At 3 AM, the biker heard three men in the gas station bathroom bidding on a teenage girl like she was a cow.
I had pulled over on I-70 near Kansas City, Missouri, to obtain petrol and coffee. I feel really tired after riding my bike for twelve hours straight. That’s when I heard them through the wall of the men’s bathroom. Three people arguing over costs. After that, a fourth voice came out. Young. Lady. Frightened. She begged them to let her go.
One man remarked, “Fifteen hundred.” “She’s broken.” Her arms had marks on them. No one wants someone who is addicted to drugs.
“Two grand,” said another. “She’s still young. Fourteen or fifteen.” Still making money.”
I stood still next to the sink. When I heard her whimper, my heart stopped. “Please.” My mom is looking for me. She will pay. “Let me just call her.”
They laughed. Someone struck her. I heard it through the wall. Then the third man spoke, and his voice made my skin crawl. “Five thousand. Last offer. I’ll take her to Denver and get her to work by dawn. She’ll get that money back in a month.”
The door opened. They started to take her away. That’s when I saw her face. Pain. Crying. Her eyes seemed dead. She looked me right in the eye. Said “Help me” with their mouth.
I had seven seconds to make a choice that would either save this girl’s life or end both of ours. “I’ll give you ten thousand cash right now.” I took out my wallet, stepped in front of them, and said these six words. Everyone in the gas station stopped.
My name is William “Hammer” Davidson. Age: 69. A veteran of the Vietnam War. I’ve been riding Harleys for 44 years.
I have seen bad things. Fight. War crimes. Things that still make me stay up at night fifty years later.
But I was not ready for what I heard over the bathroom wall at a gas station south of Kansas City at 3 AM.
People being trafficked. There it is. It’s in the middle of the United States. At a truck stop like a lot of others.
I had been riding my bike alone. I’m on my way back from Colorado, where my brother’s funeral was. He died of cancer at the age of sixty-five. He was way too young to have died. Way too fast. I had been driving for twelve hours to get away from my misery when I stopped at that gas station.
I only needed a cup of coffee. Bathroom. Ten minutes.
The men’s room was only around the corner from the women’s. There was a small wall between them. That’s how I could hear them so clearly.
“She isn’t worth two grand.” “Look at her arms.”
I couldn’t get out of the way at the urinal. What did they say?
“She’s young.” That’s all that matters. “Make her look better, and she’ll look like she’s 18.”
“My buyer wants someone younger.” Fourteen or fifteen at the most.
My hands started to shake. I was aware of what this was. I have heard of it. Read some articles. I never thought I would find it.
“Please,” said a girl’s voice. Young. In need. “Please let me go.” I promise not to tell anyone. I swear.
A hit. Loud enough to hear clearly. The girl screamed.
“Stop talking. You’re mine now. Get used to it.”
I zipped up and took my time washing my hands. I thought about it. There was only one door out of the bathroom, which was right next to me. They would have to walk by.
I had my phone in my vest, so I could call 911. But what would I say? And how long would it take? These guys would be gone in five minutes, and the girl was with them.
The door opened.
The first three people to leave were men. They were between the ages of 30 and 40. They wore pants and baseball hats. It could have been anyone. A teenage girl was behind them. She was thin and had clothes that were dirty. Her face was bruised and her hands were tied in front of her.
She looked at me. They looked at each other squarely. “Help me,” they said.
“Keep going,” one of the guys said.
He pushed her toward the door. They were walking to a white van in the parking lot. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see any plates from where I was.
I had a few seconds.
“Hey, people,” I said. “Do you have a minute?” “”
They became different. Looked at me. A biker who is six feet two inches tall and covered in leather and dirt from the road. One of them put their hand behind his back. Most certainly a gun.
“Hey old man, I’m not interested in what you’re selling.”
“I thought the same thing.” I gazed at the girl. “How much?”
Their faces changed. They were unsure, but they were also curious.
“How much for what?” “”
“Don’t be stupid. I could hear you through the wall. The bidding. How much does the girl cost?”
The girl’s eyes got really large. Betrayed. She thought I was just another consumer. She thought of me as one of a kind.
The boys were a little better. “Ten thousand.” There was no room for discussion on this issue.
I pulled out my wallet. Gave them the cash. I borrowed $15,000 for my brother’s funeral. Costs of the funeral. Not all of it had been wasted.
“I have ten thousand dollars right here.” Not one question.
They looked at each other and tried to figure out if I was a buyer, a police officer, or something else.
“Why should we trust 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 said, and I paused. The van also doesn’t have any license plates. You are running. There was an issue. You need money right away, and you need to get moving.
I was just making a guess. But their attributes made me believe I was right.
“Where are you going with her?”
“Denver,” one person remarked. The others looked at him furiously. He had spoken too much.
“Okay. I’m going to Reno. She is now working for me. Are we finished? “
They weren’t sure. They could get ten thousand dollars in cash right once, or they could go to Denver with a woman who had previously tried to run away at least once, as proven by the bruises.
“Show us the money.”
I counted it up slowly so the girl could see. I wanted her to know that I was buying time, not her. But she didn’t know that. She stared at the money with blank eyes.
“Deal,” the leader said. He received the money and added, “She is yours.” But here’s some advice: keep her on medicines. She runs.
They went away. I got into the van. Drove off. I learned as much as I could. The car in question is a white Ford Transit. The car was made in 2018 or 2019. The left side has a dent. The taillight is broken.
After that, I turned to the female.
She moved back. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m not going to.”
“You just bought me.”
“No.” “I just got you away from them.” I pulled out my phone. “Calling 911.”
“No!” She jumped forward. Tried to get my phone. “Not cops!”
“Why not?”
“Because they will send me back!” “To the group home! That’s where they got me! This is where it all started!
I hung up the phone and said, “Tell me what happened.”
Her name was Macy, and she was 16. She had been in foster care since she was eight and had moved from one family to another. The latest one was a group house in Kansas City, Missouri, with seventeen girls and two adults in charge. One of those adults was selling the girls.
“Mrs. Macy said, “Patterson.” Her voice was dull. Gone. “She’s been doing it for a long time. She goes after the troublemakers, the people no one cares about, the ones who ran away. She sells us to truck drivers and guys with vans. To anyone who has money.”
“The police—
“Don’t trust me. I am a foster child that is addicted to drugs. She is a well-respected child care worker. Who do you think people will believe? “
She was true. I had seen it before. The system is protecting its own.
I said, “The marks on your arms.” “They talked about that.”
Macy pushed up her sleeves. Marks was on the track, both new and old. Mrs. Patterson got me intrigued. Said it would help. She promised me that I would fight less. I began to cry. “I haven’t used drugs in three days. I ran, but they caught me at a truck stop in Topeka. They’ve been passing me around since then.”
Three days. No one knew that this 16-year-old had been trafficked throughout many states for three days.
“Your mom said she was looking for you.”
“I lied.” My mom is deceased. I died when I was seven, which is why I went into foster care.
“People in the family?” “”
“Nobody.”
Of course. That’s how they picked their victims. People won’t miss them.
I looked at this kid. Sixteen. Hooked. Done. No family. There is no chance. At every point, the system had let her down.
“What’s your name?”
“Macy Rodriguez.”
“Hey Macy, I’m going to help you, but you have to trust me. Can you do that?”
She laughed. Mad. “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 added.
I pulled out my knife, and she jumped.
“I’m just breaking the ties.”
I cut them off and gave her my phone. “Call the person you trust the most,” I said.
She looked at it and said, “I don’t have anyone.”
“Then let me call someone who can help.”
I contacted Luther, the lawyer for my club. He woke up around 3 AM.
“Luther, I need your help. The current state of human trafficking. A sixteen-year-old is the victim. We need someone who can manage this right. “We need a safe place to stay.”
Luther didn’t say anything for ten seconds. Then he said, “Where are you?” “
I told him.
“Don’t move. I’m calling people. Stay on the line.”
Two cars showed up thirty minutes later. One was a woman who worked for an organization that supports trafficking victims. The other was a social worker Luther could trust. They weren’t part of the Kansas City (State of Missouri) system.
Macy freaked out when she saw them. “You said you would help!” “”
“I am helping.” This is what these people do best. They know what you’ve been through. They won’t send you back.
The woman from the group that aids individuals walked up to her softly. “Hey, Macy? Hi, I’m Jennifer. I keep a safe place for people who have been trafficked. There are no cops. This approach does not include the foster care system. This is only for your safety. Medical care. You can get anything you need.
“Why should I believe you?”
Jennifer drew up her sleeve. There were marks on the track. The marks were faded, but they were still there. “Because I was you fifteen years ago. Someone helped me as well. “Now I help other people.”
Macy broke down. Wept. Jennifer hugged her while she cried.
The social worker pulled me aside. “You did the right thing.” But you do know that what you just did was against the law, right? You were involved in a contract to move people.
“Yes.”
“Police will want to know.”
“Let them ask.”
I spoke what I had to say. I talked to the guys about what was going on. The van. I told them everything I could remember. I gave them the video from my dashcam. The camera on my bike saw the van go. One frame reveals a section of the VIN.
The detective said, “This is good.” “Excellent. For the past six months, we’ve been tracking a trafficking ring through truck stops. Your information might help us catch them.”
“What about Macy?” “”
“She is safe.” The group that fights for rights is strong. “She won’t go back to the state.”
“And what about Mrs. Patterson?”
The detective smiled. “We’re going to talk to her very soon.”
Three days later, I went to Macy’s. The safe place wasn’t in the city. Safe. Not known. There were six more girls there. All of the persons who were sold.
Macy was having withdrawal symptoms. Shaking. Sick. She was able to live even though she was sick.
“Why did you help me?” she asked.
“Because you told me to.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s it.”
She thought about it. “The other males that were there that night. They were stationed at different truck stations. They didn’t do anything to help. They looked away. Or they—” She stopped. I couldn’t say it.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you look away?” “”
I thought about Vietnam. About villages that are on fire. I was hit with the sense that something was wrong and had to make a choice. You can either do something or look away.
“I’ve turned away before, a long time ago, in a different situation. It’s been tormenting me for fifty years.” I wasn’t going to look away again.
Macy had to wait months to get better. She had to get rid of toxins and go to counseling. The process involved learning to have faith and focusing on building a sense of optimism.
The police arrested Mrs. Patterson and two other staff members from the group home. Seventeen kids spoke up. Seventeen adolescents who had been sold. The girls had been trafficked for several years.
Could this be a trafficking ring? Five men were arrested, including the three men that were at the gas station. My dashcam video helped find them. They all got sentences of more than twenty years.
Macy turned 17 in the safe house. Then she turned 18. I finished high school by following a specialized curriculum. I started going to community college when I was 18.
I went once a month and gave her literature. Whenever she asked for help with her homework, I helped her. She wanted to learn about motorcycles, so I taught her.
“Why bikes?” “Why?” ” she said one day.
“Freedom. You are in charge. You decide where to go. “Nobody owns you.”
She understood that metaphor. “Can you show me how to ride?”
“When you’re ready.”
Macy called me on her 19th birthday and stated, “I’m ready.”
I taught her on a small Honda. At first, she was scared, but then they made up their minds and were happy.
“I’m flying,” she said after her first ride alone. “I’m really flying.”
She got her driver’s license and used the money she made at her part-time job to buy her bike. She started her adventure by riding her bike to school to obtain help. She then rode to the safe house where she now works as a volunteer, helping girls like her.
She said, “I’m going to be a social worker.” “The right kind—the kind that really 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 what it’s like to be saved by someone who didn’t look away.”
Macy is now twenty-three years old and has a degree in social work. She helps others who have been trafficked and gives evidence in court. She helps the prosecution.
She still rides her Harley, which is a purple Sportster. The bike has stickers on it that raise awareness about trafficking.
We ride bikes together now and again, along with a few other club members. Other survivors sometimes come along. These are ladies who got away and are now well. They ride their bikes as a reminder of their independence.
Last month, we organized a ride called “Macy’s Run for Freedom.” There were 200 bikers, and the event raised $50,000 to help trafficking victims.
At the conclusion, Macy gave a speech.
“I was being sold in a gas station bathroom seven years ago. Three men were trying to buy me like I was a piece of land. I was finished. I had to face the fact that this was my life now. “I’d die young in a hotel room somewhere, and no one would care.”
She looked at me.
“Then a biker heard it. He could have just let it go, or left. You could have called the police and let them handle it. Instead, he stepped in and put himself in danger. ‘Those men bought me so he could set me free.’”
“People want to know why I trust bikers. Why I ride with them. I call them family. The system, the cops, and regular folks at truck stops all looked away, but a biker didn’t.
“He saw a girl who was sixteen years old say, ‘help me,’ and he did.”
There were people in the audience who were crying. There are 200 people on bikes. Everyone is sobbing.
I agree with individuals who believe that motorcyclists are dangerous. motorcyclists are a menace. Bikers are very dangerous to persons who are involved in trafficking. They are harmful to abusers. “Anyone who hurts the innocent is in danger.”
“Bikers don’t look away.”
She is right. We don’t.
That night changed me. It made me pay more attention. It made everyone in our club pay more attention.
We started our training by learning how to notice signs of trafficking. We learned how to find possible victims of trafficking, who to call, and what to do.
We helped four more girls after Macy. Four more times we noticed something was wrong and did something about it instead of ignoring it.
They are all still alive, and they are all getting well.
A rider’s attention made this development possible.
Did you get the ten grand? I never asked for it back. I used it to help Macy pay her first month’s rent, put down a security deposit, and buy books. She could find anything she needed.
She said, “I’ll pay you back.”
“You already did.” You have already paid me back by staying alive. You did this by being healthier and helping other people.
Macy has a photo of herself in her flat. I am outside that gas station next to my bike. Years later, when we went back, she took it.
I asked, “Why did you want to go back?”
“To remember. This is where I died and came back to life. This is where someone thought I was a person instead of a thing. This is where a biker with ten thousand dollars chose to save me instead of use me.”
The words below the picture state, “My hero.” My rescuer. My dad.
That last word always gets to me.
I never had any children. Not able to. Health problem. It destroyed my marriage. One reason my wife and I didn’t get along very well. That’s one of the reasons I rode so much. I was trying to get away from the feeling of being empty.
Then, at a gas station about three in the morning, a sixteen-year-old said, “Help me.”
And I became a father.
Not via blood. By making a choice. She decided to be there when it was most important.
Macy Rodriguez is now my daughter. She is great at everything that matters. I call her “Dad” and she calls me “Dad.” We’re all connected.
And it all started because I was too tired to ignore negative things.
I heard trafficking going on through a bathroom wall and couldn’t look away.
Because sometimes the smartest thing to do is stop at a gas station at the right time.
And pay attention.
Macy will begin her master’s program in September of next year. Macy will work on specialized programs to help victims of trafficking. She is going to fix the system that failed her.
“I’m going to make sure that the person who is supposed to protect her doesn’t sell any other girls,” she says.
Yes, she will. I believe that.
Macy Rodriguez went through hell. Made it out. Healed. And now she’s becoming the person she needed to be seven years ago.
The one who stays.
The person who does something.
He is the one who helps.
The motorcyclist at the gas station told her what to do, and she did it.