They all laughed at him. Even Katy. They seemed to think it outrageously funny as he scrambled up out of the foamy sand, the back of his shirt and puke green shorts soaked.
He looked at himself in disgust.
Katy beckoned a waiter over and ordered him a double Cadillac margarita, extra extra strong.
CHAPTER 24
Alan showed up at their hotel at one in the afternoon with a Sprinter work van, labeled with the name ASAM on both sides, driven by a young local with a wide smile underneath friendly brown eyes, dressed in white linens offsetting his brown skin and dark floppy hair. He looked to be someone in a brand-new job, excited to be driving the gringos north, chatty about his country and full of eager questions about theirs. The van was new, its rear compartment stacked with boxes that read Bolts and Fasteners, bound for the ASAM plant.
They set off on an hour and a half drive north, Alan up front in the passenger seat and the Judge and Katy in the back, up the Pacific Coast of Baja, up to Todos Santos, the ancient colony city above Cabo, pushing twenty miles North beyond its boundaries. They eventually pulled off the main highway, down a dusty dirt side road, and up to and along cyclone fencing with spooled barbed wire on top, stopping finally at a security kiosk in front of a high gate. They produced their passports to verify their identity to three alert guards, dressed in freshly pressed khaki and carrying automatic weapons, and soon were waved on.
They wound their way through a banana plantation for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and finally into a large parking lot sprouting a huge two-story industrial building at its other end, corrugated metal in grey and black. There was another perimeter fence around the building, and another security check outside its lone gate. They walked through the gate, and then through a metal door into built-out office space at the front of the building: beige carpet, white plaster walls with pictures of various airplanes, and a wood counter, heavily varnished, made from a single tree, running down one side. The office smelled crisp and clean, with a hint of new paint.
A rotund lady behind the counter gave them a friendly wave, obviously expecting them, then buzzed her boss, who was out a side door like Jack Flash to greet them, all hand-shakes and toothy smile. The plant manager introduced himself as Tomás Castillo, and openly gave Katy an appreciative look. The Judge decided he didn’t like this plant manager much.
“Nice to meet you gentlemen, and to have you visit our plant. Miguel Cervantes was here last week doing his quarterly inspection and Luis Cervantes will be here tomorrow. This seems our month for visitors.”
They settled in Señor Castillo’s office for an orientation, sharing strong Mexican coffee and a selection of donas, buñuelos, churros, and sopapillas. The Mexican dona was a donut-like fried dough pastry, dipped in chocolate, and proved to be surprisingly good. Señor Castillo loaded them down with numbers, revenues, profit margins, principle customers, vendors, and numbers of various parts manufactured and assembled in the plant. He exclaimed proudly, “We produce some of the lowest cost air frame parts in the world.”
They were led out of his office and up a flight of stairs to the second story, through another locked security door, and found themselves out on a catwalk overlooking the cavernous two-story space of the building filled with large tail and fuselage constructs in the process of fabrication and wiring, silver outside and bright green on the inside, heavy blue, red, yellow and purple wiring streaming from their open ends like confetti. The air was tinted with traces of phosphine and arsine from several acetylene torches in use, giving it a distinct garlic-like smell. Sounds echoed across the vast chamber from twenty assemblies in progress at work stations spaced across the cavern.
Skilled workers in white overalls swarmed around each assemblage like ants. Other workers, apparently less skilled, dressed in dusty blue overalls, rushed around busing parts and sweeping the floors where bits of wire, cable and aluminum debris fell periodically in assembly. The white-garbed workers looked happy enough, chatting with partners on the line, joking with supervisors. The blues looked more… something… perhaps subdued?
Security personnel stationed at varying intervals along the assembly line looked up at their little party suspiciously. A couple stopping to admire Katy’s legs from below. The Judge wondered what was so secret it required pervasive security.
They were led further along the catwalk, and then down stairs in the middle to the first floor of the building to get a good look at the fuselages and tail assemblies. Behind them at the back of the plant floor, several short work benches contained smaller assemblies in process: radar antennas, radio equipment, drones, and units that looked to be part of conveyer belt installations. One bench contained a robot, on large roller wheels, arms extended with screwdriver hands. Here too, each white-clad skilled worker had a second ‘gofer’ worker in blue, assisting in busing parts, sweeping the floor around the station, and holding pieces together for riveted assembly.
The plant had the feel of army organization, each person drilled with his job responsibility, tight discipline, each task broken down into its smallest components, a body for each component. The wage rate must be very low, mused the Judge, since so many people were in play.
The Judge inquired about a restroom, feeling a need to reprocess coffee, and the donas, which were sitting in his stomach in a less festive way than one would have anticipated by their appearance. The chocolate icing had been part mole, and the dough had been heavy in grease. The fried eggs smothered in verde sauce earlier in the morning hadn’t helped.
Señor Castillo frowned slightly at the Judge’s request, but called a security guy over and in rapid Spanish instructed the man to escort the Judge to the baño and stay with him. The security man led the Judge around the corner of one line of benches and to a side wall where a small metal room jutted out onto the plant floor. Inside were four toilet stalls, two sinks, and an industrial size shower, the Judge supposed for hazardous spills.
The security guy took a position inside by the door, but the Judge waved him away, saying he’d be a while, demanding privacy. The guard shrugged and wandered off.
The Judge had just settled into his stall, perfuming the air with a blast of ill-wind, when the door opened in the stall next door and someone settled there. All the Judge could see were dirty white tennis shoes and the bottoms of dusty blue overalls. The Judge returned to his concentration, only to be disturbed again.
“Señor, are you there?” whispered the new neighbor in a thick Spanish accent.
“Errrr, yes. And busy.”
“You are from outside?”
“Yes.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“Please, please help me señor. Trabajo de esclavos here.”
“Esclavos?” asked the Judge, uncertain of his Spanish.
“Slaves, señor! They keep us locked here as slaves to work.”
“I don’t understand?”
“Like a prison, señor. A prison for people who’ve done nothing. I am from Guatemala. I gave them money. They said they would take me to the U.S. Instead I’m imprisoned here. Three months now. There are others too.”
“How many?”
“Everyone in azul… blue.”
“It’s like a forced work camp?”
“Si, señor. If you cannot get me out, will you call my wife and tell her I’m alive? My name is Felipe Martínez. My wife and nomos, they must think I’m dead. In some ways, I am.”
A small scrap of paper was thrust under the stall panel, a name and number scribbled on it.
“I’ll see what I can do,” the Judge whispered. “I’ll call the police.”
“Oh Dios, no, no, don’t do that. They’re the ones who sold me here. Call Mexico City, señor.”
The front door to the restroom opened, banging against the adjacent wall; then someone pounded on the stall next to the Judge.
There was the slush of a quick flush; then a hasty exit from the stall, and two sets of steps marched from the room.
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The Judge finished his business quickly, dousing his hands with water at the dirty sink, there was no soap, and bolted out the door.
A tall scrawny security guy was walking a shorter equally skinny man in his early thirties, dressed in dusty blue, toward a bench at the back of the factory floor. The man in blue looked over his shoulder once, his face contorted in fear. The Judge had little doubt who’d been the Judge’s brief stall mate. It hadn’t been the security guard.
The Judge put a bland expression on his face, stuck one hand in a pocket, feeling the scrap of paper there, and sauntered back to his little group, clustered around a bench mid-floor where Castillo was explaining the nuances of elevators and stabilizers on airframe tails.
Señor Castillo was running out of steam, having been talking non-stop since they’d walked into the plant. He suggested a return to his office and some mid-day refreshment, spinning on his heel and they rapidly retraced their steps up the stairs to the catwalk and across the second story to his office.
They settled around his desk to a platter of frosty lime margaritas which mysteriously appeared with salted chips, salsa and guacamole, Alan Clark running his mouth again at how modern and efficient the plant was. Señor Castillo preened more with each new compliment, all smiles and congeniality.
“Are these workers all hired locally?” asked the Judge.
“Oh yes. We hire and train people from our local community.”
“And the ones in blue too?”
“Of course. All local labor.” Señor Castillo looked at Alan, hoping he would start a new topic of discussion.
The Judge pressed on. “Are there labor unions?”
“Oh no. These employees are well paid and well treated. They have no need of a union.”
“Do some live here on the plant property?”
“Err… yes. A dorm on the other side houses some eighty people.”
“All blue workers I suppose?”
“Why yes, how did you know?”
“Can they leave whenever they want?”
Señor Castillo gave the Judge a deprecating smile. “Of course. This is not a jail.”
“Can we go back to their dorm and talk to a few of the blue workers?”
“Err…. No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, they only speak Spanish. I understand you don’t?”
“It’s true. But Señor Clark here speaks fluent Spanish.”
“We run a tight ship here, Judge. We can’t have tourist visitors disrupting our work week. It’s not permitted.”
Señor Castillo folded his arms across his chest, signifying the discussion on this point was closed.
“Are you familiar with Mexico’s law against human trafficking. I understand it provides for thirty years’ imprisonment and huge fines if one is caught.”
The friendliness evaporated from Castillo’s face, his lips turning into a grim straight line, his eye glittering at the Judge with malice. One hand coming up, forefinger pointed at the Judge’s chest, gesturing. If it’d been a gun, the Judge was sure Castillo would shoot.
“This is not the states, amigo. I understand in your country debutants can flap their lips all they want and say stupid things. This is Mexico, señor. People treat one another with respect. For those who don’t…. Well, they sometimes disappear, never to be heard again.”
Katy gasped at the blatant threat.
Alan jumped up, pasting another smile on his face, pulling the Judge by his arm out of the chair. “Well, Señor Castillo, it’s getting late. It’s time for us to go. Thank you for the tour. We’ll be off now.”
Alan hustled them out of the office, across the parking lot to their van, flagging urgently at their young driver sharing a cigarette with a security man at the corner of the building. They all clambered in and the car sped off, reaching the front gate and cruising through without a stop. They turned south at the main road, retracing their steps toward Cabo. After twenty minutes, the Judge adjusted his rear seat back to a tilt into the storage compartment, planning a short nap.
There was a high-pitched yelp behind him, the seat bouncing off a lumpy blanket in back that now moved. A small head with black curls shoved out from beneath the blanket, glaring at the Judge.
CHAPTER 25
The face was of a young girl, perhaps 14, dark hair, dark eyes, petite features displaying indígena ancestry, her face framed by the top of her blue overalls. Fear-filled eyes were set into dark circles, and the grim line of her mouth belied her apparent youth, hinting at experiences that had aged her beyond her years.
“Pull over, pull over,” Alan screeched to the driver. The van rattled to a stop on the unpaved dirt beside the road. The driver turned back in his seat to stare, worried now there was an extra person in the back.
All eyes turned to the girl. She looked at them calculatingly now, deciding whether they could help. Finally deciding she had no choice.
“Trabajo de esclavos, Señor.”
“A slave,” said the Judge.
“Si. Ayúdame! Help me. Get me away.”
Katy reached over, putting her hand on the girl’s trembling shoulder.
“It’s okay. No one will hurt you here.”
“Can’t go back. Don’t send back.”
“We won’t send you back.” Said Katy.
Alan caught the Judge’s eye, shaking his head slightly, disagreeing, mouthing the words, “It might not be that simple.”
“What’s your name?” asked Katy.
“Cristina. Cristina Reyes.”
“Where’re you from?” Katy asked.
“From Honduras, Téguz.”
“But right now. You work at the plant?”
Fear spread again across the girl’s face again.
“No go back. Bad men. No go back.”
“No. You won’t go back. You’re with us now. They mistreated you?”
Anguish showed now. The girl started to cry.
Katy patted her arm some more, coaxing out more information.
“My family paid money, me go to America. But lies. Steal money. Dump me here. Esclava!”
“They don’t pay you to work in the plant?” asked the Judge.
“No. Food, bed only.”
“You worked on the floor of the plant?” asked Katy.
“Si. Azul. And worse. Esclava sexual. At night guards come. Sometimes one. Sometimes two. Sometimes three. This came out in a rush.
“Slow down, slow down,” said Katy.
“Forced sex. How you say… rape. Awful. Unnatural. Not like God meant. Treat me like animal. Like perro… dog. Night after night. Different men. Handed around. Bastardos malignos y ladrónes. I… I… can never be wife now, never be a mother. God failed me.” Small tears streaked down her cheeks again, etching lines in their dust. “Can you send me back to Téguz? To my family?”
She put her hands over her face then, making a small keening noise.
Alan leaned over to the Judge and whispered, “She must go back, Judge. We can’t become involved. We can’t know about any of this. This will destroy my relationship with Luis, with ASAM. And it’s not safe information to have. If they find out we know, like the plant manager said, we could just disappear.”
Katy, catching snatches of Alan’s whisper, turned to glare at him, her chin up, eyes flashing. Cristina seemed oblivious to their whispers, lost in her own personal sorrow.
“We’re not taking her back, Alan,” the Judge said. “Driver, let’s move out. Back to Cabo.”
The driver looked doubtful, thoughts of objecting crossing his face, but he finally turned back to the wheel and swung the van back on the road. They tottered off again. Now it was Alan who looked scared. “This is not going to end well, Judge. Not for any of us. This is a serious miscalculation. I wish we hadn’t come.”
“But we did, Alan. We’re here. And Katy’s right, we can’t just abandon this girl.”
The van rocked around a steep curve on the highway, then the driver slammed on the brakes suddenl
y, skidding to a stop in front of an army truck parked perpendicular to the road, essentially a road-block. Three soldiers stepped forward from the brush at the side of the road, all khaki and camouflage, automatic weapons at the ready, faces obscured by the brims of their khaki patrol caps, looking hostile from what little could be seen.
The girl dived back under the blanket, which started to visibly shake with her fear. The driver turned in his seat to them, his face a pasty white, words failing him. He looked like he might be sick.
A sergeant rapped on the driver’s window and signaled him to roll it down, then leaned in to chat, eyeing Katy in the backseat in a way that made the Judge uncomfortable. They spoke briefly, then the sergeant barked, “Okay, everybody out. I want you lined up against the side of the truck and I want to see your passports… now.”
They clambered out and did as they were instructed. One of the soldiers opened the rear compartment. Cristina was still and silent under the blanket, which had stopped shaking. But the solider took a careful look. When he lifted the blanket Cristina made a little screeching noise, covering her face with her hands.
The soldier grabbed her by her hair and hauled her on her knees out the back of the van. There was a Spanish tirade between them. Finally, the soldier looked at the sergeant, who nodded toward the army truck. The soldier pushed Cristina over to the back of the army truck, instructing her to put her foot on the low tail gate running board. He then laid both hands flat on her rounded bottom displayed through blue overalls, and with a large grin boosted her into the back of the truck. This provoked another tirade of Spanish from Cristina.
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