A False Dawn

SIXTY-FOUR

It was late afternoon when I drove into the migrant camp. Some of the buses had returned with exhausted workers. I parked the Jeep under two Australian pines and tried to blend in with the farm workers as they shuffled to the store or in and out of the trailers.

Out of the corner of my eye, I felt someone staring at me. I turned and recognized the man. He was the young man I had seen earlier, the man who’d been beaten. He looked the other way and started walking. “Wait!” I shouted. He kept going. I ran toward him. He darted between two trailers, limping on his right leg. I caught him easily, put my hand on his shoulder, and turned him around.

“It’s okay! I’m not here to hurt you. Comprende? I’m here to help. Please… put the knife away.”

“I understand English, some.”

“Good. What’s your name?”

“Manny Lopez.”

“Manny, listen to me. I know what’s happening here. I don’t care what they say, you’re a free man. They can’t hold you or the others against your will.”

“I try to leave…to run…they find me…hurt me…say they kill me next time. Others try…try to run…they no come back. I think they killed…”

“Who do you think was killed?”

“Some workers…I don’t know all names. They take people from camps…you know…some in Immokalee…Lake Placid…Palatka. Some no come back.”

“Is it men and women, or mostly women?”

He gestured with his palms up. “The womens.” He glanced away for a beat, his eyes looking over the dark tomato fields.

I described the woman I had found to him and he slowly turned his face back to me, his eyes heavy.

“She wear a small gold…how you say?”

“Crucifix.”

“Si.”

“Tell me, what’s her name?

“Angela…Angela Ramirez…”

I could see her face as clear as the morning I found her. Now she had a name. Angela Ramirez. “Is her family in Mexico?”

“No. Honduras.”

“How can I find them?”

“I know the casa…where Angela’s family live. I can show to you on map.”

“Thank you.”

“Angela dead?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“How she die?”

“She was murdered.”

“Gomez…he kill her?”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s a man in Miami who’s connected to Gomez, Ortega, Davis and maybe even the Brennens. Do you know where I can find Ortega?”

“I no see him for six days.”

“Where does Ortega usually work? Where might he be hiding?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I not sure. He sometimes with Gomez. Sometimes he with the grande black man name Mr. Silo. Sometimes he take the women’s in the…”

“The van.” I said

He nodded.

“Where does he keep the women?”

He pointed to the doublewide trailer at the end of the road.

“The largest one?” I asked.

Manny nodded. “That’s where they take Angela. She no go…they not break her…” He pointed toward his heart.

“Spirit,” I said.

“Si.”

“Manny, I think even more people have been killed. Is there any place on this farm where someone might be burying bodies? An area difficult to find them?”

“Many places. Some fields have no fruits…no tomatoes. Somebody could make graves out there.” He looked down the hard-packed dirt road and pointed to a backhoe near a tall Australian pine. “That macheen…sometime I see them take it out at night.” He paused, licked his dry lips, and asked, “Angela in a cemetery?”

“Yes. I will take you there.”

“Gracias.” He made the sign of the cross.

I thanked him. Then I headed for the trailer at the end of the dusty road.