Right after the factory closed, I was having dinner with my uncle, who's a real right-winger. He said, Do you think they'd have closed it if it wasnt union? As though it was the union's fault David shakes his head at the idea. But you know, he goes on, when they announced they were closing the factory, the union did nothing. Everybody just ran off to find his own job Actually, his uncle might have had a point. David's local didnt have the strength to protect itself, but the fact that the plan was unionized might have helped motivate Breed to move the jobs. More than half of companies recently surveyed by Cornell University used the threat of moving to mexico to fight off union organizing drives, and one in six actually closed all or part of a plant when forced to bargain with a union. David and his co-workers may have had just enough of a union to induce breed to close the plant, but not enough of one to stop Breed from doing so The taxi driver leaves us in downtown Valle Hermoso. a ragged little village of cracked-cement storefronts huddled in a chilling winter rain. We kill an hour eating and then wander the grimy streets trying record stores for Los Estramboticos. Es como los Ramones haciendo ska! "David keeps saying, but he gets nowhere Later that night we finally find the guy whose name is scribbled on the napkin; he turns out to be, at first glance, a kid of fourteen. In fact, Pedro Lopez is twenty, but his baby face and slicked-down hair give him the look of an altar boy. He lives with his mother in a decent if simple cement house, with electricity and plumbing. There's even a bookshelf, with three books on it: one on Mexican labor law, a Spanish-English dictionary and the Holy bible. Pedro is tougher than he appears-when he was only seventeen, he helped lead a long and brutal strike against a Canadian steering-wheel factory that ended when the workers filed charges. Two years later, the Mexican government decided in the workers' favor, but the victory was moot- by then the company had changed hands. The new owner was Breed Technologies, which had just closed its plant in Fort Wayne so it could move the jobs down here Pedro and David suffered on both ends of the same deal. And Pedro knows just the guy we re looking The guy who got Davids job never knew that David -or someone like him-even existed. It had never occurred to him that for him to get a job, somebody up north had to lose one Alejandro Morales is seventeen, almost a decade David Quinn's junior. A wispy mustache tries without much success, to make him look older, and a shiny pompadour adds intensity to his deep dark eyes. He was born in Valle Hermoso and lives with his father and brother in a particularly the weeds out back ap lumber and canvas. When David asks to use the bathroom, he's directed to But this is an up-and-coming family. Alejandro's father, an aging longhair named Jose Angel, is just back from two years of working construction in Texas, during which time his sons stayed with relatives. With the wages he earned there, Jose Angel is building the family a spacious cement house right behind the shack. a stack of sheetrock -an uncommon luxury in Mexico-waits under a tarp Eighty pesos a sheet! Jose Angel says, sounding amazed that he can afford such a thing More striking than Alejandro' s matinee-idol looks is his remarkable calm. He's willing to talk on the“Right after the factory closed, I was having dinner with my uncle, who’s a real right-winger. He said, ‘Do you think they’d have closed it if it wasn’t union?’ As though it was the union’s fault.” David shakes his head at the idea. “But you know,” he goes on, “when they announced they were closing the factory, the union did nothing. Everybody just ran off to find his own job.” Actually, his uncle might have had a point. David’s local didn’t have the strength to protect itself, but the fact that the plan was unionized might have helped motivate Breed to move the jobs. More than half of companies recently surveyed by Cornell University used the threat of moving to Mexico to fight off union organizing drives, and one in six actually closed all or part of a plant when forced to bargain with a union. David and his co-workers may have had just enough of a union to induce Breed to close the plant, but not enough of one to stop Breed from doing so. The taxi driver leaves us in downtown Valle Hermoso, a ragged little village of cracked-cement storefronts huddled in a chilling winter rain. We kill an hour eating and then wander the grimy streets, trying record stores for Los Estrambóticos. “Es como los Ramones haciendo ska!” David keeps saying, but he gets nowhere. Later that night we finally find the guy whose name is scribbled on the napkin; he turns out to be, at first glance, a kid of fourteen. In fact, Pedro Lopez is twenty, but his baby face and slicked-down hair give him the look of an altar boy. He lives with his mother in a decent if simple cement house, with electricity and plumbing. There’s even a bookshelf, with three books on it: one on Mexican labor law, a Spanish-English dictionary and the Holy Bible. Pedro is tougher than he appears – when he was only seventeen, he helped lead a long and brutal strike against a Canadian steering-wheel factory that ended when the workers filed charges. Two years later, the Mexican government decided in the workers’ favor, but the victory was moot – by then the company had changed hands. The new owner was Breed Technologies, which had just closed its plant in Fort Wayne so it could move the jobs down here. Pedro and David suffered on both ends of the same deal. And Pedro knows just the guy we’re looking for. The guy who got David’s job never knew that David – or someone like him – even existed. It had never occurred to him that for him to get a job, somebody up north had to lose one. Alejandro Morales is seventeen, almost a decade David Quinn’s junior. A wispy mustache tries, without much success, to make him look older, and a shiny pompadour adds intensity to his deep, dark eyes. He was born in Valle Hermoso and lives with his father and brother in a particularly wretched shack of scrap lumber and canvas. When David asks to use the bathroom, he’s directed to the weeds out back. But this is an up-and-coming family. Alejandro’s father, an aging longhair named José Angel, is just back from two years of working construction in Texas, during which time his sons stayed with relatives. With the wages he earned there, José Angel is building the family a spacious cement house right behind the shack. A stack of sheetrock – an uncommon luxury in Mexico – waits under a tarp. “Eighty pesos a sheet!” José Angel says, sounding amazed that he can afford such a thing. More striking than Alejandro’s matinee-idol looks is his remarkable calm. He’s willing to talk on the