海角大神

When you take the Raymondville exit off I-69 East, you鈥檙e greeted almost immediately by a stand of palm trees and a 鈥楩or Sale鈥櫬爏ign.聽

One of the first sights on the edge of Raymondville are the crumbling brick walls and disintegrating roofs of packing sheds that used to employ hundreds of people helping store and ship the region鈥檚 agricultural produce. Farther in, the present-day economy comes into clearer focus. Taquerias and snow-cone stands are flanked like missing teeth by boarded up homes and shops. Decades-old local stores face down chain stores and converted restaurants across the hot, cactus-lined sidewalks.

What is hidden off the main roads is what has really been keeping this small south Texas town of 11,000 people afloat in recent years: prisons.

Small towns across the Rio Grande Valley have struggled economically since America鈥檚 farm belt moved further north in the late 1960s, and prisons 鈥� immigrant detention centers in particular 鈥� have helped fill the void for the near-border towns. Raymondville, about 100 miles southeast, is home to both a state prison and soon, for the second time, a privately-run immigrant detention center.

The eyes of the world have been fixed on the Valley since the Trump administration began implementing its 鈥渮ero-tolerance鈥� immigration policy on the southern border two months ago, leading to the now-ended controversial separation of families.

But that is not the context Willacy County Judge Aurelio Guerra thinks about when asked about the new immigrant detention center opening in a county that is full of descendants of people who crossed the Rio Grande. He thinks about how Willacy is the fifth-poorest county in the United States, about how the county鈥檚 population stopped growing last year for the first time in decades, and about how 38 percent of his constituents live below the poverty line.

鈥淏ecause of us needing any type of [economic] opportunity, any type of value to add to our tax base, we certainly welcome a facility such as that,鈥� says Judge Guerra earlier this week, hanging up his black robe in his office after a morning hearing cases in the county court.

Most county judges in Texas are chief executives for the county, not actual judges. Willacy County is small enough that Guerra does both jobs, and it is small enough that the 200-to-250 jobs he has been told the detention center will bring could be a fiscal boon.

鈥淲e鈥檒l take the 250. We鈥檒l take 30, we鈥檒l take 20, we鈥檒l take five. We need the jobs,鈥� he says.

鈥楻颈迟尘辞鈥�

Thirty minutes from the Gulf of Mexico and about an hour from the Mexico border, Raymondville 鈥� which brands itself as 鈥渢he city with a smile鈥� 鈥� is the county seat of Willacy County. The town is in a similar position, economically and geographically, to the towns along I-35 between San Antonio and Laredo, Texas 鈥� a stretch of I-35 nicknamed 鈥渄etention alley.鈥澛燦ot quite close enough to be either a bustling border town or a coastal tourist town, these town rely on prisons as an integral part of the economy.

That has brought its own controversy, however. When the detention center first opened in 2006, some residents voiced opposition, Guerra recalls. Nine years later the US Bureau of Prisons shut it down after a riot in which prisoners set fire to 10 Kevlar tents and controlled the prison for two days 鈥� an outburst resulting from long-simmering anger聽at poor medical care, filthy bathrooms, and maggot-infested food. The center had been nicknamed 鈥淩itmo.鈥�

But by then, Guerra says, 鈥淩itmo鈥� had become a local economic cornerstone. Four hundred employees were instantly laid off, and the county government lost a third of its $8.1 million budget, requiring 23 layoffs of its own. Within a year, the local Walmart closed as well. Last year, county officials sold the facility to Management & Training Corp., the private prison company that originally opened the detention center in 2006. The company announced in May that it would be reopening the facility as a 1,000-bed detention center.

鈥淚 have not had a single constituent from Willacy County come to me and say, 鈥楧on鈥檛 re-open,鈥� 鈥� says Guerra.

鈥淲hat has happened at the federal level and is happening here in the Valley with the children being separated from their parents, [the county] is not for that,鈥� he adds. 鈥淎nd I would think the local community is not for that.鈥�

鈥榃e do what鈥檚 best for the whole community鈥�

Sitting in his office, Eleazar Garcia Jr., the Raymondville city manager, is punching numbers into a print calculator on his desk, talking through the potential revenue from the detention center. He types: $280,000 worth of new property taxes, plus $20,000 a month 鈥� times 12 months 鈥� selling the facility water and sewer service.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 a half a million dollars, man,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hat one thing is worth 17 percent of my total budget.鈥�

Those may be best-case numbers, but he insists that鈥檚 all he can focus on, even with his close ties to Mexico. His father-in-law, a bootmaker, swam the river into the US. His brothers-in-law were born in Mexico and fought for the US in Vietnam.

鈥淎ll of us have family members who came across at one time or another, everybody down here,鈥� he says.

鈥淭here鈥檚 good people there, man. I don鈥檛 want to see them locked up either, but it鈥檚 not my call,鈥� he adds. 鈥淚 have my own thoughts on immigration. I can鈥檛 use that in our decision factor. We do what鈥檚 best for the whole community.鈥�

Hope the inmates are treated fairly

Few locals are likely to have as intimate a knowledge of immigrant detention centers as Barrington Morgan. He spent about 18 months in them between 2007 and 2009.

A permanent resident since 1984, he now works at an insurance company on Hidalgo Ave., the main road through Raymondville. While his overall experience 鈥渞eally wasn鈥檛 that bad鈥� 鈥� he gained about 60 pounds while he was there 鈥� he does have some issues.

鈥淗aving to be in there for an undisclosed amount of time, it鈥檚 just not 鈥� you go crazy in there, really you do,鈥� he says. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 have a sense of time when you鈥檙e in there.鈥�

Born on a small island in Nicaragua, Mr. Morgan came to the US when he was 8. After serving two months for drug possession he got put into removal proceedings, and says he was surprised to find so many other long-time US residents in the detention centers he stayed in.

鈥淚 remember being in the same cell with them and they find out they鈥檙e being deported 鈥� after being [here] for 30 years of their lives,鈥� he adds. 鈥淚t was ridiculous, so sad.鈥�

He chose to return to Nicaragua while he fought his case, spending two years there before an immigration judge pardoned him in 2011. He lives in Harlingen now, commuting every day to work in Raymondville. He is skeptical the new detention center will be a significant economic boost for the town.

鈥淎 lot of people that are going to be employed there aren鈥檛 going to be locals,鈥澛爃e says. 鈥淚 just hope that the inmates are treated fairly and humanely.鈥�

He isn't the only Raymondville resident to express concern about the welfare of detained immigrants. Martin Cantu, co-manager of Earl鈥檚 Agri-Business, a feed store, remembers local schools going on lockdown during the 2015 riot, and he says he鈥檚 鈥渕ixed鈥� on the detention center reopening again. 鈥淗opefully the conditions are fine,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hey have to have rioted for a reason.鈥�

A changing Main Street

About half of the 400 employees at the old detention center lived in Raymondville, Mr. Garcia says. Armando Duarte remembers how the town would fill with workers during their lunch break. There were more restaurants, a 鈥渨estern鈥� store, and multiple stores that, like his, sold cowboy boots.

鈥淭here are no mom and pop stores anymore,鈥� he says.

Mr. Duarte learned bootmaking from his father, who learned it from his uncle in Mexico and opened Armando鈥檚 Boot Company in 1982. The cowboy boot towering over the front door is, along with a water tower painted with a smiley face, a landmark of the Raymondville skyline. Since the store ships boots to customers all over the country, Duarte says they have been relatively insulated from the recent economic struggles.

Joe Alexandre has not been. Elected three times as the town鈥檚 mayor, he also owned a jewelry store on Hidalgo Ave. He closed it after the detention center shut down. It sits vacant with the Alexandre鈥檚 Jewelry sign in the window and his cell number written on a piece of paper taped to the door.

鈥淲e need all the employment we can get,鈥� he says.

He lives in Harlingen now, but spent most of his life in Raymondville. He remembers the 1970s and 鈥�80s, when the packing sheds were operating 24 hours a day, full of local produce. He also remembers being a volunteer fireman, and fighting in vain as they burned down.

鈥淚t was hard to see them go down, because it was a major source of income,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ack then, whoever would have thought we鈥檇 have an economy with detention centers.鈥�