Immigrants from India caught in a nightmare

TULSA, Okla. -- They borrowed thousands of dollars, gave up steady jobs, some even pawned their wives' jewelry, but they still considered themselves lucky: They were leaving India to work in America.

There was Joseph Chakkungal, an oil refinery worker who emptied his savings and sold his beloved motorcycle, thrilled to be moving to the United States, a place he considered "the greatest country in the world."

He had worked hard for 25 years, chasing a dream of security for his wife and a good education for their two children. At age 46, it finally seemed within reach.

"This," he says, "was my last chance."

Then there was Balaraju Salapu, a 31-year-old newlywed who bid farewell to his pregnant wife, convinced he could build a better life for his family here.

"Good job. Good wages. Good opportunity," he says. "That's what I had heard about America."

These two men were among 52 skilled Indian workers -- welders, fitters, electricians and others -- chosen for coveted jobs at the John Pickle Co., a $15 million manufacturer of specialized oil industry equipment.

Their new boss had come to India and had asked about their families, made approving remarks about their calloused hands and assured them all workers are treated equally in the United States. They were impressed.

They were looking forward to American wages, nice apartments, the hope of raising their families in this country.

It seemed so promising, the beginning of a great relationship.

It unraveled so quickly, amid allegations of slave wages, squalid housing, intimidation -- and trafficking of workers for cheap labor.

Each side portrays this as a case of deception.

John Pickle says it destroyed his business.

The Indian men say it destroyed their dreams.

Today their lives are in limbo, their futures in America uncertain.

What began as a clash over wages and living conditions between workers and a boss at one small company has grown into a complex federal case -- involving lawyers, inspectors and investigators from many U.S. government agencies.

Lawyers for the men claim it is more: a case study in a growing problem of globalization -- labor trafficking.

Trafficking is most often associated with migrants smuggled across dusty borders to work in fields, or women forced into prostitution or hunched over sewing tables in garment factories for long hours.

But these men's lawyers argue this is a more sophisticated form of indentured labor: that the men were tricked into coming to America, and then, in effect, trapped once they got here.

"There's no doubt in my mind they're victims of trafficking," declares Kent Felty, one of the lawyers. "They were lied to and lured to our country with false promises."

Yes, this case is about lies, John Pickle agrees: lies told by the Indian workers. He says he was an honorable businessman victimized by men desperate to find a way to the United States.

It was the fall of 2001 and Joseph Chakkungal was excited.

"We were going to America," he recalls. "I had high hopes."

He had made three 36-hour trips from his hometown to Bombay, had completed interviews with Al-Samit International, an Indian recruitment agency, and had met with John Pickle himself.

When he learned he had made the cut, he quit his $300-a-month job as a vessel fitter at an oil refinery and packed his bags.

He and the others say they were told they'd receive at least two years' work with American wages, have nice apartments with a pool and gym, free food, medical care, a car for every four of them -- and if they did well, a chance to bring their families here.

Most of the men had borrowed money, some from families, others from money lenders to pay an Indian recruiter, on average about $2,500 to get the jobs. For many, that amounted to about a year's salary.

Then came the first hint of trouble.

Before heading to America, the men say they were asked to sign offer agreements that did not include the verbal promises. The documents classified them as "trainees" and listed salaries that ranged up to $550 a month, plus overtime. Many were expecting far more.

Many also say they were handed the papers at the last minute and rushed into signing them.

They protested. With 10, 15, 25 years' experience, they were hardly trainees.

It was just a technicality, they say Al Samit or Pickle assured them, the only way to secure a visa in the heightened post-Sept. 11 tensions, and their trainee status would change after they arrived.

The men felt it was too late to turn back to India, where they no longer had jobs. They had big debts and families depending on them.

So they signed.

"I paid the money to the agency," Salapu says. "I had no choice. I couldn't get it back."

"It's a classic bait-and-switch," says Joe McDoulett, a Catholic Charities lawyer also representing the men. "You can either go or you can lose everything you put on the line."

Pickle tells a different story: "Every statement you have heard, everything they have said is totally wrong," he said in an interview. He declined to elaborate.

But in a deposition and a letter to customers and workers, he said the men were aware of their wages -- which ranged from $2.31 to $3.17 an hour -- and that they were being trained to work at a plant he jointly owned in Kuwait.

"Everything was systematic and by the book," he said in the letter.

Wasib Peshimam, director of Al-Samit, based in a crowded Bombay suburb, declined to discuss any details, citing the lawsuits, but expressed sympathy for the workers' "bad luck."

After an 8,500-mile journey to Tulsa, there were more surprises.

Pickle escorted the first group of men from the airport on a special bus he had arranged to their new home, in a desolate corner of town.

Many were stunned.

Expecting apartments, they saw a barbed-wire fence surrounding an industrial yard with pickup trucks and metal scraps -- and an old single-family style brick house. Next to it was the sprawling factory. It reminded one man of a rural hospital in India.

Some 30 men, the first arrivals, moved into that house, sharing two toilets. One says the top bunk of his bed was two feet from the ceiling so he couldn't sit up.

A cinderblock warehouse was quickly renovated as housing -- with the men doing much of the work themselves. But they say the bunk beds were about a foot apart, there were constant grinding noises, only one unlocked safety exit door and no place for their belongings. They also worried about exposure from X-ray tests on welds conducted next door.

"I feel like it was a warehouse for the storage of material, and I feel like I was the material being stored," says Baburajan Pillai, a worker.

Chakkungal offers another description.

"It was like the 18th century," he says, running a thick hand through gray-flecked hair.

Again, Pickle disagrees.

The housing was "probably better than the first two homes I lived in," he said in his deposition. "I wouldn't mind living there right now."

He said he jumped through hoops to please the men, buying new appliances and furniture, a TV, a microwave, even a bus to take them shopping and on outings.

But the men say when they tried to leave the grounds to do errands, they were told to wait for a company escort. To avoid detection, they began sneaking out, crawling under a gate along a drainage ditch.

"I wondered why it would be necessary for a grown man to be required to ask permission to go outside," Roy Justus, one former worker, said in a deposition. "I felt like a child."

Pickle's lawyer, Philip McGowan, says his client was responsible for the men and concerned about their safety.

Tensions grew.

The men say the food got worse and made them sick. An Indian cook says he was told by Pickle to ration milk (a small glass every three days) and claims dust and welding debris fell onto the food because the kitchen was in the factory.

Many men say they felt trapped because the company held their passports. Their American experience had become a disaster.

"I tortured myself," says Vivek Savant, a former worker. "I said, "Why did I do this? Why did I come here?' "

Some men walked off their jobs within weeks; all were gone within four months.

Pickle says he was forced to close his doors last fall because negative publicity scared away business.

The Occupational Safety and Health Administration cited the company for workplace violations and accepted a settlement of nearly $10,000.

The Labor Department has sued on behalf of a different group of Indian workers who had previously worked for Pickle, claiming their salaries of between $2 and $3 an hour violated minimum-wage laws.

And the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission recently accused the company of discrimination based on national origin. That suit has been joined with a civil case filed by the 52 men that will be heard this fall.

Many of the men are now working in shipyards, power plants and factories in Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi and Oklahoma.

The federal government has certified all 52 as trafficking victims -- fewer than 400 people in the nation have that status -- and they received temporary work permits last fall.

They are seeking special visas under a trafficking victims law, the first step toward becoming permanent residents.

Pickle says this was all part of the ploy: to deceive him so they could maneuver their way into the country.

Salapu doesn't agree.

"I don't like to create problems for people," he says. "That's bad. But I don't have a job. I haven't seen my family. I have lost so much in one year."

But Chakkungal's optimism has returned. A few weeks ago, he found work at an oil equipment company in Louisiana.

"I want to become a citizen of America," he says. "My family's future will be good."

Contributing: Ramola Talwar

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