On The Border

Chapter 1

“I just got back from the border.  And what I saw, made me know for sure we’re out of order.”
Down on the Border, Little River Band

Chapter One

    Juan Perez Amaya sat in his SUV on a hilltop, notebook at hand and binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck.  He was just outside Piedras Negras which, in turn, was on the Mexican side of the border, looking across at the American city of Eagle Pass, Texas.  Juan was of average height, in good shape, and rather nondescript.  He had black hair and brown eyes, as did many of his countrymen, and his features hinted at some possible Indian blood in one far-reaching branch of the family tree.  The Indian blood technically made him a mestizo, looked down on by some, but he didn’t trouble himself about such things.  The people he worked for had a great deal of influence, making any interference with his duties unlikely, but Amaya was a cautions and meticulous man.  Sitting on the passenger seat beside him was a field guide to various types of birds.  The notebook and binoculars lent themselves to the bird watcher identity, but he was not watching wildlife.  Caution had dictated that he learn something of his role, and, if necessary, he could rattle on about various local birds until any but the most dedicated scientist or fellow bird watcher felt their eyes glazing over.  His clothes were average, and the SUV was far from a top of the line model.  All these things were calculated to make Amaya a man you would forget soon after seeing him.  There was nothing at all special about him, all indications seemed to say.  This was something he put a good deal of effort into.

    He focused his binoculars on the far end of the International Bridge, which regularly carried all manner of traffic back and forth between the United States and Mexico.  He had lowered the glasses to allow himself a brief rest, but that was over.  With practiced ease, he watched as yet another car pulled up the checkpoint staffed by the United States Border Patrol.  The agency was technically part of the huge complex that was the Department of Homeland Security, Juan knew, but most of the agencies that been absorbed into DHS still retained a fierce sense of independence, even these long years later.  Amaya watched closely as the car rolled to a stop and Agent Rachel Schmidt began inspecting the driver’s paperwork.  As she went through the routine paces of her job, Amaya took careful notes.  There were many men such as he, whose duties included establishing a dossier on each agent at each checkpoint along the border, with specific attention paid to which agents were thorough, which suspicious, which lazy, and which would never actually lower themselves (figuratively and literally) to get down on the pavement and check under the cars.  He had heard that one spotter like him had been caught several years ago, and of the surprised ripples that moved through American police agencies on the extent of the notations- that spotter even had copies of the agent’s official personnel reports, supposedly classified documents.  Amaya had his share of such reports as well, but he was not so foolish as to carry them with him.  In fact, in the extremely unlikely event his vehicle was ever searched, there was simply nothing to be found that was illegal.  Many, especially on the American side of the Rio Grande that passed between Piedras Negras and Eagle Pass, would be distressed to hear about his notebook of observations, but keeping such a journal was not against any law.  Amaya knew, he had checked.

    Some might liken Amaya to some kind of stalker.  It was not a term he knew, but if it had been explained to him, he would have disagreed.  He had no personal interest in Agent Schmidt.  She was a reasonably attractive woman, but her looks had nothing to do with what he did.  He was a professional, that was all.  Just a man doing a job.  For now, that was watching this particular agent.  When that stopped, as he was sure it would eventually, he would not miss it.  It was simply what he had been told to do.  As with any job he was assigned, he did it well. 

    After Agent Schmidt had concluded her search, and Amaya his notes, he drew a line under what he had written and waited.  He would watch her for no less than three hours, taking precise notes on what she did with each vehicle, how often she left to take some kind of break (he had noted she was a smoker, which made her a bit more likely to take breaks more often), and her attitude with various drivers.  She was pleasant and polite to everyone, with no obvious indications of racism, no signs of treating the drivers differently from each other based on how they looked.  So far, from what he had seen, he would recommend she not be approached to see if she was amenable to supplementing her income by occasionally being less than thorough.  Corruption of many kinds was rife along the border, but she did not seem to have succumbed.  Yet.  He felt sure she would eventually, as most did.  If not, well, there were plenty more who would.