America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

“I don’t think it really mattered much. A man who can lift you off the ground with one hand can be pretty damned persuasive.”

  Jo laughed, then suddenly got serious. “We seem to be getting through to him, Ray. I watched him during the speeches. He was moved by what he heard today.”

  “I hope you’re right. We’re going to need more people like Mano—and soon. As Marcha said, ‘Wars are won by moral men who can kill in cold blood.’ ”

  Mano walked upright in the downpour, untroubled by the wet clothes clinging to his skin. The rain had chased the evening crowds indoors, transforming the barrio’s familiar streets into a strange and silent place. Although he was getting closer to home, everything seemed changed in a way he could not describe—including his outlook. The uncertainty that had plagued him for the last few days was nearly gone. In its place was… well, if not clarity, at least calm. He knew the rally had something to do with it, but as yet had not figured out why.

  Striding along the empty street, Mano remembered the early years of the new century when East Los Angeles, like many Hispanic communities across the country, had been the target of a massive ad blitz. Sparked by the 2000 U.S. Census that showed the soaring growth of the Latino population, the advertising was usually stupid and insulting, often awkwardly translated versions of English-language campaigns. Before long, the advertisers discovered that the “bonanza” of the Hispanic market was empty hype touted by ad agencies desperate for new revenues.

  The only corporate presence in his neighborhood these days was the perennial liquor, beer, and cigarette videoboards. The commercial giants whose brands dominated the urban landscape of the American mainstream had once again shunned the barrios of Los Angeles. Outside the barrios, national franchises were ever-present on most main thoroughfares. The streets were lined with a jangling array of electronic signs that continually flashed, blinked, and pulsed, beckoning consumers with jingles and video-animated messages. In the barrios, these slick displays were rare.

  Then Mano noticed something he never had before: almost every building was covered with images made by a human hand—the crude signs of mami-and-papi businesses, the murals of aspiring artists, the placas of the gangs. He’d known these streets all his life. But tonight, for the first time, Mano saw more than the surface of the motley walls. He could sense the people who created them.

  The people of his barrio lived in a world of stark contradictions. Dreams flourished alongside despair. Honor was twisted into the self-destructive violence of the gangs. The fast lane for great ambitions was often the sale of drugs. The family was revered, but many women raised their children alone.

  Mano had always believed most Hispanics worked harder than Anglos. Yet in pay, in education, even in dignity, they seemed continually mired in second-class status. They were not welcome to live outside the crowded barrios. Only last week, Mano had seen innocent people gunned down in the street. Their only crime had been their heritage—his heritage.

  That thought brought Mano to a disturbing realization. Although he’d never been ashamed of his ancestry, Mano could not truly say it had ever been a source of pride. Being Latino was something he’d simply learned to endure with dignity, like a handicap. The revelation shamed him. The people at the rally were his own. He could not escape who he was.

  Almost home, Mano stopped where the Jimenez twins had been killed and stared at the pavement. The neighbors had tried to scrub away the stains, but the concrete was still tinted brown with their blood.

  Moving away won’t save my children, he realized suddenly.

  The vigilantes had only one goal: to attack Hispanics. Today it was in the barrios. Tomorrow it could be anywhere. Moving away from here would not change who they were. As long as these killers were loose, his wife and children were targets.

  Until now, Mano had disdained Hispanics like Jo and Ramon who shouted about prejudice and injustice. He’d considered them whiners, too weak to overcome the adversities fate had dealt them. He still felt Jo and Ramon were wrong about a lot of things, but they were right about one: those in danger had to defend themselves from the vigilantes. That was something in their cause he could support.

  THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:

  Month 2, Day 25

  In every revolution, patriots rise from the least likely of places. Men and women who have never taken an interest in political processes become infused with passion. They find a wellspring of duty and devotion they never knew existed within them.

  —José Antonio Marcha, 1986

  Translated by J. M. Herrera

  Henry Evans II stared at the glut of unopened e-mails and sighed. Although it was not yet nine on Monday, he was already exhausted. Over the last year, Evans had grown pale, overweight, and nearly bald—hardly the look that would help the regional director of the CIA move up the government services ziggurat. But then again, the last eleven months had been unlike any other in Evans’s twenty-six-year CIA career.

  According to many outsiders, the previous year’s merger of all federal security organizations into the Central Intelligence Agency was a shrewd power move by President Carleton Brenner—a former CIA director. Promising a leaner, meaner federal security effort, the president had ordered the FBI, NSA, ATF, and Department of Homeland Security to cease operations as independent entities.

  In reality, the consolidation was a bureaucratic nightmare. The CIA had been forced to keep each organization’s leadership, setting off endless turf battles. And with the restrictions on domestic surveillance Congress had imposed after the early excesses of the war on terror, even routine investigations became mired in legal bottlenecks. As a result, Evans had seen his workload explode and his budget slashed.

  The Agency faced another loathsome burden: it had been enlisted to conceal the extent of U.S. military involvement overseas. The memos circulated by Brenner appointees emphasized this was to keep our enemies in the dark, but Evans knew better. The American public was the real target of the misinformation campaign. They aren’t even called wars anymore, Evans thought, just another “military intervention.”

  When his desk phone rang, Evans glared at the archaic device, galled that the CIA was still saddled with voice-only telephones. Congress had cut the upgrade to vu-phones from the consolidation budget. After several rings, Evans listlessly reached for the phone. “Evans,” he answered mechanically.

  “G’morning, Hank. It’s Maria Prado. I’ve got a report for you on a rally in East L.A. Saturday. There are some new bogeys on our radar screen you should know about. I e-mailed you a photo of them just a few minutes ago.”

  A veteran field agent, Prado had been hounding Evans for weeks with reports on the disturbances in East Los Angeles. After decades as a CIA officer dealing exclusively in foreign intelligence, Evans looked dubiously at domestic surveillance. To him, this urban violence was the work of hooligans and petty criminals—a matter for the police, not the CIA.

  “Hang on a minute,” Evans replied, scrolling through hundreds of new messages. “Here it is,” he said, double-clicking on the attachment.

  The image showed a group seated at a grandstand with three heads circled in red. Marked in the front row was a slender man, probably in his late sixties, dressed in a tweed jacket and sporting a gray ponytail. Circled in the row behind was a burly man in his mid-thirties, along with a striking blonde about the same age.

  “What’s the scoop?” Evans asked after glancing at the photo.

  “The guy in the front row was one of the speakers, a real rabble-rouser, too. His name’s Ramon Garcia. No priors, but he’s a sixties radical who’s resurfaced. The FBI started a file on him in ’71, when he worked as an aide to Cesar Chavez. Turns out he’s now setting up a group called La Defensa del Pueblo in response to the vigilante shootings.”

  “Can this guy cause any trouble?”

  “Well, he’s connected to some serious cash. His wife is Margaret Zane, a producer for Lion Pictures. They live in a Bel Air mansion big enough to house a regiment. I c
hecked this guy out, Hank. He’s got connections within the Eslo community—and around the country, too. If you ask me, he’s worth watching.”

  “Is the blonde in the back row his wife?”

  “No, that’s Josefina Herrera. She’s a dual citizen of the U.S. and Uruguay. Made a pile of money with a med-tech startup while she was pre-med at Stanford, then sold her shares just before the biotech bust. She’s either very smart or very lucky. Anyway, she moved to the L.A. area three years ago and runs a bookstore and a recycling business. They seem to be mostly hobbies for her. My guess is she’s a rich liberal who’s fond of bankrolling do-gooder causes. You know the type: likes to slum with the masses during the week so she feels better about the Brie and Chablis aboard her yacht on Sunday.”

  “Who’s the muscle?”

  “We don’t have much on him. The Face ID unit says he’s Manolo Suarez. Worked as a mechanic until six months ago—been unemployed since. He was a sergeant in a Ranger support unit. Got the Bronze Star in Afghanistan for carrying a guy more than a mile to an aid station after their Humvee was hit.”

  “You know we’ve got a lot on our plate right now, Maria. Do you think this organization poses a serious threat?”

  “Well, their rally could have turned ugly, Hank. But they went out of their way to keep it peaceful. They don’t seem to be an overt threat. Still, I think we need to keep an eye on La Defensa del Pueblo.”

  “What’s your recommendation?”

  “I can sniff around. Maybe we can get a mole inside this group.”

  “Let’s just keep an eye on them for now, Maria. Quite frankly, I haven’t got time to read another field report on a bunch of small-time barrio radicals,” Evans said wearily before hanging up.

  THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:

  Month 2, Day 29

  It was after seven when Mano pulled the Mack into the garage, tired but content. He’d gotten lost twice in the northern suburbs, setting him back a couple of hours, but on the whole, his first day as a driver had gone well. He looked forward to two weeks of real work while Jesús Lopez was on vacation.

  While locking the compound gate, he noticed Jo beside her Volvo.

  “Mano, do you have a minute?” she called out across the alley.

  “Sure,” he answered, walking toward his boss.

  “Did you have any trouble with the special addresses?”

  “No. Your directions were very clear, Jo. I tagged the bags from those houses and locked them in the storeroom.”

  “Good, I’ll take care of them from here.”

  “It may be none of my business, but why don’t we recycle the material from those homes like the others?”

  Jo hesitated. “It’s for security reasons,” she said guardedly.

  “For whose security?”

  “Mano, the very nature of security involves discretion. That’s all I can tell you. Look,” she said, placing her hand lightly on his arm, “I’m sure it’s been a long day for you. Would you like a ride home?”

  “No… no, thanks. I’d rather walk,” he said, unnerved by her touch.

  “Mano, I feel badly about last Saturday. I invited you to the rally and you wound up walking home in the rain. I’d like to make it up to you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “OK, I’ll be blunt, Mano. I know you’re worried about what your wife might think. So let me drop you off a few blocks from your apartment. If you walk home now, you’ll hardly get to see your kids before bedtime. What do you say?”

  Mano had little doubt Rosa would be jealous if she saw Jo drive him home. On the other hand, accepting Jo’s ride would avoid a very late supper for his family. Rosa always made the kids wait until he was home before they ate—even when he called to say he’d be late. In any case, there was little chance his wife would see Jo if he walked the last few blocks. “It is getting late,” Mano agreed reluctantly.

  “Then hop in,” Jo said, unlocking the sedan.

  Once inside the Volvo, Mano was surprised to see his address already entered into the driving directions on the top-of-the-line GPS array. “I see you were pretty sure I’d accept your invitation,” he said, gesturing toward the display.

  Jo smiled sheepishly, starting the engine. “It always helps to plan ahead. I hope you don’t see anything sinister in it.”

  “No, but I am surprised someone who seems like a tree hugger would drive a car with 326 horses.”

  “There are times when the extra power can… well… get you out of trouble,” Jo said, choosing her words carefully.

  While weighing Jo’s cautious reply, Mano was struck by an intense sensation. The Volvo’s crisp, new-car smell had been replaced by a sweet, musky scent, thrilling him in a way that was almost primal. It was coming from Jo.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Jo casually move her smooth, slim arm onto the center console, only inches away. Against his will, he was aroused by her nearness. He squirmed his large torso against the door frame, trying to increase the space between them.

  “Have you thought any more about Marcha’s ideas since the rally, Mano?” Jo asked, merging into the traffic on Fisher Street.

  Mano looked through the Volvo’s tinted window. Outside were the hand-painted signs and graffiti he’d walked past in the rain two days before. “Well, I still don’t think this country belongs to Hispanics, but I believe we need to protect our people from the vigilantes. We can agree on that much.”

  “If you’re interested in protecting our people, Mano, there’s work you can do that’s more important than recycling trash or fixing trucks.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “I can’t tell you everything. For now, the important thing is to know you’re committed to our cause.”

  “I want to help our people, Jo, but you have to tell me what you intend to do.”

  “We need to unite our people, Mano. When we finally join together, we’ll earn the dignity that’s rightfully ours—and protection from attackers like the vigilantes,” she added quickly. “But first we need to build a coalition with true political power. Intellectuals, community organizations, labor unions, the church—even the gangs. We all need to join forces. That’s what the movement for justicia is all about—justice.”

  “And exactly how do you see me fitting into those plans?”

  “When the time comes, you’ll see just how important your contribution can be. But for now, knowing you’re committed will be enough.” She turned and met his eyes. “Can Ramon and I count on you?”

  Mano didn’t have an answer. Two weeks earlier, he would have immediately rejected Jo’s request. Since then, though, the world no longer seemed so simple. “I want to help our people, but I can’t promise I’ll go along with everything you ask.”

  A smile spread across Jo’s face as she returned her eyes to the road. “That’ll work for now,” she said. “The GPS says we’re getting close to your apartment. We can talk more about this later.”

  At an intersection two blocks from Mano’s apartment, Jo pulled the sedan smoothly to the curb.

  “Thanks for the ride, Jo. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Buenas noches, Mano.”

  As Mano emerged from the car, a small figure watched him through the window of the Laundromat across the street. It was Nana Jimenez, the grandmother of the slain twins.

  THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:

  Month 4, Day 3

  The call came on a Saturday afternoon. Rosa answered their ancient voice phone, then handed it to Mano after only a few words. “It’s Felipe,” she said, covering the mouthpiece. “He sounds upset.”

  “Lucia… was… shot, Mano,” Felipe said, fighting back sobs. “The vigilantes killed her.” In a voice choking with grief, Mano’s brother-in-law gave him the details. Mano’s sixteen-year-old niece had been killed near a Wal-Mart on Washington Boulevard. Lucia had died trying to shield her younger siblings from the gunfire. “I’ll let you know when we’ll have the funeral Mass,” Felipe said before hanging
up.

  Mano sank back in his chair, eyes hollow with shock. It was clear the police could not stop these shootings—or maybe they didn’t want to, as many in the barrios believed.

  In the three months since the first drive-by raids, the vigilantes had launched five more attacks in East Los Angeles. The LAPD had formed a special task force to find the perpetrators. But the only lead so far was a dead end: an SUV and a sedan fitting the descriptions of those used in the latest raid were found torched in the San Gabriel Mountains. Both had been stolen shortly before the attack. Now the vigilantes had killed again—this time someone of his own blood.

  Mano heard the voices of his children playing outside in the courtyard. A cold knot formed in his belly as he realized only luck had kept them safe so far.

  Three days later at Holy Trinity Church, Mano sat in the pew behind his sister, gently stroking her trembling shoulder. Teresa’s veiled head was bowed, a handkerchief pressed against her face. She’d struggled to keep her composure during the opening of the Mass, but as Father Johnson started her daughter’s eulogy, Teresa began to weep.

  “Lucia was a gentle girl. She was quiet and never asked much for herself,” the young priest said from the pulpit. “Her joy came from the happiness of others. As the oldest of Teresa and Felipe’s six children, she was like a second mother in the family, mature beyond her years. In her last act on earth, she gave her life to protect her brothers and sisters. Her loss will be felt deeply by so many.

  “We are told that God has plans for all of us. What was God’s plan for Lucia? Perhaps it is not for us to know yet. Her young life was ended by men filled with hatred, men who killed without question, men who knew nothing about Lucia except one thing: she was not like them. And that was enough to condemn her in their eyes.”

  Mano felt a hot swell of anger fill his chest. He pictured these men who fancied themselves heroes, laughing and swilling beer, bragging with one another about their deeds. They would strike again—he was sure of that.