Human Trafficking Tale; Sister-Sister — She Drives a Dodge Stratus

You can read part I here and part II here

Dedication for this work goes to NEWSREP’s own Sister, Ms. Joy B.

Little Sister didn’t do out-calls; only in-calls. She didn’t have a drivers license and didn’t know how even to drive. She had autism to a degree, sweet of intellect and difficult to talk to. She knew how to walk, though, and that’s what Biggs made her do when she wasn’t turning a stiff enough profit from her motel room through Backpage.com.

Her presence on the street would modestly predictable, I say. Sunday she could (almost) invariably be found stumbling down Central Ave looking back constantly at every car that passed her for signals from a John. She always had her purse and wore the most absurd shoes for walking.

Believe it or not, business was just slow on Sundays. Chalk it to the notion that Johns felt compunction enough to get a church credit with God, or perhaps get one of their hooker date credits knocked off their humanity list, all in an attempt to balance out the church-to-date credits. Ultimately John wants to face St. Pete with a list that is evenly balanced, or better yet at least lightly lopsided by one church credit.

That’s how Catholic guilt works; I’m Caucasian by birth and Catholic by compunction.

Little Sister just wasn’t really a monumental use to us being confined to an in-call scenario all day. Sure, I would phone-jilt her and find her motel and room, then sit there all day in a persistent stare mode until I with hope caught whoever showed up to feed and check on her. But I already had all the network players dead to rights.

Little Sisters post just kept showing loyalty to 0530 and 1930 local ABA hrs., along with her other sisters. The doldrum prompted the sort of attention you might understand:

“Hey, Little Sister has a new photo on Backpage!”

“Really? Hey great; let me see.”

“Jesus … she is getting so fucking thin. Kind of hard to look at really,”

“Painfully thin, bro. Those aren’t her usual lingerie, those are Lady-T’s things … are they swapping clothing now? Why? That’s disgusting!”

And so it would go.

Lady-T was hardcore; junked out and harbored just a deplorable disposition. A real gem wrought by her life of … this shit. But she had access to a car and could do out-calls. Those I like better because I have total control.

The first time I out-jilted her she came to the jilt driving a white Dodge Stratus. It put me in mind of Will Ferrel in the Saturday Night Live skit: “I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS, I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS!”

One of the key elements of information the LEO expressed interest in was finding where Biggs and his bottom, Angelica, hung their hats; where did they stay? After 19 months of dragnetting these people, I sure as hell knew where they lived. The Dodge Stratus that Lady-T drove — now that was a bit of a mystery to me.

It had a temporary tag on it rather than a license plate. My first jilt of her, after she left me a hideous and explosive message on my phone for “gaming” her like that. They all left me hate on my phone after I jilted them. I started deleting my burner numbers as soon as I got their FID (Facial Identification) photos for my reports. I just didn’t want to hear their rants.

I lost Lady-T and her Dodge Stratus in traffic. We in mobile surveillance will typically only make a set number of turns with our targets if we do not want them to finger their follow (compromise the car behind them as a follower). I make only three turns with my target before I break off. My boss Nikola was an agency man; he only allows two turns before break-off. He is a hardcore brother, that guy!

My intent by following Lady-T was of course to discover the source of the Dodge Stratus. I didn’t accomplish that with a mobile surveil like I wanted to, but I did finger is solid when Nikola just dumb luck saw it parked in an auto body “repair” yard that, yes, you guessed it, was a chop shop.

Through my sources, I identified the Dodge as registered to one Adam Cortez Biggs, and I even found the address of the chop shop to be one of Bigg’s legal residences. When Biggs felt the heat in his apartment residence, he, of course, bailed on it and scrambled for some new digs. I found those too, in just a duo of days.

The way we found Bigg’s first residence, the most important one, is interesting. At least to me:

Nikola and I worked up an Out-Call Jilt on Bigg’s bottom, Angelica. Bottom bitches will continue to hook, though they are to work log support to their pimp’s network. I chose an apartment complex that occupied both sides of a residential street.

Angelica showed up on time to the Jilt location. She was dismayed to find a card-swipe security gate. I gave only a negative phuq because I had already grabbed several FID frames of her disgusting mug. Nikola was in a car on the other side of the apartment to pick up follow of whoever came to pick up Angelica. I was the “trigger” with eyes on her. I would conduct the initial follow of her and pass off to Nickola once I had conducted three or fewer turns with her.

Most men are pussy-whipped grovellers.

Some jerk-off resident of the apartments ass-smooched her and carded her in. No big deal, she will knock on door 117 and nobody will answer or somebody will answer the door and say: “Who in the name of $hite are you?” It will be awkward and Angelica will leave jilted.

And shit sure did; I knocked off a few more FID frames for good measure.

I watched for a vehicle to come up but none did. She walked across the street to the other half of the apartment complex and entered a unit. Now, that was odd and I mulled it over with Nicola.

“Hmmm … geo, try to get a date with her in that apartment. If she won’t do it then that could mean that it’s hers and Bigg’s residence; out of play for hooking.”

I glanced in the direction of Nikola’s car, which I couldn’t see: “That Nikola is full of simple brilliance.” and I meant it.

I’ll spare the word-by-word but the gist is I told her I just missed her but saw her go into unit 11 across the street and wanted to date her there. She would have nothing to do with it.

“Good call, Nickola; you are on target with that assessment. I  guess we’re done here, my brother.” Nickola had one more idea up his sleeveless shirt:

“Get aggressive with her; threaten her, geo. Let’s see who she calls and what knight in shining armor show up to retrieve the damsel.”

Did I mention this guy is brilliant? The good news is he is still with the organization and still brilliant as hell.

I threatened Angelica intensely. I even told her I would kick down her door and have my way — and we waited. Slowly Nicola and I were bashed by the crescendo of the deep throb of a ’76 shovelhead Harly-Davidson. This bike was loud, silly loud, and I would meet it several times in the months to come from its signature loudness!

He jumped his Harley up and over the curb. The rider was wearing the absolute meanest face he could muster for the situation. He cruised around and around the parking lot standing on the pegs of his bike shooting daggers from his eyes into the chest of anybody he could see.

That guy looked familiar to me; very familiar I say.

When “Easy Rider” was satisfied with the state of affairs at the apartment he roared off — right past Nickola buried in his car wrapped in black screens. “He ran south right by me, geo. Let’s break and RTB (Return to Base to recover from a mission).

Once back home in my personal Tactical Operations Center I scoured through my photo aficionado folder of street photos I had collected over the months on my own time off, back when I actually took time off, and I found it: some eight months prior I was parked in my mobile hide sight snapping frames of freaks and other interesting entities.

I spied a man sitting on a Harley looking hard, or maybe just already hard-looking. He was black, wore black shades, had on a black biker vest, and cornrows in his hair. I sparked a fag and sucked deeply, exhaling a whispy white trail.

“Now that is a one-each bad muthah,” I postulated and clicked away his soul into my data store.

It was a good photo, not a great photo. But: “never throw away a photo that you bothered to put through your editing software,” as I always say, “There’s a reason you brought it home.”

All in all the Biggs network was fingered and developed to the hilt. Little Sister would continue to get posted with undying loyalty and attenuate the days away.

By Almighty God and with honor,
Geo sends

All photos featured in this essay are the work of the author, George Edward Hand IV, www.GeorgeHand.org