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Maid lived 20 years in quiet struggle

Couple manipulated traditional arrangement with threats, smuggling

By VIKKI ORTIZ
vortiz@journalsenti nel.com
Posted: Jan. 13, 2007

Elnora Calimlim fixed her gaze on the younger woman stepping onto the witness stand.

For nearly 20 years, the two had shared an almost unimaginable secret. Calimlim, a successful Brookfield doctor, hid Erma Martinez, an illegal immigrant, in her home as a maid.

During her two decades of servitude, Martinez surrendered the things that most people take for
granted: the freedom to talk on the phone, to learn to drive, to date, to fall in love.

Now their secret was forced into the open, and the women were about to trade positions. At 40, Martinez would finally start her life.

And at 60, Calimlim was about to lose everything. Yet she believed things could turn at this pivotal moment during her trial in May 2006.

She'd told her lawyers she believed in her heart that Martinez would spare the family, that she would take the witness stand and testify that their living arrangement was based on mutual respect and understanding of Filipino culture.

Not slavery.

As Martinez raised her right hand, Calimlim sat in the defendant's chair and stared. Her eyes seemed top lead: tell them, tell them.

Martinez never made eye contact.

Prosecutors saw Martinez as a victim, plucked as an innocent 19-year-old from an impoverished life in her native Philippines in 1985, only to spend the next 19 years hidden and exploited in the United States.

But the ordeal was not always so clear-cut - even from Martinez's perspective.

For someone who lost nearly half of her life, Martinez was surprisingly stoic in court. There were no tearful tirades or angry confrontations. She answered questions in mostly short sentences, sometimes single words.

Her emotional letters home over the years, however, portray a woman who was conflicted and confused, torn between a desire for freedom and loyalty to captors who paid her paltry wages, yet bought her Christmas presents and took her along on family vacations.

The letters between Martinez and her mother in Camarines Sur, a rural province in the Philippines, also show she was just as manipulated by her own family back home.

Martinez, the dutiful eldest daughter of uneducated farmers, became the provider for her parents and siblings. She paid for the bulk of their school tuition, medical procedures and even their weddings. Over the years, her family grew more and more dependent on her to emerge from poverty.

Her story speaks to the vast cultural differences that have divided the Filipino community in the Milwaukee area.

The jury found the Calimlims' crimes so severe that their case became the nation's first forced labor conviction not involving use of violence. The couple will report to federal prison Wednesday unless the judge grants an extension while the case is appealed.

Yet just days before the Calimlims are expected to begin their four-year sentences, some in the Filipino community still believe that Martinez is the villain.

She owes her freedom to one young Filipina-American who felt differently.

Welcome to America

Elnora Calimlim needed help. In 1985, she and her husband were juggling the demands of adjusting to a new country while raising three young kids. When Calimlim's mother visited from the Philippines, she saw how exhausted her daughter was and made a suggestion: Why not bring one of the maids from their home in the Philippines to Wisconsin?

Elnora Calimlim's father took care of the arrangements. He accompanied Martinez on a flight to
the U.S. and posed as her doctor bringing the 19-year-old abroad for treatment.

The day Martinez arrived in Chicago, the entire Calimlim family waited outside the airport gate.

"It was sort of like welcoming somebody who's going to be a member of the family," Elnora Calimlim would testify.

Martinez agreed to work for an initial period of five years. Calimlim's father handed Martinez's passport to his daughter.

In the months that followed, Martinez adjusted to her surroundings. She learned to use cookbooks. To make grocery lists. To save money by cutting her own hair.

She got used to Wisconsin's chilly autumns and winters, which gave her a constant runny nose. The average January low in Camarines Sur is 70 degrees Fahrenheit, compared with a frigid 13 degrees in Milwaukee.

Martinez also learned that her new employers wanted to keep her hidden from even their closest friends. Sometimes they introduced her as a distant relative. During parties she hid in her basement bedroom with the door closed as guests dined on meals she helpedprepare.

At church, Martinez sat in a pew far from the family. At home, she let the phone ring. She could pick up only after 10 rings - code that one of the Calimlims was calling.

Even her letters were handled in a clandestine way.Her parents wrote to a post office box registered to the Calimlims. Martinez sent her letters in a double envelope, addressed with her name on the inside, without a name on the outside.

The Calimlims kept her in line with threats of deportation. They told her if people found out she was an illegal immigrant, she would be sent back to the Philippines. The Calimlim family would be in trouble as well, they told her.

Yet despite the restrictions, Martinez remained upbeat. She accepted her place in the world and, in heartfelt letters to her family, repeated one line again and again:

"If you're wondering about me, I'm fine. Even if I'm lonely."

Sending money home

Martinez earned $150 a month for the first 10 years and $400 a month thereafter. She believed most of that money was sent to the Philippines, but no one can be sure.

It was a complicated process. First, the Calimlims told Elnora's parents in the Philippines - the Mendozas - how much Martinez earned. The Mendozas would front the money for the Calimlims, and someone from the Martinez family would travel 10 hours to pick up the earnings.

If someone from the extended Calimlim family traveled from the U.S. to the Philippines, they could also deliver some of Martinez's earnings. But the system was irregular, and not every transaction was documented, investigators later found.

Money did make it home. And for the next decade, her earnings gave her family a lifestyle they could never have had.

Her salary paid for the education of all her younger siblings, from costumes in the Christmas pageants to college computer programs. The dutiful daughter paid for her father's blood pressure medicine and her mother's tumor operation and for plots of land.

She paid for a water buffalo to pull a plow on the farm, and later a Honda tractor.

In letters, Martinez's mother gave her choices about where her money went: Did she want her brothers studying to be police officers or nurses? Did she want to buy dresses for her nieces for Christmas?

And almost every letter came with a request for more."Your father, Glen and Nonoy Kee are also asking that you buy them a watch and a set of necklace, ring and earrings for me. My earrings have lost its shine and some of the stones have come off."

Sometimes her mother bragged about how well-dressed Martinez's siblings were because of the money she sent. Other times she described the children as not having enough to eat or being embarrassed that they didn't have a nicer home.

With the needs of her family in the Philippines, there was little left to fund Martinez's dream: a house in her hometown of Sampaloc. That's where she wanted to raise her own kids someday, near the town's basilica.

Still, she continued her work, year after year,missing milestone after milestone.

She missed Christmas fiestas in her hometown.

She missed all her siblings' weddings.

She missed the birth of her three youngest brothers and the deaths of her grandfathers.

Just before Christmas 1992, seven years into her stay with the Calimlims, Martinez received a letter from her mother with tragic news. Jesson, the youngest of her siblings, died after a sudden case of bronchitis. He was 2 years old. Her father bought him a casket with 2,000 pesos from her earnings. Martinez read hermother's words but refused to believe them. How could
this have happened? Was her family making the story up so she'd feel guilty and come home? Didn't they understand that it was no longer up to her?

She studied a photo of Jesson, the baby brother they called Nonoy or "Little Boy." He had short hair and dimples, just like hers. And now she would never meet him.

Overcome with grief, Martinez reached for her parents in the only way she could.

She reached for a pen and paper.

Mom and pop,

I don't know how to begin my letter to you. I don't even know what to do with all of the loneliness. . . .Mom, after reading your letter, I feel helpless. I'm sorry that I can't even visit you during this time. I didn't even have the chance to see Nonoy. I loved him.

I'm always asking myself, "When will I see, talk and hug everyone?"

I'm always reassuring myself that it is only a little more time. . . .

Promise me, mom, that you will not tell me this sort of sad story again, because I cannot handle it anymore. Please take care of yourself and papa because I am sure that I could not handle anything worse. . .
.

Love, kisses, hugs from your Erma Martinez

USA

Suspicion arises

Over the next decade, the three young children Martinez cared for in the U.S. grew into adults. They got drivers' licenses, went to college and landed full-time jobs.

Martinez lived in the Calimlims' six-bedroom, $1.2 million home, where her duties stayed the same.

By the Calimlim's account, each morning Martinez toasted bagels or set out cereal for breakfast. She cooked dinner and weekend brunches of bacon, rice and eggs. Once a week, Martinez vacuumed the 8,600-square- foot house. She did laundry every Saturday.

Martinez testified about several additional jobs, from waxing the car and changing its oil to painting the house and polishing medical equipment at Jefferson Calimlim Sr.'s medical practice.

She said the Calimlims, who were ear, nose and throat doctors, refused to take her to the dentist when she had a toothache. And when she was doubled over in pain from menstrual problems, Elnora Calimlim told her she would never have children.

After the Calimlim children grew, they helped to keep Martinez hidden.

When she needed to go to church or to the mall, one of the children - Jefferson Jr., Jack or Tina - drove. When Martinez made a grocery list, one of the children went to the store.

The Calimlim children followed their parents' rules when it came to Martinez. They called her "Tita" -"Auntie" in the Filipino language of Tagalog. They never told anyone, not even their best friends, that their family had a maid.

By the late 1990s the Calimlims' younger son, Jack, had a serious girlfriend. Sherry Bantug was a beautiful Filipina-American who grew up in the Milwaukee area.

She modeled for local clothing boutiques and fashion sections while studying at Marquette University. She performed Filipino dances at the Asian Moon Festival and in 1998 wore the crown of Miss Philippine Centennial Wisconsin.

In time, Jack Calimlim brought Bantug home to meet the family. And Martinez.

At first he told Bantug that the woman in the kitchen was a relative from Chicago. But after a while, the explanation didn't make sense, Bantug testified.

She questioned why "Tita" seemed to be visiting all the time. She didn't understand why Martinez didn't sit with the family during dinner.

Bantug again confronted her fiancé. This time he told the truth.

After Jack Calimlim and Bantug became engaged, Bantug reached out to Martinez and was saddened by what she found.

Martinez told Bantug she had a boyfriend in the Philippines but hadn't seen him since she left. She said she longed for her own children but feared she'd missed her chance.

When Bantug and Jack Calimlim planned the seating chart for their wedding, the elder Calimlims objected to Martinez being invited. After Bantug persisted, Elnora Calimlim said Martinez could be seated on the other side of the hall.

The marriage between Jack Calimlim and Bantug lasted seven months.

Nearly three years after Bantug first met Martinez in the Calimlim home, the couple filed for divorce. And Bantug made an anonymous call to the U.S. Department of Immigration and Naturalization Services.

Human trafficking

While hundreds of thousands of foreign domestic workers toil in American homes, illegal or abusive arrangements are still largely unreported. Cases are rare. Between 2001 and 2003, 110 people have been prosecuted for human trafficking nationwide.

Since 1974, domestic workers in the U.S. have been protected under federal law. But foreign workers are often unfamiliar with these rights, and few agencies teach workers how to leave dangerous living situations.

Even if they're lucky enough to go through a training program before leaving their home countries, such programs teach mostly job skills: how to operate a vacuum, how to pronounce "yes, ma'am," how to differentiate between Windex and Pine-Sol.

The circumstances make it difficult for federal authorities to protect the rights of foreign workers. The workers often view authorities as the enemy and are reluctant to cooperate.

And even when domestic workers are mistreated or abused, some still won't report the offenses because of the enormous sense of responsibility they feel to provide for their families back home.

Such was the case with Martinez, who, even after 17 years in the Calimlim home, felt obligated to stay.

Sept. 1, 2002,

To my Dearest Mom, Dad and Family,

Hi mom and pop, before anything else in this letter, I want to give my respect and regards to all of you. If you're wondering about me, I'm fine. As usual, waiting to go home.

Mom, sorry if I'm unable to write to you because I am busy these days. I'm glad that you and papa called. Sorry if it was a short conversation. Ms. Nora is not giving me enough time. She stands and watches beside me. You might think I don't want to talk to you, but I was working when you called and I was also tired. The house is too large and I am the only servant. I also
paint the house and the salary is small. The visa that they promised me has not been arranged. I am so tired of waiting and of the work here, I don't know what to do. . . . If I will go home there without my visa, I will never be able to return here. If I go home there now, you will not have anybody to help you educate the others.

You know ma, it is so difficult because I cannot say when I will be going home. I hope that you will continue to understand me through letters and the telephone. I hope that you're not thinking that I'm upset at you. I am not. I am upset at Ms. Nora. . . .

Raided, rescued

Federal agents arrived with a search warrant at the Calimlims' home in September 2004. As they raided the house, they confronted Jefferson Jr. and asked if he had seen Martinez.

Not in about a year, the eldest of the children replied. In truth, Martinez was in the basement. Elnora Calimlim rushed to warn her.

The authorities made it down the stairs, where Martinez's bedroom had been for years.

They walked past the leather sofas. Past the entertainment center and large-screen TV. Past the
bar, the refrigerator, the fireplace and Tina Calimlim's ballet practice area.

The FBI and Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents entered a room just past a dining room table.

The bed was hastily made. Boxes were piled in the corner. Perfume bottles, beauty products and a blow dryer cluttered the top of a dresser. Clothes hung along the rail of a StairMaster machine.

There was a door next to the StairMaster. The agents discovered Martinez just beyond that door.

She was hiding in her own closet, terrified of the people sent to rescue her.

Cultural difference

In the Philippines, the use of servants is culturally accepted. Domestic workers are hired, sometimes several per household, to handle everyday tasks from cooking meals and washing clothes to caring for children. Filipinos affluent enough to have maids generally provide them with separate living quarters and expect to call on them at any time. The pay is low - typically about $3 a day.

Maid culture is most common in countries with extreme disparities between the rich and the poor, as in the Philippines, where nearly 80% of the country's population is unemployed. One out of every seven people leaves the country to make money.

Most of them take jobs as domestic workers around the world, pumping $7 billion a year into the struggling Third World country. The Filipino government credits these workers with keeping the country afloat.

In turn, many Filipinos consider the idea of hiring maids who send money home a positive thing. To hire a Filipino maid and bring her to the U.S. is an act of allegiance to the home country.

Because of this mind-set, the Calimlim case has been difficult for the local Filipino-American community to understand.

Defending the Calimlims

On a hot July evening on Milwaukee's northwest side, more than a dozen local Filipino-Americans crammed into the Philippine Community Center. The purpose of the meeting was to ask the Calimlims' attorneys how they could help. Even people who had never met the Calimlims wanted to defend the family and explain Filipino culture to the larger Milwaukee community.

Some said if they hired a maid from the Philippines, they would pay exactly the same thing. Others didn't understand why the Calimlims went to such lengths to hide Martinez, but they didn't believe doing so made them bad people. Still others questioned whether Martinez was exploiting the Calimlims for money.

Most agreed that the trial didn't allow enough explanation of Filipino culture and tradition.

"Americans, they probably think it's slavery, but back in the Philippines, you're doing (the maids) a big favor," said Raymond Ballecer of Milwaukee, whose family had two live-in maids in the Philippines but does not have maids in the U.S.

Michael Fitzgerald, Elnora Calimlim's attorney,listened to the group's concerns, then offered advice. He told them to write letters to U.S. District Court Judge Rudolph T. Randa.

The sentencing

Elnora and Jefferson Calimlim leaned back in the leather defendant's chairs of Judge Randa's courtroom.It was Nov. 16, 2006, six months after a federal jury found them guilty of harboring an illegal immigrant for financial gain, conspiracy to harbor an illegal immigrant, forced labor and attempted forced labor.

Prosecutors had recommended just under six years in prison. Because they were not U.S. citizens, the Calimlims also faced deportation.

The stress of the months between the trial and the sentencing had taken a physical toll on Elnora Calimlim. She'd lost considerable weight, and her neatly pressed clothes hung loosely on her frail body.

More than a dozen prominent members of the local Filipino American community packed the courtroom's wooden benches in support of the Calimlims. Many had also attended a "Mass for Unity and Healing" in August, which attracted hundreds who prayed for the Calimlim family.

For the previous nine days, members of the Filipino community had prayed over the case to the Virgin Mary. And more than 100 local Filipinos signed a letter sent to Randa begging him to be lenient.

Randa entered the courtroom and took his seat next to the American flag. Moments later, the heavy door to the courtroom opened.

Martinez walked in sporting a new look. The stiff,pink knit blazer and pinstripe pants of her last court appearance were replaced by khaki pants, a white blouse and a black leather jacket. She carried a Louis

Vuitton handbag and wore black sunglasses on top of her head.

She held the hand of a woman hired by the prosecution to comfort victims during trial.

Martinez trembled as she told the courtroom that the case "broke her heart into a million pieces" that she "didn't know how to put back together."

"I don't know how to say it. When I was with them, I just had to do the job that had to be done. Follow the rules. I was waiting for my green card. The green card they promised to me," Martinez said.

She said she trusted the Calimlims and didn't know they were lying to her from the start.

Martinez, who has been granted a rare visa for victims of severe trafficking cases, will be eligible to apply for a green card in three years. She said she had a new job in Chicago, at a Sephora cosmetics store.

"You may have heard of it," she said, brightening.

At Sephora, Martinez said, if she worked more than 40 hours, she earned overtime. After a day's work, she still had time for herself.

Martinez said she still loved the Calimlims. She never wished for prison, deportation or the stress the case had caused them. But she wanted more than what she had.

"I was waiting for that freedom," she said.

After Martinez spoke, Randa sentenced the couple to four years in prison each. (Jefferson Jr. later received three years' probation). The judge has not made a decision on restitution. Prosecutors have recommended back wages of $704,635.

Martinez didn't stay long enough to hear the outcome. Midway through the sentencing, she stood, walked down the hall, onto the elevator and outside into the cold, open air.