I went to visit Macy three days later. The safe house was outside the city. Secure. Anonymous. Six other girls there. All trafficking victims.
Macy was in withdrawal. Shaking. Sick. But alive.
“Because you asked me to.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s everything.”
She thought about that. “The other men who saw me that night. At different truck stops. They didn’t help. They looked away. Or they—” She stopped. Couldn’t say it.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you look away?”
I thought about Vietnam. About villages burning. About knowing something was wrong and having to choose. Look away or act.
“Because I’ve looked away before. Long time ago. Different situation. It’s haunted me for fifty years. I wasn’t looking away again.”
The police arrested Mrs. Patterson and two other staff members at the group home. Seventeen girls testified. Seventeen girls who’d been sold. Some for years.
The trafficking ring? Five men arrested. Including the three from the gas station. My dashcam footage helped identify them. They’re all serving twenty-plus years.
Macy turned seventeen in the safe house. Then eighteen. Graduated high school through a special program. Started community college.
I visited once a month. Brought her books. Helped with homework when she asked. Taught her about motorcycles because she was curious.Continue reading…
