At 3 AM, the motorcyclist heard three men bidding on a teenage girl in the gas station toilet like she was livestock.
I had stopped on I-70 near Kansas City (State of Missouri) to get gas and coffee. I’m really fatigued from cycling for twelve hours straight. That’s when I heard them through the wall of the men’s room. Three voices disputing over costs. Subsequently, a fourth voice emerged. Young. Woman. Scared. She begged them to release her.
One man said, “Fifteen hundred.” “She’s broken.” There were marks left on her arms. No one wants a drug addict.
“Two grand,” said another. “She’s still young. Fourteen or fifteen.” Still making money.”
I stood still beside the sink. When I heard her whimper, my blood froze. “Please. My mom is seeking me. She will pay. “Just let me call her.”
They laughed. Someone hit her. I heard it through the wall. Then the third man spoke, and his voice sent shivers down my spine. “Five thousand. Last offer. I’ll drive her to Denver. Get her to work by dawn. She’ll get that back in a month.”
The door swung open. They began to take her away. That’s when I noticed her face. Hurt. Sobbing. Her eyes appeared lifeless. She stared me right in the eye. Mouthed two words: “Help me.”
I had seven seconds to decide what to do that would either save this girl’s life or get us both killed. I took out my wallet, stepped in front of them, and spoke six words that made everyone in that petrol station stop: “I’ll give you ten thousand cash.” Currently.
William “Hammer” Davidson is my name. Age: 69. Veteran of Vietnam. I’ve been riding Harleys for 44 years.
I have seen evil. Fight. Crimes of war. Things that still keep me up at night fifty years later.
But nothing could have prepared me for what I heard through the bathroom wall at a petrol station south of Kansas City around 3 AM.
Trafficking people. There it is. It’s situated in the heart of the United States. At a truck stop like thousands of others.
I had been cycling by myself. I’m coming back from my brother’s funeral in Colorado. He died of cancer when he was sixty-five. He was far too young to have passed away. Too quickly. I had been driving for twelve hours, trying to get away from my sadness, when I stopped at that petrol station.
Just needed a cup of coffee. Toilet. Ten minutes.
The men’s room was only around the corner from the women’s. Had a thin partition between them. That’s how I heard them so plainly.
“She isn’t worth two grand.” “Look at her arms.”
I couldn’t move at the urinal. What did they talk about?
“She’s young.” That’s what counts. “Make her look better, and she’ll look eighteen.”
“My buyer wants someone younger.” Fourteen, fifteen at the most.
My hands began to shake. I knew what this was. I had heard about it. Look at articles. I never believed I’d find it.
“Please,” said a girl’s voice. Young. In need. “Please let me go.” I won’t tell anyone. I promise.
A slap. Loud enough to be heard clearly. The girl yelled.
“Stop talking. You are now my property.” Get used to it.”
I zipped up. I took my time washing my hands. Thought. There was just one way out of the bathroom. The bathroom was located right next to me. They would have to stroll by.
I had my phone in my vest. I could call 911. But what would I say? How long would it take, too? These guys would be gone in five minutes. The girl was with them.
The door swung open.
The first three people to leave were men. They ranged in age from mid-thirties to forties. Pants. Hats for baseball. It might have been anyone. A teenage female was behind them. Thin. She was wearing clothes that were stained with dirt. Her face was covered in bruises. She had her hands tied in front of her.
She saw me. They met each other’s eyes directly. Said those two words: “Help me.”
One of the guys saw it. “Keep going.”
He pushed her toward the door. They were going to a white van in the parking lot. Windows are tinted. I couldn’t see any plates from where I was.
I had seconds.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “Do you have a minute?””
They changed. Gave me a look. A biker who is six feet two inches tall and coated in road dust and leather. One of them reached behind his back. Gun, most likely.
“Old man, I’m not interested in what you’re selling.”
“That’s funny.” I thought the same thing. I looked at the girl. “How much?””
Their faces transformed. Doubt. But also curiosity.
“How much for what?””
“Don’t be an idiot. I could hear you through the wall. The bidding. How much does the girl cost?”
The girl’s eyes got big. Betrayed. She believed I was just another customer. She saw me as a unique entity.
The guys felt a little better. “Ten thousand.” This matter was not subject to debate.
I took out my wallet. Gave them the money. I took out fifteen thousand dollars for my brother’s funeral. Costs of burial. Not all of it had been squandered.
“Right here, I have ten thousand. Money.” Not a single question.”
They stared at each other. Figuring out. Was I a buyer? Was I a member of the police force? Something else?
“Why should we believe you?””
“Because I have ten thousand dollars in cash right now.” Because I ride by myself. “Because I don’t look like a cop.” I stopped. Additionally, the van lacks any license plates. You are running. There was a problem. You need money quickly, and you need to move swiftly.
I was only guessing. But their features assured me I was right.
“Where are you taking her?””
One person said, “Denver.” The other people looked at him angrily. He had talked too much.
“Okay. I’m going to Reno. She is now my employee. Are we done?”
They were unsure. Ten thousand dollars in cash right now, or the chance of going to Denver with a female who had already tried to run away at least once, as shown by the bruises.
“Show us the money.”
I counted it up. Slowly. Making sure the girl could see. Making sure she knew that I was buying time, not her. She didn’t know that, though. She looked at the money with blank eyes.
“Deal,” the leader said. He took the money. “She belongs to you. But here’s some advice: keep her on drugs.” She runs.”
They left. I climbed into the van. Drove away. I learned as much as I could. The vehicle in question is a white Ford Transit. The vehicle was manufactured in either 2018 or 2019. There is a dent on the left side. The taillight is broken.
After that, I looked at the girl.
She stepped back. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m not going to.”
“You just bought me.”
“No.” “I just got you away from them.” I took out my phone. “Calling 911.”
“No!” She lunged ahead. Tried to take my phone. “No cops!”
“Why not?””
“Because they will send me back!” To the group home! That’s where they got me! This is where it all began!
I put the phone down. “Tell me what happened.”
Macy was her name. Age: 16 She has been in foster care since she was eight. She has transitioned from one foster home to another. The last one was a group house in Kansas City (State of Missouri). There are seventeen girls. Two adults are in charge. One of those grownups was selling the girls.
“Mrs. “Patterson,” said Macy. Her voice was bland. Gone. “She’s been doing it for a long time. “She targets those who cause trouble.” The ones that no one cares about. The people that ran away. Sells us to truck drivers. To guys with vans: “To anyone who has money.”
“The police—”
“Don’t believe me. I’m a foster child who has a drug addiction. She is a well-respected practitioner in child care. Who do you think people will trust?”
She was right. I’d seen it before. The system is defending its own.
I answered, “The tracks on your arms.” “They talked about that.”
Macy rolled up her sleeves. Marks was on the track. New and old.” Mrs. Patterson got me interested. Said it would make things easier. She assured me that I would fight less. I started to cry. “I haven’t used drugs in three days. Because I ran. But they nabbed me at a truck stop in Topeka. “Been passing me around since then.”
Three days. No one had recognized that this 16-year-old had been trafficked for three days throughout several states.
“You said your mom was looking for you.”
“I lied.” My mom is dead. I died when I was seven. That’s why I went into foster care.”
“Family members?””
“No one.”
Of course. That’s how they chose their victims. No one will miss them.
I gazed at this kid. Sixteen. Hooked. Sold. No family. There is no hope. The system had let her down at every turn.
“What’s your full name?””
“Macy Rodriguez.”
“I’m going to help you, Macy.” But I need you to believe in me. Are you able to do that?”
She laughed. Angry. “Do you trust a biker who just gave me ten grand?” What would make me do that?
“Because I’m about to cut those ties. Take my phone. You can call whomever you want. “I won’t stop you if you want to run,” I said.
I took out my knife. She jumped.
“I’m just cutting the ties.”
I cut them off. Gave her my phone. “Call the person you trust the most.”
She looked at it. “I don’t have anyone.”
“Then let me call someone who can help.”
I called Luther. I called Luther, who is the lawyer for my club. He woke up around 3 AM.
“Luther, I need help. The status of human trafficking. There is a victim who is sixteen years old. Need a safe place to stay.” We need someone who can handle this properly.
For ten seconds, Luther said nothing. Then: “Where are you?””
I told him.
“Don’t move. I’m calling people.” Stay on the line.”
Two automobiles came up thirty minutes later. A lady who works for a nonprofit that helps victims of trafficking. A social professional that Luther could trust. Not part of the Kansas City (State of Missouri) system.
When she saw them, Macy freaked out. “You said you would help!””
“I am helping.” This is what these individuals do best. They know what you’ve been through. They won’t send you back.”
The woman from the group that helps people came up gently. “Hey, Macy? I’m Jennifer. I maintain a safe house for those who have been trafficked. No cops. The foster care system is not involved in this process. This is solely to ensure your safety. Health care. Anything you require is available.
“Why should I trust you?””
Jennifer rolled up her sleeve. Marks on the track. The marks on the track were faded, yet they remained present. “Because I was you fifteen years ago. Someone helped me, too. “Now I help other people.”
Macy fell apart. Cried. Jennifer held her while she broke down.
The social worker took me aside. “You did the right thing.” But you do know you just did something illegal, right? You were part of a deal to traffic people.
“Yes.”
“The police will want to know.”
“Let them ask.”
I made my statement. I discussed the situation with the men. The van. I recounted every detail I could recall. Gave them my dashcam video. The camera on my bike caught the van leaving. One frame shows part of the VIN.
The detective responded, “This is good.” “Excellent. For the past six months, we’ve been following a trafficking ring through truck stops. “Your information might break it open.”
“What about Macy?””
“She is safe.” The group that fights for rights is strong. “She won’t go back into state care.”
“And Mrs. Patterson?”
The detective smiled. “We’re going to talk to her very soon.”
Three days later, I went to see Macy. The safe house was not in the city. Safe. Not known. There were six other girls there. All of the people who were trafficked.
Macy was going through withdrawal. Shaking. Sick. Despite her illness, she managed to survive.
“Why did you help me?” she inquired.
“Because you told me to.”
“That’s it?””
“That’s all.”
She thought about it. “The other guys who saw me that night. They were stationed at various truck stops. They didn’t do anything to aid. They turned away. Or they—” She stopped. I couldn’t say it.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you turn away?””
I thought about Vietnam. About villages that are on fire. I was struck by the realization that something was wrong and faced with a decision to make. Do something or look away.
“Because I’ve turned away before. A long time ago. Different set of circumstances. It has tormented me for fifty years.” I wasn’t going to look away again.”
It took Macy months to get better. Get rid of toxins. Counseling. The process involves learning to have faith. The focus was on cultivating a sense of hope.
The police took Mrs. Patterson and two other staff members from the group home into custody. There were seventeen girls who spoke. Seventeen females who had been sold. The girls had been trafficked for several years.
Could this be a trafficking ring? Five males were taken into custody. This includes the three males who were at the petrol station. The video from my dashcam helped find them. They all have sentences of more than twenty years.
In the safe house, Macy turned 17. Then it was eighteen. I successfully completed my high school education by following a specific program. I began attending community college at the age of 18.
I went once a month. Gave her books. I assisted her with her assignments whenever she requested assistance. She wanted to know about motorcycles, so I taught her.
“Why bikes?” “Why?” she said one day.
“Freedom. You have the power. You choose where to go. “Nobody owns you.”
She got that metaphor. “Can you show me how to ride?””
“When you’re ready.”
Macy called me on her 19th birthday and said, “I’m ready.”
I taught her on a little Honda. At first, she was frightened. Then they made up their minds. Then pleased.
After her first ride alone, she declared, “I’m flying.” “I’m really flying.”
She received her driver’s license. She used the money she made at her part-time work to buy her bike. She began her journey by riding her bike to school. To get help. She rode to the safe house where she now worked as a volunteer, assisting girls like her.
She told me, “I’m going to be a social worker.” “The right kind—the kind who truly protects kids.”
“You’ll be good at it.”
“Because I know what it’s like to need help and have everyone turn their backs on me?”
“Because you know how it feels to be saved by someone who didn’t look away.”
Macy is now twenty-three. She got her degree in social work. Helps people who have been trafficked. She provides testimony during court proceedings. She provides assistance to the prosecution.
She still rides. She has a Harley now. Sportster. Purple. The vehicle is adorned with stickers promoting trafficking awareness.
We bike together from time to time. We ride together, along with a few other members of the club. Other survivors sometimes come with us. Women who got away. Who ‘s gotten better. These women ride their bikes as a reminder of their freedom.
We set up a ride last month. “Macy’s Run for Freedom.” There were 200 bikers. The event raised $50,000 to provide services for victims of trafficking.
Macy offered a speech at the end.
“Seven years ago, I was being sold in a restroom at a gas station. Three men were bidding on me like I was a piece of property. I was done. I had to accept that this was my life today. “I’d die young in a hotel room somewhere, and no one would care.”
She stared at me.
“Then a biker heard it. He could have just let it go. Could have left. You could have phoned the police and let them take care of it. He stepped in instead. Put himself in danger. “Those men bought me so he could set me free.”
“People want to know why I trust bikers. The reason I ride with them. I refer to them as family. It’s because a biker didn’t look away when everyone else did—the system, the cops, and everyday people at truck stops.
“He saw a sixteen-year-old girl saying, ‘help me,’ and he helped.”
People were crying in the audience. There are two hundred bikers. Everyone is crying.
“So when people say that bikers are hazardous, I agree with them. Bikers are a threat. Bikers pose a significant risk to those involved in trafficking. Harmful to abusers. “Anyone who hurts the innocent is in danger.”
“Because bikers don’t look away.”
She is correct. We don’t.
That night made me different. Made me pay more attention. That night made everyone in our club pay attention.
We began our training. Learning how to spot indications of trafficking. We learned how to identify potential victims of trafficking. Who should I get in touch with. What actions should we take?
Since Macy, we’ve assisted four additional girls. We recognized something was wrong four more times and did something about it instead of ignoring it.
Every one of them is alive. No cost. Getting better.
This improvement was made possible because a rider paid attention.
Did you receive the ten grand? I never asked for it back. I utilized the money to support Macy. Rent for the first month. Deposit for security. Books. She was able to find anything she needed.
She said, “I’ll pay you back.”
“You already did.” You have already repaid me by staying alive. This was achieved by improving your health. By aiding other people.”
There is a picture of Macy in her apartment. I am standing next to my bike outside of that gas station. She took it years later when we went back.
“Why did you want to go back?” I asked.
“To remember. This is where I died and came back to life. Where someone considered me to be a person instead of a thing. Where a biker with ten thousand dollars opted to save me instead of utilize me.”
The words under the picture say, “My hero.” My savior. My father.
That last word always gets to me.
I never had any kids. Not able to. Problem with health. It ruined my marriage. One reason my wife and I never really got along. That’s one of the reasons I rode so much. I was attempting to escape the sense of emptiness.
Then, around three in the morning, a sixteen-year-old said, “Help me,” at a gas station.
And I became a dad.
Not via blood. By choosing. She chose to be there when it mattered most.
My daughter is now Macy Rodriguez. She excels in every aspect that holds significance. She calls me “Dad.” I name her my child. We’re all related.
And it all started because I was too worn out to overlook bad things.
I heard trafficking happening through a bathroom wall and wouldn’t look away.
Because sometimes the best thing you can do is pull over at a gas station at just the perfect time.
And listen up.
Macy will start her master’s program next September. Macy will focus on advocacy for victims of trafficking through targeted initiatives. She is going to fix the system that let her down.
She declares, “I’m going to make sure that no other girl is sold by the person who is supposed to protect her.”
Yes, she will. I think that.
Macy Rodriguez lived through hell. Got away. Healed. And now she’s turning into the person she needed seven years ago.
The one who doesn’t turn away.
The person who does something.
He is the one who lends a helping hand.
She followed the instructions given by the biker at the petrol station.