The majority of child kidnapping cases are at the hands of someone known by the child or family.
THERE IS A MISCONCEPTION about the prevalence of kidnapping in child sex trafficking occurrences in America. Fewer cases involve abduction than you might think.
A recent study from the Polaris Project confirms that only 11 percent of sex-trafficked women and children in the United States were abducted through force.1 Most of us associate sex trafficking cases with the dramatic child abduction stories we see highlighted in the media, such as that of Elizabeth Smart, who was abducted from her bedroom window at age fourteen; or Steven Stayner, who was kidnapped at age seven while walking home from school.
Abduction-related trafficking cases typically differ from other child abduction cases in that the majority of trafficking cases involve some type of “setup.” The setup is the initial luring of the victim under false pretenses. The “lurer” can be a known party, as in Samantha’s case (which you just read) and Debbie’s case (which follows), or it can be a stranger. Initially the setup likely will be nonconfrontational. However, once a victim recognizes the potential danger and attempts to leave, often she will be threatened with physical violence and forced to stay.
“One evening, Debbie said she got a call from a casual friend, Bianca, who asked to stop by Debbie’s house. Wearing a pair of Sponge Bob pajamas, Debbie went outside to meet Bianca, who drove up in a Cadillac with two older men, Mark and Matthew. After a few minutes of visiting, Bianca said they were going to leave. … Unbelievably, police say Debbie was kidnapped from her own driveway with her mother, Kersti, inside. Back home with her other kids, Kersti had no idea Debbie wasn’t there.”
—ABC News2
The majority of trafficking- and nontrafficking-related kidnapping cases are at the hands of someone known to the child or the family. According to the US Department of Justice, Office of Juvenile Justice Delinquency Prevention Juvenile Justice Bulletin, June 2000, “Based on the identity of the perpetrator, there are three distinct types of kidnapping: kidnapping by a relative of the victim or “family kidnapping” (49 percent), kidnapping by an acquaintance of the victim or “acquaintance kidnapping” (27 percent), and kidnapping by a stranger to the victim or “stranger kidnapping” (24 percent).”3
Even with the best intentions, we cannot always protect our children, as the next story reveals. Being armed with the statistics that our children are more likely to be “set up” by a friend or acquaintance than a stranger gives us some powerful inside information. Knowing our kids’ friends and acquaintances might prove to be the most beneficial approach to keeping them safe.
“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.”
—Sun Tzu4
“It was in the rough part of town, and the brothel bouncer just glared at my petite blonde friend as she handed him her phone number. ‘I am a counselor and would like to offer my number to any of the girls who want to talk,’ she said. He glared silently until she almost walked away. Then she got up the courage to say, ‘Please, please just give them my number.’ He must have thought she was just spunky enough because he finally said, ‘Just one card, if you want them to have your number? Don’t you have more cards for me to give them?’ With a deep sense of satisfaction, she gave him all of the cards she had. As he walked away, I knew that a door I had long been waiting for had slowly begun to open.”
—Marie Watson, founder, Unending Hope
The writers and I are committed to sharing each survivor’s story with accuracy and integrity. With that in mind, each survivor has been given the opportunity to read and approve his or her own story. Deidra and her mom chose to read her story together. After reading the draft, Deidra’s mom was startled to see how we depicted her as such a “helicopter mom,” closely monitoring her daughter’s whereabouts. When she asked Deidra if this was an accurate picture of her mothering style, Deidra replied, “They nailed you, Mom.” They both had a good laugh, and the story was approved.
There’s not much to do during spring break, especially when my mom’s paranoia makes me feel like a prisoner. She won’t let me out of her sight because of my mental development issues. I can’t sense danger like most people do, so the class trip to Destin, Florida, is definitely out of the question.
It’s April 2008, my senior year, and I’m stuck in the passenger seat of my mom’s SRX with my little brother and sister in the back, screaming and hitting each other. “Mom! Make him stop!” Abby yells while Noah sticks his tongue out at her. I try unsuccessfully to ignore them.
“Cut it out already! We’re almost home!” Mom shouts. I wonder if her overprotection is as tiring for her as it is for me.
Abby screams again, and I turn up the radio volume. “Summer Love” drowns out everything else as I stare at beautiful shopping centers and clean streets. Brentwood, one of middle Tennessee’s nicest suburbs, is so boring this time of year. Thankfully, my phone vibrates, and I read the text.
Aaron: “Hey Deidra ur still here right?”
Me: “Yeh u?”
Aaron: “Yep wanna hang out?”
My thumbs pause as I look up at my mom. I’m afraid to ask, but she knows Aaron from my special ed classes, so this should be OK. He’s into community service and from a devout Mormon family. They’re supposed to be really good people—don’t drink, don’t party, that type of thing. That’s probably why she had him over for dinner a few weeks ago, to make sure he was safe to hang out with.
Aaron: “Is it ur mom? Did I pass?”
Britney’s “Piece of Me” plays on the radio now, only encouraging my frustration. I turn it down, even though Abby and Noah are still fighting when Mom pulls into our quiet subdivision. “Mom!” I yell over them. “Can I hang out with Aaron?”
“Mormon Aaron?” She doesn’t look at me or wait for me to respond. “Only if he comes to our house and only until eight.”
My irritation quickly fades into excitement. I text Aaron back as we park in the two-car garage. Greg, my stepdad, isn’t home yet. My cell vibrates before I put up the groceries.
Aaron: “See u soon.”
It’s five by the time the doorbell rings. Noah chases Abby around the house, and Mom wrings her hands through her hair. She’s right by me, though, when I open the door, reminding me that she’s the warden of my prison.
“Hi, Aaron.” She greets him with a forced smile.
The sandy-haired boy wears a blue and gold cap (our school colors), white polo shirt, and jeans. He shuffles and looks at the floor. For a small woman, my mom’s pretty intimidating.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come in,” she says. “Food’s already on the table.”
Abby screams again, and Mom runs off to check on her. Aaron follows me inside to the kitchen that smells like homemade lasagna and garlic bread. Greg’s the only dad I’ve ever really had, so I’m thankful he’s here to greet Aaron with a smile and handshake before getting seated. “Aaron, nice to see you again.”
“You too, sir.” Aaron shifts uncomfortably as we take our seats around the dinner table. When Mom brings in the rug rats, we pray and eat together. Aaron and I quickly finish, excuse ourselves, and go to the basement with the flat-screen and game consoles. We started a game of Mario Kart for Wii last time he was here, so we just pick up where we left off. I beat him badly twice because he’s distracted, texting on his phone. I didn’t think he had a girlfriend. I wonder if he’s seeing anyone now.
The third time he doesn’t finish the race, Aaron tosses the controller away. “You wanna go out and get something to drink?”
“Sure!” I’m grinning from ear to ear, even though we have plenty to drink here. Truth is, I’d love any excuse to go out.
I grab a jacket and trot up the stairs with him in tow. Mom’s in the kitchen with Greg, putting up dishes and leftovers. She’s in her nursing scrubs, ready for the night shift. Her faded makeup can’t hide the bags under her eyes. I know she’s tired. She does everything in her power to keep me safe, but surely with Aaron there, she won’t say no to something as innocent as a run to the store. I could be doing something much worse, after all.
“Hey, Mom, can we get a Coke from Target?”
Noah yells something, and Abby cries out before Mom answers: “De, I don’t think—”
Greg cuts her off. “Honey, it’s just a Coke.”
My stepdad’s cool. And even though I know he’s just trying to win points with me, I find it hard to restrain my enthusiasm. Mom hesitates before Noah screams and she almost drops the plates she’s holding. “You come straight home, De. Once I’m done here, I’m off to work. So text me when you get back.”
“OK,” I say with a quick nod as she puts the dishes up and sees to the rug rats. Greg smiles.
“Deidra,” Mom calls after me, “remember, Aaron needs to go home at eight!”
“Yeah! Got it!” I want to jump up and down for this small victory but restrain myself as I smile at Aaron and we scoot out the door. I slide into his black Infiniti and buckle up, ready to go. Aaron, however, takes his time and fiddles with his phone again. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to sound impatient, but I can’t understand why he’s taking so long.
“Who’re you talking to?” I finally ask, afraid my mom will run out of the house at any moment and take back my temporary freedom.
“My parents,” Aaron says, and leaves it at that.
“Not yet,” he mumbles.
He seems nervous. I wonder if it has anything to do with me. I want to ask, but all I say is, “Oh,” before Aaron finally starts the car. It’s a short drive to Target, and the ride is quiet. “Apologize” plays as we park in the back of the almost empty lot and get out. I enjoy the walk, though. The air is refreshing and just a little cool.
Target is eerily quiet as Aaron gets his Coke and I get lemonade. With the skeleton crew, we wait in the checkout aisle awkwardly. I scan through the magazine covers, highlighting articles full of gossip, scandal, and sex tips. Skinny, beautiful girls grace the covers. For the thousandth time, I wish I were more beautiful and didn’t have an extra ten pounds to lose.
Sandy-haired Aaron fiddles with his phone, and I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty. His attention skips to anything but me, confirming my fear: I’m not worth looking at.
We’ve finally checked out and are back in his Infiniti, but Aaron just sits there. Even though I’m already buckled and ready to go, his attention rests on his phone. After a while, I ask: “Why are we waiting so long?”
Aaron’s green eyes look up at me, startled, like he forgot I’m here or that we’re just sitting doing nothing in an empty parking lot. “Um, I need to hang here.” He looks down again. “I’m waiting to get a text back from my parents.”
“Oh,” I say again. Aaron seems to get even more distant over the next ten minutes as we wait silently in his car. But I start to enjoy the quiet. I let the window down and feel the cool air.
Aaron finally looks up when a white Jeep and burgundy Hummer drive up and stop next to us, playing music. I recognize the girl and guy who step out of the Jeep. They’re in my grade at school, but not special ed. Aaron introduced me to them once, and they seem like a lot of fun. Well, more fun than sitting in the parking lot. And a lot more fun than home.
I leave Aaron in the car with his phone.
“Hey. Deidra, right? I’m Jason,” he smiles as his black hair falls into his eyes. Wearing a dark shirt and fitted jeans, he’s cute in a rocker type of way. I can’t help but smile back.
The guy who gets out of the Hummer is short and dark, like maybe he’s from India. I realize I’ve never met him before as the tall, pretty redheaded girl runs up to me. She’s in a short skirt and smells like beer. “She is cute,” she winks. I blush. “I’m Bri, remember? We’re off to a party. Wanna come and play pool with us?”
They’re the kind of kids who can do whatever they want, when they want. I can’t wait the three more months ’til I can, too. Until I can get soft drinks without permission. I look at Aaron, who hasn’t moved, not even to greet them. Whatever they’re doing has to be more fun than this. “Maybe,” I say. “Where at?”
“At a friend’s.” Jason’s voice is smooth and deep. He smirks. His dark eyes and long eyelashes make my stomach flutter before Bri takes my hand and spins me around. “The Way I Are” plays from their car stereo.
“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Bri laughs. She dances with me in the empty parking lot, then spins me into Jason’s arms before she giggles and lets go. “Your turn, Jason.”
I can’t find my tongue as I quickly pull away. “Guess I’ll owe you a dance at the party, then.” Jason smiles, and I manage to nod. I wouldn’t mind hanging out with him for a while. After all, we’re just going to play pool.
“What do you think, Aaron? Can we go?” I ask my ride, after I run back to his car and lean through the open passenger door.
Aaron hasn’t made eye contact with me since we left the store. He finally looks up at the others, then at me. “You wanna go, then go.” Aaron fidgets. “I gotta get back.”
“No problem, we’ll make sure you get home,” the other guy assures me with a bright smile and perfect teeth. He’s kind of cute, too. “I’m Nikhil, by the way.”
“Oh, my bad!” Bri giggles. “Nikhil’s going to drive.”
“Sounds fun!” I say, then wave bye to Aaron. The rest of us pile into the Hummer. It smells like new leather. “Party Like a Rock Star,” “Glamorous,” “Crank That,” and “Walk It Out” play on our soundtrack as we drive I–65 to Green Hills. Nikhil drums his thumbs against the wheel, and Jason air-guitars in the front while Bri and I dance and sing in the back. It’s fun to be with them. I wish I were closer to Jason, though. I like when his dark eyes smile at me.
I’m laughing so much that I can’t breathe when Nikhil parks at the mansion that’s three times the size of my house. It’s all stone and glass windows with a large yard and pond. That’s all I notice while Jason leads us to a basement that looks like a club. It’s already packed with people, and most of them are older than me. They’re drinking and dancing to “SexyBack.” I’m about to join them when my phone vibrates.
Mom: “Are you home yet? Did you forget to text me?”
Me: “Yeh sry were just pulling in.”
With Mom at work and Greg with the rug rats, I know the lie will buy me some time. I’m grateful for that when Jason smiles and hands me a pool stick. He leans in and whispers, “You’re on my team.”
When our hands touch, my heart skips a beat. “Don’t you want to dance?” I ask.
We watch a few couples grind on each other before Jason says, “Not yet.”
Nikhil offers us something to drink. The red liquid smells sweet like punch mixed with alcohol. Jason smiles at me while he takes a drink from his red plastic cup.
I take Nikhil’s drink. The music blares as we play against Bri and Nikhil. I’m not any good, though, and within minutes, everything starts to get hazy. The room spins. I don’t know if anyone else notices. We keep playing, but my balls never go in the pockets.
“In your face!” Bri jumps around and cheers when her team wins again.
“Yeah, yeah.” Jason picks up the pool cues, avoiding me.
I slur, “Next time” as everyone moves to leave. Nikhil gently helps me into the Hummer, and we drive off. The new-leather smell starts to give me a headache.
Mom: “8 pm, De. Has Aaron left yet?”
I have no idea where Aaron is. I barely manage to find the keys to type.
Me: “Yeh.”
When we drop off Jason and Bri at the Target, Nikhil turns to me and smiles. His white smile is almost blinding. “I’ll take you home,” he says. “It’s on my way anyway.”
I get out of the car, hoping Jason will offer to drive me home as well, but he doesn’t. Bri smiles and hops into the passenger side of his Jeep. At least I think it’s a smile. My head feels kind of clouded. I hug Jason awkwardly and slur, “See ya.”
“Yeah, see ya,” Jason mumbles, never looking at me. He slides into the Jeep and drives away.
With no other place to go, I climb into the front seat of Nikhil’s Hummer. “Thanks,” I say as we drive off. My head pounds, and I’m thankful Nikhil doesn’t talk. I’m glad I don’t have to answer any questions. I’m really tired. My body feels heavy. We’re driving for a while before I realize we’ve passed the exit for my house.
“Where’re we going?” I ask, but Nikhil doesn’t answer before my phone rings. I groggily pull it out of my pocket, and it slips into the cup holders between us.
“It’s OK. I got it.” Nikhil grabs my phone, smirks, then powers it off and tosses it out his window. I don’t understand what’s going on. My head throbs when Nikhil gets off at the next exit. Tears blur my eyes, and my heart starts racing. “Try to get out and I will kill you.” His eyes flash angrily as he opens his center console and shows me a gun. I know he means it. His cool temper is gone. He doesn’t smile anymore.
We’re speeding down Franklin Road, but even so, I try to open the door, but it’s no use. I’m child-locked. “Why’re you doing this? Where’re you taking me?” Soon I’m sobbing so hard I can’t breathe.
Nikhil pulls to a stop, aims his gun at me, and yells, “Shut up already!”
We’re in the five-car garage at his parents’ concrete and stone mansion where he lives, near my school, just minutes from my house. My head spins as Nikhil forcefully pulls me out at gunpoint. I want to scream, but his hand quickly covers my mouth. “Don’t even think about it,” he seethes into my ear, leaving me in tears, shaking with fear. “You make one sound and I’ll kill you and your family. I know where you live.”
He pushes the gun against my ribs and shoves me inside. It’s late, and although other cars are in the garage, his parents are nowhere to be found. The light inside is dim. I can just make out brightly colored walls, gold accenting, flowing tapestries, and creepy statues I’ve never seen before. It’s all blurry. I want to run, more than anything, but my legs won’t work.
His gun pushes me forward.
“You will be quiet,” he hisses, locking the bedroom door behind him. He pushes me to the bed, forces me down, and pulls off my clothes. The terror is overwhelming. I mumble and cry, trying to fight, frantically protesting until he stuffs part of my shirt in my mouth. It makes me gag and cough as he pulls my hair and grabs at me hard. He’s too strong. Tears sting my eyes.
That’s when I’m raped for the first time.
The next morning, I wake up in Nikhil’s bed with a splitting headache. My body hurts so much my stomach turns. I feel dirty, but it’s the kind of dirt that I know won’t wash off no matter how hard I scrub. I try to crawl off the bed, but Nikhil stops me. Naked, I shiver and pull back. He glares before he throws a short skirt and T-shirt at me, then pulls out his gun.
From the bed, I struggle to pull on the clothes while he watches me. He looks disgusted and quickly grows impatient, so I try to hurry. Once I’m fully clothed, he yanks my arm and easily pulls me off the bed. He expects me to stand, but my legs won’t hold me up.
Nikhil gives me another red plastic cup, ordering: “Drink it. All of it.” I want to cry, but his gun makes me drink every last drop. My head spins again as he shoves me out of the room.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m back in his Hummer. This time, he lets me lie down in the back, and I drift in and out of consciousness, never really sleeping. My head aches, and my vision blurs. I realize I have no idea where I am anymore. Nikhil eventually stops at a run-down motel, pulls me out of the car, and forces me into a room. He doesn’t stop at the front desk. He already has a key. I wonder if he’s been here before. Maybe he planned this.
Inside the room, the door is bolted securely, and Nikhil makes sure I can see his gun. I’m dizzy as he types on his laptop. I want to know what he’s doing, and Nikhil notices, sneering, “Go ahead, bitch. You should really see this.”
He backs up, allowing me to see a Craigslist ad for a girl named Destiny. She’s “A Pretty Blue-Eyed Blond. A sweet young thing looking for a good time. … Need a man to make me moan. … Oral Princess. … ” There’s some other fine print that makes my cheeks blush and a raunchy-looking picture of a girl from behind. Somehow I know Destiny is supposed to be me.
He’s going to start pimping me out.
When I start to panic and cry, Nikhil grabs my chin as his lips curl into a sick smile: “Do this and you can go home. Then I won’t have to kill your family.”
None of this makes any sense. Fear paralyzes me as Nikhil’s phone rings and he picks it up. “Yeah. … Destiny’s at the corner of Fourth and Main, room three twenty-two. … She’s worth every penny.”
He smirks, closes his phone, then pulls me to the bed and takes off my jacket. I’m freezing and pull away from him, but he yanks me back hard. I fight tears as he forces my eyes to him, whispering angrily, “You will do everything he wants. I’ll know if you don’t.”
Nikhil makes me drink more drugs, packs up, and leaves. I shake uncontrollably. I can’t make myself stop. I feel woozy when a man in a suit enters the room. He’s as old as my stepdad and light skinned like me. His eyes don’t look kind. They look hungry.
“Why don’t you dance for me?” the man says as he loosens his tie and takes off his jacket. His stare creeps me out. I’m so frightened I can’t think straight, but I remember Nikhil’s gun. His threats still ring through my mind.
The man turns on the radio. I don’t recognize the song. The noise just hurts my head. I try to move, but I’m too dizzy to stand. The Suit stares me down, so I turn away, trying to hide my tears and dread. My head spins with the room, and I lose my balance in the skinny heels I’m wearing. I steady myself against the wall, wishing to disappear.
“You can do better than that.” His voice is right behind me, startling me enough to turn back around. When I do, he’s not wearing anything, and he slaps me hard across the face. “You’re a naughty slut, aren’t you?”
No, I’m not. I don’t know what he’s talking about. He slaps me again, and I cover my face. Tears sting my eyes, and I crumble onto the bed, pleading: “Stop. Please don’t.”
But the Suit just keeps moving toward me, lust and hate in his eyes. “You want this.”
No, I don’t. I don’t want any part of this, but for the next hour, the Suit takes all his anger out on me. I’m violated in ways I can’t even begin to understand. I try to scream, but he covers my mouth. When he’s finally done, he leaves a few bills on the nightstand, dresses, and leaves. I don’t remember ever being in so much pain or feeling so ashamed. I want to cry but can’t. My voice is gone. My head’s swimming.
When I at last muster the strength to pull my clothes on, a younger Hispanic man walks into the room. This guy is more cautious, almost nervous. Maybe he doesn’t want to do this anymore than I do.
“Not much time,” he says finally. “You help with this?”
The man gestures to his belt, and Nikhil’s warnings echo loudly through my mind. I do everything the man wants.
I’ve not bothered to dress when Nikhil’s back. He looks as disgusted as I feel after he collects the money for which I was abused. I can’t even remember how many guys came through the door.
I’m tired, but can’t sleep. I’m hurting, but so drugged I can’t cry. I’m terrified as my body shifts quickly between too hot and too cold. I finally drag myself to the bathroom and see that I’m bleeding now, even though it’s not my time of the month. Water and soap won’t make me clean. I want to throw up, but there’s nothing in my stomach. I want to lock myself in here, away from my kidnapper, away from everything, but Nikhil breaks the lock and drags me out.
“Stupid bitch. You can’t hide from me! I own you. Now drink.” He forces my mouth open and pours the liquid down. I cough, trying not to choke. My head soon spins again before he commands, “Get dressed. We’re leaving.”
It takes me a while, but I obey. He still has the gun. He still threatens to kill me if I don’t follow his orders.
I don’t remember how we got back into his burgundy Hummer. I wonder if this is what it feels like to black out. I watch from the back as Nikhil picks up a guy I’ve never seen before. He’s white and preppy, wearing a dark cap low over his eyes. The new guy hardly acknowledges me. I’m glad he’s not another john. “So Biship’s letting you in, huh?”
“Yeah, thanks for the hookup. Seems he can’t say no to fresh merch,” Nikhil says. He laughs, and Preppy rolls joints for them. Somehow I know he’s a dealer. They act like old friends.
“No, I’m sure he can’t,” Preppy says with a laugh. They smoke until the car is filled with the herby smell of pot. I start to cough, and they finally roll down their windows. I try to roll mine down, but it’s locked. I wish I could sleep because we drive for a really long time. I stare out the window as the gray interstate turns brown and trees and farmland give way to rundown homes.
Nikhil finally pulls off the interstate in what looks like Memphis. A few skyscrapers hide the older industrial city. We drive in an area where girls are dressed up on the street and guys walk around in gangs. A few people talk together. I think I see them exchange drugs. I’m definitely not in Brentwood anymore. Any hope I had of getting home now is shattered. I did what he asked, but he didn’t take me back. Maybe he never means to.
Nikhil finally stops at a beat-up, tan, concrete Motel 6, and we wait in the cracked and faded parking lot. My heart is racing as he speaks into his phone. “We’re here.”
Two big black guys walk down the outdoor stairs. One is tall and built like a football player. He wears black clothes and a gold chain with a large “B” on it. The other guy is shorter, kind of scrappy. He’s in jeans and a red shirt. Nikhil and his friend get out of the Hummer and talk to them. I can’t hear anything they say. I don’t want to. I just want to wake up from this nightmare.
Finally, Nikhil comes back with a key. “Go to room two thirty-eight. There’s food for you there.”
His perfect smile doesn’t fool me, but when Nikhil shows me his gun again, I do what he says. Room two thirty-eight opens when I knock, and two skinny black girls bring me in. The room is really small and smells musty. The girls have tattoos and piercings and lots of makeup, and a big letter “B” is branded on both their bare shoulders. They don’t look much older than me.
“Welcome to da fam’ly,” the girl with a pink wig slurs, toasting to me before she sits. “I’m Roxy, an’ dat’s Coco.”
Nausea hits me again as the long-haired girl hands me a plate of food. “You ain’t got nuttin’ to worry ’bout,” she says as she winks. “Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you.”
She leaves me and smacks Roxy on the head before she takes the drink from her. “Dat’s enough, Rox. Biship’s not gonna be cleaning up aftah yo’ sorry ass again.”
Roxy reaches for her drink and whines, “How’d you get tah be bottom bitch anyways? Stupid ho. … ”
Coco slaps her and glares. “You’d better start recognizin’ yo’ place ’round here, Rox. … ”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out their fight. I try to look at the shrimp and chips in my lap, but I’m not hungry, even though I haven’t eaten in almost two days. Their fighting only makes my head hurt worse.
I must’ve started crying because Coco pulls me into the adjoining room and gives me some pills. “Yo’ head hurts, right?” I nod, and Coco shoves the pills into my mouth with some alcohol to swig it down. “Wait here, Destiny. Dey gonna be coming back soon.”
She’s gentle and kind with me and I wonder if, hope, and pray she’ll help me. But as the pills start to take effect, my head hurts worse and the girls go back to arguing. It soon becomes painfully clear: They don’t care a thing about me.
I don’t know if I dozed off before the two black guys enter the room. They’re even bigger and scarier up close. Scrappy hands Coco a plastic shopping bag. It has brightly colored lingerie in it, and he orders us to put it on, but not before Biship grabs me hard by the arm.
“Yo’ not gettin dressed yet, Destiny.” He pushes everyone out and shuts the door. His breath smells like beer. “Scream, an’ I’ll kill you.”
I believe him. I don’t scream. Though I want to cry, I don’t. Though I want to fight back, I don’t. I know if I do, I’m dead. I’m as good as dead already.
When he’s done with me, he yells, “Coco! Fix dis bitch. Damn girl’s raggin’. Dere’s blood ev’rywhere.”
Coco’s by my side quickly after that. She tries to drag me to the bathroom, but I can’t move, and she’s not strong enough to make me. “I just had my period,” I mumble into the pillow.
The long-haired girl pulls back and yells to the other guys, “Biship, yo’ rufi’s* just knockin’ her out. She’s no good to nobody sleepin’!” Then everything gets really fuzzy, and I black out.
I doze in and out of sleep before Scrappy’s back with kitchen sponges. He gives them to Coco, who takes me to the bathroom. I notice there’s blood on the sheets. It’s my blood. That’s why I hurt so bad.
Scrappy calls the front desk to make up the bed, while Coco helps me put a yellow sponge* up my vagina to stop the bleeding. It hurts even more now. I don’t think I can sit down when Coco gives me the lingerie to wear. “It’s yo’s. Gotta make sure new girl’s pretty.” She winks, and I realize she’s missing a few teeth. I gawk, wondering if someone hit her. I wonder if it was Biship.
“Don’ you dare feel sorry fuh me, bitch!” Coco seethes and storms out.
Roxy strolls in with alcohol and drugs. “She in charge of us hoes, so she haftah be like dat.” When a cell phone rings, I jump. Roxy smirks. “It’s gonna be easier if you enjoy it.”
She hands me the cup and pills. I fight back shock and tears. “You enjoy it?”
“Didn’ say dat. … ” she looks down. “I don’ have no choice neither.
Never had.”
“Roxy, I’m in so much pain I can hardly stand,” my voice is hoarse and wavers. Roxy ignores me. I start panicking, no longer able to hide my tears. “Can you help me, please? I have to get out! I have to get—”
The knock at the door startles us, and Roxy quickly silences me before Biship yells though the door: “Fix her hair or somethin’, too. She got comp’ny in ten.”
Roxy sets down the beer and leans toward me, quiet. “Dis life’s a bitch. You cain’t talk like dat if you wanna live.”
Coco’s back and must have overheard something because she slaps Roxy hard, then glares at us both. “Quit yo bitchin’, both of yas.”
My heart races. I’m sweating, even though I’m ice cold. Roxy recovers from the slap. She tries to make my hair look full and pretty and darkens my eyes with makeup. When she’s finished, I don’t recognize myself. The girl in the mirror isn’t me.
Scrappy carries his gun into the bathroom. He glares at me, then whispers: “Do what da foo wants. You tell anybody ’bout any of this an’ I’ll kill ev’ryone who knows you.”
I try not to cry as Coco makes me drink more alcohol and drugs. The world gets fuzzy again when they leave my room, but I know they’re right there in the adjoining room. They make sure I know that they’ll hear if I try to escape.
I wait on the bed all made up, wearing nothing but lingerie. I jump when someone knocks. This time, an older black man walks into the room. He has a beard and mustache. My stomach turns, and I feel short of breath. I hope I pass out.
I wake up to the sound of a cell phone. I realize where I am again and want to cry, but Scrappy is there with me. He gives me more to drink and a bag of chips. A mix of mold, cigarettes, and alcohol hit my nose, and I fight the urge to vomit. My pelvis hurts. The same kitchen sponge is still inside me.
Biship, on the phone, notices my pain. “Do somethin’ ’bout dis,” he whispers angrily to the girls while he points at me like I’m some kind of animal. Just a body for sale.
After pulling me to the bathroom, Coco tells me to take out the sponge as she fixes my hair and makeup. The sponge hurts with every pull I make; my walls inside are torn and raw. I want to scream but bite through my lip instead. I taste metal when the once-yellow sponge comes out completely red. Blood drips over my hand.
Coco makes me toss it into a plastic bag, then gives me another sponge, expecting me to shove it in. This one’s large and green. I know I don’t have a choice when Biship opens the door. He looks me over disapprovingly, then tells the girls, “Cover up dem bruises,* too, an’ she needs a lil’ more color on her face.” He turns to me next and says, “Do dis an’ you can go home.”
I’ve heard that before, and I don’t believe him. His breath smells like beer. He has no intention of ever letting me go, but every intention of hurting me if I don’t obey.
“Put da damn sponge in,” he orders. “Can’t have you grossing out da johns.”
I do as he says. He watches as I squirm in pain. I get the sick feeling that he enjoys watching. His phone rings, and I jump. He hands me the lingerie and steps out.
The girls finish, and once again Destiny stares back at me. They leave me alone in the room, waiting again on another john.
More than anything, I want this to end. When the next john’s done, he leaves his payment and shuts me in. Everything’s so foggy, but not enough to forget my shame or dull any pain. I hurt so much I want to scream, but my mouth won’t move. The agony comes out more like a groan.
I think I black out before the pimps come back with food. Biship takes the payment and the food to the other room, while Scrappy leaves the beer and his phone on the table. He catches me staring at him, so he sneers, “Wha’ you lookin’ at, bitch?”
He comes over fast, threatening to hit me. I cry, and he laughs.
“S’what I dought,” he mumbles before he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.
I don’t want to move. I don’t feel like I can, but I can’t go on like this. I have to do something. While Biship and the girls eat in the other room, I grab Scrappy’s phone and hurriedly type the only number that comes to mind. It’s Chase’s, a boy I liked from last year.
Me: “Feelfunynotle 6 mephgis is De.”
I’m woozy and know it’s not right, but I barely get the text off when Scrappy’s out of the bathroom. He sees the phone and is already glaring. My heart races, especially when the phone beeps in my sweaty hand.
“What the—!” Scrappy yells and throws me onto the bed, furiously grabbing for the phone. He pulls it from me and opens it. Panic fills his dark face, and a string of cuss words fly from his mouth.
Maybe Chase responded.
Biship rushes in and yells at Scrappy. They’re both panicking while I slip off the bed and hide behind the chair in the corner of the room. At some point, the phone is thrown to the floor, stomped on, and destroyed. I hope Chase got the message and gets help. I hope he remembers me.
Scrappy paces furiously. The girls fly in, and Roxy whines, “Wha’ we gonna do?”
“We needa get outta here,” Coco says before Biship slaps her hard across the face.
“Shut up, bitch!”
“She right, D. I ain’t dealin’ wit’ no cops,” Scrappy says.
Biship is furious but can’t argue. He grabs my clothes and throws them at me. “Put dese on. We goin’ tah management.” I fumble while dressing, and he yells, “Wha’s wrong wit’ you, bitch?” before he grabs my arm and shakes me until I fall. He stands over me, fuming, while I recover, grab the clothes, and hastily throw them on. I’m forced out the door with Scrappy leading. Biship holds me tightly and pulls up my hood. He orders, “Keep yo’ head down.”
I do as he says while we walk down a dirty stairwell and through some old hallways until we reach the main check-in area. Biship holds me back, while Scrappy talks to the guy at the front desk. The clerk’s skinny, young, and black. He recognizes Scrappy and quietly takes a payment from him. He knows, and he’s in on it. No one’s going to help me here.
I want to run, but the room spins, and Biship’s grip is strong. My head pounds as I try to listen to Scrappy’s hushed words: “Yo, I be needin’ a new room.”
“I gotcha, Red.” The clerk fidgets. “But I wanna see Roxy again.”
Scrappy seethes, but nods.
“New floor and everythin’. Comin’ right up,” the clerk says. He quickly retags keys and hands them to Scrappy. “Room one-twelve. Lemme know if you need anythin’ else.”
Scrappy takes the keys, and we walk back up the stairwell. Roxy leaves us to move everything to the new room. Just when I lie down again, Biship’s cell rings.
“Get ’er ready. An’ dis time, try a wig.” Biship’s orders leave me shaking. They close me in with Coco, preparing me for more johns.
The line of men seems endless. The days mesh into nights, and it starts to sink in that no one is going to help me. The text must not have worked because I’m trapped in the same unending, terrifying routine: Phone rings, I’m made up, they scatter, and I wait for the next guy to walk in and abuse me.
Everything’s hazy. I don’t see faces anymore. The last guy leaves his money by the door, and when Biship comes in to collect it, he assaults me again. I no longer have the energy or will to cry, much less fight. When he’s done, I hide under the blankets.
He turns on the TV and orders porn.
I hear all of it. Everything sounds so sexy, something I never feel when I’m with them. Biship yanks off my covers. “Yo’ watchin’ dis, bitch. Dis is wat dey want.” He sneers at me while an orgy plays out on screen. “You needa learn somethin’ if yo’ ever gonna make any real bank.”
I don’t watch, but Biship does until Scrappy runs in with his computer. He’s frantic as he shows Biship a screen I can’t see.
“Yo, man, check it,” he says, and Biship reads, “It’s local news, official missin’ persons.”
Biship swears as his phone rings. I hate that ring. I dread that ring. It signals another john. Biship walks out of the room to arrange details. Scrappy stays and sits in front of the TV while the porn flick plays. He leans back to me. “Dis one’s good, Destiny. You do dat,” he points to the screen, “an’ you won’ need Craigslist no more.”
I think I’m going to be sick. I stagger to the bathroom, and Coco follows me. Though I’m tainted and nothing can hide that, Coco tries. She gives me more to drink, covers me in makeup, and stuffs my hair under a short blond wig. Too soon, Destiny stares back at me.
I’ve lost track of time. Days and hours feel like years in this hell. I thought I knew what prison felt like, but I was wrong. I’d give anything to be home now.
My mind’s cloudy when the pimps leave me alone to wait on the next john. The room is as empty as I feel. The adjoining door is open, but no one peers in on me from the other side. The girls are both there, though. They’re still loud.
Soon my head starts to pound. It sounds like metal hammering against wood, like the wood’s going to break. That’s when I see the hotel room door cracking. It’s not my head, but the door that’s pounding open when a voice booms: “This is the FBI! Step away from the door!”
The next blow is even louder. The girls are quiet now. Coco runs in and drags me into their room, locking all the doors. We’re hiding, shocked, and silent, but the banging doesn’t stop.
I feel like I’m in a daze. Part of me wants to run and open the door, but I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or awake, so I just watch while the other girls hold me still.
“Stand back! Stand back!” the cops shout before they kick in the door and storm into the room I was just in. Police lights start flashing outside. They bang on our door now, and in a matter of moments, it’s kicked down, too. Cops rush in. “FBI. Freeze! Show me your hands! Hands up! On the ground! On the ground!”
I’m frozen, but the girls try to run. The cops quickly grab them, though. “Get yo’ hands off me!” Coco yells.
“Ma’am! Calm down,” a lady cop yells. “Sit down or we’ll make you.” Even when the girls fight back, the cops have them handcuffed fast. Coco and Roxy are too skinny to put up much of a fight anyway.
I haven’t moved since we started hiding, and when the other girls are secure, a lady cop helps me into the other room. A guy cop comes with her and watches while she sits me on the bed. “Everything’s going to be OK,” she says. “We’re going to take you home now.” The lady cop then moves to address the other girls, who still won’t shut up.
“Stop touchin’ me! Biship don’ want no cops touchin’ me. He’s gonna be g’ttin’ back soon, an’ he’ll be pissed!” Coco yells. I just sit there watching.
“Where is your pimp?” the lady cop yells at them. “Where is he?”
Roxy whines. “I didn’ hurt nobody. Please, don’ take me!”
“Where is Biship?” the cop yells again. The girls keep talking, but they don’t answer any of the cops’ questions. I’m too tired and dazed to speak, even if I knew the answers.
Eventually, the FBI agents lead us out of the Motel 6, and when I’m outside, I realize it’s nighttime. Everything’s foggy, but I dare to hope I’m not dreaming, that this nightmare might finally be ending. That I might finally be going home.
Roxy and Coco are pushed into the back of patrol cars while I’m in the back of an FBI SUV. The lady cop and a guy cop sit in the front. The lady gives me something to eat. It’s fast food, but I’m starving. Safe inside the car, I eat it all before my eyelids grow heavy. It’s a long ride, and the FBI agents are nice enough to let me sleep.
Three hours later, we arrive home. I don’t really believe it. Truth is, I’m afraid to. I don’t want to wake up and not be here. My family comes out of the house as we drive up. The cops help me out, and my eyes meet the ground, but not before I see the tears in my mom’s eyes. The night air chills me as the rug rats hug me first. “We missed you so much,” Noah cries.
My mom hugs me next, and I finally relax in her arms, embracing the hope that this is real. Her hold is strong, and tears of my own fall before she finally calms enough to speak. “I’ve never been so scared. You’re home now, De. I love you, and I’m so sorry.” My face is buried in her short blond hair, my eyes blurry with tears. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
I have no words, no more energy, so I just cry until my knees finally give. I’m so exhausted and broken that my mom can’t keep me from falling, so Greg gently helps hold me up. I hear Mom whimpering beside me as my hair is brushed off my face. My family huddles around me, trying in vain to protect me from the world.
The cops still haven’t left yet. They’ve been silent until now, letting us reunite. When the lady cop approaches, my mom wipes her eyes and mumbles earnestly, “Thank you.”
“It’s an honor, ma’am. But before we pack up, I have to inform you that Deidra needs a sexual assault exam. She’s carrying evidence, so she can’t shower or clean up until after that.” I shudder inside my mom’s arms while she continues. “Memorial Hospital is set up for it. With what she’s been through, I’d let her rest before taking her in. We’ll have a police escort meet you there and a call-ahead for you in the morning.”
When Mom nods, the cops leave us. Greg and Mom help me inside and tuck me into bed. I’m not allowed to change clothes. Mom stays with me through the night, and I know now that I’m home.
Mom lets me sleep a little, but the pain I feel is unbearable. The sponges are still inside me, and the phone keeps ringing, startling me into panic with each new call, reminding me of the Memphis motel room. My mom finally helps me get ready, and we drive to the ER. I’ve never been in so much pain or felt so gross.
It is 8:00 a.m. There’s no police escort, no call-ahead, so we stand in a triage line that doesn’t move. I feel like everyone can see where I’ve been and what I’ve done. I wear my shame like the small tank top and shorts I’m still in. Exhaustion wears on me, but the sponges keep me alert, sending shooting pain through my stomach and down my legs every time I move.
Three security guards near us complain to each other, “My back’s out again. I can’t keep standing all day like this.”
“That’s what I keep telling management! Let us use some chairs every once in a while, right?” a butch woman argues, but eventually I stop listening. They never look up or notice us. My missing-person poster is on the wall beside them.
Mom and I keep waiting as the line slowly creeps forward. By now I can hardly stand. My mom finally pulls out her phone and dials my special ed counselor. When Ms. Cindy picks up, I hear my mom whisper, “Do we have to come here?”
The guard finally notices her. “Ma’am, you can’t talk on the phone there.”
“Excuse me?” my mom almost yells.
“You can’t talk on your phone there, Ma’am. You must be over there,” she points to a spot five feet away. I watch as my mom clenches her fists and takes the two steps away from me to talk on the phone. Drowsiness kicks in, but I hear phrases from my mom’s conversation.
“This is ridiculous. … Is there no other place we can have her examined?” My mother wrings her hands through her hair. She sighs and at last mutters “thanks” before she hangs up.
Eventually, the triage nurse calls us back. She’s next to my poster but never bothers to look at us. She doesn’t even ask for identification.
“What’re you here for?” she asks her clipboard.
“She’s been a victim of sexual assault, and we have to have an exam,” my mom says, trying to steady her wavering voice. Minutes seem to tick by, and Mom’s losing her cool.
The nurse finally looks up, around the room. “Well, where are the police? Did you bring the police?”
I don’t know where they are, and neither does my mom. She’s furious, especially when the butch security guard steps closer to listen in outside the door. “I’m going to close the door. I think we need a little privacy,” Mom tells the nurse, then slams the door in the guard’s face.
“Ma’am, there’s nothing I can do for you. There’s been no call-ahead, and I can’t do anything until the police get here,” the nurse says again.
“She’s in pain. … She’s got these sponges,” Mom pleads. “Where am I supposed to go?”
I’m drowsy and can’t look at her. I can’t speak. Finally, the nurse sighs and says, “Would it make you feel better if I called the rape support advocate?”
“What’s the rape support advocate gonna do?” Mom’s eyes are wet as she yells, “Yes, please call all those freaking people, but she needs to see a doctor now!”
The nurse remains cold. She still hasn’t asked our names or if we are related.
Fifteen minutes later, my pelvis hurts so bad that I keel over and groan from the shooting pain. Mom finally loses it. She slams her hand hard against my missing-person poster, yelling, “Do you see that picture right there? That’s her.”
“Oh, OK,” is all the nurse says.
“OK? My daughter’s been missing for eight days!”
The woman finally, reluctantly, stands up and brings us farther into the hospital. She puts me on a gurney in the hallway and leaves us there. She never comes back.
We wait there for hours. I want to fall asleep, but it’s so cold. The pain in my pelvis is getting worse.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks anyone who passes by. “We’ve been waiting here forever.” No one responds. “My daughter’s been missing. … She needs a sexual assault exam.”
She pleads through tears, and I try to drown out her words. I don’t want to hear them. I don’t want to hear anything.
Finally, the officer stationed there comes over to my mom. “I know who she is and what you’ve been through. I want you to know that I’m going to take care of this.”
My mom quietly utters thank you as the cop leaves us in the hallway. Not long after that, a man with glasses and a clipboard wearing a long, white coat comes up and tries to talk to me. “So you’ve been sexually assaulted? Where have you been sexually assaulted?”
I’m sleepy, and his eyes are too intense. “What?” I mumble out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where?”
With little patience, the doctor repeats, “They sexually assaulted you. Where did they stick their penis? In your mouth? Vagina? Anus?”
“What?” I mumble, confused and horrified because I don’t want to admit to any of it, especially not in a crowded hallway. But the man just repeats the question louder. Now the whole section of the hospital can hear him. I can’t help but cry.
“Stop! Just stop!” my mom yells, and he quiets. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
The man collects himself. “I’m Dr. Dennis Hughes, and I’m a physician’s assistant. I’m the head of the sexual exam unit.”
“I’m not doing this in the hallway,” my mom fumes.
“We will have to wait for a room to open up, then. As soon as the one across the way is open, we’ll take you in,” he says, then leaves us.
Half an hour later, a guy in handcuffs is rolled out, and I’m rolled in. The room is freezing. The thermometer reads 65 degrees. No one bothers to turn up the heat or give me a blanket. We wait two more hours, and no one checks on us.
Finally, Dr. Hughes comes back in, ready to escort us to the exam room. It’s in the very back of the building. The doctor’s calm—nice, even—but only when the rape support advocate arrives. She’s dark-skinned with long hair, like Coco from Motel 6. They ask how I’m doing, but tears fill my eyes, and my heart races when they make my mom leave. With the doctor and the black woman there, I feel like I’m back in the Memphis motel room.
They pull out the sponge, and I choke back a scream. I nearly pass out from the pain, but the exam keeps me frightened and alert. Their gloved hands and cold utensils probe me, doing things I don’t want them to do, reminding me of things I don’t want to remember. They silently go through every scratch, bruise, tear, hair, everything. Without my mom present, no one bothers to sympathize or care. I’m not treated as a person; I’m treated as evidence.
Without any breaks, three hours later, we’re done. It’s 4:00 p.m., and I’m just glad to go home. We don’t talk on the ride back. I don’t want to. I just want to rest and forget.
But I can’t. We pass Nikhil’s house, and his threats ring loud in my ears: “You make one sound, and I’ll kill you and your family I know where you live.” I cover my ears and cry.
“Deidra, what’s wrong?” my mom asks. I see Nikhil’s face in my mind. I feel his gun against my side. I cannot force my mouth open. My mom pulls over the car, desperate: “De. Sweetheart?” she softly pulls my hands from my ears and finds my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Her tears break me. I look away and point to the mansion behind us. “That’s where he lives,” my voice cracks. “Mom, he knows where we live, and he has a gun, and. … ”
The words fall out of my mouth. Once I start, I can’t stop. My mom cries, and in that moment I see her, I realize that nothing is ever going to be the same again.
We change everything we do from that day on. When we arrive home, she starts adding to the home security. Really high-tech stuff. A police officer even stops by the next day and says he’ll keep an eye on us.
My parents make me stay with a friend outside of town. Leiper’s Fork is beautiful and calm. The Andersons have horses and lots of land and don’t live less than five minutes from my kidnapper’s house. I’m glad to be able to relax, to not panic every time I hear the phone ring.
A few days later, I have to go back to Nashville to give the details of my experiences. I’m still foggy from the drugs while three FBI agents wait on my testimony. I’m thankful one of the cops is a lady. They have a camera on me. My palms sweat. I’m so nervous that my throat closes up, and I have to drink lots of water. The cops are not allowed to prompt me. They’ll ask questions if they have to, but it’s up to me to remember and say everything.
I don’t want to talk about it, though. I don’t want to remember. When they see how much I struggle, the lady cop whispers, “Have Rodriguez call in the child forensic psychologist.”
“OK, Deidra,” says a guy cop. “Is it all right if I ask you some questions?” I manage to look up and nod. “All right, tell us what happened when Aaron took you to the store.”
We start from the beginning. They ask about the kidnapping, the drinks that made my head spin, the assaults, the Craigslist profile, the pimps and johns. They want all the details. It’s hard. The questions help a lot, but I still struggle to talk. I can’t remember everything.
“That’s fine, Deidra. You did great,” the lady cop affirms before she lays out a bunch of photos. “Now, can you identify the men who held you? Are their pictures here?”
My throat tightens when I see their faces. Scrappy, Biship, and Nikhil are all there. Their cold eyes stare back at me, threatening me even when they’re not here.
“Deidra?” she asks again, concern in her voice. “Are the men who held you in these photos?” I feel like they are in the room with me now, and terror paralyzes me.
I breathe in deep, fighting tears, but I point them out.
The lady cop smiles and says, “Thank you. That will be all for today.”
I may not be able to give the cops enough detail about what happened to me, but I can point out faces. At least I’m able to do that.
A few days later, I go back and meet the child forensic psychologist. Dr. Carolynn’s nice. She takes me to a new room with softer chairs and brighter colors. She lets me draw while we talk.
When we’re done, she tells my mom, “That was a piece of cake! Got everything we needed, and she’s no worse for the wear.”
The truth is, I feel more worn than any seventeen-year-old ever should.
The cops assure my mom that they have enough to arrest Nikhil now. “With the progress she’s made, she’ll be able to withstand cross-examinations by his top attorneys.”
“Will she have to go to trial?” my mom whispers. “I don’t want her to have to see that monster.”
“Ma’am, I assure you, your daughter won’t have to look at that son of a bitch ever again.” For that I am thankful.
With just a few months until graduation, I can’t go back to class. It’s not that I don’t want to. I really want to see my friends again, but it’s not safe, and enough people say I’m not ready. I finally agree to homeschooling, and at the end of the school year, I walk the stage with my classmates and get my diploma.
After graduation, the Andersons drive me back home. We’re stopped at a light in Brentwood when Nikhil stops next to us in a gold Buick. Biship and Scrappy are with him. My heart races as I try to hide. Tears reach my eyes, and Mrs. Anderson asks, “Deidra, what’s wrong?”
“That’s him,” is all I can say.
“Well, you lean your seat right back, now,” she says before calling to report their license plate number. I lean the seat back and cry.
In the daytime, I hide at the Andersons’ home, riding horses, trying to forget. But at night, there’s nowhere to hide. Biship, Scrappy, and Nikhil haunt my sleep. Their threats plague my nightmares. My phone rings, and I barely hear it. It’s my mom this time. I can’t speak, so I let it go to voice-mail. She sends a text moments later.
Mom: “Good news!! Check your VM. I love you. 
”
I listen to the message: “Hey, De. I love you, sweetheart. I wanted you to know that the FBI picked Nikhil up pimping and pandering in Memphis. It seems the cops had trouble getting witnesses together against him and the other pimps They made a lot of threats.”
I break out in a cold sweat. I know they will make good on them. I fear for my life and my family again, wondering for the hundredth time if I did the right thing, if this trial is going to help anything.
My mom continues, “But Jason and Bri are giving their statements today. Sounds like they were both in Nikhil’s gang. He was working to start his own prostitution ring. I’m sorry, honey. They admit to selling you out for drugs.”
My stomach turns. I just barely make it to the toilet before I vomit.
“And the cops talked to Aaron, too.” I bring the phone back to my ear. Aaron, who took me to the Target parking lot, fiddled with his phone, and waited for texts. That Aaron. “Honey, he never admitted to anything.”
Nikhil’s parents try to get him out on bail. They have the money to do it, too. His parents turn out to be the heads of trade to Southeast Asia for the State of Tennessee, so they’re extremely connected, politically. All my parents’ friends know who they are. I would have, too, if I ever read the paper. Today, for instance, Nikhil’s dad’s business trip to India is one of the headlines.
Everyone at home is freaking out. They’re afraid Nikhil’s going to leave the country. Terror rises in me again. If he gets out, he will kill me. He will kill everyone I love, and then he’ll be gone forever.
Graciously, the judge denies Nikhil’s release. Something about having no accountability and supervision by being employed by his dad. A dad who everyone knows—because of his job and highly publicized business trips—is never around. If anyone else held Nikhil accountable, they would have let him out. I’m thankful for this small miracle.
Nikhil’s parents spare no expense at the trial, though. They patiently watch every proceeding and support their son, the gangbanging, drug-dealing rapist. They try to portray my kidnapper as a stand out guy and me as a crazy, lovesick girl. They review all of my records. Every therapist, every school, psychologists—everything. They say it was really my fault. “Nikhil did nothing wrong. It was all consensual.”
Like I would agree to be pimped out to random strangers, old men, fat men, all hurting me until I’m scared and bleeding, taking their pleasure at the price of my youth and innocence.
The attorneys argue nonstop about why I’m not there. “Who is this victim, anyway?”
I’m so glad I don’t have to go. That I don’t have to see him again. That my mom found a victim’s rights attorney from the Voice of Victims. It’s free, too. At the trial, she sits beside the US Assistant Attorney to give presence to my absence. We even have a social worker who works with them.
On September 11, 2009, Nikhil is sentenced to prison. He pleads guilty to all counts. Biship and Scrappy are still free, though. My attorney tells us the cops wanted Nikhil to flip on the other pimps, but he didn’t because he knew they would kill him.
The Fray’s “You Found Me” and Beyonce’s “Halo” play on the radio when we drive home in the SRX. This time, I don’t mind Noah and Abby’s screaming or my mom’s overprotection. I’m looking forward to moving again, to starting over. I like moving. I just feel like you get a fresh start. You don’t know anybody. Nobody knows anything about you.
Even with my kidnapper behind bars, I know my life will never be the same again. But that won’t stop me from living it.
As soon as we knew Deidra was not where she was supposed to be, we sounded the alarm. I begged and pleaded for help, and thankfully, we lived in a community that was willing to support us. They became a part of everything we were going through. Anything people could or were willing to do, we would let them. This included putting up missing-person posters and pressing back on law enforcement when they said that Deidra had run away and there was nothing they could do.
The first thing I did was send out an e-mail to my contacts, asking for help. Then I went through Deidra’s room, searching through every nook and cranny. I examined everything, even if it was just a little scribble on a piece of paper that had been wadded up. Then I called people, including all of Deidra’s friends and contacts. I also knocked on doors, even if it was at 10:00 or 11:00 at night, and spoke with the local paper and news stations. And, in case the police were right, I also searched various places to which Deidra might have run away.
Even with all the searching, days passed and we heard nothing. Deidra’s friend never reported the text she sent to him. My urgency and panic grew exponentially. I knew something was wrong. I was actively looking, calling law enforcement multiple times a day, asking if they had heard anything at all about my daughter, but we still had no leads. Though local law enforcement was doing everything they could do, they were not experts. The experts were the Innocence Lost Task Force, a division of the FBI. They were the ones who found my daughter.
I never would have reached them if not for a mother in our community. She had the connections, went to the head of the FBI task force and said, “You need to investigate this, and you need to do it now. I know this family, and I’m telling you right now, their daughter is missing, and something is wrong. Can you please just look at the information? That’s all I’m asking you to do—look at the information.”
The FBI task force found my daughter within five hours. That is unheard of. Statistically, after seventy-two hours, it is almost impossible to find a kidnapping victim. After a week, the odds of finding a victim are less than 0.1 percent, because by that time, they could have been transported anywhere in the world. Deidra was missing for eight days, yet we found her.
Fortunately, we beat the odds because we had people who were so passionate about seeing justice prevail and willing to help in any way they could. That mother in our community was willing to storm the FBI and validate our story. It is nothing short of a miracle that my daughter was rescued.
Restoration is not a destination, it’s a journey. Every day has its own challenges and victories. It is a conscious choice to get up in the morning, go forward, and do something positive.
Deidra is on her own journey and continues to walk in a positive direction, and for that I am very, very thankful. It has been helpful that, as I have become involved in different groups within the anti-trafficking movement, Deidra has been surrounded by people who love on her. It has been amazing and extremely cathartic having that community around her.
Even with that support, day-to-day life can be a struggle, and that is important for people to understand. Her mental developmental deficits protected and insulated her from some of the extent of this evil, but she still has bad days. The trauma affects Deidra to the point where sometimes she is physically ill. Some nights, she wakes up in complete terror from nightmares and flashbacks.
This is not like a physical wound where you get cut—it hurts and bleeds, but then the bleeding stops, the body starts to restore itself and it eventually heals. Sometimes you never even know the wound was there. This is a deep, emotional wound, and there may be things that Deidra deals with forever.
It is important to remember that survivors need time and strong support systems through this process. Our job as family and friends is to patiently and lovingly walk alongside them on this journey to restoration.
My daughter is an amazing young lady, resilient and able to bounce back. The recovery she has made through this trauma has been astounding. It has been a blessing to see the healing and restoration in our own lives and to be a part of it in so many other lives as well.
My daughter, Deidra, was rescued. After fearing that she was lost forever, I cannot even begin to put into words the joy, relief, and thankfulness we feel to have our daughter back.
Despite the relief of her rescue, we often felt exploited, raw, and alone. This crime of child sex trafficking is so evil and so perverse. It is unlike anything I have ever been exposed to. Once this kind of trauma and abuse has been introduced into a family, it is devastating. It felt like we lost everything.
Every member of my immediate family needed to receive counseling to deal with the profound pain, torment, and fear we experienced. There are still pimps out there who have never been caught or prosecuted, and they know who we are and where we live. Their original threats to kill us still haunt our thoughts. While we are well aware of this present danger, we still have to be able to live our lives. Through many hours of therapy, I finally got to a point where I decided I will be damned if I let the criminals take more from me than they have already taken. I am thankful that I can now say and walk that out with conviction.
The turning point for me was when I delivered the victim impact statement for my daughter at her perpetrator’s trail. In front of the court, I read what I would say to the kidnapper. I didn’t think I would be able to do it. The fear was overwhelming. After it was over, I found out that there were people in the court—from the probation system, FBI, and police force— who left that room in tears. It was surprising to hear that what I had to say was so impactful.
From that point on, I decided not to be silent anymore. I can be a voice for these girls and tell anyone who will listen that this is happening here— everywhere—and we need to do something about it. I will go anywhere and speak to anyone about this crime—government institutions, school districts, ministries, and filmmakers. My daughter was even able to tell her story on a national television show last year.
A few women in my community wanted to help as well, so we partnered with a local anti-sex-trafficking organization for a fund-raising run. Together, we have been able to raise more than one hundred thousand dollars for organizations that help girls who have been trafficked.
Also, I recently completed forensic-exam training so that, as a nurse, I can be a sexual assault examiner. By obtaining my bachelor of science in nursing with a focus on public health, I am able to branch out into combating the crime of sex trafficking and raise awareness for this vulnerable generation of at-risk children and teens. Though our experiences with Deidra were damaging and painful, I have been able to use what we learned to change lives.
The unfortunate truth is that this is real. It happened to my daughter. Right now, my daughter can come home and sleep safely in her bed, and I can love on her. But there are thousands of daughters who have been deprived of that safety and love, and that will never be OK with me. My fight will never be over until those daughters are safe. I have chosen to give my life so that others are empowered, encouraged, and compelled to fight this crime of child sex trafficking.
Because of Deidra’s cognitive and developmental delays, I was a very protective mom. She did not hang out with people we did not know. I knew her friends, met their parents, and supervised her Internet access. I did everything I could to protect her. But the bottom line is, when Deidra was in that parking lot, approached by a perpetrator and given alcohol laced with drugs, there was nothing else I could have done.
The key to Deidra’s discovery was that I knew where she was, whom she was with, and when she was supposed to be home. When she did not come home in time, I was able to act immediately.
When I speak to kids, I try to tell them that there should be someone in their lives who always knows where they are and whom they are with. It is so important to keep parents or a trusted adult in the inner circle. For us, that meant the difference between my daughter’s life being saved and her falling off the face of the earth.