Dale Brown: Edge of Battle

Unlike Imperial Dunes and Sand Hills, this area was lush and green thanks to the series of irrigation canals that crisscrossed the area—right up to the areas beside the freeway that had no irrigation, where the earth immediately turned to its natural hard-baked sand. There was a closed fruit and vegetable stand, a self-serve gas station, and a large dirt open area with a few portable bathrooms where truckers could turn around and park for the night, awaiting another load. Victor did not pull into the turnaround area, but stayed just off Chuckwalla Valley Road near an irrigation control valve sticking out of the fields near the road, trying to make himself look like a repairman or farmer.

“Pull up there,” the military-looking man said, pointing to the truck parking area. True to form, he was still wearing his sunglasses.

“No, señor. Demasiado visible .”

The man nodded toward the parking area. “They don’t seem to think it’s too conspicuous,” he said. There were four produce trailers parked there, two tandem rigs, a beat-up old pickup that looked like it belonged to a ranch foreman…

…and a large brown and green panel truck with fat off-road tires that Victor recognized, and his warning alarms immediately started sounding.

“There is my ride,” the man said. “It looks like mis amigos have already arrived. Take me over there.”

“You can walk, sir,” Victor said.

“¿Nos asustan?” the man asked, smiling derisively.

Victor said nothing. He didn’t like being insulted, but getting in a customer’s face was bad for business. He ignored the remark about his courage, took a clipboard, put on a straw cowboy hat, and went out beside the irrigation manifolds sticking out of the ground to make it look like he was taking water pressure readings. He carefully looked up and down Chuckwalla Valley Road and Interstate 10, then waved at his Suburban, and the rest of the migrants quickly jumped out. The mother of the dead baby girl gave him a hug as she stepped past him, and they all had satisfied albeit tired and worrisome expressions on their faces. Within seconds, they had disappeared into the fields.

It was a tough business, Victor thought. One out of every twenty pollos he dropped off near the interstate highway, mostly young children or older women, would be killed trying to cross it. Two out of this group of ten would be caught by the Border Police within a matter of days. They would be taken to a processing center in Yuma or El Centro; photographed, fingerprinted, ID’d if possible, and questioned. If they resisted or complained, they would be taken to the Border Patrol detention facility at El Centro, Yuma, or San Diego for booking on federal immigration violation charges. If they were smart, stayed cool, and said, “We are just here to work,” they would be treated fairly well by the Americans. They would be fed, clothed if necessary, given a fast medical checkup, and within a few hours taken to the border crossing at Mexicali or Tecate and turned over to Mexican authorities with their possessions.

Their real troubles would begin then. If they or their families had money, they could pay their “bail” by bribing their way out of jail on the spot; if not, they would be taken to jail until they could raise “bail.” Their clothes and all possessions would be taken away, they would be given prison rags to wear, and they would serve as virtual slaves for the federales in any number of menial, dangerous, or even criminal tasks—anything from road crews to prostitution to drug running to robbery, anything to raise the “bail” money and secure a release.

To Victor’s dismay, the tough-looking man was still there beside the Suburban by the time Victor made sure his pollos were on their way. Victor said nothing as he walked around to get in, but the man asked, “Where do they go?”

“No sé,” Victor replied. “To work, I suppose.”

“Well, well, it’s Victor Flores, late as usual,” he heard. It was none other than Ernesto Fuerza, probably the most notorious and successful smuggler on the U.S.-Mexico border. Tall, young, good-looking, wearing a dark military-looking utility uniform without any badges or patches, black fatigue cap over a black-and-white patterned bandana, long hair and goatee, and well-cared-for military-style boots laced all the way up, Fuerza had successfully made a worldwide reputation for himself not as a criminal, but as an entrepreneur, satisfying the needs of Americans and Mexican immigrants alike…

…and also because Fuerza had no compunction whatsoever to abandon his pollos if the federales closed in on him. It was widely suspected that Fuerza had ditched one of his trucks filled with migrants in the middle of the desert and escaped—except the authorities never showed up until days later, to find over fifty migrants dead inside from heatstroke.

Fuerza nodded to the European. “I told you, it would have been better for you to come with me, Señor Zakharov. Dovol’nyi Vy bezopasny, polkovnik. ”

“We speak only Spanish here, señor,” the man named Zakharov said in Spanish. “See that you or your men do not forget again or I may have to cancel our contract.” Fuerza lowered his eyes but offered no other apology. “Any difficulties, señor?” he asked in a low, menacing voice.

“Of course not. Everything according to plan, exactly as promised. It would be better if we departed right away.”

Fuerza scowled at Victor. “He made us wait too long in this area, which could easily alert the Border Patrol.”

“I thought you said this location was secure.”

“We took precautions,” Fuerza said. “But if young Flores here would learn to get his ass in gear and be on time, we wouldn’t have any concerns at all. Next time, Señor Zakharov, you should come with me.”

“It was operationally dangerous to all go in one vehicle,” the man named Zakharov said. The little hairs on the back of Victor’s neck began to stand up. This was no ordinary migrant-worker smuggling job, nor even a fugitive entry—these guys looked and acted as if they were on a mission. Something was amiss here, he decided, and the sooner he was gone from here, the better. He was extremely relieved when Zakharov said, “No matter. Let us be on our way.” He reached behind him, and Victor thought the shit was going to hit then—but to his surprise, Zakharov pulled out a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Victor. “ Buen trabajo, señor . ‘Good job.’ Perhaps we will meet again. I am sure this will buy your absolute silence.” Victor managed a polite nod and accepted the money with a shaking hand.

“Buy yourself a life, Flores,” Fuerza said as he spun on a heel and left with the two men. Victor got into his Suburban as fast as he could without looking like he was panicking.

Fuerza and the others had just crossed Wiley Well Road and were almost back at the panel truck when suddenly a white-and-green Border Patrol van pulled up and parked directly behind it, blue, red, and yellow lights flashing. Two Border Patrol agents got out of the van. The agent on the driver’s side had a microphone to his lips and was aiming the vehicle’s spotlight in the other hand; his partner had a large portable spotlight in one and his other was filled with plastic handcuffs. “ La atención, ésta es la frontera de Estados Unidos patrulla, ” the first agent’s voice said over the vehicle’s loudspeaker.

Victor was about to start up the Suburban and jam it into reverse, hoping to get away from the area, but the headlights and flashing lights of a second Border Patrol van suddenly appeared in his rearview mirror, blocking his exit. “Ésta es la frontera patrulla!” another voice said over the loudspeaker from the van behind him. “¡Usted en el Suburban , puso su reparte la ventana, ahora!”