Chapter Fifteen
San Francisco, present day
Mitch Yeung looked like a guy you could trust.
Most of the refugees had been taken to a temporary housing facility on Treasure Island, a small patch of land bisected by the Bay Bridge on its way from San Francisco to Oakland. The island was man-made, part of a WPA project from the thirties to build the first airport for the San Francisco area. Back in the days of water-landing planes like the Pan Am Clipper, an island in the middle of the bay was the perfect location, so the navy built one by dredging mud from the bay and the Sacramento Delta. Memories of the California gold rush from decades before were still fresh enough to start rumors that silt dredged from the bay contained untold riches, so the name Treasure Island was an inside joke among the men who built it.
Part of the island housed an old naval base, shut down after Pentagon budget cuts several years back. The low white buildings remained largely unused while city officials on both sides of the bay argued about what to do with the land. But this week no one was arguing, thankful to have a temporary home for two hundred refugees who had none.
Mitch had asked Cape to meet him inside the main building, a long white rectangle set back from the road by a short lawn of brown grass. Cape heard the undercurrent of human voices as he approached, but once he stepped inside, the din was overwhelming. At least a hundred people inside a single long room with exposed rafters, the floor lined with cots, chairs, and the occasional desk. A corner had been draped off, doctors and nurses milling about on this side of the curtain. Cape assumed they’d taken those needing immediate medical attention to one of the many hospitals around the city, but the white lab coats were on hand in case anything new cropped up on the island.
Men and women wearing a variety of uniforms and suits were scattered around the area, most holding clipboards, a few carrying tape recorders, most of them Asian. The men, women, and children from the ship sat on their cots, on the floor, and stood around in small groups. Cape noticed that the refugees talking with various officials looked very serious, even worried, but those chatting amongst themselves looked happy and relaxed. It was as if they knew their journey was almost over, the promised land just beyond that door, if only the men and women with the clipboards would promise not to send them back.
Before Cape could get his bearings, a tall Chinese man with broad shoulders walked toward him, wearing khaki slacks and a navy blazer with no tie. As he approached, Cape took note of his short black hair, salted gray near the temples, and dark eyes sitting high on an open, friendly face. His wide mouth curved into a smile as he extended his hand.
“Cape Weathers?” The man’s grip was firm, his hand dry and callused.
“Mitch,” said Cape, shaking his hand. “How’d you know who I was?”
Mitch broadened his smile. “Beau said you dressed like you were still in college.” His gaze moved from Cape’s running shoes, past his jeans, and over a black T-shirt covered by an old white dress shirt, unbuttoned and untucked. “Or a reporter,” he added.
Cape shrugged. “Saves on dry cleaning.”
“He also told me your nose was broken,” added Mitch. “Several times.”
Cape touched the bridge of his nose lightly, where it took a slight left turn before resuming its course. “Not for at least a year.”
Mitch nodded, then looked over his shoulder before gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk.” He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair, rolling up his shirtsleeves. As he turned the cuff of his left sleeve, Cape noticed a dark tattoo at the edge of his wrist, but Mitch had stepped outside before Cape could catch the design.
The view across the water toward San Francisco was distracting, the morning sun having burned through the fog. A few sailboats followed in the wake of a tanker moving slowly under the bridge, close enough to reach with a brisk swim. They walked for a couple of minutes before talking, both men squinting from the glare off the bay. They stopped beside a stone bench but neither sat down.
Mitch said, “You mind my asking, what’s your interest in the ship?”
“I don’t mind you asking,” replied Cape.
“But you’re not gonna tell me,” said Mitch, nodding as if he already knew the answer. “Beau said you were a
Cape shrugged.
“But he said he doesn’t hold that against you,” added Mitch, “and that neither should I.”
“Guess we’re off to a great start.”
“Your client involved in this?”
Cape thought of Sally, realizing he didn’t have a client. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Mitch nodded, looking out toward the water. After a moment, he seemed to make a decision, gesturing toward the bench. He took a seat on one side.
“You’ll tell me what you find out?”
Cape thought about it before responding. “If I think, it will help the case and not hurt my…
“But not the feds?”
Cape shrugged. “I’ll tell anyone I think can help, you want the truth.”
Mitch nodded. “What do you want to know?”
Cape looked over his shoulder toward the main building. “Where did those people come from?”
“Fuzhou,” said Mitch, his intonation shifting as he said the name. “It’s on the northeast coast of Fujian province in China. A lot of human smuggling starts in Fuzhou.”
“Why?”
“That’s where the major smuggling rings are based,” replied Mitch. “Quite a few used to be in Changle City, but there was a brief government crackdown, so they moved.”
“Just like that?”
“You have to understand, smuggling humans is big, big business,” said Mitch. “One of the feds I’m dealing with told me it’s now a billion dollars annually, with some smugglers making as much as thirty mil a year.”
Cape let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of
“That’s right,” nodded Mitch, “especially since it’s almost eight yuan to the dollar these days-so bribing local officials doesn’t break the bank. Neither does moving your base of operations. Plus, there’s prestige involved.”
“Prestige?” Cape wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“If someone makes the journey, then their family back in China gains in stature,” explained Mitch. “And if they can send money back to their family, even better. So these smugglers aren’t necessarily regarded as criminals, at least not by the people they’re smuggling.”
Cape wanted to ask Mitch more about that-about China-but he forced himself to stay on track.
“How’s it work?” he asked.
“Say you make your way to Fuzhou,” said Mitch. “Or you’re from Fuzhou to begin with. You save up sixty bucks for a bus to Guangzhou, where you’re put on a freighter bound for Hong Kong or the U.S. directly. You’re smuggled into the country, then you’re put in a safe house until you can find work or get papers or contact family, depending on the situation.”
“How much?”
“The folks back there,” said Mitch, jerking his chin toward the barracks, “were on the hook for thirty grand.”
Cape almost gasped. “Each?”
“You bet,” said Mitch, adding, “I told you it was big business.”
“How can they possibly come up with that kind of money?”
“One of two ways,” replied Mitch. “Family that’s already here, who borrow against everything they have to bring other family members over, one at a time. That’s option one.”
“And option two?” Cape feared he already knew the answer.
“You become someone’s property.”
