There is going to be a time in the not too distant future, when the fuller picture of the healthcare impacts of COVID-19 come into sharper focus. When that happens, it is not likely to be pretty. In large part, … Continue reading →

by Adriana Gallardo, ProPublica, and Ariel Goodman for ProPublica

They’ve gotten to know New York City in a way many have not, through the low-wage work of cleaning its skyscrapers, serving its restaurants and crisscrossing its streets on bicycles, through long subway rides very early in the morning and very late at night. The saying goes: You’re not a true New Yorker unless you’ve lived here for a decade. They’ve done their time and felt a deep sense of belonging in this city of immigrants.

But, in the epicenter of a pandemic, the undocumented have never felt more alone.

They are losing loved ones but do not qualify for city funding to help bury them. They are getting sick but hesitating to get tested or go to the hospital, balancing their fear of the virus with their fear of exposure to immigration authorities. They are worried about supporting their families abroad as well as those who live with them, weighing whether to keep working perilous jobs or to stay home and somehow keep food on the table.

They’ve experienced separation, but not like this — out in the world, in a skeleton crew, wearing a mask to deliver food to closed doors; in cramped apartments, sectioned off, in an attempt to quarantine. They are divided across national borders as family members die, praying novenas on Google Hangouts. Their bodies cannot be buried, intact, where they were born; they move from hospital bed, to refrigerated truck, to incinerator.

ProPublica interviewed two dozen undocumented Latino immigrants and their families about their experiences with death, illness and survival. Some spoke on the condition of anonymity, afraid of being targeted. Others allowed us to use their first names or the full names of their family members who died.

One kitchen worker from the Bronx worked in the World Trade Center two decades ago. “We used to fill the back elevators of those towers,” he said. He lost friends on Sept. 11, 2001, who were not identified or acknowledged among the dead because their names did not match those on record or their families were unable to claim the bodies.

He and others spoke to ProPublica because this time they wanted their experiences to be counted as part of the story of their city, overtaken by a virus.

Barriers to a Proper Burial

Adrian Hernandez Lopez, 38, never planned to stay in New York City. His 15 year stint here was dotted with visits to his family in Mexico, for the baptism of his son, who is now almost a teen, and to check on the house he had been sending his paychecks to build.

He and brother worked at an Italian restaurant in Times Square. “We were always together,” his brother said. They crossed the border together and, years later, commuted together from Queens to midtown Manhattan.

The last time they spoke by phone, Lopez waited in agony in a hard chair at Elmhurst Hospital, breathing in oxygen from a machine. He was transferred to Woodhull Hospital in Brooklyn. One day later, the father of two wound up in a vegetative state.

He died on April 2. His mother, who lives in Allende, a small village in the state of Puebla, wants him buried there, alongside two babies she lost just after birth.

He can’t be traditionally buried, despite the strong Mexican custom. More than 400 Mexican migrants are known to have died of COVID-19 in the New York area, but for health reasons, Mexico will only accept their bodies if they are cremated.

In place of seeing the body one last time, Lopez’s brother was sent photos by the funeral home, which will hold the cremains while the family figures out how to get them to Mexico.

The Mexican Consulate pledged financial aid to the families of nationals who died of COVID-19 complications, but it has been slow to materialize. According to Lopez’s brother, they’ve been asked to follow guidelines to receive a reimbursement. The Consulate General’s office in New York said it was not authorized by the Mexican government to give interviews at the time of our request for comment.

The city of New York provides burial assistance, but it requires a Social Security number for both the deceased and the person requesting funds. City officials say they are limited by federal and state law in the help they can offer. “We are exploring every possible option to ensure that all New Yorkers, regardless of immigration status, are able to bury their loved ones in the way they feel is most fitting,” city spokesperson Avery Cohen said.

Two members of the City Council have called for an emergency fund to provide assistance to all low-income families, including the undocumented.

“One of the most devastating calls I’m regularly getting is from people who can’t afford to bury their loved ones and aren’t eligible for any assistance,” Council Member Francisco Moya said in a release. “That’s simply not acceptable.”

Lopez’s family is one of several raising money for the transport and burial of their loved one who died in the United States.

As he tries to figure out how to send Lopez home, his brother sits in the small apartment they shared in Queens, with his wife and 6-year-old daughter, listening to the sirens that have become a constant reminder of their loss. He and his wife have been out of work for a month. They don’t know how they will pay the rent.

Deterred From Seeking Care

More than a dozen undocumented people told ProPublica that when they got sick, they stayed home, deterred from seeking care by the worry that they would not get it if they tried. They faced the same obstacles as everyone else in New York, where hospitals were crowded and unsafe, and feared additional ones involving their immigration status.

Fani lives in East Harlem. Over the last 18 years, she’s worked at a laundromat and a factory, a restaurant and as a babysitter. When she and her husband got sick they called 311. She said the voice on the other end confirmed their COVID-19 symptoms and told them to stay home unless they couldn’t breathe.

“They said there were no beds, no respirators. We healed each other as best we could with soups, teas and Tylenol,” she said.

Sonia, who became ill with COVID-19 symptoms almost three weeks ago, was afraid to go to the hospital. “I knew several people who went into the hospital with symptoms and they never came back,” she said. “That was my fear and why I decided to not go in. I preferred to isolate myself at home, with a lot of home remedies and hot teas.”

Multiple people said they knew hospitals had limited resources and worried they would be placed last in line for care because they were undocumented. “They’re going to let us die,” one man told his brother. A woman named Yogi in the Bronx said, “It might not be that they don’t want to treat us, maybe there weren’t enough supplies.”

Stories rippled through the Latino community about those who had difficulty getting care and those who could not be saved. According to a recent poll of voters in New York City, more than half of Latinos there said they know someone who died, the highest percentage of any group asked.

They hear stories about people like Juan Leonardo Torres, a 65-year-old retired doorman who knew someone on every corner of Corona, Queens. Unlike the others, Torres, from the Dominican Republic, was a citizen. Even so, he grew discouraged when he tried to get care.

Within one week at the end of March, Torres had gone from feeling slightly ill to experiencing difficulty breathing and fevers that his wife Mindy tried to manage using herbs and other “remedios caseros,” or home remedies. She and her five sons who lived with them finally persuaded him to go to Long Island Jewish Medical Center Forest Hills, just a five-minute drive from the house.

When Torres arrived, he told his family there were not enough seats in the crowded emergency room. He gave his chair up to an older woman and stood for hours as staff connected and disconnected him to an oxygen tank.

Fifteen hours later, on a drizzly night, Torres appeared at the door of the family home. It was 2:30 a.m. He had made the walk alone and declared in Spanish, “For no reason do I want to go to the hospital to die like a dog.”

He spent the next three days quarantined in his son’s room, where he died.

As the family waited six hours for his body to be retrieved, his wife sat in the living room “like a statue.”

Calculating Survival

Unable to qualify for relief programs like unemployment and stimulus cash, undocumented people are faced with the difficult choice of working dangerous jobs or running out of the money they need for essentials like food and housing.

“The little we have goes to food,” said Berenice, who suffers from kidney problems and whose son struggles with asthma. She’s been home for weeks along with her husband Luis, who before the pandemic worked at a cab company.

“Yes, we need money, but there is also our health,” Berenice said. “We have family who are sick and friends who died. We are trying to survive.”

Luis has lived in New York for 18 years, working his way up from delivering pizza on a bicycle to owning a cab. He worries about exposing his wife and son. “I just want this to pass and we’ll see about starting over again,” he said.

Adan lives in the Bronx with his two teenage sons, who were born in New York City, and his wife. She cleaned homes. He worked in a restaurant in East Harlem. Neither are working and both overcame COVID-19. “The little money we had went to pay last month’s rent,” he said. “I don’t know what to do, we just want to work.”

He said his landlord always comes looking for the rent in person. He told “el señor” that he’s spending all his money on food. The man gave him flyers about unemployment, but Adan knows he won’t qualify. “Me las voy a ver duras,” he said. He’s going to see hard times. He said he has lived in the same building for 11 years and has never missed a payment. Even though he can’t be evicted now, he said, “the debt will be there.”

Adding to the pressure, for some, is that they also work to support family members in their home countries, who count on the money they send.

One delivery worker in Queens sends $400 to Mexico every two weeks to help his son, who studies biomedicine at a university in Puebla; that helps him cover what he needs for school, including rent and transportation. He sends another $300 each month to his elderly mother.

He said he remains one of only a few bicycle delivery workers at his diner who are still on the job, and he is seeing more orders than usual. He’s always worked six days a week, but this past month was so busy, he couldn’t stop to eat lunch or take breaks.

He would much rather be outside than at home, but the streets feel tense. “I feel strange not seeing anyone or saying hi anymore, but I think it’s much better this way,” he said. “I understand why people are afraid.”

Even though he doesn’t see them in the buildings he visits, customers have been conscious about leaving tips in envelopes. He feels grateful as he passes the long lines in Queens of those waiting for free food. It makes him sad to know how many need it now.

He rents a room in an apartment he shares with three other men who have all lost their jobs. One was in construction, the other two in restaurants. He takes precautions to keep them safe when he comes home, including changing his clothes before coming in. “It would be irresponsible not to,” he said.

He hopes the rules of social distancing, and his mask and gloves, will protect him. “I’m not scared,” he said. “If you are afraid all the time, you will get sick faster.”

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by Wendi C. Thomas, MLK50: Justice Through Journalism

MEMPHIS, Tenn. — On her first day at her new warehouse job, Daria Meeks assumed the business would provide face coverings. It didn’t.

She assumed her fellow workers would be spread out to account for the new coronavirus. They weren’t.

There wasn’t even soap in the bathroom.

Instead, on March 28, her first day at PFS, which packages and ships makeup and jewelry, Meeks found herself standing alongside four other new workers at a station the size of a card table as a trainer showed them how to properly tuck tissue paper into gift boxes.

The following day, Meeks, 29, was just two hours into her shift when she heard that a worker had thrown up.

“They said her blood pressure had went up and she was just nauseated, but when we turned around, everybody who was permanent that worked for PFS had on gloves and masks,” Meeks said.

Temporary workers like her weren’t offered either.

Since then, workers have been told twice that coworkers have tested positive for the coronavirus. The first time was April 10 at a warehouse just across the state line in Southaven, Mississippi. The next was April 16 at the warehouse in southeast Memphis where Meeks worked, several temporary and permanent workers told MLK50: Justice Through Journalism and ProPublica.

In interviews, the workers complained of a crowded environment where they shared devices and weren’t provided personal protective equipment. The company has about 500 employees at its four Memphis-area locations, according to the Memphis Business Journal.

In right-to-work states such as Tennessee and Mississippi, where union membership is low, manual laborers have long said they are vulnerable, and workers’ rights advocates say the global pandemic has underscored just how few protections they have.

A spokesman for Tennessee’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration confirmed that the department received an anonymous complaint about PFS in April.

“A few of (sic) people have tested positive for Covid-19 and the company has not taken precaution to prevent employees from contracting the coronavirus,” the complainant wrote. “As of today (04/13/2020) no one have (sic) come to clean or sanitize the building.”

In response, the spokesman said TOSHA sent the company a letter “informing them of measures they may take to help prevent the spread of COVID-19.”

PFS did not answer specific questions about the number of workers infected at its facilities or about specific precautions it takes. Instead the company released a short statement that said PFS “is committed to the safety and well-being of its employees.” It also said it performs temperature checks at the door and supplies workers with masks, gloves and face shields.

But workers said none of these measures were in effect as late as the middle of April, when Shelby County, Tennessee, and DeSoto County, Mississippi, each home to two PFS facilities, were reporting more than 1,600 coronavirus infections and 30 deaths. (As of Friday, there are more than 2,750 infections and 50 deaths in the two counties.) A current employee said the company now provides gloves and masks, but they’re optional, as are the temperature checks.

When Meeks started at PFS, cases in the county were still at a trickle. But she didn’t stick around long.

On her third day at work, workers were split into two groups for lunch, but the break room was still full. “You could barely pull out a chair, that’s how crowded it was,” she said. “Everybody was shoulder to shoulder.”

Meeks said she asked the security guard at the front desk if she could eat her lunch in the empty lobby but was told no.

“I said, this is just not going to work,” said Meeks, who was paid $9 an hour. “You got different people coughing, sneezing, allergies — you never know what’s going on with a person.”

She left during her break and didn’t come back.

Economy Dominated by Low-Wage Industry, Jobs

In cities across the country, workers at Amazon facilities and other warehouses have been infected with COVID-19, as have workers at meatpacking plants nationwide.

What makes Memphis different is the outsized share of the workforce in the logistics industry, which includes warehouses and distribution centers.

The Greater Memphis Chamber of Commerce boasts on its website that the logistics industry employs 1 in 6 workers in the Memphis metro area, a higher share than anywhere else in the country.

The high concentration of these low-wage jobs is a testament to the city’s decades-old campaign to brand itself as “America’s Distribution Center.” Memphis is home to FedEx’s headquarters and its world distribution hub, which is undergoing a $1.5 billion expansion, as well as to Nike’s largest global distribution center, a sprawling 2.8 million-square-foot facility.

According to 2019 data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, more than 58,000 workers in the Memphis metro area fill and stock orders, package materials and move materials by hand.

In Memphis, workers at distribution centers for FedEx, Nike and Kroger have tested positive for the coronavirus. The Shelby County Health Department received 64 complaints about businesses between April 1 and April 29, but could not say how many were about warehouses.

Interim guidance from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention calls for employers to notify workers of positive cases. But it is voluntary. The federal OSHA has no such requirement, and neither does Tennessee’s OSHA.

Although Congress passed the Families First Coronavirus Response Act, which provides two weeks paid sick leave for coronavirus-affected or infected workers, it doesn’t apply to many warehouse and temporary employees, said Laura Padin, senior staff attorney at the Washington-based National Employment Law Project, which advocates for better public policy for workers, particularly low-wage workers.

“The big issue is that it exempts so many employers, especially employers with over 500 employees,” Padin said. “And the vast majority of temp workers and many warehouse workers work for employers with more than 500 employees.”

The coronavirus has disproportionately affected people of color, the very group that makes up the bulk of the warehouse and temporary workforce.

“Black workers make up 12% of the workforce but 26% of temp workers, and Latino workers make up 16% of the workforce but 25% of temp workers,” said Padin, citing Bureau of Labor Statistics data released in 2018.

Add to that the yawning racial wealth gap and low-wage workers like Meeks are in an untenable situation, Padin said.

“They either stay home and they risk their financial security,” Padin said, “or they go to work and risk their lives.”

“You Can Always Go Back”

With 1.45 million square feet of warehouse space among its four area locations, PFS is the ninth-largest third-party distribution operation in the metro area, according to the Memphis Business Journal’s 2020 Book of Lists. PFS doesn’t sell products under its own name but rather fulfills orders for better-known companies.

Pandora, which is perhaps best known for its charm bracelets, is one of PFS’s clients. “Each item shipped for PANDORA is wrapped in customized, branded, and sometimes seasonal packing materials, making every purchase a gift,” PFS’s website says.

Meeks’ favorite part of her job was taking each customer’s personal message, tucking it into a tiny envelope and then into the gift package.

“When we were sending out these Pandora bracelets and these Chanel gifts, I sat there and read all my cards,” said Meeks, who like all of the workers interviewed for this story, is black. “They were so cute.”

One Pandora customer sent a note to “beloved mother,” Meeks said, and another seemed to be from someone in a long-distance relationship.

“He was like: Even though I’m miles and miles away, I always think about you,” Meeks said. He wrote that he hoped the jewelry would “glitter in your eyes, or something like that.”

The day Meeks quit PFS, she said she called Prestigious Placement, the temporary agency that sent her there, asking for another job.

The temporary agency representative “was like, ‘Well, you can always go back to PFS until we get something else,’ and I was like, ‘No.’”

“She said, ‘Well, we haven’t had anyone to get sick,’” Meeks recalled.

Meeks said she tried to explain that regardless of whether some workers had tested positive, the company wasn’t taking enough steps, in her opinion, to keep current workers safe.

The representative said she’d ask the agency’s on-site manager about Meeks’ concerns, but Meeks said that there was no on-site manager present on her second or third day.

Prestigious Placement did not respond to multiple requests for comment for this story.

A local labor leader said Meeks’ experience illustrates the tough situation for temporary workers at warehouses.

“They tend not to have benefits, sick time and insurance and all the things that allow us to keep our whole community safe during a pandemic,” said Jeffrey Lichtenstein, executive secretary of the Memphis Labor Council, a federation of around 40 union locals.

Unlike companies such as Nike and FedEx, which have reputations to protect, the general public doesn’t know who PFS is or what it does, he said. “They have no brand vulnerability,” he said.

With little leverage to exert on businesses, these workers are up against a regional business model that mires them in dead-end, low-wage jobs, Lichtenstein said.

The city’s power brokers, he said, “have a couple of main tenets of their economic philosophy. One, logistics is really, really important, and two, cheap labor is very, very important.”

“Nothing Essential About It”

Memphis Mayor Jim Strickland issued a “Safer At Home” executive order on March 23, mirroring those put in place elsewhere. But the order specifically exempted warehouses and distribution centers from COVID-19 restrictions.

PFS gave workers a letter that cited Strickland’s order and the U.S. Department of Homeland Security’s guidance that “transportation and logistics are deemed a critical infrastructure that must be maintained during the COVID-19 crisis,” according to a copy reviewed by MLK50.

If they were stopped by authorities on the way to work, employees were told, this letter would ease their passage.

Some workers questioned whether the distribution center should be open at all.

“I don’t see nothing essential about it,” said one employee who asked to remain anonymous for fear she’d be fired for talking to a journalist. “It don’t got nothing to do with nurses or health.”

When a worker tested positive at a PFS distribution center in southeast Memphis, the employee, who worked at a Southaven, Mississippi, location about eight miles away, worried that the virus could spread if workers were shuffled between sites.

A manager assured her that workers would stay put, the employee said. But on April 16, a supervisor told workers that two Memphis workers, who had been brought in to the employee’s Southaven facility, had tested positive for the coronavirus.

“I said, ‘Well, since y’all got everybody in here messed up, can’t you call and get everyone in there a COVID-19 test?’” she remembered. “They said if you don’t feel safe, you can go home.”

She can’t risk taking the virus home to a relative, who has chronic illnesses, and she can’t afford not to work. “I’m concerned for my health,” she said. “I don’t want to die.”

Padin, who works with workers’ rights centers across the country, said she’s not aware of much being done by advocates to narrow the list of businesses considered essential. “I do think some of these essential worker orders are quite broad,” she said. “Our sense is that it’s a little arbitrary and just seems to be a result of lobbying.”

She pointed to the success of meat processing plants, which were declared “critical infrastructure” by President Donald Trump despite coronavirus outbreaks that sickened thousands and killed dozens.

Days before Trump’s declaration, meatpacking giant Tyson ran a full-page ad in The New York Times saying “The food supply chain is breaking.”

In Memphis, an amended executive order, signed by the mayor April 21, clarified which distribution centers and warehouses could remain in operation, including ones that handle medical supplies, food and hygiene products.

The order would seem to exclude facilities such as PFS. “Products and services for and in industries that are not otherwise identified in this provision constitute non-essential goods and services,” reads the order, which is set to expire at midnight Tuesday. On Monday, Memphis will move into the first phase of its “Back to Business” plan, which means nonessential businesses can operate with face masks, social distancing in the workplace, and symptom checks.

“No Social Distancing”

Because the turnover in warehouses like PFS is high, the need for a steady flow of labor is paramount. And temp agencies are a major source of employees.

One Memphis mother saw a job posting on Facebook for PFS. A family member’s workplace had closed because of the coronavirus, so the woman rushed to find work to make up for the lost household income. She was hired in late March by Paramount Staffing and sent to a warehouse in Southaven, Mississippi. She wanted to remain anonymous for fear of job retaliation.

From the moment workers entered the building, she said, they were close together. A single-file line funneled workers past several time clocks, one for PFS’s permanent workers and one for each staffing agency with temporary workers there.

“Some people have masks on, some don’t,” said the worker, who earned $9 an hour. Workers weren’t provided any personal protective equipment.

She opted to be a packer, a mostly stationary job, but she had to use a shared tape dispenser to seal boxes and her co-workers were within arm’s reach.

Her other job option was as a picker, but they’re in motion most of the shift, selecting products for individual orders from totes and using a shared scan gun. Pickers send the completed orders to packers.

“It’s basically no social distancing at that warehouse,” she said. “They’re gonna have to work on that.”

About two hours before her shift ended April 10, a manager huddled workers in her area together for an announcement.

“He said, ‘Well, we’re just letting y’all know that we have an employee here who tested positive and we are asking everyone here to leave the building immediately and we will clock y’all out,’” the worker recalled.

The manager instructed them not to touch anything as they left, “just go straight out the door and we will let y’all know when to return,” she recalled.

The warehouse was closed for the next day and reopened the following day.

“It makes me nervous because my health is important to me, but at the same time, it’s like that’s the only thing I can do right now,” she said.

She’s grateful for the job but insists she won’t be there long. “I’m going to try to get in a couple more checks and then I’m going to quit.”

She left about a week ago, but hasn’t found another job yet.

Paramount Staffing, which sent the worker to PFS, relies on the client to provide personal protective equipment to workers, said company president Matthew Schubert.

“My understanding is that they’ve been taking temperatures as employees walk in,” Schubert said, plus performing more frequent cleanings and coaching the workers on social distancing, but he acknowledged he didn’t know when any of those measures began.

“What we want to make sure is that they’re doing everything in their power to follow the CDC guidelines,” said Schubert, who estimates Paramount has 75 to 80 workers at PFS’s area warehouses.

“We’re limited as to what we can and cannot do, because it’s not our facility.”

Both Lichtenstein and Padin say it’s the worksite employer’s responsibility to provide personal protective equipment.

A Perfect Combination: Higher Pay and Less Risk

Just days after Meeks quit PFS, she turned to a different agency and was sent to a Memphis warehouse that labels and ships cleaning products.

Her first day was April 17, and she was impressed by the precautions the employer takes.

Before workers enter the building, Meeks said, their temperatures are taken in a white tent outside. If they don’t have a fever, they get a wristband that is a different color each day.

The company provides masks, gloves and goggles, she said, and there are even kickstands on the bathroom doors, so they can be opened by foot.

Working the third shift means fewer people, Meeks said. “We’re not working close to each other.”

Meeks said she wouldn’t put a price on her health, but at her new job, the risks are lower and the pay higher — up from $9 to $11.50 an hour.

Wendi C. Thomas is the editor of MLK50: Justice Through Journalism. Email her at wendicthomas@mlk50.com and follow her on Twitter at @wendi_c_thomas.

Do you work at a warehouse or distribution center in the Memphis area? MLK50 and ProPublica want to hear from you.

• Call or text us: (901) 633-3638
• Email us: memphis@propublica.org

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by Justin Elliott, Paul Kiel and Lydia DePillis

Through programs like the Small Business Administration’s Paycheck Protection Program and the Federal Reserve’s Main Street Lending Program, the federal government is deploying hundreds of billions of dollars in grants, loans and bond purchases to help businesses amid the coronavirus-sparked economic crisis. Each program comes with different strings, but their basic purpose is to keep workers on the payroll.

We want to know what this means for your workplace. How has your company treated its workers during the crisis? Have you or your colleagues been laid off, furloughed or otherwise affected? Have you seen money used in surprising ways? What do you think we should be reporting on?

We are the only ones reading what you submit. If you would prefer to use an encrypted app, here is what we suggest. Send questions to bailout@propublica.org.

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You can learn a bit more about the expanded services here, or simply complete the "Contact Form" to request a free initial consultation.

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