by Ronda Pauley
Trapped in the Mayan Tattoo
Ronda Pauley
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
PREFACE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
PART II
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
PART III
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
Acknowledgements
We all reach a fork in the road from time to time in our journeys through life. When I came to one recently, my daughter advised me to follow my passion. Ha! My own words came back to me. I came to realize that passion—the fight against human trafficking. My pursuit was further encouraged by my husband Chris, who gave me technical advice, my son Josh, as well as my daughter-in-law Patience who quietly discussed her involvement with anti-human trafficking efforts. As the ripples form from a pebble tossed in a pool, my acknowledgements grow, and I found that my grandchildren were also a huge inspiration. Lasci I thank especially for her “kidspeak” on how kids’ personalities come through in their talk.
This book could not have happened without the encouragement and wisdom of my wonderfully reliable consultants. I am grateful to the following: Dr. Sharlene Lassiter Boltz at Northern Kentucky University for her knowledge and expertise in law as it relates to the trafficking of humans; Mary Richie and Partners Against Trafficking in Humans (PATH-Northern Kentucky); Jeffrey Eller, for his permission to use “Fred’s Boots Incorporated” from his own childhood; the Salvation Army and their Central Ohio Rescue and Restore Coalition (CORRC) training in human trafficking as well as their Initiative Against Sexual Trafficking (IAST); the Federal Bureau of Investigation for a subscription to their updates; and illustrator Alyssa Stark for her very accommodating research and amazing cover art. My thanks also go to former U.S. President Bill Clinton, the Clinton Global Initiative, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and President Barack Obama for helping to bring the atrocity of trafficking in humans to light. A huge thank you to the U.S. Bureau of Justice, Office of Justice Programs for leadership in developing the nation’s capacity to prevent and control crime, administer justice, and assist victims of these crimes. The number for the National Human Trafficking Resouce Center is 1-888-373-7888. That number is available 24/7.
Now, I come back to my daughter, to whom I owe special thanks. Her interest in the fight against human trafficking was ignited by Dr. Howard Tolley and Dr. Mia Bloom while Jessica studied at the University of Cincinnati. She, in turn, sparked my interest when I learned that young children were often targets in large-scale human trafficking. Our shared interest in the efforts to fight the problem helped launch this pursuit.
PREFACE
The trafficking of humans, occurring at an epidemic rate in the United States, can begin so deceptively that unwary victims can become trapped, the life of the person sucked out before it really begins. These innocent victims sometimes find themselves drugged, tattooed, branded, and used up, their spirits consumed by those they once trusted.
“…Human Trafficking is not a business model.”—President Barack Obama in his address to the Clinton Global Inititiative Annual Meeting 2012
The Department of Justice reports that nearly 800,000 children younger than 18 are missing each year, or an average of 2,185 children reported missing each day. Some of these children are abducted for the pupose of human trafficking. According to the U.S. Department of Justice’s Bureau of Justice Characteristics of Suspected Human Trafficking Incidents 2008-2010 report, 40 percent of human sex trafficking in the United States involved the prostitution or sexual exploitation of a child.
PART I
MISSING
The Federal Bureau of Investigation, working collaboratively with the Department of Justice Child Exploitation and Obscenity Section and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, began their Innocence Lost National Initiative in June 2003. Their aim—to address the “growing problem of domestic sex trafficking of children in the United States”.
ONE
On a grimy street near the factories of a Mexican border town stood a desolate cantina, known locally for its red neon lights and the clandestine use of its lush upstairs rooms. But in one of its back rooms, accessible only to staff, Maria Candelaria Hernandez, known at this cantina as Carmelicious Candie, scrambled off the floormat to put the rest of her clothes back on.
The last man to see Maria had pushed past Ramon and surprised Maria by rushing into her room. He was forceful, brutal and left quickly after his tirade, upset that he couldn’t get the girl he wanted. Not only that, he was going to ask management for his money back. That would bring on more punishment for the girl, and she knew it. She also knew that this man dropped ten American dollars on the floor.
Maria examined the bruise that was already forming on her arm near one of her tattoos and wondered what the rest of her aching body must look like. She brushed back sweaty brown hair, picked up the money and pulled on a tank top.
The camera in the upper corner near the door clipped on unnoticeably but Maria was constantly aware of the presence of eyes that watched her every move. The camera offered no protection. Its real function was in the production of cheap live-action films that could be turned quickly into cash either on the street or through the Internet. No one cared if the girls received an occasional bruising in the process. Some clients liked it rough. Business was business.
Like the old song “Hotel California”, check-out times weren’t on the schedule, but today could prove that wrong.
Maria awkwardly made her way toward the door. She would soon leave the room to get a shower but first she fumbled silently to find the little bandage box she had placed behind the curtain on the window ledge. Here, where the camera would not detect movement, she had a stash of stolen money squirreled away to someday escape this hell-hole. Maria smiled as she added the ten stolen American dollars to the rest of her cash and mentally did the math.
A rosary hung on a nail by the door. Maria grabbed it and said a quick prayer. She continued clutching it tightly while she opened the door to hot, dry air and the tiny enclosed yard with its barbed-wire-wrapped fencing. A well-worn path ran alongsi
de this strip of rooms leading to the shared bathroom. Dust on the path swept up onto her sandals and blanketed Maria’s toes.
Maria had felt numb and emotionless for weeks, wondering if anyone was even looking for her. Now, because of last night’s secret liaison, she would be leaving the stench of this place. She felt light-hearted in spite of the beating she had just been dealt.
As she walked on the path toward the bathroom, Maria smiled and thought about last night’s strange but pleasant visitor she had in one of the upstairs rooms. Looking embarrassed, this American had pulled off his shirt, left the rest of his clothes on, and slid between the smooth cool sheets. He was older, probably older than forty, but he was different. Clean, well-built, with an easy and genuine smile.
“Let’s get right to it,” he said as he beckoned Maria, who was dressed in a red lace tank top and low-rise shorts. She walked toward the bed and wondered at the cautious way he surveyed the room, as if looking for cameras. Then, when she settled in, clothing on, he covered both his head and hers with the bed sheet.
“Relax, I’m undercover, no kidding,” he whispered with a laugh. “I have a badge. It’s here in my pocket. You have to trust me.”
“What?” Maria asked. She started shaking her hands wildly.
“Whoa. Relax. You’re not in any trouble. Tell me your full name.”
“Maria Candelaria Hernandez.”
“Great! You’re the one we’re after! And when were you born?”
When she hesitated, he added, “It’s OK.”
Maria still didn’t answer but could not stop the uncontrollable shaking of her hands. The man reached over and gently held her hands.
“I’m not going to arrest you or hurt you. I’m here to help,” he whispered.
After a full minute, the man let go of her hands and moved into a variety of positions, barely touching Maria under the sheet. These movements were only for the camera, he told her, so that if anyone watched a monitor, nothing would raise suspicion. In reality, the man behaved like a gentleman. He appeared to have only one intention: rescuing Maria.
As he pretended to get his money’s worth, the man reached for his billfold and showed Maria his badge, barely visible under the sheet.
Maria touched it and gasped as her vision adjusted, suddenly aware that he seemed to have a plan. The badge, FBI, appeared to be real! Her heart beat faster. Even in the dim light under the tent-like cover, the eagle’s outstretched wings gave her hope that freedom might be within reach!
“Ooh, big!” she said. Maria pouted her freshly-painted lips and showed her face toward the camera.
“It does the job,” the agent said as he put the badge away under the covers. “You’ll see.”
“May I look at your neck?” he asked in a whisper.
Maria pulled her hair to the side, knowing that the ink would still be visible in the tent-like shape of the sheet.
“They’ve already branded you. Ouch!”
For the ever-watchful camera, she pretended that this man, like any other, was simply there for his own pleasure. Outwardly, she had learned to perform for survival. It was merely an act. Inwardly, she had learned to hate men and to turn all her physical sensation to stone, not allowing anything to hurt. Could this man, with his gentle, even shy approach, actually be different?
Having learned the rules of survival, she cooed for the camera. When she spoke she knew she sounded like a little girl. She had a lisp, so she tried to avoid words that had an s in them. Maybe someday she’d have the chance to outgrow this speech impediment.
Then, whispering, the man explained that he was with the FBI and that her father was worried about her.
“I didn’t run away!” Maria whispered, her head still under the covers. She started to cry.
“Don’t cry. He knows that. We’re going to get you back to him.”
He let her know that they were able to track her boyfriend to this address.
“You saw my boyfriend?” she asked.
“You want to go back home, don’t you?” he asked. “Forget him. You’ll leave tomorrow. Don’t pack heavy!”
“Get me out of this hell-hole. Now!” she said, trying hard not to raise her voice.
“All in good time,” he said. “There’s no way they’d let you leave with me. This group plays for keeps.”
Maria bit her lip. She already knew that. Again, her hands shook.
He told Maria to expect a woman to enter the cantina at 1:30 p.m. on the following day. She would sip a bottle of sweet tea, no ice, for 20 minutes at the bar. Then she would leave the cantina and wait outside in a blue car. Maria was to wait until the woman, an analyst for the FBI, was gone. Then Maria was to go out and approach the car. The woman would introduce herself as Miss Shoe.
“Are you free to leave this building?”
“No, not without Ramon or someone.”
“Find an excuse to go through the front door. We’ll do the rest.”
“They took my passport,” Maria lamented. “And my phone.”
The passport itself symbolized freedom as much as the barbed wire around the back courtyard represented imprisonment. She had been trapped and she knew it from the day she arrived. She hated herself for having been so stupid.
“Don’t worry about that. Just do what I told you.”
When the agent left, he bent over Maria and gave her a peck on the cheek. Then, in a normal voice but in view of the camera’s eye, he said, “You’re good, Candie! I’ll stop back the next time I’m down this way.”
Maria winced when he called her Candie. Candy was something to be devoured for its sweetness.
The agent had been both polite and funny. If she had been able to leave last night, like she’d hoped, today’s brutal experience would not have happened.
She stood at the broken mirror in the shared bathroom and studied her reflection. Hollow eyes set deep revealed her pain while the dark circles underneath showed her neglected health. She barely recognized the girl who stared back at her from a face of yellowish blotchy skin that was now, already, showing signs of bruising. Just a few months ago, her high school photo showed a different face, one that was smooth and clear, vibrant, with bright sparkling eyes and a quick smile. If she somehow went back to her father, would he recognize her? Would he take her in? Some of the girls said you could never go back home. Maria wondered.
In the shower, she attempted to wash away the filth, the grime, the bruising, the guilt, but could wash away only the visible dirt. As she bathed, Maria hummed and tried to imagine she was the person she had been before the cantina. She replayed details of the agent’s words, now committed to memory.
“1:30…woman… sweet tea,” she thought. “20 minutes...Don’t pack heavy…blue car.”
Freshly showered, dressed now in a clean T-shirt, shorts and sandals, and with her dark hair done in a long low ponytail, Maria tried to be nonchalant and not let her pain, worry or excitement show. She used makeup to cover some visible bruising and dark under-eye circles but she also ached inside. She worried about lasting physical damage. She worried about the ink on her neck that wouldn’t wash away. Mostly, Maria worried that she would never feel truly clean again.
After giving herself a Cheshire cat smile in the foggy mirror, she went outside again to the path that led to the cantina’s back entrance, this time trying to keep her feet clean and her face devoid of her inner excitement at the possibility of escape.
Maria stopped briefly at the small room she shared with three others. She took the money out of the box. Then, with all her cash stuffed in her bra, she grabbed only as many items as her handbag would hold, putting her rosary around her neck. Ramon wouldn’t like that, but she didn’t care.
It was early afternoon, almost time for the appointed visitor. A small table in a dark corner of the cantina would give Maria a vantage point. She sat near a stack of catalogs. The girls often sat here to peruse the catalogs for lingerie and to be on display for potential clients. Maria positioned herself
carefully and watched the front door as she flipped through the pages of a catalog. A scantily-clad model smiled back on the cover. When a man walked in, Maria felt sick at the thought that a man might approach her.
With only the money in her bra, the rosary, and her small quilted handbag dangling from her shoulder, Maria watched, waited and said a silent prayer.
Occasionally, she glanced at the photos in the catalog but they made her stomach tighten. Ramon did the books, and Maria never saw money. He allowed her a small weekly allowance that was to be spent on her appearance. Nothing could be purchased without his approval.
Built like a middle-weight boxer, Ramon was harsh, no nonsense. He expected his girls to look good. Those who didn’t went missing. Maria and the others sometimes whispered among themselves about the missing girls. Maybe they were simply allowed to go home, having served their time, paid off their passports, or whatever debt Ramon said they owed him. But three had gone missing in the two months that Maria had been there and Ramon wasn’t talking. When a girl got careless, he would sneer and say, “Ugly girls are a vexation to the eye.” Then, after awhile, you wouldn’t see that girl again. And so the girls worked on their appearance: hair, nails, makeup, and clothing.
After Maria spent only a few minutes looking at catalogs, a woman walked in and approached the bar. She was around forty, slender, and had shoulder length brown hair. Althought the woman was not exactly pretty, she was attractive in a businessy sort of way. The agent from last night had not mentioned the woman’s appearance, but Maria was sure this was the analyst, Miss Shoe. Something about her looked tough, smart.
The bartender looked at the woman with suspicion in his eyes and said, “Yeah?”
Maria tried to listen when the woman chit-chatted lightly about the heat of the day. The bartender paid no attention to the woman except to take her order.
One of the other girls, about Maria’s age, came in through the back door and walked to the table where Maria sat, interrupting Maria’s concentration.
“Man, it’s hot today. You done with this?” the girl asked as she reached for the catalog.
