Without Fear

Without Fear

Ernesto slipped quietly out of his pants, while Artemia unbuckled the belt that held up her long skirt. The night sky was without moonlight, and a thin haze blacked out the stars. Ernestito, or Ito as he was called, was wrapped tightly in blankets and placed in a canvas stretcher that covered the center of an old, patched inner tube. He was sleeping soundly. Ernesto and Artemia packed their clothes with their other worldly belongings into plastic trash bags, and tied these to the inner tube as well. Silently, they slipped into the frigid Nuevas River, which in reality was more sewer than river, more shit than water.

Gustave, the coyote, was just downstream waiting for them to join up with the others. “Andele, Hurry Up” he barked in a hoarse whisper. “We have only 1 hour before the van leaves, and we have a long swim.” Together they floated, clinging to the tubes, staying close to the banks in case any of the Border Patrol agents should spot them, and trying to avoid the foul peaks of chemical foam that were developing on the surface. Gustave murmured, “You won’t find this in any tourist guide of Calexico, although you should!” Using their feet to guide them along, they entered the buffer zone, the point of no return. A large culvert loomed in the distance, and they would have to traverse the length of it to reach their destination. “Breathe heavy, now!” Gustave warned, as the tunnel would be filled with toxic gases that could asphyxiate even a gifted athlete. “You will need to hold your breath for at least 50 seconds, and put this bag over the baby, so that he will have something to breathe”.

The whites of Artemia’s eyes grew brighter with anticipation as the entrance approached. They could just barely see the reflections off the water on the other side. For what seemed like an eternity, they simply held each other, not wanting to let any of the old world slip away, not wanting to leave anyone behind. Ito began to stir, and Artemia put her hand on his chest, for the comfort of both. Finally the shimmering ripples on the surface grew brighter, and everyone could now at last heave deep sighs of relief, but without gasping too loudly. “Welcome to Los Estados Unitos” intoned Gustave, as they glided through the tunnel’s exit. “We still have a ways to go before we climb out”. Ernesto could hear the Explorers and Jimmys cruising the dirt roads above. “You have to stay near the bank where they cannot see you, and the Federales have night vision imagers that can see through anything!”

Gustave was a good coyote, they were told, someone that would look out for them and not dump them at the first sign of trouble. But all coyotes have their limits, and the irritation level in Gustave’s already strained mutterings was rising. Ernesto thought he spotted an opening in the trees that lined the bank. Gustave was already kicking his legs against the current, guiding in the first tube.

The bank was slippery by the time Ernesto lifted Ito to Artemia’s waiting arms. Although the mud was wet and slick, protruding tree roots gave some footing. Everyone worked to get the bags unloaded, and stow the inner tubes (Gustave would see if he could use them again). Ernesto quickly slipped his pants back on, and handed Artemia her skirt. No place to shower off here! “Andele now, quickly!” Gustave intoned, as he led them up a footpath to a little flat just below the main road. This meadow had been a place used by horsemen to unload and saddle horses, and the ruts made by the trailers and horses made even standing difficult. Two of the men went with Gustave to a rock outcropping at the far end of the meadow. Scrambling to the top, they could see down the road about a half a mile, where the van was waiting. Gustave pulled out a flashlight, and blinked it three times, pointing at the van. A motor came to life, but no headlights glowed back in return.

The van nearly overturned when it slid to a halt in the meadow. A tan 1980’s Chevy with no windows except front and back, it had been used to haul rock and gravel and had never been fully swept out. The side door creaked open, the sound of the door bearing mingling with the sound of gravel being crushed in its guides. Everyone rushed for the doors, the teamwork displayed at the riverbank just a few minutes ago now less than a distant memory. “Cuidado! Caution!” grunts Gustave, as he smacks one of the younger men across the back of his head, to instill a sense of control. “We must load carefully, so that the driver can make the best time on these roads. Women and children to the rear, and men in the middle”. A more orderly procession into the van followed, with everyone finding a spot on the hard steel floors, back to the walls. The bags were piled on everywhere, so that no one could see anything but the bags in front of them. Ito began to cry, but Artemia nursed him with her dirty breast. The van door slammed shut, and the jolts the van delivered as it crossed the rutted field made Ernesto’s weakened kidneys ache.

Mercifully for all, the van climbed out of the pasture on its own power, trading the rutted path for a smoother gravel road. While nobody but Gustave and the driver, a tall slender man named called “Cheno” could see out, everyone knew what to expect. Cheno would drive the van to designated turnouts and wait behind buildings or trees until the Federales would pass. Like clockwork, Cheno would find the next turnout, hide the van and kill the motor. “Silencio!” barked Gustave as the Federales approached, also on a schedule. The van was church-quiet during that time, until you could hear the Jimmys and the Explorers tires crunching the gravel, fading off into the distance, and the murmurs would resume again. During those quiet moments, Ernesto reflected back to his native Guatemala, and the events that led to this trip north. Hurricane Floyd came through in ’99 and changed everything. Although Ernesto and Artemia survived the massive floods, the plantation at which Ernesto was shift supervisor for the fruit packing operation was wiped out, with hundreds of acres of banana trees uprooted, and the packing station blown apart. Choices, like jobs, were few after that, with Ernesto making the journey to Los Estados Unitos more and more frequently. Finally, with Artemia announcing she was pregnant during a phone call on New Year’s Eve 2002, Ernesto made what seemed like a snap decision and began to plan for their move north. Many things had to be arranged: a room was rented from one of Artemia’s cousins in Los Angeles, a jobber that knew Ernesto’s work in the Garment District would have piecework ready for them when they arrived, and Artemia’s distant aunt would look after Ito while they worked. They just had to get there. For Ernesto, by himself, this was rarely a problem. He had picked up fake Mexican papers at the border crossing at Usumacinta, crossing the river with little concern. Mexican authorities rarely checked; they knew he was only passing through. When he got to Tijuana, he would spend several nights searching out the fence holes and the tunnels with his compadres, many of who were also from his home town of Antigua. A hole that had not been spotted or checked by the Federales was noted, and the amigos would wait until the moon was down on the next evening. However, once through, many miles of arduous cross-country hiking lay ahead until they reached the squatters camps just south of San Diego. This could take as long as a day, without water or food, depending how much cover they would need to take. This would not be possible with a new mother and infant. Ernesto asked around in the camps for a guide or “coyote”, and Gustave’s name was repeatedly mentioned. $800, payable up front, would get them to a safe house in Boyle Heights, within walking distance of their new lives. Because of the increased patrols in Tijuana, Gustave would return to his old, trusted routes of Calexico.

Wham! The van hit another rut. The kidneys ached so bad he could scarcely sit up any more. Ernesto grabbed a garbage bag and sat upon it, popping the sealed enclosure. Angry stares from all, but he did not care. Ernesto’s kidneys were crushed during a beating he took from his father when he was a teenager. He did not remember or care whether it was the belt buckle or the toe of his father’s cowboy boots that did the damage, but any jolts now to the body were shear agony. He would pass dark red blood for few days afterwards, but it always seemed to clear. Soon, they would be on Interstate 805, on the smooth gringo road, and a few hours from a new start. They just had to get past the border check.

Interstate 805 merged with Interstate 5 just north of San Diego proper. The interchange was now extremely smooth and convenient, and one could hardly tell when 805 ended and 5 began. Traffic started to build as they passed through towns such as Del Mar, Encinitas, Carlsbad and Oceanside. As they entered Camp Pendleton on the northern border of Oceanside, another car pulled along side the van. Cheno pulled out a walkie-talkie radio, and chatted with the driver. The driver will be the spotter as they go through the border check just south of San Clemente. Cheno pulled the van over and waited until the driver got into position. The driver would indicate if it was possible to drive through the checkpoint without stopping or slowing, or whether the Border Patrol was slowing traffic as they passed through the sensors.

It never crossed the researcher’s minds at the time of the discoveries, but an instrument invented in 2001 to measure extremely weak electromagnetic brain waves would have such a profound affect on illegal immigration into this country. Early in 2001, clinical researchers at UCLA’s School of Neuroscience and Neurology announced that a way had been found to measure the extremely weak electromagnetic fields without the use of NMR or radioactive dyes. A sensor, cooled to liquid nitrogen temperature (77 K) could be used with extremely powerful computing algorithms to detect some alpha brainwave patterns at the range of 10 meters or more. In particular, one emotion produced brainwaves of strikingly unique patterns: fear. Officials at the Immigration and Naturalization Services were intrigued enough to fund the team’s work for the next year, with the contract provision that they would have rights to practice all patents produced. A contract device manufacturer was called in to create a prototype, which was field evaluated at the San Clemente boarder check. It was an immediate success, detecting huddled families in the back of vans and under pallets in pick-up beds that used to routinely escape notice of the boarder guard check. No one could hide their fear sufficiently to prevent detection. Soon, handheld devices, looking a little like metal detectors on poles, were being used at Tijuana and Nogales. The only drawback was speed; the sensors could only read brainwave activity accurately when the cars were traveling at 15 MPH or slower. This was not an issue during the light traffic of the middle of the day as the INS agents would slow traffic just before reaching the checkpoint, but in the early morning or evening traffic could be backed up for miles. During those times, the sensors would be turned off, to allow traffic flow to return to normal.

It was for just that period that Gustave would wait to pass through. The lead car would signal him when the sensors were off. It was almost 6 AM, and the traffic coming into Orange County would begin to pick up soon. “Dam! Cheno, you missed the last exit! Now we will have to wait on the side. Pull over here!” All eyes were on Cheno, the cold stares passing on their fear on to him. Parking a van on the side of Interstate 5 at this spot was like waving a red flag saying “Illegals here!”. You couldn’t cross the freeway median with the van; a fence ran all the way from San Clemente to Oceanside. Everyone hoped that the sensors would be turned off soon, before they were spotted. “Ok, you little burros, you know what to do should the sensors not be turned off. Cross the highway, climb the median fence, cross the other half of the highway, and head for the beach. Stay below the cliffs; it should be low tide. Say nothing; the surfers will see you but they will say nothing also. When you see the large buildings of the nuclear power plant at San Onofere you are safe and can head back towards the highway. You will be in a state park; we will meet you at the end of the parking lot where the lifeguard towers are stored. It should take you less than two hours. Get ready.”

Gustave had barely finished his instructions before Cheno noticed the two headlights traveling down the median strip in the wrong direction. Gustave did not wait until the light green hood of the INS patrol car distinguished itself in the hazy morning light; he burst out of the side door and opened the cargo door. “Andele, out! You know where to go! Do it now!” The grayness of the light in the van now vanished. Ernesto, Artemia with Ito in her arms pushed towards the door. Everyone staggered around until Gustave pushed them in the direction of the ocean. “But there were cars whizzing by everywhere! No one was slowing down! When would they slow down? Now they are slowing down! They see us.” Ernesto’s rapid-fire thinking anticipated an opening for crossing, at least to the median. Every one flooded out onto the highway, heading towards the fence. The sound of howling rubber filled the air when the first one was hit, Roberto. He was a friend of Artemia’s brother in secondary school in their town. His limp body was still rolling when Ernesto looked away, with still two lanes to cross before the median. Artemia had a hold of Ito in one arm, and Ernesto with the other hand. They didn’t look back when the second was hit, Lorenzo. A single cough was all that was heard over the howls of rubber searching for traction.

The vacuum created by the passing semi-trailer almost sucked Artemia back into traffic lanes. Ernesto could see the INS agent’s car closing quickly on the median where they stood, so he climbed to the top of the 6’ tall fence with a couple of swift moves. Two other men also climbed over the fence, and waited their chance to cross the southbound lanes. “Gentes! Won’t you help a new mother and her child first?” Ernesto called out. Manuel remained behind, but Octavio saw an opening in the traffic and made a run for it. Artemia handed the bundled Ito up to Ernesto, who in turn handed him down to Manuel. Ernesto offered assistance to the agile Artemia, who needed little herself. With everyone safely on the other side of the median fence, the task of crossing the 8 southbound lanes of Interstate 5 loomed. Octavio had made it; he tried to signal the others on the median when he thought an opening in the traffic would occur, but would quickly recant his motions just as fast. Judging how much time you needed to cross in front of a car approaching at 75-80 miles per hour was tricky at best, but when you had some of the traffic slowing to take a look at the carnage on the northbound lanes, and still others accelerating to get around the “Looky Lous”, an impossible situation developed. The INS patrol car slid to a halt. “Don’t do it, man! … DO NOT DO IT!” A burly INS agent rushed to the fence where the threesome plus Ito were poised to make the dash. With his bulk and girth, he did not attempt to climb the fence, but instead tried to dissuade them. “I’m telling you man, you will never make it. It is not worth it. Stay there and we’ll come around and pick you up safely”. Ernesto was so close that he could smell the coffee and Danish belching up from this guy’s belly. Over the agent’s shoulder, he could see Gustave and Cheno calmly chatting with another couple of agents; plastic handcuffs being adjusted for comfort. Their trip was over. Ernesto knew the rest; the van would be confiscated, their belongings chucked. Gustave and Cheno would ride the light green bus back to the border, be given a piece of paper and a stern admonishment, and turned loose. Even with loosing the van, Gustave would make a profit; Cheno was already paid up front.

Looking across the 8 lanes, they knew they had to go now, or the INS would be there to pick them up. It looks so close; 90 feet and they are on their way to the beach. Ernesto kissed his crucifix lightly, grabbed Artemia’s hand tightly, and launched themselves into the road. Rather than trying all 8 lanes at once, they would go one lane at a time, standing on the lane divider until the next opportunity came. One lane, then another, like matadors evading the bull. With 3 lanes left, the hands of the clock slowed. A car, weaving across traffic, did not see them as their side mirror struck Artemia’s shoulder. Ito popped out of her arms like a soccer ball, and rolled into the lane in front. Milliseconds were like hours, as they watched with muscles too slow to respond to the sickening thud that was made when the SUV hit Ito’s body. Ernesto felt Artemia’s hand melt out of his; he saw but could not respond fast enough except to touch Artemia’s blouse as she instinctively trailed after Ito’s body, now bouncing southbound. The crushing of bones was cut short by one light cry as Artemia was sucked under the multiple thumps of an accelerating 18 wheeler.

Manuel carried Ernesto the final two lanes across I-5. Under both Octavio’s and Manuel’s shoulders, Ernesto was carried to a culvert, where both men had to literally sit on Ernesto to keep him from going back to the highway. “There is nothing you can do, nothing you can do now. It is over” they would repeat, over and over.