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after our first phone conversation and ever since then, the F.B.I were tapping the phone lines and recording every conversation. Completely unaware of T.J’s caring act of deceit, I was in such shock that they had been tracking us for so long. I knew now, with or without my help, the F.B.I had enough on Ron to put him away for a very long time, if they could catch him, that is.

Having so many crooked people working for you can be an advantage when you’re in trouble. Like having a pair of eyes in every city. Ron was somehow able to find out about Charlie’s arrest and immediately deserted the country to avoid legal punishment, not to mention the discretization of his esteemed clientele that the feds were now on to. Ron had so many countless charges put up against him, eventually when the F.B.I were able to track him down they were able to have him arrested in Yugoslavia and extradited back to Miami, he was finally held accountable for being a pedophile, soliciting women for prostitution, and running many illegitimate and illegal businesses. By the time the F.B.I caught him he was in his mid-seventies when he died of old age serving his second year prison for a lengthy sentence. Coincidentally I was told of his punishment and death many years later by one of the same F.B.I agents that had rescued me from Charlie’s arms.

I was taken out of the interrogation room after the interview was over with and told to sit at one of the officer’s desk while I was waiting for someone to pick me up. Uncertain of who that someone would be I assumed it would be someone from the juvenile delinquents division to take me back to some state operated lockdown facility. Not the nicest of places to call home, but I had no choice in this matter.

Sitting back in the revolving chair I was twirling out of boredom and listening to the roaming conversations within the office. I pondered in fearful anticipation of the dreadful places that lay in store for me. Having to of spent a lot of my adolescence in these kind of places for the sheer factor that my mother said “I was out of control and unable to handle” by eleven years old. There was plenty of just reason for me to be so scared of those places. What I knew lay in store for me were constant fights between the rough girls being settled with violent raids then out came the pepper spray and then the strip-searches and worst of all, no sunlight. It didn’t matter if you were a quiet, shy girl that didn’t belong there, when there was a fight, which was could be like a few times a week, every person in the room was considered a threat and were treated like a violent criminal. I hated those places and the memories they gave me. That’s why I always ended up back on the streets. No child or even a juvenile should have to be subjected to such unreasonable force and neglect. Some of the girls were so used to being subdued to this kind of treatment their whole life they ended up repeating the same attributes as the people who initially hurt them in the first place.

One very sad girl I’ll never forget her, had a father who had been a heroine junkie and decided to play Russian Roulette with some of his addict friends and by fate or chance took the bullet straight through his brain, killing him instantly. Her mother being a heroine addict herself spiraled downwards after his death and gave her four year old child to her ageing grandmother that eventually had to put my twelve year old friend in this un-dire circumstance. I can only have he highest hopes for her today but unfortunately for most girls that have been victimized by society aren’t able to ever stop being a victim for the rest of their lives or go on to make other people victims themselves. A sad and unfortunate fate for so many innocent, and it happens so much more than anyone would rather admit too instead of just trying to find a solution.

Chapter 3

Hours later I was still twirling myself in the same office chair when I spun around to see my Father walking in my direction. I nearly fell off my seat at the sight of him. Gripping the chairs handles I couldn’t imagine what in the world I would say to the man I once used to call Daddy but now hated for the abandonment and unforgiving wounds he instilled inside of me. He contemplated putting his arms out to hold me but instead anger and shame took over and he just shook his head. I never saw my Dad cry until that day and I have to say it made me feel young again and sad I had disappointed my parents again. The agents now standing beside us led both of us together back into the interrogation room to re-tale my journey to my father who they said I had no choice to tell, or they would have to tell him for me, being I was an under-aged minor and Ron violated the statutory rape law, among many others, when he took me back to his apartment and kept me as his sex slave. My Dad couldn’t believe what he was hearing and for his lack of better choice in words asked me to stop talking, he was just happy to know I was alive. Like everyone I’d known in life they would rather brush it under the carpet and not deal with the pain rather than realizing sooner or later it all comes out sometime in our life even if it transgresses into our future then becomes what we are willing to accept out of partners, work, and people in general. Simply saying in other ways than with words that our bad decisions befall our tragedies later on in life.

The next discussion was led to where I would go to from here. Before anyone could put his or her suggestion forward I leapt in with my two bits and made it obviously clear to my Dad that if I was sent away to

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