“Cape Weathers?” The man’s grip was firm, his hand dry and callused.
“Mitch,” said Cape, shaking his hand. “How’d you know who I was?”
Mitch broadened his smile. “Beau said you dressed like you were still in college.” His gaze moved from Cape’s running shoes, past his jeans, and over a black T-shirt covered by an old white dress shirt, unbuttoned and untucked. “Or a reporter,” he added.
Cape shrugged. “Saves on dry cleaning.”
“He also told me your nose was broken,” added Mitch. “Several times.”
Cape touched the bridge of his nose lightly, where it took a slight left turn before resuming its course. “Not for at least a year.”
Mitch nodded, then looked over his shoulder before gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk.” He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair, rolling up his shirtsleeves. As he turned the cuff of his left sleeve, Cape noticed a dark tattoo at the edge of his wrist, but Mitch had stepped outside before Cape could catch the design.
The view across the water toward San Francisco was distracting, the morning sun having burned through the fog. A few sailboats followed in the wake of a tanker moving slowly under the bridge, close enough to reach with a brisk swim. They walked for a couple of minutes before talking, both men squinting from the glare off the bay. They stopped beside a stone bench but neither sat down.
Mitch said, “You mind my asking, what’s your interest in the ship?”
“I don’t mind you asking,” replied Cape.
“But you’re not gonna tell me,” said Mitch, nodding as if he already knew the answer. “Beau said you were a very private detective.”
Cape shrugged.
“But he said he doesn’t hold that against you,” added Mitch, “and that neither should I.”
“Guess we’re off to a great start.”
“Your client involved in this?”
Cape thought of Sally, realizing he didn’t have a client. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Mitch nodded, looking out toward the water. After a moment, he seemed to make a decision, gesturing toward the bench. He took a seat on one side.
“You’ll tell me what you find out?”
Cape thought about it before responding. “If I think, it will help the case and not hurt my…client…yeah. I’ll tell you, or Beau.”
“But not the feds?”
Cape shrugged. “I’ll tell anyone I think can help, you want the truth.”
Mitch nodded. “What do you want to know?”
Cape looked over his shoulder toward the main building. “Where did those people come from?”
“Fuzhou,” said Mitch, his intonation shifting as he said the name. “It’s on the northeast coast of Fujian province in China. A lot of human smuggling starts in Fuzhou.”
“Why?”
“That’s where the major smuggling rings are based,” replied Mitch. “Quite a few used to be in Changle City, but there was a brief government crackdown, so they moved.”
“Just like that?”
“You have to understand, smuggling humans is big, big business,” said Mitch. “One of the feds I’m dealing with told me it’s now a billion dollars annually, with some smugglers making as much as thirty mil a year.”
Cape let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of yuan.”
“That’s right,” nodded Mitch, “especially since it’s almost eight yuan to the dollar these days-so bribing local officials doesn’t break the bank. Neither does moving your base of operations. Plus, there’s prestige involved.”
“Prestige?” Cape wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“If someone makes the journey, then their family back in China gains in stature,” explained Mitch. “And if they can send money back to their family, even better. So these smugglers aren’t necessarily regarded as criminals, at least not by the people they’re smuggling.”
Cape wanted to ask Mitch more about that-about China-but he forced himself to stay on track.
“How’s it work?” he asked.
“Say you make your way to Fuzhou,” said Mitch. “Or you’re from Fuzhou to begin with. You save up sixty bucks for a bus to Guangzhou, where you’re put on a freighter bound for Hong Kong or the U.S. directly. You’re smuggled into the country, then you’re put in a safe house until you can find work or get papers or contact family, depending on the situation.”
“How much?”
“The folks back there,” said Mitch, jerking his chin toward the barracks, “were on the hook for thirty grand.”
Cape almost gasped. “Each?”
“You bet,” said Mitch, adding, “I told you it was big business.”
“How can they possibly come up with that kind of money?”
“One of two ways,” replied Mitch. “Family that’s already here, who borrow against everything they have to bring other family members over, one at a time. That’s option one.”
“And option two?” Cape feared he already knew the answer.
“You become someone’s property.”
“Property,” said Cape, the word as cold and dispassionate as the concept itself.
Mitch chewed his lower lip before giving Cape a cynical smile. “You didn’t think China was the only place with sweatshops, did you?”
“So they work as slaves,” said Cape, “getting room and board, until their debt is paid off?”
Mitch nodded. “Keeps the prices down in Chinatown,” he said sarcastically. “Good for tourism.”
“Why do they do it?” asked Cape. “I thought things were getting better in China.”
“Better is relative,” replied Mitch. “But you’re right, it’s easier to emigrate legally from some cities today, depending on how much guanxi you have.”
“What?”
“Connections,” said Mitch. “You know an official you can bribe, or you’re related to an inspector, then maybe you can get papers. But with no guanxi, the only way to get here is inside the baggage compartment.”
“Do they really know what they’re getting into?”
“No, they don’t,” said Mitch. “And in most cases, the journey isn’t that bad. Refugees are flown by plane to South America, then sail up the coast. And they’re generally treated well, considering. But ships like this, with people crammed in the hold like animals…it still happens.”
Cape stared at the bay, trying to imagine being that desperate, wanting to escape something that badly.
Mitch seemed to read his mind. “You know what they call the United States in China?”
Cape shook his head.
“Meiguo,” replied Mitch. “That’s Mandarin for ‘beautiful country.’ America might have lost sight of the American Dream, but these people are praying for it every night of their lives. You have no idea what life is like over there, even on a good day.”
Cape detected an undercurrent in Mitch’s voice, some subtext to the narrative.
“This is personal for you,” he said simply. “Isn’t it?”
Mitch turned from the water, his right hand raised to block the sun. “Yeah,” he said, meeting Cape’s eyes. “My parents came over on a ship like this one. Lucky for me, they got asylum.”
A long minute passed as Cape held Mitch’s gaze. “What will happen to these people?”
Mitch shrugged. “Depends on who they are, in large part. Things are a little funny with China right now, as you probably noticed in the papers. We’re asking for help with North Korea, trying to play nice. So these people might get asylum, but they also might get sent home.”
Cape cringed at the thought, thinking of the derelict ship, trying to wrap his head around making a voyage like that twice. “But they’ll keep trying, won’t they?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Mitch. “Once you get it in your head you’re leaving, most people find a way. And there’s enough people waiting to help them, or prey upon them, depending on your perspective.”