“Look up for a sec,” the young man named Philip says to me. He speaks with a lisp and his fingernails are painted with clear gloss. “Hey Joanie, I think we’re gonna get too much kickback on her neck under the lights… get me some Derma Blend number three.”
A young woman with pencil thin legs wearing skinny jeans and a revealing deep-V-cut top nods and sprints away only to return seconds later with the makeup Philip requested.
“Hi, I’m Donnie,” another young man approaches me with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. His jeans are faded and have holes at the knees. Although he is behind me, we are looking at each other through the mirror that I’m sitting in front of, as Philip applies the finishing touches to my face with an air brush contraption that looks more like something that belongs in a hospital operating room.
“I’m Margot,” I say.
“So you’re going to be going on with Mr. McGowan in about three minutes, okay?” Donnie says.
“Okay,” I reply, inhaling deeply.
“Relax,” Donnie says. “Mr. McGowan is super nice. Are you nervous?” he asks.
I swallow down a globe of terror. “A little,” I say.
“Don’t be nervous. Mr. McGowan is super nice.”
Behind us an older man with a graying beard sticks his head through the doorway and glances our way. “We’re going to commercial in ninety seconds,” he says.
“Right,” Donnie says, looking back over his shoulder. He then faces front and meets my eyes. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you on the set.”
My heart thuds in my chest, anvil heavy, as I follow Donnie through a long corridor to a set of closed double doors. A large red light above the doors flashes off and on. Chest high windows on the doors reveal a cavernous sized room. On the left side a large desk like piece of furniture sits, like an island. On the front of the island in bold print is the station logo: KTVU Fox 2. Behind it sit a man and a woman, both smartly dressed. The man is looking directly at a camera the size of a small car and talking. The woman is silent, but is wearing a concerned look. She too, is looking into the camera. There are actually several cameras in the room. Three situated in front of the man and woman. And two more to the far right are facing a small area set up to look like a living room. Overstuffed easy chairs face each other and are separated by a coffee table.
Several feet back behind the cameras and mikes and equipment, in the shadows, are a handful of director style chairs filled with various KTVU staff, except for one.
“Your friend’s over there,” Donnie says, inclining his head in the direction of Sister Margaret who is sitting near the employees. Her face is calm but resolute.
After learning that the young girl found beaten to death in San Francisco was not Robyn, but a local prostitute that was known to work the streets of the Tenderloin only served to spurn me on that much harder. Rob said it was a coincidence. Freddie said it was a warning. When I told Sister Margaret of my plan to go on television, offering a reward for information leading to the rescue of my daughter, she, like everyone else, laughed, thinking I was joking. When I told her that KTVU had agreed to have Ross McGowan sit down with me for an interview, her eyes flashed a look of apprehension. But as Sister herself said a long time ago, this is a war.
Suddenly, the young woman who has been kneeling below the camera in front of the news anchors holds her hand up in the air, her fingers swiping the air, three, two, one, and it’s as if a vacuum locked seal opens inside the studio. The two anchors sit back in their chairs. The woman slouches down, bending over to attend some apparent problem with her shoe. The light above the double doors in front of us shuts off. Donnie looks at me and smiles.
“Commercial break,” he says. Opening the door, he leads me into the studio. “Let’s get on set,” he says.
I am instantly surrounded by interns and personnel, giving direction; sit this way, look that way, but above all, just be natural. In the middle of it all, the Ross McGowan comes onto the set and sits down opposite me. He is taller than he looks on TV. He smiles at me with that famous handsome grin, as one of the interns hands him a sheaf of papers, whispering quietly into his ear. Philip, the makeup artist is at Ross McGowan’s other side, dabbing his forehead with a cloth.
And then we’re on the air.
Ross McGowan looks into the camera, his face suddenly serious.
“Teenage prostitution,” he says. “Is it common? Rare?” He turns in his chair and faces me. “We’re here this morning with Margot Skinner. Her daughter, Robyn, at first classified as a teenage runaway by the police, is now officially listed as ‘endangered missing’ by the authorities. After learning that her daughter Robyn was, in fact, living on the streets in the Tenderloin district in San Francisco, living as a prostitute, Margot herself made frequent visits to the City searching for the whereabouts of her daughter. She also enlisted the aid of a private investigator. And although her daughter was returned home, just weeks later, she ran away again, back to her pimp. Now, Mrs. Skinner, before we begin talking specifically about Robyn, can you tell us, from your experience, isn’t teenage prostitution the exception rather than the rule?”
There is no time for fear or hesitation. I dive in.
“Actually, teenagers being sold for sex are becoming more and more common.”
“How so?” Ross asks.
“Back in the nineties, when the DEA began cracking down on the drug problem, cutting the flow of cocaine and heroin into the United States, traffickers began looking for another source of lucrative income. Drug dealers turned themselves into pimps, because unlike a drug that is bought and sold once, a teenage prostitute can be sold over and over again; she becomes an unending stream of revenue. And because the laws against prostitution are aimed at the prostitute herself, these teenage girls are targeted as criminals instead of the victims that they really are. The girls get arrested and their pimps go free.”
“In terms of numbers, are we talking about dozens of girls, hundreds, thousands?”
“Conservative estimates today are that there are a quarter of a million teenage girls are being prostituted in the United States alone. That doesn’t even begin to address the already huge issue of children being sexually exploited in places like Amsterdam and the Philippines.”
Ross looks momentarily sick to his stomach. “This is an epidemic,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply. “With the advertising industry continuing its steady promotion of the sexualization of our children, and the media becoming more and more casual about pornography, teenage prostitution has become a twenty-first century plague.”
“Now, your daughter, Robyn you believe is under the control of a pimp?”
“Yes, I do.”
Ross holds up a copy of the flyer of BLU BOY that I posted all over the Tenderloin district.
“This is the man that you allege has control of your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“And you posted these flyers in San Francisco?”
“Yes I did.”
“And what was the result?” Ross asks.
“Within forty-eight hours of my posting the flyer, I was notified by S.F.P.D. that a young woman, probably a teenager had been found beaten to death in the City.”
“But it was not Robyn?”
“Thank God, no.”
“And you wanted to come on television this morning and give Antonio Peña a message; is that right?”
My heart lashes my chest. My mouth is dry as gypsum. The camera nearest me glides towards me with the stealth of a hungry panther. I face it head on.
“Antonio Peña, BLU BOY, whatever you call yourself, I want you to know that I will rescue my daughter away from you. No matter what it takes to do so. In conjunction with Crime Stoppers, I am now offering a fifty thousand dollar reward to anyone who can give me information leading to the safe rescue of my daughter, Robyn Skinner. Regardless of whether anyone comes forward or not, no matter if it takes me the rest of my life, I will rescue my daughter.”
Ross lets out a nervous laugh.
“I think it prudent to mention that we are not advocating vigilantism here, folks.”
He mumbles something about law enforcement and notifying the proper authorities. But I am not listening; instead I sit back and breathe out a sigh of release. It is of no concern to me what Ross McGowan says; the gauntlet has been thrown. I will hunt BLU BOY down like the dog that he is. And when I find him, I find Robyn.