Read Online Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) by Linda J. White - Free Book Online

rambler house sat on Chicken City Road, sheltered by tall pines and trimmed by riotous impatiens in full bloom. “Come in, come in!” Bob said, when he opened the door. His bald head, fringed in white, framed his tanned face.He looked healthy, and considering he’d had a heart attack just a few years before, Kit thought that a blessing.
    Bob showed her into the kitchen where he had already spread out a map of the Delmarva Peninsula. “Now, how kin I help you?” he asked. She explained what information she wanted. He started pointing out some relevant features. “You’ve got major poultry operations here, here, and here,” he said, making small circles on the map. “There are smaller plants, too, but those are the big ones.”
    â€œDo they use migrant workers?”
    â€œNot usually. Their product isn’t really seasonal. Some migrants may find work in the plants and decide to stay on.”
    â€œWhat other big agricultural operations are on the peninsula?”
    â€œA whole lot. You’ve got major growers here, here, here, and here,” he said, drawing triangles this time. “There’re a lot of truck farms, too . . . low-acreage operations where they grow melons, tomatoes, squash . . .”
    â€œTomatoes?”
    â€œThey get shipped to the big east coast markets—New York, Philly, D.C.—really all over. Now they would use ag workers. From July on, especially. So do the melon farmers. Virginia’s the fourth largest tomato grower in the U.S. Lots of acres planted in tomatoes.”
    â€œWhere do the field workers come from?”
    â€œSouth of the border.”
    â€œAnd where do they live when they’re here?”
    â€œThere aren’t many farms that have housing for them anymore. You used to see that, you know . . . those little white houses, almost shacks, around the edge of a farm. Nowadays, most of them are housed in those little strip motels all up and down the peninsula. The ag concerns don’t want to be responsible for their immigration status, so they contract with aforeman. He supplies the actual workers. If there’s an immigration enforcement problem, it’s on him.” He stood up straight. “Hey, look. What’s your schedule? I don’t have to be at work until tomorrow afternoon. Why don’t I just show you?”

    Kit climbed into Bob’s old red Chevy pickup and they left Chincoteague, traversing the causeway to the mainland. Bob turned right on Rt. 13 and headed north. “I’m guessin’ you’re interested in illegals,” Bob proffered.
    â€œI’m interested in tomato growing,” Kit responded. “Growing, harvesting, shipping . . . the whole routine.”
    Bob glanced at her. “Got some criminal tomatoes around, huh?” He laughed at his own joke. “I heard of ‘cereal killers’ but nothing ’bout criminal ’maters.”
    Kit rolled her eyes.
    â€œAll right, then. Some of the big growers have been turning to corn to supply the poultry houses. And ethanol, of course. That’s the biggest dang boondoggle ever . . . ethanol. Why don’t we just shoot ourselves in the foot? Puttin’ food in the gas tank. How dumb is that?” He turned off onto a side road. “But this is the right time of year for ’maters. You came at peak pickin’ time.” He accelerated, and Kit noticed in the outside rearview mirror that a cloud of blue smoke had emerged from his exhaust. “Y’know,” Bob continued, “a few years ago we had that dang salmonella scare. ’Bout did farmers in. Kept the ’maters off the market for weeks. Finally found out the stuff was in peppers. Jalapeño peppers. Serrano peppers. From Mexico, no less. Go figure.”
    â€œIs that right?”
    â€œTomato growers lost250 million, nationwide, and all because a few folks got