by C. B. Day
Tabitha snatched up the papers, scanning them quickly.
“Nobody knows how many people are brought into slavery that way each year,” Delores continued. “The figures are all over the place -- partly because these are hidden populations, and partly because our definitions are imprecise. Globally, we’ve heard everything from a few tens of thousands to up to 30 million men, women and children trafficked annually. But really, nobody knows.”
My eyes nearly popped out of my head to hear such great numbers.
Tabitha interrupted then. “But what about here, in Atlanta?”
Delores leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “The very things that make us a great city for trade make us perfect for human trafficking, a strong transportation system being at the top of the list. We’ve been listed as high as 13th in the world for the amount of trafficking activity in our city. Who knows how bad it really is? Our point of view is that even one person trafficked is one too many.”
“What happens to them, once they are here?” I ventured.
“All sorts of things, none of them that wholesome,” Delores admitted. “Some become domestic workers – cooking, cleaning, that kind of thing. Some do farm work, or restaurant work.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Tabitha said. Delores’ eyes flashed with anger.
“It doesn’t sound so bad, having to work 18 hour days without pay? Being threatened with physical punishment, humiliation, or even worse – retribution against your family, back home?”
Tabitha shifted uncomfortably in her seat, fingering her demure pearls. “I didn’t mean…”
Delores slid her eyeglasses on top of her head, and sighed, closing her eyes as she sought to regain her patience. She re-opened her eyes and smiled brightly, reaching across the messy desk to pat Tabitha’s hand where it still rested on the stack of papers.
“No, I’m sorry, dear. Of course you didn’t. You’re just trying to learn. My temper just got a little away from me. There are a lot of people out there who don’t see this for what it is – outright slavery. I know you meant no harm.
“And in a way, you’re right. That kind of work is not the worst thing that can happen to these people. Forced prostitution or sexual slavery is the worst thing. And unfortunately, it happens frequently to the youngest and most vulnerable children who are put into this disgusting trade.”
She slid another stack of papers across the desk. We held them up and realized they were photos: a black and white shot of a filthy room, full of bare mattresses laid end to end so that they covered the entire floor, shackles and chains the only other visible things in the shot. A series starting with a basement trapdoor that then led to a crowded room filled with girls in nothing but their underwear, their faces mercifully blurred in an ironic nod to privacy. They were so…tiny, and not just because of their ages. Their knobby joints, their protruding ribs gave mute testament to their obvious hunger. A truck caught in some border crossing, its back opened up to show it packed with girls who stared with unseeing eyes into the flashlights wielded by their saviors.
I could feel the sweat start to trickle down the back of my neck, felt my Mark burning into me. My nervous fingers fluttered up, touching it like a talisman to remind myself that it hadn’t happened to me.
Delores’ voice broke into my musing, snapped me back into reality. But instead of the voice of the confident public speaker, selling her cause, I heard a voice tinged with sadness and futility.
“$90 is all it takes to buy one of these girls. $90. Less than the cost of an iPod. Less than the cost of a new pair of Nikes. How can anyone place so little value on a human life?”
Her voice broke, causing her to draw up short.
I tore my eyes away from the photos and caught her eyes – they were shiny, brimming with tears. But she blinked the tears away without a word and cleared her throat.
Her voice was steadier now. “You cannot underestimate what these girls have gone through. By all accounts, what they have been through is a nightmare, and many of the girls here are not sure that it is over.”
I sucked in my breath, wondering how it could get any worse. “What do you mean?”
“You have to understand, most of them were terrified of their…owners, for lack of a better word. To us, it might seem unfathomable that they didn’t run away, didn’t ask for help. But they were terrified. And many don’t speak English very well, couldn’t have communicated even if they had managed to somehow get away. Most of the girls here are here only because someone eagle-eyed noticed them, or the conditions they were living in, so that the authorities were brought in. They live in constant fear that the system will fail them; that their owners or traffickers will find them and punish them.”
She smiled a grim smile. “And sometimes, sometimes they happen to be right. When the system treats them like criminals, complicit in their crimes, then often they do get sent right back to the same, sorry situation. Only now, with a criminal record.”
Tabitha had been silent up until now, afraid of being chastised again, but this last injustice broke through her intimidation. “That’s not right!” she burst out. “Can’t you stop that from happening?”
Delores just spread her arms, shrugging while smiling a knowing smile. “If the girls come to us on a prostitution bust, and the D.A. doesn’t get it, then, no, there’s nothing we can do. Except explain to the girl that we’ll still be here if she can manage to get away. Again.”
I looked at the picture with the mattresses again, and thought of the cruelty of sending someone back to that life, especially after having raised her hopes. I offered up a silent prayer, there but for the grace of God…..
“I bet they are scared,” I whispered, thinking of the girls behind the heavy door.
“Like nothing else,” Delores agreed. “And it spreads like wildfire. One of them gets out and the rumors start to fly. When that happens, it’s all we can do to keep them here, safe; forget about rehabilitation or training.” She briskly straightened some of her papers, getting back down to business as she popped her glasses back to her nose. She peered at us over the rims of her reading glasses.
“Maybe you can understand why we were reluctant to let you talk to any of them in person. But there is one girl, one who is slightly older than the others, whom we think might actually benefit from the opportunity to tell her story.”
She pulled a file out of her pile and handed it to me. Tabitha kicked me under the desk, surreptitiously shooting me a sour look as she lifted the file out of my hands.
Delores tried to keep the corners of her mouth from curling up as she witnessed our exchange. “Her name is Maria Delgado. At least, that is the name she gave us and the police. She’s been here for a little over a month, was brought in after an FBI raid. She’s been very skittish, won’t give us any other information that might help her get home. We thought that maybe she might warm to you.”
I peeked into her file. “She’s one of the older girls?” I asked, confused.
“Yes,” Delores answered.
“But she’s only 14!”
“Yes,” Delores said in a quiet voice. “I know.”
*****
I jumped when I heard the heavy steel door slam closed behind us. Before, I’d thought it was to keep us – or any unwanted visitors who might prey on the girls -- out. But I’d realized after talking with Delores that to the girls, it might seem like just another way to shut them in.
The linoleum was faded and worn down from years of use. Delores led us down a long hall, past rows of doors until we got to a room that had been turned into a visitation area. Deftly, Delores turned first one key, then another, in the door before twisting the knob.
“You’ll be locked in,” she warned as she held the door open for us. “Just ring the buzzer when you’re ready to go. If I don’t hear from you within an hour I’ll come and check on you.”
“Prison much?” Tabitha muttered under her breath. “Ow!” she said as I elbowed her in the ri
bs.
“Thanks, Ms. Blankenship,” I said pointedly, pushing Tabitha through the doorway.
The door firmly clicked behind us, followed by the definitive snap of deadbolts falling into place. Halfway across the room, a small girl sat at a naked folding table, her hands folded primly in front of her. Two metal chairs were set up opposite her.
We stared dumbly, not sure what to do. The girl blinked.
“You can sit down,” she said so quietly that I wasn’t sure she had actually spoken.
Tabitha and I looked at each other and, in silent agreement, took our seats.
We stared at each other across the table. Maria had glossy black hair, which shone even under the brash light of the naked fluorescent tube above. Her skin was the soft color of caramels, stretched taut across high, graceful cheekbones. She looked fragile; it could have been the delicate bones of her hands, which she held so lightly on the table, or the way her body swam in the overwhelming folds of her donated clothes. Or maybe it was the slight shadows under her eyes. But there was a steely strength to her, too, and her chocolate eyes were wary and charged with a bitterness well beyond her years.
“Mrs. Blankenship said you wanted to talk to me,” she said, her English heavily accented. Almost imperceptibly, her chin lifted defiantly. “Why should I talk to you?”
Tabitha answered. “We’re students, like you, and would like to feature your story in a class project.”
Maria’s mouth twisted. “I’m no student. And I’m not like you.” She pulled her hands off the table and sat back in her chair, her eyes veiled.
I took a deep breath. This was going to be tricky. I darted Tabitha a look, silently imploring her to stay quiet while I tried. Tabitha simply shrugged and crossed her arms.
“Maria,” I said. “Is it okay if I call you Maria?”
A look of confusion flitted across her face before she nodded.
“We want to share your story so that others know what is going on. So it won’t happen to them. If that is okay with you?”
She looked at me skeptically, pulling herself into her chair. But she didn’t say no. Encouraged, I continued.
“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. And if we can, we will help you. I’m not sure what we can do, to be honest, but we will try. I promise.”
“I’ve heard that a lot since I came here,” Maria sighed, showing tiny cracks in her mask of toughness. “Everyone here knows what is going on, but all they do is talk. No action.”
“And meanwhile you’re still here,” I said. “That must really suck.”
Her eyes widened with surprise, and then narrowed as she sized me up. “You don’t think I should be grateful?”
I gestured around the room. “It’s no Hilton, I can tell you that much.”
A slight grin danced across her face, and I caught my breath. When she let her guard down, she was beautiful.
“You’re funny. You’re also the first person to ask if you can talk to me.” She was fiddling at the buttons on her too-long sleeves now, fidgeting while she decided. Under the table I was crossing my fingers. She let her hands fall in her lap and shrugged. “Go ahead, ask your questions.”
I let out my breath in relief, only then realizing I’d been holding it. Tabitha started rummaging in her backpack for her list of interview questions but I reached across and touched her arm, stopping her. She pouted, but put the bag down, taking only her notepad and a pencil.
I looked across the table at Maria and smiled. “Why don’t you just tell us about yourself, and about what happened?”
Maria closed her eyes and nodded. She pulled her tiny feet up under her legs and settled even further into her seat. It was as if she was trying to make herself disappear, to hide from the memories. She started speaking without opening her eyes.
“I live just across the border from Texas, in Reynosa. You know Reynosa?”
Tabitha and I shook our heads no.
“It is a horrible place. It used to be like a war zone but now it is dead. The cartels have taken it over. Everywhere is spies. Nothing to do if you do not help the narcotrafficantes.”
Her eyes were open now, but they were unfocused, looking only into the past.
“My mother used to have a job over the border, in McAllen. But she got sick and lost her job. And then she died.”
Her eyes welled up, a solitary tear leaving a glistening trail down her golden skin. She picked absentmindedly at a scab on her hand.
“Because of the cartels they closed the bridge. Nobody could get through unless you bought off the narcos. My father, he had six of us to feed and no job. He hated the narcos, he wouldn’t stoop so low. He said the Lord would provide.”
We leaned in over the table when she paused.
“He was so excited. He said that they had found me and my sister jobs, working over the border as maids. They would smuggle us over. He just had to pay our way and they would take care of the rest. We should have known it was too good to be true.”
I looked at Tabitha, who nodded.
“Who was it, Maria?” Tabitha prompted softly.
“We thought he was clean,” Maria spat through taut lips, her nostrils flaring with hate. “We trusted him.”
“Who?” Tabitha repeated.
“Mi tio,” she said, barely breathing the words. “My mother’s younger brother.”
I sucked my breath in. I heard a sharp crack and darted a look at Tabitha. She clutched the pieces of her pencil, snapped in half, in her hand.
“What happened then?” I asked, dreading what I was about to hear.
“Jimena– that’s my sister – she noticed that there were only girls in the truck, but I thought it was because they were only looking for houseworkers. No man would take that job.”
“We were supposed to be going to Texas, to be at our job by the time the sun was up. But the truck, it didn’t stop. It just kept going. We were getting hungry and needed to stop, but they wouldn’t stop. Even when we pounded on the walls, they wouldn’t stop.”
Her cheeks flamed red, then, at the remembered indignity. “We had to squat in the corner and try not to soil ourselves. Jimena was so afraid she would be dirty for her new job. But I knew, then, that there was no job.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I felt trapped in the little, airless room, trapped as if I were in the back of that truck with them.
“When we stopped, the man that came to get us was not the same man from Reynosa. He told us not to be afraid, that there had been a mistake but everything was okay now, we would get our jobs if we did not cry. He blindfolded us and took us to a big…shed. I don’t know. It was empty and dark. Then he lined us up.” Maria’s voice was getting shaky. “I told Jimena not to let go of my hand, no matter what.”
“Then there was a lot of noise, a lot of men talking in English. I tried, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying. There were so many of them, so much shouting, all at once.” She looked down at her hands. “If I had understood, then, maybe things would have turned out different.”
“Don’t ever think that, Maria,” I whispered. “None of this is your fault.”
“No?” she smiled at me, a strange, sad smile that sliced my heart through. “My mother always told me how important it was to know English. She used to make me practice every night when she came home from her job. But I stopped trying after she died.”
She held my gaze as she straightened up in her chair, seeming to steel herself for what came next. My stomach clenched in anticipation.
“The men started separating us, like goats or cattle. I couldn’t see, I tried to hold on to Jimena, but they were too strong. I lost her.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“Maria, how old was Jimena?” I asked, unable to pull my eyes away from hers.
“Is,” she answered, her eyes flashing. “Not was. She is still out there.”
“How old, Maria?” Tabitha echoed.
“Ten.”
&nbs
p; Tabitha unleashed a string of curse words that in ordinary times would have made me blush. But right now, I was too stunned to notice, let alone care.
“After that, it didn’t matter what they did to me,” Maria continued in a flat voice. “Nothing mattered. I just pretended I was far away, and that it was happening to someone else.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a door opened. “Your name isn’t really Maria Delgado, is it?” I asked, my voice low.
She shook her head no.
“Why won’t you tell the FBI, or Mrs. Blankenship, your real name? Or what you told us?”
Tears welled up in Maria’s eyes once again. “You don’t get it. If I tell them my name, and where I am from, they will send me back. And I can’t go back there.”
Tabitha frowned. “But why not?”
Maria gaped at us, wondering at our naïveté. “If he knew what really happened, my father would disown me. Or worse – my uncle could do it all over again. Besides, I can’t leave here. Not yet.”
I felt my own forehead folding into creases, puzzled. “Why not?”
Maria gripped the edge of the table and leaned in, her face intense. “Because that police raid didn’t bring in my sister.” My stomach sank with horror as I thought of the little girl, still out there, alone. “I have to find her, before it is too late.”
Maria, worn out by the retelling of her story and the effort of speaking English, collapsed back into her chair, refusing to speak any longer.
We pressed the button, signaling for our release. While we waited, I tore a little slip of paper from Tabitha’s notebook and scribbled my name and cell phone number on it.