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But now there was no going back. Chen was scared too about what would happen when he arrived in the U.S. He hoped his family would be able to borrow enough money to pay off the snakeheads, but he wasn't sure. "If your family has no money to pay, they throw you into the black market. I have heard that could be selling heroin." Or worse. Snakeheads have no compunction about killing if their bills are not paid.
Chen and his companions were finally released from the truck in the middle of a forest in Mexico. They were given into the care of three armed "coyotes" who would be their guides across the border. The Mexican leader spoke Chinese; this was not the first group of Fujianese he had seen. Chen found out from one of the men that they would earn $5,000 for each Chinese they got into the U.S. alive. But because immigration authorities were on the lookout for Chen's group, they camped in the forest until the end of December. The Chinese would be much more conspicuous to informers on the Mexican side of the border than Hispanic immigrants, and the coyotes worried that their smuggling routes for the Chinese would be betrayed. Chen and his comrades had no idea where they were. They had little choice but to hunker down and eat the unfamiliar Mexican food they were served. Chen picked up a few Spanish words, notably cigarrillos; cigarettes were his only antidote to the tension. At New Year's the anxious band was driven north to a town full of bars near the border, only to wait some more, presumably while the coyotes contacted accomplices on the U.S. side of the border. On Jan. 10 they headed out on foot across the desert.
Crossing the border took six days. The Chinese had little water and less food. At night, when the temperature dropped below freezing, they could do nothing but hold each other for warmth. Their Mexican guides would not allow them to light fires, and Chen still had only the two thin shirts and one pair of trousers he had been wearing since he left Fujian. On the sixth night they reached a chainlink fence. The Mexicans sliced it open, and Chen pushed his way through. After 10,500 miles and 135 days, he had finally made it to the U.S.
But there was no time to savor the moment. If ever the immigrants were in danger of being captured, this was the time, with the U.S. Border Patrol on the prowl. The Chinese were lucky that night. A minivan with darkened windows was waiting for them, with a Chinese driver. The snakeheads' far-flung networks had delivered. The driver drove them through the night to a large city, which Chen discovered was Houston, though he had only the vaguest idea of U.S. geography. All he had was the telephone number of a distant cousin in someplace called Flushing, N.Y.
The snakeheads were not finished with Chen anyway. After a day in Houston, he was driven to Los Angeles, locked in a room and told to phone his family in Fujian for the passage money. The price had suddenly increased because of the Chinese who died or were arrested en route. The snakeheads now demanded $50,000 for delivering Chen to the U.S. That represented a fortune, more than 30 years' earnings for Chen back in Fujian. The amount was not negotiable.