Forced Across

Human trafficking is real, it's scary, and it's happening right on our streets

By R. Vecci

It's just another Tuesday in Glenwood Mills, New Jersey and I am riding in the patrol car of officer James O'Donnell, questioning him about his experiences with a disturbing phenomenon that seems to be on the rise in America: human trafficking. It's happening in small towns like this, right underneath it's residents' noses, and it's not going away anytime soon.

"As long as there's people that need it, or benefit from it, then we'll keep seeing it," O'Donnell says in a hushed monotone that seems to exemplify the slight defeatism that local law enforcement is beginning to feel when attempting to take on or dismantle this beast, whose tentacles have burrowed their way into municipalities like Glenwood, and apparently, for quite some time now. The officer takes a sip of his coffee and listens to a call that comes buzzing over his radio. "It's been this way for as long as I can remember," He adds. "Way before I was born." He makes a left and as we cross over Cherry street (a main route that runs along the south side of the local high school), I get a first hand glimpse of human trafficking. It's happening right before our eyes and only about twenty feet away to our left.

Three young children cross the street, only a few feet away from a human trafficker. Situations like this are not uncommon in small suburban communities.

What degree of moral decadence is needed in a township to allow for the necessary, prerequisital crime-ridden environments and seedy underworlds that foster the type of activity that seems to attract bullies like these, who descend upon helpess, defenseless communities like Glenside or Glenwood or whatever, with their arrogant, totalitarian shouting of orders, oppressive red signs, and blatant disregard for traditional means of mechanical trafficking and manual trafficking like stoplights and stop signs? How can people let this happen?, I think to myself. "You're looking at your tax dollars at work right there," says O'Donnell, as if to answer my question. I ponder that notion for a moment. Is he implying something far more sinister going on behind the scenes? Shady government connections? The Mafia? As we drift past a local convenient store, I politely ask O'Donnell if he woudn't mind stopping in there, briefly, so that I could grab a cup of coffee. "Dude, your under arrest," He replies. "You took acid and tried to rob a bank. You're going to jail." Before he could even finish his last sentence, he turns into a giant hamster and hisses at me. I let out a bloodcurdling scream and kick the back of his seat, while banging my head against the window to no avail.