“I am helping. These people specialize in this. They know what you’ve been through. They won’t send you back.”
The woman from the advocacy group approached slowly. “Macy? My name is Jennifer. I run a safe house for trafficking victims. No police. No foster system. Just safety. Medical care. Whatever you need.”
Jennifer rolled up her own sleeve. Track marks. Faded but visible. “Because fifteen years ago, I was you. And someone helped me. Now I help others.”
Macy broke. Sobbed. Jennifer held her while she fell apart.
The social worker pulled me aside. “You did the right thing. But you know you just committed a felony, right? You participated in a human trafficking transaction.”
“Yeah.”
“The police will have questions.”
“Let them ask.”
I gave my statement. Described the men. The van. Everything I could remember. Handed over my dashcam footage. My bike had a camera that captured the van leaving. Partial VIN visible in one frame.
“This is good,” the detective said. “Really good. We’ve been tracking a trafficking ring through truck stops for six months. Your information might crack it open.”
“She’s safe. The advocacy group is solid. She won’t go back into state care.”
“And Mrs. Patterson?”
The detective smiled. “We’ll be having a conversation with her very soon.”Continue reading…
