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Her warmth and support emboldened me. I managed a smile. “I guess that makes me a Rambo by comparison.”
Despite her assurances, I was rethinking the visit. Desperation had prompted it, but I wasn’t sure how much I could gain from it. However, while I was there, I asked Amber if I could speak to one or two of the workers.
As Manuel wandered by, Amber caught his attention and communicated my thoughts. She spoke much better Spanish than I, though she still stumbled over a few words now and then. Manuel nodded and hustled off.
“He’s going to look for a couple of workers,” she said. “I can probably translate most of what they say.”
*****
A short brown-skinned woman with luminous dark eyes and raven hair approached me cautiously—the way a wild stallion might approach a horse trainer. Manuel had a hand on her shoulder. It almost looked like he was herding her toward me.
Manuel introduced the woman as Conchita Ruiz and launched into rapid Spanish patter. “He’s telling her your name and that you’re not a cop or immigration,” Amber explained.
I nodded. Conchita’s face relaxed, but only a little.
“Hola, Conchita,” I said, trying to sound friendly. “Where are you from? What country?”
I waited while Amber translated. Conchita responded with a few quick words that flew by me, but I picked up the word “Honduras.”
“She says hello, it’s nice to meet you, and she’s from Honduras,” Amber said.
I nodded and smiled. Well, at least I understood one word.
“Conchita, how did you get here?”
Amber translated my question. Conchita’s face froze. For a moment, I thought she’d bolt.
Amber said a few more words in a reassuring tone. Conchita seemed somewhat, if not entirely, appeased. She spit out a whole slew of words I had no hope of understanding. Amber nodded, interrupting now and then, as if for clarification. When they’d finished their exchange, Amber turned to me.
“She says she came here by train, paid for by relatives. I asked which connecting bus line brought her here, because you know there aren’t any train stations on the Eastern Shore. She claimed she couldn’t remember.” Amber paused and added. “Frankly, I think she’s lying. If I had to guess, she was probably brought here in the back of a panel truck. With a whole lot of other immigrant workers.”
“So, she’s probably illegal.”
Amber looked somber. “I’d put money on it.”
This came under the heading of interesting information. If Billy Ray were in charge of hiring plant workers, he’d have to know many of them were illegal immigrants. Possibly even arranged for them to be brought in.
Which raised another interesting question. Could Billy Ray’s murder pertain to that? Or could it pertain to other illegal activities his friends engaged in? Like the “pot-free” Dwayne Sutterman and Curtis Little? After all, workers weren’t the only things that got illegally smuggled across the border. This could merit some additional research on my part.
*****
After trying to squeeze a bit more information from Conchita and a couple of other workers and getting little for my efforts, Amber drove me back to my car.
“Even if you’re not with INS, they’re afraid of strangers,” she said.
“Who can blame them?” I understood their lack of trust for any authority, especially around here. I felt it down to my bones.
Amber pulled her car up beside mine, threw it into “park” and sighed. “These people.” She shook her head. “They’re underpaid and work in the worst sort of conditions. Yet, they’re afraid to complain for obvious reasons. It’s a vicious cycle.”
She gazed at me. “Has any of this helped?”
“If nothing else, it’s given me food for thought.”
She looked quizzical. “How so?”
“Nothing solid. Just random thoughts at this point.”
“What do you think you’ll do?”
