How one case made unlikely allies of police and sex workers

We have every reason to mistrust police, but the case against Joey the Player briefly showed us something different

For most sex workers, law enforcement isn’t a source of protection – it’s a source of harm. I’ve lived that truth. The man who assaulted me wasn’t some anonymous predator – he was a cop. And the client who stalked me? He was a bondsman who bailed me out of jail in exchange for a blowjob.

That wasn’t protection. That was coercion dressed up as a favour. He knew he had power over me, just as he knew that when he threatened me at work, I wouldn’t go to the police. Not because I didn’t want justice, but because of how the system would treat me if I did. I’d be the one interrogated, blamed, criminalised. I was a sex worker. He knew I had no credibility.

At SWOP Behind Bars in the US, I hear stories like mine every single day. Letters from jail, quiet calls from motel rooms, survivor voices all repeating the same hard truth: “He hurt me, but if I go to the cops, they’ll arrest me instead.” This isn’t paranoia. It’s a pattern. It’s how we survive, passed down like scripture in our community: Don’t call them. They won’t help you.

So when people ask if we ever work with law enforcement, I usually take a long breath before answering. Because the truth is complicated. We don’t begin from a place of trust, and we can count on one hand the number of times someone in uniform has actually listened to us.

But once – just once – we saw what’s possible when listening turns into action. It wasn’t a fairytale. It didn’t erase our trauma. But it cracked something open that I had long stopped believing was possible.

Accountability.

The case that changed everything

Joey the Player had been hurting women for years.

He wasn’t just a violent client. He was a predator who crossed state lines and changed names, specifically targeting women in the sex trade because he assumed no one would believe us. He raped, strangled, stalked, and trafficked many women before he was caught.

We knew about him long before the FBI did, because sex workers talk to each other. We posted warnings on Twitter, and shared photos and experiences in encrypted chat groups. Some women even tried to report him, but they were ignored. Some were even threatened with arrest.

Many of us had never reported harm before Torres. Why would we?

Then we caught a break. A survivor in Canada chose to file a report with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) after having her concerns dismissed by local law enforcement. The RCMP, to their great credit, took her seriously. They went looking online and found tweets and threads with matching stories coming out of the US. They reached out to the FBI. Shortly after, the FBI called our hotline.

The agent was sceptical at first. He had seen the posts and read the Canadian survivor’s report, but wasn’t sure if something was really there. The response we gave him was chilling. Hundreds of messages. Dozens of nearly identical stories. Years of abuse, threats, and dismissals. The pattern was undeniable. The agent paused, then said: “Okay. This is bigger than I thought.”

That might seem small, but for us it was seismic. For once, someone in power didn’t hang up. They listened.

From there, things moved quickly. Cross-agency cooperation. Survivor interviews. For those who came forward, it wasn’t just about stopping one man – it was about reclaiming credibility, dignity, and the right to be believed. For those of us watching, it was proof that our voices, raised together, aren’t so easy to ignore.

A coordinated takedown took place on Valentine’s Day, 2020. And in 2024, Joey the Player – whose real name is Jose Olivio Torres – was convicted of federal sex trafficking charges and sentenced to the maximum penalty.

More than a conviction

Many of us had never reported harm before Torres. Why would we? We’d been laughed out of precincts, blamed by caseworkers, handcuffed by people saying they were ‘rescuing’ us. We were too complicated for empathy – too unstable, too sexual, too criminal, too real to be seen as victims.

But when Torres started showing up in city after city, using the same tactics, inflicting the same trauma, something shifted. Survivors decided not to stay silent. Not this time. Not for him.

I didn’t think anyone would believe me unless I was dead

In court, Torres didn’t even try to appear remorseful. He was uncooperative throughout the trial, insisting that his folly was the fault of the adult workers who openly advertised on Backpage, a classified advertising site. But the judge didn’t buy it. The judge denied him bail three times, saying he posed a continuing threat to the community. That protective measure was also was deeply symbolic for us. For once, a man wasn’t being excused because his victims were sex workers. He was being held accountable because he targeted us.

But accountability came at a price. Six women had agreed to testify after Torres was caught. By the time the trial began, only four still had the courage to do so. Some had children to protect. Some had hit their emotional limit. Some were simply too afraid.

I’ll never forget what one woman said to me after the verdict. She hadn’t testified, but had come to bear witness. When the sentencing was over and the courtroom emptied out, she turned to me and whispered: “I didn’t think anyone would believe me unless I was dead.”

That sentence still haunts me. Because I’ve felt it, too.

A proof of concept – not a fairytale

Let me be clear: this wasn’t some magical turning point where sex workers and cops became best friends. We didn’t ride off into the sunset. We didn’t start co-authoring press releases. That’s not how this works.

We haven’t forgotten being hunted, harassed and humiliated, or having our pain laughed off and our names mispronounced in court. And the police, for their part, haven’t forgotten that we are criminalised throughout most of the US. One instance of things going right – even with something as important as this – changes none of that.

But it taught us something powerful: both sides are capable, if only just for a moment, of putting all that aside. Doing so can save lives.

We learned a few things we carry with us:

• Naming violence clearly matters. No euphemisms. No academic doublespeak. Rape is rape. Trafficking is trafficking. Coercion is coercion. When we name it plainly, we make it more difficult to ignore.
• Collective reporting builds power. One voice can be dismissed. But dozens? Hundreds? That’s a force no one can overlook. That’s how we were finally heard.
• Survivors are reliable witnesses. We are the only ones who’ve seen the full scope of harm. We remember the smell, the time of day, the angle of the door. Listening to us will help prevent more people from experiencing what we have experienced.

The tightrope never disappears

Even now, I hesitate to call this a win. The word feels too clean. Not everyone who came forward got safety or closure. Some are still picking up the pieces. Some didn’t live to see the ending.

What we got wasn’t a new beginning, but a crack in the wall. And if you’ve lived your whole life on the margins – ignored, erased, criminalised – that crack can be spectacular to behold.

Sex worker rights advocates and law enforcement make strange bedfellows, and as long as we are criminalised the relationship will remain antagonistic. It’s not a partnership we choose willingly. But with Torres, it was a partnership we survived into.

This is especially difficult for those of us at SWOP Behind Bars. We are both sex worker rights advocates and prison abolitionists. We didn’t want Torres disappeared into a black hole of state violence. But he was a rapist, a trafficker and a predator. We wanted him stopped. We wanted the harm to end. And prison was the only way to guarantee that outcome.

We can hold this contradiction because we live inside it. We believe in accountability, but not the kind that disappears people without addressing the root causes of violence. We believe in justice, but not if it only applies to the “right kind” of victim.

This case showed us we don’t have to abandon our values to demand action. We can demand better responses and hold each other. We can push institutions to do the right thing – even when we know they won’t do it twice. And we can fight for a world where predators like Torres are stopped before they strike by resourcing communities, believing survivors, and not ignoring warning signs.

Sometimes, when everything else has failed, even the most unlikely alliances become necessary. The tightrope doesn’t vanish, but sometimes it widens just enough for us to catch our breath. And in that fragile space between danger and deliverance, we build the kind of solidarity that changes what survival looks like.

Cover photo: People attend a ceremony for the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers in December 2024 in New York City. The day was established to remember the thousands of men and women who have been killed or disappeared while employed as sex workers globally. Spencer Platt/Getty Images. All rights reserved

Text by Alex Andrews

Alex Andrews is a justice impacted sex worker and survivor. A longtime advocate and storyteller, she works at the intersection of justice reform and survivor-led organising. She serves as the Program Director for SWOP Behind Bars, a National Sex Worker rights organisation focusing on incarceration, health and safety.Початок форми

Published 17 November 2025

Source portal opendemocracy.net