Sotello: Detective, ex-FBI, ex-Secret Service (DeLeo's Action Thriller Singles Book 1)

by Bernard Lee DeLeo

  “The same way as Ward Connerly,” Sotello replied, mentioning the name of the black leader, who led a nationwide campaign against quotas. “It is, thank God, illegal in this State again, thanks to his courage, to discriminate on the basis of race, creed, or color.”

  “So,” the man continued quickly. “As long as you and your family get what you want, then the hell with the rest of us darkies, right Massa’?”

  Snickering laughter ran through the crowd, but most stayed quiet, waiting for Sotello to reply. Sotello looked around at the crowd. “I must apologize. Things started here, and I did not even remember to introduce my family. I am apologizing, because now, thanks to this guy’s idiotic remark, it will look like I brought them here to be my little pickaninnies for you all’s amusement. The young lady sitting on the stage, and the young man next to her are my children, Ellen and Craig Sotello. Their Godfathers are sitting next to them. The big guy is Anthony Simmons, and his partner on the Oakland police force, sitting next to him, is Jay Watson. My wife passed away five years ago, or I would not be here now. Cynthia would have kicked my butt from here to San Jose if I had ever told her I was going to run for Governor.”

  Simmons, Watson, Damon Wilkens, and both his children burst into laughter, with Tank pointing at him, and nodding his head in agreement. Their laughter turned out to be infectious, as most of the crowd joined in. After a few minutes, Sotello walked over to the man with the mike, and waited. The man stared back at him angrily.

  “So, you think because you got a couple of Afro-American kids, that gives you a ticket to pop out any racist shit you want?” The man asked belligerently.

  Cameramen had moved around to cover closely what their producers now saw as a gold mine. Their broadcasts were going out on a live feed from the second Sotello had vaulted off the stage. Many close to Sotello in the audience saw his hand imperceptibly close tighter around his mike, and a darkness settle into his features. The television audience picked up on it too, as the cameras zoomed in on him.

  “I do not have Afro-American children,” Sotello said. “I have American children.”

  “So,” the man continued arrogantly, “you raised them without their culture?”

  “What culture?” Sotello countered. “You mean the African nation, still selling their people into slavery to the same old Arab slave masters?”

  Sotello whipped around as the man started to speak. “How many of you folks know they sell, have sold, and are selling slaves in the Sudan and elsewhere on the African Continent? Raise up your hands.”

  About a quarter of the audience raised their hands, which Sotello actually thought would be less. “You all better get educated about the country you keep hugging to your names. They are slaving and murdering each other for no more reason than a facial feature. My kids know, and they do not strap that albatross to their freeborn American birthright.”

  Sotello swung back to face his questioner again. “Let me ask you something Sir. Why, if forty years ago, it was wrong for a black man to walk into a place of employment or education, and be turned away because of the color of his skin; then why would it be okay for a white man, forty years later, to be turned away from a place of employment or education because of the color of his skin? What logic can you use for such a hypocritical act?”

  “We been under whitey’s thumb for centuries, that’s why,” the man yelled, gesturing with his finger in Sotello’s face.

  “So,” Sotello replied. “In your little white hating world, we can never be judged by the content of our character. I guess it matters very little to you that less than two percent of the population of the United States can even trace their lineage back to anyone who held a slave, or that one of the largest and most successful slave holders was black himself. No, that would not matter to a race baiter like you.”

  “Who you callin’ race baiter?” The man screamed, coming out of the row he was standing, to start his finger poking closer to his target.

  Sotello caught up the man’s sizeable hand in his own bone-crushing grip, as the people around them backed away. The man dropped the mike he held, trying to wrench his hand out of Sotello’s grip. “I don’t mind you waving that thing from back in your seat, but if you want to keep it attached to your arm, you better get on back where you were.”

  Some younger men were coming out of the isles behind Sotello. Jay Watkins stood up and walked over to the lectern. “Yo, young gentlemen, get your butts back to your seats.”

  Sotello released his grip on the man, who clutched his hand to his chest. “I’d like you to stay, but I wish for the same respect you would want. I didn’t wave any fingers in your face. Don’t wave them in mine. Please stay, and sit down.”

  The man looked angrily in Sotello’s face. After a moment, he nodded. “I’ll stay.”

  “Thank you,” Sotello said, guiding him back to his seat, and picked up the mike he had dropped. “I don’t know if you will like anything else I say, but I appreciate you staying.”

  Sotello backed back out into the aisle, and watched as the men who had been coming up behind him went back to their seats. He looked up at Jay, and shrugged. Jay shook his head, and returned to his seat next to Tank, who had reached into his suit coat, and had his hand on his 9mm Ruger. Sotello could see Ellen and Craig looking around like deer in the headlights of a car. He smiled, thinking maybe tonight will show them just how tough this campaigning could be. Raising the audience mike in the air, Sotello waved it around.

  “Anyone else?” Sotello asked. “You don’t have to agree with me, but when you run out of words folks, don’t get physical. My wife didn’t marry me because I was white, and I did not marry her because she was black. We fell in love, and we came from similar backgrounds. She grew up in foster homes, and I grew up in an orphanage. Let’s leave off on the personal attacks. If you don’t like what I say, just say so. There’s no need to bring in the name calling.”

  A black man next to him stood up and pointed at Damon Wilkens. “I see you got a bail bondsman up on the stage. What’s he have to do with you?”

  “That’s Damon Wilkens, a bail bondsman, as you say. I have worked for him many times in the past, and we are close friends,” Sotello replied. “He asked if he could come tonight, and I was grateful to have him here.

  The man next to him is Adrian Phillips, who will be running my campaign - that is if you all allow me to leave here alive.”

  A more easy laughter swept through the crowd, and a small thin Chinese woman stood up in the back of the room, and waved at Sotello, who walked quickly over to her. He handed her the mike. “My husband and I own a small grocery store between East 14th Street and Foothill Boulevard. What do you plan to do about the homeless? They panhandle everywhere, bothering our customers, and going to the bathroom right in the street.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Sotello said, nodding his head. “First off, can most of us agree to the fact the homeless problem has very little to do with needy people; and everything to do with drug, and alcohol abusers, and con artists?”

  Sotello heard the shouts of agreement from many in the crowd and a smattering of applause. “Good, then we can dispense with the poor little victim of society spiel, and how these bums are just like the Holy Family. I have a cruel message for the street artists across this state, who have decided to get into our faces at every opportunity with hidden threats, and coercion. Happy days are over for them. If they like chain gangs, then by all means, keep on street hustling, because that’s where they’re headed. The ones in need of medical attention will be treated. They will have the opportunity to clean up and get off our streets. If they do not access the methods for doing so, we will do it for them.”

  “California needs lots of work done on road repairs. We’ll put them in orange jump suits, and see how they like hard labor for free. Folks, these dregs of human debris, who use their children in their scams, will be going to prison, and their kids will be helped off of the street. I think once these bums know I mean business
, they will see the light. The mayors in this state, who coddle these panhandlers, will see me in their cities going directly to the people.”

  The crowd erupted in applause. A tall, heavy-set black woman across the way waved for the mike, which Sotello had taken from the Chinese woman, after shaking hands in the crowd around her. Sotello headed over to her and gave her the mike.

  “Mr. Sotello,” the woman said. “Every news station and paper in the state will be after you tomorrow. Except for that KSFO talk station in San Francisco, there ain’t a conservative media outlet anywhere. How will you even survive until the election? They’ll be calling for your imprisonment under some goofy hate crimes law by tomorrow morning.”

  Sotello laughed, shaking hands with her, and a few others who jumped up around her to greet him. She handed the mike back to him as he backed back into the aisle way. “You may be absolutely right ma’am. This indeed may be the only time any of you will see me. They’re carrying it live on TV. If enough people are tired of the lies, they may be happy to support me. If things don’t work out, I’ll just go back to work. Look for me on the talk shows. It will be good entertainment. While other candidates draw crowds, I’ll be drawing riots probably.”

  Sotello saw what looked like a young, casually dressed white man of medium height get up four rows from the front and wave his hand. His blonde hair hung down past his neck. Sotello walked back towards the stage, and passed the mike through the crowd to him. “Mr. Sotello, I read where you were a Secret Service Agent. Is that true?”

  “Yes Sir, a long time ago. I spent some time in the FBI, and then went into the Secret Service,” Sotello answered.

  “Why did you quit?” The young man asked.

  “I was asked that a couple of weeks ago,” Sotello replied. “I came to the realization there were politicians I would not take a bullet for.” This brought huge laughs and applause. The crowd began to warm to Sotello’s straightforward style.

  “You mean like Clinton?” The young man asked quickly.

  “I would never slander the name of the first black President,” Sotello quipped, as the crowd roared. “Seriously, I have no further comment on the matter, but you have the right idea.”

  The young man smiled, and passed the mike back out to Sotello, who handed it to another young man a few rows farther back, with an aisle seat. His hair was corn-rowed. He wore an Oakland Raiders jacket, and blue jeans. Although about six inches shorter than Sotello, he had the face of a man who had done some boxing. “I want to know what you plan to do about the energy crisis in this state,” the man asked brusquely.

  “Good question,” Sotello allowed. “I plan to try and stop the environmental whackos in California from holding the state’s energy policy hostage to kangaroo rats and butterflies. We need new power plants, exploration, and transmission lines. I know this will get me labeled by all the tree-huggers as anti-environment, but I really could not care less.”

  “They have caused many of my predecessors to throw away sound judgment to appease a bunch of leftists, who will do anything to further their agenda, including private property confiscation. I will not stand by while the Federal EPA comes in, and takes private property, because some seagull took a piss in an open pasture, and they suddenly want to call it a wetland.” Sotello paused as the crowd again erupted in laughter and applause. After a couple of minutes, he went on.

  “I’m sick of this crap. If I have to call out the National Guard to protect a private citizen’s land, then by God, that’s exactly what I’ll do.” The crowd exploded into applause again as the man, and many others around him, shook hands with Sotello. Sotello took the mike. He held it up again, but there were no more takers. Sotello walked back up on stage, and the crowd gave him a standing ovation as he returned to the lectern.

  “I have only one further thing to say,” Sotello said as the crowd quieted. “The liberals own both state houses of the legislature, and anything I get done on most of this will depend on people backing me with their representatives. Unless the people help me take this state back from the liberals, trying to make it into a toilet bowl, I will end up to be just one more big mouth. I will go all over this state, until I make sure every person knows who voted my proposals down. In November you will all have a clear choice. Red Davidson is a left wing liberal of the first degree. I am no road-kill, moderate Republican, you can just toss a coin up for at the voting booth as to your choice between Davidson and me. I am asking you all to get off of the liberal plantation and take a stand with me. Thank you, and may God bless you.”

  Chapter 24

  Discord With Respect

  The crowd again stood for a standing ovation, while the press in the crowd streaked out of the auditorium to get their columns out. Sotello shook hands with his friends and family, hugging his kids in relief he had made it through his first stop. He shook hands with Phillips last. Adrian shouted to be heard over the crowd as he leaned close.

  “That was incredible Jim,” Phillips admitted. “I would never have believed it possible. They put it all out there live for everyone to see. It will be hard for the Davidson spin machine to do much besides call you every epithet in the book. The columnists will pretty much have to do the same. This will be exciting.”

  Sotello nodded and waved to the crowd. He walked down off the stage again. He walked straight to the exit, and turned just outside the doors, where he stood for the next hour, shaking hands with the crowd as they left. He fielded personal questions, and interrupted his hand shaking to go over to a small group of young blacks chanting ‘Sotello sucks’. They turned to him menacingly as he walked up to their group, with a good portion of well-wishers at his back. Jay and Tank had been standing near the young men, to make sure the attack did not go beyond the verbal stage. Ellen and Craig had stayed inside to talk to a group of reporters around Jacob Stanton and his wife.

  “Hey, do you guys actually have a disagreement with me you can put into words, or do you all plan to just chant for the rest of the night like a bunch of Myna birds at the zoo?” Sotello asked, drawing laughter from the people behind him. The camera crews, which had followed him out of the auditorium, moved quickly to positions where they could film the confrontation. Sotello made an imposing figure, because he showed no fear or worry, and like it or not, he looked more dangerous than any movie gangster. The smile he wore as he faced the group of chanters did little to lighten his scarred countenance. The leader of the group, with the camera crews making the area into daylight with their extra lighting, could see clearly the smile on Sotello’s face did not extend to his eyes.

  “We know you just another white cracker comin’ in to put down brothers on the street who can’t get a job from the man,” the leader yelled angrily in Sotello’s face, to the agreeing shouts of the young men behind him.

  Sotello laughed. “Who writes this material for you, homey? You sound like one of the extras in those ‘Down in the Hood’ movies. Tell me something genius, who do you think would hire a guy for anything, with an attitude like yours? Do you think Bank of America will see this newscast, and flock down here to hire you for their new bank branch manager? You young men think you’re so tough, and you have no future here other than gangs? Listen tough guys, the Marines need a few good men. You want to impress me with how tough you are, go serve your Country in the armed forces of your choice.”

  “Sure,” the group leader shouted in the silence from Sotello’s words. “Send the brothers what won’t take your cracker talk out to get used for cannon fodder, like they did in Vietnam.”

  “Listen genius,” Sotello replied, warming to his subject, “first off, check your facts before you spew that liberal media crapola. Men and women died in Vietnam in exactly the population proportions of their representation as ethnic groups in this country. I fought in Vietnam, and you had better pick a different subject; because the blacks who served their country, rather than become cheap gangsters, deserve a better spokesman than you. The guy, who liked to send young men li
ke yourselves, to God forsaken places like Somalia and Yugoslavia, no longer calls the shots. I started in the service, because I was a damn sight poorer citizen than any of you. Being tough has absolutely nothing to do with learning how to drive by unarmed people with an automatic weapon and shoot them in the back.”

  In the silence, the cameras whirring in the background could actually be heard. The rage seething through the leader of the little group seemed almost palpable, as he stood face to face with Sotello, searching for a comeback to fire up his friends. The eerie silence continued for in reality only a few seconds; but would appear much longer to the television audience sitting enthralled by what they were witnessing.

  Sotello broke the silence. “I admire that, young man. When you have nothing further useful to say, you stay quiet, rather than launching into a name-calling tirade. You said your piece, and I said mine. Here’s my hand on it.”

  Sotello stuck out his hand. A few seconds later the young man shook it reluctantly; stunning not only his group, but the people around Sotello, who had been expecting a violent ending. Adrian Phillips, who watched the confrontation develop from beside a Fox News camera crew, smilingly shook his head in wonder. This whole meeting tonight, Phillips knew, would make Jim Sotello a household name by morning. Sotello would be, for good or bad, plastered over every front page in not only California, but the entire country. Phillips watched the crowd slowly disperse, as Sotello continued shaking hands with anyone willing to wait. Finally a half an hour later, the last of the people waiting for a word or a handshake had left for home. Phillips approached Sotello then, with a smile, and his hands behind his back.

  “I won’t shake your hand Jim,” Phillips said. “I imagine you’re pretty burned out.”

  “I thought I would be,” Sotello replied grinning, “but that has to be the most exhilarating experience I have ever had. I have wanted to say those things to more people than just my kids for more years than I can remember. It went well, did it not?”