El miedo paraliza. El frío cala. En Illinois, miles de trabajadores del campo, jardinería, restaurantes y remoción de nieve salen cada día sin saber si cobrarán lo justo o si un accidente les cambiará la vida. Alexandra mira ese panorama de frente y contesta con algo simple: “Sin importar su estado migratorio, ellos tienen derechos”.

Alexandra es directora ejecutiva de FLAP (Proyecto de Ayuda para Trabajadores del Campo y Jardineros). Nació en Colombia, trabajó en España, llegó a Estados Unidos con la convicción de honrar a su padre, abogado de trabajadores. Empezó como voluntaria, pasó por enlace comunitario y asistente legal, y hoy dirige la organización. Su motor es claro: demasiada gente calla por miedo a inmigración o por costumbre de “aguantarse”.

FLAP cubre todo Illinois y actúa en varias frentes: educación legal, representación gratuita, prevención de trata laboral y sexual, y puentes con consulados y coaliciones de inmigración. El foco son trabajadores de muy bajos ingresos en invernaderos, viveros, granjas, paisajismo, restaurantes, empacadoras y cuadrillas de nieve. La misión es concreta: mejorar condiciones y oportunidades sin cobrar y sin mirar estatus migratorio.

El alcance importa. Según los propios datos de FLAP, han educado a más de dos millones de personas sobre sus derechos, colaborado con más de 450 organizaciones y recuperado casi cinco millones de dólares en salarios y daños no pagados. También han realizado más de 120,000 presentaciones de “Conoce tus derechos”, entregado millones de piezas de protección personal en pandemia y canalizado ayuda económica y tecnológica a familias inmigrantes. La escala no es una estadística; es un salvavidas repetido miles de veces.

¿Cómo actúan en la calle? Con presencia. “Nuestro equipo va todos los días”, dice Alexandra. Visitan centros de trabajo, negocios y consulados. Forman talleres con aliados. Explican lo básico y lo urgente: derecho a salario mínimo legal, a que no les cobren uniformes ni herramientas de forma ilegal, a consultar con un abogado gratis, a recibir orientación si hay un accidente de auto o una mala práctica médica. Lo repite sin adornos: “Pueden hablar con el abogado… y ya ellos pueden decidir qué hacer”.

Hay confusiones que cuestan caro. Muchos creen que si se lesionan en el trabajo, demandan “al patrón” por encima de todo. Alexandra aclara un punto clave que suele destrabar decisiones: “Es el seguro el que paga por esto”. Por ley, los empleadores deben tener cobertura para accidentes laborales. Si alguien duda de que su jefe está asegurado, existen vías para investigar antes de moverse. La información primero; luego, la decisión.

La organización también responde a otro temor: el costo legal. En su esquema, la consulta es gratuita y muchos casos se llevan sin cobrar al cliente, salvo si hay recuperación. El mensaje busca romper la barrera cultural de “no decir nada”: pedir ayuda no empeora el estatus migratorio ni dispara un problema. Al contrario, evita que una deducción por uniforme o una cirugía mal hecha se convierta en ruina.

El trabajo no ocurre en silencio. FLAP participa en coaliciones como Access to Justice en Illinois, con decenas de organizaciones que brindan servicios migratorios gratuitos. Si una familia necesita un abogado de inmigración en Lake, DuPage, McHenry o el sur del estado, se le conecta con quien corresponde. Además, el equipo es bilingüe y multicultural. “Todos somos bilingües”, subraya Alexandra. Hablan el idioma de la comunidad y entienden sus códigos.

Un caso resume el impacto. Un jardinero cayó desde la troca mientras montaba árboles, se golpeó la cabeza y murió. La familia pudo recuperar daños. En otros expedientes, las deducciones por uniformes dejaron a trabajadores por debajo del salario mínimo, o una cirugía tocó la pierna equivocada. También llegan mujeres despedidas por estar embarazadas o sin...

You don’t become the first Latino elected countywide to the Illinois Appellate Court by accident. You don’t get there just because you want it. You get there because you know it’s yours long before anyone else believes it.

Justice Jesse Reyes didn’t come from privilege. He came from Pilsen. From a blue-collar family where stepping up wasn’t optional, it was expected. His stepfather asked him to delay college to support the household, and Justice Reyes did. But he didn’t quit. He took night classes at a junior college and stacked credits toward a four-year university. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t easy. But it was faithful.

Persistence was never something Jesse learned from books, it was forged in responsibility. In giving up sleep to read case law, in taking the bus when his Mustang broke down because textbooks mattered more than comfort. He learned early that life doesn’t hand you dreams, you wrestle them into existence. “Pursue your goal that you feel passionate about,” he says. “As long as it’s legal, pursue it. Because you’ll be doing it for the rest of your life.”

Before he wore the robe, Justice Reyes was showing up to trial courtrooms just to watch. He studied body language, listened to tone, absorbed cross-examinations. When he wasn’t reading historical biographies, he was in court observing litigators like a student at a concert hall. This wasn’t about chasing clout, it was about earning craft.

Even when people told him to aim lower, he didn’t flinch. A high school counselor told him college wasn’t for him. A law professor told him he’d never make it in trial law because he didn’t look the part; he wasn’t six feet tall, didn’t have blond hair or blue eyes. But Jesse didn’t argue. He went to court, tried cases, and sent every verdict back to the man who doubted him. “After a while,” he recalls, “he said, ‘Okay, I got it. You were right.’”

Justice Reyes didn’t just make it. He made a point. He gave back. He led the Latin American Bar Association. He founded the Latin American Bar Foundation. He visited schools, spoke to students, and told them what no one told him: You belong here.

As a justice, he carries more than legal authority - he carries lived truth. He knows what it’s like to be the only brown face in the courtroom. But he never saw it as alienation. “I belong here,” he says. “I worked hard to get here.” That belief became a shield and a sword.

Even now, his message hasn’t changed. Get educated. Know your rights. Keep a copy of the Constitution. Don’t wait until it’s too late to seek legal help. Above all, never let someone else’s doubt override your conviction - because Justice Reyes didn’t run for office to be the first. He ran so no one else would have to be the only.

Eduardo didn’t grow up planning to be a lawyer. There was no single moment when the dream clicked or the decision landed. It was more like something quiet that kept tugging at him, growing louder every time he saw his parents give to the community without asking anything in return. Both were public school teachers, and their posture toward the world, steadfast, giving, and grounded, formed the base of Eduardo’s world. So when it came time to choose a career, the choice was less about prestige and more about purpose.

Born in Puerto Rico and raised in the suburbs of Chicago, Eduardo’s story starts in an apartment he shared with his mother and another family. “Small beginnings,” he said, with a calm pride. It’s the kind of beginning that teaches you early on the value of grit, gratitude, and showing up. Now, years later, Eduardo runs his own law office, an independent legal firm grounded in values that go far beyond profit margins or settlements.

That commitment is most visible in his work on workers’ compensation cases. And if that sounds dry or transactional, you haven’t heard Eduardo speak about it. To him, it’s not about chasing checks, it’s about keeping families afloat. “They pay for your medical bills, 100%,” he explained. “No deductibles. No co-pays. Anything that helps you get better, to get back to work, they cover it.” He didn’t say it to flex. He said it because people need to know what’s already theirs.

Workers’ comp isn't glamorous. It doesn’t land on billboards or make headlines. But it matters, especially for the Latino community, where many families rely on manual labor and essential work to survive. “We’re not asking for accidents to happen,” Eduardo said. “But when they do, we need to be ready.” And readiness, in his eyes, means information, clear, accessible, and compassionate.

Eduardo doesn’t just process claims. He builds trust. “There’s no signup fee,” he said. “You don’t pay unless we win. And even then, the system’s designed so most of what comes back, comes back to the client.” That kind of transparency isn’t a tactic. It’s a principle. One rooted in community, not competition.

He knows what it’s like to balance paperwork with purpose, to manage staff, run a business, and still find time to serve. “The hardest part?” he said, “It’s doing everything that’s not law-related.” That includes making calls to people who may never become clients, simply to help them understand their options. Because to Eduardo, giving time is part of the job.

His voice lit up when talking about Bad Bunny, mofongo, or his mom’s coquito. But he turned serious again when discussing one of the biggest lies about work comp: that people don’t need a lawyer. “If you’re off work and you’ve had surgery, get help,” he said. “It’s not about gaming the system, it’s about protecting your ability to feed your family.”

When asked what he tells people who are afraid to file claims, his answer was simple. “Your ability to work is everything. If you lose that, what happens to your family?” For Eduardo, it's never been about fear, it’s about dignity. About having access to care even if you’re undocumented, uninsured, or unsure where to start.

His practice isn’t just a business, it’s a bridge. A way for people who often feel invisible to be seen, protected, and restored. Not because the law is perfect, but because someone cared enough to show up and fight for them.