The locals know this place as a run-down and abandoned car-factory that downsized over four-hundred workers just before it outsourced its production to their new facility in Mexico to cut costs some ten years ago. The huge facility has lain dormant for many years, home to street-urchins and small-time gang-bangers. Until the Haitians moved in and started running everyone off.

There are still dust-covered remnants of machinery and conveyor-belts that were cheaper to replace than move, spattered with graffiti, urine and garbage. There are several large, deep concrete pits in the floor, small workshops for assembling the underbellies of the automobiles. Some once held large welding robots, others held small groups of indentured servants, toiling away for just enough money to survive and the unfulfilled hopes of working hard enough to be transferred to a cushier job in the plant.

On the North-side of the long, rectangular building, stretching the length of the warehouse on the ground-floor, is the old supply-barn. Metered out with an open service counter every ten feet where workers could petition for a new pair of gloves or safety glasses, welding hoods or thick leather smocks, so long as they had the defective PPE, otherwise it came out of their paycheck.

There is a galvanized-steel staircase, now rusted and dilapidated, leading up to the single door of the offices above the supply-barn, with their cold, one-way glass. Behind them lay a single row of connected rooms, seldom seen by the lowly workers, which once hosted the managerial staff. Sometimes the door would open briefly and a soft burst of air-conditioned coolness would tumble down the stairs into the sweltering heat on the production floor. If not for this small indicator and the occasional, toad-like go-betweens which served as middle management, one might not have even known the rooms were there, hidden behind the mobile cranes tied into the steel rafters above.