JOBBED ACTION: J.C., a 33-year-old who came from Nicaragua 14 years ago, says his boss fired him for "el paro" after saying the worst fate he'd suffer was a warning.

But when 12 workers from three different businesses were fired anyway, the organizers went to plan B: They tried again to engage the business owners, and then brought in lawyers to pressure them. The attorneys looked for labor or wage violations that they could report to authorities. Though they won't discuss the details, organizers have found some form of leverage for nine of the 12 dismissed employees, and are working to get them their jobs back. That leaves three workers for whom el paro has proved to be a considerable sacrifice.

Their names are J.C., Nohemy and Oscar. Until Feb. 15, they worked for the Philadelphia's American Cable Company. All three were "group leaders," low-level supervisors charged with monitoring small teams of co-workers at the North Philadelphia factory where they manufactured cables for heavy machinery.

J.C., a tall, 33-year-old Nicaraguan, came to the United States 14 years ago on a visa, and stayed after it expired. Nohemy, a Guatemalan single mother of two, came more than nine years ago, and also lacks documentation. (Oscar couldn't be reached for comment.) Both J.C. and Nohemy had worked for American Cable for six years. They say that the schedule at the factory was good and camaraderie amongst the largely Latino workforce was enjoyable, but pay was bad. J.C. started out at $7 an hour and waited a long time for his first raise. As a group leader, made just $8.75.

A few days before el paro, several workers at American Cable informed their employer that they planned to take off on Valentine's Day to protest the Border Protection, Anti-Terrorism and Illegal Immigration Control Act, a bill that had already passed the House and would make it an aggravated felony to be or assist an illegal immigrant. They say their boss, a second-generation owner named Carlos Gonzalez Jr., who is Cuban, sent a surrogate to inform the supervisors that if they missed that day, they would receive a warning.

Both J.C. and Nohemy objected, saying they had personal, vacation and sick time coming to them. (J.C. still carries around his last pay stub, from Feb. 10, which indicates that he had 24.3 hours of personal time to draw from.) But they say they were told, "That's your problem."

"He wanted to ship his parts," J.C. says. "How you gonna ship your parts" if nobody comes to work?

The three decided to attend the protest and accept the warning. When they reported for work the next day, the surrogate told them "not to touch anything," because Gonzalez wanted to speak with them. They went to the boss's office, where "Carlos Jr.," as he is known within the company, declined to address them directly.

"I don't want to talk to them," he said to a third party. "They no longer have any work."

Nohemy was shocked.

"I worked six years for him, I had never received a warning," she says through a translator. "He just threw me away like nothing."

After the dismissals, a lawyer working pro bono with the paro organizers contacted Gonzalez, and was referred to American Cable's attorney. But the company appears not to have any labor violations, and its legal representative did not seem fazed by the threat of bad publicity. According to the organizers' lawyer—who asked to remain anonymous—the attorney said, "We won't be getting back to you."

The situation has left the paro organizers distressed, both because they feel responsible and because word of the firings could stymie future protest efforts.

"This was a life-changing event," says Ricardo Diaz, a spokesman for the organizers. "We were asking people to put their families, their income, and even their stay here in the U.S. at risk. It's one thing to say come to my party, come to my event. But we've got to take care of these people."

Across the nation, immigrant advocates are finding that if threats of public exposure fail and the employer has no outstanding violations, they have little legal leverage. At-will employees can be fired at almost any time, and employers can only be fined for hiring illegal workers if it can be proved they were aware of the employee's legal status.

Meanwhile, Nohemy and J.C. bear the anger of the freshly betrayed. Because of Gonzalez's immigrant heritage, Nohemy says, "He should be able to put himself in our place."

J.C. thinks the owner's nationality has affected his viewpoint in a different way: "He thinks he's in Cuba."

Gonzalez did not return calls seeking comment, but J.C. and Nohemy believe he intended to "make an example" of them. The boss couldn't fire everyone who attended the protest (J.C. estimates there were at least 10 others), because he would lose money while replacing them. So, he tried to send a message. Nohemy hopes he did not succeed. She has found work cleaning schools, and though the hours are harder than at American Cable, she wants her former co-workers to know that they shouldn't let themselves be pushed around. J.C. has not found work, but echoes her thoughts.

"I don't regret what I did," he says. "If I have to lose another job to go support [immigrant rights], I would do it again."

A shift has just ended at the American Cable factory, and a flood of people, almost all of whom appear to be Latino, spills out into the parking lot of the low-slung building. They travel on bikes, on foot and in car pools, blasting Latin music out of the windows. They shout farewells to one another in Spanish. One young man, a Puerto Rican, says that the plight of the three supervisors is well known around the plant.

"It ain't no mystery," he says, though the details he offers are different. "He told them 'if you go, you getting fired.' Other people got suspended."

Asked whether the owner had succeeded in "making an example" of his three former supervisors, the man appears amused, as if the answer couldn't be more obvious.

"Fuckin' right," he says. "People are scared."