Bob Harmon drove a rental minibus to 30th and Canfield. Seven-fifteen in the morning and already Hispanic men stood on the sidewalk in front of a Quik-Mart gas station and convenience store. He parked beside the group, approaching his potential work force, clipboard in hand. “Who here has construction experience? Pouring cement, raising studs, handling sheet rock, insulation, roofing?” He scanned their faces for signs of recognition and assent about the skills he was hunting for. Fourteen muscled men with callused hands stepped forward. All dressed in overalls and T-shirts under gray hoodies. Faces weathered and tanned attesting to outside labor. Ranging in age from twenty-five to forty. “Give me your names and climb aboard the bus.” He didn’t ask for green cards, knowing they were ill
