Feng Ya's Plight (1): The Trouble with Undocumented Workers

California, San Francisco Bay Area, San Mateo Bay Area.

The air here is completely different from the damp chill of Seattle, carrying the dry, warm sunshine unique to California, even as evening approaches. Neat detached houses with small front yards line both sides of the street, each a different color, with meticulously manicured lawns—a typical scene of United States middle-class community. But at this moment, in the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant with a red "Fortune-Filled Building" sign on a relatively old block on the edge of the community, the atmosphere is completely out of place with this tranquil neighborhood.

Feng Ya wore an apron stained with oil, her hair casually tied back, a few stray strands sticking to her forehead with sweat. She stood in front of a huge wok, her wrists flying, the spatula clanging against the iron pot, a rich aroma of soy sauce, spices, and scalding oil filling the small, stuffy space. Her cheeks were flushed red from the firelight, but her eyes were filled with exhaustion and a barely perceptible anxiety.

The restaurant was small, with only seven or eight tables and simple decor, specializing in Sichuan cuisine and modified Americanized Chinese food. It was currently the preparation time before the dinner rush, and only she and another person were busy in the kitchen.

He was a Chinese man who looked to be in his fifties, thin, dark-skinned, and with a face full of deep wrinkles. Everyone called him "Old Chen." He was busy chopping vegetables with practiced skill, but his movements were cautious and he would occasionally glance at Feng Ya and the direction of the kitchen door. He was Feng Ya's hired cook, and also... an undocumented worker without a work permit.

Feng Ya turned off the stove, ladled a large plate of Kung Pao Chicken out of the pot, sweat dripping down her neck. She wiped her face and said to Old Chen, "Uncle Chen, the menu from the front desk has arrived: shredded pork with garlic sauce, General Tso's chicken, and fried rice. Hurry up and prepare the ingredients."

"Okay, okay," Old Chen quickly replied, his voice a little hoarse, as he continued chopping vegetables.

Feng Ya picked up the plate of Kung Pao Chicken, about to take it to the front hall, when her gaze swept over the plastic basket of ingredients in the corner and her brows furrowed sharply. She put down the plate, quickly walked over, squatted down, and carefully examined it.

There should have been two unopened bags of frozen shrimp in the basket, but now only one and a half bags remain. Next to it, a can of luncheon meat is also missing two cans. There are also some scattered green vegetables, clearly showing signs of being moved and many being removed.

This isn't the first time.

Feng Ya's face darkened. She straightened up, looked at Old Chen was still chopping vegetables, and said in a cold voice, "Uncle Chen, have you used the shrimp and luncheon meat in the basket?"

Old Chen paused in his chopping, his head drooping even lower, and mumbled, "Ah? No... it's no use. Mr. Feng, are you mistaken, or... it was carried away by Rat?"

"Rat can steal a sealed can?" Feng Ya laughed in exasperation, but felt a chill run down her spine. She had hired Old Chen initially for two reasons: first, his skills were decent and his price was cheap; second, and most importantly—she felt sorry for him. Old Chen had immigrated illegally, had no relatives or friends here, knew only a few words of English, and had previously worked illegally in a Chinese restaurant, where he was heavily exploited and often went unpaid. Feng Ya herself was an immigrant and knew the hardships of being new to a place with no one to rely on. Coupled with her father's constant admonition, "When you're away from home, help others if you can," she softened her heart and hired him, paying him a slightly higher wage than other illegal workers and providing two meals a day.

For the first few months, things were fine. Old Chen worked hard and didn't talk much. But gradually, Feng Ya noticed something was wrong. The kitchen was consuming ingredients faster than expected, especially the more expensive meats, seafood, and canned goods. At first, she thought she had miscalculated or that there was a lot of waste. Until one day, she arrived at the restaurant early and caught Old Chen sneakily stuffing several bags of frozen shrimp and beef into his worn-out canvas bag.

Faced with Feng Ya's questioning, Old Chen immediately knelt down, tears streaming down his face, saying that his son back home was sick and urgently needed money, and he had no other choice. Seeing his advanced age and pitiful state, and thinking of her own father, Feng Ya finally softened, but gave him a stern warning not to do it again and deducted half a month's salary as compensation.

However, less than a month later, the old habits returned. And they became more and more covert and frequent. One day they would order less shrimp, the next day they would take a few cans of drinks, and the day after that they would steal a few packets of seasoning... as if they were treating the restaurant as their own warehouse.

"Uncle Chen," Feng Ya walked up to Old Chen, her voice trembling slightly with disappointment and anger, "I've never treated you badly. When you first arrived, you didn't even have a place to stay; I let you temporarily live in the small warehouse behind the restaurant. When your son was sick, I gave you an advance on your wages. But how have you repaid me? Stealing from the shop time and time again! These are all costs! How can my small business withstand you taking things like this?!"

Old Chen stopped chopping vegetables, head down, hands nervously rubbing together on his apron, avoiding Feng Ya's eyes, muttering, "No... really no... Boss Feng, you've wronged me..."

"Injustice?" Feng Ya pointed at the plastic basket. "Did the shrimp and luncheon meat grow wings and fly away? Or did the Rat become sentient and learn to open cans?!"

Old Chen fell silent, just shrank his neck, like a child who had made a mistake but refused to admit it.

Feng Ya felt a deep sense of powerlessness and anger. She had invested most of her and her husband Chen Hao's savings in opening this Chinese restaurant, hoping that her family could live a stable life and have a business in a foreign country. Her husband, Chen Hao, worked as an engineer at a tech company in Silicon Valley, earning a good income but with a busy schedule, so the restaurant was mainly managed by her. She worked from dawn till dusk every day, doing almost the work of several people, from purchasing and preparing ingredients to cooking, handling cashier duties, and cleaning, all to save on labor costs. She hired Old Chen, hoping to share the burden in the kitchen, but she never expected to invite trouble into her home. Instead of making things easier, it added to her troubles and caused her to lose money.

"Uncle Chen, you should leave." Feng Ya took a deep breath, suppressing the anger and bitterness in her heart, her voice weary but resolute, "I'll pay you this month's wages. But the restaurant can't keep you any longer. Pack your things and move out tonight."

She couldn't be soft-hearted anymore. If things continued like this, the restaurant would be robbed out of business sooner or later.

Old Chen suddenly raised his head, his face no longer showing the timid look from before, but instead revealing a mixture of shock, anger, and a hint of desperate ruthlessness. "Boss Feng! You're firing me?! On what grounds?! I'm doing just fine here! You say I stole something, do you have any evidence?! This is discrimination! Are you taking advantage of us undocumented workers?!"

His voice suddenly rose, thick with an accent, sounding particularly jarring in the cramped kitchen.

"I'm not discriminating against you! You're the one who's stealing!" Feng Ya was also angered by his attitude. "Evidence? What evidence do you need? Things keep going missing, if not you, then who? I saw it with my own eyes last time..."

"You saw it? Which eye did you see it with? Who can prove it?!" Old Chen retorted, resorting to his usual shameless tactics. "Let me tell you, Feng Ya, don't push your luck! I've been in United States for a while now! You want to fire me? Fine! Then settle all the outstanding overtime pay, compensation for emotional distress, and damages for illegally hiring undocumented workers—make sure you pay me every penny! If you don't pay a cent, I'm not done with you!"

He actually turned around and threatened to blackmail her! Feng Ya was trembling with anger, pointing to the door. "Get out! Now! Immediately!"

"I'm not leaving! What can you do to me?!" Old Chen plopped down on the rice sack next to him, determined not to leave. "Go ahead and call the police! Let them see how you illegally hire unemployed workers, withhold wages, and bully them! Let's see if your restaurant can stay in business!"

He was certain that Feng Ya wouldn't dare report it to the police. Hiring undocumented workers is a serious crime in the United States, and employers face huge fines or even imprisonment. Feng Ya's initial sympathy and wishful thinking have backfired, turning her into leverage against him.

The two faced off in the kitchen, the atmosphere tense. From the front of the house, the faint sounds of wind chimes and inquiries from guests entering could be heard.

Looking at Old Chen's now unfamiliar and ugly face, Feng Ya felt a chill in her heart. She finally understood that some people are not worthy of sympathy. Your kindness is just seen as weakness and vulnerability in their eyes.

Finally, it was a regular customer who couldn't wait for their food in the front of the restaurant and came in to urge the customer to hurry up with their order that broke the deadlock. Feng Ya suppressed her anger and grievances, forced a smile at the customer, and said it would be ready soon. Then she glared at Old Chen and said through gritted teeth in a low voice, "Fine, I'll give you your wages for this month, every penny. Now, get out of here right now! Don't let me see you again!"

She ultimately gave in, not daring to escalate the situation. She couldn't afford to gamble.

Having achieved his goal, Old Chen snorted, slowly stood up, and went to the small back warehouse to pack his meager belongings. Before leaving, he turned back, gave Feng Ya a sinister look, and said, "Boss Feng, we'll see."

Feng Ya ignored him, feeling utterly exhausted.

However, Feng Ya's nightmare had only just begun.

Three days later, in the afternoon, the restaurant door was pushed open, and two white men in suits with serious expressions walked in. They showed their identification— United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).

"Ms. Feng Ya? We received a report that you are suspected of illegally employing foreign workers without work permits. This is an investigation order. We need to examine your employee files, payroll records, and I-9 forms (Employment Status Verification Forms)." The leading official spoke in a cold, bureaucratic tone.

Feng Ya's mind went blank for a moment, as if it had just gone blank.

The whistleblower... It's Uncle Chen! It must be him!

Her face was deathly pale, and her palms were sweating profusely. Where would she get any employee files or legitimate I-9 forms? Old Chen was an undocumented worker; she paid him in cash, and there was absolutely no formal employment record.

"I... I didn't..." She stammered, trying to explain, but faced with the other person's sharp gaze and the document stamped with the official seal in his hand, any explanation seemed pale and powerless.

The investigation lasted the entire afternoon. ICE officers meticulously examined every corner of the restaurant, questioned Feng Ya about her hiring process, and took detailed notes. Although Feng Ya insisted that Old Chen was just a "friend who came to help temporarily," her inconsistencies and the complete lack of legal employment documents rendered her claims unconvincing.

Ultimately, under Feng Ya's desperate gaze, the officials issued a staggering fine for "intentionally employing unauthorized foreign workers" and "failing to verify and retain employee employment qualification documents as required." The fine was almost equivalent to more than half a year's net profit for the restaurant.

"Ms. Feng, you have the right to pay the fine or file an appeal within the specified period. However, if you violate the relevant laws again, you will face more severe penalties, including possible criminal charges." The official left after saying this.

The restaurant fell silent again, leaving only Feng Ya standing blankly in the empty lobby, clutching the light yet incredibly heavy parking ticket in her hand. The last rays of the setting sun shone through the glass doors, casting a long, lonely shadow of hers.

Tears finally fell silently.

She didn't understand. All she wanted was to try and survive in this unfamiliar land, to open a small restaurant and provide a more stable life for her family. Why was it so difficult?

Why did her kindness and soft heart not earn her gratitude, but instead betrayal, extortion, and severe punishment that was enough to crush her?

The California sun outside the window is still shining brightly.

But Feng Ya's world seemed to be instantly shrouded in dark clouds, with not a ray of light visible.

This was merely the first and most "mild" trouble she encountered on her journey to immigrate and start a business.

The real storm is yet to come.