Flushing Them Out

"It's illegal immigrants causing violence against their own people. It's a group of young males between 15 and 30, and it's a very violent breed," he says. "They have had military training. They are brutal. They have no fear of being arrested and they have no fear of assaulting police officers. They'll just as soon shoot you as look at you. And they know they will get away with it."

Morgan Bellinger

Phoenix lawyer Daniel Ortega

Morgan Bellinger

Activist Alfredo Gutierrez works the crowd outside M.D. Pruitt's furniture store, the site of a weekly immigration protest.

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• Joe Arpaio
• Andrew Thomas
• Peter Schey
• Illegal Immigration and Deportation
• Social Policy

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The sheriff's scare tactics are working, but, perhaps, with unintended consequences. A 37-year-old man who has lived in Phoenix since 1990 calls New Times late one evening in early December. His voice comes cracking through the phone. He's heard about a reporter who wants to talk to immigrants and he's calling to tell his story. His English is shaky and so is his voice.

"I . . . I know who killed somebody, but I am afraid to call the police. The guy who got killed was my coworker," he says. "Everybody knows who killed him, but nobody wants to talk to the police. Nobody wants to be a witness because they will deport you."

He begins to sob. Even though he's pressed for details, he doesn't want to give them. He knows the man's name and the names of the perpetrators but he will not say who they are. Though the victim was his coworker, he cannot reveal where he works.

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that much."

He's worried that if he talks, the police will come after him and his family.

"If they put in jail the owners of the New Times, what would assure me?" he asks a translator.

According to the little information he's willing to share, the victim was walking home one night when he was shot near his south Phoenix neighborhood.

The knowledge is destroying him, but what is he supposed to do, he wonders. He has two young daughters, and if he gets deported, they will starve. As he talks about the murder, there is the sense that he is weeping not just for his dead coworker, but also for himself, his wife, and his daughters.

His voice cracks.

"I can't talk anymore," he says. "It's too hard, I can't talk right now."

A few days later, he is still uncomfortable talking about what he knows.

"I don't want to talk about that bad thing," he says when contacted a second time. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm afraid."

Even when assured that his identity and phone number will be kept private, he is too terrified to say anything.

"I don't trust nobody," he says. "That's the point."

He will not meet anyone in person whom he doesn't already know.

After another 10 minutes on the phone, he is too frightened to go on.

"I think it's time to stop," he says. "I can't tell you any more."

The line goes dead.