Fuck the United Nations

For an introduction to Mollie and her brothel, please read the story Mollie Buys a Brothel.

The Criminal

My name is Maddie Smith-Litowski. You might remember the name from news coverage back when these events happened. It made quite a splash. I was 23 years old then.

It was all pretty humiliating and I'm glad it's over. So why am I writing about it now? Partly just to tell my side of the story, but also to make some money. After all, there are a whole bunch of perverts out there who like reading about a girl getting fucked and raped. That girl was me -- I hope it gets your rocks off.

I guess I need to tell you what I look like. Not that it makes any difference -- what happened would've happened no matter my appearance. But the male imagination demands a description, so just for you pervs out there I stripped naked and looked at myself in the mirror.

I'm neither beautiful nor ugly. My schnoz is a little too big, and my jaw just a tad too small. It gives me a bit of an overbite. Fortunately my parents invested in braces when I was a kid, so my teeth are straight and in good shape. I have blue eyes that, insofar as they're not non-descript, might be called penetrating. My skin is clear, smooth and soft -- I never had acne issues.

The best part of my face is my hair, which is thick and dirty blonde. If I primped it up nicely it would turn heads. But I'm too much of a feminist to do that. It's simple and cut too short.

The rest of me -- 5'4" in bare feet -- is skinny. Not beanpole thin, mind you, but skinny enough that my teachers sometimes thought I was anorexic. That was never true -- I can eat with the best of them. "You need to gain some weight, little girl," is what my dad told me. And true enough -- an extra five or ten in the right places would've made me voluptuous. But it was never to be.

My breasts are sexy as hell, if I say so myself. They're small, but perfectly formed and soft as tits. I got pert nipples and round, symmetric areolae.

I never trimmed my pubic region ("bush" is likely how you pervs would call it) -- another mark of feminist sensibility. It probably doesn't need it, what not growing weedy up to my navel. It's the same color as my hair -- perhaps even lighter blonde.

My butt's too small and my thighs are too thin. My waist is in perfect proportion to my hips. Everywhere my skin is clear and soft. My feet are small -- I wear size five. Even now in my late twenties, I still look like a sixteen-year-old.

So now you guys probably want to skip straight to the part where I get fucked and raped. But I'm telling the story in my own time, so just stick your dick back in your pants and be patient.

I grew up in an upper middle class suburb of Boston. My dad was a dentist, though I didn't see him much after the divorce. He's the 'Smith' part of my name. My mom -- the Litwicki -- was an office administrator for a large insurance company. That job was bigger than it sounds -- she had a dozen subordinates and attended the top leadership meetings. My parents each earned six figures, and between my mom's good salary and my dad's alimony, I grew up to be a spoiled brat.

Of course I wanted to go to college at a private school. My parents didn't object to that. But when I told dad that I wanted to major in Global Justice with a minor in Women's Studies, he flipped out.

"There's no way I'm paying tuition for that!" He kept his word, never contributing a penny for my education.

I think my mom agreed with him -- she tried to talk me out of it. "There are no jobs in global justice," she argued, sensibly enough. But for all that she put up cash. Actually, she paid for all of it.

So just out of adolescent selfishness I finished a silly major at an overpriced college on my mother's nickel. By the end even I thought I was pretty dumb.

When I graduated I knew I had to find a job or eat humble pie. Horrors -- I might even have to move back home with Mama, which I didn't want to do. So I put together a resume, hopped Amtrak down to New York City, and started asking around at the United Nations.

Unbelievably, I got a job. Yeah, I was a good student and had a good GPA, but I think I was just lucky. I knocked on the right door at the right time.

"It pays $60K a year," I told my dad, lying. Actually, it only paid about $25K -- not enough to support a decent life in NYC. But I wasn't going to be living in New York. The job's location was in Povera (a very poor country on the Western Mainland). I'd be housed gratis in the capital, Putaville. So actually I could put most of the $25K in the bank.

A month later I was on a plane for London. There I met my boss, a Brit named Erica Liggett. As you'll see, Erica is not one of my best friends today, but back then I liked her well enough.

We both worked for the UN Special Taskforce to Combat Sexual Slavery. Erica was the leader for the Western Mainland, and while she was based in Putaville her responsibilities extended to many other countries. My job was to manage the office in Povera.

"We have a special problem in Povera," Erica explained. "The country has almost no exports, and one of the biggest foreign exchange earners is Lagarde's Hotel & Spa. That's a high-end brothel that attracts a clientele from around the world."

"That sounds awful."

"It is," continued Erica. "But given its importance to the whole economy, it's going to be hard to shut it down. The owner is a Canadian -- her name is Mollie Grossman. Locally the property is known as Mollie's Brothel. Her husband, Jim Grinsted, helps her manage it. Maybe a hundred women work there as sex slaves, while another hundred people (mostly women) work in a support capacity." [You can read about Mollie's Brothel in the story Mollie Buys a Brothel -- ed.]

"So what's our strategy?" I asked.

"We'll just hound them. Get them as much bad publicity as possible. Eventually we'll force the government to shut them down."

"And what'll happen to the employees?"

"Anything's better than sex slavery," claimed Erica, with a conversation-stopping glance in my direction, as if I'd just committed a mortal sin by asking the question. She didn't answer my query, and I didn't ask it again.

The Crime

A week later we arrived in Putaville. I'd never been in a poor, tropical country before. The heat and humidity were enervating. The poverty depressing. The landscape flat, dry, dusty, and boring. The taxi from the airport -- not air conditioned -- took us through miles and miles of shanty towns. Endless unpainted lean-tos built aside open sewers, surrounded by naked, dirty, unschooled children.

And here is where I'd committed myself to live for the next two years?

Erica's office -- now also my office -- at least was air conditioned, albeit not very successfully. A noisy, old window unit worked overtime for as long as there was electricity. As the office had no other ventilation it became uninhabitable during the daily power outages. My desk was in a corner of a room shared with two other people -- our secretary and somebody who worked for another UN agency. They were both Poverans.

My apartment was a mile away from the office in the small, UN complex. Maybe twenty ex-pats lived there, from all over the world. I had a sitting room, bedroom, bathroom, and small kitchen. There was no potable water. And no air conditioning, either, but it was situated on a small hill and thus caught the breeze. That and ceiling fans made it tolerable.

The next day, with a UN car and driver, Erica showed me around town. Central Putaville was fit for a small town, a few square blocks of western-style, glass & steel buildings. The tallest building was the international hotel. The second tallest was Lagarde's Hotel & Spa, aka Mollie's Brothel, located on Rue Rene Blaen, at the edge of downtown.

"That's your job," said Erica, as we drove by. "You need to collect as much dirt on them as you can."

"How should I do that?"

"You can start by interviewing employees. Hopefully you can find some sex slaves who will spill the beans. See if you can identify any underage children working there. Just hang around and ingratiate yourself as much as possible."

I learned from my office mates that the shift change at Mollie's happened about noon each day. So I staked the place out then, hoping to catch sex slaves getting off work. Most of them wouldn't talk to me, likely intimidated by the management. Or perhaps my French wasn't yet good enough to sustain the conversation.

But I did meet a woman named Hilda who seemed ready to talk. I invited her for a cup of tea. We exchanged pleasantries before I started seriously questioning her. I soon learned she was 28 years old and had worked for Lagarde's for seven years.

"Do they force you to work there?" I asked.

"Force? No, of course not. Actually, it's the other way round. I don't get as much work as I'd like." Hilda explained the casting system, and how she didn't always get chosen. "I'd work four or five days a week if I could. But I rarely get more than two days, and occasionally not even one. Sometimes there just aren't any customers."

"Do they pay you?"

She looked at me like I was an idiot. "Of course they pay me! Why do you think I do this?" I asked about how much. "I make between $100 and $150 per shift, typically. Depends on how many customers I have." She explained how the girls got paid.

I already knew that my office mates only earned $4/day. So for a Poveran that was a huge amount of money.

"How old were you when you started working here?"

"Yeah, I'm 28 now and started here seven years ago, so that made me 21, give or take."

"Were you a prostitute before?"

"No! No way! I can't even really believe I'm doing it now. It just earns good money for me. I'm saving as much as I can because I won't be able to do this forever."

"Do they hire a lot of younger girls, like children?"

"No. Absolutely not. Ronaldo is very careful. As he says, 'one underage girl could ruin the whole business.' If there's any doubt he won't hire her."

Over the next several months I talked to a lot of people from Mollie's brothel. They all said pretty much the same thing. None of them remembered ever seeing an underage girl working on the premises.

I even briefly got to meet Miss Mollie herself. We just exchanged greetings, but she was very friendly. Everybody seemed to like her.

"This isn't going to work," I told Erica, after a few months of effort. "I have found nothing illegal at Mollie's brothel under Poveran law. Or even under common international standards. They definitely don't employ underage women."

"So we'll need to take more direct action," Erica answered. "Do you remember the anti-abortion fanatics in your country from a few years ago?"

"You mean the ones that murdered doctors and stuff?"

"No, not that bad. But those who'd throw stink bombs into abortion clinics that were very difficult to clean up. To get the odor out they'd have to change out all the carpets and upholstery before they could reopen."

"So what are you getting at?" I asked, suspicious.

"I got a friend named Jeremy who knows how to do that sort of thing. I think you should go talk to him."

"Why don't you talk to him?"

"Actually, I already have, indirectly," Erica said. "Problem is that he knows who I am, and if he got caught then he'd rat me out. But he's got no idea who you are. So you could give him the money and point him in the right direction, and nobody could prove anything."

"I don't really want to do that."

"Why? You think we should tolerate sexual slavery?"

"No. But..."

"But what? Nobody's gonna get hurt. Jeremy can do this early in the morning when few people are around. This is non-violent."

She eventually talked me into it. My dad never thought I was too bright. But I didn't have anybody in Povera to ask advice. Erica just wore me down.

A week later she gave me $500. "Give as little of this as possible to Jeremy. This is my money and I need it. I'd like at least some of it back. Make sure you bargain with him. Tell him to use the US Government Standard Bathroom Maloder. It smells like shit on steroids, and it's really hard to clean up. He knows where to buy it for cheap."

I arranged to meet him two days hence. On the morning before our meeting Erica tells me "I have to go to Umashi for a couple of days. I'll be back soon."

She was always traveling. Her absence made me nervous, but I thought nothing of it.

I met Jeremy. He wouldn't settle for anything less than $500. So I gave him all of Erica's money. Now I hoped she'd never come back.

The next morning, according to the TV, a vandal walked into the employee entrance at Mollie's brothel. He didn't get very far -- a security guard stopped him. But not before he was able to lob a grenade down the hallway. The stench filled the entire floor and seeped up to the second floor.

Lagarde's Hotel and Spa had to shut down.

That evening, while I was sitting in my apartment, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to two policemen and a policewoman. They made sure I had my passport, and then they cuffed me and took me downtown.

The Trial

Now you dickheads out there probably think this is where I'm gonna get raped, what being passed around between prisoners and guards or whatever. If you want to think that, then you'll just have to go fuck your own shit. Because I'm going to tell you what really happened rather than what you want to have happen.

Actually, the prison matrons were very kind to me. Rather than locking me up in a cell, instead they put me in a small apartment, with air conditioning and a TV set. It was better than my own digs -- the only thing is the front door was locked and there were bars on the windows.

I figured that it would all be taken care of as soon as Erica got back. But she didn't come home that day, or the next.

I was still in jail by the weekend. At that point I realized that Erica was never coming back -- I'd been set up. So I resigned myself to spending a couple of months in jail, such as it was. By now my circumstance made headlines -- 'Boston girl arrested for terrorism' was one. My parents sent panicked messages to me, and then hired a barrister on my behalf.

His name was Gerald Mugante, a big man with an elite, British accent. "Unless you want to plead guilty, the trial will start in about six weeks."

I didn't want to plead guilty, and had nothing better to do with my time. I settled in with some books that my folks had sent me. The Poveran government wanted to avoid an international incident. They were extra careful to treat me nicely. I lived well in jail.

On the day of my trial I was taken by police car to the High Court. There was a scrum of media -- for their benefit the matron handcuffed me before letting me out of the car. "We can't let people think we're going easy on foreign terrorists," she explained.

Those pictures -- me in cuffs walking up the steps to the High Court -- made the nightly news around the world.

The atmosphere was informal. The barrister and the prosecutor shared a laugh like old friends. The clerk chatted with members of the press. When they saw me everybody settled down and at least pretended to take my case seriously. The lawyers put on their British-style wigs -- it made them look really silly. Fifteen minutes later the clerk rapped a gavel and called out "Please stand for the Right Honorable Justice Mervyn Otago." Mervyn, a short, fat man with a permanent smirk on his face, took his seat behind the bench, almost hidden by the furniture.

Jeremy was the prosecution's first witness. He identified me as the evil-doer who had given him $500.

A whore named Rosie said that she typically earned $300/week at Lagarde's Hotel & Spa. Since the hotel had already been closed for six weeks, and wouldn't reopen for a month more, she was down $3,600 in lost wages. That caused a stir in the courtroom -- recall the typical Poveran wage is about $18 per week. "Order," cried out Mervyn.

Miss Mollie took the stand. "We employ approximately 120 people per shift, both hostesses and staff. Our daily payroll is approximately $4000, almost all of which is paid by foreign tourists. In addition, we purchase $1000 in food and supplies, mostly from local vendors. So our contribution to the Putaville economy is very significant. A nearly three-month interruption in our operation will cost the economy nearly half a million dollars!"

"How much will it cost to repair the damage?" asked the prosecutor.

"The chemical in the stink bomb seeps into fabrics, such as carpets. Fortunately, on the first floor we have little carpeting. So that's not a big problem. The floors and walls can just be washed down and deodorized.

"However, we have a large inventory of clothes for our employees. A major portion of that is kept on the ground floor, and that has been completely ruined. We will need to spend approximately $10,000 to replace that. Further, our laundry room was severely impacted, so much of our linen inventory is also damaged."

My barrister rose to crossexamine the witness. "Miss Grossman, could you please describe the primary business of Lagarde's Hotel & Spa?"

"We are a brothel," answered Mollie, forthrightly.

"Miss Grossman, I understand that a brothel earns a lot of money. But many would consider it to be a criminal enterprise. It corrupts the morals of our youth. It renders Poveran women unmarriageable, It violate common moral sense. Miss Grossman, are you a native of Povera?"

"No. I'm Canadian."

"So you are a rich Canadian who comes to our country to destroy our values. Can you understand why patriots will be upset by that?"

"Perhaps," answered Mollie. "But we have scrupulously followed Poveran law. If you don't like your own laws, then that is not our problem. Besides, Miss Smith-Litwicki is also not a Poveran national."

"Precisely," answered Gerald. "She has no motive to commit this crime, if crime it was. The true hero -- the man defending our national honor -- is Jeremy. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I have no opinion on that."

By early afternoon the prosecution rested. Barrister Mugante rose to call the first witness for the defense.

"I call Miss Erica Liggett to the stand."

There was no answer. He repeated, louder: "I call Miss Erica Liggett to the stand."

Again, no answer. Gerald turned to the judge. "Your honor, a crucial witness is not present in court today. It is impossible for us to present our case in her absence. I request the Court to declare a mistrial, and to adjourn the case to such time as when the witness can be present."

Mervyn rose from behind his bench. "Motion denied. Counsel had plenty of opportunity to make the motion in advance of the trial. This is just grandstanding."

After closing arguments, the judge adjourned the trial until the next day. "I will render a verdict at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

Mervyn's Verdict: "On the main count of committing an act of terrorism, I find the defendant Not Guilty. She did not throw the stink bomb, and further, she does not appear to be a principal actor in this conspiracy.

"But on the secondary count, of aiding and abetting a terrorist act, I find the defendant Guilty.

"The defendant is therefore responsible for reimbursing the victims for some of the losses they have suffered. The financial losses incurred by the employees is most hurtful. The Court understands that the defendant is unable to make them entirely whole. But she is required to contribute a share, both in substance and in symbol.

"Further, the defendant needs to understand that the people who work in Lagarde's Hotel & Spa, while well paid, work under difficult, dangerous, and degrading circumstances. Their lives are not to be trifled with. The defendant needs to learn some respect for others who live differently and work harder than she does.