“Remember me, señor?”
“I do. Cristina, from Téguz, right?”
“Yes. You remember. Is your wife here? She said she’d try to get me home. I’ve run away again. I’ve no other place to turn.”
The Judge looked suspiciously up and down the corridor, finding himself staring into another pair of dark eyes leveled at him from twenty feet further along.
Shit, it was Officer Gonzales, assigned by Garcia to watch him, sitting in a chair tipped against the wall, a newspaper sliding off his lap as he assessed the situation. Officer Gonzales’s face broke into a broad smile as he drew all the wrong conclusions, then he put his finger to his lips, signaling the Judge’s secret was safe with him. Son of a bitch!
The Judge opened his door wider and invited the girl in. There seemed to be no other option. Cristina marched into the room, turned to look at the Judge with a faint smile, and launched herself backward on to the bed, landing on her back, spreading her arms and legs like a snow angel, her sack dress all askew, displaying scrawny legs with bruised knees, and a swath of once white underwear, now grey with age. She lay there for a moment and then bounced herself up and down on his mattress, testing the springs. Having fun.
This was all wrong and the Judge knew it. A stirring at the drapes and a blitz of light was the final straw. He made a mad-bull charge for the drapes and the balcony behind, almost catching the spry young man with the cell phone taking pictures, coming up short by only inches as the kid leaped over to the adjacent balcony and then disappeared through the adjacent empty room.
Where the hell was Gonzalez when you needed him?
Cristina’s eyes had gotten big and round. She was in shock. The Judge could see she’d not been a party to the photographer. She leaped off the bed and began to sob, making a blind run for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her, scared she’d blown her only chance to go home.
The Judge left her alone for a while, calling the desk downstairs and inquiring about the unit next door, which indeed was vacant. He booked the second room, and five minutes later the bellhop was up to unlock the interconnecting doors between the two rooms.
As the bellhop left, Cristina finally poked her nose out the bathroom door, having heard voices.
“You’re not going to call the police, señor?” It was a pleading question.
“Did you know about the photographer?”
“Oh no, señor.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“One of the technicians at the plant told me he’d seen your wife in town. He heard your wife get a cab and ask to be taken to the Finisterra. I came and waited in the lobby. When I saw you, I followed.”
“I think we’ve both been played, Cristina.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Nothing to be done about it now. My wife Katy isn’t here, but perhaps I can help. I’ve booked the room next door, there, through those adjoining doors, for you.”
“Oh, oh.”
“You will sleep in your room, I will sleep in mine, and we’ll close the adjoining doors.”
“Si, señor”
“Now let’s first have you go into your room and take a long hot shower, scrub all the dirt and grime off, and all the makeup. Let’s see what you look like under that war paint.”
A half hour later Cristina was standing before him again in her smock, now with a scrubbed face and no makeup, her shiny black hair freshly combed and spun in two braids, framing her small face.
“Much better, Cristina. Now come with me. We’re going to the gift shop downstairs.”
Gonzales looked startled when the Judge stepped out of his room with what was now clearly a very young girl, but put on a pantomime of acting discreet. His acting wasn’t any better than his police work.
The gift shop was loaded with vacation gear American tourists found attractive. Together Cristina and the Judge picked out white shorts and aqua t-shirt with glitter and a palm tree, and a matching aqua baseball cap with ‘Cabo’ smeared across its brim. There was discussion about the shorts, the Judge insisting they had to be larger and looser then Cristina preferred. The Judge picked out Ray-Ban style sunglasses and deposited them over her nose, and Cristina picked out local sandals to replace her scruffy heels, lowering herself two inches in the process. The Judge left her to sort through underwear options and went to the front desk, hoping for some message from Garcia. But there was none. He recalled a Tijuana non-profit that had been involved in a case when he’d been on the bench. It had helped young girls from the Mexican streets. He went to the business center and online to find it: Casa del Jardín. It seemed to fit the purpose he had in mind. He emailed its Director, a Señora Vargas, and took down her direct telephone number.
Returning to the shop, the Judge paid the bill and sent Cristina back to her room to change while he sought a cold margarita at the lobby bar and assistance in dialing the Mexican number for Señora Vargas. It was very late, but he figured he could leave a message. Surprisingly, she picked up on the second ring. He had a twenty-minute conversation with her.
The Judge returned to his room to find Cristina on his side of the connected rooms, posing in one mirror, admiring her backside in her trim white shorts and aqua top. There was so much of her that was still a child, despite what she’d been through. They ordered room service, Cristina eating like there was no tomorrow. The Judge had ordered three desserts; all three were quickly consumed by his new friend.
“Cristina, do you want to go back to Guatemala, to Téguz, and your family?”
“Si, Judge. But of course.”
“I can put you on a plane in the morning, and let them sort out your missing papers at their end. But there is an alternative.”
“An alternative?”
“Yes, another option.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s an organization in Tijuana called the International Network of Hearts. They run a facility called Casa del Jardín. They help girls get back on their feet after they’ve had experiences and trauma like yours.”
“You mean abused by men. Beaten, raped, savaged.” Bitterness crept into Cristina voice, hardening it.
“Yes. You might be able to go there. Spend a few months there and perhaps recover from your experiences, put the past in perspective. Are you addicted to drugs? Or to alcohol?”
“I’m no addict.”
“They’d give you a complete medical checkup. Treat any sexual diseases. Help you through withdrawal if there’s any drug or alcohol dependency. They’d have counselors, experts, who could help you deal with the trauma and isolation you’ve suffered, perhaps help you put it behind you so it doesn’t derail your future.
They would assess where you are in your education, what things you have a natural aptitude for, and help you chart a plan for on-going education which would give you skills to get a job in your country. There would be exercise, good nutrition, study classes, and counseling. You’d meet other girls who’ve had similar mistreatment, ahead of you in the healing process. You’d be assigned a job there, be expected to work, and to help with later arrivals, girls like you who start the program after you and could benefit from your attention.”
“It sounds scary. I don’t want to go back to a jail.”
“It’s not a jail. You could leave and return to Guatemala whenever you wished. You wouldn’t be a prisoner. I’m concerned for what happens if you just return tomorrow to your home. Does your family have money to provide for medical treatment? For counseling? For education?”
Cristina shook her head. Tears forming around her eyes.
“Look Cristina, I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t make any decision now. I’m not even sure there’s a spot there for you yet. But think about it. Sleep on it. If I can have the lady that runs Casa del Jardín come down here tomorrow, will you meet with her for a few minutes? Hear about what this opportunity might provide? No one is going to snatch you away again. What is going to happen is only what you decide you want
to happen. But I need you to be very grown up now and think seriously about your options. The decision you make here will have a lasting impact on your life.”
Cristina nodded dumbly, her face frozen with fear.
“Okay. Now I think we both need some rest. Let’s walk you into your new digs for the night, and I’m going to lock the door between our rooms, but if you need me, just knock on the door, or call me through it. I’ll hear you.”
The Judge escorted her into her room, turned up the air-conditioning, made sure the door and balcony sliders were locked, then retired to his room, collapsing on his bed like a suddenly deflated sail.
CHAPTER 41
The Judge awoke the next morning to find his limbs stiff from his exertions from the night before. His wrists were sore from unsnapping the electrical ties, his feet bruised from the climb over the cliffs, and his head hurt from the strong vodka tonics at the airport. On top of it all his sleep had been fitful, filled with dreams of Alan Clark reaching up a seaweed-clad hand to grab at his face, all the while pleading to be saved.
The Judge shuddered.
An envelope had been slipped under his door sometime earlier in the morning, his name printed on the outside, no return address. He tore it open to find a small piece of paper with the names of three organizations, and contact information for each, neatly typed. No signature. There was also a date entered and circled at the bottom, under the words, ‘press conference’. Today, this afternoon, three-thirty, in the hotel lobby.
It was already ten a.m. He’d have to get moving. He brewed stiff coffee, the kind that could hold a spoon upright, and slurped it too hot into his mouth, muttering under his breath and scalding his tongue. Damn he missed Katy. She usually made the coffee.
Then he reached for the hotel phone and dialed. What did they call it in politics, ‘dialing for dollars’? This was far more desperate. He was dialing for support.
At three-fifteen p.m. the lobby had a small gaggle of representatives from various news outlets, assembling camera stands, producing flip-top notebooks, chatting like ducks among themselves, and busy with the mundane things to be done before a live news conference. It was a festive and colorful clutch, hot to hear what the controversial Yankee judge would say.
A small knot of people detached themselves from the back of the crowd, walking around to introduce themselves to the Judge. He was easy to spot he supposed, bigger and taller than anyone else (or was it just over-fed?), and obviously American. They were the people he’d spoken to on the phone. People who’d bravely agreed to join him in this press opportunity.
There was no one there to serve as chairman of the press conference. No Chief Inspector Garcia, no Chief of Police, no Mayor, no Governor or Lieutenant Governor. The gutless wonders were all hiding under rocks somewhere far from ground zero in front of the press. The Judge would have to run the meeting himself.
The Judge stepped to a small podium near the wall, centered in the half circle of press and lookee-loos, two and sometimes three people deep, and adjusted the mic, rattling static around the lobby and bringing the assemblage to attention.
“Thank you for coming this afternoon. As you know, they call me the Judge. I’m an American, a tourist to your festive city, and unfortunately the victim of an assassination effort yesterday that resulted in the sinking of your Lieutenant Governor’s yacht just outside the harbor. Two of my close friends died in that sinking, as did two of the three thugs who stole the boat and tried to assassinate my wife and me. It was a cowardly plot perpetrated by an unknown person in your community; a person who supervises the trafficking of human beings for profit throughout Baja California for the Mexican cartels.”
It had gotten so silent the Judge could hear his own breathing. At least he had their attention.
“The reason we were targeted was my wife’s and my unflinching condemnation of the illegal network here in Baja California which conducts a criminal enterprise in human trafficking and misery. We saw the results of this enterprise first hand, meeting a fourteen-year-old girl, Cristina Reyes, from Guatemala, a victim of forced labor and forced prostitution, held at a high-tech manufacturing plant near Todos Sandos, a plant owned by ASAM.
We tried to help her escape, only to be stopped by your own Mexican military, who took her away from us and returned her to her enslaved condition. I also met a man from Guatemala, lured from his home and family to this same Todos Sandos plant on false promises of a better job and better pay, only to find himself trapped in a forced labor camp. These are just two examples, but there are many, many more. Your country is categorized a ‘Tier 2’ country by the U.S. State Department because it does such a poor job of protecting the human rights of its indigenous peoples and those who flee from the south into your country seeking a better life.
I call the attempt yesterday on our lives cowardly, because the effort to kill us was carried out by three hired thugs, while the person who hired the thugs hides in the shadows and runs the lucrative trafficking network in Baja California, never exposing his identity. Yet I believe him to be a socially prominent person located right here in Cabo. Someone you all know and respect.”
Heads ratcheted up around the half circle, pens scribbling furiously now.
“I call upon this manager of the cartel’s trafficking network in Cabo to step into the light, identify himself, and pledge to cease this godless trafficking in human misery that is a blight upon us all.
With that, let me turn the podium over to some additional guests I’ve asked to speak today.”
The Judge vacated the podium, motioning the first of his guests to take his place.
Señora Vargas was a large woman, perhaps five feet eight, big boned and big bulked, black shiny hair pulled back in a bun, outfitted in a loose sack dress sporting a pattern of fuchsia flowers, all purple, magenta, and lavender. The Judge flashed on the falling María, fuchsias, purples and pinks of fabric twisting in the wind, the start of this nightmare in which he now found himself.
“Hello all. My name is Leticia Vargas. I’m happy to be here this afternoon on behalf of International Network of Hearts and the Casa del Jardín, to raise public awareness of the ugliness going on around us here in Cabo, and elsewhere in Baja and the rest of Mexico.
Human trafficking is the illegal trade of human beings, essentially modern-day slavery. We most often think of prostitution, or other illicit professions, such as exotic dancing, pornography, massage parlors, webcam sites and so on. But trafficking includes people forced to work in trades and factories, forced into housekeeping and restaurant work, and to participate for the cartel as kidnappers, as lookouts, couriers, and mules. These are all circumstances where people are forced to work under less than free conditions. When they are no longer useful, the victims are sometimes killed, and their organs harvested for sale on the black market.
Human trafficking is the fastest growing illegal trade in the world, second only to the illegal drug industry and tied with arms-running. It is estimated that six hundred thousand to eight hundred thousand people are trafficked world-wide annually. There are more than twenty-one million modern-day slaves in this thirty-two billion dollars a year industry. Many are children between twelve and fourteen, and even younger.
The International Network of Hearts is a bi-national U.S. Mexico organization chartered to counter the trafficking of human beings, and we’re here today to support the Judge in his call for an end to this institutionalized trafficking in Baha.
The first step, as the Judge says, is to shine a bright light on those at the top who manage the trafficking network in Cabo and throughout Baja.
Thank you.”
A small bird-like man stepped up next, identifying himself as Alejandro Torres. Perhaps 60, he wore a dark green polyester suit despite the heat, and a narrow black tie that was fashionable 30 years ago, perspiration showing around his short grey mustache and on his forehead under the rim of this thinning hair.
“I’m the Vice Chair for the Coalition again
st Trafficking in Latin American and Caribbean Women, based in Mexico City. We’ve been rescuing Venezuelans, Colombians, Argentines and Mexicans for many years.
Some history is relevant here. When the Mexican government increased its battle against drug trafficking, the cartels responded by diversifying their illicit activities, into extortion, kidnapping, arms trafficking, trafficking of migrants for forced labor, and sex trafficking.
They quickly realized that human trafficking was a lucrative business, providing them huge returns for little investment. If I took a dose of cocaine into the United States, I could sell it for between forty and sixty dollars. But that’s it. The transaction is done; the income is over. A teenager or woman can be sold ten, twenty, thirty times a day, making thousands of dollars a day for the cartel.
This year has been especially difficult for our organization because we’ve had threats from politicians in the ruling party. They’ve come to the office to threaten us, left messages on staff cell phones with rape threats, and have been chopping away at our funding, no doubt to silence us.
Señora Vargas has outlined the breadth of this problem. We’ve seen the most cases in the age range of twelve to eighteen years old. Victims are recruited by force, by deceit and by seduction. Victims are also enticed to fall in love over social networks. They may never meet their intended love, finding themselves caught instead in a net from which they cannot escape.
The God-fearing citizens of Cabo San Lucas must band together and declare, ‘Not here, not in our community.’ Send a clear message to those who would perpetuate this travesty on humanity in Baja, in Cabo.
Thank you.”
A slender young Mexican lady stepped to the podium next, well proportioned, dressed in fitted grey skirt and ivory blouse, long black hair flowing like a vine down both sides of her head and across her shoulders. She was beautiful.
“I’m Josefina Ruiz, one of the authors of Migrantes en Movimiento en México, better known as the Víctimas Invisibles. We have documented the violence used by the cartels to populate their human trafficking networks. They use kidnapping. When a victim’s family cannot pay the ransom, he or she can be trafficked, used as forced labor, raped, or even forced to participate in kidnappings and the network’s other activities.
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