1
April emerged from her office. She had just posted on her blog. Women had to keep the faith. Obama had won the nomination. Hilary Clinton would not be the first woman president of the United States. At least not yet. But the McCain-Palin ticket had to be defeated. This country could not survive four more years of Republican rule.
The kids were in bed. Lights out at eleven. No video games after dinner. JJ pushed the limit on that one. When he couldn’t play actual games, he spent his time editing videos and creating music. Becky was a reader. Catherine Coulter and Patricia Cornwell were her favorite authors. Lucy Farinelli, Kay Scarpetta’s niece, was her culture hero.
It was 11:13 p.m. on Saturday, June 7, 2008. The swim meet had gone well that morning. No firsts. JJ was nipped at the very end of the 25 free. Becky had led part of the way in the 100 medley but ended up third. The afternoon had been spectacular. Becky mowed the lawn because she got to drive the mower while her dad and JJ trimmed the edges. April took care of cleaning the house and picking up groceries. They had capped off the evening with a little TV and Scrabble.
The living room was dark and quiet. No TV. He was in the kitchen which meant he had serious business to discuss. Things were tight but that had been going on for so long that it seemed normal.
April stopped at the edge of the kitchen and leaned against the doorway. That was the sexiest pose she could come up with. She put on her brightest smile. He was studying the Washington Post Jobs section. He looked up and smiled as he surveyed her lean 5 foot 8 frame. His deep voice ruptured the stillness. “We need to figure something out.”
“I know.” Her response was barely audible.
He looked back down and studied the job ads. He sighed. “I’ve got one more unemployment check coming and then we are on our own.”
She frowned. “Joe, we’ve been on our own. Those checks barely pay for groceries.”
“Then we’ll have to find something to replace them or starve.” There was a harsh edge to his voice.
“I can go full-time at the office,” she suggested. “I’ll probably have to do that anyway. They’re getting rid of all the part-timers. Maybe I can find part-time work as a sales clerk. That will more than make up for the unemployment checks.”
He walked over and put his arms around her. There was a lilt in his voice when he spoke. “You already have a full-time job. You’re Becky and JJ’s mother. You’re also CEO of this household. That’s at least a part-time job.”
“The benefits are great but the salary is nothing to write home about.”
He looked straight into her green eyes and ran his fingers through her auburn hair. He kissed her on the forehead. The deep, authoritative command returned to his voice. “I’m thinking about signing on with a temp agency,” he said as if he had already made his decision. “There’s plenty of work out there and those companies provide benefits.”
She shook her head. Walking away from 15 years of career-building to become a hired gun seemed like an admission of failure. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. This whole financial mess will blow over in a couple of weeks. Then the real jobs will open up and you will be stuck doing temp work.”
His face was stern. His voice strong. “I’ve got to get a paying job. When we divvied things up, I got responsibility for bringing home the big bucks. We were able to buy this house because of my salary. It’s on me to come up with the money.”
“And you will. You just need a little more time. Have you been to a hundred interviews yet?”
“Thirty or so.”
“When you get to a hundred, I’ll start to worry.”
“We can’t wait that long. We can’t hold out for another six months the way we’re going.”
She pulled away and started walking across the kitchen. The gestalt struck her. She paused to take it in: the warm cherry wood cabinets set against the Arctic white of the walls; the granite countertop with its specks of pink and turquoise playing off the slate floor dappled with streaks of green, blue, pink, and mauve; the chrome jacketed dishwasher, oven, and refrigerator rising from the landscape like mountains. They had a beautiful home but it was the millstone that could drag them under.
She drummed her fingers on the counter-top. If she told him about her prospects, there would be hope. He would probably hang on for a while longer. But it might be a false hope. If she didn’t tell him, he would do what he felt was necessary to take care of his family.
She turned back to face him. She had to smile. He was such a sweet, beautiful man: tall, muscular with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. Fifteen years had passed since his last varsity basketball game. He was still trim and solid. His jaw-line was softer. He was starting to develop love handles. But he looked like he could step out on the court tomorrow and steal rebounds or make the sudden pivot to create an open shot. “I’ve been talking to Pat and I think he has something for me. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure. Give me some time to work with him before you make a decision.”
Pat Connolly, her literary agent, hadn’t been much help lately. But now he was acting as if he had something for her. She could push him to speed the process up. It would have to be something with an advance that would pay some bills while she was writing. He should be able to do that. She was, after all, a pretty good writer.
2
A phone message was waiting for April when the Walshes returned from Mass the next morning. Pat needed to speak with her as soon as possible. She decided he could wait until after the family breakfast.
April went up to the room that served as her office to make the call. “Pat, what’s up?”
“G’d day t’ ye, lass. ‘ow are ye doin’ on this fine marnin”?” he said in that brogue of his.
“I’m fine, Pat. Thanks for asking. How are you?” She pulled out her notepad and drew a leprechaun with horns.
“Fine, lass. ’Tis a fine day.”
“Yes it is. Can you tell me what you wanted to talk about?”
“Craig Robertson at the Times-Herald is lookin’ for som’un to write a story.” April sketched a man’s head – balding, perpetual scowl, and a stogie.
She felt a thrill and worked to suppress the excitement in her voice. “What’s the story about?”
“Prostitution. He wants an insider who thinks it should be legal.”
“That doesn’t sound like me.” She wanted to discourage him without saying no. But she was already wondering if there was a way she could pull it off.
“If ye ha’some friends, ye can use their stories,” he said brightly.
April jotted down, Prostitute friends???? She cleared her throat and wondered out loud, “Why doesn’t he put one of his staff reporters on it?”
“He doesn’t want anybody directly connected t’the Times-Herald.”
“But if I take an assignment from him, I will be directly connected to the Times-Herald,” April objected.
“Y’re to be a free-lance writer proposin’ a series to him,” Connolly explained as if the answer was obvious.
She scowled. “Plausible deniability. But why me?”
“Ye have written some stuff on social issues. They like what ye have t’say.”
She took her time considering the proposal and then demanded, “I would need some money up front.”
“’e’s open to an advance.”
“More than that. I’m going to have to take time off work to dig for fresh insights.”
“I can get ye a book deal with a nice advance.”
April jotted down, Book deal!!! She suppressed the emotions roiling inside. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said in her most unenthusiastic voice.
Before she could hang up, Connolly interjected, “Lass, it’s my understandin’ that Senator Muehlberg wants ye t’do this.”
April gasped. “Oh.”
“Can ye meet with Robertson tomorrow around 9?” Connolly asked hopefully.
“When did you find out about all this?” April demanded in a harsh voice. She should have at least a week to think through her approach and make arrangements.
“Friday. This is the first chance I’ve ’ad t’talk t’ye.”
“You heard about it before Friday,” April countered angrily. “You could have given me a heads up last week. You could have sent me a message or something on Friday.”
“Can ye meet with him in the marnin’?” the agent pressed in a calm voice.
“Ten o’clock,” April hissed. She closed her eyes, clenched her teeth, and shook her head. This was all very strange.
“I’ll set it up for ten.”
After the call, April went back down to her family. All eyes were on her as she descended the stairs.
She forced a smile. “It looks like I’m going to have a chance to write a major piece for the Times-Herald.”
“That’s great,” Joe said. “But what’s the downside?”
April cleared her throat. “They want ammunition to support legalizing prostitution. And,” she hesitated, “they want it yesterday.”
“Mom, you can’t support making prostitution legal,” Becky objected.
April shrugged. “That’s the job, and I’m not really in a position to turn it down.” She continued down the stairs and walked over to her husband.
Joe gave Becky a reassuring smile. “She’s just going to lay the facts out.”
“It’s immoral and degrading,” Becky objected.
April regarded her daughter with a faint smile. “It’s also legal in many parts of the world.”
Joe said,“If we legalize it, we can regulate it. We can require health care and benefits for the girls, We can also collect taxes to pay for some of the costs.”
“I don’t like it. It’s a bad idea,” Becky said with an air of finality.
“I’m still going to have to look into it and I will probably end up taking the assignment,” April said. Her voice was flat, unenthusiastic.
April spent the afternoon and evening researching prostitution. She called Senator Anna Muehlberg to set up a meeting on Monday afternoon. Her brother, Bill MacMahon, agreed to meet her for lunch and give her a street lawyer’s view on the issues.
3
Craig Robertson was in the middle of five things when April showed up. He was scrunched over some papers. From behind, he looked like a big, lumpy medicine ball. The phone to his right caught April’s attention. She wondered why he hadn’t gotten himself a hands-free phone. It seemed he really liked doing things the old-fashioned way. He was a taskmaster somewhat softened by a kindly, old professor facade. April took a seat and waited.
When he finally turned around to discuss the new project, he greeted her with a big smile.
“Prostitution is spiking in Northern Virginia,” he began. His voice was high and raspy. “There have been a lot of public nuisance complaints lately. We’ve run several articles on the sex slave trade and its impact on Fairfax and other communities in the area. We’ve run a couple of stories about runaways turning to prostitution and drugs. None of those articles dealt with the larger population of hookers.”
He paused to take a deep breath. “I’m looking for a series that will put things in perspective and help us think about how to deal with the problem.” He inhaled audibly.
Watching him struggle this way was painful. His lungs were compromised even though he had quit smoking twenty years ago. But he hadn’t really exercised since he left the army. After he made editor, his aerobic exercise had been provided by either sex or stairs.
April forced herself to object. “We have laws against prostitution because we don’t want it.”
“Prostitution has been around for thousands of years. It isn’t going away. It’s time to stop kidding ourselves and make it legal.” He took another heavy breath.
“You’re willing to accept sex slavery and teenage girls forced to sell themselves just to survive?”
“Sex with underage girls is never going to be legal. The sex slave trade is a problem for the feds,” Robertson sneered. “That leaves a bunch of hookers who are creating a nuisance because they are completely out of control.”
April’s jaw tightened. Her eyes narrowed. “Women who are doing what they have to do to survive,” April countered angrily.
He leaned back in his chair to consider his answer. A smile played across his face. “Have you talked to those women? Are you sure that prostitution is their only alternative?”
April grimaced. “No. But I can’t imagine any other reason why they would submit to something like that.”
“I’ve talked to more than a few of them,” Robertson rasped. “Some of them have not bothered to look into any other options. Some of them have walked away from good jobs to become dancers, strippers, and prostitutes.”
“Really?” April rolled her eyes. She muttered, “I bet you know one personally.”
Robertson grinned and chuckled softly. “I have spent some time with one woman who has an MS in biotechnology and walked away from a lab position at NIH because it was boring. She’s a regular at the Camelot.” He paused to inhale audibly.
“She’s probably the only one in existence,” April said sarcastically.
Robertson suddenly became serious. “When we had troops in Vietnam, there were two types of women who serviced the men: house girls and cyclo girls or prostitutes.” He paused to let that sink in. “The house girls cleaned and washed clothes. They got a set wage from each GI they took care of. The cyclo girls provided socially unacceptable services but pulled in a lot more money.” Robertson inhaled heavily. “The prostitutes were in it for the money. The house girls envied the money but wouldn’t stoop to selling their bodies.”
“And you think the same thing is going on here?”
“There are always women who look at the money and decide that they can put up with the shit.” He grinned. He had gotten his punch line in.
April scowled. “But prostitutes are exploited and they probably end up getting the short end of the financial stick in the long run.”
“Everybody is exploited. Food workers are exploited.” Robertson glared at April. “Why do you think there are so many illegals in the food industry?”
“No idea,” she sighed.
“They’re the only ones who can live on that kind of income.” Robertson flashed a bright, self-satisfied smile. He leaned forward to lecture April. “Waiters and busboys in chain restaurants are exploited. And they come from the same population as prostitutes. Clerical workers are exploited.” Robertson paused for another breath. His voice was rising and the words were coming faster. “Hell, my sister is exploited and she’s a project manager. Her salary is based on a 40-hour work week but she averages over 60 because that’s what the job requires.” He paused to catch his breath. “Cops are exploited. They spend a lot of time dealing with the same social deviants that prostitutes deal with. But the cops have to file reports and make court appearances on their own time without compensation.”
April moistened her lips. She rubbed her hand on her skirt and realized that she was sweating. She closed her eyes and leaned back struggling for control. A scenario began to form in her mind. She cleared her throat. “So I’m a young woman with a high school diploma and my options are scrape by on what I can make as a waitress at Olive Garden or go for big bucks as a hooker. Which do I choose?”
“What do you think?” Robertson coaxed. He seemed calmer.
“My situation is tight but I don’t feel exploited. I have a family that I love and that loves me,” April said reflectively. “I am not tempted.” She leaned forward and looked Robertson directly in the eyes. “Besides several women who lived the life have written books. They make it clear that prostitution is not what it’s cracked up to be.”
Robertson’s eyes bored into her. She felt completely naked. He said dismissively, “Women continue to make it their career choice. I need someone to take a fresh look at the issue. Can I depend on you?”
April stammered, “I am not sure how I could come up with a fresh slant.”
“What would Nellie Bly do?” he sneered.
“Join the inmates in the nut house?”
“Exactly.” His voice was cold. His stare sent chills through her body.
April winced. “I don’t see how I could do that.”
“Well, see what you can do. I need your answer by Thursday morning.”
Robertson returned to the work on his desk. The conversation was over.
April scowled at his back. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t what he said but how he said it that left her shaking. She knew that she only had this shot because Anna had asked for her. If she didn’t agree to the terms and conditions, Robertson would have somebody else on it before she got back to her car. She sat there struggling to respond. Nothing came out.
She stood and said, “Okay. I’ll see you Thursday morning.”
She walked out of the editor’s office as calmly as she could. As she made her way to the car, she carried on a running debate. The answer was obvious. It was money. Money made the world go around. Money made secretaries get up and go to work at meaningless jobs. Money made waitresses hustle. They treated customers well because they needed the tips. Money made the editor and his sister put up with the shit. Well, maybe not. Craig Robertson could retire any time he wanted. He didn’t have to worry about money. And he didn’t have to put up with the shit. She was not doing this for the money. While she couldn’t afford to ignore the money, she was going to do it because she had to write. It was in her DNA. Cops were probably in the same boat. They needed the money, but they went to work because an inner force drove them. She should put that on her list of future projects – “The Soul of a Cop.”
As she drove off to meet her brother for lunch, the trembling subsided. A smile crept across her face. She told herself that she just needed a few friendly prostitutes with good stories