Riptide

by Debbi Mack

  “Soybeans are among the most important crops in this region,” Amber explained.

  “Why?”

  “They have many uses. They feed people and livestock, for one thing.” Amber paused, taking the time to check before passing a slow-moving farm vehicle. The operator even pulled to the side of the road for her. I marveled at this simple politeness that was so conspicuously absent at home.

  “The Eastern Shore is the most concentrated agricultural area in Maryland,” she continued, after passing the vehicle. “It makes up nearly a third of Maryland’s agricultural land and produces more than half its major crops, like corn, soybean, wheat, and barley.”

  “You’re a regular agricultural encyclopedia.”

  Amber laughed. “Sorry if I sound like an ad for the Chamber of Commerce. This place and subject have become my life. I don’t get to talk to many people about it.”

  “How about your coworkers at the FPL?”

  Amber frowned. “We’re running out of those. The FPL has had to cut paid staff. We rely almost exclusively on volunteers and workers funded by grants.”

  “Is that how your internship works?”

  “Yes. It’s paid by a grant from the Chesapeake Bay Foundation. Unfortunately, that grant only stretches so far.”

  I pondered how lonely she must get in that little house in Salisbury. Especially as the only law student, probably eager to talk to someone with similar interests.

  My thoughts were interrupted by an overpowering smell.

  “Yeesh!” I said, flapping my hand. “Someone’s been fertilizing their fields.”

  “Get used to it. That smell just means we’re getting close to the plant.”

  “You mean …?”

  “Yeah.” She turned toward me with a wry smile. “It just gets worse.”

  *****

  We pulled up at the processing plant, a low flat-roofed warehouse-like building, and left the car in the small dirt lot. A short brown man hustled out to greet us. He wore a pair of plastic boots and a slicker. A paper filter swung from an elastic cord around his neck. I focused hard on not succumbing to dry heaves from the overwhelming stench.

  “¡Hola, Señorita!” our greeter said, smiling and nodding.

  “Hola, Manuel. Ésta es mi amiga, Sam McRae.”

  “Uh … hola, Manuel.” I extended a hand and he grabbed and shook it, grinning hugely.

  “We’re taking a tour.” Amber gestured that we’d be going inside. “Okay?”

  “Sí, sí. Tour? Uno momento.”

  Manuel disappeared into the building.

  “Just getting some protective gear for us,” Amber explained.

  I nodded. To protect us from what?

  Our host reemerged with plastic gear similar to his and masks for each of us. After I’d snapped my filter into place, Amber eyed me.

  “Ready?” she said, her voice muffled.

  Behind the mask, I grimaced. “As I’ll ever be.”

  Inside, the plant was dimly lit with blue lighting. It took a moment for my vision to adjust. My ears were assaulted, however, with a cacophony of squawking.

  “The low lighting is supposed to calm the birds,” Amber explained.

  “Tell that to the birds,” I muttered.

  Once my vision had adjusted, my first view was of pails. White plastic pails filled with dead chickens.

  I swallowed hard, not only to hold back revulsion but because the stench within the building had a formaldehyde-like bite. The bile rising in my throat wasn’t helping matters.

  Across the room, I spotted plastic crates full of live chickens. Several workers—mostly women, their faces obscured with strapped on breathing filters—pulled chickens out by their legs in clumps and walked them to two long conveyors. They hung the hapless birds, flapping, by their feet.

  “Those conveyors …” I said, unable to finish.

  “Take them to slaughter,” Amber said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Do you want to take a closer look?” She sounded solicitous. My eyes must have betrayed my queasiness and disgust.

  I swallowed bile. “Yes.” I had an opportunity to see how Bower Farms worked from the inside. I didn’t want to blow that. So I needed to see what went on, no matter how horrible. The mask wasn’t cutting it, but it would have to do.

  The mesh platform we trod provided little protection from the unidentifiable liquid sloshing around the floor. I tried to avoid thinking about what it was.

  I’ve always prided myself on being able to stare ugliness in the face and survive. But when I saw those frantic, thrashing chickens being dipped into a tub of water, then jolted with electric shocks—to stun them, Amber said, and make the slaughter “more humane”—I thought I’d lose it. I chomped on my lip so hard, I nearly broke the skin. I thought of birthday cakes and happy kittens to keep from blubbering like a baby.

  To distract myself further, I forced myself to converse. “How come it smells so bad?” I croaked.

  “The combination of blood, chicken fat, manure, and uric acid makes for a nice brew, doesn’t it?” Amber quipped.

  I flashed back to every time I’d had chicken soup when I was sick. I nearly threw up in my mask. Never again!

  For a moment, the fumes, the lines of chickens headed toward decapitation, and my thoughts threatened to overwhelm me. I staggered to the wall and reached out for support. My fingers touched stickiness and I yanked them back.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “Oh, shit.” Amber took my arm and ushered me to a wash basin. “Here you go. Rinse up and I’ll scrounge up some gloves.” Her voice sounded far away, muffled beneath the mask.

  “What was that?”

  Amber’s eyes—her only visible feature above the mask—fixed on me. “You don’t want to know.”

  I grabbed the soap and washed my hands—scrubbing hard, rinsing, and repeating five times.

  While Amber went in search of gloves, I watched the women in their repetitive task. My sight had adjusted enough to make out their features—light brown skin and dark eyes, looking impassive above white masks. Chicken-bearing automatons in an endless cycle of grabbing and hanging frightened birds.

  I felt like I was in the world’s worst sci-fi B-movie ever. Like Soylent Green with chickens.

  But it’s okay to eat chickens, isn’t it? That’s what I kept telling myself. But those poor, helpless birds ….

  I turned away and leaned against the sink, swallowing and blinking back tears. I couldn’t look another minute.

  Amber appeared at my elbow, offering the gloves.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sniffling and wiping my eyes. I steeled myself. “Could we take a break?”

  Her eyes softened. Placing a hand on my arm, she said, “Sure. Don’t worry about it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Once I’d escaped from the dark confines of the plant, I ripped the mask off and gulped air.

  “Jesus.” I leaned over at the waist and planted a hand on each knee, trying to regain my bearings.

  I could feel Amber approach from behind.

  “That was … even worse than I imagined.”

  “Yeah. It is kind of gross.”

  I took a last deep breath and managed to straighten up. “I’m sorry. I feel like such a …” I struggled to say the word. The one I had in mind was “wuss.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Honestly. You aren’t the only one to react this way.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “I’ve brought other aspiring legal interns here. They come with the best of intentions and lots of glowing hopes of doing the right thing.”

  “I’ll bet.” I thought of my own initiation into the world of the public defender so many years ago. What a bright-eyed naïve little person I’d been, even after spending part of a hard childhood in Bed-Stuy.

  She grinned. “Hey, you made it to the electric stunner. Some can’t even make it through the door.”

 
Her warmth and support emboldened me. I managed a smile. “I guess that makes me a Rambo by comparison.”

  Despite her assurances, I was rethinking the visit. Desperation had prompted it, but I wasn’t sure how much I could gain from it. However, while I was there, I asked Amber if I could speak to one or two of the workers.

  As Manuel wandered by, Amber caught his attention and communicated my thoughts. She spoke much better Spanish than I, though she still stumbled over a few words now and then. Manuel nodded and hustled off.

  “He’s going to look for a couple of workers,” she said. “I can probably translate most of what they say.”

  *****

  A short brown-skinned woman with luminous dark eyes and raven hair approached me cautiously—the way a wild stallion might approach a horse trainer. Manuel had a hand on her shoulder. It almost looked like he was herding her toward me.

  Manuel introduced the woman as Conchita Ruiz and launched into rapid Spanish patter. “He’s telling her your name and that you’re not a cop or immigration,” Amber explained.

  I nodded. Conchita’s face relaxed, but only a little.

  “Hola, Conchita,” I said, trying to sound friendly. “Where are you from? What country?”

  I waited while Amber translated. Conchita responded with a few quick words that flew by me, but I picked up the word “Honduras.”

  “She says hello, it’s nice to meet you, and she’s from Honduras,” Amber said.

  I nodded and smiled. Well, at least I understood one word.

  “Conchita, how did you get here?”

  Amber translated my question. Conchita’s face froze. For a moment, I thought she’d bolt.

  Amber said a few more words in a reassuring tone. Conchita seemed somewhat, if not entirely, appeased. She spit out a whole slew of words I had no hope of understanding. Amber nodded, interrupting now and then, as if for clarification. When they’d finished their exchange, Amber turned to me.

  “She says she came here by train, paid for by relatives. I asked which connecting bus line brought her here, because you know there aren’t any train stations on the Eastern Shore. She claimed she couldn’t remember.” Amber paused and added. “Frankly, I think she’s lying. If I had to guess, she was probably brought here in the back of a panel truck. With a whole lot of other immigrant workers.”

  “So, she’s probably illegal.”

  Amber looked somber. “I’d put money on it.”

  This came under the heading of interesting information. If Billy Ray were in charge of hiring plant workers, he’d have to know many of them were illegal immigrants. Possibly even arranged for them to be brought in.

  Which raised another interesting question. Could Billy Ray’s murder pertain to that? Or could it pertain to other illegal activities his friends engaged in? Like the “pot-free” Dwayne Sutterman and Curtis Little? After all, workers weren’t the only things that got illegally smuggled across the border. This could merit some additional research on my part.

  *****

  After trying to squeeze a bit more information from Conchita and a couple of other workers and getting little for my efforts, Amber drove me back to my car.

  “Even if you’re not with INS, they’re afraid of strangers,” she said.

  “Who can blame them?” I understood their lack of trust for any authority, especially around here. I felt it down to my bones.

  Amber pulled her car up beside mine, threw it into “park” and sighed. “These people.” She shook her head. “They’re underpaid and work in the worst sort of conditions. Yet, they’re afraid to complain for obvious reasons. It’s a vicious cycle.”

  She gazed at me. “Has any of this helped?”

  “If nothing else, it’s given me food for thought.”

  She looked quizzical. “How so?”

  “Nothing solid. Just random thoughts at this point.”

  “What do you think you’ll do?”

  I paused before answering. I wasn’t sure how much to share. And why was she asking?

  “I’ll just keep looking around and talking to people.” A suitably vague answer that seemed to satisfy her.

  “Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you, feel free to call,” Amber said. She pulled a card and a pen from her shoulder bag. “Here’s my cell number. You can reach me on it anytime.”

  *****

  As I drove away, my thoughts returned to Curtis Little. Who was the Spanish-speaking woman who answered his door?

  Curtis was supposed to be Billy Ray’s closest friend. Perhaps he’d worked as an unofficial recruiter for Bower Farms. Could he also be working with Dwayne Sutterman, smuggling drugs from south of the border along with farm workers?

  If Curtis and Billy Ray had a falling out, it could have jeopardized their illegal activities. These things happened all the time. One bad guy would turn against the other. The possibility of blackmail or extortion was ever present in such relationships. So much for honor among thieves.

  These scenarios were only possibilities, but ones I needed to explore.

  *****

  I ran by Curtis’s trailer again, but no one answered my knock. It was getting late and I was tired. I decided to call it a day.

  As I left the trailer park, I heard an old car cough to life. I turned onto the highway and headed for Ocean City as a beat-up green Chevy lumbered onto the road behind me.

  Dusk was setting in and headlights were snapping on. The Chevy’s headlights shone at odd angles, making the car look walleyed. It made no move to overtake me. Nor did it lose distance. It stayed roughly three car lengths behind me.

  As I hit the traffic waiting at the Route 50 drawbridge, I saw the car was still back there. The darkened windows allowed no view inside.

  “Coincidence?” I muttered. “Probably.” Lots of people took Route 50 into town everyday. Even so, my heart hammered.

  Traffic started moving. After we’d crossed the bridge, I turned right and glanced in the rear view mirror. The green Chevy followed.

  I hung a quick left down a side street. An impulsive move, but a good test. At first, I thought I’d lost him. “Silly,” I said, shaking my head. Then, the car appeared in my mirror again.

  When I reached the highway, I hung another left, then immediately pulled into a parking lot and tucked the car in behind a building with a high fence shielding it from the side road. I waited and watched, hoping they wouldn’t catch on.

  The Chevy passed by the entrance I’d taken. They had no clue what I’d done. Either that or I was imagining things.

  I realized I was holding my breath and exhaled with relief. I took a moment to close my eyes and relax my shoulders, which were grazing my earlobes.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I sat in the shadows, recovering my composure. Was I being ridiculous? Or had I been followed?

  My phone jangled to life. My eyes snapped open, and my head nearly hit the ceiling.

  The caller ID said it was Jinx. Ignore or take?

  The phone rang again. Finally, I answered.

  “Yes, Jinx.”

  “Have you decided?”

  “Fine, thank you. How are you?”

  “Waiting to hear back.” Jinx sounded annoyed. She didn’t seem to get the joke. What a surprise.

  “That’s because I haven’t made a decision.”

  A long dramatic pause. The kind babies make before they start screaming. To Jinx’s credit she didn’t do that.

  “You have until Friday night. No later.”

  “Why Friday?”

  “Because Ray gets installed on Saturday night at the banquet, and I need to know if you’ll be with me or not.”

  Two days?

  “I still need more than your verbal assurance that you’ll keep your end of the bargain, if I do this,” I said.

  “You’ll get it. But I need to know where you stand before midnight on Friday.”

  She hung up.

&
nbsp; Just as I closed the phone, it rang again. This time it was Mulrooney. Despite the slight shake in my hand, I managed to flip the phone open and answer the call.

  “Mulrooney here,” he said in response to my greeting. “How’s it going?”

  Lousy. I wanted to say it, but that would be so wrong.

  I gave him a brief rundown of my day.

  “Hmm. I’m afraid I’m not surprised. I hope Conroy is getting somewhere.”

  I wouldn’t want to pin my hopes on that, I thought. “I wondered, could you give me the name of the eyewitness? I’d really like to talk to this person.”

  “No problem. His name is Roger Powers. I even have an address.”

  Fishing through my shoulder bag, I managed to find my notebook and pen. I took down the information and thanked Mulrooney before hanging up. Powers lived right up the road from our condo on Bayview Drive. I sat in the growing gloom for a moment and thought about what I’d ask him before starting the car.

  I slipped back onto Coastal Highway. As I drove, I mentally reviewed the questions I intended to ask Powers: what were you doing out that night? Where were you going? Where were you coming from? Do you wear glasses? Etc., etc. Meanwhile, wild speculations about Billy Ray’s possible connections to drug smuggling and trafficking in illegal alien workers ran in a continuous loop through the back of my mind.

  As I turned onto Bayview Drive and headed toward the Powers address, my phone rang. I pulled over to check the ID. The number was unfamiliar. I answered anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. McRae?” The voice was a low murmur.

  “Yes.”

  “You need to come to Bower Farms plant. Right now.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Never mind that. There’s someone you need to see.”

  “Wait. I’m not going there in the middle of the night, all by myself. Sorry.”

  “Did you want to see Curtis Little?”

  I paused. “Who is this?”

  “A friend.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. This is a blast, but I’m tired and I don’t have time for games—”