The world is rightly outraged by the crimes of Jeffrey Epstein, Ghislaine Maxwell, and Sean “Diddy” Combs. Their victims deserve justice, and their stories demand our attention. These are not isolated scandals; they are part of a pattern that has stretched across decades and communities nationwide. Behind the doors of mansions, hotels, and even quiet suburban homes, parties like these have been happening everywhere. Protected by silence, fueled by money, and sustained by buyers who feel safe from the repercussions.

Survivors like Yvonne reveal a deeper, devastating truth. Their stories were never splashed across front pages, yet they mirror the experiences of countless others whose exploitation was quietly ignored, hidden, or excused. Behind every high-profile case are thousands of children enduring the same horrors. Children whose names the world may never know. Yvonne is one of them, and this is her story.

I was 15, living in the Pacific Northwest, where the rain fell as steadily as the rhythm of my own heartbeat. I had been seeking something—connection, love, a sense of belonging—but I found myself tangled in the webs of a smooth-talking man named Vic. With charisma like a magnet and a polished charm that masked his sinister intentions, Vic was what those in the world of exploitation called a “finesse pimp.” He didn’t use force; he used words, promises, and illusions to pull me into his grasp.

It started innocently enough. Vic showed up at a community center where I sometimes hung out. He was older, dressed sharply, and had an air of sophistication that made him stand out from the crowd. He noticed me immediately, complimenting my smile and offering to buy me lunch. I hesitated, but his words were honey-coated, dripping with flattery and attention I had long craved. Before I knew it, we were sharing fries and laughter in a diner.

Over weeks, Vic became my confidant, my protector, my everything. He painted vivid pictures of a better life—a life where I would never have to worry about being unseen or unheard. And when he mentioned Bainbridge Island, he spoke of it like a paradise: “The Big Island,” he called it, promising adventures and dreams realized. It sounded like an escape from everything I wanted to leave behind.

But the dream turned into a nightmare.

The ferry ride to Bainbridge was a haze of anticipation and unease. Vic had told me we were meeting people who could “help me grow”—mentors, artists, people who saw my potential. Instead, when we arrived, I was introduced to a shadowy underworld I had never imagined. The house Vic brought me to was no sanctuary. It was a sprawling mansion, its opulence masking the horrors within. The candy dishes scattered around were filled not with sweets but with cocaine—a stark reminder of the house’s true nature.

The men who frequented the mansion weren’t strangers lurking in shadows. They were politicians, construction business owners, realtors—white-collar men with money, power, and influence. These were men who should have been protectors, leaders in their communities, but instead turned their backs on morality and exploited the vulnerable. One man always brought his granddaughter’s sweater for me to wear during the abuse. Their presence added an extra layer of betrayal, a stark violation of the trust society placed in them.

Vic’s tone changed as soon as we crossed the threshold. His charm evaporated, replaced by cold calculation. He told me I had a debt to repay—for the ferry, for the clothes he had bought me, for the meals we shared. The debt was enormous, and the only way to pay it off was to work for him. “You’re special,” he said, his voice sharp and manipulative. “You’re gonna make us both rich.”

At first, I resisted. I cried, begged, and wanted to run, but the isolation of the island and the weight of Vic’s control were too much. He used every tool in his arsenal—psychological manipulation, threats, and even moments of counterfeit kindness—to keep me tethered.

Yet even in the darkest moments, my spirit refused to be extinguished. I watched, listened, and waited, learning the patterns of the people around me. I befriended another girl, a quiet and resourceful girl named Lena, who shared my desire to escape. Together, we whispered plans, our whispers barely audible over the hum of the island’s silence.

We dreamed of freedom, spinning vivid fantasies of our escape. In our minds, we would slip out one stormy night, running through the dense woods toward the ferry terminal. The rain would wash away our tracks, and we would board the last ferry, leaving the island and our nightmares behind. The daydreams kept us alive, a small flicker of hope in a sea of despair.

But the escape never happened. Each attempt we envisioned was foiled by the crushing weight of fear, the omnipresent gaze of Vic’s associates, and the barriers of isolation. The mansion’s luxurious walls became our prison, and the men who passed through its doors ensured we remained trapped.

My eventual escape came not through the intervention I had hoped for but through a different, harrowing turn of events. One rainy day, a violent john locked me in his home and began to abuse me. I defended myself the only way I knew how. He passed away two weeks later from a heart attack. But the justice system didn’t see me as a victim. Instead, I was charged with manslaughter.

My path to healing wasn’t linear, but it was transformative. Through therapy, community support, and my unwavering faith, I reclaimed my life. I became an advocate, dedicating my days to raising awareness about trafficking and empowering survivors. I told my story, testified, and helped dismantle networks like Vic’s, ensuring that other girls would not endure what I had.

Today, I stand as a beacon of hope. My voice—once silenced by fear—now carries the power to inspire change and ensure that no one else falls victim to the illusions of predators like Vic. Bainbridge Island is no longer a place of pain for me but a symbol of my resilience, a testament to the light that can emerge from even the darkest of nights.

Yvonne’s story is a reminder that trafficking doesn’t always look like the headlines we see. It thrives wherever money, power, and demand collide—whether in quiet neighborhoods or lavish parties. These are not isolated tragedies; they are symptoms of a culture that too often protects exploiters while silencing victims. If we are to bring true justice, we must hold those in power accountable, confront the demand that fuels exploitation, and refuse to look away from the voices that for too long have been ignored.

The sex trafficking charges against Sean Combs were dropped, leaving legal experts and advocates grappling with a familiar frustration: a high-profile case that seemed to have all the elements for conviction, yet failed to deliver justice. 

Sidney McCoy was “honestly, really devastated” when she heard the news. 

“At that point, we had heard the victim testimony from Cassie, and all of the evidence that was presented, it just seemed like such a home run case for the trafficking charge,” said McCoy, Director of Advocacy at Shared Hope International. 

But McCoy’s initial shock gave way to a sobering recognition. She has seen this pattern before. 

“I honestly wasn’t super surprised,” she said. “Over and over again, I’m being reminded by cases like the Diddy trial that as a society, we just have a very bad understanding of what human trafficking is and what it actually looks like.” 

 The ‘Taken’ Effect: How Movies Distort Justice 

The gap between public perception and legal reality may have doomed the prosecution from the start. McCoy points to popular culture as a significant factor. 

“Movies like ‘Taken’ have done so much damage to American culture and American society in terms of what their idea of human trafficking is,” she said. “This concept of like, yes, technically, these individuals were free to leave—I say that in quotations, free to leave at any time—not understanding that the coercion that was being exerted over them through fear and through threats of force and violence, or actual violence, in many cases, is just as difficult to leave as it would be like a jail cell.” 

In the Combs case, McCoy noted, there was extensive evidence of substance use at parties—a classic coercion tactic. “That use of drugs and that use of substances is a huge part of the coercion that we see pretty often,” she said. Combined with Combs’ power in the music industry, it created multiple layers of control. 

“You take these people who would do anything to have a career in the music industry, and you promise them, ‘I’m gonna get you a record deal, or you can be signed by my label.’ And then it’s almost like, well, now you owe me because I did this thing for you,” McCoy explained. 

The Jury Problem 

For prosecutors facing 12 jurors without expertise in trafficking dynamics, the decision to drop charges becomes a calculated risk assessment. 

“When jurors probably weren’t going to convict him on it in the first place,” McCoy said, she understood why prosecutors ultimately decided to abandon the trafficking charge. “When they hear the word ‘sex trafficking,’ and then their idea of that looks like little girls being taken off the street and kept in cages,” conviction becomes nearly impossible. 

The legal framework exists—federal law defines trafficking through force, fraud, or coercion for adults, with no such requirement needed when minors are involved. But applying these concepts to complex real-world scenarios requires education that most jurors lack. 

“Fraud oftentimes can look like the offer of employment,” McCoy said, describing cases where clients were promised legitimate jobs but forced into commercial sex. “Coercion can look like anything from giving substances and then withholding them and saying, ‘I’m not going to give you your fix until you do what I want you to do.'” 

  

The Criminalization Trap 

Perhaps nowhere is the misunderstanding more damaging than in how the legal system treats survivors themselves. McCoy describes what she calls “the unjust criminalization of survivors of human trafficking.” 

“Survivors often find themselves at this intersection of victim and offender,” she said, “because traffickers will use that force, that power, that coercion to manipulate or coerce their victims into committing crimes.” 

Beyond prostitution charges, McCoy’s former clients faced a range of convictions. “Many of my clients had felony larceny convictions on their record” from being forced to steal from buyers. Others had drug convictions from being expected to sell or distribute substances, or from using drugs “to numb themselves from their reality.” 

Some cases involved more serious charges. “It’s not uncommon to see cases where individuals who’ve been trafficked have been charged with the murder of their exploiter” in acts of self-defense, McCoy said. 

“What choice do you have in that matter, other than to do what your trafficker is telling you to do?” she asked. 

 

Five Ways You Can Make a Difference 

Despite the setbacks, McCoy sees clear opportunities for meaningful change—and specific actions everyone can take. 

1. Support Federal Legislation

The Trafficking Survivors Relief Act would allow survivors to vacate non-violent felony offenses from their federal criminal records. 

“Currently, there are 46 states that have some sort of post-conviction relief legislation for individuals who were charged as a direct result of their trafficking. But there is no federal relief,” McCoy said. “Having a criminal record is a huge barrier to so many things in life, including safe housing, meaningful employment, education, even some loans.” 

Take action on TSRA:  https://act.sharedhope.org/h5NmuZy and contact your representatives to support both the House and Senate versions of this bill. 

2. Check Your State’s Grade

On October 14, Shared Hope International will release report cards grading all 50 states on their human trafficking laws. This is your opportunity to see how your state measures up and where improvements are needed. Be the first to get your state’s grade: https://go.sharedhope.org/reportcards-facebook   

“This is largely an issue that happens at the state level,” McCoy said. “It’s far more likely that somebody is going to be charged at the state level than they are at the federal level, so it’s super necessary that the states have a legal framework that really does protect victims of trafficking.” 

3. Contact Your Lawmakers

For individuals wanting to make a difference, McCoy’s prescription is direct: “Talk to your lawmakers about this. Tell them, ‘Hey, I’m your constituent and I care about this issue, and you need to do something about it,’ because they are in a position of power to actually legislate things that could make a difference.” 

Reach out to your state senator, representative, or congress members about human trafficking issues in your community. 

4. Get Educated and Spread Awareness

Combat the myths that derail cases like Combs’. The misconceptions are pervasive: that trafficking requires movement across borders (it doesn’t), that it only happens to women and girls (it affects all genders), and that victims can simply leave (coercive control makes this nearly impossible). 

Take action: Participate in our on-demand trainings https://sharedhope.org/what-we-do/prevent/training/#onlinelearning 

Join our Ambassador Program: to help with training efforts in your community: https://go.sharedhope.org/activism25-facebook  

5. Support Our Work

Help us continue our advocacy, research, and direct support for survivors. 

Take action: Make a donation to support our ongoing work to strengthen laws, educate communities, and advocate for survivors across the nation: https://go.sharedhope.org/donate-via-facebook 

Changing the Culture 

McCoy acknowledges the tension between legal and cultural solutions. While the Combs case had the legal framework for conviction, she believes broader change requires shifting how society views commercial sex. 

“Laws and policies have the ability to shape our culture,” she said. “There are ways that our laws and policies can ensure that our culture doesn’t normalize that behavior.” 

Key to this shift is “making sure that the people who buy commercial sex are held accountable and are held meaningfully accountable, not just a slap on the wrist,” she said. “Not just a misdemeanor where you’re not going to serve any jail time, you might have to go to John school, but actual, meaningful accountability for people who are purchasing commercial sex.” 

The Combs verdict may have been a disappointment, but McCoy sees it as part of a longer struggle requiring sustained advocacy. “So many of the solutions to the issue of human trafficking can be resolved through laws and policy,” she said. 

An anti-trafficking policy expert explains why your state’s laws may not protect survivors— and how you can help strengthen protections for children where you live. 

Part 2 of “The Diddy Verdict Wasn’t the End” series 

The Diddy verdict was a wake-up call—but not for the reason many think. 

For Sarah Roberts, Senior Director of Policy and Legislation at Shared Hope International, the outcome was troubling but familiar. 

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t surprised,” she says. “Time and again, we see exploiters walk free while victims receive little justice—or worse, are criminalized for acts they committed as part of their trafficking. The verdict highlights the need for stronger laws that protect survivors and hold exploiters accountable.” 

On October 14, 2025, Shared Hope will release its State Report Cards—grading all 50 states on how well their laws support victim-centered responses to child sex trafficking.  

Why State Laws Matter More Than You Think 

Many people assume federal law governs trafficking cases. In reality, Roberts explains, most cases are prosecuted under state law—and state protections vary widely. 

“Most trafficking cases are prosecuted at the state level,” she says. “While strong federal protections exist, they operate under a separate legal framework. Since the majority of cases are charged under state law, it’s critical that states have strong laws and protections in place.” 

And many do not. 

• Twenty states still allow child sex trafficking victims to be prosecuted for prostitution offenses. 

• Only 18 states shield child survivors from prosecution for other crimes they committed as a result of their trafficking. 

• Many states have not statutorily required access to specialized services or secured sustainable funding to help survivors rebuild their lives. 

“These gaps mean that a child recognized as a victim in one state could face arrest in another for the exact same conduct,” Roberts says. 

Inside the 2025 Report Cards 

Since 2011, Shared Hope’s State Report Cards have been the nation’s most comprehensive review of state trafficking laws. This year’s edition distills the evaluation to 10 critical protections that Roberts describes as “the bare minimum needed to ensure survivors are met with protective—not punitive—responses.” 

These protections include: 

• Prohibiting the criminalization of all minors for prostitution. 

• Expanding non-criminalization protections to cover other offenses that child sex trafficking victims may commit as a result of their trafficking. 

• Ensuring access to specialized community-based services. 

The scope of research is vast. “Every year we review over 3,500 bills nationwide for their potential impact on trafficking laws and survivor protections,” Roberts says. “We vet our analysis with attorneys general, governors, state task force supervisors, statewide coordinators, and partners in the field. The Report Cards aren’t just grades—they’re a framework for change.” 

A Tool for Mobilizing Change 

The Report Cards are designed not to shame, but to mobilize. 

“It’s always been our hope that these grades drive both nationwide reform and individual action,” Roberts explains. “And with the toolkit in hand, anyone should feel equipped to talk to their legislators and say: ‘Here are the areas where our laws fall short—here’s how we can strengthen laws.’” For the first time, Shared Hope will release a toolkit that offers a clear breakdown of state laws and their gaps, along with practical strategies to empower individuals to advocate for change. 

States like Tennessee and Florida have consistently improved by adopting recommendations year after year. Connecticut recently passed an affirmative defense law expanding protections for survivors after a sustained multi-year effort.  

Why It Matters After the Diddy Verdict 

For Roberts, the connection between the Diddy trial and the upcoming Report Cards is direct: state laws shape the reality of justice. 

“If people want to understand why cases like Diddy’s still fall short, they should look at their own state’s laws,” she says. “Awareness is the first step to change—and that’s what the Report Cards are for.” 

She also emphasizes that the goal extends beyond legislation. “The more people understand what their state laws actually says, the more we can drive the cultural shift needed to recognize minors engaged in commercial sex as victims—and traffickers and buyers as the serious offenders they truly are.” 

Be the first to see your state’s grade and get the advocacy toolkit. 

Get Your State’s 2025 Report Card
👉 Register here 

Understand the 10 Key Protections
– Learn what your state’s laws do (and don’t) cover—and how those gaps impact survivors. 

Start the Conversation
Share your state’s grade. The more people know, the stronger the push to close the gaps. 

The Diddy verdict wasn’t the end—it was a signal. Justice for trafficking survivors depends on the laws where you live. 

On October 14, you’ll know if your state is ready to protect survivors—or if it’s leaving them at risk.