A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  He closed his eyes, at a loss for words. “Madison, I—”

  “I don’t need an excuse,” she cut in, sounding more grounded again. “I get it. You’re on a mission. If I were in a better mood, I might even say I’m happy for you. But you need to remember something. You have a daughter. And she needs a father. She needs you here.”

  He sighed. How was it possible that a woman could deliver kindness and censure in the same breath? “I know,” he said as the plane braked to a halt. “I’ll be home soon.”

  “Soon?” She sounded doubtful.

  “I have to find someone,” he said, running a hand through his hair. For a moment he wavered in indecision, then he followed the voice in his heart. “This isn’t just for me. This is for you, for Lily. I can’t tell you why. But I will. I promise.”

  “Okay,” she said, the slightest tremor in her voice. “We’ll wait for you.”

  Her use of “we” struck Josh like a lightning bolt. A wave of warmth surged through him, even as his inner cynic declaimed it as nothing. He ignored the cynic and threw caution to the wind. “I miss you, Madison. Being out here has reminded me of that.”

  The silence that followed felt like an eternity. He conjured her face, the dramatic contrast of fair skin with eyes and hair the color of mocha and lips as pink as cherry blossoms. He tried to imagine her mouth as she thought about his words. It was her most expressive feature, a prism for her emotions. Was it tense or soft, pursed or tender? Might its corners even be hiding the imperceptible trace of a smile?

  At last, she spoke again, her tone gentler than anything he had heard in months. “That’s good to know. I’ll see you soon, Joshua.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE KING’S HIGHWAY

  NEAR JERASH, JORDAN

  MARCH 18, 2015

  11:02 A.M.

  The road stretched out into the windswept distance, traversing grassy plains and dappled hills with olive groves and medieval towns and ruins from Roman times. The sky above was royal blue and dotted with woolen clouds. They were driving another rental SUV—a Toyota Prado. Rana was behind the wheel, and Josh was in the passenger seat, navigating the route to Habaka with his iPhone. They were alone and flying blind in a land Rana had never visited and Josh knew only in passing. Unlike in Malaysia, they had no fixer, but it wasn’t for want of asking.

  At Rana’s request, the director of Kebaikan in Kuala Lumpur had introduced them to Al-Karama, a labor rights organization in Amman. But when Josh tried to schedule a meeting with the director, Ghada Azizi, she had rebuffed him with perfunctory bluntness, claiming to know nothing about Sun Star Enterprises and offering no help in locating someone who did. Her behavior was so standoffish that Josh wondered if she was concealing something. His suspicions grew after he reached out to his friend Tony Sharif in DC, and Tony had called him back with the name of none other than Ms. Azizi, who, according to the Post’s bureau chief in Beirut, was “hands down the finest human rights activist in Jordan.”

  Rana, too, had drawn a blank with his contacts. Jordan was a relatively recent vintage in global garment production. Its export sector had been modest until 2000 when it implemented a free-trade agreement with the United States, allowing Jordanian companies to gain tariff-free access to the American market. Almost overnight, the sector had exploded into life, fueled by investments from foreigners who brought managers and guest workers along with them. The best Rana had been able to arrange was a meeting with Hamad Basara, the owner of Sun Star. The cover Rana had invented was simple. He and Josh were buyers for a new American label set to launch next year, and they were conducting a search for factory partners for their debut line. With a reference from Rana’s father, Hamad had welcomed them with open arms.

  After a lunch stop in Irbid, they drove east to Cyber City, an industrial area surrounded by agricultural fields. They entered by the main road, passing dormitories on the right and factories on the left. At the gate to Sun Star, Rana spoke to the guards in Arabic, and they told him where to park. Hamad was waiting for them beside the office entrance, dressed in a suit and tie. His face was on the fleshy side of round and crowned with a thick crop of salt-and-pepper hair. Josh and Rana introduced themselves using identities they had invented on the drive, and Hamad welcomed them with an extended handshake.

  Josh let Rana take the lead, guiding the conversation away from their fictitious company and toward Sun Star. It was a natural dynamic. As “buyers,” they held all the cards. If Hamad hoped to win their business, he had to convince them not only that Sun Star had the capacity to make their designs at the quality and scale they desired, but that he could offer them an advantage over his competitors, a calculation that almost always came down to price.

  After a tour of the offices, Hamad showed them the sewing floor. The contrast between Sun Star’s ultramodern facilities and the squalid hothouse at Class 5 in Malaysia could not have been starker. Everything here was clean and white: the walls, the rafters, the vaulted ceiling, the floor, even the stations and the sewing machines. There were piles of unused fabric, cuttings, and half-finished clothing—men’s pants, by the look of it—but they were neatly arranged and afforded space for movement. The operators—almost all young South Asian women—were a model of efficiency, their motions sparse, their work precise. Hamad treated Josh and Rana to a demonstration of pants making: the joining of leg seams, the marriage of fly and zipper, the construction of the waistband, the incision of the buttonhole.

  “These are Porto Bari,” Rana said, holding up a piece of seersucker fabric. “I have always appreciated their lines—the combination of style and affordability.”

  “Yes, yes,” Hamad replied. “Presto is one of my best customers. They have been with me many years. I do everything for them. The buyers come to me and say, ‘Hamad, we want such and such,’ and I say, ‘Send me the pattern, and I will do it.’ My workers are the best in Jordan.”

  During the tour, Rana busied the owner with queries about fabric sourcing and lead times and customs regulations and sample making. He kept his tone businesslike, but dropped just enough hints of interest to convert Hamad into an unwitting ally. By the time Rana moved the conversation from economics to ethics, the owner was so excited about the prospect of landing a new American customer that he would have answered questions about his own children.

  “Your workers are not Jordanian,” Rana said. “How do you find them?”

  “The agents come to me,” Hamad replied. “They know what I like.” He swept his hand over the floor. “Bangladeshis, Indians, sometimes Sri Lankans. They have to be young and smart and in good health. I hire mostly women. Men make trouble. Women are compliant.”

  Rana asked him about passports and visas and work permits.

  “I don’t like dealing with the government,” Hamad said. “I leave that to my GM. I handle the buyers, the buying agents, people like you.”

  Rana inquired about audits and inspections, and Hamad smiled generously. “The brands, the audit companies, the ILO, I make all of them feel at home. I show them pay slips and time sheets, whatever they want. They talk to workers and supervisors. They look around. I don’t care. I want everyone to be happy.”

  As the conversation progressed, Josh found himself increasingly baffled by Cameron’s final instruction. Alya Begum. Sun Star Enterprises. The first two names on the general counsel’s list had revealed transparent veins of exploitation. But Sun Star didn’t seem like a haven of abuse. Hamad seemed honest enough. His workers were foreign and furnished by outsourcing agents, which almost guaranteed some form of bonded labor and probably the occasional bribe. But Josh couldn’t believe that Cameron had guided them to Jordan merely to reprise their findings in Malaysia. Involving Sun Star in the lawsuit wouldn’t enhance its impact unless the factory—and Alya Begum—offered a novel glimpse into Presto’s supply chain.

  “Please, this way,” Hamad said. “Now that you have seen how my workers perform, let me show you the products they make.”

&
nbsp; He led them down a hallway and through a door into a wide, windowless room with a waist-high wooden table beneath halogen bulbs. Along the walls were metal racks stocked with every kind of woven apparel imaginable. Hamad spread a selection of clothes out on the table, pointing out design features and encouraging them to touch the fabric.

  While Rana discussed craftsmanship, Josh looked at labels. Half were from Porto Bari, everything from resort fare to workaday pieces. The rest were a survey of midlist brands. The more garments Josh studied, the more convinced he became that they were missing something.

  It was then that he noticed faint scratch marks on the painted surface of the table not far from the edge. He examined them closer. They were clustered in groups of two and three, each mark separated from the next by about a centimeter. Some of the scratches were accompanied by tiny indentations, as thin as an eyelash. Josh glanced at Hamad and saw that the owner was paying no attention to him. He looked back at the table. On a hunch, he put his fingers on the table, nails down, and clenched his hand. He felt the wood give way. He removed his hand and examined the marks he had made. They mirrored the others.

  He walked slowly around the table, pretending to examine garments but looking past them at the wood. He saw more scratches in clusters. But the spacing was uneven—sometimes wider, sometimes tighter. He frowned, perplexed. If they were indeed fingernail marks, there should have been some kind of pattern—unless the responsible parties left them unconsciously, in which case they made no sense. What sort of circumstances could have caused people to press down so hard? Josh took a breath and cleared his mind, making space for free association. But no explanation came to him. His frustration deepened.

  “Your operation is impressive,” he said, rejoining Rana and Hamad. “I have no doubt we would be in good hands. I can also tell that you are a man of exemplary character. It is important for us to know the people we work with, not just the products they make.”

  Hamad beamed. “Of course, of course. This business is all about relationships.”

  Josh nodded. “Since we are a small company trying to break into a big market, we intend to focus on the people who work for us. We’re going to feature our employees and suppliers in our catalogs. We want to give our business a human face.”

  By now Hamad was nodding along enthusiastically, no doubt picturing his photograph in an American apparel magazine. “A very good idea.”

  Josh delivered the punch line without blinking. “We’ve had a chance to get to know you. But before we leave I’d like to talk to a couple of your workers. Would that be okay?”

  Hamad’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but his reply was smooth. “I would be happy to make such an arrangement, but today is not good. The Porto Bari order is almost due, and the workers cannot be distracted. How long will you be in Jordan? Perhaps we can do this in a day or two.”

  Josh traded a glance with Rana. “I think we can rearrange our schedule.”

  “Excellent,” Hamad said, showing them out of the product room. “Now let us go back to the office and discuss terms.”

  Twenty minutes later, Josh and Rana left the factory and climbed into the Prado. They waited until they passed through the gates before speaking.

  “He’s hiding something,” Rana said. “He didn’t want us to talk to the workers until he had a chance to prepare them.”

  Josh nodded and told him about the marks on the table. “We need to find a way into the dormitories. We need to find Alya Begum.”

  “I think I know a way,” Rana replied and explained himself.

  Josh smiled grimly. The risk was substantial, but the reward if they succeeded would more than make up for it. “We go tomorrow night.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  OUTSIDE SUN STAR ENTERPRISES

  CYBER CITY, HABAKA, JORDAN

  MARCH 19, 2015

  8:25 P.M.

  The desert was quiet beneath the night. The stars were distant, feeble things, and there was no moon. Against such a backdrop, the artificial brilliance of Cyber City was almost eerie. At half past eight, the streets were devoid of life. There were no pedestrians about, no cars arriving or departing, no trucks making deliveries or taking on freight. Most of the factories had sounded their closing bells an hour ago, sending waves of workers streaming toward the constellation of multistory dormitories on the outskirts of the area. But not Sun Star. Its doors remained closed, its workers still at their machines. So Josh and Rana waited.

  They were parked down the road within sight of the office entrance. They had spent the past thirty hours conducting surveillance and learning the workers’ schedule. To avoid suspicion, they had moved often, never parking in the same space twice. During the day, there had been enough activity to give them cover. But now, after hours, they were exposed. To Josh’s relief, no one seemed to be paying attention. All eyes at Sun Star were focused on fulfilling Presto’s most recent order from across the ocean.

  At 8:43 p.m. by Josh’s watch, the closing bell finally rang. The workers filed out in lines but fanned out as soon as they left the gate, walking down the road toward their dormitories. At the head of the pack were three male supervisors in work shirts. They were the main obstacles to Rana’s plan. Under other circumstances, it might have been possible to pay them to look the other way. But without a local fixer to broker a deal, the risk was too great. So Rana had decided on a different play—to hide in plain sight.

  “See you in a few,” he whispered, opening the front door of the Prado and slipping out into the crowd. He was dressed like a worker in faded jeans and an open-collared shirt two sizes too large for his lanky frame. His shoes were old sneakers acquired at a secondhand store, his hair was unkempt, and he’d trimmed his beard into a moustache to alter his appearance.

  Josh watched him go from the backseat. In his hands he held the digital receiver he had purchased in Malaysia. This time Rana was wearing the wire. Before long, the stream of workers flowing down the street turned into a trickle, and Josh focused on the sounds coming through his earbuds—the scratch-scuff pattern of moving feet, muffled words, and Rana’s steady breathing. His heart skipped a beat when he heard a supervisor bark out an order, but nothing changed in the pace of feet and breath. You can do it, he urged Rana. Make yourself invisible.

  In time, the footsteps and voices took on a new echo, as if the workers had moved inside. He heard doors opening and Rana speaking in Bengali. A man replied in a friendly tone. Their exchange lasted almost a minute. Josh held his breath. If the workers rejected Rana’s entreaty, not only would his plan fall apart, but he would find himself in physical danger.

  At last, Josh heard the sound of a door closing, and Rana said in soft English, “I’m in. Sit tight. I’ll let you know when to come.”

  Josh grinned even as his heart began to hammer in his chest. The burden of risk had shifted to him. Unlike Rana, he couldn’t blend in with the workers. His skin was a beacon even with a beard. He had to pass for a supervisor, which was why he was wearing a work shirt, jeans, and boots. He sat in the darkness for long minutes, preparing his mind. He watched the Sun Star supervisors return from the dorms and depart in their vehicles. Still, Rana didn’t summon him. Come on, Josh thought, his nerves as taut as piano strings. I’m ready to go.

  Finally, just after nine o’clock, Rana spoke to him again. “Last dorm on the left, second floor, third door. I saw no guards. Good luck.”

  Josh put down the receiver and stepped out into the night. Sun Star was behind him, its security lights illuminating a vacant parking lot. He kept his pace steady, moving as if he belonged there. He searched the buildings for signs of human presence but saw nothing. The absence of guards at the dorms surprised him, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. The workers were here by choice and bound by contract, many constrained by debt. Even if they were being abused, what could they do? They were in a country whose language they didn’t speak, in a rural area closer to the border with Syria than the nearest Jordanian town. T
heir situation was their prison, as was the poverty that brought them there in the first place.

  The dormitories rose up before him. He saw movement in the windows, heard voices wafting through the air, and trudged on until the road emptied into a parking lot surrounded by streetlamps. The dorms were separated by footpaths. He followed them until he located the building. The entryway was open to the air and led to a stairwell. He climbed the steps to the second floor, half expecting to find workers outside smoking. But all the doors were closed, all workers inside. When he reached the third door, he knocked softly, and Rana opened it.

  “Any trouble?” he asked, and Josh shook his head.

  The room was ridiculously small. Josh had seen bigger closets. A dozen faces were staring back at him from the floor—all men, all Bangladeshis. He spoke the greeting Rana had taught him. “Shuphu shondha. Apni camun achen?” “Good evening. How are you?” When the men heard him speak Bengali, their eyes brightened and they began to chatter in a welcoming way. He sat down on the floor and crossed his legs, nodding as if he understood.

  “Have you learned anything?” he asked Rana as his heartbeat started to slow.

  Rana looked at him gravely. “For a while it was touch and go. They were happy to gripe about bad contracts and deceptive agents, but they clammed up when I asked them about Alya and the product room. That’s when I knew they were hiding something. It took a little cajoling, but they opened up.”

  Josh felt a presentiment of dread. “What did they say?”

  “The product room isn’t just for show-and-tell. It’s a rape room.”

  Josh took a sharp breath. He thought of the marks scattered all around the rim of the wooden table and imagined the rest. “Dear God,” he whispered.

  “The men never saw the rapes themselves,” Rana said. “But they saw their production manager, Siraj, take many young women into the product room. They were never gone long—no more than a few minutes. But everyone knew the truth. They saw the girls crying. They saw their shame. All the workers hated Siraj. He was cruel to them too.”