Darius, correct?”

“Yeah.” The walls were closing in. Sweeney looked at the jury. They were paying rapt attention. Orgasmic.

“And there’s a message to Di’s phone number in your phone’s history,” Sweeney placed exhibit twenty on the Elmo and pointed to a highlighted text from Faith. “See how you call her wifey in your message to her? What’s a wifey, Faith?”

“That mean another ho.”

“From the same pimp, right? It means two girls that work for the same dude, correct?”

“I mean, yeah it do.”

“And Di’s your wifey, isn’t she?”

“You have the text.” Faith’s head was down now, no looking at anyone. She didn’t know he had all this information. 

“I do have the text. So, if you just testified that ‘wifey’ means you work for the same pimp, and that Di is your wifey, that means if Di admitted earlier in this trial that she works for Darius, so do you.”

Faith didn’t say anything.

“That’s why you have his moniker, Goldie, tattooed on your face. If he was your boyfriend, your tattoo would be his government name, Darius, not his pimp name, isn’t that right?”

“He is my boyfriend.”

“But Di doesn’t have his name on her face. Neither does that child with the black eye that you say doesn’t work for him either. Only you do, Faith. And that’s because you’re his bottom, isn’t it?”

No answer.

“That message about ‘Di better be working,’ that message was a text from him, and that’s why an officer observed you hitting Di and telling her she better get back on the street and work. ‘Ten toes down’ I think you were quoted as saying.”

“Do you have a question, counsel?”

Sweeney nodded at the Judge. “I do, Your Honor.” Could Faith sink any lower in that chair? “Faith, you hit Di because you were afraid of Darius, your pimp, weren’t you?

Faith put her face in her hands and cried.

“Nothing further, your honor.”

Lenny Kravitz "If You Can't Say No"

MUSIC FROM THE PORCH 

PROLOGUE – DAWN

April 14, 2018 – 0545 hours / Figueroa and 92^nd, Los Angeles California

Detective Johnson Kennedy stared in silence at the body covered by a white sheet. Do I know her? It had to be one of his girls, or else Robbery-Homicide wouldn’t have called the Human Trafficking Task Force. Christ, I’m not ready for this. Since it was a Sunday morning, none of the regulars who worked the Figueroa track, a long Los Angeles street notorious for blatant prostitution, could be eliminated as potential victims. Try as he might, one nagging thought kept bouncing around. This was Darius’ fault.

By the time Johnson arrived on scene, his partner and supervisor, Stacy Manafort, was already there. Stacy had a habit of arriving first and Johnson watched her through his car window as she walked towards the dead body.

Working the detail was no easy feat. The pimps were assholes, the girls were bitches, the johns loser fucksticks who saw no harm in prostitution, and everyone hated the cops. Most of the sex-workers they ‘rescued’ fell back into the Life and, more often than not, the idealistic officer they recruited into the unit left a demoralized detective.    

His partner was different. She had never become jaded. Beyond sharing the same dark-colored skin with many of the trafficking victims she tried to help, she grew up in Compton, the same neighborhood as many of their girls. She listened to them, didn’t judge them for their decisions or waste time feeling sorry for them or treat them like some kind of social science experiment. They begrudgingly respected her for it and so did Johnson. 

He wanted to be like her. Someone who never lost patience with these girls as they covered for their traffickers. He didn’t want to take their attitudes, or curse words, or mean things they said, personally, but it was hard not to. How did she do it? 

Maybe she was just stronger than him. He wasn’t surprised that she jumped out of her car and walked right up to the corpse. She didn’t sit in the front seat, wondering which girl it might be, or whether it was their fault because they were late to a scene, or didn’t visit a victim one more time when she was finally ready to talk.  

Someone had already opened the back doors of the Medical Examiner’s van and a Coroner’s investigator walked towards a handful of police officers half a block away. A rookie brought Stacy a cup of coffee from a makeshift command center set up behind some yellow tape on the corner. 

Onlookers crowded behind the artificial barrier, while several detectives tried to interview potential witnesses with little success. It was rare for the people who lived in the area to cooperate with law enforcement, certainly not in broad daylight, as they were scared for the safety of themselves and their families.

A photographer from Forensics snapped photos while a deep crimson stain spread over the northern end of the sheet, probably from the victim's head. A smaller puddle of blood pooled to the west of the cadaver, likely from its chest or back. Two small yellow placards had been placed next to two .40 caliber casings no more than two feet from the deceased. 

A detective from Robbery-Homicide bent over the unfortunate soul like a catcher at a ball game, jotting notes into a small, worn, spiral notebook. A cracked silver flip phone lay about a foot away. The streets knew it as an ‘Obama phone,’ a relic in the age of iPhones, yet the device remained the lifeblood of streetwalkers and their pimps.  

Johnson watched as the detective nodded at Stacy, as if he had been in her position before. Had he experienced the same pain of recognition that was sure to fill his partner momentarily and then him after that? He punched the steering wheel, feeling so … small, so … insignificant. 

The detective took his pen between his thumb and forefinger and positioned it under the white sheet. Stacy took a deep breath. No one could prepare for a familiar face. 

As the detective lifted the sheet, Stacy’s knees buckled and Johnson turned his head before he saw who it was. His partner’s gasp was audible, Johnson heard it down the street. He looked back and the guy from robbery-homicide had placed the sheet over the body again. The forensic photographer was holding Stacy up now. The strongest person he ever met had to be held. Johnson took a gulp of air. And another. He really didn’t want to get out of the car.