“They take the Koran, which I respect as a holy book, and they use scripture to do unholy things. In parts of Pakistan, women are jailed for what is perceived as adultery, though adultery can be seen as any type of expression. If a woman is raped against her will, she is seen as an adulteress.”
I noticed the Yogi hardly ever blinked and I had to look real carefully to see if he was breathing. Smitty had his eyes closed and was breathing very slowly as well.
“How does Alfinuu support their efforts financially?” I asked.
“Several ways. They take the women who they have labeled as adulteresses and, because the women are seen as unforgivable, they often force them into prostitution. They also take the children of these women and either sell them as prostitutes or slaves where they are abused or forced into pornography.”
This was beginning to sound familiar.
“Mr. Duffy, the Alfinuu is not India or Pakistan any more than the Ku Klux Klan is America. They are poisonous venom within Pakistan,” Yogi said.
“I understand,” I said.
“From culture to culture, people devalue others as a perverted way to overvalue themselves. It is the disease of the world.”
“I agree, Yogi.”
“Mr. Duffy, do you realize the way women are treated by the Alfinuu? If a man believes his spouse has been unresponsive to his needs, it is now commonplace for the man to douse the woman with acid so it disfigures the woman’s face. It is horrible.”
“What is being done about it in Pakistan?”
“The Alfinuu work underground and they have spread enough fear to intimidate.”
“What’s their ultimate goal?”
“To rule the world and have everyone think like them,” the Yogi wiped his hand across his forehead. “Mr. Duffy, I have people coming in that I must prepare for.”
“Just one more question, please. Do you know the Indian doctor Gabbibb from the Crawford Medical Center?”
“I know of him. He does not associate with others from India. He avoids anything involving the Indian culture. None of my associates know much about his life in India.” Yogi paused and scratched his ear. “There was an incident several years ago.”
“An incident?”
“An Indian woman approached him at his office to invite him to an Indian social event. He spat on the woman and physically pushed her through the door.”
“Did anyone know why?”
“He yelled that she was an unclean whore for wearing Western makeup and lipstick.”
I thanked the Yogi and Smitty motioned to the door quietly. We left without saying a word as the Yogi closed his eyes and folded his hands again. Smitty and I drove to Crawford in silence. As we pulled in front of the gym, he spoke.
“You find out what you wanted?” Smitty asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
Smitty was about to pull away and I couldn’t resist.
“Horace?”
Smitty gave me his coldest, meanest stare and drove away.
I needed to weasel some information out of some social workers, and you would think that would be tough because of the stringent regulations on confidentiality. Well, sometimes it was and sometimes it wasn’t. If you had a good friend in the field, you could kind of speak off the record or in code and get whatever info you wanted.
For instance, I wanted to find out what happened to those three skanks that were in Walanda’s jail therapy group. I called Jane and she pretended to give me a hard time about it, but then I got her to give in. I gave her the ol’ “… suppose, hypothetically, of course, that there were three skanky women in your jail group. Suppose their names were Melissa, Stephanie, and Lori…”
In just a few minutes, I knew Melissa got released a week ago, Stephanie would get out tomorrow, and Lori would get discharged in three days. All three were sent to the Eagle Heights clinic.
Jane was all right.
Now I had to find out if that new counselor with glasses, Katy, was. I wanted to pump her to see what she could tell me about the trio, but I was afraid that because she was new to the field and didn’t know me, she might be tight with the information.
Young social workers like Katy overcompensated for their lack of experience by developing their vocabulary and playing the part. I’m guessing she went home crying once or twice a week feeling overwhelmed and incompetent. She probably grew up in a nice suburb and always wanted to help people, she just didn’t picture it would be these kind of people. The Katy’s of the profession usually last about a year or so before they find themselves a doctor or lawyer to marry. Then they’re pregnant and they just don’t have the time to work anymore despite how much they’re going to miss it.
I didn’t want to risk not getting the info I wanted from Katy, so I didn’t bother playing on a friendship we didn’t have. Instead I called and spoke in a very official and bored tone and told her I was following up on some cases. I pretended to be filling out a post-aftercare continuing follow-up form and asked her a bunch of methodical questions.
It worked.
I found out Melissa started in treatment earlier in the week, that she was driven by her significant other, a large man with a shaved head who didn’t leave the car, and that she was placed on Bowerman’s case load. Apparently, according to Katy, Bowerman fancies herself an expert in women’s issues.
I took my chances and asked if she had any contact with a client named Tyrone whose last name I just couldn’t remember but who Michelin wanted me to find out about. I explained that the file was way over in the chart room and I didn’t feel like getting it.
She bought all of it and gave me the entire deal on Tyrone. I guess my man Tyrone had been thrown out of treatment a long time ago for inappropriate sexual advances on the female clients.
Imagine that.
27
I took some time to process what I had just learned and started strategizing what to do about it. As I had guessed, my bald biker friend had something to do with the evil babes from jail, probably was the same guy who used to pick up Walanda, and almost assuredly was the guy that paid me and Al a visit at the Moody Blue. I wasn’t sure what I had, but I had a piece of thread to start pulling at. If Stephanie was due out tomorrow and headed for the Eagle Heights clinic, then I had a pretty good guess who might be taking her. I was guessing that if I hung out around the clinic long enough, I’d see a white pickup truck with a bald bastard behind the wheel who had something coming to him. As this ran through my mind, I glanced down at Al. He was uncomfortable and continued to struggle with his breathing.
The county jail discharged prisoners at 12:01 a.m., which was one of the classic strokes of incredible bureaucratic idiocy. A very high percentage of the people who wound up in county jail got there because of drugs, drinking, or other nocturnal happenings. The jail was located at the bottom of South Hill in Crawford’s worst ghetto. The inmates only had to walk out the door and head a block up the hill to get their first hit of crack or heroin. There was even a scum subset of dealers who waited on that block at 12:02 every night. Some women would leave the county lockup and wait for the first john to cruise by. There would be a $10 or $15 transaction and then the usual sexual procedure. That payment got them a couple of bumpies, as they were sometimes called, and a briefly interrupted crack addiction was reignited.
I had a couple of hours to kill before midnight and I was starving, so I headed over to AJ’s. Al was going to have to come in with me and AJ was probably going to give me shit for it, but I didn’t care. I parked right out in front, lifted Al off his seat, and carried him in the front door.
