CHAPTER THIRTEENThe Farmworker Protection League had offices in an old house in Salisbury. The house had been converted into offices not unlike my own in Laurel.
I entered a small reception area, outfitted in furnishings with utility utmost in mind. A small second-hand wooden reception desk greeted me. Multicolored metal file cabinets lined the far wall. To the right, a sofa covered in a faded red and white floral pattern provided visitors a place to cool their heels.
As I walked in, I glimpsed in profile a slim brunette, late twenty-something woman dressed by L.L. Bean in Capri pants and a striped T-shirt. Engrossed in searching through a filing cabinet drawer, she squatted and bent to her task.
“Amber Moore?” I asked.
She jumped and turned.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sta
