Chapter 1

[Although, this story depicts a tiny subset of immigrants in a negative light, for fetish purposes, the author abhors what is happening to people seeking asylum from the horrors of their countries.]

Belize was once a proud and thriving nation of English speaking, predominantly black citizens. As global warming and drug cartels eroded their prosperity, some families had reasons to flee. The majority of the country still has great prospects, should it succeed at fighting its nacent corruption and build forward thinking infrastructures that will overcome the threat of human made climate change.

Of those who fled Belieze and other, far worse, Central American nations, many hit the execrable wall of American hate. If not immediately thrown out of the country, asylum seekers were stalled, transported to detention centers, and in too many cases, stripped of their children.

That’s where I and a majority of Americans fought back. Investigative journalists, academics, and lawyers like myself, uncovered the evidence of these programs, and shined lights on its many evils. All levels of the bureaucracies involved, had to dial back their schemes. Yet holdouts remained. I and my dedicated fellows kept scouring INS and DHS documents.

Mindy Addlestrom found the first clue to the events that transpired in this story. It was a heavily redacted receipt that led us to a shell corporation that the INS was transferring seventy thousand dollars to, monthly. We requested a priority, FIA request for related documents and struck gold. It was a penny-anti operation by INS standards, but for a secret group of right-wing fanatics, it was all they needed to advance their agenda of discrediting minorities through anecdotal events. In other words, the best way to fight overwhelming scientific evidence of the equality of all humans, was to tell frightful stories about the groups they didn’t like.

To be clear, this story isn’t about who is good and who is evil. It’s about a specific situation, when concluded, demonstrated that evil can be intoxicating. There are neither heros nor martyrs by the end of it, only victims.

Louisiana, near the border of Texas. The INS gave permission to the “Starry Cross Preservation Society” to use federal lands to construct a facility for “compassionate detention of English speaking immigrants.”

Mindy, I, and our dedicated colleagues, had been puzzled by a 15th century, germanic sect of women setting up a camp for immigrants, funded by the USA. The documents were no joke. Over the previous year, seventy nine, teenaged boys, ages 14-17, had been sent to the camp. They were the all the sons of immigrants from Belize waiting for their asylum hearing. All continued to wait in whatever shithole the INS had stuffed them into, while their sons ‘enjoyed’ “compassionate detention.”

Mindy, born and raised in Athens, GA, could navigate southern culture, regardless of her antipathy for certain of its sub-cultures. My southern California roots, worked against me, but the group decided that the two women spearheading our effort should survey the situation before public release of information. Perhaps the camp was a example of Christian principals applied as the Nazarene had intended, with compassion.

After I obtained a court order to inspect the premises, Mindy and I flew to Shreveport and hired a rental sedan.

“I’ll pay to upgrade to the Tesla.” I told Mindy.

She thought I was joking. “How is that going to look to church women more familiar with skiffs than automobiles?”

“You are the leader.” I grinned and fondled my gold, ziggurat earrings - a habit when I was denied something I desired. I knew she was right, and told myself to put them away, including my chains and pendant, before arriving at the camp.

The closest town to the camp was twenty miles. We found a charming AirBnB with hardly more than eight roaches. We stayed the night there, to start fresh in the morning. A night of high humidity and indian summer warmth, prevented sound sleep, but we were hardy adventurers on the road for justice. We slept in and ate a late breakfast of eggs, grits, gravy, and waffles.

Mindy wore a comfortable, summer dress, while I, the inveterate lawyer, chose a light suit. This was a legal matter, to save children torn from their families. We set out before noon and arrived four hours later. The backroads had more twists and branches than interactive fiction. Mindy was a city girl, like me, and like me couldn’t navigate back roads for shit.

“Why can’t we find a signal for our cell phones!” She stopped the car and bawled at her phat Android device.

Fortunately, we had plenty of batteries to power our devices. Better, I had downloaded the local maps before setting out, just in case of cell phone outage. However, navigating by map only was nearly our undoing. We consoled ourselves with a couple of the granola bars. Always over-supplied for an excursion, we had two boxes of them!

A truck came along, carrying sacks of grain and boxes of canned meats and vegetables. We flagged it down, and true to southern courtesy, the portly driver only gazed at our slim figures and large breasts for a few dozen seconds before asking, “Whadya say?”

“I’m Mindy, and this here is Shawna. We are ever so lost, trying to find the Starry Cross, Detention center. It is hereabouts?

He scratched his neck. “Sure thing, Darlin’, but what you pretty ladies want to go to that nigger boy hole for? I’m delivering supplies there, and I drive my ass, pardon my language, back home as soon as the head counselor signs my receipt book.”

I stepped up. “It’s a small, legal matter, Sir. We won’t be long, but I would appreciate hearing what you know about the place. If you can spare a moment.” I batted my eyelashes.

“Hey, I’m married, Lady.” That didn’t stop him from looking down Mindy’s and my cleavage.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you. Do you mind if we follow?”

“Guess not.” He scratched his neck again. “And I don’t mind saying, them nigger boys are a queer lot, talking like Masterpiece Theater pompous asses. But the counselors are right creepy. My cousin told they been hiring white hookers, pardon my language, all last year, dozens of ‘em!” He looked at the one lane road ahead. “Gotta go.”

Mindy and I shared mutual bewilderment, got in the car and followed the truck until the road ended, after many turns into ever narrower, side roads.

Four men, in camouflage fatigues walked out. Three had holstered pistols. They all wore Confederate Bars and Stars on their sleeves. The ‘head counselor inspected the goods, had his men dolly them into the first building, and sighed the driver’s receipt book.

True to his word, the hauler got in his cab, engine left running, and trundled his truck back to the town he came from. After driving to the camp, Mindy and I approached, court approved documents ready in the briefcase I swung nonchalantly.

“Hello, were looking for a representative of the Starry Cross Preservation Society.” Mindy offered her hand to shake. “I’m Mindy Addlestrom and this is Shawna Foster.”

The man spit tobacco to asphalt. “Are you a Jewess?”

A seasoned reporter, Mindy had heard much worse. “Are you a fucking, backwoods redneck?” She withdrew her hand. “We have authorization signed by a federal judge of the fifth circuit court. Our papers give us full authority to inspect these premises.

At “federal judge”, the heavyset man perked up. “Lemme see.” He held out a hand.

I opened my case. “Here’s the copy for your organization’s records.” I handed it to him. “I advise you to read it’s entirety.”

“Nah.” He crumpled the twenty page document like it was tissue. “I just needed something to wipe my ass with.” He pointed the wad at our car. “Now, I recommend you two whores of Israel get back in your car, drive away, and write whatever smear piece you want about this place. We got law in these parts who protect the mission of the Starry Cross.” He indicated his shoulder patch. “They can run the feds around for years.”

Everyone flinched down when a burst of gunshots fired somewhere in the compound. He dove for the nearest tree. Mindy and I looked around as we fell to a crouch. She nodded at the car. Retreat was the safest option.

We reached the car. A man, 45 automatic in his hands, ran out and yelled at his boss, “Another escape, this time in broad daylight.”

“Thick skulled, ungrateful niggers!” The boss yelled back. He stood up, sneered at us as if we were nothing, and ran back into the compound. “They’re getting outside help, I swear by Godalmighty!”

I didn’t need to inspect the site any further. The moment we reached Shreveport, I’d whip a posse of federal marshals into a frezny to shut this place down and save these most certainly abused boys.

Mindy and I scrambled in and locked the doors. She fired up the engine, swung the car around and drove quickly but carefully down the unimproved road. Low hills dotted stretches of swamp. Trees grew scattered, covered in moss. A hundred yards down the road, a black boy wearing a stained, sleeveless undershirt stumbled in front of the car!

Mindy braked and swerved. The car stopped short of the boy, but he thudded into the side door, noticing us too late to halt. “Ugh!!” He groaned.

I did not hesitate to unbuckle myself and open my door. I had two thoughts, save the boy, and he’s the perfect witness. I told Mindy, “We have to help him.”

She rolled down her window. I ran around the car and saw blood oozing down his arm. “You poor dear!” I exclaimed. For all my refined taste and privilege, I didn’t hesitate to pull off my jacket and cover him.

“Pretty lady!” He looked as if he were going into shock. His eyes darted everywhere over my body, as if to determine if I were human, I thought.

Men shouting stole both of our attentions. The sedan’s doors unlocked with simultaneous clunks. Mindy whispered, “Get in.”