Bronx Requiem Read online

  Any notion of that evaporated as the rape and beating continued. And when Amelia screamed and cried, Watkins became even more infuriated. Thrusting harder. Hitting harder.

  It ended when Derrick demanded to know why Amelia was so ungrateful. Why had she treated him so bad? Made him do this to her.

  By then he had reduced Amelia to a sixteen-year-old girl who could muster nothing but a hysterical, hopeless answer: “I don’t know.”

  An answer that gave Derrick Watkins a reason to drag her naked to the hall closet and lock her in the small space, telling her, “Bitch, you stay in there until you come up with a better fucking answer than ‘I don’t know.’”

  The closet was only three feet deep and five feet wide, so Amelia had to sit with her back against the end wall, her knees bent, the side walls inches away from her shoulders.

  It took an hour for her to stop trembling and crying as she sat with her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, trying to come to terms with what Derrick had done. She’d had sex forced on her before. The first time at the age of twelve. But never with such violence and raw entitlement.

  Her first partner was her mother’s boyfriend, who kept telling her just this once so they would be close, be a family. She’d finally given in to get some peace, but it had simply given him license to want more. After months of the abuse she’d run away, sleeping over with school friends until her mother found her. Amelia didn’t say why she’d run off, she just said she wasn’t going back. Her mother didn’t argue with her. She couldn’t afford to lose the meager supply of money and drugs her boyfriend supplied, so she turned Amelia over to the Child Protective Services office in the Bronx.

  It was supposed to be temporary. But then her mother went into a rehab program. And then her mother left the program. And then her mother died of an overdose.

  Amelia drifted through a series of foster homes. By the time she reached fifteen, she had developed into a tall young girl with a model’s shoulders and a lovely figure, which meant sexual predators were a given, but she made sure to get something for giving it.

  There was the tough boy who lived in her foster home who’d protected her from the neighborhood kids in return for it. The foster parent who’d fondled her in exchange for a room of her own. There was the older brother of a schoolmate who’d given her the release of cheap vodka mixed with orange soda in return for it. And, inevitably, the neighborhood handyman who had simply given her money. The slow, inescapable slide into prostitution had happened. Amelia had given away something priceless and irreplaceable for a pathetically small return.

  The quid pro quo of sex became an accepted reality. A concession to the necessities required in order to survive. But not quite a full concession. Some part of Amelia never gave in completely. Which is why she had ended up in a dispositional hearing in family court for throwing a rock at a car driven by a man who had been stalking her. The judge ordered that she be placed in a supervised group home, telling her this was her last break. Next time, it would be a secure facility run by the State of New York.

  And then, Amelia had been caught shoplifting clothes she’d needed for school. Macy’s security showed zero mercy. They called the cops. A bored patrolman issued her a desk appearance ticket, and when she failed to appear in Brooklyn Criminal Court, a warrant had been issued for her arrest. Her days in family court were over. She was officially a fugitive.

  Amelia had been living with her grandmother, Lorena Leon, an unstable, angry woman who nagged and criticized her, constantly telling Amelia she was becoming like her worthless mother.

  With a warrant hanging over her, and her grandmother becoming intolerable, Derrick Watkins had swooped in like a vulture smelling death. Older, confident, the pimp appeared at just the right moment armed with the right lies and promises. Derrick told Amelia he’d take care of the warrant. He told her it was time to stop living with the old lady. He’d find her a place to stay. Even help her get a job.

  So she’d moved in with Derrick in his apartment at Bronx River Houses. For the first couple of weeks, Derrick allowed her to stand by and watch him run his group of whores. He had taken to calling her Princess. And treating her as if she were different from the others, instinctively playing to Amelia’s weakness—thinking she really was different from the others.

  Until she wasn’t.

  Now, she had to face a reality that she had refused to admit because, despite all the warnings, Amelia Johnson never believed Derrick Watkins would actually do this to her.

  By the time she opened her eyes in the dark closet, the crushing claustrophobia panicked her so much she immediately closed them again.

  Then came the pain from sitting for hours on her tailbone. To relieve the agony, she slid down onto her back. But in order to do that, she had to raise her feet high up and rest them against the far wall, which placed her head down on the closet’s filthy carpet and forced her to breathe in the dusty, moldy smell, which made her more claustrophobic.

  Of course, the blood quickly drained out of her feet so she had to pull her legs down, bending her knees, clutching them close to her chest, making it harder to breathe. She almost lost herself to panic, but she turned onto her side, which helped.

  She managed to fall into an exhausted, fitful sleep, but in the middle of the night, without clothes, she began shivering. A filthy old overcoat hung at the far end of the closet. She pulled it off the hanger and tried to maneuver in the tight space to get it under and around her, which caused an excruciating muscle cramp that gripped her right hamstring and brought tears. She scrambled into a bent-over standing position, banging her head into the shelf above her.

  She turned sideways and tried to stretch out the cramp. Finally, the pain subsided. She felt like crying again, but just kept shaking her head, telling herself over and over, “No, no, no, no,” afraid that if she began to cry she might become hysterical, and Derrick Watkins would hear her, and she didn’t think she could survive another beating.

  She finally managed to lay on the floor in a fetal position, on top of the overcoat, her face toward the door, trying to breathe the air seeping in between the door and the saddle.

  She lay there trying to keep calm so she wouldn’t get another horrible muscle cramp. She began inventorying all the places she hurt. The places she didn’t worry about, like her hip where Derrick had kicked her and the back of her head where he’d punched her; and the places that frightened her like the back of her throat and between her legs.

  She fell asleep again, but a full bladder pulled her awake. She had to urinate, badly, and she knew she would never be able to hold it in until they let her out of the closet. After the horrible degradation she’d endured, this last indignity finally crushed her spirit to the point of hopelessness that had caused so many women in her position to consider ending it all. But she quickly recoiled from the feeling, knowing if she allowed any of those thoughts she would not make it.

  She cursed silently, letting the misery and pain fuel her anger. Letting it build, and turn dark and mean, and burn away any thought of killing herself, replacing it with visions of killing Derrick Watkins.

  * * *

  Just before noon the next morning, the closet door lock finally turned. Queenie, a retired prostitute who had worked for Derrick’s older brother Jerome, pulled open the door. Too old and too heavy to earn her way as a prostitute, Queenie had been passed on to Derrick to help run his prostitution business, and act as a poor excuse for a madam to the young women Derrick exploited.

  Queenie’s first words were, “Oh, Lord.”

  She fanned her hand under her nose, as if that would help.

  Amelia lay on her side with her back facing Queenie.

  “Come on out of there, girl.” Amelia felt stuck, frozen in position. “Come on, now, he’s lettin’ you out. Let’s go.”

  Amelia rolled onto her back, blocking the sudden light with her forearm.

  “Let’s go girl, you got to stand up now. I can’t lift you with my b
ad back. C’mon, or I’m gonna shut this damn door and leave you in there.”

  Amelia rolled out of the closet, gradually getting up on her hands and knees. She used the doorknob on the closet door to slowly pull herself upright, but a sudden spasm in the small of her back stopped her. She had to remain bent over.

  Queenie told her, “You’ll be all right. Just go slow.”

  Amelia didn’t answer. She looked up at Queenie with eyes that made the old whore step back. Defiance. Queenie knew that look from decades of experience. A look that always ended in more pain, and often death.

  Queenie took another step back.

  “I’ll run a tub for you. You clean yourself and then you clean this closet. Derrick said you gotta dress up for dinner. Says you gotta work tonight.” And with that Queenie moved down the hallway, getting as far away from Amelia Johnson, as fast as she could.

  3

  By eight o’clock Tuesday evening, Amelia had done what she could to recover from her night in the closet. She sat alone in the back bedroom of Derrick Watkins’s apartment. No one would go near her. She had dressed in clothes she knew Derrick would approve: denim short-shorts, a tight-fitting pink T-shirt displaying a Playboy-bunny logo formed out of cheap rhinestones, platform heels that emphasized her long legs, and no bra. She had applied enough mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick to look ten years older, and had fitted a wig of shoulder-length red synthetic hair over her straight black hair.

  During the time she had prepared herself, she fought down a panicky desire to flee. To wrap a bundle of normal clothes and drop them out the window, so when Derrick let her out of the apartment she could change and make a run for it. But where would she go? She used to have a few friends she could stay with, but nobody would take her in now. Everybody knew she was with Derrick Watkins. No one would risk his retribution. She couldn’t stay with her grandmother. That would be the first place they looked.

  Most important, she needed money. Derrick would be sending her out to work. If she didn’t earn enough, the beatings would continue. She was trapped and, to make it worse, she feared he was going to make her prowl the Hunts Point Market area. There were still whores working those streets, but only the very dregs: older, overweight women with missing teeth, longtime drug addicts, HIV-afflicted transsexuals.

  And then she heard Derrick yelling at her from the living room. He didn’t bother to come get her. He just shouted, “Princess, get your ass out here. Now, goddammit.”

  She walked into the front of the apartment, head down. She carried a small gold purse on a chain, and a lightweight, pink, cotton/polyester hoodie folded, half-hidden by the purse. Inside the purse were condoms, lipstick, a cheap cell phone, and a packet of Kleenex.

  Derrick sat at the head of a table set up outside the kitchen presiding over a dinner consisting of two large buckets of lukewarm KFC extra-crispy chicken and assorted sides. The chair on his right was empty. Queenie sat in the next chair over. On the left side of the table next to Derrick sat Tyrell Williams, and next to Tyrell one of the youngest girls in the family, a fifteen-year-old runaway Derrick had named Duchess.

  Derrick barely glanced at Amelia and told Duchess, “Move down a seat, honey.” He pointed to the empty chair next to Tyrell, making sure Amelia sat next to someone she loathed.

  Derrick Watkins, thirty-two years old, six feet tall, about twenty pounds overweight, wore ordinary clothes purchased from popular chain stores like the Gap: tan khaki pants, a button-down white collar shirt, nondescript canvas boat shoes with rubber soles.

  Derrick dressed low-key because his older brother Jerome dressed that way. And because the top man in their gang set, the feared Eric Jackson, dressed low-key. Plus, Derrick considered himself too smart and too diversified in his criminal activities to be labeled as just a pimp. So, no tattoos. No bling. No fancy car. Derrick worked hard to project his image, using his basic math skills to track every dollar earned by his prostitutes and every penny spent on them.

  But the carefully cultivated exterior didn’t obviate the fact that Derrick Watkins seduced and recruited the vulnerable, both male and female. The young men he controlled through fear and promises of money. The women and girls by alternating between affection and terror, savage punishment and pitiful rewards, just like every other pimp.

  Without looking at Amelia, Derrick told her to eat. She took a cold chicken leg along with a spoonful of gelatinous mashed potatoes.

  Derrick ate the greasy chicken with his hands, using a white plastic fork when necessary to scoop mashed potatoes or coleslaw into his mouth. He ate with his mouth open as a sign of privilege, using napkin after napkin, which he dropped on the table.

  As he ate, he made a point of ignoring everybody while still giving the impression he was always keeping track. He also kept his gun on the table next to his plate—a forty caliber compact semiautomatic Taurus. Derrick pretended to be a gun aficionado, but had actually picked the gun because it looked cool with its lightweight polymer frame.

  Derrick had forced Amelia to sit next to Tyrell because he knew how uncomfortable he made her feel. Derrick used Tyrell Williams, a hulking, twenty-five-year-old high school dropout, as an enforcer, messenger, and particularly as an informer. Tyrell had a talent for knowing how to find out if any of Derrick’s prostitutes broke any of his rules.

  Derrick had four women working for him. Their family names were Jewel, Duchess, Destiny, and Princess—Amelia’s working name. All of them were underage except for Destiny, who had been passed on to him by his brother Jerome. Derrick preferred underage girls because they were easier to intimidate and bully. They were the ones who had the least and feared the most.

  Amelia knew the dinner would continue for some time. Often during these meals various members of Derrick’s crew would visit. Derrick had one of his new recruits, a gangly eighteen-year-old named Leon Miller, sitting out in the living room to guard the front door. There would be a knock. Leon would take out his proudest possession, a beat-up Glock 17, and stand by the door. Tyrell would lumber out, vet whoever had arrived, then escort them to the dining table.

  The visitor would sit in the empty chair next to Derrick, who would do a poor version of a Mafia don chewing food while somebody talked in his ear.

  Forty minutes into the meal, Derrick finally addressed Amelia.

  “So how you feelin’, Princess? You still feelin’ special?”

  Amelia didn’t look at Derrick. That was one of Derrick’s most important rules. For now, Amelia didn’t care because she didn’t want to see his face.

  “No.”

  “Good, cuz you ain’t. Too bad you got to learn that the hard way.”

  Amelia didn’t comment.

  Derrick wiped his mouth with a greasy paper napkin and sat back in his chair. He looked at Amelia.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, unless I missed somethin’, you ain’t like no doctor or lawyer are you?”

  “No.”

  “Actually, you ain’t even made it through high school. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s right. You didn’t. Oh, wait, you got some rich daddy out there give you a big trust fund?”

  “No.”

  “No. You don’t. You ain’t got shit, girl. All you got is what I give you. The food on my table, the roof over your head, and the clothes on your back, bitch.”

  Derrick leaned forward, moved his gun nearer to his right hand.

  “Look at me, bitch.”

  Amelia raised her eyes, making sure to keep her expression neutral.

  “You understand how this works, right? I know you ain’t stupid. I wouldn’t have you in this family if you was stupid. It’s just economics, girl. You got to earn your way. And as far as I can tell, you ain’t got any way to do that other than selling that ass of yours.” He leaned back, sucked at a piece of chicken between his teeth, and frowned. Speaking to himself he said, “Hm. Well, we’ll see about that. Don’t even know that for sure.”

  He slid his gun back to w
here it had been and scooped more food into his mouth.

  Finally, at 9:45 P.M., while the others remained seated, Derrick told Amelia, “Okay, Princess, you’ve had enough of my food and shelter. Time to go out and prove to me you worth keepin’ in this family.”

  Amelia knew the others were watching her closely, especially Tyrell. If she said the wrong thing or displayed anything less than the proper demeanor, a sudden burst of violence could erupt, accompanied by curses, slaps, and food overturned.

  “You get your ass down to the Point, girl, and get me my money. I come by there, I’d better see you working it. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Derrick frowned, nodded, looked at Amelia like she would never stop disappointing him. “Go on. Get the hell outta here.”

  Amelia, head down, walked to front door of the apartment, half expecting something to be thrown at her before she stepped out and shut the door behind her.

  She walked out of Bronx River Houses, still sore and stiff from Derrick’s assault and the hours of confinement in the closet. She headed south on 174th Street, wondering if maybe she should continue to Bronx River Avenue and hustle a livery-car driver for a ride to Hunts Point, or maybe to a lounge on Southern Boulevard, where she might pick up a trick, or run into someone she knew who might help her. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  As she walked, Amelia attracted the attention of male pedestrians and drivers on the wide, two-way street. Her clothes, makeup, and red wig left little doubt about why she was walking the streets at night. She ignored the drivers who slowed down to look at her. She did not want a cop to pull her over and arrest her for soliciting. After surviving Monday night, she knew a night in the holding pen at Central Booking might break her completely.

  Staring straight ahead and walking quickly, Amelia Johnson didn’t see the man wearing dark clothes heading in her direction on the other side of 174th Street. Nor did the man walking with intensity and purpose notice his daughter passing by. Even if Packy Johnson had seen Amelia, he would have never connected her with the delightful three-year-old he’d once seen on the other side of a plastic barrier in a prison visiting area fourteen years earlier.