Undercover Girl - Chapter 22

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Undercover Girl – Chapter 22


By Katherine Day


(Copyright 2019)
(Finally, Miranda has accepted the fact she is a woman and grows confused on her relationships; meanwhile, she embarks on a dangerous escapade to uncover a suspected child trafficking ring.)

Chapter Twenty-Two – Protection

Miranda awoke the next morning, still tense and jittery from the horrors of the previous day and the uncertainty of her future. Right now, only the generosity of Heddy Jelacic stood between her and starvation, unless she wanted to return to her small town in Wisconsin where her mother awaited to see her son, Marcus. The sight of Miranda in all her feminine glory would not only be unwelcome to her mother (who knew nothing of Miranda) but to her friends and neighbors in the picturesque tiny hamlet of Riverview, nestled at the foot of the wooded bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River.

She lay in bed, wondering what her next step was to be when Heddy wrapped on the bedroom door, “Better get up, darling.”

Miranda responded by curling herself into the fetal position and mumbling, “Let me sleep.”

“No, you have to get up, Miranda. The Feds are coming by in an hour,” Heddy yelled through the door.

Miranda didn’t answer and buried her head deeper into her pillow. Heddy rapped again, louder and more insistent. Finally, she opened the door, walked in, sat down on the bed and caressed the prone Miranda.

*****
“You’re not safe, Mr. Whiting, and we need to keep you safe,” the trim, clean-shaven man said.

Miranda looked around the room in the regional office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, located in the U.S. Courthouse building. Two FBI men had stopped by Heddy’s apartment and picked Miranda up to take her in for further questioning, assuring her that she was not being charged with any crime. The good-looking thirtyish man before her had identified himself as Agent Jamie Truscott of the FBI. Next to him sat a woman, as trim and erect as Agent Truscott. She was dressed in a dark blue suit with a knee-length pencil skirt. She had introduced herself as Agent Debra Bellsen.

“I feel safe with Officer Jelacic and can you please call me Miranda or at least Miss Whiting,” she said.

“No, Mister Whiting,” Agent Truscott said. “All of your IDs identify you as Marcus Whiting and that you’re male . . . even though you’re acting more like a fa . . . .”

The agent’s voice trailed off and it was clear he was on the verge of identifying Miranda as a “faggot,” phraseology that would likely violate the department’s equal rights code. Miranda nodded, deciding not to argue with the man. She could see the agent was clearly disgusted with her self-identification as female. He must have slept through sensitivity training classes, she mused.

She was questioned for three hours that morning, beginning with the two FBI agents and then with two attorneys from the U.S. Justice Department. Miranda was growing tired and cranky at having to repeat her story over-and-over again.

They informed her that they were treating her only as a witness. It was obvious from the intensity of their questioning they must have needed her testimony; it was also obvious that the case must have bigger consequences beyond merely catching a perverted rich guy who indulged his sick fetishes by kidnapping young boys and girls off the streets.

When the questioning ended, Miranda was led into an office and introduced to Agent-in-charge Quinlan, apparently the head guy in this FBI office.

“For several weeks, you’re going to have to stay undercover,” Quinlan told Miranda. “I understand that you prefer to identify yourself as a woman, right?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“OK, then. And, from your file I see that you also excelled at math and even took some accounting, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a strange connection, I must say. Social work and math.”

“Guess I’m just a strange woman,” Miranda said, even ending with a small giggle. She was beginning to like this man.

“Perfect then. We’ve got a good place for you to be as safe as possible, Ms. Whiting,” Agent Quinlan told her. Miranda was pleased to see he had addressed her as a woman. “You’re a key to ending this trafficking ring and these people will not stop at anything to silence you.”

His words should have chilled her, but after the last few days of staying under cover, she felt she must have become immune to this revelation.

“I understand, sir, but what about my friends, Officer Jelacic and Amy? Are they going to be safe?”

He explained the police department had assumed protection of Officer Jelacic and that Amy Dacosta was being protected by the U.S. marshals.

“You know about my mother in Wisconsin?” she asked. “Is she safe? Might they go after her to get at me?”

“We’ve thought about that. A marshal from Madison has been sent to keep an eye on your mother.”

Miranda thought about her mother, wondering what the marshal would tell her. She knew nothing about her son’s transition and would never have heard about Miranda. Then, to be told that Miranda – her only child once Marcus – was being pursued by gangs would not only confuse her but frighten her badly.

“Mom doesn’t know about Miranda,” she said.

“Oh?” Quinlan said. “That’ll complicate things.”

“Let me call her, sir,” Miranda said, immediately regretting the request. What would she tell her mother?

Quinlan shook his head. “No, we can’t risk that. You’re not going to be able to talk to anyone, or email anyone or get on Facebook or do anything to let others know where you are.”

“Not even Amy?” Miranda asked, beginning to cry.

“Not even Amy or any of your friends. We’ll inform them that you’re temporarily in protection and that you’re safe.”

Quinlan moved from behind his desk to the chair next to her and grabbed both of her hands in his large, hard-callused hands. Despite their roughness, his hands felt gentle and reassuring. She sobbed openly for a few moments, before he removed his hands, reached for a tissue and helped her dry her eyes.

“You’re just like the father I never had, Agent Quinlan,” she said when the tears finally stopped.

“We’ll inform your mother gently, but for now we’ll instruct the marshals in Wisconsin to refer to you as Marcus. It’ll be up to you to tell her about Miranda.”

“Thank you.”

“But Miranda you should have told her before this, you know that, don’t you?” he asked, not unkindly.

“I know, Mr. Quinlan,” she said, beginning to cry again.

“Call me Don.”

*****
That night, two U.S. marshals took Miranda by car to Gossen, a middle-sized city in the north central part of Illinois, where she was deposited in a low-priced but comfortable chain hotel along the interstate. She was given Room 308 on the top floor of the three-story hotel, flanked by Marshal Harry Feld in 306 and Marshal Maria Jimenez in 310. Both were friendly on the trip, but said little, other than to complain about being forced to spend their days guarding a witness in “some farmer town.”

The hotel was a new one – it even smelled new – and the rooms were all mini-suites, with small refrigerators, a stove and microwave. A partial wall created a small sitting area near the entrance; it was there that one of the marshals would be stationed, giving Miranda a modicum of privacy while they stayed on guard.

Three days later, the marshal’s office, with Miranda’s agreement gave her a new name, “Trudy Selery.” It was under the new identification that she began work in the financial department of a large social service agency in Gossen. In the interim, Miranda had been given a makeover, had her hair cut short, dyed into a dishwater blonde shade and given a boyish style. She cried as they cut her hair and even assurances that it will grow out did not comfort her.

Marshal Jimenez had accompanied her to a salon where the makeover was done on Saturday night. The salon’s proprietor was alone when they arrived, and Trudy got the impression that the she was not the first to have a makeover while under U.S. Marshal protection.

“We’re going to try to make you as ordinary a young woman as possible,” Maria Jimenez said. “We don’t want you to stand out.”

“But . . .but . . . I don’t want to lose my femininity,” she protested.

Maria smiled at her. “You will never lose your femininity, dear. You’re a woman, regardless how dowdy you may dress and present yourself.”

“Won’t people think I’m a guy, then?”

“No,” she said laughing. “Your features are totally feminine and soft and lovely.”

Thus, it was on Monday morning, Trudy Selery went to work, wearing brown slacks, a white blouse with a beige cardigan and short hair. She wore only modest pink lip coloring, neutral colored foundation and a light touch of eye black to accent her face. Hardly a fashion statement, but one, it was hoped, would not make her stand out.

The agency was the largest in the community and it served low-income families in just about any issue such families might face: housing and homelessness, health and disabilities, child welfare and utility bill payments. Its waiting room was filled each morning with desperate families and single individuals facing terrible personal needs; sometimes the mixture of sweat and alcohol and even vomit created an almost gagging stench in the room. Most people sat like zombies, awaiting their turn to be called by a social worker and led to small interview rooms. There was little talking, although occasionally one of the individuals would argue loudly with a social worker when he or she couldn’t get the needed help. Somehow, the workers of the agency maintained their patience and cheerfulness. Surprisingly, Miranda in a few short days found it a surprisingly congenial and satisfying place to work. Perhaps, she mused, it was because each day workers would find satisfaction in knowing they were doing good work as they attempted to assist persons in need, even though they couldn’t always find ways to assist.

Though it wasn’t advertised, it became generally known that Trudy Selery was a transwoman. Since workers at the agency were used to dealing with people of all types, that knowledge hardly raised an eyebrow; indeed, it made a convenient cover story in that Miranda would have an excuse to hide her past.

Also, on that Monday, Marshal Harry Feld began work as a security guard at the agency. His shifts were identical to those of Trudy Selery.

Two days later, Miranda, along with Marshals Feld and Jimenez moved out of their hotel rooms and into an old farmhouse, located on a quiet country road two miles out of town. The nearest home was a quarter mile down the road. On the horizon, there appeared to be endless corn and soybean fields, dotted by occasional silos.

*****
“I feel like I’m in captivity,” Miranda complained to Marshal Feld one night about two weeks later as the two completed washing the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen. They’d had a lasagna prepared by Marshal Feld, who turned out to be quite a cook, good enough for Miranda to tell him that he could be the chef for one of Chicago’s poshest eating places.

“I know, but Maria and I are giving you more freedom to get out than we probably should,” he said referring to his partner, Marshal Jimenez.

Miranda nodded, well aware that the two marshals were trying to make her time in protective custody as pleasant as possible. Both were always cheerful and friendly, though both were getting antsy at being on assignment that kept them separated from their homes. Feld was an intriguing character, a onetime defensive lineman for the Detroit Lions and a Desert Storm veteran with a huge muscular body that was beginning to grow soft as he aged. Yet, he was surprisingly gentle, a master in the kitchen, a voracious reader and a lover of classical music and jazz.

“I got a guy hitting on me,” she confessed to him when they had finished and moved into the living room.

“That’s not surprising,” he replied. “I’d be surprised if some guy wasn’t. You’re really a beauty, Miranda. I know if I were younger and not married, I’d be after you, too.”

“Even if you knew I still had my boy parts?”

“Oh my, yes,” he said, a teasing twinkle in his eye.

“Are you flirting with me, Marshal Feld?”

“I’m tempted to, but no, I’m not, although I do miss Cynthia a lot right now.”

“She’s your wife, right?”

“Yes, married 25 years now and both the kids are away at college, so she’s lonely, too,” he said.

“Must be tough to have a job like this that takes you away from your family,” Miranda said.

“I know, but it’s a good living and I like knowing I’m doing something that helps keep the peace.”

He led her to his laptop that was sitting on the dining room table and showed her photos of his family, smiling photos of his handsome pleasant looking wife, a husky woman and their two boys, all shown at various ages.

“You’re so fortunate, Harry, to have such a beautiful family,” Miranda said, tears beginning to flow into her eyes.

“Why are you crying?” he asked sympathetically.

“Because . . . because … I’ll never be able to have babies.”

Miranda’s crying became intense and he took her into his arms, letting her tears fall upon his shirt. He patted her gently as she cried.

“I’m sure you and your partner will be able to adopt,” he said softly.

“Who’ll . . . ever want . . . a . . . ah . . . freak like me?” she stammered through her sobs.

“I know you miss your friends, Miranda, especially Amy,” he said, hoping to comfort her.

“Poor Amy, she must think I’ve deserted her,” Miranda said, her thoughts returning to her friend.

Miranda’s sobbing finally subsided, and Marshal Harry Feld released her from his grasp, but held her slender hands in his massive hands and said, “We’ve assured her that you’re safe and that your absence is not your fault.”

“She must still wonder. Can’t I communicate with her? A phone call, or Skype chat?”

“You know you can’t, but if you want to write her a note, we’ll get it to her. But you know, we’ll have to read the note before sending it out. We can’t let you give her any clue about your location.”

She nodded and planned later that night to write a note.

*****
“My dearest Amy,” Miranda wrote at the top of the packet of pink stationery that Maria had purchased for her. The paper’s margins were printed in dainty white floral borders. It was appropriate for a feminine woman.

Miranda wondered if beginning the note “My dearest Amy” was too openly affectionate and would reveal too much of her relationship to the marshals who would read the note before passing it on. She crumpled the note up and tossed it aside, grabbing a new sheet and starting over. She decided she’d write in a more neutral tone.

Dear Amy,

I miss you dearly and think about you constantly. I’m hoping you haven’t forgotten me, but if you have, I guess I’ll have to live with it and move on. I wouldn’t blame you. How can you care for a freak like me?

I believe our friendship is special, truly special. Knowing you has been the highlight of my life and I hope you feel the same about me.

I am safe and secure now. I have no idea how long I must be gone. It could be for many months and I don’t expect you to wait around for me.

I’m sorry about whatever harm my actions may have caused for you and the agency. I only wanted to help and to correct some serious wrongs.

You have been the “rock” of my life, helping me become “one of the girls.” Please pass my love on to Latesha and Mollie. I miss them, too.

Love, Miranda

Miranda read the note over several times, wanting to write more, but the marshals had said she could only write a short note and to keep it general and with nonspecific references. Satisfied with what she wrote, she pressed her heavily lip-sticked lips to the inside of the back flap of the envelop. It left a distinctive kiss. She smiled and inserted the note inside.

She wrote a similar short note to her mother, signing it “Marcus,” of course. Her continued deception of her mother bothered Miranda and she knew that she needed her mother’s love more than ever. It relieved Miranda to learn that the marshals had reviewed both notes and sent them off without change.

*****
Miranda had been hired – using the name “Trudy Selery” – by the Carrier County Community Center (CCCC) as an assistant to the Financial Officer, a woman by the name of Kayla Lemke who was in her early thirties. Miranda was surprised both at how quickly she mastered the art of bookkeeping and that she truly enjoyed the work. Perhaps it was because of the ease with which she learned mathematics in school, but she suspected it was that bookkeeping proved to offer some fascinating mysteries that needed to be resolved. There were tax forms to complete, government reports and often grant proposals, each one asking for different financial information.

Kayla Lemke, a tallish, heavy woman, with a surprisingly tiny voice, soon became impressed how easily her new employee, Trudy Selery, learned the bookkeeping system. Ms. Lemke began to rely on her more each day.

“Trudy, we need to reconcile these grant accounts and we need to get the work done by Saturday,” Lemke informed Miranda on a Wednesday morning.

“Is there a problem?” Miranda asked.

“Yes. I can’t seem to reconcile them. Maybe you can have a crack at them, Trudy.”

“Me? I’m not an accountant like you,” Miranda answered, worried that she didn’t have the skills.

“Maybe a fresh look will help.”

By Thursday afternoon, Miranda was able to square the accounts; she had to call on various department heads of the agency to gain an understanding of their accounts and had won the admiration of most of them for her thoroughness and the pleasant manner in which she sought information. Kayla was pleased when Miranda sat down with her on Friday morning to show how she had handled the accounts and made them work.

“You’re a genius, Trudy. It’s a shame you’re only temporary here,” she said. “Maybe I can see if they’ll make this a full-time position for you.”

“Thank you, but I’ll eventually I want to return home,” Miranda said. “I have friends back there and a career that I love.”

“I’d still like you to consider staying here,” Kayla said. “Is there anything I can do to make you happier here? Introduce you to new friends, perhaps?”

“I’m still getting used to my transition. Not everyone likes the idea, you know.”

Kayla Lemke, of course, knew nothing about Miranda’s protective custody status or that she was in the U.S. Marshal’s protective custody. Only the CCCC executive director and human relations person knew; to others, Miranda (as Trudy Selery) was merely a temporary employee, working for several months while she awaited her planned sexual reassignment surgery. The marshals had created a backstory for Miranda, even creating a tall, handsome Army First Lieutenant named Josh Taylor who had fallen for a transwoman named Trudy, and was soon to be returned from Afghanistan.

Having a make-believe fiancé was convenient for another reason; it gave Miranda good reason to fend off men looking to date her. She’d already had to use First Lt. Josh Taylor as an excuse several times, displaying an engagement ring that had been purchased for her to reinforce the deception.

Her only male companion in those months was Marshal Feld who brought her to and from work each day. She welcomed her time with Feld as he proved to be a willing listener and sometime counselor. Though initially skeptical of Miranda’s “transwoman” status, he listened patiently as Miranda began to relate her story to him.

He was the father Miranda never had and she grew terribly fond of him.

*****
Miranda spent the winter in Gossen, missing her traditional trip home to enjoy both Thanksgiving and Christmas with her mother and their small family. At Thanksgiving, she was in near tears in the morning and she found she was missing her family’s traditional Thanksgiving celebration at her grandparents’ farm in Wisconsin. In recent years, she had dreaded those family celebrations, since her grandfather and several of her uncles tried to interest her in the day’s televised football games. They were always critical that this young man (Marcus) was growing more effeminate. On this day in Gossen, however, she found she missed the gathering and Harry Feld caught her crying that morning.

Feld had found a small Thai restaurant in Gossen, and in the early afternoon he dragged Miranda out of the house and the two entered the restaurant that was nearly empty of customers. That they ate Thai food that day instead of turkey and all the stuffing seemed to be a source for humor to both and they loosened up with a bottle of wine.

“I wish I could let you call your mother, Miranda,” Feld said when they had finished their meal and were lingering over their wine.

“She must be wondering, Harry, but I guess it’s necessary,” she said, fighting back tears.

“I’m so sorry for you,” he said.

Miranda looked into his eyes that had grown moist, and her affection for the older man grew.

“You’re wonderful to me, Harry. When this is all over I’m going to miss you.”

He smiled. “To me, you’re the daughter that Cynthia and I never had.”

Feld was referring to his wife who was growing lonely in the family home while he was in Gossen guarding Miranda. The couple’s two sons had left their hometown, one serving in the Army and currently in Afghanistan and the other already a successful young lawyer with a white-shoe law firm in Chicago.

Miranda was pleased that Harry Feld had eventually accepted her as a young woman, never referring to her transgender situation. Surprisingly, Marshal Jimenez never had accepted Miranda as a woman and the two had developed a cold, distant relationship. Marshal Jimenez was always professional and she was never unkind, but she constantly mixed up her pronouns, often referring to Miranda as “he” or “him” and then pointedly correcting herself. Miranda felt she was doing the word game on purpose, just to shame her.

That night, Harry and Miranda watched a movie, sitting together on the couch. It wasn’t long before Miranda put her legs up under her and leaned into Harry Feld’s large, hard body. His arm encircled her and she settled her head into his lap and slept. She awoke to a light kiss on her forehead and for a minute puzzled where she was, before looking up and into the eyes of Harry Feld.

“Oh, my God,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.”

He patted her gently. “You fell asleep.”

“Is the movie over?”

“Yes,” he laughed. “The young couple in the movie are going to get married.”

“So, they lived happily ever after?”

“Of course, and so will you when this is all over Miranda,” he said.

Miranda was fond of this sweet man; rarely had she felt such comfort and peace. With Amy, she was never relaxed, but always inspired and stimulated. With Harry, she found sweetness and light.

(To be continued)
(The author is grateful to Eric for proofreading and his sotry suggestions.)
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Comments

WITSEC,

Monique S's picture

this was to be expected and I hope Miranda has grown up a lot now, facing the consequences of her actions. As sad as the separation might be one thing is for sure, if Amy is still waiting for her it is absolutely certain, that she loves Miranda.

Miranda, on the other hand will have to stop her dithering between Amy and Emery, even though she might have to come to terms with being bisexual, if she doesn't want to terribly disappoint Amy. In any case her current experience tells me, that her "infatuation" with Emery was just that, out of the subconscious desire to fill the gap of a father figure by falling for the first man to be nice to her.

I am looking forward to the next installment of this very realistic,well written tale.
Monique.

Monique S

What about Jefferson?

Jamie Lee's picture

Miranda was there before and during the raid. And as such, had to go into hiding because what Brownings Jr. and what he might do to keep Miranda from testifying.

But what about Jefferson, or the two girls who were there with Miranda? Or the other kids Jr. used? Are they also sequestered in case Jr. starts cleaning house?

Be such a shame if someone got to Jr. before he got to trial.

Others have feelings too.

Miranda's being Undercover has new twist...

...I like how you have continued the story along. The need to be undercover for safety's sake is realistic. Though many places in Illinois are not as safe as they might appear. Especially if the sex trafficking ring has connections with the Mob.
Miranda is getting a chance to grow as a woman on her own. She has a personality that makes friends easily.
Jessie C

Jessica E. Connors

Jessica Connors