14
They were herded from blackness through a blood-red world, then into light so bright Krista closed her eyes. When she opened them, squinting against the glare, they were shuffling through a small house, Jack close behind her. Now in the harsh light, this was the first time she saw the others clearly. They were mostly Asian, but also a few Latins and people who might have been from the Middle East or India. One by one, they were searched as they walked. Belts and shoes were taken, and tossed into a growing pile. Six or eight men with shock prods and clubs pushed the crowd through the house. Krista did not look at them. She kept her eyes down, afraid to make contact.
The house was shabby, and empty of furniture. The harsh light came from hundred-watt bulbs in shade-less lamps. The shuffling line slowed, then was prodded into a small room.
Behind her, Jack’s whisper.
“We’re fucking trapped.”
Heavy plywood panels were screwed over the windows, completely covering them. The floor was a stained wall-to-wall carpet, a narrow door revealed an empty closet, and the sickly blue walls bore crayon marks and holes where tape and nails had been removed. An empty plastic bucket, one roll of toilet paper, and a case of plastic water bottles waited in the corner.
Krista guessed they were in a boy’s bedroom. The bedroom was small, filled quickly, and then the door closed.
No one moved. The people who now filled the crowded room stood as if waiting for something more to happen, as if they were too shocked or afraid to move.
Krista and Jack did not move, either. She turned to Jack, and he hugged her, and they stood without moving as people around them cried.
Krista cried, too, and felt Jack sob as he held her.
The man said, “I am Samuel Rojas. You may call me Sam.”
Seeing she was Latin, he spoke to her in Spanish and she answered in the same, pretending to be a Mexican.
People were taken from the room in no particular order. The door would open, a man would come in, motion to someone, and take that person away. They always came back a few minutes later, and no one was hurt, so Krista wasn’t afraid when the guard she would soon know as Mr. Rojas motioned her to him. Jack held her arm a moment too long, but she pried his hand gently away, and told him it would be fine.
The man brought her to the kitchen, and they sat facing each other on the dirty vinyl floor. Following Rojas to the kitchen, she saw other guards in paired conversation with prisoners in the living and dining rooms. Krista also noted the windows in these rooms were covered by the same heavy plywood, and the front door was sealed in the same way. She felt a hollow sickness in her stomach when she realized the entire house was a prison, and suddenly the kitchen felt hotter even though the AC was blasting.
Once they were seated, Rojas opened a spiral notebook. The cover showed a unicorn reared on its hind legs.
“What is your name?”
“Krista Morales.”
“Where are you from, Krista?”
“Hermosillo. In Sonora.”
“It is very pretty there. I have always wanted to see it. I am from Torreon, in Coahuila. It is not so pretty there.”
Rojas made notes in the spiral notebook as they talked. He had a reassuring smile and a gentle voice.
Krista heard the Asian language in the next room, and a frustrated conference in Spanish between two of the guards. None of them spoke the language, so they had no way to communicate with the prisoner.
“Do you have family there in Hermosillo?”
“No, I am the last. The aunt I lived with, she died.”
“That is such terrible news. Is this why you are traveling north?”
“Yes. There is nothing for me at home.”
“Do you have family in the north, or a job?”
“My mother.”
Rojas smiled, and Krista knew she had said the right thing. She had desperately been trying to recall everything she knew about how bajadores operated, and what the people from Guatemala had told her.
“Ah, that is very good for you. A mother in your new home. Where is she?”
“Los Angeles. A place called Eagle Rock.”
“Ah, good. She is waiting for you?”
“Yes. She sent her friend’s son to pick me up.”
Now Rojas cocked his head.
“What friend is this?”
“Her friend’s son, Jack Berman. The Anglo boy who is with me. He was waiting at the airplane when you took us.”
Rojas wet his lips, and glanced toward the living room before going on.
“This boy, he is here?”
“Yes. In the room.”
Rojas went to the entry, and gestured to someone in the living room. A moment later, a dark man with long hair and tiny, jet black eyes joined him. The man stared at Krista as Rojas whispered in his ear. They had a quiet conversation, then the man walked away, and Rojas returned to resume their conversation.
“Does she have a good job, your mother?”
“She is a housekeeper.”
“That is good, steady work. Do you have other family? Aunts, uncles, cousins?”
“No. There is only my mother.”
Rojas scribbled quickly.
“What is her name and phone number?”
“Why do you wish to know this?”
“She will have to pay our expenses before we deliver you. Unfortunate, but once she has paid, we will let you go home.”
“She is a housekeeper.”
“This is good, steady work, so she probably has savings, and maybe a generous employer. We will let you call her. Not now, but later.”
Krista gave him her mother’s name and cell phone number. As Rojas was recording these things in his ledger, two men entered from the utility room, which was the same door through which Krista and the others were brought into the house. The first man was tall and dark, with hollow cheeks and the face of a hawk. Krista thought he was a deeply tanned Anglo, then realized he was Arab. The other was a shorter, burly Latin, with broad shoulders and a large stomach. The tall man glanced down at her, but paid no attention. He wore tight designer jeans and a knit shirt that showed overdeveloped arms and shoulders. His long, black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. One glance at her, and the tall man strode across the kitchen to the entry, and called for someone named Vasco. The man with tiny eyes reappeared almost at once, smiling broadly as he greeted the new man. Krista saw that his teeth were jagged and broken, as if he had been in many fights, and never had them fixed. The two men disappeared as they moved into the house.
The burly man nudged Rojas with his toe, and spoke.
“Got the food out here. C’mon, the Syrian doesn’t want to spend the night.”
Rojas answered in English.
“Fuck you, Orlato. I’m not your bitch.”
“You can tell it to The Man when I tell him why he has to wait. Then we’ll see whose bitch you are.”
Orlato toed him again.
“C’mon, make this puta here help. It’s only a few pies. How many you get?”
“Thirty-two.”
