Yet even as prosecutors freeze accounts and parade mugshots, the machinery that made this possible still hums beneath the surface. Desperation hasn’t been indicted. Policy hasn’t been sentenced. Families will keep dialing strangers in the night, weighing danger against hunger, war, or ruin. This case may end with prison terms and seized houses, but along the border, the quiet calculation continues: who gets to move, who gets left, and who is allowed to look away. The conditions that fed the trade remain intact, and where demand persists, supply will find a way to slither back.

For the survivors, justice is not a press conference or a verdict read aloud. It is sleep without jolting awake, air without panic, silence without fear. Many carry the weight of having lived when others did not, a burden that no courtroom can lift. They remember the sounds most—the scrape of metal, the coughs that turned into gasps, the sudden stillness when hope finally gave up. Each memory is a witness, stubborn and unsilenced, testifying long after the headlines move on. Accountability, to them, would mean a world where these stories stop being familiar.

And so the question lingers, unresolved and uncomfortable: what does it mean to dismantle a system rather than punish its operators? Laws can cage individuals, but they rarely starve the engines that recruit them. Until safety is not a luxury, until borders are managed with humanity instead of denial, the trade will adapt, learning new routes, new codes, new shadows. The indictment marks an ending, yes—but it also marks a beginning, a chance to decide whether we confront the roots of the crisis or continue to harvest its tragedies one case at a time.