Joaquin watched with annoyance as two United States Immigration and Naturalization Service vans pulled in front of the restaurant and stopped. The van disgorged agents in their dark green uniforms and they began herding the workers to curbside to check for green cards.
“Hey, Pablo, you waiting for an invitation or what?” asked the harsh voice with the southern twang from behind Joaquin. He ignored the voice; he had been rousted innumerable times, but was always released after he produced his green card.
“Hey…I’m talking to you,” said the voice, this time accompanied with the prod of a billy club in Joaquin’s back. Joaquin took a deep breath, checking his anger. He then stood and turned to face the agent.
“Lo siento, no hablo,” said Joaquin with a smirk. The young officer had a flat top haircut and far too many freckles to be taken seriously. His name tag read “Robert Pritchard.”
“That’s okay,” replied the cocky agent. “Yo hablo. Papeles, ahora.”
“Bueno, un momento,” smiled Joaquin as he reached for his wallet in his back pocket. The smile left his face when he suddenly realized he had left the wallet in his Bronco. The Bronco he had carefully parked four blocks away. This was not good. [Read more…]