A False Dawn

SIXTY-FIVE

I walked behind the doublewide trailer. A rusted air conditioner, braced by a sawed-off two-by-four, hung from a window, rattling and dripping water into the sand. There was one rear entrance or exit. To reach the door I had to step up on a large paint can. The door was locked. I worked my way around the back of the trailer, heading for the front, stepping over dozens of used condoms.

I saw the sun wink from something shiny behind a clump of trees to the far right end of the trailer. I recognized the SUV. It was the Escalade that Ortega drove. I could hear the engine ticking from heat. I felt the hood. The motor was warm. It was unlocked, and keys hung from the ignition.

I could feel Ortega was close. Maybe watching my every move.

I opened the front door to the trailer. The recycled air smelled of cheap perfume, sweat-soaked sheets, and nail polish remover.

Six women, all looking terrified, sat on tattered furniture. The couch was the shade of a UPS truck, frayed and faded. The floor was linoleum, stained yellow, dirty and buckling in places. Latin music played from an area that looked like a kitchen. I stepped in from the heat, and closed the door.

One girl, no more than seventeen, sat with her legs bent at the knees, her arms wrapped around her legs, her small body rocking back and forth. She didn’t look up at me, her eyes wide and not looking at anything in the physical sense. I could see cigarette burns on her arms, between the scars from what looked like self-cutting and mutilation. There was a handprint bruise on her thigh, fresh bloodstains on her yellow shorts.

The other women simply stared at me. Expressionless. They were all so young, ranging in age from about sixteen to early twenties. I said, “Buenas tardes. Hablar Ingles?”

“Si,” said one of the youngest girls.

“What is your name?”

She was hesitant, looking at the other women. I said, “It’s okay. No one is going to hurt you. I’m not a policeman, and I’m not with the Border Patrol or Immigration. My name is Sean O’Brien. I’m here to help you. Are you held against your will?”

The girl stared at me, not sure what to say. I asked her to repeat, in Spanish, what I said so the others could understand. She did and none of the women spoke.

The youngest girl said, “My name is Maria.” She was fearful, eyes wide.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” she said in a voice just above a whisper.

I could see dread in her eyes, and it wasn’t because I felt she was afraid of me. She licked her dry lips, her eyes darting around the room.

“I know you’re being forced to have sex. That’s against United States laws. Human beings can’t be held as slaves — sex slaves or any kind of human bondage. Do you understand?”

The women each offered the slightest nod. I looked at the youngest girl. “How do they pay you?”

She reached in her jeans pocket and pulled out a condom wrapper. “We turn in these at the end of the week. They give us five dollar for every one we have.”

“Five dollars?”

She nodded.

“How much do they charge the men?”

“Farm workers twenty dollars. The men’s we meet in the hotels, houses, and the condo…maybe five hundred dollar.”

“And you are given five dollars for that?”

“Sometimes more.”

“Where is the condo?”

“I don’t know how to find it. They take us there.”

“Who takes you there? Is it Hector Ortega?”

Her eyes found mine, the whites showing. She looked at the other women. They sat straight. Too straight. I knew Ortega was in the trailer.

“I’ll write my number down,” I said, with the same inflection and audio levels. “You’ll call me. We’ll file a lawsuit against the people that run this outfit.”

I gestured for one girl to come forward. She did, and I leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Where in the trailer is Ortega?”

She looked over her shoulders, bit her bottom lip, pointed toward the back, and whispered, “Last room.”