In the main farm house nearby, the workers-mostly from Mexico, El Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala-were on their lunch break, eating chicken and rice. These beat-down shacks were home for more than 100 farm workers. It was midday, and after about an hour on the road, the man behind the wheel, whom the women knew as Ricardo, a common fake name traffickers use, turned down a dirt path and stopped at a cluster of cheap cabins that had floors lined with mattresses. The thought of the violence to come terrified them. She had come to Charlotte, North Carolina, to work on a farm, but she wasn't going to be picking-she and the three other women in the car were wearing high heels and see-through miniskirts, and they felt alone and afraid. From the passenger seat of the red Camaro convertible hurtling away from Southampton Road, Janet watched the scenery change from one-story houses to tobacco fields and apple orchards.
