Borderline Insanity

by Jeff Miller

  “My face isn’t as memorable as yours. Please call me Marcia. What can I do for you?”

  “I need you to relieve my fears.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Perhaps. Members of my congregation are worried about family members who have disappeared.”

  “It’s not unusual for the undocumented to disappear.”

  “Thirteen of them? In the span of a week? Without any warning they were leaving, and without any contact since their disappearance?”

  She leaned back in her chair. “That’s a lot.”

  “Have you heard anything? Maybe Sheriff Don?”

  “He picked up a couple recently. I’m representing one of them.”

  Diego opened his notebook, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to Marcia. “Anyone on this list?”

  She put on her glasses, picked up the paper, and scanned the names. “No.”

  “Would you know if Sheriff Don picked them up?”

  She laughed. “Don Marigold puts their names and faces on the Internet between fingerprinting and holding. He considers it a high achievement, and he’s not quiet about his achievements. I check his site every day, and I haven’t seen any of these names. Plus, he gives them their phone calls. Word gets out—he likes it that way. Gets everyone all scared.”

  Diego sighed. “I was hoping you’d have the answers, but it sounds like you don’t. Any idea who I should talk to next? I know Marty Feldstein does some immigration work.”

  “Are you looking to make a fair effort and then report back to your people that you tried? Or do you really want to find these folks?”

  Diego was not used to people challenging the sincerity of a priest. It was refreshing. “I want to find them, of course.”

  She tilted her head and leaned forward. “You need to think about that, because once you climb into this cave, it’s going to be awfully dark.”

  “I want to find these people, Marcia.”

  “Well, if you’re serious about all this, you’ll probably want to talk to Ty Harborman.”

  “Who is Ty Harborman?”

  She shook her head. “How long have you been out here, preaching at the burrito stand?”

  “Two years.”

  “Two years, and still a tourist?”

  He wasn’t sure how to respond, and was relieved the question was rhetorical.

  “Ty Harborman runs an employment agency for illegal immigrants. Nothing legitimate, mind you. But he helps them settle and gets them jobs. Makes his way on finder’s fees and commissions. He might know the names on your list.”

  “How can I find him?”

  “You’ll need an introduction. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I am.” He wasn’t sure why she kept pressing him.

  “Then I’ll get you an introduction.” Marcia started to return his list of names but then pulled it back. “Let me add two more.” She picked up her pen. “Rico Chavez,” she said, scribbling. “He lived in Cleves. He was supposed to meet me two days ago about a deportation hearing, but he didn’t show. No answer when I call his phone. I’ll write down his number for you, in case it helps.”

  “Okay.”

  “And David Fisher.”

  “David Fisher?” Diego said.

  “I know, not quite like the other names.”

  “Is he Mexican?”

  “American, mostly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You still won’t when I tell you the story.”

  “Try me.”

  “David was a good boy. Not too bright but graduated from Bilford High. Worked restaurant jobs, never for too long. Smoked pot and started selling it to the college kids. Got arrested. Agreed to thirty days in jail and two years’ probation. And then, on the day of his release from jail, an ICE agent showed up at his discharge hearing. Told David he wasn’t an American citizen and that he was being deported to the Philippines.”

  ICE was the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement Agency. “He wasn’t American?”

  “Oh, he was as American as they come. But he was not, technically, a citizen. His mother was Filipino. When she was fourteen, her parents sent her to live with her grandmother in Manila. The grandmother rented her services to American GIs. One of them got her pregnant.”

  “David’s father?”

  “Not the one that raised him. ICE had documents showing that Harold Fisher didn’t arrive in the Philippines until three months after David was born. Some other GI had to be the actual biological father. Mr. Fisher, however, seemed to think the kid was his and that he had been born early. Brought the mom and the kid back home to the States a few weeks after he was born. The couple married, and when the mom died later, the guy raised David as a single dad.”

  “But if his real dad was another GI, then he’s an American citizen, right?”

  “We can’t prove who the real father is. Even if we could, the spawn of an unmarried American male overseas is not considered to be an American citizen.”

  “They would really send this kid halfway across the world, to a place where he doesn’t know anyone?”

  “They would if they could find him. He’s missing.”

  “If he’s hiding, I don’t blame him. But if I find him, I’ll let you know where he is.”

  “I don’t want to know where he is. Just let me know that he’s all right.” She slid Diego’s list back to him. “Now, Harborman.” She picked up the phone and dialed. Diego listened as she explained the situation and vouched for his credibility. Twice, she explained that he was a priest. There was some back and forth he couldn’t follow, a kind of familiar laugh, and then she hung up the phone.

  “He’ll talk to you, but the conditions are pretty specific.” She relayed them to Diego. It required a trip he didn’t really want to make.

  It was a beautiful autumn day, so Diego put the top down on his Corvette. The car had drawn its share of remarks, and he felt self-conscious driving it, even though he’d salvaged it from a junkyard and restored it over the course of several years. There was some work left to do, but there always was with a car like that. It was worth something now. Perhaps he was obligated to relinquish it once he’d brought it value. Or perhaps a man who’d given up sex was entitled to a nice car.

  Dayton was an hour’s drive from Bilford, and he spent that hour thinking about what Marcia Bell had said to him. “Two years and still a tourist,” was the way she’d put it. She barely knew him and had pegged him to the core. When he’d asked the church for permission to move to Bilford, he had promised big things. Establishment of an English-language program. Creation of an after-school center. Organization of a law clinic. He’d delivered none of these things, not that the church was asking.

  And there was that other thing Bell had said: “Once you climb into this cave, it’s going to be awfully dark.” It did not feel like he was driving into a dark cave, at least not until he pulled into the parking lot behind Saint Paul’s parish.

  At one time, he’d been king of the parish, greeted by everyone with smiles, handshakes, backslaps, and the like. Now, he felt like a trespasser. His departure had been blessed by the archbishop, but it had been cursed by everyone else. He’d given them all the best of reasons for his departure. The charitable impulse was fine in theory, but it was not always appreciated in application.

  When he pulled into the parking lot, he noticed that the sign marking his space had been removed. Fair enough—the infrequency of his visits no longer warranted it. Still, it stung. He parked the car and entered the church through the back door. Hurrying through the hallway, he hoped to escape detection. Father John Barton, however, saw him scurry by his office. “Diego, nice to see you.”

  He backed up and stood at Father Barton’s doorway. “John, it’s good to see you.” Diego waited to be invited in, but an invitation was not extended.

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Too long, I know.”

  Like Diego, John was in his thirties. H
e looked older. His hair was receding; his waistline, expanding. The lines on his forehead had deepened. His color seemed off.

  “How is your congregation?” Barton asked. “Growing?”

  It hadn’t grown the way Diego had hoped. “Holding steady.”

  Barton smiled, and Diego tried not to read too much into it. “Still meeting at the taco truck?”

  “In the back of the restaurant. Yes.”

  “Communion with tortillas and sangria, I imagine.”

  Diego laughed politely. “I am lucky to be part of them, John. They fill me with spirit.”

  “Yes,” John said. “Though for some of us, the Lord does that.”

  “These people are a gift from the Lord.”

  “All people are a gift from the Lord, Diego.”

  Yes, Diego thought, but some are a better gift than others. “It’s been good to talk to you, but I must go. I have another appointment.” He left before John could respond.

  Diego pushed through a few doors, crossed the cathedral, and made his way to the middle confession box. When he slipped inside, he felt better. It occurred to him that he could stay here until everyone else left and only then make his way back to his car.

  A man slipped into the other side of the box. The voice called, “You Father Vega?”

  “I am.”

  “Marcia told me you were on the level. I’m Ty Harborman.”

  He was a big man. That’s the only thing Diego could tell from his shadow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ty.”

  “I’m not Catholic, so I don’t know how this thing works.”

  “You mean confession?”

  “Yeah. If I’m going to talk to you, I need it to be confidential. This is confidential, right?”

  “It is.”

  “Even though I’m not Catholic?”

  “It’s still confidential. Anything you say is between us.”

  “So if you were called to court, they couldn’t ask you about what I say in here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m only here because of Marcia, you know. She’s a good lady.”

  “She is. I know.”

  “Okay, so what’s going on? What are you looking to find out?”

  “Thirteen men have disappeared in a couple of weeks. Fourteen, actually. Maybe fifteen,” he said, remembering the names Marcia had added to his list. “Families are worried.”

  “Who’s missing?”

  “I have a list.” Diego handed it through the slot between them.

  It took Harborman a few seconds to review it. “Jesus Christ. Yeah, I know some of these guys. They’re missing?”

  “Yes. How many do you know?”

  Harborman counted six.

  “Can you mark them?” Diego passed a pen; Harborman marked the paper and returned it and the pen to Diego. “How do you know them?”

  “Do you understand what I do?”

  “Not really.”

  “People come here lots of ways, right? Sometimes they overstay a visa; sometimes they slip across the border. Sometimes someone smuggles them in.”

  “A coyote?”

  “I call them recruiters, and I have an arrangement with some of them. I let them know what my employment needs are, and they try to bring me people to fill them.”

  “You instruct them to bring you people?”

  “No. This isn’t slavery. I’m an employment agency. When people are coming here, they want jobs. They don’t always know where the jobs will be, so they may not know where to go. If I have jobs that need to be filled, they want to know that, so they can go somewhere there is work. There’re people like me all over the country.”

  “So, employers tell you what they need, and you pass it along to the coyotes?”

  “Or sometimes families are trying to bring up their relatives. They’ll give me some money to give to a recruiter, and I’ll pass it along to cover the cost of transportation.”

  “You act as a middleman in the negotiations.”

  “Not just a middleman. A lot of jobs are temporary. While someone’s job is winding down, I might be finding him his next job. I keep tabs on law enforcement. I help people acclimate—find lawyers and doctors and relatives. I help them figure out the schools.”

  “You do some of the things I’ve been hoping to do.”

  “I do it better than you ever could.”

  “How do you get paid?”

  “Ten percent of earnings goes to me for a year, plus any finder’s fee I can get. More than fair, considering the services I provide.”

  “How many folks do you have working under you?”

  “Six fifty when things were good.”

  “Six hundred and fifty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In Ohio?”

  “Southwest Ohio, from Northern Kentucky up to Columbus. Dayton, Wilmington, Middletown, Bilford, all the way over to Portsmouth.”

  “And do you own the area?”

  “You mean like the mafia? It’s not like that. That’s as big an area as I can reasonably handle. Anyone else who wants in is free to compete. A handful of others place people in the area, too. But it’s hard to break into the business. Employers want to work with someone they can trust.”

  “You said six of these guys used to work for you. Why don’t they anymore?”

  “I couldn’t get them any work. Businesses aren’t hiring now. Things are too tense, thanks to Sheriff Don.”

  “Sheriff Don has only one county.”

  “But he’s got everyone all riled up. The feds have stepped up enforcement, since he was making them look bad. You’ve got politicians in other counties having to explain to voters why their county isn’t as tough as Bilford. It’s a frightening time.”

  “So, did you let your workers go?”

  “I told them I couldn’t place them right now, and that they should look for day labor. Hang out at Home Depot, hope to get picked up.”

  “Have you talked to any of the guys you marked on my list?”

  “Not for a few months. No idea where they are now.”

  “Could they have gone back home?”

  Harborman reached for the list again. “Lino, maybe. No, I mean, he had family here. These guys all had family here. No way Gabriel leaves without saying good-bye. No way Emilio leaves, period—his mother is sick. Manuel, he’s not leaving. Maybe Hector. I don’t know. Honestly, all of these guys had family here. I can’t see them leaving without saying something to them.”

  “Any chance the feds swooped them up?”

  “I would have heard about it. Someone at ICE keeps me updated.”

  “Why does he do that? Kickbacks?”

  “We have an arrangement. Suffice to say, if they’d been picked up, I would know.”

  “Sheriff Don?”

  “I don’t have any insight there, other than you’d think he’d be holding a press conference if he rounded up thirteen more illegals, right?”

  “I’d think so.”

  Harborman let out a big sigh. “Talking to you, I kinda hope Sheriff Don got them.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because if he doesn’t have them, I think they’re dead.”

  There were eleven cities in Bilford County: Zakes, Harrison, Cleves, Madison, Hanes, Rhodes, Silverton, Chester, Adams, Tylerville, and the largest, Bilford. Bilford police had jurisdiction over the city by law; they also provided service to Zakes, Harrison, and Rhodes by virtue of intramunicipal agreements. The Bilford County Sheriff’s Office policed the noncontiguous, unincorporated areas of Bilford County, as well as towns not served by the city police, save for Cleves, which had its own small force. This meant that Sheriff Don Marigold had clear authority over more than half of Bilford County, and he often tried to exert authority over the rest. Using county funds, he’d purchased billboards just within the borders of the city of Bilford to make sure everyone knew the city was in his county. Diego passed another one of these signs on his way to the Bilford County Sheriff’s Offic
e. It read WE WERE HERE FIRST.

  Marcia Bell’s words had challenged Diego to step up his game; Harborman’s had clarified the stakes. Instead of asking others if Sheriff Don had swooped up the missing men, Diego was going to ask the man himself.

  To get to the sheriff, Diego had to drive past the tents. There were at least a hundred of them behind an eighteen-foot-high, electrified chain-link fence. Unless the temperature dropped below freezing, this was where the male prisoners worked, ate, and slept. Diego slowed his car and watched as a group of men dug one of the sheriff’s infamous holes. Every day, prisoners dug a large hole, filled it with dirt, and dug it again.

  The holes were infamous, but the pink brassieres were genuinely famous. All the male prisoners wore them over their shirts. If they refused, they were placed in solitary confinement.

  A car honked behind him—one of the sheriff’s deputies. Diego tapped the accelerator and drove ahead to a parking space.

  The first thing he noticed when he walked into the building was the gift shop. Copies of Sheriff Don’s self-published memoir, No Coddling, lined several rows of shelves. Other shelves were filled with bumper stickers that captured his mottos: GO ON HOME. WE WERE HERE FIRST. DON’T TAKE OUR JOBS. PUNISHMENT IS IN TENTS. THIS LAND IS OUR LAND. GOD MADE US GREAT. Pink brassieres hung from hangers in various sizes.

  Diego passed the gift shop and walked up to an information desk. “I’d like to talk to Sheriff Don.”

  The woman behind the desk looked up from a Harlequin novel. Her short hair was dyed black, but the gray showed at the roots. She lifted her glasses off her nose and let them dangle from a chain. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I do not.”

  “Then why should he meet with you?”

  “I’m a priest, and I understand he is a religious man.”

  “Not a Catholic one.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “Let me see.” She set the book down open on her desk and walked down a hall and around the corner. Diego waited. Minutes passed. He walked into the gift shop. A teenage girl worked the counter.

  “Does this stuff sell?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “Mostly online, though.”