You can read part one here

Dedication for this work goes to Adam Cortez (Biggy-Small) Biggs, convicted trafficker of this essay’s protagonist.

Adam Cortez (Biggy-Small) Biggs looks out over the balcony of the motel where he trafficks multiple young women.

Little Sister appeared on with the rigid regularity of a trafficked little sister, her and her other sisters. I think there were five in all at the time. The sisters’ posts appeared at around 0530 every morning, and then again at about 1930 in the evenings. Their posts never varied in time stamp more than a minute among all five of them. Reason: all of their posts were done on their behalf by their trafficker.

Biggy-Small used his “Bottom Bitch” to affect the post of his harem on BackPage. The term bottom bitch is misleading, as it is actually his top girl, one who he is in a relationship with, has the most tenure in his trafficking network, and is trusted with her own car to handle the logistic requirements of his network:

  1. Transport the sisters to different motels around the city
  2. Feed the sisters, typically only fast food day after day
  3. Keep the sisters in clothes
  4. Fetch errands for the girls to keep them in toiletries, makeup, incidentals, etc.
  5. Take the sisters to a clinic for checkups and treatment for maladies
  6. I don’t know what else …
My own surveillance photo of Biggy outside his apartment on the day the feds finally rolled him up.

Pimps like Biggy-Small are pretty smart, but not very smart. Worse than that, they historically don’t have the endurance to keep up their security posture. Ideally, they need to move their girls around at least once per week; moving targets are hard to hit. Oh, but that means more work for his bottom bitch, and if she is impaired somewhat — she might not perform swimmingly in her assigned role.

Such was the case of Biggy’s bottom girl, Angelica G; hard-core addicted to heroin — oh dear!

Angelica G.; she was anything but angelic — all the way up until Biggy discovered her secret boyfriend and she disappeared.

I tracked Angelica many times as she moved through town in her Chevy Impala. Several times a day I noted her as she pulled over in an intentionally nondescript location where she remained for nearly an hour without leaving her car. “Heaven knows,” I could only wonder until I figure it all out through the most intriguing event.

Given my method of remote tracking, I pinged her locations once every ten seconds and found her to pause for nearly an hour in a Walgreen’s parking lot on our Central Avenue. When she moved again, low and behold she pulled into the parking lot of yet another Walgreens farther east on Central. After a half hour I had to wonder: