Mi Casa Is Not Tu Casa

That's the main gripe.

There are others, though.

It's a given that these protesters resent having to press "1" for English. "The Roman Empire fell [in part because] it wouldn't insist that people speak their language," Bob says.

Then there are the health issues. "Did you know that leprosy is making a comeback in this country?" asks John Barber, an unsmiling, mustached man in jean shorts.

If that doesn't get you aboard, how about this? "Thirteen Americans a day are killed by illegal immigrant drivers," Barber says.

Of course, it all plays out in the panorama of global politics. The government's "lax" stance toward illegal immigrants, one protester says, is part of a secret plan to combine the United States, Canada, and Mexico into one country.

Every weekend since December, 20 to 100 like-minded individuals have gathered with picket signs in the hot sun on the corner of Military Trail and Indiantown Road. Just behind the protesters stands the source of their discontent: a sizable two-story white building on town property. This is El Sol. Every morning around 6:30, scores of young to middle-aged men, mostly of Hispanic descent, begin the trek over here in hopes of being chosen for a day labor assignment — usually light construction or landscaping. It's a veritable invasion. An army of short, dark people on bicycles.

The protesters allege that most of the day laborers are illegal immigrants. They argue that by leasing the building to El Sol for just $1 a year, the Town of Jupiter is violating state and federal laws. Florida Statutes — specifically Title XXXI, Chapter 448.09 — states that "it shall be unlawful for any person knowingly to employ, hire, recruit, or refer ... an alien who is not duly authorized to work" in the United States. U.S. Code — Title 8, Chapter 12, Subchapter II, Part VIII — says it's against the law "to hire, or to recruit, or refer for a fee... an alien knowing the alien is an unauthorized alien."

It's plain as day. Liberals can yap all they want about human rights or cultural sensitivity but, as one of the protesters' signs says, "Illegal Means Illegal."

The city's position is that it is doing nothing more than leasing space to a nonprofit organization. Staff at the nonprofit say they are performing a community service by providing a safe, centralized locale for matching workers with jobs. They don't even check workers' immigration status. The federal government, for the most part, stays out of it, and local police simply keep the peace.

To the protesters, it's as though all the authorities are sticking their fingers in their ears, saying, "Na Na Na Na I can't hear you!"

Not sure who to complain to anymore, the protesters take to the street corner, where they are bombarded with supportive honks and angry shouts. Tensions run high enough that four police officers keep watch nearby.

In the national discourse, immigration reform has become a political buzz point, especially during this presidential election season. Republican candidate Tom Tancredo made the matter central to his run for office, and television commentators like Lou Dobbs keep the issue in play by ranting about the deleterious effects of illegals on American life. In Jupiter, away from rehearsed campaign speeches or insulated sound stages, the drama plays out in real time, at street level.

Two of the protest's organizers — 78-year-old Charlie Elliott and 64-year-old John Parsons — recall how they met on a senior softball team and decided to organize rather than simply kvetch. They spread the word about protests through conservative radio talk shows and the nonprofit group Floridians for Immigration Enforcement (FLIMEN). Parsons ran for Town Council touting his anti-illegal-immigration stance but lost the election in March.

A curly haired man of about 30 drives up in a maroon Jeep Cherokee. He rolls down his window. "I think it's disgusting what you guys are doing out here," he tells the group of protesters, itching for an argument. His name is Eric, he says, and he hires day laborers regularly.

Elliott, clad in Bermuda shorts and white socks that cover his calves, marches over to the vehicle. He tugs his baseball cap and wipes his brow. This type of person confounds him. "Don't you care that laws are being broken?" he asks.

"If Americans would actually show up on time and don't steal —" Eric begins, leaning out the window of the Jeep.

Elliott groans in frustration. "An American could make $20 an hour," he cries, "except the illegals come in and you pay him ten!"

"If Americans want their jobs back," the contractor says, "they need to be more reliable, more efficient, trained better —"

"You're hiring the wrong person!" Parsons pipes in.

"These are the most productive workers in the country!"

"They've probably got the worst employer!" Elliott spits back.

"You want to pay $25, $30 to get your car washed? $250 to get your lawn done, when now you're getting it for $90?"

"Yeah! If you'd pay the proper benefits!" Elliott argues.

"Everyone here protesting is enjoying the benefits of them being in the country," the contractor argues back, his voice rising. "It's not right! You should not be intimidating them. They can't even ride down the street without being harassed. Get on the Americans for being lazy and worthless."

Those words are blasphemous. The crowd of protesters gathers around the truck. Three or four of them run to the back of it to jot down the license plate so they can report Eric — to somebody! — for hiring illegals.

"He has no license plate!" one of them cries.

"I knew you'd try something like that!" the contractor taunts, waving the plate from inside the cab but showing only its back side.

Charlie Elliott runs over to the policemen, pointing furiously.

Eric jumps out of his truck, its engine running, to show the cops that he indeed has a plate. Shaking his head, he jumps back in his vehicle and speeds off.

"He's getting rich off the illegals," Elliott mumbles breathlessly.

"Yeah," scoffs Parsons, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he eyeballs the truck peeling out of the parking lot. "The illegals bought him that SUV."

The inside of El Sol looks like a school cafeteria. Men — and four or five women — sit at tables and chat. Or they read newspapers. Some form a snaking line at a food window, where they are served free hot meals and coffee in Starbucks cups. Another line forms for a computer lab, where workers check email or take online English tutorials. Above the computers are signs in Spanish: "Don't use the computers for betting or pornography."

Occasionally, a number is called over a loudspeaker and a worker is selected through a raffle system to go off for work. By 2 p.m., though, most of the men are still sitting around. Chairs go up. Mops come out. An institutional smell, like Pine Sol, wafts through the air.

Before this center opened in 2006, workers would loiter on the side of the road, mostly on Center Street, in hopes they'd get picked up to do some yard work or construction. If a truck pulled over, 20 men might run up to it and jockey for the job. Scuffles occasionally broke out.

It was an untidy sight in this palmy bedroom community, where the median family income, according to Money magazine, is $74,756 a year, the big tourist attraction is a historical lighthouse, and many celebrities — like singer Celine Dion and race-car champ Jeff Gordon — have lived quietly. So the town opted to lease space in its municipal complex to Catholic Charities for $1 a year so the charity organization could open El Sol. Recently, the Catholics turned over management of the center to an independent nonprofit entity created to run it. It is funded entirely by private donations and has only three workers on staff.

Director Mike Richmond, a retired journalist, does not speak Spanish and says he doesn't know details about the laws that regulate immigrant workers. The arcane technicalities are irrelevant to the day-to-day task of running an outpost like El Sol, Richmond says. You want legal information? "You'd have to ask an immigration expert," he says.