“Macy Rodriguez.”
“Macy, I’m going to help you. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
“Because I’m about to cut those zip ties. Give you my phone. Let you call whoever you want. And if you want to run, I won’t stop you.”
I pulled out my knife. She flinched.
“I’m just cutting the ties.”
I cut them off. Handed her my phone. “Call whoever you trust most.”
She stared at it. “I don’t have anyone.”
“Then let me call someone who can help.”
I called Luther. My club’s lawyer. Woke him up at 3 AM.
“Luther, I need help. Human trafficking situation. Got a sixteen-year-old victim. Need safe placement. Need someone who can handle this properly.”
I told him.
“Don’t move. I’m making calls. Stay on the line.”
Thirty minutes later, two cars pulled up. A woman from a trafficking victim’s advocacy group. A social worker Luther trusted. Not connected to the Kansas City system.
Macy panicked when she saw them. “You said you’d help!”
“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.”
“Why should I believe you?”
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.”
“What about Macy?”
“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.”
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.
“Why’d you help me?” she asked.
“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.”
Macy’s recovery took months. Detox. Therapy. Learning to trust. Learning to hope.
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.
“Why bikes?” she asked one day.
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