Chapter 8 Inadequate funding isn’t just an issue for law enforcement; someone also has to pay for the services provided at treatment facilities or group homes. Law enforcement’s most common tactic is to have the courts, the Department of Human Services, NGOs, or nonprofit service providers help cover the bill. Overall, though, “funding [for victims] is still very piecemeal,” says Amanda Finger, executive director of the Laboratory to Combat Human Trafficking (LCHT), a Denver-based nonprofit focused on trafficking research locally and nationally. Statistics show Colorado is doing a decent job implementing the police side of the equation, but until recently, the child services aspect has been limited. “[The police] have a really crappy relationship with human services,” Struck admits. There’s no law that compels police to contact human services after recovering these victims. “Kids are getting caught [between] a law-enforcement system designed to catch criminals and the child welfare system,” says Stephanie Villafuerte, executive director of the Rocky Mountain Children’s Law Center, who says local law enforcement and our child welfare system only began working together on this issue within the past two years. The relationship between the two entities is slowly becoming more unified. This past September, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Administration for Children, Youth and Families released a report called “Guidance to States and Services on Addressing Human Trafficking of Children and Youth in the United States.” Its message was clear: Because trafficking is a child welfare issue, any solution must involve input from child and human services. In Colorado, LCHT has educated most county human services directors. (Arapahoe County, for one, has a dedicated trafficking liaison caseworker for its hotline.) Unfortunately, some other groups around the Front Range, from local police to human services divisions, haven’t yet made trafficking a priority.

Chapter 9 Leah prepared to testify at Victor Sanders’ trial. Janet Drake says the attorney general’s office ends cases with plea agreements when appropriate to prevent traumatizing victims even further by having them testify, but prosecutors had a strong case against Sanders, and Leah wanted to be heard. Sanders, who declined to comment for this article through the Department of Corrections’ public information officer, was charged with the pandering, pimping, trafficking, and procurement of a child (four separate counts), as well as contributing to the delinquency of a minor and sexual assault. Four of the charges qualified for “crime of violence” sentencing enhancements. The jury ultimately convicted him of the pandering, pimping, procurement, and delinquency charges. But the jurors ruled he was not guilty of sexual assault and were unable to reach a verdict on the trafficking charge. “Some people still have the deep-seated belief that this is just a prostitute, and prostitutes can’t be raped because they have sex for a living,” Kurtz says. “Even if it’s a child.” On September 24, 2012—more than a year after he was arrested and Leah was recovered—Sanders was sentenced to 34 years in the Department of Corrections, the longest sentence to date in Colorado for this category of offenses. He has filed an appeal. The verdicts left Leah conflicted. “It really upset me [that he wasn’t charged for the sexual assault] because that was one of the most traumatizing things he’d done,” she says. “But I was also relieved. My biggest fear was him coming after me. I get to live my life without worrying about my safety.” She was lucky. Since the state’s human trafficking law was signed in 2006, only three such cases have made it to trial. Most offenders, including Sanders, are convicted of related charges, such as pimping. Some get probation. Others receive open sentences that give judges discretion to choose punishments within a specified range. In 2013, 39 states passed anti-trafficking laws. The Polaris Project, a trafficking- and slavery-focused nonprofit, gave Colorado a tier three (out of four) rating in its 2013 report on trafficking laws, ranking us near the bottom nationally. Colorado has a number of regulations that prosecutors can and do use, but confusion surrounds our human trafficking statute, which currently references the “selling, exchanging, bartering, or leasing” of a person. “There are some issues [with the wording of the laws],” Denver District Attorney Mitch Morrissey says. “Some things that leave jurors going, hmmm....” That should change this year. In February, Colorado House Representatives Beth McCann, D-Denver, and Jared Wright, R-Fruita, introduced a bill to bring state criminal statutes more in line with the national 2013 Uniform Act to Combat Human Trafficking, which established guidelines to help make trafficking laws more consistent around the country. Colorado’s bill would clarify and expand the state’s definition of trafficking of minors. It would also negate certain defenses, including claims that the child consented and the “affirmative defense,” meaning it would no longer matter if the perpetrator knew the victim was underage or not. And the bill places trafficking of a child under the umbrella of child sex offenses (which eliminates the statute of limitations), protects victims under rape shield laws, and mandates the formation of a 26-member Colorado human trafficking council that would include police, human services, and nonprofit and legal reps as well as two survivors. This group would develop a training plan for law enforcement and human services and recommend statutory changes, among other duties. “We’re hoping we’ll be able to set up a grant-making agency or put grant-making into one of our current state agencies so that we can get more capacity for treatment and housing for victims,” McCann says. As of this writing, state lawmakers were still debating the bill. One thing the proposed law doesn’t address is safe harbor, the topic du jour for those working on the issue. In general, safe harbor laws label exploited minors as victims instead of criminals, putting them directly into services and treatment instead of cells. Six years ago, New York enacted the Safe Harbor for Exploited Children Act. (The state has often been at the forefront of trafficking- and prostitution-related policy changes; this past September, it set up Human Trafficking Intervention Courts to specifically handle those charges.) Since 2008, seven other states have passed similar provisions. Five others have laws that identify children involved in prostitution as victims and/or protect them from prosecution. Even so, according to Drake, none of these states is doing it particularly well. Colorado officials say they are aware we need some sort of safe harbor provision, but they’re unsure of how it should be implemented. Although the issue isn’t likely to come up this legislative session, most agree the conversation needs to—and will—continue. At the federal level, U.S. Senate Bill 1733 was introduced last November. If passed, it will require a national safe harbor law to be enacted within three years, and implementation would be connected to a state’s eligibility to receive grant funding.

Chapter 10 Colorado’s system, although imperfect, did help Leah find her way to safety. At Sanders’ sentencing hearing, she mustered the strength to stand in front of the judge and Sanders and deliver a statement. “I have risen up and overcome him and all of his counterfeit power,” she said. “I am free. I am not a victim. I am victorious.” She said she had found God, who in turn helped her find a way to forgive Sanders. When the hearing ended, Sanders’ mother, Georgia, approached Leah, embraced her, and apologized. “Leah’s our all-star, my all-star,” Struck says. Three years after being recovered, Leah still has flashbacks and wonders about what will happen when Sanders is released, even though he won’t be eligible for parole until 2027. But her progress is evident. She’s attending cosmetology school in California and plans to return to college for a business degree. She’s finally found a therapist who makes her feel comfortable. The lip piercing from her mug shot is gone. She giggles like any 19-year-old when telling a story about a cute boy asking for her number. The lightheartedness quickly turns serious, though, when she wonders aloud if desiring a man’s attention means she’s slipping back into her old ways. It’s difficult for her, at times, to separate normal teenage struggles from her traumatic personal history. Perhaps the best sign she’s doing better is that Leah can no longer connect with her younger self. “When I look at her, I see someone who was really lost, broken, and hungry for love,” she says. “I had no perspective on life at all. I was thinking about the moment I was in.” She knows those instincts don’t fade easily. “I still have so much healing to do. But I’m in a really safe situation right now, and I have a lot of room to mess up like a teenager and then learn and grow from it.” Leah goes quiet for a few seconds, lost in thoughts about who she used to be. Then another high-pitched giggle escapes her lips. “Channing Tatum could come up to me and I’d say, ‘Babe, you don’t need this...maybe...but, no.’ ”

Chapter 11 The gravel road appears after a series of turns onto increasingly empty streets outside Colorado Springs. Finally, an unremarkable stone and stucco building emerges. Most people would drive by without realizing it’s a house, and that’s the point. Sarah’s Home opened in the summer of 2013 as the state’s only group home that has a family-oriented premise, isn’t locked down, and is dedicated solely to helping sex-trafficked minors. It can house four survivors at a time. Besides the soon-to-open Amy’s House near Fort Collins (which will have eight beds), The total number of beds available in Colorado to trafficked minors is less than 30. there are no other facilities in the state solely focused on this population. The total number of beds available in Colorado to trafficked minors is less than 30; many are in facilities that serve diverse populations. Nationwide, the outlook is even more grim. A 2012 Polaris Project survey found only 1,644 shelter beds available for human trafficking survivors in the entire country—where, at any given time, approximately 300,000 underage children are at risk. Angela Lytle, division manager for children, youth, and family services at Arapahoe County’s Department of Human Services, notes that for all the experts we have in trauma-informed work, the cost of providing their services means there’s a distinct lack of outlets where these professionals can practice their trade. “Colorado has a pretty underdeveloped system of delivery for this particular population at this time,” she says. Executive director Lincoln Smith hopes the family environment and structured program at Sarah’s Home will help girls take their first steps toward reintegration. A lanky former missionary with strawberry blond hair, Smith resembles a high-school science teacher. “We want to reshape their worldviews and understandings of what’s normal and healthy and acceptable in the world,” he says. Step one is teaching them to recognize that what occurred was done to them, not because they chose to be victimized or weren’t smart enough to leave. Only then can the girls begin working through the sexual and mental trauma. At least one woman lives in the house as a full-time foster mom at any given time, and two survivors are currently in residence. “The trauma happened in the context of a relationship, and that’s how it will be healed,” says Debi Grebenik, executive director of Maple Star Colorado, the nonprofit child placement agency that licensed and supervises Sarah’s Home. The foster home designation means Smith and his team can work with each survivor for an extended period of time, even a couple of years if necessary. “Part of the end goal is to really empower them to succeed on their own,” he says. The girls study an online curriculum five days a week, learn to cook and sew, have chores, participate in individual and group therapy, and enjoy field trips and weekly game and movie nights. Though it’s a Christian facility, no one is required to participate in faith-based activities. The girls have schedules, but to avoid making them feel like they are following orders—as they did with their pimps and johns—they can make choices within that structure, such as deciding what they want to eat and wear or how to decorate their rooms. Still, Smith admits, these girls are teenagers, and they instinctively crave the freedom they had before.

Chapter 12 Aubrey understands the difficult path survivors must walk. It’s been 18 years since she escaped from Dante. She now holds a master’s degree in social work from Newman University—she graduated summa cum laude—and is the clinical consultant for Sarah’s Home. For her, recovery means sharing her story, even if it took more than a decade of bad decisions and additional trauma for her to find her voice. All those years ago, Aubrey was bundled in a hoodie against the October chill, smoking a cigarette outside that Colorado Springs home. A drug dealer who frequented the house but rarely spoke to Aubrey suddenly approached her and said she didn’t belong there anymore; he told her if she didn’t leave, he’d tell Dante she was snitching to police. She started to cry, unsure of where she would go and why she was being pushed out of her new family. Six months had gone by, but it was the first time anyone had bothered to point out the obvious to her—and something told her to listen. She asked a regular john who picked her up later to drop her near her grandma’s. The most she could hope for was that Nana wouldn’t slam the door in her face. Aubrey never saw Dante or Theresa again. Although the two were never arrested for trafficking, Aubrey was out of the life for good. Nana told Aubrey to focus on school and put her experience out of her mind, but Aubrey immediately started having recurring nightmares about her past. She soon began drinking heavily. She skipped school and fought with classmates. After Aubrey got into a physical altercation with her mother, Nana put her granddaughter in a mental institution for two months. After being released, Aubrey stayed clean, doubled up on classes, and managed to graduate high school on time. She headed to Arizona for nursing school. Then, at the beginning of her sophomore year, she learned a pimp had recruited her younger sister. Aubrey left school to try and find her. She finally located Corey in Portland, Oregon; Aubrey drove right past her at a gas station because she didn’t recognize the little girl she had last seen in the now drugged-out teenager in front of her. Four months later, 16-year-old Corey committed suicide. The loss caused Aubrey to turn back to the bottle. She married and divorced. Then something clicked: My sister didn’t die for me to live like this, she thought. At 21, Aubrey enrolled at Colorado State University Pueblo so she could learn to help fellow victims of trauma and abuse avoid her sister’s fate. And she continued her own long journey to healing. Like many trafficking victims, Aubrey, now 35, considers herself a survivor of multiple rapes. A 2003 study of 854 commercial sex workers, both adults and children, found that 68 percent had signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, a proportion comparable to combat veterans. Many of these women also have addiction issues and carry guilt about falling into the life and shame about what they’ve done. They fear friends, family, and potential mates will judge them. They wonder how any regular person could find them attractive. Aubrey calls it “overcoming manipulation of the heart and mind.” She had been so brainwashed she couldn’t relate to the dating world. If a guy told her she was beautiful, she flinched. If someone asked her on a date, she was repulsed and immediately flashed back to being pulled into a room by someone who had paid for her. It took her years to put on makeup again, because getting done up had always meant it was time to work. It was only after reconnecting with an acquaintance she made shortly after Corey died that Aubrey began to learn what a healthy relationship looked like. They were married this past summer and now live in Indiana. She is open about her past, and she advises the girls at Sarah’s Home to do the same. “You have to be honest with how much you got hurt,” she tells them. “I feel sorry for the girl I once was because I spent so much of my life not feeling I was worthy of anything.” She gives herself—and them—permission to be messy, to screw up, to learn, and to celebrate achievements. Since telling her story publicly for the first time a year ago, Aubrey has a new sense of freedom. She’s earned some recognition, too. She hosts a social justice–focused radio show called Voices of Freedom on the digital MileHiRadio station. In January, she was invited, along with 19 others, to the first federal survivor forum in Washington, D.C. “It was positive to realize just how far I’ve progressed in such a short period of time,” she says. “It was good to have so many people in the room who are in places to make things happen. It’s the beginning of something bigger and better.” The gathering was connected to the first Federal Strategic Action Plan on Services for Victims of Human Trafficking in the United States, a five-year strategy to create a collaborative effort to identify victims and get them access to services. Aubrey constantly tells fellow survivors that they’re more than their stories. No longer are her words just the musings of a fellow victim; they’re a call to action by a woman who has found her footing after years of stumbling. The invisible scars continue to fade. The only observable reminder is the “5” behind Aubrey’s ear. Except now it reads “153,” a reference to the last chapter of the Gospel of John in which the disciples, after the resurrection of Jesus, hear his voice. Under his guidance, their fish net, which had sat empty all night, suddenly fills with 153 fish. It’s a reminder to Aubrey to follow God’s voice—and to never let anyone quiet hers again.