Instead, the waiters offer to sell me a child. At first I think they're going to yell at me or something. I conclude the meeting, once again making sure the trafficker doesn't actually act on my request.īut now comes the craziest part of this wildly disturbing day. Just to make sure I fully understand the offer on the table, I ask, "If I pay $10,000 I essentially own this child?" Once again, I can't believe I'm having this conversation - sitting in the sunshine so casually transacting such diabolical business. "Yeah, it's up to you because that kid is yours." "Do you think he's hinting that the child would be a partner of some sort?" "So he's saying this would be a pretty child?" "Did he use the word 'belle'? Like, pretty girl?" I ask the translator. Department of Justice, officials have no idea how often this sort of transaction transpires.Īs the slightly menacing slave trafficker describes this girl he's promising to provide, I hear him use the French word "belle." French, along with Creole, is one of Haiti's official languages. Both traffickers say they have experience providing children to Americans. "So for $10,000, I can have the child and do anything I want to do is what he's saying?" I ask.Īs further enticement, the trafficker says he can even get me fake papers that would allow me to take this child back to the U.S. "After the sale, he doesn't mind what happens to the kid." "It's something definitive," explains our translator. This second trafficker is asking a much steeper price for an 11-year-old girl: $10,000. Offering Fake Papers and a 'Pretty' ChildĪnd then, to show that this grotesque sort of deal-making is not a fluke, I have a second meeting, with another trafficker - a beefy guy with the air of a street thug. I assure him I'll call him tomorrow with my final answer. I ask him to wait a day before doing anything. Roughly 10 hours after leaving my office in New York City, I have successfully negotiated to buy another human being - an 11-year-old girl, whose value is set at just $150.Īs we conclude our meeting, I want to make sure the trafficker does not act on my request. Trying to test the value of human life, I push a little.Īnd there it is. "So how much will it cost me to get a child?" I ask. "I can get you your girl as early as tomorrow." "I guarantee my service," says the trafficker, grinning. "I just want to make sure that this is OK, that I'm not going to get in trouble, that this will be smooth, that you've done this before." "When I give you the child, I will train it for you." "No, you won't have any problems with their parents." "I won't have any trouble from their parents or anything like that?" I'm thinking: I can't believe I'm having this conversation. He says he can get me an 11-year-old girl, although he suggests that a 15-year-old might be better, because she'd be more "developed." The trafficker assures me he's done this sort of transaction many times before. The man doing the translation, who has set up the meeting, works for us (unbeknownst to the slave trafficker). He's speaking in Creole, the most prevalent Haitian language. "If I would like to get a child to live with me and take care of me," I ask. In broad daylight, with hotel waiters walking by, he doesn't even flinch when I make a horrific request. He says he's a former member of parliament and that he has connections. That's when the man with whom I've arranged a meeting shows up. Our security guards are sitting discretely nearby. My colleagues are manning cameras in hotel rooms overlooking the pool. There's another hidden camera in a leather satchel on the table, right next to the fruit plate and Evian water. I'm wearing a hidden camera built into the strap of a bike messenger-style bag that's around my neck. By 4:45 p.m., I'm poolside at one of the city's few upscale hotels.
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