Chapter13
Holding the piece of paper as he sat at his desk, Suarez said, “That’s one of the multinational agribusinesses. They own a lot of prime cropland around here and have several operations. I believe the letters stand for ‘Agricultural Green Grocer’ . . . or maybe it’s ‘American Green Grocer.’ Anyway, they never use the full name anymore. Everyone knows them as A-G-G.”
“Do they have a camp east of town? That’s where Teresa pointed.”
“They might. I’ll call ‘em. By the way, I got feedback on the fat guy. His name’s Joseph Beanland, nickname ‘Chunky.’ Last known address was in Pahokee. His traffic record is fairly clean: one ticket for running a stop sign and one DUI. Only priors are disturbing the peace, illegal fishing, hunting out of season, poaching on a national preserve, and an assault and battery for a bar fight. Seems like a mean, rowdy guy without a whole lot of respect for rules and regulations.”
“And knows how to handle a knife and a gun. How ‘bout his employer?”
“Listed as ‘independent contractor.’ Probably means he’ll do whatever he’s hired to do without compunction.”
“He must be working for AGG.”
“Could be.”
“That would explain Juan and Teresa’s reaction.”
“I’ll call now and ask about that, too.”
While Suarez was on the phone, I made a couple calls, too. One to the office: Neither Caridad nor Ruben had anything additional to report, except that Concepción’s insurer had sent a claims adjuster who would be arriving in Immokalee soon to look at the Samurai. Another to Christian Osceola.
His report was more interesting. He told me which migrant camps had the worst reputations. One was the private camp of a Dan Nichols, but this local farmer had had his stingy, ornery reputation for a long time and so attracted only the most naïve or most desperate workers – winos and bums; besides, his farm was southwest of town. The other two were contracted by AGG. The story there was that AGG itself had no brutal policy, but it was laissez faire in its management of the camps, leaving the details to the private contractors. One camp was north of town, but the other – the newest one – was east. This was its second year of operation. The Mexicans called the foreman ‘El Gordo,’ said he was the meanest crew boss around.
So, when Suarez got off the phone I knew what he would say.
“You’re right,” he said. “AGG has a contract labor camp east of town and the camp is contracted to one Joseph ‘Chunky’ Beanland.”
“Can we go out there now?”
“Sure, but since I have no warrant, we have to wait for an AGG official to accompany us.”
“Can we get a warrant?”
“Not on the basis of your disappearing witnesses. Don’t worry. An AGG guy is on his way here now.”
While we waited for that official, I stepped outside and called the office again and talked to Ruben. “Ruben, call Scotty, see if he can come here today and bring three or four of his guys with him. Tell him that they should come heavily armed and with their firearm licenses and security IDs and night gear and prepared for outdoor work. Call me back when you’ve made arrangements.”
“Sure, Buck. Should I come?”
“No, not necessary. This is more precautionary than essential. Talk to you later.”
I didn’t want Ruben to come because I couldn’t face Luli and the kids if something happened to him, and my belly was telling me that this case was about to take a nasty turn into something evil and brutal. If knives were going to slash and bullets were going to fly, I didn’t want Ruben in the path of any of those deadly metal edges and points.
I also wanted to get Iris to a safe place and make her stay put.
Scotty headed Bulwark Security Operations, a firm based in Fort Lauderdale. His men were the best: physically conditioned, well trained in both unarmed and armed combat, provided with the latest technology and weapons, disciplined and confident. Plus, he was a friend whom I had known since he left Whitehall and moved to the States to start his own security business some dozen years ago. He would honor my request and follow my instructions to the letter.
As I re-entered the station, Suarez was heading out. He had Deputies Johnson and Martha with him. This time I read her tag: surprisingly Johnson also. I said hello to the Deputies Johnson and shook their hands. Suarez said, “They’re coming with us, just in case. A show of force never hurts, with or without a warrant.”
“You and I think quite alike.”
Outside again, we met Melvin Alcorn, an assistant manager for the Immokalee operations of AGG. He looked fresh: white shirt, green tie, black trousers, work boots – all except the boots immaculate. He looked to be in his early thirties, but already a little paunchy, probably spent more time at his desk than in the fields. His brown hair was newly cut and groomed. He smiled a broad smile and asked, “Suarez?”
“That’s me. This is Buck Jaspers. He and the deputies will go with us.”
But Melvin had a question. “Just why is it we’re going out there to the east camp?”
“To see if some missing boys might be out there. We’ve heard they were seen there.”
“I doubt it.”
“How often do you go out there?”
“We’ve got eight camps, Lieutenant.”
“That wasn’t my question. Maybe I should ask when the last time you were out there was.”
“I was out there in October. Everything was in order then.”
“The very beginning of the season. Get in your truck. It’s time to pay a follow-up call.”
I said, “Mr. Alcorn, may I ride out there with you? I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Ok, over this way.” I followed him to a white long-cab, pick-up truck displaying on each door a green triangle and the letters AGG in white with shadow.
As we pulled away from the station, I saw Iris running toward us, then stop and wave her arms. I couldn’t hear, but she seemed to be shouting something. I had purposely left her behind because I didn’t know how dangerous this trip could be. She looked angry. I hoped that she didn’t know how to hotwire a car; otherwise, my Z3 might soon be following us.
End of Chapter 13
More and more of our food is being grown by multinational agribusiness corporations. They are very good at producing huge quantities of food and distributing it, but to do so, they use synthetic fertilizers, growth hormones, and pesticides. So, what exactly are they distributing? Is it as nutritious as they would like us to believe? Are we getting more chemicals than is good for us? Are there any other less dangerous ways to produce such vast amounts of food?
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