A young man dressed in black appeared from the darkness, "Okay, form a line and follow me," he ordered. "From here on, no noise: don't talk, sneeze, or even cough." Turning, he hurried back up a brush trail leading into the hills. Single file, the group picked their way through dense chaparral and tried to avoid the thorny cactus that seemed to be everywhere.

After about five kilometers, Santiago spotted a hill and a flashlight signaling from below. His pulse quickened. Finally, he was in los Estados Unidos; the land of plenty. The guide led them down a steep path and onto a dirt road. In the east, the night sky was just showing a tinge of gray.

"Hurry up!" a man next to a black Dodge cargo van commanded.

      Santiago guessed him to be in his early twenties. "And have your money ready!" He counted it before each man was allowed to board the van. "Sit close together and keep your heads down: no talking, no laughing and no looking out the rear windows." Santiago hung back, eager to sit next to Memo. If the older man showed no fear, he'd know things were going smoothly.

After a long, bumpy ride over back roads the van finally hit a smooth highway-interstate 15. As they neared Temecula the guide turned in his seat and warned, "Okay, la migra is just ahead.... stay down!"

In order to avoid the border patrol check point the driver left the Interstate, drove through Fallbrook, then took the De Luz road into the mountains of the Cleveland National Forest; he planned to circle back and return to the Interstate at Murrieta, far past the checkpoint.

      But about five miles into the mountains, he encountered a light green, four wheel drive vehicle. The light bar on its roof told him it was,..la migra!

Knowing the Border Patrol officers wouldn't be able to pursue them immediately, at least not until they found a wide spot in the narrow road to turn around, the van driver pressed the gas pedal to the floor; slowing just enough to negotiate sharp curves in the winding road. But the heavy, human cargo prevented the van from gaining enough speed; a few minutes later, the driver could see la migra's vehicle in his side-view mirror.

Alarmed by how the van was swaying in the curves, one of the men couldn't resist peeking out the rear window: "Ay... es la migra!" he shouted. "They are behind us... with red lights flashing!" Terrified,

 

the men begged the driver to stop the van. But ignoring their frantic pleas, he only jammed harder on the accelerator. By now the van was skidding out of the curves practically sideways.

"Memo ... tell them to stop!" cried Santiago. "La migra will only take us back to the border-we can try another time." Memo only stared at him with a strange smile on his face, as if he knew something dreadful was about to happen.

The van raced down a steep grade into an extremely sharp curve and this time it didn't make it. Lurching sideways, it left the road and rolled over five or six times, coming to rest on its top.

After the dust settled several bloody, twisted bodies lay sprawled over the brush-covered hillside. The rest were in the battered van.

The morning air was still, except for crackling messages over the Border Patrol's radio: California Highway Patrol units and medical assistance were on the way. A couple of survivors moaned softly, but the rest were silent. Bent over her ancient, galvanized metal washtub scrubbing laundry, Teresa spotted the policeman when he stepped around the corner of the adobe. An icy chill gripped her, a cop could only mean trouble ... bad trouble.

The officer removed his cap and said, "I am sorry to bring you bad news, señora: there has been an accident... en el norte. Your husband, Santiago Santos, has gone to be with our Lord."

Teresa wiped her calloused, brown hands on the faded frayed dress, the one Santiago had bought for her birthday last year, and made the sign of the cross. "Ay, Dios Mio!" she wailed. "I must go and arrange to bring him home. My husband must be buried in his beloved Mejico!" But how? There was no money for bus fare. Santiago had taken everything to pay the coyote. Teresa would be forced to borrow from the village loan-shark.

On his way back from the plaza with tortillas, Abelardo had spotted the police car and ran home. Hurrying to his mother's side, he threw his arms around her. "Ay, mijito," Teresa murmured, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I pleaded with your father not to go to el norte. Now he will have the land he craved... but only enough for his grave." Abelardo kissed her cheek and hugged her fiercely. "It was his dream, Mama. But do not worry, I am here to care for la familia - I promised Papa. And one day, we will have the land he dreamed of... I swear it!"

End