by Michael Nava
Whether I would’ve voted for him or not, I thought his bill was a disaster and I had come to testify against it. As far as I was concerned, it was a mandate for police harassment in Latino and black communities, not that the cops needed much encouragement on that front. Only last year, members of the LAPD had been inadvertently videotaped as they pulled a black man out of his car and beat him senseless. His crime was failing to pull over with sufficient dispatch to receive a speeding ticket. The spin doctors in the department asserted “isolated incident,” but my clients had been telling me for years about being beaten for what defense lawyers called contempt of cop. I didn’t think it was a good idea to turn them loose on every poor black or Latino kid who gave them attitude. I had written a piece for the Times to that effect, and I was still getting hate calls three weeks later.
“Rios.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Tomas Ochoa lumbered toward me. He was tall, big-gutted and deliberately graceless as he clomped across the floor, forcing people out of his way. He came up to me like an old friend, crowding the space between us. It was a trick he used on people shorter than himself to force them to look up when they spoke to him. I moved back a step.
Salt-and-pepper hair framed his dark moustached face. His eyes were hidden behind tinted aviator glasses. Ochoa preached the revolution from a classroom podium at the local state college where he taught in the Chicano Studies Department. On the wall of his office was a yellowing poster that demanded the end to the Anglo occupation of California.
The last time I had seen him was at his school where we had been on a panel discussing the spread of AIDS among the city’s minorities. While the rest of us deplored the indifference with which minority political leaders had responded to the presence of AIDS among their constituents, Ochoa took the position that it only affected elements of the minority communities which they were better off without, homosexuals and drug users. We had not parted on friendly terms.
I was surprised that he had sought me out today.
I said, “Hello, Tomas.”
“I read your article in the Times,” he said. “Where you defended the gangs.”
“I didn’t defend the gangs,” I replied. “All I said was that there are better ways of dealing with them than turning the police loose.”
“Listen, Rios, the gangs are the best thing that ever came out of the barrio. With a little political education, they could be urban guerrillas.”
“I deal with gang members all the time,” I told him. “They’re not revolutionaries. They’re drugged-out losers who get a little self-esteem by shooting each other.”
He frowned at me. “So your solution is to plea-bargain them into prison.”
“The solution has to start long before they reach me.”
“The solution,” he said, raising his voice, “is outside the system that you represent.”
A few people had stopped to stare. I answered quietly, “The only thing I represent is my clients, Tomas, and I do it well.”
“You represent something a lot worse than that,” he said, jabbing a finger at me.
“Well, according to you, AIDS will take care of that,” I replied. “Or would you prefer concentration camps like Castro? Or Hitler?”
“Take your choice,” he said, moving away.
I watched him disappear into the sea of brown and black faces in the room, with the depressing certainty that he spoke for most of them. Whatever their other disagreements, the races all united in their contempt for people of my kind. The revolution never extended to matters of personal morality.
At the front of the room, the senators had begun to assemble. I found a seat just as the chairwoman of the committee called the hearing to order. Spruce and intricately-coiffed, she announced, “These hearings have been called for the purpose of encouraging public debate on SB 22, introduced by Senator Peña of East Los Angeles.”
She was interrupted by a rising commotion from the audience as a door opened behind her and Agustin Peña walked briskly forward, the Minicams sweeping toward him. An aide pulled out his chair and he sat down, saying, “I apologize to the committee for my tardiness. I’d like to make a statement.”
The presiding senator replied, “Certainly, Senator Peña. Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” he said. He raised his hand back over his shoulder. His aide handed him a sheaf of papers. Peña laid them on the desk before him and, for a moment, simply looked out at the crowd thoughtfully. His thick, black hair was brushed back from a long, narrow face that El Greco might have painted, strong and melancholy; it was the face of a man who had passed through something difficult and was not yet certain of his ground. He cleared his voice, and began to read from his papers.
“The streets of our poorest communities have become battlefields.”
Nearby, someone whispered, audibly, “Yeah, they’re full of drunk drivers.”
“It’s time for action,” Peña continued. “It’s time to send a message to the gangsters that the decent people of our cities will not tolerate—”
The same wag quipped, “Intoxicated politicians.” But this time, someone shushed him.
“Their guns and their drugs,” Peña concluded.
The crowd shifted restlessly waiting for him to address the topic of his political future. At length, he finished with his prepared statement and said, “Now, with the committee’s indulgence I would like to address my constituents in the room on another matter.”
The room began buzzing again and was gaveled to order, the presiding senator saying, “You have the floor, Gus.”
“Thank you, Charlene,” he said. “You’ve been a good friend to me. In the past two months I’ve had a chance to see, truly, who my real friends are. I’m gonna ask some people to come up here and join me: my wife, Graciela, and my children; my son, Tino, and my beautiful daughter, Angela.”
The three got up from the front row and walked awkwardly to the dais where the senators were seated. His wife was a plump, pretty woman, who wore a photogenic dress of red and blue silk. She had mastered that vaguely beatific expression that Nancy Reagan had popularized among the wives of public figures. His teenage daughter kissed her father quickly and retreated to the background. His handsome son also kissed his father but remained at his side.
Peña, reaching for his wife’s hand as he rose from his seat, said, “This is what life is really about, a loving family, people who stand by you no matter what, and these are the people I know I hurt the most with my alcoholism.”
He paused for effect, and got it, the cameras clicking, the crowd whispering. I watched his family. His wife’s mouth twitched but her expression did not change. The girl retreated farther back. The boy looked straight ahead. Now that he was on his feet, Peña was as relaxed as a talk show host working the crowd.
“I know that some of you in the press expected me to be making a different kind of announcement today, and I would be lying if I didn’t tell you I would rather be standing here announcing my candidacy for mayor than admitting that I’m an alcoholic. Still,” he smiled, “you roll with the punches.” The back room echoes of that remark were more authentic than what came next. “But maybe by doing this, I can help someone else. All I can say is that I have had to look at my human weakness right in the eye and realize that I have spent so much time caring about and worrying about others, that I have not worried or cared enough about myself. I now know that it’s time for me to take care of me, to accept my responsibilities and my weaknesses. But I say to others who are as pained and hurt as myself,” and here he draped an arm over his son’s shoulders while gripping his wife’s hand, “I say to you, ‘Join me brothers and sisters. We can make it. We will make it. It’s going to be a lonely journey, but I stand and God stands with me.’”
He released his children and his wife. “As you know, I have been at an alcohol rehabilitation center, and I believe that I have been cured of this disease of alcoholism. I have begun to heal my body and my soul.”
; Looking at the camera rather than her husband, his wife said, “Gus, for you to admit you have this problem and to deal with it has truly lifted a burden from our souls.” She gestured vaguely toward the children. “I thank God you have had the strength to realize that you are truly in God’s hands. I know for our family this is just a beginning and we, Tino, Angela, and me, we will be with you every step of the way.”
“God bless you, Graciela,” he said, choking back tears. To my astonishment, people around me were also crying.
The presiding senator hammered the table with her gavel and said, “The committee stands in recess for fifteen minutes.”
The media descended on the Peñas, who were soon obscured by flashing cameras and shouted questions. An old gray-haired woman sitting near me cast a skeptical eye on the scene and muttered to no one in particular, in Spanish, “The man has no shame.”
The cameras were gone when the hearing was called back to order, as was Peña’s family, and the proceeding reverted to its original purpose. Peña had resumed his seat and watched a parade of witnesses through half-glasses, showing increasingly less interest as the morning wore on. He passed a note to his neighbor, smiling like a schoolboy, and lit a cigarette, oblivious of the no-smoking sign posted on the wall just a few feet behind him. This face, that of the bored legislator who knew where the real deals were made, seemed more authentic than the teary penitent.
Still, the speech had served its purpose. The old woman who’d pronounced him shameless was definitely in the minority. His East LA constituents had lined up to shake his hand, delaying the resumption of business for nearly an hour.
As I sat and watched him, I wondered whether he would have met with such unquestioning forgiveness had he been a white politician. Minority politicians liked to complain about being held to higher standards than their white counterparts by the press, but within their communities, even the most outrageous behavior was often pardoned. I understood the reasons for this: mistrust of the media by people who were usually neglected by it and a hunger for leaders among groups who had for so long been without them. Still, when I analyzed what Peña had actually said in his defense, it amounted to a self-serving statement about the burdens of high office. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that he had taken another man’s life, much less expressed any remorse for it. His grief seemed directed at the setback to his career. I could have forgiven him for his human frailty but not his arrogance. By the time I heard my name called to testify I was incensed.
“Senators, ladies and gentlemen,” I began, “I don’t think anyone disagrees that there is a growing problem with gang violence in the poorest neighborhoods of the city. This bill, however, will not solve that problem. It will make it worse. This bill is a blank check for the police to come in and round up young men and women because of how they dress, or who they choose as their friends, or simply because the police don’t like their looks.”
“Excuse me,” Peña cut in. “You are a criminal defense lawyer, aren’t you, Mr. Rios.”
“That’s right, Senator.”
“And isn’t it true that you have defended gang members in the past?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He lurched forward, startled by my asperity. “Well, Mr. Rios, I don’t think anyone’s surprised about what side you’re taking.”
“I defend criminals, Senator, but I’m not one myself. Can you make the same statement?”
Everything got very quiet. Peña nodded slowly, as if he’d taken my measure, but I could see he was struggling for a response that wouldn’t make him appear completely hypocritical.
“I guess I’m going to have to get used to that kind of smear,” he said.
“You have a homicide charge hanging over your head, Senator. That’s not a smear, it’s a statement of fact.”
“My personal problems don’t have anything to do with this hearing,” he replied.
“Nor does the fact that I’m a defense lawyer,” I snapped back. “So if you’ll stop imputing my character, I won’t discuss yours.”
With a dismissive shrug, he leaned back into his chair and focused his attention on the ceiling. I finished my statement and left the podium, catching sight of Tomas Ochoa who winked approval. Ignoring him, I headed for the door. I heard someone at my back running toward me. I stopped and turned. It was Peña’s aide. Breathlessly he said, “Senator Peña would like to talk to you for a minute.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know, but he’s waiting.”
Curious, I followed the aide back up the aisle and through a door that led to a small anteroom behind the chamber. Peña was slouching against the wall, smoking. When he saw me, he dropped the cigarette, crushed it, and extended his hand with a broad grin.
“Henry,” he said. “It’s nice to see you again.” My expression must have been as blank as my mind at that moment because he added helpfully, “Last year at the MALDEF dinner. You were with Inez Montoya.”
“Of course,” I said, remembering that he had been glad-handing at Councilwoman Montoya’s table.
He wagged a genial finger at me. “You were pretty tough on me out there.”
“You deserved it,” I replied.
He clamped his hand on my shoulder, massaging it with thick fingers. “It’s all a show, Rios. Nothing personal.”
“Under the circumstances, Senator, that’s a remarkably cynical thing for you to say.”
He dug his fingers deeper into my shoulder. “Henry, truce, OK?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Listen, we’ll let the courts decide whether my bill is constitutional. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“No?”
He dropped his hand from my shoulder, lit another cigarette, and with a curt nod dismissed his aide. “I fucked up good in Sacramento, Rios. I killed a man, and I hurt a lot of other people.” His long face took on a distant, pained expression. “I’m still hurting a lot of people. I read that piece about you in the Times, he continued. “You’ve been where I am.”
He referred to a profile that had appeared in the paper a few months earlier which appeared under the caption “Gay crusader fights for the underdog.” The reporter had been thorough in his research, even prevailing upon my sister to describe our bleak childhood, not to mention my own stays at alcohol rehabs over the years, and the fact that my lover was HIV-positive. He seemed to regard these matters as evidence of my saintliness. Reading his piece had made me want to change my name and move to another state.
I said, “The reporter was looking for a hero.”
“I’m looking for a friend,” Peña said. “Someone who knows what it feels like to fail a lot of people who look up to him.”
“I know what it feels like to fail myself,” I replied.
“Yeah, well,” he exhaled a plume of smoke, “that’s the most humiliating part, isn’t it? I made myself into somebody from nothing, Rios, just like you. Sure, I made mistakes along the way, but there wasn’t anyone to tell me how to do it right. But I got most of it right, anyway,” he said, tapping his chest. “Only this thing that happened up there, I don’t understand it.”
“What don’t you understand, Gus?”
“How I got so out of control. I mean, the one thing I know about is control.”
“Control’s an illusion, Gus,” I said. “Being born is like being tossed from a cliff. Grabbing on to the rocks that are falling around you doesn’t keep you from falling. You just fall faster.”
He smiled bleakly. “What’s the difference if you still hit the ground?”
“You can always learn to fly.”
He put his cigarette out on the marble wall behind us. “Is that what you do?”
“I’m still letting go of the rocks myself.”
“You’re a good man, Rios. Can I give you a call sometime?”
“Of course.” I gave him a business card, pausing to write my home number on it.
He examined the card, slipped it i
nto his wallet, and patted me on the back. “Say a prayer for me.”
I watched him slip back into the council chamber, ashamed of the way I had taken him on during the hearing, but not entirely convinced that I hadn’t just been brilliantly manipulated.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS NEARLY NOON when I left City Hall. I found a phone, checked in with my secretary, Emma Austen, and returned calls. When I finished, I still had an hour before a court appearance at the Criminal Courts Building, just across the street from City Hall, so I called home to invite Josh to come and eat lunch with me. All I got was his voice on our answering machine, urging me to leave a message. I hung up.
There had been a time when the course of his day was as familiar to me as mine. Now, I stood there for a moment, wondering where he might be. It was spring break at UCLA, so I knew he wasn’t in class, but beyond that, I could only guess. I began walking to a sandwich shop in the Civic Center mall. It was warm and smoggy. The only sign of spring was the flowering jacarandas, bleeding purple blossoms onto the grimy sidewalks.
On the way to the sandwich shop, I passed a bookstore. Displayed in the windows was a book entitled Vows: How to Make Your Marriage Work. I stopped and read the book jacket, which promised new solutions to old marital problems. What about when one of you has a terminal disease and the other doesn’t? Each time Josh’s T-cell count dropped, I felt him drift further away from me, into his circle of Act Up friends, and his seropositive support group. Josh had become an AIDS guerrilla, impatient with my caution. Just that morning, bickering again over the wisdom of outing closeted gay politicians, he’d snapped, “Spoken like a true neggie,” as if being negative for the virus was a defect of character.
Our arguments were no longer intellectual disagreements. He had adopted an “us vs. them” mentality over AIDS, and the more anxious he felt about his own health, the more strident he became. There might have been less ferocity in our quarrels had we been able to talk about his anxiety, as we once had, but he had decided that even this, or perhaps especially this, was beyond my understanding. I reacted with my own anger at being treated like an enemy by the man with whom I’d shared the last five years of my life.