Tancredo's World
Radley Balko | March 5, 2007, 7:04am
In Colorado, crackdowns on illegal immigration have caused a shortage of agricultural labor. So farmers have contracted with the state's Corrections Department to have prisoners bring in the harvest , at the slave wage of about 60 cents per day.
Better a convicted felon pick peppers at gunpoint than a willing, eager foreigner desperate to support his family. There's like, American culture and values at stake. Or something like that.
Domestic Enemies | March 6, 2007, 9:00am | #
CHAPTER ONE
Note: There are six long excerpts from DOMESTIC ENEMIES posted here. This novel does contain critical ENEMIES FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC "plot spoilers," so consider reading that book before plunging into this sequel. Click on the "EXCERPTS" button at the bottom of this page to navigate to each of the six DOMESTIC ENEMIES excerpts.)
“Yo, Penny! What the hell you doing, girl? Get your scrawny ass back here!”
The woman was new; it was only her second day among the camp’s female detainees. She still had the boot camp buzz-cut which marked her as fresh from the “Tombs” in Illinois.
The D-Camp admin staff usually did this with pale-skinned white girls: they put them straight out into the fields under the blast-furnace Oklahoma sun. The new prisoner had gamely attempted to keep up with the line of twenty women, weeding her row of knee-high corn with a hoe, but her hands were already cratered with broken blisters.
She walked back down the narrow file to where Big Kendra was waiting. Ranya anticipated what was going to happen next.
“Penny, are all the skinny white girls back in Maine as useless as you?”
Ranya kept moving her hoe, while glancing over her shoulder at the drama playing out behind the field crew. The new woman was half the size of Big Kendra, with her broad butt and ample chest straining against her khaki uniform.
“What is this here, woman? What do you see here?” Big Kendra carried a long rake handle when she was on guard duty in the fields; now she was using it to point at the ground between the rows of immature corn.
The new detainee was shaking visibly, but Ranya couldn’t hear her reply. The woman turned and looked back up the line for the missed weed, leaning over to see where the guard had pointed. The guard moved up close behind, looming over her.
“Are you blind too? That’s a big ole’ ragweed—ain’t that what you’re here for?”
Ranya cringed as the guard booted the new woman down onto her face.
“Now get back on the line, and don’t let me catch you slacking off again!”
Big Kendra was one of the most offhandedly brutal guards in D-Camp. The six foot tall Philadelphian took special delight in humiliating the new detainees, especially soft suburban housewives from the opposite end of the pigmentation spectrum. After a few months of interrogation, they arrived at D-Camp in unmarked “moving vans” as pale as Pillsbury dough-boys, and were immediately sent out to do field work beneath the unrelenting sun. No hats were provided, and their faces and shorn heads burned an agonizing lobster red. No gloves were supplied, and without calluses, their hands became painfully blistered working the short-handled hoes.
Ranya had seen the black Amazon called Big Kendra put the boot to many new detainees, as part of her own personal “breaking in” procedure.
The new prisoner stumbled back, and took her place among the women working their way up the lines of dusty plants. She was on the next row from Ranya, sobbing quietly.
“It’s not my fault, it’s a mistake, I shouldn’t even be here! It’s all a mistake! But nobody will listen. Nobody will listen!”
This was the usual lament of the new Article 14 detainees. It was always a mistake. An old tune by an Australian band ran through Ranya’s mind. “It’s a mistake!” It was always the same heartrending song. “It’s a mistake!”
This was the usual lament of the new Article 14 detainees. It was always a mistake. An old tune by an Australian band ran through Ranya’s mind. “It’s a mistake!” It was always the same heartrending song. “It’s a mistake!”
“My husband disappeared last year, just disappeared! Went to work, and never came home. No word, not one word! Then last March the police came, and found guns in our attic. Assault weapons and sniper rifles, they said! I didn’t even know they were there! I swear to God, I had nothing to do with them! But nobody would listen! Now who’s taking care of my children? It’s all a mistake, but nobody will listen! And now I don’t even know where my children are…” Tears slid dirty tracks down her face.
Children. The word stung Ranya. Who’s taking care of your children, lady? Well, who’s been taking care of my own baby for five long years? Her thoughts swept her back to the federal prison clinic in Maryland, her wrists and ankles shackled to the cold stainless steel table, and those precious minutes spent with her newborn baby boy. Even then her wrists were not unchained: a sympathetic nurse held the baby boy to her chest, allowed her to kiss him, to inhale his newborn breath… And that was all of her time with him. Her baby was taken by a grim prison matron, never to be seen again. At least this new prisoner had been able to share a life with her children. Not just a few minutes!
Ranya wanted to say, “Do you think you’re the only mother here?” Instead she answered, “Look, it’s not a mistake, your being here. Let me guess: you’re here for an Article 14: ‘conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism’, right?”
The new prisoner nodded, broken.