by Barbara Grady

Two reporters and a photographer observed one of Oakland's busiest sex trafficking locales for eight hours one night in late February, 2010. We watched from the second story of an empty building on International Boulevard ("The Track") at 42nd Street. This story is about one person who kept reappearing into view...

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Her bare white shoulders look cold against the 53-degree February night.  Her steps are plodding and slow. No need to hurry on a route to nowhere.  Her face is still round, an adolescent face.  Her red hair and chunky build make me notice her each time she passes. This girl I am watching on one of the busiest intersections of the track seems so sad.  Her sleeveless shirt makes no sense in this cold.  Nor does her path: She walks alone a few blocks and then back again, over and over.

At 7:40 she walk north on International Boulevard from 43rd Street. About half an hour later she walks south again until she disappears from view.

At 9:20 she reappears, walking north on the track. A guy in baggy pants follows her. He starts running after her, gesturing and yelling. She quickens her pace in seeming panic and runs a half a block until he stops chasing her. Maybe this is the person she was with for the past hour and a half.  She continues walking, alone.

Likely, this girl is a trafficking victim, walking the streets to sell her body to - and for - guys who later yell at her. I'd like to know her story, why she is endlessly walking in the cold February night.  

At 9:34 she dodges into a Burger King restaurant and sits down at a booth joining two other girls who sit there without eating, without food in front of them. They don't appear to exchange hellos.

A man with a leather jacket and a swaggering step comes over to the girlsí table and speaks to them. The red headed girl stands up and goes to the counter to order and returns with a bag of food.

She sits there eating French fries and a burger.  The man with the leather jacket sits across from her. He is agitated. He talks, waving one arm and wagging his head back and forth. The girl turns her head away, letting her red hair fall off her shoulder and shield her from the man or perhaps from his words. He continues yelling, looking mad. She looks grim, not speaking nor smiling. Then she pulls lipstick out of her pocketbook, traces her lips with it and stands up. She leaves the restaurant and walks south on International Boulevard, again.

What is her story, I wonder.  Why is she stuck walking up and down this cold windy street in a sleeveless shirt on a February night?  Who are these men who keep yelling at her? 

I can only guess that she is being prostituted and these men are her pimp and johns.  I can only guess that she hates this but does not know what else she can do.  I can only guess by her round young face that she is still a teenager and could not support herself if she had to.  So she walks International Boulevard, a street known far and wide as a place for prostitution.

I cannot guess how long she will last here or what her future will be.

COMPLETE SERIES INDEX: Youth trafficking in Oakland

This story was produced under a fellowship sponsored by the
G.W. Williams Center for Independent Journalism, a project of Tides
Center.

We also thank Robert Rosenthal and California Watch for their support, and our reporters Barbara Grady and Sarah Terry-Cobo, along with photographer Alison Yin, for their amazing work.