Chapter Sixteen – The Ruse

In his apartment, which was hot and stuffy, Marcus stripped down except for his Jockey shorts before he turned on the ancient and noisy window air conditioning unit. He lamented that nearly all his female clothing was in Amy’s apartment; all he had on hand were a few panties and a flimsy nightgown. He wondered whether Amy would balk at letting him retrieve his outfits.

He knew he must phone his mother and tell her that he had been fired but wondered how to go about it. He was her only child and she had doted on him as much as she could; he was just turning two years old when his father bolted the family, leaving his mother to raise him on her own. At the time, she was a young teller at a community bank in their small city in rural southwest Wisconsin. It had been a difficult time, but Marcus never realized it as a young child since his mother somehow had shown him love and affection that easily made up for the desperate surroundings of their tiny two-room upper flat they rented above a store along the main street of a small village that sat along the shores of the Mississippi River.

Since then, his mother had shown the drive and intelligence that had propelled her to become the vice-president and chief loan officer of the bank. She had had only a few male friends since her separation since eligible single men were rare in the area. “You’re my pride and joy, Marcus,” she told him many times. She gushed over him when he graduated just the year before in social work from the nearby state university branch and then again when he got his new job with Opportunities, Inc. in the City.

Marcus sat on his bed, the sweat on his body beginning to dry off as the air conditioner’s cooling breeze finally began to take effect. He held his cell phone in his hand, debating how he’d tell his mother the bad news. Just as he began to dial his mother’s number, the cell phone rang; it was an incoming call identifiable only with a “restricted” message. He wondered whether it pick it up, having been warned by Heddy – and his own suspicions – to be careful of strangers.

After the fifth ring, however, he took a chance and punched his “call” button to receive the call.

“Hello,” he said, his voice tentative and rather squeaky.

“Marcus?” the caller asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s me, Emery. I just heard. I’m so sorry,” Emery Harrington said.

“Oh? Ah, yes. Thank you,” he replied, uncertain how to respond.

“It doesn’t seem right to me, Marcus. As far as I could tell you were doing a great job. You truly cared about the kids.”

“I thought so, but I guess I overstepped my bounds.”

“Perhaps, but you certainly didn’t deserve this. Are you going to fight this?”

“How can I? I was still on probation,” Marcus said.

The two discussed the possibility of an appeal and concluded it would be a fruitless exercise and then discussed Marcus’ future. It didn’t sound like either Director Ramirez or Amy, his former supervisor, would give him a good reference.

“I might be able to see if I can find something for you,” Emery concluded.

“That would be great,” Marcus replied, though he wasn’t confident that even a respected attorney like Emery Harrington would be able to help him much.

“There’s one more thing I need to tell you, Marcus,” Emery said. “I’ve been ordered to drop this investigation on human trafficking and to withdraw your and Jefferson Turner’s experiences from the Task Force. I’m to tell them your story and Jefferson’s were mere fabrications.”

“What? I didn’t lie,” Marcus exploded, “And I know Jefferson didn’t and he hasn’t yet told us his full story. He’s scared Emery, just as I guess I’m supposed to be. But I’m more angry than scared right now. Those bastards!”

“And I’ve been also ordered not to have any contact with you,” Emery said. “That’s why this conversation never happened, OK?”

“Of course,” Marcus agreed.

“These orders came straight from the DA himself, not in a memo or in an email. He came right into my office, closed the door and told me in no uncertain terms to drop the case. And when I questioned his order, he quickly shut me up, telling me, ‘Emery, this is a direct order. Obey me on this or quit.’”

“My God. The big boss himself?” Marcus said.

“Yup. I smell a political cover-up. It’s something you might check on. Start with the DA’s political donors.”

“I don’t know what to do, Emery,” he said.

“First of all, take care of yourself and Miranda.”

Marcus smiled to himself at Emery’s reference to his female persona and replied he was alert to the danger he may be facing.

“You know, I wasn’t told not to see Miranda,” Emery said unexpectedly.

“I guess you weren’t,” Marcus agreed.

“I know a quiet little restaurant on the west side where we’d be not likely to be noticed,” the assistant DA said. “Do you like Serbian food?”

“Never really had it, but Miranda has an adventurous spirit.”

Emery laughed. “How about Saturday night?”

“Why not? When and where?”

They made elaborate arrangements in the hopes of throwing off anyone who might be watching Marcus’ apartment; he agreed to take a nearby bus to a stop on the near North Side where Emery would pick him up as he got off the bus. Of course, it would be Miranda alighting the bus.

Marcus felt better when he terminated the call, realizing that he had a sympathetic ally. Then, he smiled to himself, with the understanding that it was Miranda – not Marcus – who had the ally.

Marcus still had to telephone his mother. How much should he tell her? He still wasn’t sure. The fact was that she didn’t know he had ever dressed in female clothes. If he was to be truthful with her, he’d have to admit that his role as a woman had much to do with his unexpected firing. With a beating heart, he punched the code number “3” on his cell phone to automatically dial her in Wisconsin.

*****
“Marcus, so nice to hear from you. It’s been nearly a week.” Marcus knew that his mother saw his number come up on her “Caller ID” and answered without even saying the usual “Hello.”

“Sorry, mom, but I’ve been busy,” he said. He was surprised by his mother’s reaction; she never before had nagged him about his failure to call her regularly, having vowed when he left that she was “not going to be one of those whiny mothers who badger their kids for not calling.

“I know you are darling, but I got worried. Usually you call every other night and I missed hearing from you.”

“Oh, mom, you know you can call me,” he volunteered.

“I hate to bug you, darling, and I do know you’re working hard, but I’ve got some good news for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you know Bill Postle, the bank president, is retiring?”

“Yeah, but what does that mean for you?”

“Well, they’re doing a search for a replacement, and I’ve been one of the three who are in the running for the job. Can you imagine it? Me, a bank president?”

“Oh mother, that would be great!” he said, truly excited. “I can picture the sign on your door: ‘Jean M. Whiting, President.’

“Now, now, I don’t have it yet, and I don’t have as much education as the other finalists, you know. The other two are talented with degrees.”

“But, you have the knowledge and experience. The whole town loves you, mom,” he said, truthfully.

“It’ll mean lots of work, Marcus, and lots of pressure, too. I’m not sure I’m up to it,” she replied.

Marcus knew his mother well enough to know that she never felt she was good enough for the work she was doing. He was the same way. Yet, both were succeeding, largely because of their own self-doubts they worked hard to prove to themselves that they were good enough. Perhaps, that desire to do the “extra” was his own undoing at Opportunities, Inc.

“You’ll do it, mom. You always have,” he said.

“Now, how about you, son?”

Marcus paused unsure how to begin.

“Well, what’s up? You getting engaged or something?” she laughed.

“Hardly,” he replied.

“Mom, I got fired,” he said directly, realizing it was fruitless to pussy-foot around the answer.

Jean Whiting was surprisingly calm about his news, responding that she was fired from her first job, too, as a supermarket clerk, largely because she wouldn’t cavort with the boss who was tantalized by her round bottom and lively disposition.

“I don’t know the whole story, Marcus, or what you did or didn’t do to be let go, but if I know you as I think I do, I can’t imagine you won’t end up better off in the long run,” she said.

“It’s too long a story to tell you now, mom, but I have lots of supporters,” he replied.

“Why don’t you come home, honey? I’m sure you could find a job in this area.”

“I don’t know, mom.”

The truth was he had an offer to do child protection work for Crawford County upon his graduation from the university; and, he had good references from the school itself. Besides, his mother had plenty of connections throughout Southwest Wisconsin who could assist in finding him a good position.

“I know, honey. You never felt comfortable in our small city. I understand.”

Marcus and his mother had had this discussion several times through his high school and college years. He felt out of place while growing up in a rural community where the boys were supposed to be strong and tough; he never did well in their sports and was laughed at because he tended to dress in neat, well-pressed clothing – a great contrast to the baggy jeans and plaid shirts of the others. He was often tagged as a “faggot” or “sissy” and even sometimes as a girl. Jared Nicholson, who had become the town high school’s most accomplished bully (the large, heavy, sweaty boy had made an art of his verbal put-downs) tagged Marcus with the name “Mary,” singing made-up verses to the old kid’s rhyme, “Mary, Mary. Quite contrary.” The boys – and even some of the girls – laughed whenever Jared began his taunting, spurring him to even greater heights of bullying.

Marcus’ only refuge at the high school was with the school’s drama club that each year staged two plays, one just before the Christmas holidays and the other in late April. He became quite accomplished at stage settings and even in costuming. In these roles, he had found two friends, Miracle Edwards, one of the few African-American children in the school, and Helene McKay, a large, heavy girl who was unusually strong and able to out-lift Marcus and many other boys in the school. The two worked with Marcus on the stage crew and they enjoyed being backstage.

The three began to commiserate together about being shunned for not being part of the gang. Marcus, of course, was mocked for his gentle, almost dainty mannerisms, Miracle a victim of outright racism and Helene because of her plain, large body. Soon, however, their commiseration became a matter of a mutual joke. All three were getting superior grades in school. “You know, we’re kind of special,” Helene announced one day.

The three were backstage at the time and came together in a group hug with Miracle proclaiming, “We’re like the Three Musketeers.”

Then she reconsidered. “No, we’re the Elites.”

All three giggled. Marcus often figured his friendship with Miracle and Helene made it possible for him to get through high school; he had been on the verge of leaving school many times before. Helene even put an end to Jared’s bullying, threatening him with physical harm if he continued his mocking of Marcus. Jared was smart enough not to test her threat.

Both girls had left the town. Miracle got a near full scholarship to the state university, had graduated in philosophy and was now enrolled in law school, specializing in civil rights law. Helene had won an athletic scholarship at the University of Iowa, where she starred in track, winning third in NCAA women’s shotput competition. She graduated in secondary education and had gotten a job in Green Bay where she attracted the eye of a young and upcoming lineman for the Packers; the two had become lovers – he was her first boyfriend.

“No mom, I’m definitely not going to work around my hometown,” he said firmly. “I have no friends there anymore.”

His mother didn’t push; she knew better, since it would only turn him off. Yet, she loved him deeply and dearly longed for more time with her boy, sharing their occasional movie nights when they’d load their VCR with a chick flick or some dramatic film, uncork a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and munch on popcorn.

He promised to come home for a few days a week later when he’d tell her the full story. And, he’d reveal Miranda to his mother. His felt ill as he considered how his mother would react. Would she view him as he viewed himself right now as a pathetic young man who failed? Or, as the lovely young woman he was quickly becoming?

As matters turned out, however, Marcus never was able to return home to display his feminine self to his mother.

*****
Heddy Jelacic called him that evening, informing him that Sergeant Simbach, her superior, had given her a couple of days to look into the Jefferson Turner case.

“He’s violating a direct order, Marcus,” the police officer said. “Both he and I are suspicious about this whole thing. It smells like a cover-up to us.”

“He’s sticking his neck out, isn’t he?” he asked.

“You bet, though his order was a bit vague, telling me only that he had nothing for me for two days and that I should pursue a couple of my other cases. He even added that he didn’t have to know what I was doing.”

“So, it’s your neck that’s out there, Heddy? I hate to see you jeopardizing your career on my suspicions.”

She laughed. “Well, you jeopardized your career and your own safety, didn’t you?”

“But . . .”

“And, besides, we have Jefferson’s story, too,” she said.

“Yeah. I wish I could talk to him and get him to open up, but you know he’s off-base to me. They won’t let me see him,” Marcus said.

“I know,” Heddy said. “But I have set up a meeting with Jefferson tomorrow at ten in the morning at the Hope Place, and I persuaded Tatiana there to let you join us.”

“You have?” Marcus replied, astounded. “That agency could lose its contract with the County if they found out.”

“Tatiana cares about the kids, Marcus, and she thinks Jefferson has been troubled by holding back on his story.”

“OK.”

“But you’ll have to come in disguised as Miranda,” she said. “I told Tatiana I was having you join me as a social worker named Miranda. I think once Jefferson heard of your maneuvers he’ll open up.”

“But I don’t have any of the kind of women’s clothes I would need. They’re all at Amy’s and she won’t talk to me now,” Marcus said.

“Why? I thought you two were. . .”

“Never mind that now. It’s a long story and the fact is that I have no appropriate clothes.”

There was silence for a moment; Heddy finally suggested a solution. She asked Marcus his sizes in female clothing, including his shoe size. She’d purchase some clothing in his size that evening; it would be typical clothing for a young female social worker, nothing fancy.

“Can you sneak out undetected?” she asked.

“I’ll see. I have one idea, but I’ll have to check it out and let you know.”

“OK, call me,” she said.

******
The only windows in Marcus’ apartment looked out upon the brick façade of the neighboring ten-story apartment building – a less than inspiring view. He normally had the drapes drawn as he knew that the folks in the neighboring building could easily look into his second-story apartment in the ancient mansion it occupied. If he had an eastern exposure, he could have seen patches of blue from Lake Michigan peeking between the buildings; plus, it would give him a view of the street where he could see if anyone was spying on the building.

His suspicions about his own well-being were aroused by all the talk surrounding the possible conspiracy that was seemingly aimed at stifling any investigation of the possible activities of human trafficking involving the mansion in Madison Heights. He was constantly told to be alert and careful.

He peered out his apartment window to the street out front, but he had only a sliver of a look between the buildings. He saw nothing suspicious, but with his limited view that proved nothing. If someone was watching they’d be waiting for him to leave. There was a rarely used back entrance; if he was adventurous, he could likely leave and be undetected, but he’d have to scale a high solid wood fence into the backyard of another house. He wasn’t certain he was physically up to it, but he was determined to try, if necessary.

To check out the feasibility of leaving through the rear, he ventured out his apartment and down the rarely used back door on the first floor. There was a sign, “Emergency Exit Only. No re-entry possible.” Taking a chance, he opened it and then closed it after a few seconds. He smiled. That meant the door was not alarmed and he could leave through that door. He called Heddy Jelacic to tell that he felt he could get out of the apartment undetected, although it might be hard. She agreed to pick him up on North Hillside Avenue – the street behind Marcus’ apartment – at nine o’clock the next morning.

“I’ll take you to my apartment and you can change and become Miranda, a social worker.”

*****
Knowing he might have difficulty scaling the fence since he doubted his arms were strong enough to lift his body, Marcus emptied out a wooden crate in which he stored books and carried it the next morning as he left the apartment. He got out of the building without seeing anyone; he didn’t think he would since it was nearly nine o’clock and most of the other tenants, he knew, would have already left for their jobs.

Even standing on the crate, he couldn’t lift himself over the fence; he figured it was about six feet in height. Luckily, he found two concrete blocks resting among the weeds and was able to drag them to form a base upon which to place the crate.

He set the blocks down next to the fence to form a solid base and then placed the crate in its narrow end, giving him enough height, he thought, to make it possible to scale the fence. He was concerned it might topple, but that was a chance he had to take.

He hoisted himself up to the top of the crate, helped by grabbing the top of the fence to provide extra leverage. He felt the crate begin to topple under him and quickly pulled up with all his might, lifting one leg up and over the top of the fence. Just as the crate fell under him, he brought the other leg up and he flipped himself over the fence. Unable to hold on, he fell onto the ground on the other side, surprised to find himself landing on a pile of brush, leaves, grass clippings and yard waste.

“That was lucky,” he said to himself, as he lay on what he believed was a compost pile.

He took a moment to catch his breath and then realized he was in the well-groomed backyard of a home, obviously one of the high-priced homes fashioned out of the 100-year-old houses of the upscale neighborhood.

Gathering himself, he moved off the compost pile, brushing himself off, hoping he didn’t scratch himself in the fall. He started to run to the front of the house.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” a gruff voice sounded.

A tall, older man came from the side of the house and stood blocking him from continuing to the street.

“I asked you,” the man ordered again.

Marcus was shocked. Did the man think he was burglarizing the place?

“I’m going to call the police,” the man said as he pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket.

“No don’t please,” Marcus said, seeking to come up with a story that would convince the man he meant no harm.

“Well?” the man pressed, grabbing Marcus by the arm. His hands were large and strong, easily holding Marcus’ thin arm making it impossible for Marcus to move.

“My girlfriend . . . my ex-girlfriend, that is, is stalking me,” he blurted out.

“Stalking you?”

“Yes, I live in the apartment building behind and I know she’s out front. She’s mad I broke up with her,” Marcus explained, hoping he didn’t have to invent further details.

“You’re lying,” the man challenged.

“I’m not, my older sister is waiting for me in a car out front. My ex is nuts, sir.”

The man wasn’t convinced. “Let’s see if you have a sister and if she’s out front,” the man said.

Marcus was relieved to see Heddy was parked at an empty space next to a fire hydrant, obviously having to wait there due to the lack of parking spots on the narrow street.

“Here’s my sister, sir. You can let me go now,” Marcus said.

“Not ‘til your sister confirms your story,” he said, dragging me to the car, motioning to Heddy to roll down the passenger side window.

“This is my sister,” Marcus said, hoping Heddy heard him and would take the hint and assume the role of “big sister.”

To her credit, Heddy understood the cue and said, “What’s the problem little brother?”

Before Marcus could answer, the man said to Heddy, “Why is this young man running through my yard?”

“I don’t know. He just asked me to pick him up today at nine,” Heddy said. “I thought it was weird.”

“Oh, come on,” the man said. “Are you the getaway driver?”

“Getaway driver?” Heddy said.

“You’re a burglary gang,” the man said.

“I’m calling the police. Don’t try to run on me.” The man held up his cell phone and began to dial.

“Hold on, sir,” Heddy said. “We are the police.”

She pulled out her badge and her identification, holding it up for the man to see. He reached in to examine the ID more closely, nodded and then gave it back to Heddy.

“Officer Connery here is undercover, staking out a resident in one of those apartments,” she said. “Afraid I can’t give you any more details on that, sir.”

“He doesn’t look like much of a cop,” the man grumbled, finally letting go of Marcus’ hand.

“Thank you, sir, for your cooperation,” Heddy said. “We’re sorry we alarmed you.”

“OK then, but it seems like an awfully strange way for the police to work,” he said.

*****
“Oh, that was close,” Marcus said, as they drove away.

“Right, baby brother,” Heddy said, smiling.

“Officer Connery? Where did that come from?”

She laughed. “Sean Connery. That was the first name that popped into my mind.”

“He’s your favorite?”

“He’s hot, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked.

“Yes, but he’s a bit old for you, isn’t he?”

“I like my men mature,” she laughed.

“So much for me scoring with you then?”

They came to a stoplight at Division Street. “Don’t count yourself out yet, Marcus. You’re kinda of cute, you know.”

*****
Marcus was disappointed by the outfit Heddy had chosen for him; it was plain, almost dowdy. He had grown fond of how sexy and appealing he looked in women’s clothing and had hoped Heddy’s choice of outfits might have been less pedestrian and ordinary.

“You don’t like what I got you?” Heddy asked, obviously sensing his displeasure.

“No, it’s fine, I guess,” he said in a less than enthusiastic tone.

“You must really be becoming quite a girl and a clothes horse, but Marcus you’re a social worker today and it wouldn’t look good to appear dressed as Britney Spears.”

Marcus nodded. He knew Heddy was correct: the social workers he knew rarely wore stylish clothes on the job, with the exception of Latesha. Mostly the workers wore slacks or long conservative skirts and modestly colored blouses and sweaters. And certainly, none wore heels much higher than two inches, even Latesha.

Heddy had provided a complete outfit, even the underthings that included plain white cotton panties and a white bra with no lacy trim. He used her bathroom to strip down and put on the bra and panties, returning to Heddy’s bedroom to put on the outer garments.

“Damn, you have a figure most girls would die for, Miranda,” Heddy said.

Feeling a bit giddy – even though he had been tense over their activities that morning – Marcus did a bit of a prance, as if to model his lingerie.

“You are hot, girl, but hurry up, we need to get there on time. We have a ten-thirty appointment to see Jefferson,” Heddy said.

The police officer had chosen a full, flowing knee-length print skirt with pleats in navy blue with a narrow floral frieze at the hemline. That would be topped off with a floral chiffon short sleeve blouse with a high collar with a slit down the middle to the top of the breasts. She provided no stockings, likely due to the warm weather. There was a pair of ballet flats in dark blue.

Marcus quickly put on the clothes and looked in the mirror, surprised at how much of an authentic-looking young woman he had become. Even without makeup and without styling his longish hair, he looked ordinary, yet still unexpectedly attractive and feminine.

“You’re a natural, Miranda,” Heddy said, smiling.

“Yeah, but I’ll need some makeup and to fix my hair.”

“You shouldn’t put on much makeup; perhaps a little neutral lip gloss and some powder to take the shine off your skin. Remember, you’re just an underpaid social worker.”

“You’re right about that underpaid part, Heddy,” he said, chuckling.

She brushed his hair, leaving it straight and without much shape.

“I think you’re ready, Miranda,” she said finally.

“Don’t you think I should do more with my hair?” he asked, worried that he looked too plain.

“No this is just about right, Miranda,” Heddy said, persisting on using his feminine identity. “Besides, you’re just naturally a very beautiful woman.”

She then ordered Marcus to stand up against a blank wall in her bedroom. “I need to take your picture just as you look now,” she said. “It’ll be for an ID card you’ll need.”

“OK.”

“Don’t smile. Pretend you’re at the motor vehicle department getting your photo for your license.”

She took several shots, told him to relax for a few minutes while she went to her computer that had been sitting on a small desk in her bedroom. In less than ten minutes, she had produced an ID card that she slid into a plastic badge.

“Now clip this to your blouse. For today, you’re Miranda Fredericks of the Stonewall Community Center,” she announced.

“Stonewall?”

“Well, it doesn’t really exist, but it’ll get you through the security at the Hope Place.”

“But what if we’re caught?” he asked, wondering if this charade was needed. He knew Heddy risked the possibility of being discharged.

“Don’t worry, I’ve cleared this with Tatiana and her boss at the Hope Place. They both know this is necessary as part of our investigation. This is to get you into the meeting, that’s all.”

Marcus still didn’t feel comfortable with the arrangement.

Marcus and Officer Jelacic had been greeted by Tatiana at the reception desk. Marcus registered as “Miranda Fredericks” on the sign-in sheet and he was pleased that the receptionist took only a quick glance at his forged ID badge; similarly, the tall, husky security officer hardly glanced at the badge as he waved them through at screening process.

“My, you’re lovely, Miranda,” Tatiana said with a wink, acknowledging that she was aware of Marcus’ disguise.

She led them to a small conference room with a table and five comfortable desk chairs and then left, promising to bring in Jefferson shortly. A few minutes later the boy was brought in and led to a chair opposite Marcus and Heddy and told to sit. He had been warned in advance of their visit, but, Tatiana reported, only agreed to meet with them after vigorous encouragement. The boy held his head down, sneaking only glances at Marcus and Heddy, but saying nothing. Tatiana and the security officer who brought the boy into the room left after instructing them to use a button to summon the security officer if they needed help or when they were about to leave.

“Who’s she?” Jefferson mumbled. He nodded in the direction of Marcus.

“Miranda is here to help you, Jefferson,” Heddy said. “And her name is Miranda Fredericks and she’s with Stonewall Community Center.”

“Never heard of it,” he mumbled.

“It’s a gay rights place,” Heddy replied. “Named after Stonewall Inn. You heard of the place. That’s where the gay rights movement was first made famous. The riots there in 1969 in New York.”

“I guess. She a social worker?”

The boy kept his head down, but Marcus could see him steel a view looks in his direction.

“She’s too pretty to be a social worker,” the boy said. “All the previous ladies were kind of ugly, well, except for Latesha.”

“That’s rude, Jefferson,” Heddy scolded gently.

“Well, it’s true,” Jefferson persisted.

“I’m not the prettiest social worker, Mr. Turner,” Marcus said, speaking for the first time. He used his soft, feminine voice, careful to use girlish inflections.

The boy looked up directly into the face of Marcus. A puzzled look appeared on his pretty face.

“I seem to know you,” he said.

“You might,” Marcus said smiling. “But you know me as Marcus, right?”

Jefferson Turner burst into broad smiles. “Oh, my God. Marcus, I remember that picture you showed me. You’re the prettiest woman ever.”

“Not really,” he replied.

“I missed you, Marcus,” the boy said. He stood up and moved toward Marcus, who also stood up to greet him. The two hugged, with Jefferson holding on to Marcus, exhibiting great urgency. He felt the boy caress his back as he held on.

Finally, the two broke up and Heddy suggested both return to their seats.

“Isn’t Latesha treating you OK?” Marcus asked.

“She’s fine and I like her, but I think you really understood me.”

“Perhaps I did, but give her time, Jefferson,” Marcus reassured the boy. “She’s very conscientious and she can be of more help than I would be. She has more experience.”

“Look, we don’t have much time, girls,” Heddy Jelacic interrupted.

“I’ll tell you why we’re here today and why Mr. Whiting is dressed as Miranda. We need your help, Jefferson. We truly do.”

Jefferson flared up. “Are you using me?” he protested.

“We need your help, dear,” Marcus said, still using his female voice in an appeal to favor the boy’s feminine nature.

“You just dressed up like this to trick me,” Jefferson said, aiming his remarks at Marcus.

“No, I didn’t. I like dressing as a woman, just like you do. I feel I am a woman just like you feel you’re a girl. But for the time being I have to live as a man just like you’re living as a boy.”

“But I’m a girl. I know I am,” Jefferson said, tears forming in his eyes.

“Maybe someday soon you’ll be a pretty girl for real and I’ll be a woman,” Marcus encouraged.

“Could we be best girlfriends forever?” the boy asked.

“I think we are already BFF. Now let Officer Jelacic tell you what brought us her and why you’re seeing me as Miranda Fredericks,” Marcus said.

It took the better part of twenty minutes for Marcus and Heddy to relate how Marcus became concerned over Jefferson’s encounter in Madison Heights and decided to dress up as a teen-aged prostitute. Marcus explained how he had been taken off the street and taken to the Madison Heights residence and escaped.

“You did that?” Jefferson said, astounded.

“Yes, because I felt that was the only way to find out what’s going on,” Marcus replied.

Jefferson looked at Marcus and then shook his head. He began to cry, putting his head down on the table in front of him. Marcus went over to the boy, pulled a chair up next to him and drew him up into a tight hug. Jefferson sobbed strongly, laying his head against Marcus’ upper chest and Marcus gently patted the boy’s back.

“You could have been hurt,” Jefferson said, once his crying ended. “And I’d have been the cause of it all.”

“No, I didn’t have to do it. I did it of my own free will, Jefferson. Don’t blame yourself.”

“But if I hadn’t been so scared and told you everything, you wouldn’t have had to do that, to put your life in danger like that.”

“Well you can help now,” Heddy said.

Jefferson Turner dried his tears and then asked, “What do you want to know?”