"So tell me, Jane, how were you sold into the sex- slave industry?" "Well, Svetlana, I tried to buy a fake Prada purse from a Canal Street stall with a Pokmon sheet for a door." That sheet was now on the other side of a very solid shutter. It click- locked to the ground and my knees went weak. Great: When they found my body, I'd have tee- teed all over my matching denim outfit. The store, if you can call it that, was no bigger than my minivan and it stunk of fishy noodle soup. I'd probably have to eat the vendor's leftovers to stay alive. I knocked on the barrier and cried, "Hello? What's happ'nin'?" No one answered. I had come to town to see a Broadway show, eat at Tavern on the Green, and bring back a dozen knockoffs for my girlfriends in Raleigh. I had not come to pursue a career in a Chinese Mafia sweatshop. There was shouting outside. It had to be the cops. "Let me out of here!" I screamed. "I promise I wuh- int gonna buy nuthin!" Lord Jesus, I didn't want to go to jail. What would my book club think? What would I tell my husband, the contractor who was currently dove- hunting with the boys at Currituck? Or my twin sister, the one who had the cash for the bags, but couldn't be there today because she'd taken the kids to the Hershey's store in Times Square? Or my