I sat in my vehicle pondering what had just happened. Nothing made sense. I had expected some sort of bigoted racist to ramble on banalities, but instead he opened a Pandora’s Box of uncertainties. I got on the road headed towards Fayetteville, Texas on the 10 highway, I texted my boss to inform him I was still in the field following leads on the story. Follow the NAFTA blueprint, huh? What was that all about? The North American Free Trade Agreement, what did that have to do with small communities in the outskirts of Fayetteville and illegal immigration, and what did he mean by a supercorridor?
Whatever Shawn Hunter inspired in me to investigate, chances were I would find answers in Fayetteville, so I drove on the interstate hoping to extend my understanding of illegal immigration concerns. Were there a lot of illegal immigrants taking over the community of Fair Oaks in Fayetteville or something like that? The question wheeled through my labyrinth of analysis with no direct continuity. There were no connections or conclusions.
While I sat in bottlenecked traffic on the interstate hoping for a quick arrival, I dialed up Dr. Pellicer on my cell phone. He was a physician from back home in Los Angeles and a PhD scholar working on a theology dissertation at USC. The type of person you could rely on for complicated questions or analysis, the one you would call if you were a contestant on ‘Who wants to be a Millionaire.’
When Dr. Pellicer answered the phone, I said, “Hey, Pellicer! It’s me…Michael, are you busy?” I hadn’t spoken to him for a while, I was a bit embarrassed to call because it seemed like I only called him when I had a medical concern. That’s the problem about being a physician, friends rely on you for medical advice at all hours of the day. He was screwed.
“Michael Ray Korsakov,” he said it slowly with pauses, “…and to what do I owe this pleasant surprise? Let me guess, you have a health question about some story you’re pursuing…you only call when you have questions because you have a deadline to meet or something, right? Nah, I’m just joking, no worries? Are you still with the Houston Chronicle? Are you still living in Texas, brother?”
“Yeah, all of the above, Pellicer…look I’m kind of in a hurry, I’m down here in the outskirts of Texas. Would you happen to know anything about supercorridors throughout this region, or anywhere else in the country for that matter?”
“Supercorridors, huh? Well, the term itself is related to highway infrastructure here in the United States. It’s some sort of proposal to integrate pipelines, communications, and I think rail service or something like that. I’m not sure. I think the Texas Governor approved a bill for the department of transportation to build a few supercorridors throughout the state of Texas. I read about it a few months ago. What’s it called, let me think for a second, alright. Oh yeah, now I remember…umm…TPC, TTC, yeah, it’s called the Trans-Texas Corridor. Yeah, for sure, that’s it! I don’t know a whole lot about it Michael, but I’ll tell you one thing, it’s supposed to be highly controversial. You might want to contact our friend Sebastian, he’s an urban planner―he might have more insight, you know. Whatever the government’s working on, they definitely don’t want the citizens to know anything about it. What’re you working on?”
“Look, thanks. That makes a lot of sense. I’m not exactly sure what I’m working on yet, but it could be something big. Something related to illegal immigration, supercorridors, and NAFTA, it’s all kind of complicated right now. I have to run though, I think there’s a cop behind me, I’m driving. I’ll call you a bit later. That’s awesome information though, thanks a lot Doc!”
I thought about contacting Sebastian Salaberri the urban planner, an old friend from back home, but I remembered he had been living outside of the country for a few years now. I didn’t have his phone number on hand, I would have to email him for an answer…it would take too long. I continued driving in haste, and when I appeared to be getting closer to Fayetteville, I made a stark observation of the surroundings off the interstate. There were many closed furniture stores with signs and banners advertising, ‘Blow-out Sale, Everything Must Go!’ followed by abandoned tract home projects.
I observed half-built construction sites with administrative bungalows, but nobody seemed to be in the field working or finishing the projects. Some communities I passed up reflected ghost towns decimated in the old Wild West without any type of vegetation, while others were stretches of miles of open space. I decided to drive through the town of Fayetteville, perhaps I would be able to speak with locals regarding supercorridors, and maybe they would have some idea about what Shawn Hunter had mentioned. I drove around without a destination like a shadow for about twenty minutes down the main avenues until I noticed a poster hanging on an office window which read, ‘Down with TTC, Corridor Watch.’ I parked my vehicle and walked towards the office hoping it was still open. It was a small law firm.
“Hello, can I help you with something?” asked a soft-spoken, dark-haired, pallid-skinned woman from behind the desk with perfectly-lined, thick eyebrows. She had a mole on her upper lip, a femme fatale-type. She was young and robust with a striking, radiant confidence. I thought she might’ve been Armenian or Greek.
“Ugh, yeah…I read the sign outside about the TTC, ugh, the supercorridor or the superhighway. I was wondering if you might be able to answer some questions about that.”
“Are you from around here?” she asked, it sounded condescending, perhaps relating to my accent.
“No, actually, I’m from California, from L.A., but I live here in Houston at the moment…I’m with the Houston Chronicle. I’m covering a story about illegal immigration and the Trans-Texas Corridor. I thought you might be able to help with some questions I have…I’m trying to make some connections between all this. I was actually trying to get down to Fair Oaks, is that around here somewhere? I couldn’t find it on the map and there weren’t any noticeable signs off the highway. Maybe it’s still some miles up―I drove from San Antonio. Do you know?”
“Well, first of all…I’m Helena Stratos, this is my law firm…we handle contract law.”
“Michael Ray Korsakov, nice to meet you.” I concluded she was Greek because of her last name and her physical features, the great Helen of Troy.
“Second of all…you said you’re with the Houston Chronicle and you’re writing a story about the Trans-Texas Corridor. I don’t think so, pal. What’s your angle huh? Those corporate scumbag sponsors of theirs are never going to let you print an accurate portrayal of the Trans-Texas Corridor. You know, I’ve met a lot of people like you…big urban hotshot reporters trying to infiltrate our organization. We might be small town folk, but we are very aware of what’s going on in the state of Texas. What information are you trying to gather about the Trans-Texas Corridor anyway? Why here in Fayetteville? Why Fair Oaks?”
“Well, earlier today I was covering a story about illegal immigration and the Minutemen Project in Edinburg, at some local university. I was interviewing people from both sides, you know…supporters, students, social activists…and then I came across the guest speaker, Shawn Hunter, of the Minutemen Project chapter here in Texas. Anyway, I spoke to him for quite a while, I got a private interview with him, an exclusive, but then he started rambling about the NAFTA supercorridors and the NAFTA blueprint. He also mentioned Fayetteville and the Fair Oaks community, so I decided to drive down here. I mean―everything around here seems abandoned. I thought I was going to find illegal immigrants squatting around tract homes or running rampant on the streets. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I know the NAFTA Trans-Texas Corridor is controversial. I know it’s something the federal or local government doesn’t want us to know about, right?”
“Okay, okay…well I see you know a little bit about it, you’re trying to connect the dots, that’s good. Are you sure you’re ready for this though?”
“Definitely!”
Helena began walking out through the front door with keys in her hand, “You
have a car?”
“Yeah, why?”
“C’mon then…we’re going to Fair Oaks.”
The NAFTA Blueprint Page 4
