Jo gave Ramon a knowing look before answering. “Do you have any ideas, Mano?” she asked.
“If trouble breaks out, it’s likely to start around the people with the signs over there,” he said, pointing toward the Anglos. “The police will probably chase them along the front of the grandstand. Our best bet would be to leave toward the north, behind the stage. That way, we’ll avoid the police—they look tired, and tired cops are likely to start beating anyone who isn’t wearing a badge.”
“That sounds like a good escape plan,” Ramon replied. “But we need to find a way to avoid any violence today. Politically, it would be best if this rally remains peaceful.”
“In other words,” Jo added, “we need to demonstrate that we can control our people when we want to.”
“When you want to?” Mano repeated. “Are you saying there are times when you want people to riot?”
“Mano, do you think all these people and the media would be here today if there hadn’t been violence in the past?” Jo asked.
“No,” Mano admitted. “But that still doesn’t make it right.”
“You’re a rare person, Mano,” Jo said, smiling. “That’s why I think you can help our people. Your ethics and discipline can help create justicia,” she said. “Maybe you’ll find the answers to some of your concerns after you’ve heard the speakers today. Right now, though, we need to sit down.” She took Mano’s beefy hand and led him up the grandstand steps.
Appeased, Mano followed quietly as Jo guided him to a row of folding chairs beside the podium. Looking down at the crowd, he suppressed a surge of pride. In the last two weeks, he’d gone from desperate unemployment to a place among the dignitaries at a community rally.
A deejay from the local Radio Única affiliate introduced the rally’s first speaker, Octavio Perez, a community leader from San Antonio whose name drew a loud, sustained cheer. Mano had never heard of Perez, but he was unmistakably popular with many Eslos.
Perez began by accusing the Texas National Guard of murdering twenty-three people at the Rio Grande Incident. He then linked those deaths to the vigilante shootings in Los Angeles.
“Where is justice? Where is the protection of the law? Who is responsible for the slaying of these innocents? I lay the blame squarely on the heads of the agents of repression, the thugs with badges who call themselves ‘policemen.’ Their hands are drenched in blood,” Perez shouted into the microphones.
The crowd cheered, many shaking their fists toward the police lines. The officers bristled in response.
Mano leaned toward Jo and whispered, “If you want to avoid trouble, you need to shut this guy up, Jo. He’s getting people pretty worked up.”
“We can’t control what the speakers say. Perez was scheduled to appear before the vigilante shootings started.”
Drawing his speech to a close, Perez worked the crowd with the rising cadence of an expert orator. “We are a people joined by heritage, by language, and most of all, by the bonds of oppression. Across this land, let us raise our voices together and speak out against injustice. Let them hear us say: No más!”
The crowd exploded into applause.
Mano was relieved when Perez’s tirade against the police ended without incident. But drenched in the ovation directed toward the grandstand, Mano could not help feeling stirrings of sympathy for Perez’s message, especially when he recalled the horrific deaths in his own neighborhood.
After the speech, an aging ranchera band took the stage. In the middle of the group’s second song, the emcee broke in to announce the arrival of the next speaker—United States congressman Phillip Benitez.
“I didn’t know Congressman Benitez would be here,” Mano whispered to Jo.
“Didn’t you read the flyers and posters we printed?”
“I don’t pay much attention to political stuff,” Mano said. “How did you manage to get him here?”
“He needs us right now as much as we need him.”
Although Mano made little effort to keep up with politics, he knew Benitez was a controversial figure. The congressman had been accused of receiving unreported campaign contributions from a farm workers’ union, but was cleared after a lengthy investigation. More recently, he’d seized the national spotlight with his heated opposition to legislation that had made English the nation’s official language.
Even to those familiar with politics, Benitez’s appearance at the rally was something of a surprise. When the rioting had erupted in San Antonio, Benitez had publicly condemned it as “the work of idle fools.” Now, with anger growing among his constituents, Benitez was apparently embracing the cause of justicia, though many in the crowd clearly doubted his sincerity on any issue.
A canned patriotic jingle preceded the congressman’s arrival, masking the lukewarm reception he received from the crowd. Mano watched as the short man, dressed impeccably in a blue suit, jauntily climbed the steps to the grandstand. He waved energetically, a smile frozen on his makeup-coated face.
Benitez’s arrival at the podium triggered four sets of thousand-watt floodlights and a barrage of shutter clicks from the media contingent. After a half minute of smiling and waving to a crowd that had long since stopped applauding, the music was turned off and Benitez began his speech.
At first, Mano was more absorbed by what Benitez was doing than what he was saying. In an impressive display of media savvy, Benitez was striking a series of photogenic poses, holding each one a few seconds, then quickly switching to another, never missing a beat as he spoke. Mano realized his technique was guaranteed to produce a flattering photo.
While Benitez was delivering a sensational performance for the media, his connection with the crowd was another matter. Even through the glare of the lights, Mano could tell the audience was becoming restless.
“I’m here today to let you know that your voices will be heard in Washington. And come November, we must harness this community support into votes. Viva justicia! Viva the United States!” Benitez said as he struck his final pose.
The canned music began again, and Benitez went into another round of vigorous waving to the tepidly applauding crowd. With a final wave, he disappeared down the grandstand steps and dashed into a waiting limousine.
With many of the media crews packing their equipment, the radio deejay rushed back onstage. “Our final speaker is a man who has worked tirelessly for justicia in Los Angeles and across the nation. I’m proud to introduce Ramon Garcia.”
Ramon walked confidently to the podium and, after a few preliminary phrases, launched into the heart of his talk.
“We’ve heard the word ‘justicia’ a lot today. What is justicia?” Ramon asked and then paused. “Many of our people work long hours to provide decent homes for their families. Yet we are not welcome to live in other parts of this city. Is this justicia?”
“No!” a few in the crowd shouted in response.
“Our children are forced to attend schools that are under-funded. Yet the affirmative action laws that can help them get an equal education are repealed. Is this justicia?”
“No!” cried more voices.
“Our hermanos and hermanas who struggle to find work with only a bare knowledge of English are told that federal job applications may no longer be printed in Spanish. Is this justicia?”
“No!” they screamed back, louder still.
“Legal residents working in this country are forced to pay Social Security taxes—without being able to draw a penny of it in retirement benefits. Is this justicia?”
“NO!”
“Latinos walking to work are beaten to death because they dared to walk in the wrong neighborhood. Is this justicia?”
“NO!”
“We’ve seen armed vigilantes drive through our barrios, gunning down innocent men, women, and children. But the police have yet to catch any of these cowards. Is this justicia?”
“NO!”
The passion in Ramon’s voice rose. “The soil on which we’re now standing was once
the home of the Californios—Hispanics who settled this land more than three hundred years ago. This land was wrested away from them and annexed into the United States of America. Today, on this very soil, the descendants of the Californios are denied equal rights and privileges. Is this justicia?”
“NO!”
“In the words of José Antonio Marcha”—Ramon paused as many in the crowd cheered lustily at the mention of Marcha’s name—“in the words of José Antonio Marcha, the day will come when Hispanics unite and reclaim the territory that is rightfully ours. Is this justicia?”
“YES!” roared the crowd.
In a spontaneous outburst, they began to chant, “ JUS-TI-CIA! JUS-TI-CIA! JUS-TI-CIA!” Their voices echoed throughout the park and the adjoining streets, growing louder with each repetition. Mano felt the hair on his neck rise.
“JUS-TI-CIA! JUS-TI-CIA! JUS-TI-CIA!”
The chant washed over Mano with an energy so great he gripped the edges of his chair, bracing himself against its power.
Ramon held up his hands, quelling the chant, bringing the crowd back under his spell. “We can no longer rely on the current power structure to protect us. Therefore, we’re launching La Defensa del Pueblo, a community organization to patrol our barrios. Will you support it?”
“YES!”
“If we are united, the power of justicia will be invincible. But in the struggle ahead, how we use our power will be continually tested. Today’s test is our ability to lift our voices together—without violence. We need to show our opponents that if they respond to us with reason and peace, we can do the same.” Ramon paused. “Will we show the world we can do this today?”
“YES!”
“Some will tell you that your votes will help us in this struggle. And I say to you, yes, that’s true. But remember this: In the end, our struggle will only be won with sangre, sudor, y dolor.” Mano recognized the words of Winston Churchill being spoken in Spanish—blood, sweat, and tears.
Ramon defiantly thrust his fist in the air. “Viva justicia! Viva La República Hispana de América!”
The applause was thunderous.
Mano sat in awe, overwhelmed by the ovation. As the wild cheering continued, he felt something extraordinary. For a moment it seemed he and the crowd were somehow a single entity, their voices a presence he could feel in his chest. This strange oneness faded with the cheers, leaving him with a warm glow he could only compare to the bliss after sex.
Mano glanced at Jo. Her lips were parted slightly; her eyes glazed in a half-closed stare. She turned toward him and their eyes met. In that instant, he knew she’d felt the same climax of energy. Embarrassed, he looked away.
As the crowd slowly quieted, Ramon returned from the podium, shaking hands with the others on the stage. Most of the people began leaving the park peacefully, but Mano saw trouble brewing.
Surrounded by TV news crews, the Anglos he’d spotted earlier were taunting the police along the west edge of the park. Mano left the stage and moved toward them swiftly, assessing the situation.
A young man with blond braids, about ten paces from the police line, appeared to be leading the demonstrators. “Hey, pig! Were you one of the vigilantes?” he shouted at the police. “You like to go around shooting women and children? Maybe it’s because your dick is so small and you can’t satisfy your wife. You bring her to me, man. I’ll show her a good time!”
Mano grabbed the young man’s arm below the armpit and lifted him like a naughty schoolboy, his toes barely touching the ground. “We’ve had enough trouble around here. Please don’t start any more,” he said calmly.
“Easy, bro, easy,” the young man said, suddenly deflated. “I haven’t got a beef with you, man. We’re out here for your people, you know.”
“If you’d really like to help, the best thing you can do is tell your friends to go home quietly like everyone else.”
“OK, dude. All right. It’s cool, man.”
Mano released his grip and the young man immediately called out to his cohorts, “All right, people. It’s over. We’re cutting out.”
As the protesters retreated from the police lines, the TV crews turned off their cameras and called it a day. Hanging around until the end had not paid off as they’d hoped. The rally had ended peacefully.
Even the rain couldn’t dampen Jo’s mood.
As she powered the Volvo into the fast lane toward Bel Air, the clunk of the wipers seemed to be playing a conga rhythm with the clicking of her turn signal. Thump. Tock. Tock. Tock. Thump. Tock. Tock. Tock.
While Jo cheerfully tapped out a counterbeat on the steering wheel, Ramon’s vu-phone rang. He flipped open the silver clamshell and saw his wife’s face in the display panel.
“Hi, Maggie,” he said into the unit.
Ramon’s wife, Margaret Zane, was on a location shoot in New Zealand. Now nearing fifty, Maggie had risen from publicist to senior producer at Lion Pictures thanks to her uncanny ability to twist arms without making enemies. Not bad for a working-class kid from Pittsburgh born Margaret Zembrowski, Jo thought.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Maggie said. “We’re on a break between shots. How did it go?”
“I’d say it went well,” Ramon replied, the corners of his mouth arching slightly.
“He’s being modest, Maggie. Your husband was magnificent!” Jo called out. When Jo had moved to Los Angeles three years earlier, she’d sought out Ramon Garcia for his connections within the Eslo community. His power as an orator had been a pleasant surprise.
Ramon angled the vu-phone toward Jo.
“That’s wonderful, Jo,” Margaret said from the small screen. “I wish I could have been there.”
Jo flashed a smile into the display. “Somebody’s got to keep those flamboyant directors in line,” she said.
“This one likes to spend money like he’s van Gogh heaping paint on a canvas… except he doesn’t have near the talent. If he keeps it up, I’m the one who’s going to cut off his ear. In fact, I might even start lower on his anatomy,” Maggie said.
“Hang on, I’m going to switch over to secure mode, Maggie,” Ramon said, pressing the button that encrypted their connection and blacked out their visual contact. “Everything went according to plan,” he said into the vu-phone’s mike. “The gangs kept their truce.”
“That’s good,” Maggie said with relief in her voice. “Frankly, I was worried—especially when you told me there would be families at the rally. God knows enough people have been killed in East Los Angeles lately.”
“The last thing we wanted to do was to jeopardize innocent lives,” Jo said hurriedly. “If we’d had trouble break out in front of the media, it would have looked like we were inciting violence. That’s not the public image La Defensa del Pueblo needs to cultivate right now.”
“You have a gift for politics, Jo,” Margaret said. “I’m just glad no one was hurt.”
“I wasn’t surprised the gangs honored the truce,” Ramon said. “They can be vicious, but they also value honor. Each mero gave me his word there wouldn’t be trouble, and they all kept it. Of course, spreading a little cash among them always helps.”
Jo’s expression turned grim. Ramon’s words reminded her of the business with Nesto and the cops. The mero had taken things too far; she’d never intended for him to kill the cops. Still, the results had been good for their cause—today’s turn-out was proof of that. The momentum for justicia is growing—but does that justify murder? Jo buried her remorse once again and turned her attention back to Ramon and Margaret.
“Did it help to have Benitez there?” Margaret asked.
“You were right about inviting him, Maggie,” Ramon replied. “He really brought out the cameras.”
“Every share point in ratings is worth a thousand bullets,” Jo added.
Margaret laughed softly. “You certainly have a colorful way of putting it, dear.”
Jo smiled. Maggie’s celebrity connections had once again helped their cause. “I wish you could
have seen your husband on the podium, Maggie. He was in total control today.”
“Thanks, Jo,” Ramon cut in. “But let’s give credit where it’s due. I don’t think the responses from the audience would have happened on cue if you hadn’t arranged for a few of our friends in the crowd to get them started. It was a brilliant idea.”
“Well, congratulations to you both,” Margaret said. “It sounds like you pulled off a minor miracle today. Look, I hate to run, but I’ve got to lean on my little prima donna. If he doesn’t get this crew back to work soon, we’re going to lose the light and fall another day behind schedule. I’ll call you again tomorrow, Ramon.”
“Bye, love,” Ramon said and disconnected. After returning the phone to his pocket, he looked out the window. “You know, Jo, our cause hasn’t had an opportunity like this since the sixties. I feel like a young radical again.”
“That’s a good thing, viejo. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. Getting La Defensa del Pueblo in place is going to be a grind over the next few months. But today, I think we seized the day.”
“Yeah, we even caught a break on the rain. I doubt if anyone in the crowd got wet… except maybe Mano. He’s got a long walk home.”
“Coño!” Jo cursed, pounding the steering wheel with her fist. “I’ve been so giddy over the rally, I forgot about Mano. I offered him a ride, but I think he’s worried his wife will get jealous.”
“Wasn’t Mano great at the rally, though? Dios mio, he’s got the instincts of a sheepdog. It’s like he’s hardwired to protect his flock. I know you noticed it, too. He immediately worked out an escape plan for us, without being asked.”
Jo nodded. “I was amazed at how quickly he calmed down the group from UCLA.”
“Yeah, I saw that. He spotted the leader, confronted him, and hasta la vista, the trouble was over.”
“I’d love to know what he said.”
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