Eduardo Gutierrez was stepping lightly. It was a spring evening in 2005. He had just picked up a chicken dinner at Popeye's on the corner of Fayette and Broadway and was heading home after a long day spent painting houses. In his wallet, he had $200—two days' wages.

Then Gutierrez, whose name has been changed for this article, heard footsteps behind him. When he turned and saw a man sprinting in his direction, he moved to the edge of the sidewalk to give the man room to pass. An instant later he was jarred to the concrete, an arm around his throat and a fist in his side. He looked down to see the feathers from his down jacket exploding into the air. His attacker had a knife and was trying to stab him.

"I thought, ‘This is it, I am going to die,'" Gutierrez says. "I could only think of my daughters." He had come to the United States from Honduras in 2001, when they were just 3 and 6, to earn higher wages that he could send home to them. As he lay sprawled on the cold concrete, he was convinced that he had seen their faces for the last time.

The attacker dragged Gutierrez to his feet, with the knife held against his side. A woman appeared, punched him in the mouth, and ripped the chicken dinner from his hand. The man took his wallet. Finally, Gutierrez was able to break free and escape, largely unharmed.

 Asked if he notified police of the attack, Gutierrez replies, "No. What's the point?"

Crime targeting Hispanic immigrants made headlines last May, when a 19-year-old Guatemalan man named Carlos Adolfo Santay-Carillo was stabbed to death at a Catonsville gas station while on the way to the hospital for the birth of his son. But for every crime that makes headlines, Gutierrez says there are dozens that go unreported. He says his girlfriend's purse was snatched by a group of adolescents, one brandishing a knife, while he struggled to unlock his front door. His girlfriend's son was smacked in the mouth with a pipe, losing three teeth. A friend and fellow Honduran has been attacked four times in the past three years, Gutierrez says, most recently by a group of eight men just steps from his house near Patterson Park.

Hispanic immigrants are frequently targeted for street crime in American cities. Day laborers operate in a shadow economy, where they are often paid under the table, in cash. Many are in the country illegally and are reluctant to use U.S. banks or report crime to the police for fear of deportation. In neighborhoods like Upper Fells Point, home to many of Baltimore's new Hispanic residents, Friday is payday and the worst day to be caught in the street; predators know their pockets are full.

Immigrants' rights groups point out that the federal and state governments, as well as local police, have an obligation to protect people whether they're in this country legally or not. In 2000, Congress passed a law that promised visas to immigrant crime victims who aided police investigations. But this February, the Associated Press reported that while more than 13,000 immigrants had agreed to cooperate, only 65 had received visas, known as "U visas," in return.

"I think the biggest barrier to educating the immigrant community about U visas and their rights as victims of crime is the fundamental lack of trust that members of this community have for the police department," says Elizabeth Alex, senior manager of the Baltimore office of CASA de Maryland, the state's largest immigrant advocacy group.

Baltimore City Police Department spokesperson Anthony Guglielmi says both the police department and the mayor's office have Hispanic liaisons—and that city police leave federal law enforcement up to federal officials. "There are agencies that do immigration. There are agencies that do policing on the streets," Guglielmi says. "We like to stay in our lane."

In other cities, bridging the gap between immigrants and law enforcement has generated some creative thinking. The Hispanic Interest Coalition of Alabama, based in Birmingham, set up a 24-hour Spanish language crime victim hotline that helped solve the murders of five Hispanic men last August. Fairfax County, Virginia, Police Chief David Rohrer has created "citizen police academies" to teach immigrants about what police do, how to report crimes, and how to file complaints against officers if necessary. And the federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency has mounted a national billboard campaign called "Hidden In Plain Sight," which encourages citizens to report suspected human trafficking.

Here in Baltimore, the city State's Attorney's Office last August hired Evelyn Vargas, a bilingual advocate, to help immigrant crime victims access the city's legal system. Vargas visits victims in hospitals, helps them navigate the courts, and runs workshops designed to help recent immigrants avoid being targeted for street crime. In October, her office sponsored a forum that drew police, service providers, clergy, community leaders, and concerned citizens. As a result, Vargas says that more victims are contacting her for assistance, and forums are being planned across the city.

Still, as the Hispanic population in the city continues to grow (Elizabeth Alex estimates that there are 22,000 Hispanics living in Baltimore), mistrust of the criminal justice system persists. "We are collaborating with the police department, the schools, the community centers, even attending festivals to educate the Latino community on the options that are available to them," Vargas says. "The need is huge."

On a bright Saturday morning in February, a crowd of mostly Hispanic men gather at the 7-Eleven on South Broadway, huddling in small groups, waiting for a work truck to pull in and offer a day's work. These men have been deceived many times, and the presence of a reporter with a notepad draws hard stares. But slowly, they begin to tell their stories—stories of being cheated out of a day's work, of having their homes invaded, their relatives attacked. The prevailing sentiment is that the Hispanic immigrant community is completely ignored.

"It is good that we are talking to him," a man named Leonel says of the reporter. "Maybe someone will help us."

 —Jason Policastro

Andres Bobadilla translated interviews for this story.