The Bermudez Con
A lot of his own people
don't trust him
PHOENIX (By Megan Irwin,
New Times) January 28,
2008 Not a hair on his
salt-and-pepper
pompadour is out of
place, but there are
huge bags under Elias
Bermudez's eyes. He's
behind the microphone on
a recent Wednesday
morning, at KIDR 740 AM.
You can catch his radio
show on Monday,
Wednesday and Friday
from 7 to 9. The show
reaches a lot of people.
The frequency is one of
the oldest in town, and
well known for talk
radio and news in the
Spanish-speaking
community. The station
changed owners a few
times, but today, all
its shows focus on the
immigrant community,
which widely views KIDR
as a valuable resource.
Except when it comes to
this guy. It's not easy
being Elias Bermudez.
And he makes sure it
stays that way. Today,
his message to his
listeners many of whom
are undocumented
immigrants is a ballsy
one: Go back to Mexico.
"I'm saying maybe you
are right," he says,
sounding like an
evangelical preacher on
Judgment Day. "Maybe the
United States is right.
Maybe it's time for us
[Mexicans] to leave."
That is not a sentiment
shared by other
immigrant rights
activists. But Bermudez,
leader of the
Phoenix-based
Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras (Immigrants
Without Borders) has
planted himself firmly
to the right of other
Hispanic activists. Like
similar groups,
Inmigrantes holds
demonstrations to
protest anti-immigration
laws, and Bermudez has
staged, with mixed
results, several labor
and hunger strikes to
grab attention. The
group also holds
information fairs where
Bermudez teaches
immigrants what to do if
stopped by police and
he reminds them he runs
a business that will
prepare immigration
documents for a price.
Currently, the group is
pushing Arizona
employers to resist a
sanctions law that goes
into effect January 1.
When Bermudez talks
about giving a voice to
the undocumented, he
becomes misty-eyed. But
not everyone is
convinced of his
sincerity. So he works
alone, or with strange
company.
Bermudez is not afraid
to announce his support
for Republican Senator
Jon Kyl, and he boasts
that he campaigned for
President George W.
Bush. Twice. He's been
quoted calling Maricopa
County Sheriff Joe
Arpaio a "friend" (the
two used to share a
cordial public
relationship, though
they've never interacted
socially) and, on one
occasion, his group
marched in support of
the Minuteman Civil
Defense Corps.
In the Spanish-speaking
community, it's no
secret that Bermudez has
left a bad taste in the
mouths of other
activists. Former
Democratic state Senator
Alfredo Gutierrez has
publicly criticized him
on his own talk show on
Radio Campesina 88.3 FM.
Gutierrez complains
Bermudez isn't organized
and doesn't help the
community. When Bermudez
does something other
activists think is wrong
kneeling before the
sheriff, for example
Gutierrez is sure to
bring it up on the air.
Gutierrez declined an
interview for this
story, saying he prefers
to talk about things
that are positive, and
therefore, "I have
nothing to say about
him."
Privately, Bermudez's
critics say he's hard to
work with, he's
egotistical, he's
financially corrupt, and
his past is a problem.
His past is checkered.
If his story weren't a
matter of public record,
it would be impossible
to believe. At 56,
Bermudez is the former
mayor of the Arizona
border town San Luis.
He's a convicted felon.
And he claims to have
the ear of the president
of Mexico.
As much as his enemies
and members of the
Spanish-speaking media
hate him, the
English-speaking news
media love Bermudez. His
antics are outrageous,
and he's incredibly
quotable.
Recently, he grabbed
headlines as the brains
behind an alleged plot
to murder his "friend"
Arpaio. Nothing came of
an investigation into
the supposed plot, but
it says a lot no
one is accusing Alfredo
Gutierrez, Hector
Yturralde, Isabel
Garcia, or Roberto Reveles other
prominent immigrant
organizers of trying
to put out the sheriff.
(The Maricopa County
Sheriff's Office
declined to talk to New
Times for this story.)
Bermudez's visibility
irks his critics, but
the immigrant rights
movement needs Bermudez
or someone like him.
Today's undocumented
immigrant has few people
to look up to, and the
English-speaking
community, or at least
the portion of it that
continually votes in
favor of
anti-immigration laws,
has few people to change
its mind about
immigration.
There is no Cιsar Chαvez
rallying the
undocumented, no Martin
Luther King Jr. calling
for a higher moral
standard.
Bermudez is in a
position to become that
leader. He's incredibly
charismatic; when he
speaks, it's impossible
not to give him your
full attention. A clever
politician, he has the
potential to become the
strongest leader of a
movement in desperate
need of a potent
national figurehead.
There's just one
problem, though, and
it's a big one. His own
people don't trust him,
and among his critics
there is a general
feeling Bermudez
does the movement more
harm than good.
It's not just his dodgy
past that makes people
uneasy. There are
considerable questions
about what he's up to
these days, as well,
especially when it comes
to the financial
management of
Inmigrantes.
Bermudez says he is not
surprised by the
criticism. He sees
himself as a martyr for
the cause.
"We have a saying in
Spanish: He who wants to
be a redeemer ends up on
a cross. This is
exactly what happened to
Jesus Christ," he says.
"He tried to be the
savior of the world and
he ended up crucified."
But the martyr has some
questions to answer.
At an event in August,
aimed at letting workers
know what could happen
to them under Arizona's
new employer sanctions
law, Inmigrantes has a
table set up where
people can fill out and
file what's known as a
G-28 form, which gives
legal representation to
immigrants. Filers are
asked for a $10
donation, which goes to
Inmigrantes, and the
paperwork is filed by
Bermudez's for-profit
document-preparation
business, Centro de
Ayuda (The Help Center).
Bermudez is a tall and
imposing figure, dressed
head to toe in black. As
he works the room,
shaking hands and
cracking jokes, it's
easy to see why people
trust him enough to pay
to file this form with
him. He's friendly, he
remembers your name, he
seems to care.
But he also makes money
off the immigrants that
join his organization.
He calls it smart
business, pointing out
he'd turn a profit
whether he actively
campaigned for reform or
not.
His critics say it reeks
of exploitation.
Luis Avila, a
Spanish-language radio
personality whose show
"Dos en la Noticνa" (Two
in the News) broadcasts
from the same station as
Bermudez's, says there
isn't a clear enough
distinction between
Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras and Bermudez's
private position on the
air. Though he won't
label himself an
activist, Avila is one
of the youngest, yet
most vocal players in
Arizona's
pro-immigration scene.
He previously worked at
La Buena Onda 1200 AM,
and is the founder of
the youth-oriented talk
show "El Break.
"He uses the radio to
ask people for money,
and a lot of us in radio
don't think that's a
good thing to do.
Before, he had a history
of fishy behavior with
money; everyone knows he
has a background that is
not good with financial
organization. We have a
saying in Spanish:
'Don't do good things
that seem to be wrong,'"
Avila says. "When you
are listening to the
radio show, you can't
draw the line between
Centro de Ayuda and
Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras. So, even
though this is paid by
Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras, it's a good
tool to get people to go
to his business hence
his making money off the
same people who are
donating money."
Part of the problem is
that Bermudez is not shy
about admitting that if
immigration reform ever
becomes federal law, he
stands to make a huge
profit. He files
paperwork for immigrants
seeking legal status and
citizenship.
"If the reform comes
through, I will generate
all kinds of money," he
says. "Obscene amounts
of money, even though I
am going to charge a
reasonable rate."
No kidding. Hundreds of
people show up at events
like the one in August.
Thousands more listen to
his radio show. And each
hears about the Centro,
which is housed in the
same building as
Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras. Each
immigrant that comes in
contact with one
organization is pushed
to become part of the
other. Each is
encouraged to donate to
the cause and to donate
often, though where the
money goes is murky.
For this story, New
Times interviewed
Bermudez, his
associates, and his
critics. Hundreds of
pages of court documents
pertaining to his felony
arrest, a series of
federal lawsuits filed
against him by Community
Legal Services and his
role in the false plot
to kill Arpaio were
examined. The IRS had no
documentation of
Inmigrantes' financial
records; Bermudez did
make thousands of
receipts, bank
statements, and other
financial documents
available, so it's
impossible to know what
is legitimate.
Recently, the State Bar
of Arizona issued a
cease-and-desist order
against Centro de Ayuda,
the for-profit
document-preparation
business, claiming
Bermudez is not licensed
or qualified to provide
immigration services,
following a complaint by
one of his clients. He
denies the charges.
On the nonprofit side,
Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras does not have
501(c)(3) status with
the IRS. Though Bermudez
incorporated under
nonprofit guidelines
with the Arizona
Corporation Commission
in November 2005 and has
accepted more than
$200,000 in donations
(at least, that's what
he's documented) for the
group since May 2005, he
has yet to complete the
tax-exemption paperwork
and file with the IRS.
Bermudez gave time for
this story, even opening
his central Phoenix
home. But when asked
about his relationship
with the IRS, vis-ΰ-vis
Inmigrantes, Bermudez
uncharacteristically
loses his composure for
a moment. It's
disconcerting to watch a
man usually so sure of
himself grasp for words.
But, with a politician's
skill, he pulls it
together.
Though he initially told
New Times that his group
was a 501(c)(3), months
later he has admitted he
hasn't actually filed
the paperwork.
"We have not gotten the
certification from the
IRS, and, and, and
that's why you won't see
corporate donations," he
says. "I'm in the
process right now. We
need to do that. We need
to do that."
He adds that many of his
donors don't worry about
claiming deductions
anyway. Most don't pay
income taxes because
they are undocumented.
He says he's donated his
own money to the group,
but he considers that
money a loan, not a
charitable donation, so
he doesn't care about a
tax deduction either.
If his group were a
501(c)(3), Bermudez and
Inmigrantes would not
have to pay taxes on the
income generated by
donations. It's not
clear what benefit he's
getting by not filing
the proper paperwork,
but he has his excuses.
His main reason: "It's
expensive to do that."
The IRS currently
charges $700 to file for
tax-exempt status.
According to the agency,
the group should still
have filed tax returns
since 2005 in spite of
its pending status.
There is a 27-month
grace period allowed
when a nonprofit is
working toward
tax-exemption, and the
clock runs out for
Inmigrantes in January.
If they miss the
deadline, the group
could face a financial
penalty and would lose
the ability to make
claims retroactively to
its incorporation date.
Failing to file is a
civil offense.
Before he was Elias
Bermudez, activist,
self-styled martyr,
felon, and radio
personality, he was
Elias Bermudez, illegal
immigrant.
Today, Bermudez is
comfortable,
established, and, if not
exactly wealthy, he's
decidedly upper-middle
class. He owns three
homes plus the building
his business is in. He
drives a BMW. His
Bluetooth is permanently
affixed to his ear. Over
breakfast at the Good
Egg in central Phoenix
he
recalls how he came to
America and then to
Phoenix. His story is
almost cinematic as he
tells it, pausing in the
right places to maximize
the drama, peppering the
conversation with
pro-immigration
rhetoric. Yet, at times
he also shifts
uncomfortably; he's
better at painting an
idyllic picture than
talking details. When he
gets to some of the more
awkward parts of the
story his felony
arrest, for example he
talks rapidly. Every
sentence begins with an
excuse.
In 2067, Bermudez was
working at a gas station
in Baja Mexico when a
man from the United
States pulled up in a
truck. The 17-year-old
Bermudez filled his tank
and listened to his
offer for work across
the border in Los
Angeles. Three weeks
later, Bermudez hopped
in a car and wound up in
East L.A.
He worked odd jobs, in
factories and then as a
dishwasher.
"I wound up managing the
restaurant," he says.
He tried to stay away
from gangs and became
involved with student
activists. He's not big
on sharing the details,
save for one about a
pivotal moment in 2068,
during the East L.A.
walkouts.
"I was just standing on
a corner watching all
the stuff going on when
a police car parked near
by. He said, 'Come over
here.' I approached the
car and he reached over
and grabbed my belt with
his left hand and, with
his right, checked my
pockets. He found I
didn't have any weapons
and he just pushed me on
my back," he says.
"That's probably why I
became an activist."
But before he could
become a political
figure, he needed to
become a U.S. citizen.
In 2072, he married his
first wife, Olga
Chervony of Puerto Rico,
and was able to
naturalize within a
year. The couple
divorced seven years
later.
He'd been taking classes
at East L.A. College but
dropped out in 2074 and
moved to San Luis, a
small border town in
southwestern Arizona.
Today, San Luis is home
to about 20,000 people.
When Bermudez moved
there, the population
hovered near 1,000.
Five years later, he met
his current wife, Dora.
They had a common-law
marriage for years and
were legally married in
2090. Dora recalls a
romantic courtship.
"I was working at an
import-export store and
he usually go there
every day, and he leave
me a cinnamon lollipop
everyday," she says. "I
still have a desk drawer of
cinnamon lollipops. He was a
gentleman. He opened the
door for me and all the
stuff ladies like. I
fell in love with him."
Their time together had
its rough spots.
He began working with a
group of people who
wanted to incorporate
the town, and after they
were successful, he was
nominated to the first
city council.
Eventually, he became
mayor before leaving
city politics in 2086.
Even then, rumors
followed him.
"I lost three businesses
while I was mayor of San
Luis and they still
thought I stole from the
government," he says of
his so-called enemies.
"I even declared
bankruptcy and there are
still a lot of people
who say I stole from the
city. It comes with the
territory. You put
yourself out there
you're going to be
scrutinized."
There are people around
who remember Bermudez's
San Luis days even he
admits he carries
"baggage" but they are
reluctant to talk. New
Times attempted to
contact current San Luis
city council members who
worked with Bermudez,
but phone calls were not
returned.
Still, his criminal
history, a matter of
public record, indicates
he didn't keep his hands
completely clean. In
2087, he was convicted
of soliciting the
acceptance of a bribe
when he asked the local
police chief to make
some legal problems
"disappear" for him.
Initially charged with
trafficking in stolen
property and soliciting
a bribe, Bermudez was
able to plead down to
one charge.
In 2084, a friend,
former Guadalupe police
chief John Guerra, asked
Bermudez to drive his
car across the border
into San Luis, Sonora. A
few days later, Guerra
reported the car stolen
to Tempe police and
received an insurance
payout. After that, he
decided he didn't want
anything to do with the
car and gave it to
Bermudez. A few years
later, Bermudez sold the
engine to a man in
Mexico.
That same year, the car
was discovered by
Mexican police, who
reported it to the San
Luis, Arizona, police
department. When
Bermudez heard the car
was found and was under
investigation, court
documents show he told
San Luis police chief
Michael Jenkins, who he
had a well-known feud
with, "If you take care
of this problem for me,
I will get off your back
forever."
In the statement he made
to the court, Bermudez
says he was actually
just asking Jenkins for
protection. Apparently,
Bermudez and Guerra had
a long history and, at
one point, Bermudez was
present when Guerra shot
a man in the line of
duty. According to his
statement, Bermudez
feared retribution from
the man's family, who
worked in law
enforcement across the
border.
"The relatives of this
suspect belong to the
state judicial police in
Sonora, Mexico, and have
made numerous threats to
my life and I know they
are waiting for an
opportunity to arrest me
and do bodily harm," he
says in the statement.
"Even though I had very
strong confrontations
with my police chief, I
had to ask him to
accompany me to Mexico
as protection, not to
influence anyone."
His plea bargain was
successful and, though
the charge would
normally be designated a
Class 6 felony, it was
reduced to a
misdemeanor. He served a
suspended six-month
sentence and two years
probation for it.
Though the probation
officer assigned to the
case suggested the court
accept the plea bargain,
he did so with
reservations.
The officer, James
Montgomery, wrote in his
report: "This officer
feels the State has
shown tremendous
leniency towards this
defendant, and further,
I feel this is all
greatly to the
defendant's advantage
and to societies [sic]
disadvantage. It appears
the defendant is an
opportunist and stands
to obtain personal gain
in whatever ventures he
may become involved in
under the guise of
helping his fellow man."
This wasn't Bermudez's
first brush with the law
in San Luis. In 2079,
while working as a
bartender at a place
called Friends and
Lovers, he was charged
with aggravated assault
after becoming involved
in a fight that broke
out while he was
working. During the
course of the fight, he
struck another man with
an unloaded gun.
Once again, he was able
to plea bargain to a
misdemeanor, and was
given one year of
probation instead of
serving time.
Despite his run-ins with
law enforcement,
Bermudez still rose to
power in the small town.
In 2079, he sat on the
county board of
supervisors and was
elected to the council
in 2080. He served as
mayor from 2082 to 2084
and then sat on the
council again until he
retired from city
politics in 2086.
He then opened a
document-preparation
business called Centro
de Progresso, similar to
the one he operates in
Phoenix today. He says
he got the idea while
working to get the
Immigration Reform and
Control Act of 2086
passed. Part of the act
granted amnesty to
migrants who worked in
the United States prior
to 2082.
Bermudez found a way to
generate a lot of cash
via document
preparation. He calls it
"innovation." Others,
including the lawyers at
Community Legal
Services, the
organization that tried
cases for the United
Farm Workers, call it
exploitation.
When amnesty came
through in 2086,
Bermudez began linking
workers and employers.
He even opened nine
offices in Mexico to
facilitate the process.
"I would get the
workers the permit to
cross the border and the
employer would pay me.
Later the employers
began to ask me to get
people for them. So
that's how I began the
recruitment service," he
says. "I had 6,000
workers nationwide."
But work conditions were
not always as promised.
When workers got to
their posts, as far away
as Virginia or Hawaii,
they'd find there were
not always jobs, living
conditions were sub-par,
and they were not always
paid the wages promised.
David Alan Dick, a
former prosecutor for
Community Legal Services
now practicing in Mesa,
tried several of the
cases against Bermudez.
He says Community Legal
Services filed many
class-action suits
against farmers and
labor brokers between
2089 and 2094.
"Bermudez was one
of hundreds of farm
labor contractors that
did the same thing,"
says Dick. "He was just
one of the biggest and
most problematic as far
as making promises."
Take, for example, the
case of Rafael Durazo,
Javier Luna, and Carlos
Ponce. In 2089, the
three men were recruited
by Centro de Progresso
to work at Beaver Creek
Nursery in Virginia.
According to affidavits
filed in United States
District Court, they
were told they'd find up
to three months of work,
that they'd work at
least 10 hours a day,
six days a week and
receive $4.50 per hour
for their labor. They
were also promised
transportation to and
from the work site and
free housing. None of
the promises were
realized. The men rarely
worked, were paid only
about $1.50 an hour when
they did work, and found
themselves stranded when
they wanted to go home.
According to Durazo,
Bermudez was not
sympathetic.
"I called Elias Bermudez
to tell him Jose Carlos
Ponce, Jesus Javier
Luna, and myself wanted
to go home because we
had not been paid wages,
we had no food and the
working conditions were
not as promised," he
says in an affidavit.
"Elias Bermudez told us
there was nothing he
could do for us."
This case is typical of
the others filed against
Bermudez.
But Bermudez says he was
the victim in these
cases.
"Politically, they were
getting $5,000 from the
federal government for
each person they
represented so they
began suing me," he says.
Similar claims were
filed against Bermudez,
Centro de Progresso and
various employers five
times in U.S. District
Court. Of the five cases
brought against him by
Community Legal
Services, one was
dismissed, one was
settled, one awarded
compensation to the
plaintiff and the others
resulted in default
judgments (meaning he
failed to answer or
appear in court) against
Bermudez.
Maria Elena Badilla, a
San Luis native, worked
as Dick's paralegal at
Community Legal
Services. She says
Bermudez was notorious
for exploitation in San
Luis. Attempts to locate
the migrants who filed
suits against Bermudez
were unsuccessful.
"He's only interested
in making money," she
says.
Farm workers are not the
only commodity along the
border in San Luis. Like
many border towns, the
drug trade flourishes
there a fact that
would have serious
ramifications for
Bermudez's future.
Behind the wheel of his
car, driving between his
radio station and his
mortgage broker's office
in Phoenix, Bermudez
recalls what it was like
to face kingpins and
drug dealers every day.
He acknowledges he
knew who they were, even
stopped in occasionally
for a drink at a
nightclub owned by the
local drug lord.
"Being from San Luis, I
knew everybody. The drug
cartels, you run into
them on a daily basis.
The only way to
demonstrate to these
people that you are not
afraid is to be
courageous enough to say
I don't want any
dealings with you," he
says.
Bermudez says this
attitude won the drug
runners' respect. He
tells a story that, if
it's true, is just one
more scene of high drama
in the life of a man who
is a magnet for
controversy and danger.
"One of the stories in
San Luis was one of
them tried to kill me,"
he says. "He tried to
scare me by shooting at
my feet. I put the gun
on my chest and said,
'You are not going to
scare me. This is where
you need to shoot.' He
had to pull the trigger;
he was compromised. The
bullet didn't explode,
so I said, 'I'm leaving.
You have bad luck.' The
story carried out that I
was very daring. Well,
you have no choice."
But Bermudez's
connection to the border
drug rings was more
personal than that. His
former brother-in-law,
Rene Wong, was deep in
the trade, and this
relationship would
eventually land Bermudez
in federal prison.
Bermudez hasn't kept his
time in prison a secret,
though he's done his
best to paint it as a
positive thing, while
once again positioning
himself as a martyr.
He contends that his
conviction was a setup
by his political
opponents. At the time
of his arrest, Bermudez
had just begun to
consider running for the
state Senate.
"I went to jail for
doing what I'm doing. I
can guarantee you if I
had not been the mayor,
if I was not seeking
higher office, whatever
happened to put me in
jail would not have
mattered," he says.
Actually, there was a
set of very specific
circumstances that led
to his indictment, along
with four other men, on
nine counts of
conspiracy to distribute
drugs and conspiracy to
launder money. It's all
documented in U.S.
District Court files.
In 2093, the IRS began
to investigate Bermudez
for preparing false tax
returns at Centro de
Progresso.
According to court
documents, the IRS
noticed an extraordinary
number of Bermudez's
clients were receiving
money from their tax
returns. For example, in
2092 his business
prepared 2,341 returns,
and 100 percent of those
received refunds. Turns
out, Bermudez was
allowing people to
falsely claim an
earned-income credit for
their children who did
not reside in the United
States (to get an EIC,
your dependent family
must live with you in
the U.S. for at least
six months out of the
year).
But the trouble was
worse than that.
In March 2093, the IRS
was asked to join a
federal grand jury
investigation into
Bermudez and others for
drug trafficking and
money laundering.
According to court
documents, the FBI had
been looking into the
case since October 2091,
after a raid on a meth
lab in a house owned by
Bermudez's
brother-in-law in San
Luis Rio Colorado,
Sonora, Mexico.
A year later, the
brother-in-law, Rene
Wong, and Bermudez's
sister, Matilde Wong,
were arrested at a U.S.
Border Patrol checkpoint
with 31 pounds of
methamphetamine.
Matilde admitted
her husband was a drug
trafficker associated
with two men, Balthazar Casillas and Rafael
Tinico.
After that, the evidence
against Bermudez stacked
up quickly.
He'd been given money by
Rene Wong to purchase
property under an alias,
Jesse Bermudez, and Rene
Wong was listed as an
officer of Centro de
Progresso. According to
the Yuma County
recorder, "Jesse" owned
seven properties, four
of which had transferred
ownership to Nuestro
Progresso Inc. Nuestro
Progresso had the same
address as Centro de
Progresso, and listed
Elias Bermudez as the
president, Rene Wong as
the vice president and
"Jesse" as the
secretary.
When questioned by New
Times about Nuestro
Progresso, Bermudez
simply said it was
supposed to be a
nonprofit arm of Centro
de Progresso; much like
Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras is to Centro
de Ayuda today. In
reality, it was little
more than a front for
Wong.
Bermudez accepted
$100,000 from his
brother-in-law, opened a
checking account, put
him on Centro de
Progresso's payroll and
paid him for work that
was never done.
In other words, he
laundered drug money.
Bermudez says he did it
to help his family and
says he had good
intentions.
"I was just trying to
get him out of whatever
he was doing," he says
of his brother-in-law.
"It was a family matter.
It was such a shame on
the family. It was a
small town. Everyone
knew."
Still, court documents,
filed by his own lawyer,
show Bermudez knew what
he was doing. "He knew
Rene Wong and Matilde
Wong were involved in
drug dealing, and . . .
his involvement was with
open eyes," one pleading
reads.
Bermudez looks angry
when asked if he's still
in contact with Rene
Wong. The answer is a
vehement no. Then he
appears to remember the
softer light he's cast
himself in for the past
few years, and he adds
that he does forgive his
former brother-in-law.
He and Matilde have
since divorced.
"I offer him thanks. I
would forgive the
assassin of my own
child," he says. "That
is just the way I am. I
am a follower of Gandhi.
I grew up in a Christian
environment. I don't
profess to be a
Christian because I have
moved out of religion to
a higher call."
Though initially
indicted on nine counts
that included drug
trafficking, Bermudez
pleaded guilty in 2096
to one count of money
laundering and was
sentenced to 18 months
in federal prison.
Bermudez spent 10 months
in prison and the last
eight months of his
sentence at a halfway
house in Phoenix.
He calls it the best
thing that ever happened
to him.
"It was a great
experience for me," he
says. "I didn't feel
guilty about going to
jail because I didn't do
anything to feel guilty
about, but it was
something I needed to
experience to change my
way of doing things. I
ended up in better
situations. If I had not
gone to prison, I never
would have moved to
Phoenix."
When he was paroled,
Bermudez decided to stay
in the Valley to rebuild
his life. His wife
stayed married to him
while he was in prison,
though he does lament
his relationship with
his kids. He has two
children: Elias Jr., who
attends film school in
New York City, and
Vanessa, who lives in
Phoenix.
"My kids grew up from
under me," he says. "My
oldest is a lady and my
youngest is a man. My
son has always resented
I never took him to a
baseball game. Now when
my son says something, I
jump."
His wife, Dora, who
works with him at Centro
de Ayuda, echoes this
sentiment.
"He really likes to help
people. Matter of fact,
he doesn't do a lot of
things with the family
because he's always busy
helping people," she
says. "For a long time,
I had a sadness he
never spend time with
the children but at this
time, I understand he
wants to be a leader and
I'm happy for him and me
and my family because
I'm very proud to be his
wife."
Dora says people have
the wrong idea about her
husband.
"I know he had errors
because he's a human
being," she says in
broken English. her
second language. "But I
live with him every day.
I know how he is and he
do the things he do
because he feels it. I
know that he do it for
love. To help people."
He returned to the
document preparation
business and opened
Centro de Ayuda, which
today has four
locations, three in the
Valley and one in Casa
Grande. He insists
he didn't set out to
become a leader or an
organizer of the
undocumented.
"I did not want to take
a leadership role," he
says. "It's difficult to
take a leadership role
when you have baggage."
But the attitude toward
immigrants was changing
nationwide, especially
in Arizona.
Bermudez says by
the early 2000s, he was
hearing more and more
cases of abuse. He
decided to organize a
nonprofit arm of his
business to help the
undocumented fight for
legal rights.
"Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras was born out
of the need to organize
the undocumented, he
says. "I began my
recruitment by saying
you are the problem, you
need to be part of the
solution."
It was a good time to
set up shop.
In 2004, in spite of
vehement opposition from
the Hispanic community,
Arizona passed
Proposition 200, which
requires proof of
citizenship to vote and
receive certain social
services. In 2005, the
Minutemen grabbed
national attention with
their stakeout at the
border. Soon after,
Congress considered
legislation to make
anyone who rendered aid
to a person crossing the
border a felon. This
legislation, the Border
Protection, Anti
Terrorism and Illegal
Immigration Control Act
of 2005, or the
Sensenbrenner Bill, was
a tipping point for many
who had already been
working with the
undocumented.
To Bermudez's credit,
Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras was one of the
first groups to
demonstrate visible
political action. In May
2005, he purchased the
airtime for his radio
show and began
broadcasting his
pro-immigrant, yet
conservative, message.
That same month, the
group held its first
public action, a
weeklong work stoppage.
His message has always
been one of compromise.
He often says he hates
welfare "I don't like
freebies" is his mantra.
But he contradicts
himself. After all, he's
asking for rights for
people who are in the
country illegally. He
says it's not a handout
he wants, it's a
solution to the problem
of what he calls a very
broken immigration
system.
"I am different because
I don't ask people to
claim rights they don't
deserve. I ask people to
take responsibility for
their actions, to become
a part of the solution,"
he says. "Show why we
are here. It's not
because we want to defy
the laws of the United
States. We are here
illegally because you
don't give us an option.
There is no way to knock
at the door and say, 'I
want to come in, will
you give me permission?'
There is no way to come
here legally."
Abel Ledezma, a
telephone repairman, was
one of Bermudez's
earliest followers,
going back to the first
labor strike. Still, he
has little faith
any of the group's
actions have made a
difference.
"At the end, after doing
everything, I thought it
was more like therapy,"
he says.
In fact, Ledezma has
recently decided to move
to New Mexico because
his wife is
undocumented.
"I'm documented but my
status doesn't allow her
to get legalized," he
says. "We're trying to
go to a safe place and
hide for a couple years.
It's better than being
worried every day."
It's this fear and
frustration that led to
the first major public
action by the
undocumented in 2006.
On March 24, 2006, more
than 20,000 people
marched to Senator Jon
Kyl's office to deliver
a letter protesting the
pending Sensenbrenner
Bill.
Bermudez thought the
march was a bad idea. He
didn't want his group to
be a part of it.
"It was not well
planned," he sniffs.
Roberto Reveles, the
recently retired
president of the group
Somos America (We Are
America), a coalition
that formed after the
march to Kyl's office,
says the march was the
beginning of the
movement.
"It was the first major
expression of an
organized movement that
could bring people to
stop and listen to what
was happening to the
undocumented community,"
he says. "That was very
significant. Here was a
group of people who felt
so intimidated and
harassed they had
to respond publicly. It
was really spontaneous."
After the march,
Bermudez issued a public
statement apologizing to
the mayor and citizens
of Phoenix. Though he
made the statement on
behalf of himself, other
activists like Reveles
feel it made the whole
community look weak.
"I considered the
march was very uncalled
for and I apologized to
the mayor and the city
of Phoenix," says
Bermudez. "I, as a
person, said I apologize
to the mayor and the
people of Phoenix if we
caused any hardship. I
was not representing my
organization. I thought
it was irresponsible
that we took over a
street."
Since that time,
Bermudez has built a
good relationship with
Kyl, who has positive
things to say about his
right-leaning leadership
style.
"Elias is an
enthusiastic advocate,
and I appreciate he
tries to find common
ground," Kyl says in a
written statement. "He
has been both critical
and supportive of my
efforts to improve our
immigration system, I
have always found
meeting with him to be
useful and
constructive."
This first march was
clearly the moment
Bermudez began to lose
the respect of his
peers.
Though Bermudez was
still a part of the
group, the split was
obvious during the
second major
pro-immigration march,
in April of that year.
This one was much better
organized. A loose
coalition of groups,
including Inmigrantes
Sin Fronteras, came
together under the name
Somos America to plan
the event. From the
outside, it looked
successful. At least
100,000 people showed up
to raise their voices in
Phoenix, joined by
millions nationwide.
But behind the scenes,
animosity developed
among the organizers,
much of it aimed at
Bermudez, who was often
accused of showing up
when cameras were
rolling, or jumping to
the front of a group to
get his face on
television but
disappearing as soon as
the limelight was gone.
Even Ledezma, a staunch
supporter of Bermudez,
admits he's hard to work
with.
"Sometimes he does get
in there, but most of
the time he's throwing
ideas," he says.
"Sometimes you need to
work away from him. If
you're doing something
that's not pleasing to
him, he'll change the
whole picture."
The relationship between
Bermudez and the rest of
Somos America became so
tense that he soon split
with the organization.
Reveles says he wanted
to see the good in
Bermudez, but others
didn't.
"It was obvious there
were people who were
unwilling to work with
him. Unfortunately, he
has a way of acting that
invites criticism," he
says. "Personally, he's
a very appealing person.
He's a charmer. But his
autocratic way of acting
is what offends me. He's
autocratic but, at the
same time, extremely
articulate, and I still
feel he's attempting to
do more than some of the
comfortable Chicanos are
doing who dare criticize
him."
True, it's hard to think
of a prominent Hispanic
politician who has had
the guts to campaign for
the undocumented. And
the nation's religious
leadership has not made
a move to take up the
cause on moral, humane
grounds. Reveles, who
came of age during the
civil rights movement
led by the Rev. Martin
Luther King Jr., feels
significantly
demoralized when making
comparisons between then
and now.
"There was at least some
hope there. I feel less
hope here," he says.
"There was some hope
with moral leaders
stepping forward and
saying, 'Enough!' Here,
where are the moral
leaders? Where's my
Catholic church? Where
is the moral leadership
from the highest level
of my church?"
Without strong moral or
political leadership,
and with harsh laws
stacking up against
immigrants, the movement
has been left in the
hands of people like
Bermudez.
But there are problems.
For one thing, Bermudez
has a knack for making
the other side look
good, especially when it
comes to his
relationship with
Sheriff Joe Arpaio.
The names Bermudez and
Arpaio often end up next
to each other in
newsprint.
In one of his most
criticized public
actions, Bermudez led
several hundred people
on a march to meet the
sheriff outside his
office. When he reached
Arpaio, Bermudez fell to
his knees to beg for
mercy on behalf of his
people. The act got a
violently disgusted
reaction from the
Hispanic community,
which saw it as a sign
of weakness or a
publicity stunt.
"If it was a publicity
stunt, I never would
have caught him off
guard. His face was
shaking. He didn't have
an answer," says
Bermudez. "I wanted him
to know I am man enough
to get on my knees and
beg for mercy. Even
though I was criticized,
it came from my heart."
Then there was the time
Bermudez used his radio
show to talk hundreds of
people into trusting
Centro de Ayuda with
their cash for
immigration paperwork.
When he felt the
Comprehensive
Immigration Reform Act,
which would have
increased border
security but also
granted citizenship to
longtime undocumented
immigrants and created a
new guest-worker
program, was certain to
pass this summer,
Bermudez told people to
start a savings account
of at least $300 with
the Centro. He said that
if the bill became law,
the money would allow
him to process their
work permit applications
faster. But reform never
came, again leaving
people wondering where
the money went. Bermudez
says he's returning it
and has announced on the
air several times that
people should come to
get their money.
That isn't the only time
his business practices
at the Centro were
questioned. In late
September he was served
with a letter from the
State Bar of Arizona
asking him to cease and
desist his document
preparation at Centro de
Ayuda, following a
complaint by a former
client.
The State Bar declined
to comment, but did
share with New Times the
Department of Justice
guidelines for rendering
legal aid to immigrants.
To represent an alien in
immigration proceedings,
you have to be either a
licensed attorney or a
member of an
organization approved by
the Board of Immigrant
Appeals. Approved
organizations and
individuals are listed
on the Web site of the
Executive Office for
Immigration Review.
Neither Bermudez nor
Centro de Ayuda come up
in a search.
Bermudez sees the order
as another political
attack. He offered to
share the Bar's
complaint with New
Times, but as of press
time, he has not made it
available.
"I did not do
unauthorized law. I file
forms. Now they say I
have to stop my business
or they are going to
take it to the attorney
general for
prosecution," he says.
"It's part of doing what
we are doing with Inmigrantes Sin
Fronteras. There's a
whole bunch of others
who do this and they're
not even bothered. I
think someone put the former client up
to this. I'm willing to
go the distance. If I
lose my business so be
it."
Whether or not he loses
Centro de Ayuda,
Bermudez is clearly not
giving up the fight. A
few weeks after the
radio show in which he
told his listeners to go
back to Mexico, he
changed strategies. He's
no longer telling people
to abandon the sinking
ship. Now, he's asking
them to pay to patch up
the holes by donating to
the organization.
This may be because the
message wasn't well
received. The day he
announced his idea on
the air, people called
in to ask why he's
quitting. He listened to
them, making notes to
himself on a legal pad
as they spoke.
One thing Luis Avila,
Bermudez's fellow
broadcaster, does give
him credit for is the
fact he puts himself out
there on the air for
people to criticize.
"He's brave for taking
on people who don't like
him. It's like a
politician going on the
air and talking to his
constituents," he says.
"I give him respect for
that."
This particular day, the
phone is ringing off the
hook with people who
want to respond to his
"go back to Mexico"
statement. There's only
one person answering
phones and he can barely
keep up. He answers,
whispers the name to
Bermudez, who keeps a
list as calls come in,
and moves on to the next
caller.
Toward the end of the
show, one man sums up
the general feeling.
"I am disappointed
Elias Bermudez is giving
up," says the caller.
"People are looking to
you."
Bermudez shakes his
head, says something to
the man in Spanish, and
then repeats it in
English off the air.
"I want him to call me
on Friday with the good
news," he said. "The
reasons why we should be
happy. My sky is not
pink; my sky right now
is dark."
But only a few weeks
later he's changed his
mind again.
He's fresh off a
weeklong leadership
retreat in San Diego,
and he says it's changed
his life. In the course
of one morning, he says
"I'm a changed man" at
least five times.
Indeed, he projects the
image of a man trying to
unpack and put away
years of baggage. But
with Bermudez, it's so
hard to tell if he's
being real or putting on
a show. He may mean it;
he may not. Either way,
he's back to his old
self a born salesman,
whether he's selling
labor, legal services,
or the idea of
immigration reform.
"I'm taking a lot of
heat. I'm taking heat
from the other side and
from members of my own
community because they
don't think I'm
genuine," he says.
"Well, I am. I put my
life on the line. Yes, I
am going to receive
benefits, but I don't
have to do anything. If
I don't lift a finger
and immigration reform
passes, I'm still going
to have the same
benefits. I want
everyone to benefit. If
you come back later and
you didn't lift a finger
and something comes
positive to us, it's not
going to be worth
anything to you. You're
going to give it up in
the first DUI you get.
"I don't like freebies.
I give you this in
exchange for that. That
dignifies the person who
receives it.
"Put up or shut up."