Traffic Stop: Human Division

By Stacey L Cahill

About the Book
In the placid village of Liberty, Nebraska, everything on the surface is simple. It’s a tight-knit community and the streets are safe. From the outside, families like the Kennedy’s are perfect exemplars of their little community.
Otis Kennedy, the patriarch, serves as the small town’s legal kingpin and good-old-boy extraordinaire. His son, Layne, is a dedicated mortician and single father doing his best to make ends meet for his daughter, Marley.
Marley, however, breaks this mold. A loner by disposition and privy to dark secrets that would destroy her family’s reputation, Marley is disillusioned with the world; her only light in this darkness is her twin brother Seth, a spiritual chimera that acts as her literal guardian angel.
Marley knows the truth; There is a rotten vein that runs through her family, through her town, through society itself: Human Trafficking. Otis, when he’s not at Elk’s Club meetings or on the gold course, acts as legal counsel for a human trafficking ring. Layne suffers every day to forget the death of his first love, Marley’s mother, Lupe.
And when Marley gets caught up in the darkness that pervades her family, it is only the Kennedy’s efforts and her ancestral Mayan ties that can pull her through the abyss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Oct 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890277923

Book preview

Preface

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Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up this novel! This story began in 2015 with my son’s high school research project and has become my labor of love since. In my private practice, I’ve had the privilege of working with sexual violence and trafficking survivors which further supports this novel. None of this following story is based on confidential information from my clients or others I have supported, yet there may be commonalities in your own life, because unfortunately, the descriptions here happen regularly. So much so, it felt warranted to provide the general population a small snapshot of the horrors some people face.

In the following pages, be forewarned there is graphic and explicit details of childhood sexual abuse, essentially what human trafficking encompasses. This may cause discomfort, dear reader, but I find that complacency surrounds topics people know little about or who think it is other people effected by sexual abuse. It affects all of humanity. Recent studies have shown UP TO half of women and 33% of men have been abused sexually in their lifetime. Chances are 100% you know and love a survivor, possibly without even awareness they lived through sexual abuse. Meanwhile, only 25 out of every 1,000 perpetrators end up in prison. If you consider that most perpetrators have more than one victim, these statistics are deplorable. Creating discomfort is my intention for it is only then will we, as a collective society, feel compelled to do something significant to stop abusing each other or turning our backs toward people who are being/have been abused.

Also, there is a chapter written in broken English, which may be a challenge to read. I was encouraged to delete this chapter as it may not be politically correct. However, when I asked native Spanish speakers who have fully acculturated to America, they suggested and/or supported the need to express thoughts in broken English for this was how Spanish speaking people express themselves in English initially, and supports the struggle to embrace a second language. With all due respect and as someone attempting to speak Spanish, taking the risk to speak a different language is challenging and honorable. I wanted the reader to slow down and take in the struggles of Hector Garcia. He deserved a voice in this story for he, too, was victimized in a multitude of ways through prejudice, by our broken systems, and being deemed as other.

To clarify, the main narrator of this story is from the perspective of Seth, Marley’s Chimera. In the end, Marley takes the telling over. They are one, but separate and I hope I capture this throughout. Seth/Marley are not perpetrators and could not accurately account for Otis' intentions or misdeeds, so there are chapters where Otis takes over narrating his twisted perspective, seeped in minimization, denial, and blame.

I want to take this opportunity to thank those who influenced Traffic Stop: Human Division and its completion. First off, my husband John has been my biggest encouragement and supporter. The endless meals cooked over the past six years allowed me to create, edit, and research in our evening hours. I appreciate him keeping me accountable by asking Did you write today? He knew it was therapeutic for me after a hard day at work and that it made my heart sing.

To my daughter, O.Jaide and all other youth vulnerable to the realities of human trafficking: Upon its inception, she helped create the text dialogue between Marley and Chase. It allowed me to teach her how to protect herself from the predators of our world. I thank you, O, for being my inspiration.

To my son, T. Jax: I appreciate your feedback and accountability for sticking to it and for planting the seed with your research project on human trafficking.

To my friend, Lisa: I thank you for reading, and reading, and rereading the initial drafts of this novel, providing sound feedback. And then, thanks again for reading it once more upon completion. All the while, you reminded me to use my voice for those who had lost theirs. Thank you for sticking with me through all the growing pains.

To my friend, Bernie: Thank you for brainstorming the novel’s title, making it intriguing and appealing. Also, thank you for volunteering to help promote this book; I will hold you to it!

To my friend, Kevin: Thank you for your daily texts that gave me encouragement to keep going when I was at a stand-still.

To my editor, Lauren: Thank you for also reading, and reading, and rereading this novel, and providing guidance in Traffic Stop’s creation. I appreciate your ability to tighten it up without triggering my defenses.

To my friends and family who have asked for years how my novel was going; Thank you for encouragement and believing in me.

Thank you to Dr. Jill Bolte-Taylor for the Whole Brain Living references and Brene Brown for the Shame to Empathy references. I admire your work and bravery to tell your stories.

And a heartfelt thank you to all who picked up this book. You are the missionaries of America. Trafficking is happening now and wherever here is to you. May the novel bless you somehow so you can in turn, bless others.

Last, and most important, I thank the holy trinity; God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit who created this story through me.

Sincerely,

Stacey Cahill

PART 1

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JOYRIDE

Nebraska’s plains are known for several natural phenomena that one could call breathtaking. Inspiring, if you’re artistically inclined.  

One of them is the sun’s descent, ending its travel across the sky to greet the horizon. If the weather’s right, hues of gold and rose dance off silver-lined cumulus clouds, on a backdrop of brilliant blue. As the sun sinks into slumber, the golden rose glides quietly into vibrant blends of pinks, purples, and oranges. It’s a scene full of peace and a sense of awe.

If the weather’s right.

If it isn’t, expect a very different kind of breathtaking experience.

Sometimes, cumulonimbus clouds form with bewildering complexity, creating a lightning show at the horizon that is anything but serene.

It’s a soulful experience, a thunderstorm, with lightning spectacular. The storm gathers momentum, sending hail and rain careening to Earth.

Tears from God. 

A lament for our breaking hearts. For my family, for all of us.

Grief for the mistakes we’ve made. 

Hope that it can be washed away.

CHAPTER 1

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HEART SHAPED BOX

Fall 2007: Seth Kennedy

I know who I am. I’m Seth, Seth Kennedy.

The question is, do you?

Yeah, well, no one in my circle seems to know me either. I’m invisible to the naked eye and unnoticed by touch. There’s evidence that my Dad’s oblivious to my existence. And Marley, now she only hears me when I yell at her, confirming my fear that I’ve lost my voice entirely.

I see everything, even if no one sees me. It’s my lot and one I’ve come to accept. As it is, as it was, and as it always will be.

But, I do have something to say. Truth is, I’ve got so much to share! Would you listen? Will you see me? I hope so. I need someone to hear my story, even if it’s hard to take in. It might trigger emotions you don’t want.

I get it.

I don’t want these feelings either.

Here’s the spoiler alert, though: if I remain hidden, nothing can change.

So, are you in or are you out? Here goes! Full disclosure. Let’s start where our normal becomes total chaos.

Have you ever noticed that people avoid speaking about the actual event that spun their world off its axis? Safe words like before and after replace the details, as if speaking the truth gives it more power. Our reality was this: we were shaken by how things were before, and eventually I’ll explain the after. But right now, I need to give the it some air.

I’m grateful that it happened. Sure, it really sucked for a while — a very long while, to be completely honest. It created an absolute inferno where everything changed, no doubt.

The it was a gunshot.

Dad was in the bedroom where the shot came from, but I wasn’t prepared for what was behind door number one. My breath caught in my throat, but I found the courage to open it anyway.

The smell of gunpowder and fresh blood had filled the air. This combination of smells was foreign to me on the morning I discovered my father without a face. Now, either smell makes me want to hurl.

Dad? Dad? Are you ok? I hadn’t made it over the threshold. I couldn’t come any closer. Not yet. Paradoxical stuff went down. I froze in place with my hand cradling the knob, chills and fever all at once ran through me. The motion of time slowed and clarity amped up simultaneously. I took a deep breath. "Dad, get up." I whispered into the room.

Dad wasn’t yelling, wasn’t moving, and was in an awkward position on the bed. He wasn’t taking a random nap.

I looked around from the blood-splattered floor to the white down comforter that now had reddish pink polka-dotted stains, similar to Marley’s old princess polka dot comforter. I realized they were clumps of flesh scattered over the fabric — blood and flesh were dripping from the ceiling, falling onto his listless legs.

I still have nightmares.

The shotgun rested on the pillows as if it had just exhausted itself and needed a siesta. Oh, no… Adrenaline empowered the first timid step toward what was left of Layne Kennedy.

Dad must have been sitting on the edge of the bed closest to the bedroom door when he pulled the trigger. This propelled his body toward the ceiling and then gravity pulled him back to bed. Dad’s shell of a torso centered on the mattress while his neck was dangling off the opposite side.

I couldn’t speak. I tried to call out to Mom, but words wouldn’t form. I tried again. I stepped, one bare foot in front of the other, until my feet were underneath what was left of my father’s head.

I saw his black-brown hair hanging from his scalp, intact but dripping with blood. I wondered if this was how his hair looked when he leaned into the barber’s sink. The wash after the cut. There’s a before and after to every little thing.

Then, came my scream. Mom had entered. She had heard the gunshot and left the kitchen, fervently praying that I wasn’t around as she climbed the staircase. That prayer, of course, wasn’t granted because she found me standing by my father’s head without a face, feet frozen to the bloodied carpet, screaming as though I was the one dying.

Part of me was dying.

Vague memories formed of what seemed like hundreds of people rushing into the house, yelling out commands, scaling the staircase with a gurney, and taking the body of my father away.

Emergency responders pushed oxygen through the remaining nasal passages en route to the helicopter where Dad was transported to the nearest trauma center. The shotgun trajectory was off by what doctors estimated a fraction of an inch, miraculously missing the brain and most of the skull. Dad’s heartbeat was strong. There was nothing critically wrong with him other than an unhealthy brain chemistry stealing his joy.

For days, weeks, even months, it appeared that reality was more like a daily nightmare without end.

In the after, Marley and I sat alone at school, unable to even speak with each other.

Our close friends stole glances and whispered about our family’s fate behind our backs. This became our new normal.

It was after when our very best friend from before began to say hurtful things to our faces about my Dad’s lack of one that we weren’t prepared for.

Before Dad pulled the trigger, Caleb, Marley, and I had been buddies since preschool. We had years of fun together. Together we harassed Caleb’s younger brother, Nate. Once when Marley and I spent the night at Caleb’s house, we came up with this great idea for Nate to get in trouble even in his sleep. See, Nate was about eight and completely potty trained by then. I had heard that if you place some sleeping person’s hand into warm water, they peed their pants. So after Nate was deep in slumber and Caleb’s parents were out of sight, we found a bowl to fill with lukewarm water to test the theory. Sure enough, Nate instantly wet himself, but did not wake up until morning.

Well, Caleb’s dad was a man’s man. There was no tolerance for pant pissing or bed wetting, so Nate experienced the beating of his lifetime. Caleb, Marley, and I made a pact to keep our experiment a secret until the end. It appeared that was the only thing we could count on Caleb for.

Caleb was the cruelest kid at school once the after settled in. He ignored us when he wasn’t ruthlessly making faceless jokes. We couldn’t keep up with the hurtful jabs.

Mom explained it like this: Caleb’s afraid he could be infected. If something this awful happened to his very best friends, then he or someone in his family could also step on a landmine and have his whole life implode too.

We learned the hard way that after could become anyone’s reality. And no one wanted to test their fate by rubbing shoulders with Marley or me.

There’s no reference to when our after would end… I’d like it canceled. Marley and I were sick of the rumors and the craziness that after had created. Even decades after a mishap occurred, the local diner's coffee drinkers make it their business to debate and deliberate. I could only imagine how long Dad would be the hot topic.

So, yeah. Our father shot off his face. This changed absolutely everything about our past, present, and future. It altered everyone whose lives intimately crossed or briefly touched our Dad’s reality.

If Marley and I were flying solo before Dad shot off his face, now we’d have to land this airplane without adult supervision. Marley was tightly secured in the pilot seat with me navigating beside her as the fearful co-pilot. We flew into this stormy weather and couldn’t see a dang thing outside the windshield. We had to trust the gauges and the guidance from above to land us safe. God and Mom were air traffic control throughout our before and during. Not like helicopter parents, they were way better than that. They led us through the scary storm clouds, to face the sun again.

No doubt, God and Mom have our backs to navigate the storms ahead.

So, yes, I know who I am. Not to brag, but it’s super cool.

I’m a chimera.

There’s this thing that can happen when a woman’s pregnant with twins. If one of the fetuses isn’t gonna make it (and sometimes even when it is), the other fetus consumes the cells into itself, becoming one person with two different sets of human DNA.

Crazy stuff. Weird to learn I exist, and yet I don’t.

But Marley does. She’s my healthy twin with one brown eye (her DNA) and one hazel green (my DNA). Her chocolate mocha skin has traces of white chocolate splotches on her left side, like the creamer before it’s stirred into coffee. Oh, and my DNA mighta taken over other organs on the left side of her body, too, but that’s for later.

I’m all-confident as Marley’s chimera. I must say I have another important role to play in this dysfunctional family’s stew of broken provisions. I’m the special sauce made to join and create a culinary masterpiece with all the random salty ingredients.

This chef has his work cut out for him. Through this labor, I’m allowed my own voice for the very first time.

CHAPTER 2

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I’M SORRY

Fall 2007: Seth Kennedy

I’m a loser, my Dad, Layne, said this to a middle-aged woman, who sat ramrod-straight on the edge of the uncomfortable reclining chair found in every American hospital room, circa the 21st century. She was lanky, average in all ways describable, and seemed stuffy. Like a librarian, her thick reading glasses hung from a neck whose skin was losing the battle for elasticity.

She introduced herself as she entered the sterile room, uninvited. She lugged herself and the leather briefcase in like they weighed more than his heavy heart. LML was monogrammed on the side of her briefcase. Dad was so preoccupied with what the letters stood for, he missed her introduction.

The only therapists Dad had experienced to date were crackpot television characters with more problems than their clients. I prayed LML had Jane Austen’s sense and sensibility, because Dad was equal parts pride and prejudice.

Admit it, Layne joked. I can’t even get suicide right!

The therapist’s smile tightened. She scrawled a note on her legal pad as she said, It seems difficult for you to talk about your failures.

Isn’t it for most people? Layne tossed back.

I suppose for some who push down their problems, she responded.

For simplicity’s sake, Dad called this therapist Linda Lynn. It flowed off the tongue and gave him something to smile about.

How do you deal with problems, Layne? Linda Lynn asked.

I don’t know. I stay busy. I don’t really have time to deal, he responded, hoping for a subject change.

Linda Lynn was feistier than she seemed. She said, gesturing to Dad’s bandaged face and hospital bed, How’s that working out for you?

I guess, not so well, Layne replied, matching her sarcasm. Then, in all seriousness, he said, What do you want from me?

"Well, it doesn’t matter what I want, Layne. What’s important is what you’d like to change for yourself," explained Linda.

I want to be freed from whatever hell crept out of Pandora’s box, Dad said. Then, in the next breath he asked, Did you know Pandora actually opened a pottery jar, not a box?

Nope, she said, "And I’m not all that concerned with semantics. Maybe, instead, you could share what escaped from your pottery jar?"

If I knew that, I would’ve captured it and shoved it back in to avoid all this! Dad said as he swept his free arm around the hospital room. His left was hooked up to a morphine drip, dulling the pain’s sharp edges.

I see, Linda Lynn mused. Maybe you have theories, then, on what caused you that level of despair.

It seemed Linda wouldn’t be easily distracted.

You think talking about it will change anything? It won’t change the facts! Dad resorted to anger in an attempt to shake Linda off his back.

Maybe not, but it might clarify the situation or lighten the load, Linda said.

Well, obviously, I’m not super keen on myself. Like I told you before, I can’t do anything right, so I don’t really see the point, Dad said.

Seems like you’re carrying a heck of a lot of pride there, Layne, Linda suggested.

Oh, no, no, no ma’am! With all due respect, I know pride, and what I got ain’t it, Layne claimed.

Tell me more about that, she prompted, discovering a crack in Pandora’s jar.

Mr. Jonathan Otis Kennedy. That man is all about pride! He’s a big-shot attorney, has a ‘stable family,’ his home is a castle, and he has enough money to do whatever the hell he wants. Plus, Otis boasts he’s a man that can make things happen, Dad said as he flicked up a new finger on his outstretched palm to make his points, where by the end of the tirade, he had signaled a stop between him and Linda.

Dad was convinced of three things;

1. Otis only cared about himself and his reputation

2. Dad was worthless

3. See one and two.

Who’s Jonathan? Linda asked.

My sperm donor, he retorted.

Hmm, interesting. Tell me, what has your father done to hurt you? Linda asked.

Layne was so riled up that he tried sitting up to clarify his point. This slight movement caused him to wince in pain.

None of this matters. Don’t you see? I don’t matter! And I don’t care anymore because I know the man and his masks all too well; the way he treats others and the contempt he hides! Dad explained.

Well, Linda said, That sounds like pride, alright! Seems you’ve been blessed to know someone who believes they’re God’s gift to the human race.

Yes! Dad let out a deep exhale.

Linda said, Pride’s a self-inflicted prison. Those bound in their own pride hold the key to freedom, but don’t twist it in the lock because they don’t see the need.

Yes! It sounds like you’ve met Otis already! Layne explained, feeling validated.

Perhaps, but I’d like your perspective of the relationship with your father. How did he show you love? Linda asked.

He didn’t. A firm slap on the butt for screwing up was about it. Otis is incapable of loving anyone other than himself, Dad explained.

Linda asked, Not even your mother?

Oh, hell no! There’s no love there. Dad was right, there was no real love between my grandparents. Not anymore. Otis controlled Momma Jane. He made it seem like Jane managed the household and the kids, but her parenting and spending was based on his rules and whims.

Momma Jane’s paid well for not making waves about all his pursuits, including extramarital appetites, Layne said.

Linda’s pen danced across her legal pad. When she looked up she asked, Your mother knows about your father’s affairs?

The whole town knows. People talk and Momma Jane’s probably caught him in the act from time to time, Dad responded.

Did she ever leave your father? Linda asked.

 No. If Momma Jane thought she’d survive, she might have, Dad continued, "Housewife for 30 years doesn’t earn much respect on a resume, even in small town Nebraska."

I notice you use your father’s middle name rather than ‘Dad’ or ‘Father.’ Could you please explain? Linda asked.

I lost respect for Otis a long time ago. This one act of defiance is the only power I have over him, Dad clarified.

You refer to your mother as Momma Jane… does that mean you have respect for her?

She’s from Georgia and that’s what we’ve always called her. As for respect, I don’t resent her like I do Otis, Dad said.

Linda asked, Would you please share more information about your relationships with the rest of your family?

"I’m the middle kid. My younger sister, Tessa, is the princess and can do no wrong. She’s married and has a dance studio in Lincoln. We used to be close when we were younger, but I don’t really talk to her much anymore.

My older brother, William, is an exact replica of our father. He’s a ladies man, a great athlete, and a super smart guy all wrapped up into a neat package. William will become a partner in his Omaha firm next fall. At least, one of Otis’s boys will make a name for himself.

Do I sense jealousy? Linda asked.

I don’t envy either Otis or William. I’m just explaining that I’m not marinated in the family stew like my brother; I’m more like Momma Jane, and Otis seems dead set to break us both, Layne explained.

In what way? Linda asked.

There’s a million ways. Otis finagles any relationship to his bend, for whatever the price. Hell, even as an adult, I still bow to his whims; not because I’m afraid of him, but because I’m exhausted and ashamed… of how he ruins the people around him.

How’s that? Linda continued.

Well, here’s an example that might give some insight into our lovely family, Dad started. Otis developed a grand plan to obtain full custody of my newborn daughter. I didn’t understand Otis’ need to separate the Garcias from their only living connection to Lupe. When I confronted him about it, Otis said, ‘I’m cleaning up your shitstorm, you ungrateful prick.’

Linda scribbled some notes, keeping her eyes on Layne as he continued.

Obviously, that wasn’t my first shitstorm. When I was eleven, I stole my parent’s car and got busted by the cops.

Linda and Dad shared a knowing glance.

Dad’s better at storytelling than answering questions, so the tale spun with ease. After explaining some details to Linda, Dad landed on the session’s peak and laid it out.

At the police station, the officer called my parents to brief them on the situation. I could hear Otis’s booming voice through the receiver. Otis and Jane were on their way and the shit was about to hit the fan, Dad explained.

After hearing Otis’s rage over the phone, Officer Wright questioned our Dad, Layne’s, safety. Dad assured the officer he wasn’t being beaten (not yet anyway). This lie by omission was a preventative prayer of sorts, even though Dad realized he wouldn't get out of this situation unscathed.

His plea to God went unanswered that night.

When they arrived, Otis was curt, albeit professional, with Officer Wright and vowed to resolve the ticket I’d earned as soon as possible. My mother refused to look me in the eyes as she escorted me out. Otis trailed behind about five minutes, long enough for the silence to slowly kill me as Momma and I waited inside the freezing Ford Explorer. I began shivering, some from the cold that had penetrated deep within my bones, but more so from the fear of what was to come.

"Otis jerked the Suburban’s door open and took command of the driver’s seat. He remained a dormant volcano for what seemed like an eternity until he pulled up behind the parked Honda. Then, he turned toward the backseat where I cowered and asked, ‘Are you ready to drive home?’

"I declined, tears falling onto my winter coat as Otis launched into his tirade. I had no other choice but to accept his wrath. Otis degraded my existence, my intelligence, and my intentions. He broke my spirit and crushed my soul. He used words I don’t remember, but the bottom line indicated I was worthless and disrespectful.

"Unlike Cronus, the Greek Titan who was destined to be overthrown by his own sons, Otis had waited until I was beyond the infant stage to devour me. From where I sat in the back seat of the Explorer, Cronus saved his own children from this type of emotional abuse. I would have preferred Cronus’ way," Layne explained.

Dad loved Greek mythology. Do you know this one? Here’s the Cliff’s Notes version: Cronus ate his infants, which kept them safe within their father’s stomach. This selfish act to save himself from being overthrown by his children, in fact, protected Cronus’ children from the outside world until those sons were strong enough to defend themselves from their father.

Linda Lynn redirected Dad to finish his story.

"Then, Momma Jane stood up to Otis! She protected me from being consumed alive. I didn’t recognize her with that unusual confidence. It gave me hope I could survive this and that, for once, I