Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  Of course, what those who admired their success didn’t suspect was that their business included transport of another more lucrative product. Krieg and Zabala's drivers were familiar faces at the crossings along the U.S. Mexico border. Over the years, they established friendly relations with the Border Patrol and Immigration officers up and down the Rio Grande.

  A case of avocados or tomatoes left at a crossing station as a gesture of appreciation for the hard work of the officer became common practice. In fact, Tom and Raul required their drivers to always leave something for the officers on both sides of the border crossings they used. It was never a bribe, just an expression of thanks from Krieg and Zabala Trucking. It was good for business to have friendly relations, they said.

  Out in the remote farm districts in the Mexican backcountry, Krieg and Zabala loaded their trucks with fruits and vegetables for their northern customers. Then one day, they discovered another specialized niche. It happened by chance.

  ***

  “What’s that up ahead?” Darnell Purdy took his foot off the accelerator and downshifted to slow the truck.

  “People walking in the road.” José Martínez looked up from the dog-eared Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition that had been riding back and forth in the truck for eight months. “Illegals headed to the border, probably.”

  Darnell touched the brake.

  “Why are you slowing?” José asked, placing a hand on the shotgun they carried in the cab for security.

  “There’s a girl standing in the road.”

  The group huddled close on the side of the road while the lone female with them stepped out in front of the truck. Five men, one older, in his fifties, and the others ranging from sixteen or so to about thirty in age waited while the girl approached the passenger window.

  Darnell brought the truck to a stop. José leaned out to speak to the girl.

  They exchanged words in Spanish for a minute, and José turned to Darnell. “They want to get to the border. They want us to take them.”

  “They must be crazy,” Darnell shook his head. “It’s another three hundred miles to the border. Out here like that, no provisions, just the clothes on their backs.”

  “She says they were to meet someone in Torreón … a coyotaje … but he took the down payment they gave him and disappeared.”

  “That’s a tough story, but I don’t see how we can help. Tom Krieg finds out he’ll skin us alive while Zabala looks on and smiles.”

  José leaned out the window and spoke to the girl. She started crying. The men on the side of the road hung their heads. The older man stepped forward to take her by the arm and lead her away from the truck.

  “Shit.” Darnell shook his head at what he was about to say. “Goddammit, I can’t stand to see a woman cry. Let’s make room for them in the back. We’ll put them all the way in behind the crates of tomatoes. They stay down; no one will ever suspect they’re there.”

  “Unless the Border Patrol gets on and does a visual check,” José reminded him.

  “That ain’t gonna happen. Most they ever do is open the back door and shine a light around a little. If they keep their heads down, no one will see them. We can let them out when we get back to the lot. After that, they’re on their own.”

  “I don’t know, Darnell. This could cost us our jobs.”

  “Maybe, if we get caught, but hell I can’t leave a girl crying like that on the side of the road. Can you?”

  José looked out the passenger window at the faces staring back at them from the shoulder. The old man patted the girl’s arm while she wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Aw hell,” José said and opened the door, jumping to the gravel on the side of the road. “Espera un minuto. Te llevaremos a través de la frontera.” Wait. We will take you across the border.

  The girl’s brown eyes opened wide. “De Verdad?” Truly?

  “Sí.” José nodded.

  Darnell got out and helped them load into the back of the refrigerated truck. José explained that it would be chilly, so they would have to huddle together for warmth. The border was five hours away, and they must remain silent. Their new passengers didn’t care.

  “We have money,” the old man said.

  Surprised that he spoke English, Darnell shook his head. “We don’t want your money.”

  “How much money?” José asked, casting a hard look in Darnell’s direction.

  “The price was a thousand U.S. dollars for each,” the old man explained. “Six thousand dollars in all. We worked for a year, saving for it and then sold everything we had to get the rest of the money. The coyotaje got half and left. We will give you the other half, three thousand dollars for taking us. That is fair. Just don’t report us when we get to the border.”

  “No,” Darnell said, shaking his head firmly. “We won’t report you. You’ll need the money when you get where you’re going.”

  “You sure?” José asked. “I mean that’s fifteen hundred apiece if we split it.”

  “Let’s go,” Darnell said, ending the discussion of money.

  Like most crossings by K and Z trucks, this one was uneventful. They stood to the side and chatted with the U.S. Customs agents while they performed a perfunctory inspection of the truck. Darnell and José made this run regularly and knew the agents who worked this station.

  José held his breath when the agent opened the truck’s rear door and shined a flashlight beam over the crates of tomatoes. Satisfied, he closed the door again, and José resumed breathing.

  Two hours later they pulled into the Krieg and Zabala lot off Highway 83 fifty miles north of Brownsville. When they opened the rear door, they had to reassure their passengers that they were safe and not being turned over to the immigration authorities. It took a few minutes, longer than they had wanted, and by the time the young men jumped down and turned to help their sister and father down, Raul Zabala stepped out onto the loading dock.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he snapped.

  Caught in the act, Darnell and José had no option but to confess. Zabala listened with interest, casting a stern eye over the six illegals standing, heads bowed before him.

  When Darnell finished explaining, Zabala looked at the old man and asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To Dallas,” the man replied. “My brother is there. He says he can find work for us.”

  “Alright,” Zabala said. “Let’s take this inside.”

  He directed them to the office in the back of the warehouse where Tom Krieg was going over the books. He looked up when they piled into the cramped space.

  “What the hell, Raul?”

  Darnell repeated the story for Krieg. When he finished, Krieg asked the old man, “You said you had money?”

  “Yes, a thousand each.” He shrugged. “But now only five hundred each. We will pay you.”

  Krieg’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Zabala. “We need to talk.”

  Darnell and José were sent on a run to Dallas that night with instructions to drop their passengers in a quiet spot without being seen.

  Tom Krieg and Raul Zabala spent the night running the numbers. A thousand dollar fee was far below the standard four thousand they knew most coyotajes required. It was apparent the family had been scammed and left to fend for themselves.

  “So what if we set up a real network of coyotajes?” Tom asked. “Our own network.”

  Raul was silent for a moment then nodded. “It could be done. I have contacts, people who do such things.”

  “Then we charge three thousand each. Not scamming anyone, we guarantee delivery across the border.”

  “I’m listening,” Raul said.

  “We give the coyotaje one thousand and keep two thousand for ourselves.”

  “Why would they take only one thousand?” Raul asked.

  “Because we are eliminating their risk and overhead. We handle all transportation expenses. They are our procuring agents, and when they deliver them to us,
they go procure some more.”

  “Assuming we can convince them to do that, six people at two thousand brings us twelve thousand.” Raul shook his head. “The risk is still too great in my opinion.”

  “You’re thinking too small.” Tom nodded as the plan materialized in his mind. “I’ll bet we can fit twenty in a load, behind our regular cargo. It would be cramped, but they would only be there a few hours, and we won’t be dumping them out in the desert somewhere to die.”

  He grabbed his calculator. “Now we’re up to forty thousand a load.” He keyed some numbers. “Say two loads a week, that’s eight a month. Now we’re up to three hundred twenty thousand a month and …” He punched a final number into the calculator. “Three point eight million dollars a year.” He looked up from the calculator. “Nearly four million dollars, not reported and not taxed, in our pockets. What do you think about the risk now?”

  “I think we may have found another niche for our business.” Raul grinned.

  8.

  Networking

  Even in the dark, his head covered with a hood, hands, and feet bound with zip ties, stuffed into the narrow compartment concealed below the floor of the van, he knew they were crossing the border. The sounds were unmistakable.

  After driving for hours, the van slowed. Then it moved a few feet and stopped, moved a few more feet and stopped again. Then he heard the Customs and Border Control agents speak to the driver and occupants. Mario Acosta was surprised that the men who had abducted him spoke in English, not Spanish.

  “How y’all doing today? Need to see your identification,” the agent said, his voice muted but understandable through the floor.

  “Sure, sure,” the driver responded. There was shuffling as the three men pulled out their passport cards. “Here you go.”

  There was a pause, then the agent asked, “What you boys up to today?”

  “Had a special pickup down in Torreón,” the driver responded. “Client had to have melons for tonight’s menu from one particular farm.” He laughed. “Some sort of special melon. They all look the same to me, but they pay, and we deliver. Crazy gringos.” The driver grinned.

  “They pay you for that?” the agent asked chuckling. “For watermelons?”

  “Fucking rich people have more money than they know what to do with.” The driver said and then added with a laugh, “But that’s what we do. K and Z trucking, only the finest imports.”

  “What’s so special about these melons?”

  “Damned if I know.” The driver lowered his voice as if sharing a secret with the agent. “I think the farm belongs to the brother of the restaurant owner. Trying to keep things in the family, but tells his customers the melons are special and come from only one special farm. It’s all a scam.”

  “Sounds like it.” The agent handed back the passports. “I have to look.”

  “Sure,” the driver said. “Door’s unlocked.”

  Footsteps moved around the side of the van, and the back door opened.

  “These are special melons?” The agent asked chuckling. “Look like plain old watermelons to me.”

  “Me too.” The driver called out. “We got plenty. I’ll grab a couple for you and your partner.”

  “You sure?”

  “Why not? There’s no count, and we have more than enough for the order.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Mario heard the van door open, and then someone moving melons around. A minute later, the door closed.

  “Here you go. Special melons from a special farm in Mexico.” The K and Z man laughed.

  “Thanks. My wife will be happy to see these tonight.”

  “Enjoy,” the driver replied. “Next time, I think we’ll be bringing back some avocados. Another small special order.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” the agent stood aside, a large melon under each arm. “Have a good day.”

  The van was moving again. They rode another hour before Mario heard and felt gravel crunching under the tires. Then they rocked to a stop. A few seconds after, the door opened, the floor panel was lifted and light filtered in through the hood.

  Hands grabbed Mario and jerked him upright, then dragged him out, dropping him on the ground. He managed to right himself, but the men forced him to kneel. The gravel dug painfully into his kneecaps.

  The hood was pulled from his head. He blinked in the bright light, turning his head to squint at his surroundings while they cut the zip ties off his wrists. The three men surrounded him. Each had a hand resting on a pistol in their belt.

  They stepped back. This is it, Mario thought and began praying. Tears fell down his face.

  “Por favor. ¿Por qué me estás matando? Que hice?” Please. Why are you killing me? What did I do?

  The men laughed. One, the one with the driver’s voice said in Spanish, “On your feet.”

  Mario rose, and stood, wobbling under the sun. At any minute, these men were going to shoot holes in him, and the worst of it was he could not even say why?

  He shook his head. No, that wasn’t the worst of it. That was just the puzzle. The worst of it was that he would be dead. He wept more now, shaking his head in denial.

  He wasn’t religious but, he began saying a Hail Mary. Maybe they were religious. Maybe they would hear his faith and not kill him.

  Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Seńor es contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre: Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén

  Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

  They were not religious. They laughed.

  “That way.” The man who had been the driver pointed at a building nearby.

  Mario turned and walked. His numb legs felt as if they would collapse under him. They were taking him inside out of view to kill him where no one would see, and he could do nothing about it.

  He prayed a Hail Mary again, for real this time, feeling more religious with every step he took.

  One of the men stepped up onto the small loading dock attached to the building and pushed open a door. They pointed, and Mario managed to make his legs move forward, weeping silently as he walked. As the door slammed behind him, his hope was lost. There was no escape now.

  Two of them took him by the arms and pushed him into another room at the back of the building. The moment was here. Mario thought his bladder would empty on the floor, but he clenched his legs together hard because he knew they would just laugh more at him for his fear.

  He entered the room. It was an office. Two men sat on either side of a wide desk. One was white, norteamericano. The other was brown and looked to be Mexicano.

  The brown one spoke first. The words were in fluent Spanish but with an accent of one who does not live in Mexico. “What is your name?”

  “Mario Acosta.” His voice trembled. They were verifying that he was the man they sought so they would kill the right person.

  The brown man nodded. “Good. Do you know who we are?”

  “No, señor.”

  “We are your new employers.”

  “My employers …” Mario’s eyes opened wider, confused. “I do not understand.”

  “I will explain,” the brown one nodded, speaking quietly. “You have found a way to make money. You are smuggling people across the border from Mexico.”

  “I did not …”

  “Do not lie to us.” The man’s voice was harder now. “We are aware of your activities and what you are doing. It is our business.”

  “Yes, I took some people across the border … on a trail I learned when I was a boy.” He shook his head. “I promise I will not do it again.”

  “Yes, you will do it again.”

  The expression on Mario’s face reflected his utter confusion
. Who were these people? They kidnapped him from the alley by his car. They knew about his plan to be rich, taking people across the border. Now, they told him he must continue to do it. That was his plan all along. He wanted to say to them that they were jodidamente loco—fucking crazy.

  Instead, he said, “I do not understand.”

  “You might say we are competitors.” The brown one shook his head. “We cannot allow that.”

  Mario paled. The bullet was coming any moment now.

  “What we can allow,” the brown one continued. “Is for you to work for us. Are you willing to work for us?”

  Mario looked around the room. The large white man behind the desk had remained silent, but his hard eye never left Mario’s face. The three men from the van stood respectfully to the side but nearby. He nodded.

  “Yes … I am willing, I think. What must I do?” He hoped the work was not to kill someone. He was not a killer and hated the sight of blood.

  “You continue doing what you have already started. Find people to take across the border, except you will not take them on the trail you played on as a boy in Chihuahua.”

  “No?”

  “No. You will deliver them to us. We will tell you where and when. For this, you will be paid a thousand dollars for each person you bring.” The brown one smiled. “You see, you will still be rich, and you will have little risk. No other coyotaje will molest you, and you will not have to make the trip yourself across the frontier and risk being arrested.”

  “Yes, but …” Mario hesitated. “But if you pay me a thousand, how will you be paid?

  “We will be paid two thousand each,” the brown one said. “You will charge each three thousand.”

  “Three thousand?” Mario’s eyes opened wide. “But such a sum, I don’t think many will be able to pay. How will I find people to pay this much?”

  “You will. Take this.” The brown one handed him a card. It was green, like the green in the flag of Mexico with a large red circle in the middle. There were no words on it. “People know this card. They will see that you work for us and that you can guarantee they will be safely transported across the border and delivered to a city inside the United States. They will not be molested, their women will not be raped, their children not abused. For this guarantee, they will pay.”