of unaccompanied minors-found themselves in the late-afternoon confusion of the crowd on the international bridge.
And out of that mix of tourists taking quick trips into Mexico to shop or eat and Mexican nationals returning home from working in Brownsville, a handsome young man suddenly appeared before the pair.
He had been exceedingly charming. With a calculated manner, so that the girls would come with him not only willingly but enthusiastically, he immediately began appealing to their desires.
And he began by saying he could get the pretty senoritas back to the United States.
Rosario was charmed.
Ana was wary.
How does he know what we want? Ana thought.
That was quickly replaced with: Is it not obvious? We were just thrown out. Everyone sees it.
And I don’t want to be stuck in cells here.
When caught at the river, they’d first been in the custody of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security’s Border Patrol. That agency had then turned them over to the Customs and Border Protection, also under DHS, which in turn had delivered them to the Mexican officials. They’d thus just suffered through the United States’ bureaucratic system, killing time in cold and sterile holding areas for what seemed like a month. It had actually been four days, and they were told it had taken longer than the standard twenty-four hours thanks to the delay of the weekend.
Neither Ana nor Rosario liked the idea of going through any of that again. Especially in Mexico, which without question would be a worse system with even fewer resources than those of the United States.
As Ana eyed the handsome young man, she thought, And we can’t get sent all the way back to Tegucigalpa.
So far, Ana and Rosario had avoided that by lying to the U.S. Border Patrol polic?a. They’d stated that they were Mexican nationals, which was what their coyotes had coached them to do if caught.
Neither had any official papers-no birth certificate, certainly no driver’s license, no passport, nothing-proving that they were or were not Mexican.
But they also did not have anything that stated they were from Honduras or Guatemala or Nicaragua or any other country. The Americans called that “OTM,” any country Other Than Mexico. If the illegal aliens admitted to being from a particular country OTM, American law required that they be sent back to that particular OTM country.
If, however, they proclaimed Mexico was their home, the norteamericanos-Customs and Border Protection, to be precise, but it made no difference to the girls which official agency-would expedite their repatriation via the nearest port of entry.
Even Ana Lopez and Rosario Flores-with very little formal education, barely able to read or write beyond basics in their mother language, let alone the least bit literate in English-had the street smarts to figure out that game. And walking across the international bridge and winding up in Matamoros was a helluva lot closer to getting back into America than being trucked or bused or whatever all the way back to Honduras.
Of course, conveniently, repatriation via the nearest port also happened to be the most expeditious option for the U.S. government and its agents.
The Mexican official who was meeting the group of unaccompanied minors was an overweight gray-haired Latina woman in an ill-fitting pantsuit. She held up a clipboard and looked more than a little weary, if not overwhelmed.
Standing with Ana and Rosario at the edge of the bridge, the handsome young man gently applied pressure: “You must decide now! Quickly!”
He looked at the official, then added, “Before you are taken into her custody!”
And before, the girls knew, the long-and what would turn out to be futile-process of finding their families began.
Rosario and Ana exchanged glances, then Rosario handed off the six-year-old boy to another in the group.
The two teenage girls disappeared with the handsome young man into the lengthening shadows of a trash- strewn side street.
If the female Mexican official had noticed the two teenage girls leaving the group, she certainly did not show it.
Almost immediately-within two blocks-the handsome young man stopped and turned to the girls. When he told him that his name was El Gato, Rosario giggled. He smiled back, then said that if they wanted to get back to the United States, they would have to trust El Gato.
“We have little money,” Ana had said, looking at Rosario, knowing that that was a lie.
They had absolutely no money.
Most of what they’d had had gone to the coyotes for their failed first illegal crossing. The rest, little more than a hundred dollars, had been on a prepaid debit money card. On the back of the card, they had written the U.S. phone number of Rosario’s cousin, whom they’d planned to call once in America. But during the rough rowboat ride, unbeknownst to Rosario, the card had slipped free from the back pocket of her jeans. Both card and phone number were somewhere on the bottom of the Rio Grande.
“We can discuss that later,” El Gato had said agreeably, then held out his right hand and cocked his head. “And you are…?”
“Rosario Flores,” Rosario said, grabbing his hand. She nodded toward her cousin and added, “Ana Lopez.”
“Well, Ana and Rosario,” he’d said charmingly as he shook their hands in turn, “can you trust El Gato?”
“Who does not trust a kitten?” Rosario had quickly answered-Ana thought a little too quickly.
Ana then pressed for details-who was he, where would he take them, how much would it cost?
El Gato smiled at her. He commented that she would do well in America.
“You have such a wise and questioning mind,” he said.
Then he’d told them of the great many jobs that America offered pretty girls like themselves. Ones that paid cash to work as a waitress in restaurants, to clean houses and offices, even to watch over young children, jobs that the gringos called “nannies” and “au pairs.”
More money than they could believe, he’d said, more than enough to live on in great comfort and still send plenty back home to their families.
Juan Paulo Delgado said that once the girls were across the border he would introduce them to some of the others he’d helped. They were ones he called his “growing family,” he said with a smile. Then he said he’d set up Ana and Rosario, as he had the other girls, with work. He’d even help show them how to wire their extra money home.
Extra money! Rosario had heard.
Not just money, but extra!
Rosario-who people often confusedly assumed was Ana’s older, wiser sister despite the fact that Ana was far more grounded-leaned over and whispered in Ana’s ear: “Juanita!”
Juanita Sanchez, Ana knew, was a cousin on the other side of Rosario’s family, the one whose telephone number they had lost in the river. Juanita had been sending money home to Honduras, first from Dallas in Texas. Then it had come from the ciudad called Newark, in Nuevo Jersey, where the cousin now worked-though Rosario was not sure for whom-as a criada, a maid-servant.
Rosario had told Ana that she knew that was true because she’d gone once with Juanita’s mother to collect the money-five hundred dollars, which came out to be more in Honduran lempiras than the aunt earned in half a year. Juanita had wired the money from the United States to the bright yellow-and-black Western Union office nearest their Tegucigalpa barrio.
And that, in fact, had been what encouraged Ana and Rosario to start on their journey north.
Standing on the side street near the international bridge, Ana looked her cousin in the eyes and anxiously considered their options.
That had taken no time whatsoever. They had no money and no other place to go save for the streets of Matamoros or the Mexican system of child protective services.
“Bueno, El Gato,” Ana had said. “What do we do?”
