Criminal Defense Lawyers

Federal Child Exploitation Charges: SESTA/FOSTA Cases

Federal agents showed up at dawn. Your servers were seized, your bank accounts frozen, and your business—the platform you built over years—was labeled a criminal enterprise before you even saw the indictment. SESTA/FOSTA charges don’t punish what you did; they punish what the government claims you “facilitated” or “promoted” online. And the legal standard for that? Reckless disregard. Not intent. Not knowledge. Just recklessness.

You thought Section 230 protected platforms from liability for user-generated content, and it did—until April 11, 2018, when SESTA and FOSTA carved out exceptions that prosecutors are now exploiting aggressively. Your platform became evidence of a crime, and your moderation logs—the very efforts you made to comply with the law—are being used to prove you knew illegal activity was happening.

What SESTA/FOSTA Actually Criminalizes

The confusion starts with the names. SESTA stands for the Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act. FOSTA means Allow States and Victims to Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act. Both bills passed Congress in early 2018 and became law on April 11, 2018, when President Trump signed them. Irregardless of the seperate names, they work together to create exceptions to Section 230 immunity that had protected online platforms from liability for user-generated content since 1996.

Here’s what the law actually does. SESTA/FOSTA creates a new federal criminal offense for “promotion or facilitation of prostitution” with reckless disregard of whether the platform is being used for sex trafficking. That standard—reckless disregard—is critical because its way lower then requiring actual knowledge or criminal intent. The government doesn’t need to prove you knew specific instances of trafficking were occuring on your platform. They just need to show you were reckless about the possibility.

What counts as “promotion”? The statute doesn’t say exactly, and thats the problem. Prosecutors have argued that simply hosting content, allowing user profiles, processing payments, or even providing messaging features can constitute promotion if those features made it easier for illegal activity to occur. “Facilitation” is even broader—it can mean providing any service that made trafficking possible, even if that same service had thousands of legitimate uses.

The law applies to platform operators, but recent cases show prosecutors expanding liability to moderators, administrators, and even affiliate marketers who had elevated access or received payments connected to flagged platforms. You don’t need to own a website to be charged under FOSTA. If you had admin privileges, if you recieved revenue share, if you promoted the platform in any way—prosecutors are testing whether that makes you liable as an aider and abettor.

One more critical point: content posted before April 11, 2018 may still be protected by Section 230, since FOSTA didn’t exist yet. Prosecutors overcharge cases by lumping together pre-FOSTA and post-FOSTA conduct, hoping defendants won’t notice the temporal distinction. But that distinction matters, because it could sever charges and force the government to prove FOSTA’s elements more narrowly for only the content posted after the law took affect.

Why FOSTA Cases Are Different from Other Federal Charges

For more then two decades, Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act gave online platforms immunity from liability for content posted by users. A website wasn’t treated as the publisher of user content—users were responsible for their own posts. That immunity made the modern internet possible, because platforms couldn’t function if they had to review and approve every piece of content before it went live.

FOSTA changed that for sex trafficking. Now, platforms can be held criminally liable for user content if the government proves the platform promoted or facilitated prostitution with reckless disregard of sex trafficking.

This is vicarious liability—you’re being punished for what someone else did on your platform. And the burden is massive, because the government doesn’t need to prove you participated in trafficking directly. They just need to show your platform made it easier and you didn’t do enough to stop it.

The template for FOSTA prosecutions is the Backpage.com case. Federal authorities shut down Backpage in 2018 and charged its operators with facilitation of prostitution and money laundering. Ironically, most of the convictions in that case were based off conduct that occured before FOSTA even existed—the law was passed while the case was already underway. But Backpage became the justification for FOSTA, and now FOSTA cases use Backpage as the model for how to prosecute platforms.

Here’s the paradox: despite all the political pressure and media coverage, the Department of Justice has brought very few FOSTA cases. A 2020 GAO report found that DOJ had filed only one criminal case under FOSTA’s provisions through June 2020. That limited track record creates institutional pressure on prosecutors to make “landmark” cases that justify the law’s existance to Congress and civil liberties critics. If your charged under FOSTA, you’re probly being used as a test case to establish precedent.

That test case status cuts both ways. On one hand, it means prosecutors will throw massive resources at your case—they need a clean win. On the other hand, it means they’re vulnerable to expensive constitutional challenges that might make the case to risky to pursue. The government invested huge political capital in FOSTA but has remarkably few convictions to show for it, which creates settlement leverage if you can make prosecution costly enough.

Venue selection is another unique problem in FOSTA cases. Federal prosecutors often file charges in districts where payment processors are headquartered—places like Delaware or Northern California—rather then where platforms actually operate. This gives prosecutors favorable jury pools and circuit precedent, but it also creates Sixth Amendment venue challenges. You have a constitutional right to be tried where the crime occured, and if your platform operated out of Nevada but your being prosecuted in New York because that’s where your payment processor was located, thats a venue problem your attorney should challenge immediately.

The Content Moderation Trap—Why Trying to Comply Creates Evidence

This is the central paradox of FOSTA defense, and its one that most platform operators don’t realize untill its to late: implementing content moderation creates documentary evidence that prosecutors use to prove you had knowledge of illegal activity, which they then use to establish reckless disregard. But if you don’t moderate content at all, prosecutors argue that proves recklessness. Your damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Here’s how it works in practice. Your platform gets user complaints about potentially illegal content. You create a system to review those complaints, flag problematic posts, and remove content that violates your terms of service. You document everything—moderation logs, complaint tickets, internal emails about policy enforcement—because you think that shows your making good faith efforts to comply with the law.

Then federal investigators subpoena those records, and suddenly every flagged post, every user complaint, every internal discussion about illegal content becomes Exhibit A in the prosecution’s case that you knew your platform was being used for trafficking.

The governments theory goes like this: “Look at all these moderation logs. The defendant reviewed hundreds of complaints about illegal content. They knew sex trafficking was happening on there platform. And they chose to keep the platform running anyway, because shutting it down would of meant losing revenue. That’s reckless disregard.” Never mind that you removed the flagged content. Never mind that you banned users who violated policies. Never mind that you tried to comply. The prosecution argues you should of shut down the entire platform once you became aware illegal activity was possible.

Some platforms tried to create distance between human operators and content knowledge by implementing automated moderation systems—AI filters, keyword blocking, image hashing to detect known illegal content. But that doesn’t always help, because prosecutors argue the existence of those systems proves you knew you had a problem. “Why would you implement automated sex trafficking filters if you didn’t know trafficking was occurring?” Its a knowledge trap either way.

Defense attorneys who’ve handled FOSTA cases report that prosecutors are particularly focused on any communication where platform operators discussed illegal content, even in the context of compliance efforts. An email that says “We need to do a better job removing escort ads” gets introduced at trial as evidence you knew escort ads were present and chose not to shut down the platform. A Slack message that says “I’m seeing more explicit content in the personals section” becomes proof you were aware of prostitution. Every attempt to address the problem becomes evidence you knew the problem existed.

So what’s the alternative? If you implement moderation, you create knowledge. If you don’t moderate, you demonstrate recklessness. The only way out of this trap is to frame moderation efforts very carefully—as general best practices and industry standards, not as responses to specific knowledge of illegal activity. Your moderation policy should focus on categories of content (explicit material, terms of service violations) rather then specific instances of trafficking. And any internal communications about moderation should emphasize that your following platform safety standards, not that your responding to known criminal activity.

There’s also a temporal defense that most operators miss. If you’re platform existed before April 11, 2018, content posted before that date may still be protected by Section 230 immunity. FOSTA created exceptions to Section 230, but it didn’t eliminate the immunity retroactively. This creates a separation between pre-FOSTA conduct and post-FOSTA conduct that can be used to sever charges. Prosecutors will try to lump everything together, but if your attorney can force them to prove which specific content was posted after FOSTA took effect, it narrows there case considerably.

What Happens When You’re Charged—The Investigation Timeline and Asset Seizure

Most FOSTA defendants don’t know there under investigation until federal agents execute search warrants. But the investigation typically runs for 18 to 36 months before charges are filed, and their are warning signs during that window that most people miss.

Payment processors suddenly freeze your account without explanation. Your hosting provider recieves a subpoena and terminates your service. Cloud storage services put legal holds on your data. Third-party platforms like advertising networks or affiliate programs drop you abruptly. Each of these could be a sign that federal investigators have started issuing subpoenas to services connected to your platform.

If you catch these signs early—before formal federal contact—you have a critical window to make operational changes that could reduce your exposure. But most operators don’t realize what’s happening until search warrants get executed, and by then its to late. The search warrant comes at dawn, usually coordinated across multiple locations simultaneously. Agents seize servers, computers, phones, hard drives, financial records—everything. And here’s the part that destroys defendants financially: asset seizure happens before charges are even filed.

Under civil asset forfeiture, the government can freeze your bank accounts, seize cryptocurrency wallets, and take control of business assets based on the theory that those assets were proceeds of illegal activity or instrumentalities of the crime. You haven’t been convicted. You haven’t even been indicted yet. But your accounts are frozen, your business is shut down, and you have no access to funds to hire an attorney. This is intentional—it cripples your ability to mount a defense.

Look, here’s the deal: federal criminal defense in a FOSTA case is expensive. We’re talking $100,000 to $250,000 for competent representation, maybe more if the case goes to trial. Specialized federal defense attorneys who understand Section 230, internet law, and sex trafficking statutes don’t come cheap. But the government froze everything before you could hire anyone, so you’re left with the federal public defender—who is often overworked, handling dozens of cases, and not specialized in FOSTA’s unique legal issues.

And then theres the social stigma. The indictment labels you a sex trafficker. The media runs stories with your photo next to actual predators. The prosecutor’s office leaks information to friendly reporters, and suddenly theres a PowerPoint presentation circulating with your platform’s logo alongside images of child exploitation. Your family doesn’t understand why the FBI took everything. Your freinds distance themselves. Your name is associated with crimes that are—let’s be real—among the most stigmatized in society.

Bail is another fight. Some FOSTA defendants are detained pretrial because prosecutors argue there flight risks (especially if they have international connections or offshore assets) or dangers to the community. If you’re released on bail, expect strict conditions: no internet access, GPS monitoring, restrictions on who you can contact. The government wants to make sure you can’t operate any online platform or communicate with potential codefendants while the case is pending.

Speaking of codefendants—if multiple people were involved in operating the platform, everyones going to start pointing fingers. Cooperation races begin immediately. The first person to proffer to the government gets the best deal. The last person to cooperate gets the harshest sentence. This creates immense pressure to blame other people involved in the platform, even if there not really culpable. Moderators blame the owner. The owner blames the technical staff. Investors claim they had no operational control. And the prosecution sits back and watches everyone turn on each other.

You think that’s bad?

Wait till you see the gag orders. The court issues protective orders that prevent you from discussing case evidence publicly. You can’t respond to media coverage. You can’t explain your side of the story. You can’t even tell people what really happened, because violating the protective order could result in contempt charges. Meanwhile, the prosecution faces no such restrictions—they leak, they hold press conferences, they shape the narrative, and you just have to sit their and take it.

Defense Strategies That Actually Work in FOSTA Cases

If your facing FOSTA charges, you need a multi-layered defense strategy that attacks the case from every angle—jurisdiction, statutory interpretation, constitutional challenges, and factual disputes about what you actually knew and when you knew it. Let’s start with venue, because its one of the most over-looked defenses in internet crime cases.

The Sixth Amendment guarantees you the right to be tried in the district where the crime occured. But FOSTA cases often get filed in districts where payment processors are located, not where platforms actually operated. If your business was in Nevada but prosecutors filed charges in Delaware because thats where your credit card processor was headquartered, you have grounds to challenge venue. Recent case law in the Ninth Circuit has recognized that substantial contacts need to exist in the charging district, not just technical hooks like payment processing. Your attorney should file a motion to dismiss or transfer venue immediately, before the case proceeds further.

Next is the Section 230 temporal defense. Content posted before April 11, 2018 is still protected by Section 230 immunity, because FOSTA didn’t exist yet. Prosecutors will try to charge you based off conduct that spans years, lumping together pre-FOSTA and post-FOSTA activity. But if your attorney forces them to specify which content was posted when, you can sever the pre-2018 charges. This narrows the government’s case and potentially eliminates counts that carry heavy sentencing enhancements.

Platform definition is another angle. Were you really an “operator” of the platform, or were you a moderator, contractor, or user with limited access? Prosecutors are testing theories of aiding and abetting liability for people who weren’t owners but had some elevated role. If you can document that you’re access was limited, that you didn’t recieve ownership equity, that you had no control over business operations or financial decisions—that creates distance between you and the people who actually ran the platform. Affiliate marketers who just purchased ads shouldn’t be treated the same as platform owners, but prosecutors will try to lump everyone together under conspiracy theories.

The knowledge vs. reckless disregard distinction is critical. The statute requires proof that you acted with reckless disregard of sex trafficking, which is a higher standard then mere negligence but lower then actual knowledge. Your defense needs to establish that you implemented reasonable content moderation, that you responded to complaints, that you made good faith efforts to comply with the law—all without conceding that you had specific knowledge of trafficking. Frame moderation as industry best practices, not as reactive responses to known criminal activity.

If you accepted cryptocurrency payments, the prosecution will argue that proves consciousness of guilt—that you used crypto to evade detection because you knew you were facilitating illegal activity. But theres legitimate business reasons why adult content platforms adopted cryptocurrency between 2015 and 2020: payment processors were discriminating against legal adult content, freezing accounts, and terminating services based on moral objections rather then actual illegal activity. Document those legitimate reasons and preserve evidence that crypto was used for legal transactions, not just illegal ones. If you can show that mainstream payment processors refused to work with you despite your compliance efforts, it undercuts the prosecution’s narrative that crypto adoption was evidence of criminal intent.

Here’s something most defense attorneys miss: victim testimony can actually help your case. FOSTA was sold as a law that “protects victims” of sex trafficking, but many of the alleged “victims” in these cases will testify that platforms actually made them safer. Sex workers who used screening tools, client reviews, and messaging features to avoid dangerous situations often say that shutting down platforms after FOSTA made them more vulnerable, not less.

Defense teams in 2024 and 2025 cases have brought in these witnesses—often through sex worker advocacy organizations—to testify that the platform served a harm reduction function. That creates a powerful mitigation narrative at sentencing, and in some cases it’s even led to acquittal when juries hear that the people prosecutors claim were harmed actually felt safer because of the platform.

Constitutional challenges are another option, though there risky. The Woodhull Foundation has been challenging FOSTA on First Amendment grounds, arguing that the law is unconstitutionally vague and creates a chilling effect on protected speech. If you raise similar constitutional arguments in your criminal case, it makes prosecution more expensive and creates appellate issues that could drag out for years. Sometimes the threat of a long, costly constitutional fight is enough to push prosecutors toward a settlement.

Cooperation is worth considering, but only if you have information the government actually wants. Because FOSTA cases are so rare, DOJ needs witnesses and cooperators to build cases against other platforms or operators. If you have knowledge of other platforms, other defendants, or other criminal activity that the government doesn’t already know about, cooperation could have outsized value. But don’t cooperate without a written proffer agreement that spells out exactly what your providing and what your getting in return—including specific sentencing recommendations.

Plea negotiations in FOSTA cases need to address victim count and sentencing enhancements up front. Don’t sign a plea agreement that leaves victim identification to the pre-sentence report, because that’s when you’ll discover the government is claiming hundreds of victims with age enhancements that multiply your Guidelines range into life-sentence territory. Negotiate specific stipulations about how many victims there were, what there ages were, and how enhancements will be calculated. Otherwise you’ll think your pleading to 5 to 10 years and discover at sentencing that the Guidelines range is actually 40 to life.

Sentencing Reality—Why Enhancements Mean Life Sentences

The statutory maximum for FOSTA violations is 25 years in federal prison for aggravated offenses involving promotion or facilitation with reckless disregard of sex trafficking. But that number is misleading, because it doesn’t account for how sentencing actually works in federal court. Mandatory minimums apply per count and stack on top of each other. Sentencing Guidelines calculations are based off the number of victims, there ages, and other aggravating factors. And here’s the part that shocks defendants at sentencing: enhancements calculate per victim, not per platform.

Let’s say prosecutors identify 50 minors who were trafficked through your platform over a three-year period. Under the Sentencing Guidelines, each minor victim triggers a significant enhancement—often 5 to 10 levels, depending on the victim’s age. Those enhancements stack. So even if your base offense level starts at 20 (which corresponds to about 3 to 4 years), by the time you add 50 victim enhancements, your offense level could be in the high 30s or low 40s, which corresponds to Guidelines ranges of 30 years to life.

This isn’t theoretical. It’s how federal sentencing works in exploitation and trafficking cases, and its why defendants who think there facing 5 to 10 years discover at sentencing that the actual Guidelines range is 40-plus years. The multiplication effect is exponential, not linear, because each enhancement builds on the previous one.

Relevant conduct doctrine makes this worse. Under the Guidelines, the court can consider uncharged conduct—victims who weren’t named in the indictment but who the government identifies during the presentence investigation. So even if you pled guilty to charges involving 10 victims, the PSR might identify 50 additional victims as “relevant conduct,” and all of them count for sentencing purposes. Your plea agreement didn’t protect you from that unless it included specific stipulations capping victim count.

Mandatory minimums are another trap. If your convicted on multiple counts, mandatory minimums stack. Count one carries a 10-year mandatory minimum. Count two carries another 10-year mandatory minimum. That’s 20 years before the judge even considers the Guidelines range. And federal sentencing is 85% time—theres no parole, just limited good time credit. A 20-year sentence means at least 17 years in custody.

Cooperation can reduce sentences dramatically through substantial assistance departures, but only if you provide information that leads to prosecution of other defendants or significant investigative value. The government has to file a motion for downward departure, and they won’t do that unless you’ve earned it. In FOSTA cases, cooperation might mean testifying against co-defendants, providing evidence about other platforms, or helping investigators understand how the technology worked. But cooperation also means your testifying in open court, which creates safety risks in prison and makes you a target for retaliation.

Supervised release comes after prison—usually 10 years to life, depending on the offense. And if the case involved minors, you’ll be required to register as a sex offender, which carries its own collateral consequences: residency restrictions, employment limitations, public notification requirements. Your life doesn’t go back to normal after you serve your sentence. The conviction follows you forever.

Closing Thoughts

FOSTA charges are unlike anything else in federal criminal law because they punish facilitation rather then direct conduct, and they apply a reckless disregard standard thats dangerously vague and easy for prosecutors to manipulate. The law was sold as a tool to fight sex trafficking, but in practice its been used sparingly—only a handful of cases through 2020—and often against defendants who had no idea there platforms were being used for illegal activity.

If your facing these charges, the stakes couldn’t be higher: asset seizure destroys your finances before trial, social stigma isolates you from support networks, and sentencing enhancements can turn what looks like a 5-year case into a life sentence.

But understanding the landscape early gives you options. Recognize warning signs during the investigation phase—payment processor freezes, third-party subpoenas, service terminations—and consult specialized counsel before federal contact. Challenge venue if prosecutors filed in a district where you have no substantial contacts. Assert Section 230 immunity for pre-April 2018 content. Document legitimate business reasons for decisions like cryptocurrency adoption. Preserve evidence that content moderation was based off industry standards, not specific knowledge of trafficking. And negotiate sentencing details up front, because the multiplication effect of victim enhancements can turn plea expectations into sentencing nightmares if you don’t stipulate to victim counts and enhancement caps in writing…

The law is still evolving. Constitutional challenges are ongoing. And every FOSTA case creates new precedent that shapes how future cases get charged and defended. Long story short, this isn’t a area where generic federal defense experience is enough.