The Crisp Poleward Sky Page 3

  The female agent looked around for a chair, then, seeing none, went and stood near the door.

  Rosita cowered, looking at the tabletop.

  Zeke said, more gently, “Hola, Rosita.”

  Rosita looked at Zeke and nodded and repeated the greeting. Then she looked at the table again. When she spoke, Zeke noticed two upper teeth were missing on the right side of the girl’s mouth.

  In Spanish, Ramirez explained to Rosita that they wanted to interview her about her situation since she entered the United States.

  The girl nodded at the tabletop but said nothing.

  “You’re from El Salvador,” said Ramirez. “Where did you live there?”

  “San Salvador,” she said.

  “You were in school there? Where did you go?” Ramirez continued.

  The girl looked up. “Externado San Jose,” she said.

  San Jose Day School, thought Zeke. A Catholic school.

  “How old are you, Rosita?” asked Ramirez, looking through his file.

  “Sixteen,” the girl said.

  “And you came to the United States for what?” he continued.

  Rosita looked around the room, and then at Zeke. She said, “I was threatened many times in San Salvador. Men from La Mara followed me home from school almost every day. I was…”

  Here she faltered for a moment and looked at Ramirez.

  “Yes?” asked Zeke gently. She looked at him.

  “I was beaten and raped twice.”

  “So you escaped to the United States, is that it?” asked Ramirez.

  Rosita nodded.

  “Did you come to Phoenix?” Zeke asked.

  The girl shook her head. “No, I was offered a job in Los Angeles. As a housekeeper for a rich family.”

  “Who offered you the job?” asked Zeke.

  “An uncle. My mother’s brother.”

  “And how did you get to Los Angeles?” asked Zeke.

  “Uncle Hector, he arranged it,” she said. “He paid a man to bring me into this country.”

  “After you’d been beaten and raped,” said Ramirez. “Twice.”

  “Si, yes,” she continued. She looked ashamed.

  She’s telling the truth, thought Zeke.

  “You know that it’s illegal to enter the United States without permission,” Ramirez continued.

  Rosita looked down at the table. Her face turned red.

  Zeke’s eidetic memory and his skill at spotting lies were well developed during his time with MICECP, the Military Intelligence Civilian Excepted Career Program. He had served that organization as a contractor to the U.S. Army for years, prior to going to work for The Agency. Now, those skills were automatic.

  Rosita did not answer.

  “What happened when you got to the United States?” asked Zeke. “Did you get to Los Angeles?”

  The girl shook her head. “No, I was brought over the Mexican border in a truck with others from El Salvador,” she said. She didn’t look up from the table.

  “And…?” asked Zeke.

  “And I was taken to a house and locked in a room with some of the others. The man took my passport and my money and he told me that I’d go to jail if I didn’t obey him.”

  “Do you know where this was, Rosita?” asked Zeke.

  She shook her head.

  “And then?” he asked.

  “And then, after a few days, we were put in a van and brought here.”

  “To Phoenix,” said Ramirez.

  The girl’s face looked blank.

  “That’s where you are. Phoenix, Arizona. United States,” he said.

  “How long have you been here, Rosita? In the house we found you in?” Zeke asked.

  “Many days. Maybe ten,” she said.

  “Did you recognize any of the men who were holding you?” asked Ramirez. He sounded impatient.

  “No. But their tattoos…they were Mara Salvatrucha. And they were proud of it,” she said.

  “Waiting to sell you to Diaz,” said Zeke. “You and the others.”

  “I don’t know,” said Rosita.

  “Did they make you work while you were here?” asked Zeke.

  A flush began to creep up the girl’s face. She nodded slightly. “They took me out in the evenings.”

  “Did they make you have sex?” Zeke asked. “For money?”

  She nodded again, her eyes on the tabletop.

  “The Sisters, the nuns, they said that I should remain pure until I marry,” said Rosita, “but I’m no longer pure. I will go to hell, now.”

  “But you were forced, weren’t you?” Zeke asked. “It was against your will.”

  “Yes. But I should have been stronger. I was afraid.”

  “The money you earned, did they take it from you, Rosita?”

  The girl nodded again. “Every day,” she said.

  Chapter 3

  “Benito Diaz is in Scottsdale,” said Clive from the other end of the phone line. “We have intel that he’s staying in his home there.”

  Zeke nodded. “Ramirez’s raid blew up in his face,” he said. “Diaz knew he was coming.”

  “I suppose he’ll take another run at it,” said Clive. “Diaz, I mean.”

  “It’s what he does,” said Zeke. “I doubt that he’s concerned about disposing of a couple of Federal agents. Or their consultants. That’s just a part of doing business.”

  “So what do you see Diaz doing next?”

  “I’m sure he’ll stay out of sight until ICE loses focus, and then he’ll go for the exchange again,” said Zeke. “The MS-13’s will replenish the supply. There’s a lot of money in human trafficking. There were seventeen victims ready for this last exchange.”

  “They’re watching Diaz, but he probably won’t get near the action next time,” said Clive.

  “I agree,” said Zeke.

  “He’ll probably send his guys to get the victims and drop them at one of his warehouses in Pahrump or Amargosa Valley,” said Clive. “Sally researched it and said Diaz owns a couple of brothels there.”

  Zeke knew that Clive was referring to brothels in rural Nevada, some of the many run by Benito Diaz. It was trickier in Nevada, because prostitution is legal in most of the state. And although it is highly regulated, all of the prostitution takes place away from the larger cities in small towns, perfect settings for subtle and effective bribes.

  “And he can inventory them there,” said Zeke.

  “Won’t he still need to meet with the MS-13 leaders? Pay them?” asked Clive.

  “Mostly the meeting is about mutual respect,” said Zeke. “Acknowledgement of the status of the MS-13 gang leaders. After the botched raid, they’ll probably forego the meet in favor of the enterprise.”

  “The enterprise?” asked Clive.

  “Sure, this is one small part of Diaz’s world. And for the MS-13’s, underneath it all the money is more important than the status. They roll this along, making this exchange on a regular basis, I’m sure,” said Zeke.

  “So Diaz stays out of it, sends some guys to pick up the victims in, what, a panel van? And takes them to upstate Nevada.”

  “Most probably. Yes, a couple of panel vans or maybe a U-Haul truck, maybe an eighteen wheeler, something like that,” said Zeke.

  “Then how will ICE get to Diaz?” Clive asked.

  “Good question,” said Zeke. “Maybe we can help them with that.”

  * * *

  “Jose Fernandez,” said the voice on the phone.

  “Commander, it’s Zeke Traynor.”

  “Sure, Zeke, what’s up?”

  “You said you’ve been with ICE for a while,” said Zeke. “Do you have any contacts in Nevada? State police-level?”

  “I do, as a matter of fact. We’ve run several joint operations with them. They’re only three and a half hours away…Vegas, that is.”

  “What type of operations?” asked Zeke.

  “Well, last time it was a couple of illegals hiding out at the Hualapai reservati
on up north. They robbed a grocery store in Peach Springs, shot a cashier, then ran across the state line to Laughlin, Nevada. Just over the border. We tracked them there.”

  “Cell phones?” asked Zeke.

  “Part of it. They got jobs as janitors at a casino on the river. Thing was, they were gambling with a lot of cash when they got off work, and the security guys became suspicious.”

  “So you went after them?” asked Zeke.

  “Yep. We talked with the Nevada State Police and they said, ‘Come on over.’” Course, we’re Federal, and they’re in our territory, more or less, so it was just a polite invitation,” said Fernandez. “So we went. Took them down in a rented hotel room.”

  “Could you do it again?” asked Zeke. “Get the invitation, I mean.”

  “I think so.”

  “Let me tell you what we’ve got,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  The girl sat huddled in the dark, her arms wrapped around her knees despite the oppressive heat. She had stopped sweating an hour ago, her body mostly empty of the fluids it needed. A small electric lantern that someone had set on the floor in the corner was providing feeble light, but that light was being blocked by all the sweltering bodies, uncomfortably crammed together and seldom moving.

  What did I do, the girl thought to herself. This is so much worse than it was at home.

  Her head was down and her eyes closed as she endured the long ride. They had been brought ashore in a metal container at the Port of San Diego two days ago, then told to wait quietly for transport. Any noise would bring the Federales, and then they would all be sent back to San Salvador, or perhaps put in jail.

  Thank god this container is ventilated. Those buckets in the corners really stink! she thought. Now that the water they’d held was gone, they were being used as improvised toilets.

  The container had been quickly loaded from the ship to a tractor-trailer, and a short time later, it was attached to a big rig truck and towed from the port. There were thirty people in the container, and no one had eaten for hours.

  At the beginning, it seemed so long ago, men holding machine guns, their faces covered with bandanas, had herded the refugees into the small space, warning them repeatedly to be silent. They were assured that the bags of food and the buckets of water would be sufficient for their trip. This had proven to be false.

  Her name was Isela. Her mother had told her that it meant ‘care giving, but dangerous’. She later found out that it also meant ‘rare beauty’. But now she sat, huddled and sick to her stomach, weak and feeling anything but beautiful. And she missed her sister, who started this journey with her but had been separated from her at the very beginning.

  “Hola,” said a voice.

  Isela looked up to see a shadowy face in the weak light. He was young, she saw, perhaps her own age, fifteen. He looked unsure, uncertain.

  He said, “Hola. I am Miguel.” Then he looked away.

  “Hola, Miguel. I’m Isela.” Her name sounded foreign as it fell from her lips in this strange place.

  “We must almost be there,” said Miguel. “We must,” he repeated.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “At the ranch. For the work they told us. I will be a vaquero, a cowboy. That’s what I was promised.” He looked away.

  “What are you looking at, baboso?” said an older boy. He was sitting a few feet from Isela and was in his twenties. “Do you want trouble?”

  Miguel looked away, safely at the floor. “No, no…”

  Isela looked at Miguel. “I was told we are going to a restaurant. To work in a restaurant,” she said.

  Miguel said nothing. He looked up at her for a moment, disappointment in his brown eyes. Then back down at the plywood floor of the container.

  “Perhaps you misunderstood,” said Isela, trying in a way to comfort the boy. “Or I may have…”

  * * *

  The truck drove on, and it seemed to Isela that it was getting hotter and hotter inside the container. She was propped with her back against one of the side walls, breathing the hot air slowly and preserving her strength. It was miserable and stinking inside the box, and she could see the sweat stains on the clothes of those around her.

  Miguel had moved away, intimidated by the older boy, and Isela was numb, simply existing to get through this journey.

  Without warning, the truck slowed and made a fast right turn, and bodies inside the container were thrown to the left. Several who were standing ended up along the interior plywood wall of the trailer, stepping on others who had already been sitting there.

  Isela was jostled and avoided being stepped on by moving slightly and making space for a large man’s boot that hit the floor with some force.

  “Lo siento,” he mumbled.

  Isela was silent. She didn’t have enough energy to talk.

  The two back doors to the trailer were thrown open and everyone in the container moved toward the back, toward the light. Isela saw three men standing on the ground, just outside of the open doors. They were small men wearing plain white sleeveless t-shirts and jeans and leather boots. Isela saw that they had tattoos on their faces and that one was holding a large gun, like the hunting rifle her father used to shoot, but bigger and more complex looking. The other two wore pistols tucked into their belts.

  “Get down,” said the first man in Spanish. He was closest to the container. “Get down and stand over there.” He pointed with his rifle toward a small corral area just to the side of the truck. It was a dusty place, fenced-in with split logs. It was empty.

  One by one the people in the trailer stepped down out of the truck and shuffled toward the corral. As they made their way across the dirt road, they each passed a woman who was standing near the gate to the corral and watching carefully. She was of average height and slim, wearing jeans and silver studded cowboy boots. Her hair was raven black, pulled into a ponytail and held in place by a hairband that matched her long-sleeve, maroon shirt. She looked to be in her forties, and Isela thought that she might be the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen.

  “You,” said the woman to one of the immigrants. “You come over here.” She spoke Spanish in a melodic voice, soft and without accent. But her presence commanded attention.

  She was talking to a young girl, younger than Isela by a couple years, and clearly frightened. The girl stopped and looked around, uncertain. Then she stepped toward the woman, slowly.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” said the woman. “You’re safe, now. Stand over here, please.” She gestured for the girl to stand near her, but just outside of the corral.

  “What’s your name, dear?” the woman asked the girl.

  “It is Rosa,” the girl said.

  “Rosa. I am Ximena. How old are you, Rosa?”

  The girl looked away. Then she said, “Fourteen. I will be fourteen this month.”

  “Good. Wait here, please.” The woman went back to inspecting the refugees as they passed her on their way to the corral. Isela stepped down from the truck in turn, and followed a short, heavy man toward the corral. He had gray-black hair and brown skin and the loose skin of his thick neck hung over his sweat stained collar. He smelled of body odor and garlic and stale urine.

  “You, girl, come here,” said Ximena. Her soft voice was almost hypnotic, demanding attention in its subtlety. Isela looked up and saw her brown eyes, sharp and piercing, and she stepped out of the line toward the woman.

  “Your name, please?” asked the woman.

  “Isela,” she said and looked at the ground to avoid the intense stare of the woman.

  “Stand over here,” she said.

  And somehow Isela knew that her life had just changed forever.

  * * *

  She took a plastic bag from a cardboard box sitting next to her. “You’ll want to shower and then change into this,” said Ximena, almost kindly. Most of the refugees were standing inside the corral, uncertain of what to do next. Several were sitting on their heels as they waited.
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  Isela nodded and took the small bag of clothes from the woman. She stood still until the woman pointed to the back of a whitewashed building and said, “You can change in there.”

  Isela walked to the building, tired and hungry and dirty, even filthy. She followed several other girls from the container into the back door of the building. Just inside, there was an open room where the chosen girls were changing into their new clothes.

  “This is pretty,” said one girl holding up a short green dress. She quickly pulled it on over her head and smoothed down the front with her open palms. “And it fits pretty well.”

  Isela looked around. What she saw were several girls from the container, maybe twelve to twenty years old and chatting excitedly with each other about the new clothing. From the looks of it, the outfits ranged from schoolgirl uniforms to one-piece shifts and mini-skirts with tight tank tops. There wasn’t much left to the imagination.

  “Why are we to wear these clothes?” she asked the girl in the green dress.

  “I don’t know,” the girl said. “But this is so much better than the shorts I’ve been living in for the past few days. Those were really dirty.”

  “Where did you put them?” she asked.

  “In that bucket,” said the girl, pointing toward a large barrel filled with suds and smelling of chlorine. “And the showers are over there.” She pointed.

  Isela opened the bag she was holding and took out a pair of short jean shorts. She slipped off her pants, soddened and dirty, tossed them in the barrel and walked into the shower area. When she was done, she toweled herself off and pulled on the new shorts and the accompanying sleeveless top.

  Just then, Ximena opened the back door and entered the room. She looked around the room at the girls and said in Spanish, “When you’re finished dressing, go through this door to the front of the building.”

  Several girls moved toward the door and the first girl there—the one with the green dress—pushed it open and walked through. Isela waited her turn, then stepped into the front room of the building, following the girl in front of her.

  “This is where you’ll be working,” said Ximena, gesturing around a wide living room that was tastefully decorated with sofas clustered into conversation areas. There was a white grand piano in one corner of the room and two open doors that led to hallways off the walls near it. The floor was hardwood covered with area rugs defining the conversation areas. There was no one in the room except a tall black man wearing a white shirt and tuxedo trousers. He ignored the intrusion.