by Bruce Kading
Though making decent money at the factory, Marcos had begun to feel pressure to develop other income. He had already paid for a divorce from Connie, who had gone along with it on the promise that he would pay her two thousand dollars within the next few months, though he knew there was little chance he would make good on that.
Now that the divorce was final, he would have to go through the charade of remarrying his young wife in Mexico so that he could file the necessary papers for her and their two children. It would look suspicious, but he would claim they had lived together common-law and never married. To prove otherwise, la migra would have to find the tiny church in the remote Mexican countryside and dig up the marriage certificate. It seemed clear that they didn’t have the resources to check such things. Even if they did, he knew people in Durango—records could be destroyed.
* * *
The restaurant was quiet, aside from the distant clinking of glasses in the kitchen. The lunchtime customers had cleared out, except for an old man, who sat in a booth nursing a bottle of Corona. Two waitresses sat at the counter lazily counting tips. The owner, Felix Vasquez, a thin, nervous Panamanian, sat in a rear booth, staring at the entrance.
Marcos lumbered into the restaurant and stood heavily inside the door, like a gunslinger entering a saloon. He was wearing a short-sleeved, embroidered white shirt that hung down over his belt, and a pair of cowboy boots, so that he appeared even more imposing than usual. Marcos smiled at the waitresses, nodded at the old man, and did a visual sweep of the restaurant, his eyes stopping to admire the colorful paintings of bullfighters that lined the walls.
Vasquez, speaking Spanish, greeted him as if he were royalty, escorted him to a booth in the back, and had a waitress deliver coffee. “My friend should be here shortly, Mr. Ortega. In the meantime, can I offer you something to eat?”
“Perhaps some of your delicious flan,” said Marcos with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.
“Of course,” said Vasquez, who snapped his fingers and gestured to one of the waitresses. “Rita, some flan over here right away.”
Marcos was amused by the hubbub his arrival had caused. His status in the community had clearly grown over the past six months, particularly with small business owners whose employees were illegals and needed phony identification. Through subtle intimidation and by offering lower prices, Marcos had already succeeded in driving most of his competitors out of business.
“I should come by more often,” he said. “Everybody knows you have the best enchiladas in the barrio.” He stirred several teaspoons of sugar into his coffee, and the waitress delivered a dish of flan covered with caramel sauce. Marcos divided the flan into two pieces and shoveled one of them into his mouth. He winked at Vasquez appreciatively, sipped the coffee, and set the cup down. “When you called, you said this friend of yours could be of service to me in some way.”
“Yes, perhaps he can,” Vasquez began. “He arrived two weeks ago from Panama. You understand how it is, getting started here. He is living on the North Side. I think he would be good at this kind of work . . . with the documents. It could mean more money for you, Mr. Ortega.”
Marcos’s face hardened. “I’m busy enough as it is,” he said coldly. He didn’t care to have Vasquez giving him business advice. “Most of my people start by working regular jobs. I don’t like them depending on this to get by. Even I keep a regular job at the tortilla plant.”
Vasquez, realizing he’d been inept, tried to repair the damage. “You know better than I about such things. I’m sure he will find other work, as you suggest. He is an intelligent man and would do as you say if you took him on.”
“Of course he would do as I say,” said Marcos indignantly. “What sort of business do you think I’m running?”
Vasquez was momentarily speechless—searching for words that would placate his irritable guest—when Salvador Rico entered the restaurant.
“Here he is!” said Vasquez.
A solidly built man of medium height, Rico was wearing drab, loose-fitting work clothes. He stepped up to the table, a tight smile on his face, and held out his hand to Marcos. Vasquez made the introductions.
“It is an honor to meet you, sir,” said Rico.
Saying nothing, Marcos remained seated and reluctantly shook Rico’s hand. He nodded curtly for Rico to sit next to Vasquez and absently punched little creases into the flan with his spoon.
“So, Felix tells me you arrived not long ago from Panama,” said Marcos.
“Yes, we are from the same neighborhood in the capital,” said Rico, who had small eyes with lids that looked almost oriental and a wide, flat nose. A scar cut across his upper lip, upsetting the normal curve of his mouth. But Marcos could see nothing remarkable, nothing particularly revealing of character. His manner was respectful. “You are not working yet?” he asked.
“No, but I talked to a man yesterday about working in his photo shop.”
Marcos sipped his coffee and thought it over. Although he was initially unreceptive, what would it hurt to take on another vendor? This Rico would be in Sixto’s area on the North Side, so he wouldn’t have to deal with him. It would make Vasquez look like a man of influence and he would be indebted to Marcos—more complimentary flan and free meals. He motioned with his spoon toward Vasquez. “It is only because of this man that I will allow you to work for me. Don’t forget that you owe him a debt of gratitude.”
“Yes, of course I am very grateful,” said Rico, with a quick nod at Vasquez.
“You will need other income and a legitimate job as cover,” said Marcos, and he slid the remaining half of the flan down his throat like a pelican swallowing a fish. “I have a man up on the North Side—Sixto Montoya. Give me a phone number and he will call. If he tells you to do something, imagine it is me talking. He will give you an area—show you what equipment is needed to get started. You will have to buy the equipment and documents yourself.”
“Of course. That will be no problem.”
“Sixto will show you the ropes,” continued Marcos. “We don’t charge more than a hundred and fifty dollars for both the green card and social security card. It would be easy to take advantage because many of them don’t have any idea what a fair price is. We make money, but we don’t gouge them. If I hear of any vendors charging more, they are cut off. Do you understand?” There was a resonant edge to his voice, suggesting that anyone who defied him would be dealt with harshly.
“Of course, Mr. Ortega,” said Rico softly. “You can count on me to do as you wish.”
3
It was cold, and a thin layer of new snow powdered the streets. Though the snow provided faint illumination, it was still quite dark. The cars advanced like a slow-moving funeral procession, the snow absorbing their sounds. Hayden could see the GETTY’S MEATS sign at the top of the three-story brick building and soft yellow light through hazy windows. The odor of freshly slaughtered meat was seeping in through the partially open car window.
“Hey, Joe, buy your pork chops at the store like everybody else,” said Sam Payton over the radio. During their last visit, he’d spotted Willis stuffing a bag of freshly cut ribs into his coat pocket and had been needling him ever since.
“They were throwin’ ’em out,” barked Willis. “Mind your own business, Payton.”
It was one of the few remaining slaughterhouses on the South Side of Chicago. The pigs, fatted to bursting, were trucked in, emptied into a large pen, and then, squealing mightily, herded into a narrow chute that led them to workers who would stun the animals with an electronic prod. They were then hoisted onto a hook that sent them toward an army of butchers—men dressed in blood-spattered white coats and plastic helmets, who would slit the pigs’ throats and carve them into parts. Wielding long, razor-sharp knives, the men were strong and had large, powerful hands. They did their work without speaking, without thinking, concentrating only on the relentless parade of flesh and bone. Most of them were from Poland, many having entered the States on tourist visas before melting
into the vast Polish community in Chicago.
As several tan Plymouths pulled into the parking lot and others took up positions around the perimeter of the building, the secretary, sitting near the front window, immediately recognized them. She called back to her boss, who was in the adjoining office with his door open.
“Mr. Getty, it’s those jerks from INS again.”
Without hesitation, George Getty, a rotund, middle-aged man with dark bushy hair, picked up the phone and pushed the speaker button that sent his voice out to the plant. He said simply: “INS is here.” While the agents were still getting out of their cars, the reaction inside the plant was immediate and well rehearsed. Eighty percent of the workers dropped their knives and left their workstations.
Getty knew he could legally refuse to allow INS to enter, but that could lead to a search warrant operation that would shut the plant down for several hours and likely generate a blizzard of unfavorable publicity, as INS would sometimes bring the press and TV media along to spotlight the problem of undocumented workers. Hoping that some of his Polish workers would hide while he stalled, Getty spent five minutes in a half-hearted effort to reach his attorney before allowing the agents to enter the plant.
Once inside, the agents split into pairs and spread out. One of them, Milos Jankowicz, who spoke Polish fluently, would assist other agents in interviews as needed. The question of their alien status was usually answered, however, by the fact that they were fleeing or hiding.
Hayden went with Judy Svoboda to search the third floor. They found it deserted, but there was a thin metal stairway leading to a skylight that opened to the roof. Svoboda climbed up to check it out. The skylight was not properly latched, and there was moisture on the steps at the top of the stairway.
“Looks like they’ve been up here,” she said.
She pushed open the skylight, and a block of cold air came through, along with a sprinkling of dry snow. She poked her head above roof level and looked around. There was enough light reflecting off the snow to see the area clearly. Observing no movement, she stepped up onto the roof, Hayden behind her. They stood next to the skylight, listening. About thirty feet away, a massive gray metal generator produced a deep hum and belched out plumes of steam. Svoboda pointed to footprints in the snow leading away from the skylight toward the edge of the roof. They followed the footprints to a fire escape ladder that curved over the tile parapet. Hayden looked over the edge at Agent Tim Reynolds, who was standing in the alley below.
“Hey, Tim, any activity from up here?” Hayden called out.
“I heard something up there a few minutes ago,” said Reynolds. “But some guy ran out through the dock in front, so I wasn’t here for a while. Looks like somebody came down here while I was gone.” Reynolds was peering at the snow and a line of messy footprints that indicated that at least one person had escaped down the alley.
Hayden looked at the snow on the roof. There was another fresh path between the parapet and the generator, but it was impossible to tell from the muddled footprints whether somebody had come to the parapet from that direction or the other way around. Hayden gestured for Svoboda to follow him, and they walked toward the generator. As they drew near he noticed a suspicious puff of condensation drift skyward from around the corner.
“OK, buddy, let’s go,” said Hayden as he turned the corner.
Hayden saw the flash of the carving knife and instinctively reached up with both hands to grab a wrist the size of his own arm. He swung it away, twisting the man’s arm and shoulder at such a severe angle that the knife slipped from his grasp and the Pole cried out in pain, both of them tumbling to the snow-covered roof. Svoboda dropped her knee into the man’s back so that he was splayed out on his stomach. As Hayden stood up, he could see him better—a stocky young man wearing a long white butcher’s coat. Hayden kicked the knife away through the snow, grabbed a set of cuffs from his belt, and pulled the man’s arms behind his back, as Svoboda continued to apply pressure. The man was weeping and spewing Polish but made no effort to resist Hayden, who quickly closed the cuffs on his massive wrists.
“Are you crazy?” cried Svoboda at the Pole. She then glanced up at Hayden and registered a look of concern.
Hayden felt the coolness on his forehead but not the line of blood that flowed past his ear and down his jaw. He could see from Svoboda’s expression that something must look bad, and he reached his hand up to feel the wetness. Seeing the blood on his hand and in the snow, he pulled a glove from his jacket pocket and pressed it against his forehead.
“Let me take a look at that,” said Svoboda, who reached over to lift the glove off the wound long enough to get a sense of it. “It’s not as bad as I thought. Not too deep. He just grazed you.”
“I can go to the clinic downtown if I need a few stitches,” said Hayden, breathing heavily. He looked at the Pole, who lay crying on the roof.
“That was a pretty good move you put on this guy,” said Svoboda, who’d retrieved the bloody carving knife. “I’ll have Reynolds come up and take some photos. I’m sure they’ll prosecute on this.”
Ten minutes later, after a dozen other Poles had been arrested and loaded into vehicles, Hayden sat in the passenger seat, looking at the snow falling and melting against the windshield. Svoboda had fished a bandage from a first-aid kit and pasted it across Hayden’s forehead. If he thought about it, Nick could feel a subtle throbbing, but he knew it wasn’t serious, and a strangely pleasant torpidity had swept over him, as though he’d been given a mild anesthetic.
The Pole was in the backseat with Jankowicz next to him as Willis, uncharacteristically silent, pulled slowly away from the slaughterhouse and headed toward the office. The Pole was sitting forward, unable to sit comfortably because of the handcuffs behind his back. The tears had dried on his cheeks, but his eyes were shining with emotion. Every few seconds he sniffled back the discharge from his runny nose. He looked pleadingly toward Hayden, who stared vacantly out the front window. The big Pole seemed to think his fate now rested solely in Hayden’s hands. Finally he could contain himself no longer and began speaking rapidly, spraying Jankowicz with foamy spit.
“He says he is more sorry than he can express in words,” said Jankowicz, who translated in a dry monotone. “He says he has never done anything like this before—that he panicked with the thought of having to go back to Poland so soon after coming here. He just arrived two weeks ago. He says he’s not a criminal, has no criminal record. He is here only for his family, to take care of them.”
Hayden felt numb and was barely listening. It was too complicated, he thought, trying to discern who was a threat and who wasn’t. This man had a story to explain it, of course. Everybody had reasons or excuses, even for committing acts of violence. Maybe the Pole was telling the truth. Then again, maybe he’d murdered his wife, fled Poland, and this explained his desperation. Either way, it didn’t matter. They were all threats, and they were everywhere. It was the only way to think about it if you were going to survive. He felt neither hatred nor empathy, just a weary recognition of how things were.
The Pole was muttering quietly to Jankowicz.
“He says he wants to know if you can forgive him for what he has done today. He will always be ashamed of this,” said Jankowicz.
“Tell him to shut up,” said Willis. “We’ve heard enough.”
There was silence as Hayden gazed out the window. The Pole was leaning forward, tensed, waiting for some response, but Hayden said nothing. After a moment Jankowicz raised his hand and shook his head at the Pole, who leaned back awkwardly, his shoulder blades pressed low against the seat back. It was very quiet as the vehicle rolled smoothly through the snow.
* * *
“Other people punch their time card and go to work,” said McCloud. “You punch in and walk into the middle of a tornado. And that’s why you like it.”
In contrast to the bedlam that reigned every afternoon on the third floor in area control, it was serenely quiet on the twe
nty-second floor. The small conference room, just across the hall from a US District Court, offered expansive views of the Chicago skyline. As he spoke, McCloud paced slowly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Hayden and the two other agents attending the lecture, who were both in their second year on the job, were intrigued with this departure from the ordinary curriculum, which was usually a discussion of some tedious aspect of immigration law or procedure.
“By his third year on the job, the typical agent in Chicago has arrested over a thousand illegals. You’re dealing with people en masse—moving them like herds of cattle. Over time you can’t help but think of them as objects—cargo to be processed and shipped. It all happens gradually so you don’t notice it, but inevitably the awareness of your impact on other human beings begins to deteriorate. Psychologists call it ‘emotional erosion’—when the daily requirements and stress of the job force you to erect a firewall around your emotions. And when that happens you’re in danger of falling into what I call the ‘gladiator syndrome.’
“The gladiator, caught up in his heroic mission, sees that the problem of illegal immigration is huge and his ability to deal with it is very limited. It’s not just the countless wets, but the criminal activity that inevitably follows. His powers of recognition have sharpened to the point where he can detect wets and criminal activity everywhere. Since he takes his job seriously, this creates intense frustration and imposes a psychological burden. So the gladiator tries to level the playing field by overstepping his legal authority. And initially he gets away with stuff, whether it’s an illegal search, manufacturing probable cause, whatever. Naturally, this strengthens a false sense of invulnerability. He thinks he’s Superman and doesn’t know there’s kryptonite out there.
“Out on the street doing the job, he’s dynamic, in control, ordering people around, and taking charge. People listen to him and usually defer to his authority. When he gets home, he puts his gun away, but the armor remains. Other people’s feelings and thoughts have begun to splatter like insects on a windshield. Not surprisingly, the wife or girlfriend isn’t going to like this new attitude. And as the gulf between them grows, he gradually spends less time at home. The tavern becomes his refuge—a place where he can be himself and commiserate with other agents.