For $25, Buenaventura Rosas Perez got a ride to Encinitas in the back seat of a 1975 Buick.

Buenaventura Rosas Perez was 20 years old when he realized his family’s poverty in the Mexican state of Puebla gave him little choice but to leave in search of a way to help his sick mother and seven sisters. He could read and write, which was more than most, but not well enough to get a government job.

He went to Veracruz, where his mother had told him she had a brother, but when Buenaventura got there, the house that once stood at the given address stood there no longer, and people said his uncle had died. Buenaventura hung around for two years, doing odd jobs about the docks, stealing food, and apprenticing with an old tattooed artisan who taught him to assemble a ship in a bottle.

But on the eve of his 23rd birthday, he was just as poor and hungry as when he left. Ashamed at having let his mother and sisters down, he went back to Puebla.

Upon his return from Veracruz, Buenaventura stayed at home for three weeks and then advised everybody he was off for the U.S. His two eldest sisters asked to go with him, but he told them no; it was too dangerous. He had heard the stories of the bandits and border patrols. His sisters must wait. He would send money and someday save enough to bring them all north. Things started off fairly well. Buenaventura and six other guys crossed the border near Calexico in March 1983. Two days later, while standing on Imperial Avenue in El Centro, they were offered work by a farm labor contractor. Buenaventura picked sugar beets and cabbage and then began to follow the crops north — as many migrant farm laborers do — picking berries, tomatoes, melons, and grapes before ending up on a farm south of Modesto, California, where he stayed until December 1987. Although only paid minimum wage, Buenaventura was sending home as much as $100 each week.

He went home, finally, to spend Christmas with his mother and sisters. His mother was very sick now and unable to work at all. His two older sisters had married and were trying their best to see that everyone had enough clothes and tortillas. By mid-January 1988, it was time for Buenaventura to go north again.

The crossing was not easy this time, however. The border patrol had increased its numbers, enhanced its technology, and the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986 had forced the coyotes to raise their steerage fees. Two crossing attempts near Calexico were aborted, and Buenaventura decided to move west to Tijuana and try the staging area known as the “soccer field.”

On a rainy, sloppy Tuesday night, 338 aliens pushed off for the canyons. Approximately 110 were caught by INS; 50 others turned back; 26 were mugged and stripped of their possessions; 3 women were raped; 2 men were shot and killed by the smugglers they had paid to get them across. One hundred forty-seven made it into south San Diego. Buenaventura was one of them.

For $25, Buenaventura got a ride to Encinitas in the back seat of a 1975 Buick. There were five other aliens, excluding the driver (whose immigrant status was unclear), four of them Mexicans, one from El Salvador. After wending his way down the mountain and over the railroad tracks, Buenaventura met up with the others in the parking lot of the Jack In The Box in San Ysidro, where he headed to get something to eat. It was close to midnight. While Buenaventura sat outside at a concrete table eating a hamburger, the driver approached him. Twenty-five dollars was a lot of money to a man with only $81 in his pocket and no accounts receivable, but it was take it or leave it, and Buenaventura took it. He knew if he stayed around San Ysidro he’d be arrested.

One of the passengers wanted to go to Oceanside, where the man had a cousin, but the driver refused. Reasons were not given. The driver, a squat, swarthy Hispanic unsuccessfully trying to grow a beard, was one of your “close-to-the-vest” types. “Todas a Encinitas, ” he grunted after collecting his fares. The ride was noisy but uneventful. Fifty minutes later, all six men were deposited at the bottom of the Encinitas Boulevard offramp to Interstate 5. They watched as the noisy Buick drove off.

It was foggy and cold, the damp of the Pacific Ocean almost cloying. Only two of the six had ever been to Encinitas before. Juan Jose, whose cousin lived in Oceanside, said adios and headed for a pay phone outside the Exxon station to the east. German, from San Luis Potosi, had worked in the Ecke Poinsettia Ranches some years back and vaguely knew the area. Most importantly, he knew of the hillside behind the Food Basket market where they could find cover and sleep.

It was close by, which was good news because it was 1:30 a.m. when they got there. The bad news was that the choice spots were already taken. On that night, the hillside was home to 39 Hispanics. It was maybe half an acre. At the bottom was the alley behind the market. At the top, a new townhome development and chain-link fence. To the east, an office/industrial park. To the west, more office buildings and a Nissan dealership.

The hillside was the discard after the developers had “improved” the “net usable” acreage. It was spotted with dusty, weather-worried eucalyptus trees and ugly scrub brush and littered with the refuse of the transients who peopled ii by night. Beer cans, polystyrene packaging, and other non-biodegradables were strewn everywhere, and the place smelled of urine. Mice and ground squirrels skittered about at the slightest footstep.

Buenaventura reached in his pants and felt between the cheeks of his buttocks to be sure his remaining $50 was secure, then he found a place to lie down. Shivering, he buttoned all the buttons on his worn Levi jacket and whispered to himself till dawn.

The hillside was abuzz at six o’clock the following morning. The guys were moving onto Encinitas Boulevard to stake out curbsites in the hopes of picking up day labor from passing contractors. This was a custom long observed, reflective of an economic symbiosis existing in much of the Southwest. Landscapers, fence layers, swimming pool contractors, home builders, pavers, and others in need of cheap backs would cruise the boulevard on their way to the day’s job site and pick up the necessary helpers. Most drove pickup trucks, and the aliens fortunate enough to be chosen would simply jump in back and head off to work.

The practice is as institutionalized as voting on election day. Anybody, not just contractors, needing a worker just drives down the street, stops when he spots a prospect, and negotiates. Need to paint your house? Go to Sears, buy the paint and brushes, and on your way home, pick up a “couple of Mexicans.” Quality control is your responsibility, but at $3.50 per hour, it’s hard to beat the price.

Buenaventura followed four other guys off the hillside, down the alley, and into the shopping center, where a crowd was milling inside and in front of the doughnut shop run by a Cambodian couple. This was a favorite stop and pick-up site for the contractors. Buenaventura was grateful for the warmth of the coffee filling his stomach.

Some ten minutes later, there was a whistle, and a 40-year-old, well-weathered Hispanic was tugging on Buenaventura’s arm. Guys were running for the back of an open-stake truck. Eight, including Buenaventura, got on, but the driver, a young blond guy, kicked two off and then hitched up the rear gate.

“Where are we going?” Buenaventura asked the older guy who had tugged at him moments ago.

“Who cares?” the other replied. “It’s work.”

The work was hard. They were driven out to a colony of lavish homes and horse ranches. They were given shovels and manual post hole diggers. One-half mile of split-rail fence was to be erected around the perimeter of a hacienda recently purchased by some movie star. The ground was not forgiving.

At four p.m. the driver called it quits. It was nearly dark, and Buenaventura’s arms, hands, and back were aching. Each Mexican was handed $30, and all were told, in terrible Spanish, to be at the doughnut shop at 6:30 the following morning if they wanted more work. Then they were driven back. By Buenaventura’s calculations, the post hole digging would take at least another week to complete. For the next four days, all six men worked digging post holes by day and lived like animals at night.

Then the Border Patrol arrived.

As far as officers Grant and Pacheco were concerned, it was just another lousy sweep; part of a lousy job that had long since lost any meaning. U.S. Border Patrol officers were a discouraged group, especially those assigned to the Southwest sectors. The typical day was spent rounding up as many undocumented aliens as could be jammed into a green-and-white mini-van, transporting them to a holding facility (read: jail), scaring them into signing confessions, and then transporting them by bus to the nearest port of entry — in this case, Tijuana — where they were “voluntarily returned” home. Many returnees would be back in as little as two hours; some would wait a day or two. Around and around would the carousel go. Of course, the Central American aliens could not be so easily dispatched. They were not, after all, Mexicans and were as illegal in Mexico as in the U.S. But this technicality was often overlooked or ignored, especially if the alien, properly coached and without ID, “confessed” to being Mexican while being processed at the “holding facility.”

Grant and Pacheco, both in their mid-30s and each with over eight years in the field, were akin to birds who eat locusts. How many can you eat in a day? It’s like Lenninger and the ants; they just keep coming. Still, to their credit, neither Grant nor Pacheco had become xenophobic sociopaths like some officers they knew. The threat, though, was out there somewhere.

This morning’s lousy sweep, according to Pacheco, was the product of yet another lousy citizen complaint, this one by the homeowners’ association for the group of townhomes at the top of the hill behind the Food Basket. Some of the illegals were making fires on the hillside to keep warm and cook tortillas. “So why not call the fuckin’ fire department?” Grant said as he turned the van off the interstate ramp onto Encinitas Boulevard. All the fire department could do was put out the fires and penalize the property owner. When you got right down to it, the fires were the excuse. What the townhome owners wanted to be rid of were those unsightly aliens. Their presence depressed property values. Grant knew this as well as he knew that more aliens would move in that very night.

By prearrangement, three border patrol vans, supported by two county sheriff patrol units (whose ostensible purpose was not to round up illegals — for that itself would be illegal — but rather to protect the peace) approached with lights out through the alley behind the market and converged at the foot of the hill at 5:30 a.m. No shots were fired, but the pandemonium in the cold semi-darkness of that February dawn was typical. About 25 or so aliens, who were already awake, scattered, running in three compass directions and yelling, “MIGRA!" at the top of their lungs. Five were eventually chased down on foot by four BP officers from two other vans. Two others were caught by the sheriff s deputies and clubbed into unconsciousness (to protect the peace). The remaining 12 sleeping aliens were roused by Grant and Pacheco and marched down the hill to their van. Buenaventura was the 12th man in.

Twenty-nine hours later, Buenaventura was back on Encinitas Boulevard. This time, by walking west of the interstate, he’d discovered another alien transient camp on the hill behind the Sanitary District headquarters. The irony was lost on him. More encouraging, he’d also run into an old friend of his from Puebla named Joselito. Although Joselito lived on the hill, he’d had a “regular” job hanging Sheetrock for a contractor and had been working six days a week for the past month. He thought maybe he could get Buenaventura some work.

This was exciting, and as the two had much to talk about, Joselito bought them a couple of six-packs of beer at the Big Bear Market at 5:00 that afternoon, and they walked a half mile to the beach to tip a few.

Buenaventura hadn’t eaten all day. He only bought food on days he found work. His blood alcohol was over .2 percent when he and Joselito left the beach for their walk back to camp.

They walked east up the south side of the Boulevard and crossed the Coast Highway with the light, continuing through a tunnel that passes under the Amtrack rail trestle. About 50 feet west of the next intersection, Joselito spotted a break in the east-west traffic and ran north across all four lanes, for the camp was on the north side of the Boulevard further up the road. Buenaventura really didn’t remember much about what happened next. He only recalled that Joselito said, “Let’s go!” and that he, too, began to run across Encinitas Boulevard.

It was nearly noon on a sunny Thursday in May. I was writing a letter in Spanish to the brother of a client in the Vista jail. Half a dozen high school students with black jackets, pierced nose rings, and mohawks sat on the sidewalk in front of my Encinitas law office smoking cigarettes and spitting after trashing the place with pizza crusts, candy wrappers, soda cans, and other debris.

I saw him approach the glass door, walking with the same gait as Boris Karloff in The Mummy. He wore a full complement of damp, dirty jungle combat fatigues (which drew rave reviews from the teen mohawks), and I ushered him in after noticing his inability to open the door. It occurred to me that he smelled worse than any human I’d ever met.

Buenaventura had, of course, been hit by a truck as he crossed Encinitas Boulevard three months earlier. He had little recall of what had happened. It took me three weeks of digging to finally locate the collision report; he’d had no ID, and I could only discover the date and place of the accident by obtaining and reviewing hospital records. Buenaventura had been admitted as a John Doe.

The doctors’ reports were astounding. When he arrived by Life-Flight helicopter, the trauma team diagnosed him as having suffered a fractured pelvis, ruptured bladder and spleen, broken legs, broken right arm, skull fracture, broken jaw, and several abrasions so serious that skin grafts were required. At the time of admission, his temperature was higher than his blood pressure.

Three months later, he was put on the street by the hospital, which had already written off its $296,999 bill. Unable to work, indeed, barely able to walk and in constant pain, Buenaventura had returned to the “hill” and was feeding himself by scavenging the dumpster in the alley behind the market. An undocumented alien, he was ineligible for public assistance of any kind. Beneath those Rambo clothes, a cadaverously thin jumble of scar tissue struggled to stay alive.

From the personal injury lawyer’s perspective, these kinds of cases are always interesting. The lay person almost always responds: “Another drunken idiot running onto a busy thoroughfare and getting what he deserves, eh?” And in San Diego County it’s a plague. So many Mexican nationals get hit by cars and trucks while running across freeways that there are now signs (like they use to remind you to watch out for deer) to alert drivers. In San Diego, the words “drunken idiot” are dropped and substituted with “stupid Mexican.”

Well, yes, Buenaventura was drunk when he ran across the street. But did the driver of the truck see him in time to stop or even slow down? Was the truck speeding? Could the collision have been avoided? Was the truck driver watching the road or was he tuning his radio? Was the street lighting adequate? Just because someone is drunk and in the middle of the boulevard doesn’t mean it’s okay to run him over, does it?

I filed suit against the driver.

The insurance company for the driver of the truck denied all liability, and the legal battle was on. I only saw Buenaventura seven or eight times over the next year. My partner had come to calling him “Rambo” because of the fatigues, and the name stuck even after I managed to get him a donation of clothes from a local church.

Part of the reason for the infrequent visits was because it took him nearly two hours to walk the 1.1 miles from his hillside home to my office. I was not always there when he arrived. Another reason was the border patrol. Between May 1988 and December of that same year, Rambo was arrested and bussed back to Tijuana six times. On one occasion, he had not been back in Encinitas for more than five minutes before the immigration spotted and cuffed him again. Unable, because of his injuries, to run away, as most undocumented aliens do when pursued by the border patrol, Buenaventura was a sitting duck and became a symbol to local patrolmen of their own helplessness. I mean, let’s face it. Here’s a lone, starving cripple in an Army uniform who apparently can penetrate the lines of defense of a well-fed militia equipped with Jeeps, guns, helicopters, and German shepherds! Half a dozen times! Such was the infuriation of one patrolman that in December, while effecting Buenaventura’s sixth and last detention of 1988, he went wild with his fists and broke Rambo’s jaw for the second time.

For the seven times that Buenaventura managed to claw his way back to Encinitas, there were five more times when he was caught just across the border and bussed back. On one occasion in the canyons near Dairy Mart Road, he was raped by a homosexual border bandit. On another, he found no one compassionate enough to offer a ride from San Ysidro to Encinitas, and he walked all 46 miles. It took him five days.

For food he depended on dumpsters, garbage cans, and the kindness of others. The local Catholic priest was somewhat helpful and occasionally found him a room or shed to sleep in. At times, others would give him food or money. In September I “loaned” him $50. When I asked Rambo what he was going to buy with the money, he told me he needed food and that he was tired of being a charity case. He wanted to buy some supplies at a hobby shop so he could make and sell some ships in bottles.

I wish I could say things turned around for Buenaventura. As did so many others, he simply drifted on. I received a collect call from him one rainy winter day. He was back near Modesto in the San Joaquin Valley, looking for a friend from work. He had not found him yet. I never heard from him again. The lawsuit was dismissed for lack of a plaintiff.