By Denise Gee Peacock
Jessika Svendgard was 15 and barefoot as she ran toward the frenetic parking lot of Seattle’s King County Jail in March 2010. She had escaped captivity and repeated sexual assault, and a taxi driver had dropped her there believing it was a police station.
She told the first officer she saw her name, that she had been missing for 10 days, and that she needed to call her mother. The officer handed her his phone. No questions. No report. No pause long enough to see what stood in front of him.
Hours later, Jessika and her mother sat in a hospital anticipating a sexual assault examination. “We won’t be doing any forensic work; she’s had too many partners,” the doctor told them. Jessika was given a pamphlet on domestic violence and sent home.
“I definitely didn’t feel seen,” Jessika says. “I didn’t feel like anyone really cared.”
Both professional oversights fed into Jessika reconnecting with Candace, a woman from a homeless youth shelter who had befriended her—and who had, Jessika now understands, been grooming her all along. “Even though Candace was responsible for taking me to the men who first abused me, the fact that she understood and seemed to feel bad about everything made me think she was the only one who got what I was going through,” Jessika recalls. “She listened. She wasn’t freaked out. She wasn’t uncomfortable.” It felt like healing.
Within weeks, Candace proposed a plan—Greyhound tickets to California, a new start—and Jessika left home again, this time pulled not by anger but by a manufactured sense of belonging.
California never materialized. Candace robbed and beat her, leaving Jessika injured, barely clothed, and alone on the street. She was taken in by a man named Baruti, who presented himself as a protector. Within days he had introduced trafficking.
That distinction, Jessika says, is one of the most misunderstood elements of trafficking: “It doesn’t always look scary. It doesn’t always look forced.”
Before any of this, the ninth grader had been a straight-A student and soccer champion in the Seattle suburb of Auburn, Washington. “Each time I was gone I felt increasingly tainted, unlovable,” she says. “It became a vicious circle.”
Telling It Like It Is
Jessika’s story is not just about surviving sex trafficking; it’s a case study in missed opportunities. Whenever she can, she tells it during child sex trafficking (CST) classes conducted by the AMBER Alert Training & Technical Assistance Program (AATTAP) of the National Criminal Justice Training Center (NCJTC)—discussing every point where more attentive or empathetic law enforcement could have helped her break free.
A few months into her trafficking, Jessika and Baruti were pulled over for questioning in a known trafficking corridor in downtown Seattle. “There I was, looking every bit of 15, traveling with a guy twice my age—and a large bag of condoms visible on the backseat,” she recalls. The officers accepted the explanation that she was his girlfriend. One even joked about the condoms. “I remember thinking, how are you not connecting this. Is this how easy it is to commit crimes in front of police officers?”
Later, she was arrested on a trespassing charge after a vice sting at a hotel and held for six hours in lingerie, without anyone offering so much as a jacket. Officers spent hours trying to determine whether she was a missing person—but because her case had never been entered into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database when her mother called to report her missing, her photo wasn’t in the system. They never identified her. Baruti was waiting outside when she was released.
The trespass paperwork she walked out with—bearing a false name—became proof of a false identity. “I’m officially 18. I’ll never be found,” she realized.
There’s no such thing as a safe runaway. It’s a missing, endangered child.
Even if a victim doesn’t want to talk to law enforcement, the advocate can take them confidentially aside and talk to them about getting resources. That is huge.
I definitely didn't feel seen. I didn't feel like anyone really cared.
What Officers Need to Understand
Blaine Phillips, a Special Agent with the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation’s Internet Crimes Against Children Task Force, makes Jessika’s story a focal point of his AATTAP-NCJTC training. His core message: “There’s no such thing as a safe runaway. It’s a missing, endangered child.” Children run toward a groomer or away from abuse; either way, they are in danger the moment they leave. He frames the myth that victims “choose” prostitution just as directly: “It’s not that they’re not a child sex trafficking victim; it’s that we’re a decade late in getting to them.”
Fellow AATTAP-NCJTC instructor Heidi Chance—a former Phoenix police officer who spent more than 16 years investigating sex trafficking and has interviewed an estimated 1,000 or more victims—notes that Phoenix did not begin training officers on human trafficking until 2014. “In 1998, when I was in the police academy, I never had a class on human trafficking,” Chance says. “So you have a whole bunch of cops out there who have never learned about any of this, and the pimps are bragging that we don’t see them.”
During her classes she often plays a video of a trafficker doing exactly that to make the point hit home. Both instructors stress the psychology traffickers exploit. Many children they target come from foster care, neglect, or abuse; the trafficker may be the first person who ever showed them consistent affection—manufactured, yes, but real to the child experiencing it.
Chance puts the psychology of control starkly: “A pimp is the most reliable person you’ll ever meet. If they say they’re going to beat you up, you can count on that. That’s why victims are trapped.”
What Right Looks Like
The break from trafficking came not from a dramatic moment of disclosure but from a quiet act of desperation. Alone for a moment with Baruti’s computer, Jessika logged into her mother’s email account and deleted everything—then composed one message:
“It’s me. I love you. You’re never going to want me back. Don’t worry about me anymore.”
Her parents brought that draft to a detective. The IP address was traced to Backpage.com postings. Meanwhile a Bellevue Police Department officer who had encountered Jessika during a shoplifting run-in had quietly been building a case—obtaining warrants, confirming her identity from old Facebook posts, connecting the dots to where Baruti was advertising her online. He reached out to the Seattle Police Department Vice Unit.
Detective Bill Guyer got the call at home, tired after a long day, and by his own admission took it with a bad attitude. What happened next changed everything.
At the hotel, the undercover detective who met Jessika had no shoes on, which was strange enough for her to drop her guard. When they reached the room, he casually opened a drawer. There she could see his badge and gun.
“Jessika, we found you,” he said. She hadn’t heard her real name in months. This startled her, but she fell back into her trained persona. Then more officers arrived—and Guyer walked in.
While wearing lingerie, Jessika was calling Guyer every name she had learned on the street. He moved her handcuffs to the front. He draped his jacket over her shoulders. And once in his vehicle, he asked—asked—before reaching across her to buckle her seatbelt.
“I still remember him making sure I was comfortable—and his simple acts of humanity,” Jessika says. “Like I was a person. Like I was a kid. Like I was fragile.”
She kept throwing insults. He kept his composure—not in an aloof way, but with the quiet confidence of someone who could see past her performance to the child underneath. “At one point I told her, ‘Look, I can’t be all those things you’re calling me,’” Guyer recalls. “‘Pick one or two and stick with them. Otherwise you’re just losing your impact.’”
Talking the Talk
Years after Jessika’s rescue, Guyer came across a line in a business leadership book that stopped him cold: “People respond more to how you feel about them than what you say.” He’s used it ever since, in every trafficking case, in every conversation with younger officers.
His practical guidance: slow down, go at the victim’s pace, and start with basic needs—food, warmth, a jacket—before questions. He describes swinging through a McDonald’s drive-through at midnight, not because it’s ideal, but because something shifts when you sit and eat together. “These girls are not eating well, not sleeping well,” he says. “Start with the necessities. If they’re obstinate, they’re probably tired and cold. Try to go at their pace.”
Guyer remembers that night not as a hero moment but as a reminder of what is possible when an officer decides, even while tired, to actually care. “I’d like to say that I’m that way every day,” he says. “Some days I’m not. Two in the morning, dealing with a ton of things, you just want to go home. Then I wonder why an interview went nowhere. Because they could tell that I wasn’t into it.”
Phillips adds a case study he returns to often in training: a 14-year- old trafficking victim who was the most hostile witness he had ever encountered. With patience and time away from the trafficker’s control, she became one of the best. Her testimony led to 12 felony convictions, including 11 buyers. “Don’t let a rough first encounter define the whole case,” he says. “Get what you can the day of recovery. Then do follow-up interviews.”
Advocates Make an Impact
Recovery, Jessika says, didn’t happen in a single moment. It happened because of people who stayed in the process long after the arrest was made. A victim advocate named Noel—herself a survivor of 15 years of trafficking—gave Jessika something she hadn’t found elsewhere: being understood without judgment.
When Jessika said she’d run again if sent home, Noel listened. Within days she had arranged placement in a group home with other trafficking survivors—a soft landing for someone who had been running at full speed.
Chance points to embedded advocates as one of the most systemic changes law enforcement can make. The Phoenix Police Department now assigns one directly to its Human Exploitation and Trafficking Unit. “Even if a victim doesn’t want to talk to law enforcement, the advocate can take them confidentially aside and talk to them about getting resources,” she says. “That is huge.”
The threat landscape keeps shifting. Chance notes the average entry age into sex trafficking has fallen to 13, and she recently helped recover an 11-year-old. Groomers no longer lurk near shelters; they work social media and online gaming platforms. Her book, Talk to Them, was written to bring parents into the conversation before law enforcement ever needs to be.
Be the Difference
Jessika’s trafficker was the first person convicted under Washington state’s commercial sex abuse of a minor statute. He received 26.5 years and was required to register as a sex offender. Jessika testified in two separate trials, helping put away not only him but a man who had posed as a police officer to assault her and others. And in 2018 she became part of the effort to bring down Backpage.com (detailed in the documentary I Am Jane Doe).
She and her mother now consult for the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children and volunteer with its Team HOPE program, supporting young survivors of trafficking, sexual abuse material, and sextortion. Both are also AATTAP-NCJTC Associates who bring their family’s story to training rooms whenever possible. And by the end of each session, Phillips says, “everyone wants to be Bill [Guyer].” Guyer attended Jessika’s wedding. He is the godfather of her eldest daughter. “You can be the hero in someone’s story, even through what can seem like a small action,” Phillips tells officers. “See the kid in front of you instead of just another case.”
“My faith in law enforcement has never wavered,” Jessika says. “I know that if you were faced with a situation like I was put in, you would make the difference for someone. I can see that just by you being present.”
What the Research—and Jessika—Want You to Know
Consider the key takeaways for law enforcement from AATTAP-NCJTC child sex trafficking training.
- There is no such thing as a safe runaway. Every missing child should be considered a missing, endangered child.
- Notice what is in front of you. Age disparity. Inappropriate clothing for the weather or situation. Visible condoms. These are not unrelated details. Connect the dots.
- NCIC entry is not optional. Trafficking survivor Jessika Svendgard was held for six hours at a police station while officers tried to determine if she was missing—and never identified her, because her case had never been entered into the database. The trespass paperwork she walked out with became proof of a false identity. A missed entry can close every door.
- Separate the child from the adult. A girl will not tell you the truth with her trafficker standing next to her. Find a reason, however low-key, to speak with her alone. She may not volunteer anything, but the dynamic shifts the moment he is out of earshot.
- Grooming looks like love. Traffickers target children from foster care, neglect, and abuse—kids for whom the trafficker may be the first consistent source of attention and affection. “It doesn’t always look scary,” Jessika says. “It doesn’t always look forced.” Understanding why a child is loyal to their exploiter is the first step to reaching them.
- Go at their pace, not yours. Patrol interviews are often rapid-fire, says Special Agent Blaine Phillips. Trafficking victims require a different rhythm. Ask less. Listen more. Follow their lead. You may only get 30% of the story the first time, but that is still progress.
- They can read you. Act accordingly. “These girls are expert at reading people,” says Detective Bill Guyer. “If you go in thinking, ‘let’s just get this one over with’—that opinion is going to come out.” Victims will not open up to someone who doesn’t care, and they will know immediately whether you do. Your attitude is part of your technique.
- Start with basic needs, not questions. Food. Warmth. A jacket. Something to drink. Before the interview, before the paperwork, meet the basic needs first. Guyer describes pulling through a McDonald’s drive-through at midnight not because it’s protocol, but because something shifts when you sit and eat together. The walls come down.
- Avoid ‘gotcha!’ moments. Harsh treatment confirms every suspicion a victim has about law enforcement. But yielding too easily produces whatever answer gets them out the door fastest. When something doesn’t add up, don’t confront it; note it. Say something like, “That doesn’t really make sense based on what you told me earlier. We’ll come back to it.” She will know you caught her in a lie without feeling like less of a person. Trust builds.
- An embedded advocate changes outcomes. Even when a victim won’t speak to law enforcement, an advocate assigned to the unit can engage them on another level, connecting them to housing, transportation, and services without first requiring cooperation, notes Detective Heidi Chance. The Phoenix Police Department now assigns one directly to the unit. It works.
- Go beyond the victim’s testimony. Victims recant. Traffickers control their story. Corroborate everything you can: cell phones, computers, hotel receipts, GPS records, surveillance footage, bank records, social media activity, medical records. The more evidence you build independent of the victim’s testimony, the stronger the case—and the less she has to face him alone.
Jessika, thank you for your sincere and painful testimony regarding your story. I can't imagine how disappointing it must have been to have interacted with law enforcement at that time and knowing that we had failed you. But know that there are those of us that are dedicated in helping people just like you. You and your testimony today will help those of us that are here for victims like you. Please stay the course and keep the faith.