America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  “But I’m certain Father Johnson told me to come see Joe Herrera… at the Cielo Azul Bookstore.”

  “Yes, he did. I’m Jo Herrera… Josefina,” she said, pronouncing her first name—Ho-say-FEE-nah—with its Spanish inflection.

  “I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect, ma’am.”

  “It’s OK—you’re not the first.”

  “When Father Johnson said ‘Joe Herrera,’ I figured—”

  “Mark—Father Johnson—has a sense of humor. And besides, he may have thought you might be reluctant to apply for work at a business run by a woman.”

  “No, ma’am. That’s no problem. My last CO in the Army was a woman. But I’m a mechanic. I’m not sure what I can do in a bookstore.”

  “Besides this bookstore, I own a recycling business. We keep our trucks in a garage on the other side of the alley,” she said, gesturing toward the back door. “The business is growing and we’re going to need another driver soon. We could also use your skills as a mechanic to keep the trucks running.”

  “I have a California CDL, so I’m licensed to drive up to thirteen tons,” Mano said eagerly.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You didn’t ask about my CDL on your application. How did you know?”

  Jo tapped her fingertips together. “For now, let’s just say we have certain resources.”

  Although Mano found this answer puzzling, the prospect of finding a job overrode his misgivings. He was elated at the chance to work again. “Is there anything else you need to know?”

  A soft smile crossed Jo’s face. “Can you start Monday?”

  Mano walked home with a jaunt in his stride that had been missing for quite some time. To celebrate their good fortune, he stopped for a modest bouquet of flowers for Rosa and a cake for the children. After six months of scrimping, the time had come to splurge a little.

  Since losing his car, Mano had grown closer to the soul of his barrio. The riots had not changed the daily pulse of life amid the bungalows, bars, body shops, apartments, and weedy vacant lots. Dusk was a time when those heading home from work crossed paths with the ever-present teens and people of the night—the gangbangers, drug dealers, pimps, and prostitutes.

  Near his apartment, Mano saw the Jimenez twins playing hopscotch on the crowded sidewalk with a crushed Budweiser Tall Boy can.

  “Hi, big guy!” one of them called out, giggling.

  Mano waved, feeling a pang of pity. Although the girls were only five, they were on the street alone. Both their parents worked, and their nana—as grandmothers were called in Chicano households—often let the twins wander outside while she did her chores.

  Mano had no such worries about his own children. Each day at five, Rosa would bring the kids inside, prepare the food, set the table, and wait until Mano was home before serving their evening meal. The family ritual was now unquestioned.

  Entering the courtyard to his apartment, Mano recognized the throaty growl of a V-8, accompanied by an odd series of pops. He turned and saw an SUV speeding down the crowded street, bright muzzle flashes coming from its windows. For a heartbeat, he stared in disbelief. They’re shooting at us.

  Acting on instincts honed in combat, Mano dropped his packages and dove into the courtyard. On his belly, he watched in horror as the vehicle raced down the street, firing at anyone in sight. People on the crowded sidewalks tried to run, but few made it to safety. The bullets found their marks in a sickening array. Some victims seemed to be performing a spastic dance, twitching awkwardly before falling. Others simply collapsed like marionettes with severed strings.

  Before Mano could make a move to help, it was over.

  The roar of the engine faded, replaced by raw cries of pain. Mano looked around, stunned. His neighbor, Lourdes Echeverría, was crawling toward the courtyard, her face drenched in blood. Near her, an elderly man stood motionless, transfixed by the bodies littering the sidewalk.

  “Mano!” Rosa called out, emerging from their apartment behind him. “What happened?”

  Mano rose to his feet and stopped her in the courtyard before she could reach the street. “Go back inside, querida. People have been shot and there may be more trouble.” He led Rosa to the entrance of their apartment and found Pedro, Julio, and Elena gathered at the door, drawn by the commotion.

  “There’s been an accident,” Rosa said to the children. “We need to stay inside and keep out of the way.”

  When Mano moved back toward the street, Rosa reached for his hand. “Where are you going?”

  “The wounded need help.”

  “Your children need you, too.”

  “Don’t worry, mi amor. I’ll be careful,” he said before turning away.

  Nearing the street, Mano noticed the bouquet he’d been carrying was now strewn along the pavement. The flower petals were blowing toward a sight he’d never forget.

  Slumped against a wall were the Jimenez twins, their frail bodies riddled by bullets, blood seeping into the crudely drawn squares of their hopscotch game. They had died embracing each other.

  Mano stared, numb with horror, oblivious to the chaos around him until the panicked screaming on the street finally broke his trance. With a shudder, he looked away from the twins and noticed the confusion swirling around him. People trying to help the wounded were rushing frantically among the victims scattered along the street.

  Mano grabbed a trash can lid, moved to a stretch of street without any parked cars, and began banging on the metal lid furiously with a stone. The faces in the crowd quickly turned toward the noise. “Listen to me!” he called out. “Move all the injured here so the medics can treat them in one place when they arrive,” he yelled, gesturing to the sidewalk in front of him. Minutes later, the wounded that could be moved were placed along the open stretch of street. After what seemed a very long time, the wail of sirens joined their cries.

  On the narrow streets approaching the shooting scene, news vans jockeyed for position with emergency medical vehicles rushing to treat the injured. Despite the gallant efforts of Mano and his neighbors, several victims bled to death before the medical crews arrived. An angry mood swirled through the crowd. Before the last of the ambulances pulled away, a vacant building three blocks away was set ablaze. By the time Mano returned to his family, more fires had been set and several businesses set upon. The arson and looting continued through the night.

  The shooting spree on East Fourth Street had left eleven dead and twenty-eight wounded. The following day, another drive-by shooting on Pico Street killed eight more. Television interviews with eyewitnesses at both East Los Angeles locations revealed a common detail: the men in the vehicle appeared to be Anglos. Putting a new twist on a frontier term, the media immediately dubbed the attackers “vigilantes.”

  THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:

  Month 2, Day 10

  Jo was behind the counter at the bookstore when Mano arrived for work on Monday morning. “The first thing we’ll do is introduce you to the other drivers,” she said, leading him out the back door. Following his new boss, Mano tried not to stare at the slim and sensuous body under her tight jeans.

  Crossing the alley behind the bookstore, they approached a large concrete garage in a compound enclosed by a high chain-link fence. Above the building’s main entrance, someone had hand-painted “Green Planet Recycling Company” in olive-colored letters. The rest of the walls were a variety of gaudy shades. “We hire kids from the community to paint the building every few months. I let them pick the colors,” Jo explained. “We’re due for another coat, but after the shootings this weekend, I’m not sure it’s going to be safe for them to work outside.” She opened the gate and added bitterly, “These attacks were horrible… but I’m not completely surprised. It was only a matter of time before this kind of vermin crawled out of their holes.”

  Mano said nothing. He had no desire to relive the attack.

  Jo stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “Hey, I just remembered something from your application,�
� she said, her eyes widening. “Wasn’t the first attack near your home?”

  “Yes,” he said after a moment’s pause.

  “Did you see what happened?”

  Mano’s face tightened. “I’d rather not talk about it, ma’am.”

  “Of course, Manolo. I understand,” she said, nodding. “Let’s go inside.”

  Mano was grateful to Jo for not prying. When he’d returned from Afghanistan, people had pressed him for details about his combat experiences. Like most soldiers, Mano had learned to put the horrors behind him and move on. It was the only way to survive. The vigilante attack was no different. Surprisingly, Jo seemed to respect that.

  Inside the garage, three men sat sipping coffee at a small table near their trucks. Two of the drivers, Pepe and Luis, were Chicanos. The third was a black man wearing a do-rag. When Jo introduced him as Jesús Lopez, Mano tried to hide his surprise. Although he’d soldiered with a black Puerto Rican, Mano had never met an Afro-Latino in East Los Angeles. Until this moment, he’d never questioned why.

  Once the introductions were over, Jo seemed eager to leave. “Why don’t you start by taking an inventory of our parts and tools, Manolo?” she said, walking toward the door. “I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

  After watching Jo leave, Luis addressed the newcomer. “You know anybody that went down, Manolo? From the vigilantes, I mean. My neighbor lost his brother Saturday night. They shot him in the belly and he bled to death—right on the street, man.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mano answered.

  “That was some wrong shit, man,” Luis added. “I brought my piece,” he said, patting his pants pocket. “Those fucking vigilantes mess with me, I’m gonna be ready.”

  Pepe leaned forward, his eyes eager. “Let me see, Luis. Show it to me.”

  Luis reached into his pocket and produced a cheap .25 caliber pistol. Mano knew this puny Saturday night special would do little to stop the heavily armed vigilantes.

  “I’m getting me some hardware, too,” Pepe said excitedly. “We can’t just take this bullshit.”

  Although he shared their outrage, this bravado worried Mano. “I want to stop them as much as you do,” he said evenly, “but a gunfight in the street might get more innocent people killed. Stray bullets don’t know the good guys from the bad guys.”

  Luis scowled. “What are we supposed to do, man? Lay down like a bunch of jotos?”

  Before the confrontation could escalate, Jesús raised his coffee cup toward Mano in a toast. “Estás bienvenido, Manolo. Por seguro necesitamos un mecánico.”

  “I’m sorry, Jesús. I don’t speak much Spanish.”

  “You welcome here,” Jesús said in a thick accent. “We much need a mecánico.”

  Pepe and Luis grudgingly nodded in agreement.

  “Thanks, Jesús. I’m glad to have the job. Have you been working here long?”

  Jesús held up a pair of fingers. “Two jeers.”

  Studying the man’s friendly face, Mano wondered how Jesús had dealt with the brewing tensions between Latinos and African-Americans. “I guess you’re not from Mexico,” he said, offering Jesús an opening.

  “No. I from Panama,” Jesús answered, his features suddenly tight.

  Sensing the driver’s uneasiness, Mano changed the subject. “You like working here?”

  Jesús’s face brightened again. “Josefina is good boss, man,” he said, smiling. “She very rich. She no have to come to el barrio. Josefina start business here because she want justicia.”

  Mano’s eyebrows knitted. “What is ‘ hoos-tee-see-uh’?”

  Jesús shrugged. “I don’t know how to say in English.”

  “Justicia means justice,” Luis offered.

  “You won’t work for anybody better, man,” Pepe chimed in. “I mean, she a chick and everything. So we gotta do some silly shit sometimes. But Jo looks out for our people.”

  Mano nodded. “That’s good to know.”

  Their gruff formalities complete, the drivers climbed aboard their trucks and roared out of the garage, leaving Mano to his inventory project. He dove into the task like a man who’d stumbled onto a cool pond after a long stretch in the desert. Shortly after 3 p.m., he knocked on the bookstore’s heavy steel door. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m done with the inventory. Here’s the report. Is there something else you need me to do?”

  Jo took the paper from his hand. “Not right now, Mano. Why don’t you take a seat until something comes up?” she said, pointing toward the chairs in the corner. “You’re welcome to borrow any of the reading material.”

  Alone in the shop, Mano glanced restlessly through the books, too anxious to sit down and read. Having nothing to do was a bad sign. A few minutes later, he returned to the garage, determined to find a productive task. He could not fail his family again.

  Rosa Suarez knew her husband’s habits. Every Wednesday after the children were asleep, Mano worked out with the barbells stored in their closet. The rhythmic clinking of his free weights was a comforting cadence for Rosa, a familiar ritual that marked the passing of another week. But this Wednesday was different. Mano had come home with a six-pack. After dinner, he’d remained at the table, staring out the kitchen window, drinking methodically.

  Once the children were in bed, Rosa approached her husband.

  “Que te pasa, Mano? Is something bothering you?” she asked, clearing the empty cans from the table.

  Beer sprayed onto the floor as Mano popped the top on the last can. “Everything’s fine, querida,” he answered, slurring slightly.

  “Are you sure, mi amor? You’ve never brought home liquor before.” The only time she’d seen her husband drink alcohol was at parties and weddings.

  “This?” he said, holding up the beer can. “It’s just my way of celebrating,” he said dryly.

  “People don’t celebrate by drinking alone, Mano. What about this new boss of yours—what do you call her? Jo? Is she being difficult?” Rosa didn’t know what to make of this odd woman. To Rosa, Jo had intruded in the world of men—something bound to cause trouble.

  Mano shook his head. “No. Jo seems OK. She’s started a business in East L.A. that’s created jobs. Not a lot of rich Hispanics doing that.”

  “What is it, then? You finally found work, mi amor. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “It’s hard to be happy when our neighbors are buying coffins,” he answered before taking another long swallow.

  Rosa made the sign of the cross. “We can’t change what’s happened, Mano. It was God’s will. I’ve been praying every day for—” Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door. “I’ll get that,” she said, moving quickly toward the entrance. She did not want anyone to see her husband like this.

  Ignoring the murmurs from the doorway, Mano brought the can to his lips again, a distant focus in his eyes. How long will this job last? He’d asked himself that question countless times over the last three days. Jo seemed a good person, but she was not running a charity. Without more to do, he might be back on the street again any day. And the streets were getting deadly.

  Mano was no stranger to death. He’d seen men die shrieking in pain in Afghanistan. But the memory of the Jimenez twins huddled on the sidewalk plagued him in a way the sight of soldiers killed in combat never had. Since the shootings, his dreams had been haunted by the twins—a nightmare that always ended with the bodies of his own children on the bloody sidewalk.

  The vigilantes had already struck twice; he was sure they would again. His wife and children were in danger anytime they stepped outside—and not just from the vigilantes. Luis and Pepe were not alone. Working people in the barrios were arming themselves, escalating the risk. The only way to protect his family was to move them out of this place. That would take money, though, which meant his job was their only ticket out of harm’s way—if it lasted.

  When Rosa returned, she held a small bundle of clothes, her eyes welling with tears. “It was Nana Jimenez,” she
whispered. “She gave me these clothes for Elena. They belonged to the twins.” Tears began a slow path down her cheeks as she looked at the garments. A small yellow Mickey Mouse shirt was folded neatly on top. “What kind of men would do such a thing, Mano?”

  Mano drained the rest of the beer as he pondered her question.

  The men who’d done the shooting did not care who they killed. To them, one Hispanic was the same as any other—young, old, woman, man, it didn’t matter. Mano knew only one thing could create such senseless cruelty. “Men who are afraid,” he said at last.

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Us,” he said, crushing the empty beer can.

  During his first four days on the job, Mano tuned up the trucks, reorganized the tool drawers, drew up a vehicle maintenance schedule, and cleaned out the cluttered garage—all on his own initiative. The drivers had seemed glad to have a mechanic. But where was the work they needed? He did not want to ask them the question, fearing the answer.

  Until now, he’d clung to the hope that Jo had yet to figure out the best way to use him. But by Friday afternoon, he could no longer deny the obvious: there wasn’t enough work for him. Jo had suggested he wait in the bookstore on Monday. Maybe if she saw him sitting idly, she’d find a task for him.

  He crossed the alley and entered the bookstore through the back door. Ramon Garcia, the man he’d mistaken for “Joe Herrera” that first day, was behind the counter, reading a book. As soon as Mano sat down, Ramon retreated into the office, leaving him alone.

  A week ago, Mano thought finding a job would solve all his problems. How quickly that had changed. Now, the safety of his family depended on keeping this job—a job that looked shakier each day. The uncertainty was a torment more intense than being out of work. Something had to change. The shame in Rosa’s eyes when he drank was unbearable. Yet it took a belly full of beer each night to numb his mind enough to sleep. Even then, the nightmares of the twins usually returned.