The Life of a Human Smuggler

By Richard Marosi
LA Times Staff Writer

January 25, 2006

TIJUANA — The Mexican gang of human smugglers, hiding behind the wobbly fence of a drab town house, prepare the car for the latest run across the border.

Two young men wipe down the dusty windshield and check the brake lights while three migrants wait silently inside the house.

Finally, the driver arrives, an American who puffs nervously on a cheap cigarette and calls himself Trent. Accompanying Trent is Felix, the heavyset smuggling boss.

"Venganse!" — "Let's get going!" — a gang member yells. One by one, the migrants get in the trunk, twisting to fit inside. The one woman hesitates. She crosses herself. She steps in.

Curled beside one another, the migrants look up at the gang member.

"It won't be long, 20 minutes," he promises. "Don't move," he adds, slamming the lid shut. Within minutes, Trent drives the car into a sea of traffic inching toward the row of U.S. inspection booths at the border.

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