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However, my stomach drops as I come face to face with the reality that I’ll have to witness a human trafficking ring working in real time in order to do my job properly. I can’t even watch domestic abuse scenes in movies. How am I going to tolerate this as it unfolds in front of me?
It doesn’t matter.
It’s time to prove my worth as a journalist.
As I grow closer to the warehouse, I realize that the light emanating from the window is coming from a single bulb hanging haphazardly from the ceiling above a group of young women. They’re all chained together, prison-style, in a line as they’re presented to a cluster of men hunched over their metal folding chairs.
The expressions on these men confirm just how vacant and sociopathic they must be in order to engage in such a profession. Of all the ways to make easy money, even illegally, what kind of person do you have to be to choosethis?How devoid of empathy can a single person really be in a world where others dedicate their lives to saving those of others?
Perhaps the universe distributes compassion unevenly among humans. Why, I’ll never know or understand, but it’s the only explanation I have that makes any sense at all.
The men are cartoonishly masculine, all of them bulging out of their black or white t-shirts with muscles that I would bet my life are the result of steroids. The way that they leer at these women from the side, grinning with a predatory smirk, is also a familiar attribute of the male mind.
I’ve worked with criminals before in my work. “If it bleeds, it leads,” says John from his desk across the office, sipping his coffee casually and without a shred of irony.
He’s sent me to interview plenty of high-profile cases in the past, many of them already imprisoned for years after the crime has been committed. For a little while, we had a contract with a documentarian who wanted to make a series of films about the anatomical abnormalities in the brains of murderers. I was fascinated by the filmmaker’s vision and their drive, having seen a number of his films before the fact to begin with.
At that time, I felt tremendously lucky to be a part of the project, privileged even. To be interfacing with some of the country’s most notorious killers behind a wall of bulletproof glass felt like a sacred calling after seeing the way these people had impacted their communities. I’d be in shops, restaurants, and clinic waiting rooms when I’d overhear somebody talking to their friend or spouse about a case that I had actively been working with the police on. The people that kept the nation awake at night were becoming casual acquaintances to me, and I valued that perspective and insight.
The project fell through due to an outcry from a group of well-meaning but ill-informed mothers who believed that the series set out to humanize these prisoners to the point of desensitizing the public to their crimes. They claimed that the resources being used to examine the brains of these killers should be used instead for children’s cancer research, or maybe medical expenses for military veterans, or perhaps free insulin. I forget.
Either way, I’m now lacking the excitement and drive that I was able to retain every day of my work during those days. Perhaps this is John’s way of trying to retain some of the edge and mystique of our publisher after The Anatomy of Murder was shut down, but the safety precautions needed to keep me out of harm’s way in those days has been foregone due to what... budget cuts?
With my face up against the window, there is nothing separating me from these men except for a thin pane of glass and a pile of empty boxes strewn about below. The glass is not bulletproof, of course, and I can see from thirty feet away that each of these men is strapped to capacity. One slip up and my brains could be sliding out from inside my skull all over the wet, dark pavement beneath my feet.
I’m trembling hysterically as any iota of motivation to prove my worth dissolves. I’ve triple-checked my camera – all I have to do is snap a few high-quality shots of the operation, escape to safety, and call the police. Calling the police would be the more intelligent action to take, but I’m functioning on a third of my brain stem as this fear overtakes me.
I hold up my camera as I shake, the focal point through the eyepiece causing a dizzying tunnel effect as I steady myself.
Three shots, one usable.
Damn it.
Another three shots, two usable.
Better.
Now that I’m rolling through this, I feel safety drawing nearer, motivating me to carry on until I’ve captured the absolute essence of the scene in front of me. Nobody will be spared from the horror taking place tonight once they’ve seen this photo. I could be taking TIME’s next most controversial picture.
Once I’ve snapped at least ten photos of varying quality, I realize that I’ve allowed my ego to override my reasoning skills. I need to get the fuck back to my car before someone sees me so that I can give the cops the location. I might be saving these girls’ lives tonight if I can just-
A heavy hand falls on my shoulder, pulling me back and slamming me onto the pavement before I even have a chance to turn around and face my assailant. I cry out as my back hits the ground, my breath escaping me with no sign of returning any time soon as I gasp.
I’ve been disarmed by my own body as an imposing figure towers over me, reaching down to grab me by the front of my jacket. The rain falls into my face as I struggle to gaze up at him, though I can see that he’s enraged by my presence.
This has crossed the threshold into territory that will almost absolutely render me dead. Do I fight? Is it worth the extra pain? Should I have left a note with my family? Should I have written a will?
How fucking stupid.
My whole body goes numb as I’m lifted to my feet, my mouth covered entirely as another large hand is clasped over my face to conceal a scream that will never come. I wish I could deactivate my brain somehow, unplugging my cognition like a computer before I’m forced to endure whatever evil this man has in store for me.
2
Matteo
Corruption in the mafia sounds like an oxymoron to a lot of people.
“Of course there’s corruption in the mafia, it’s the basis that it thrives on. How could you consider anything within it to be uncorrupt?” my father would say, lighting one of his cigars as he poured his first drink of the night.
