The girls froze, suddenly uncertain.
“Don’t you bitches play hard to get with me,” he sneered. “How much? I’m ready to do both of you if the price is right.”
Sofia and Julie stared back in shock.
“Come off it,” the soldier said. “I know this innocent bit is a trick to jack up the price. What’s it gonna cost me?”
The girls looked at the ground, too embarrassed to speak.
“What’s the matter, don’t you know English? You understand this, don’t you?” he yelled, grabbing his crotch.
Sofia covered her face, suddenly in tears.
Another soldier approached them. “C’mon, Davis,” he said, pulling his comrade toward the rest of the patrol. “Leave these skanks alone. We’ll find us some good whores back at the base.”
Davis turned to the girls again. “What? You beaners think you’re too good to fuck a white man?” he yelled before returning to the other soldiers.
Rosa found herself trembling with rage. She knew Sofia and Julie Cardona well. They were decent girls from a good family. She did not want to hate the soldiers, but it was impossible to forgive their abuse. These men had terrified the girls—and insulted their parents who were working hard to raise them right.
Elena tugged on her hand. “What were they doing, Mami?”
Rosa’s heart sank. She’d been too stunned by the encounter to realize her five-year-old was witnessing the ugly scene. “It was nothing, m’hijita. Just a silly game,” she answered quickly, guiding her away from the window.
Looking at her wide-eyed daughter, Rosa wondered if Elena would someday be accosted by ignorant men like these. The likelihood seemed very real. War often turned men into animals. And war was the only way to describe the conditions around much of the country.
For the first time in her life Rosa was paying attention to events outside her home. She had tried to resist. But the brutal deaths around her had revealed a painful truth: ignoring the outside world would not spare her family from its dangers. She now watched the television news while the boys were in school and Elena was napping. The entire country had changed for the worse—and very quickly.
Nine months after the Rio Grande Incident, the barrios of the Southwest were becoming battle zones where insurgents, vigilantes, police, and National Guard troops waged a bitter conflict. Hate crimes against Hispanics by the KKK and other white supremacist groups multiplied outside the Southwest, stirring more friction.
Damage to public structures was now so common that a new style of architecture was evolving in urban areas throughout the Southwest. Glass was disappearing from public buildings, replaced by hasty patches of concrete, stone, or brick. In the interim, sandbags were being piled inside windows. National Guard troops in combat gear were now permanent fixtures of the urban landscape. “Homeland Security” was taking on an alarming new meaning in the national lexicon.
The apparent inability of the government to maintain order—or capture the vigilantes—was widely publicized by the media. The bloggers were particularly vitriolic. Local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies were routinely roasted for incompetence and accused of collusion with the vigilantes. Some radical-left publications called them government death squads despite their obviously random attacks.
Many Americans were too afraid to leave their homes, let alone shop. Each passing week saw more retail stores shuttered. Local economies that were already weak went on life support. With gasoline already rationed as a “strategic resource” in the war on terror, workers moved closer to their jobs, sending once-prosperous suburbs into decline.
As the months passed, the scope of the violence mounted. Attacks by small armed cadres erupted, the insurgents often wearing black, emulating their brethren who had ambushed the vigilantes in Los Angeles.
In El Paso, four armed men stormed a local television station and fought a SWAT team to their deaths while the station’s cameras rolled.
The residents of Corpus Christi awoke to the sound of automatic rifle fire when insurgents staged an early morning assault on a National Guard detachment camped on the outskirts of the city.
Explosions rocked the morning calm of Santa Fe as three homemade bombs were detonated in the portals of New Mexico’s iconic Capitol Building. A group calling itself the “Latino Liberation Front” claimed responsibility.
Eager to cash in on the ratings windfall, the broadcast networks hired extra camera crews to keep up with the escalating violence, vying with one another to air the most sensational footage. Their constant reports of turmoil inflamed opinions on both sides of the widening divide between Hispanics and the rest of the nation.
Seeking the limelight, a number of pundits and politicians began parroting an alarming prediction: A full-scale Hispanic rebellion was imminent. A growing segment of mainstream America quietly feared the prophecies were true. Nine months after the Rio Grande Incident, their fears would find a voice in an obscure congressman from Louisiana.
A cascade of camera flashes greeted the Nationalist congressman from Louisiana as he stepped behind the podium on the steps of the Capitol. Melvin Bates looked out across the expanse of the Mall, savoring the moment. He’d waited years for an opportunity like this.
The Nationalists had gained eight seats in the last election, and today’s announcement could vault the fledgling party into national prominence. Although Bates knew the resolution he was about to propose had little chance of being ratified, he was convinced it would create an immense number of new supporters for the Nationalists… and help fill the coffers of his party’s reelection war chest. Played right, the Nationalists could become power brokers, able to tip the scales between the two major parties.
Looking down, Bates saw the elite of the Washington press corps arrayed before him in a rectangle of folding chairs. Flanking them were the TV crews, their cameras and microphones facing him like nestlings with begging maws. Through his aides, Bates had leaked the volatile subject of this press conference to a number of reporters. Judging by the media turnout, the tactic had been effective.
Bates cleared his throat and began his opening statement.
“My fellow patriots, our nation faces a challenge unlike any other in our proud history. We are besieged by an enemy within our borders who is brazenly moving among us in military formations with the avowed objective of sedition and conquest. These unprecedented and heinous deeds are tearing at the very fabric of our society.
“To protect our homeland, some misguided Americans have taken the law into their own hands. They have struck back blindly against these terrorists. However well-intended, the righteous fury of these misguided patriots is bringing us to the brink of anarchy. We cannot allow our nation to continue suffering under these conditions.
“The insurgency we face today has a decidedly foreign presence. Those who are perpetrating these acts of terror speak another language. Many were not born within our borders. What we face today is nothing less than a conflict with foreigners on our own soil.
“I fully understand that those committing these deeds of aggression represent only a small minority of the Hispanics in our land, and let me make this perfectly clear: the majority of the legal citizens of the Hispanic race are loyal, law-abiding Americans.
“Therefore, for the protection of our faithful Hispanic citizens and to help root out the terrorists within our borders, I will be proposing to the members of Congress a resolution of Quarantine and Relocation.”
Bates paused and looked beyond the teleprompter. He felt a rush of delight at the astonished expressions among the press corps.
“First, this bill will mandate the immediate deportation of all Hispanics who are not naturalized American citizens. Next, the bill calls for the creation of Relocation Communities where loyal Hispanic-Americans can be protected from the wrath of misguided citizens. These Relocation Communities will not only protect innocent Hispanics, but they will also help us isolate the terrorist minority within Hispanic areas and ch
oke off their lifelines of support. In addition, the relocation will aid authorities in locating and deporting the vast number of illegal aliens still within our borders.
“Until the Relocation Communities are ready for occupancy, the bill calls for the creation of Quarantine Zones around Hispanic areas within our cities. This will help quell the domestic violence running rampant in many urban zones in our nation.
“These are dire times; they call for dire measures. I urge all patriotic Americans to join me in support of this resolution to restore the peace and tranquility of our nation.
“Thank you and God bless America. I’ll take your questions now.”
On the day following Congressman Bates’s press conference, the headline of the Washington Post read, “Ethnic Cleansing in the U.S.?” It was the first salvo in a massive barrage of media coverage. By week’s end, Bates’s proposed “Quarantine and Relocation Act” had sparked a heated national debate.
Opponents saw the relocation as a clear violation of Hispanics’ First Amendment rights. Supporters countered that Hispanics had become enemy aliens, no longer entitled to constitutional protections.
The proposed resolution was hardening positions on both sides of the Hispanic issue. Any middle ground was rapidly disappearing.
Two months after Melvin Bates’s public proposal, opponents of the resolution readied a massive protest in the nation’s capital. Orchestrated by a broad coalition of Latino groups, the event would be labeled the “Forum for Justice.”
Mano reached high above his head, groping blindly through the clothes and blankets stacked on the top shelf of the closet until his fingers recognized the familiar stiff canvas of his Army duffel bag.
Retrieving the carryall, he noticed the dank smell of mold. Dammit. He’d have to buy a new travel bag now. He dreaded spending the money, but was certain Jo and Ramon would find it embarrassing to fly with a security chief carrying worn, smelly luggage.
He stared at the khaki duffel bag wistfully. The last time he’d flown was on the way home following his discharge. He’d worn his fatigues on the plane, although Army regs said he could go civvie. The airlines offered discounts to soldiers flying in uniform and he wanted to save the money. This flight would be quite different. Jo and Ramon had chartered a private jet for their trip to Washington, and all his expenses would be paid.
Mano was refolding the duffel bag when Rosa entered the room.
“What are you doing with that?” she asked. Mano’s presence in their bedroom in the middle of the day had piqued her curiosity.
“We need to throw it away. It’s moldy.”
“All right. But why did you get it out?”
“I’ve got a business trip next week.”
“Business trip?” she said warily. “Where are you going?”
Mano knew he could not hide his involvement with the DDP any longer. Rosa would find out soon enough anyway. News of Jo’s high-profile role in the Forum for Justice would spread quickly in the media. Thankfully, the threat of vengeance from the local vigilantes was no longer a factor.
“Rosa, it’s time I told you what I’ve been doing,” he said, sitting down on the bed. “Come here. Sit with me,” he said, patting the mattress beside him.
Rosa remained standing, frozen with apprehension. “It’s that woman. I know it,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion.
“Yes, Jo is involved.” Mano nodded calmly. “But it’s not what you think.”
“What is it, then?”
“I’m the security director for an organization Jo founded with Ramon Garcia—La Defensa del Pueblo.”
“Dios mio, Mano! That’s one of the crazy groups making all the trouble,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought anything you knew might put you and the children in danger.”
“I don’t understand you, Mano,” she said, wringing her hands. “If you thought it would put us in danger, why did you join up with these people?”
“To protect you.”
Rosa’s eyes began welling with tears. “That doesn’t make any sense, Mano. You’re lying to me. What are you really doing with that woman?”
“Stop it, Rosa! Stop inventing things and calm down,” he said, rising to his feet. “What I’m doing is helping the DDP protect our community. I can’t say anything more without endangering other people. Can’t you understand that?”
Rosa stiffened, drawing her arms against her chest. “I see,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “That’s very convenient.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“What you’ve told me is not very easy to believe. You’re not political, Mano. You’ve always said people like Josefina are troublemakers with nothing better to do. Now you tell me you work for her as a… what is it?”
“Security director.”
Rosa laughed bitterly. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means that I’m using my military training to help people here at home.”
“How? By stirring up more trouble?”
Mano clenched his fists, frustrated by their impasse. “I’ve told you all I can, Rosa. But what I’ve told you is the truth.”
“Even if it is the truth, what you’re doing is wrong, Mano. You said it was foolish to riot. But this DDP of yours is constantly stirring people up.”
“No, Rosa. You don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “Besides, this job is giving our family a chance to get ahead. Do you want me to quit?”
Rosa moved closer. “I know Josefina pays you well, Mano. But look what it’s doing to our family. You can find another job, mi amor,” she said, her voice pleading. “You always have before.”
Mano rubbed his temples, considering her words. He knew the chance for a job with the pay Jo provided would probably never come again. All the same, what Rosa said was true. Their family was falling apart. “I’ve promised Jo I’d go on this trip,” he said. “When I get back, we’ll talk about this again.”
“Is the destination of this trip a secret, too?”
“I’m going with Jo and Ramon to a rally in Washington, D.C. We leave next Thursday.”
Rosa stared at her hands for moment. “I’ll pray for your safe return,” she said coldly and then left the room.
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:
Month 11, Day 4
Looking out from the grandstand, Mano was edgy and tense.
Although the first speech of the Forum for Justice was still two hours away, the area in front of the brightly painted podium at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial was already packed as early arrivals pressed impatiently for choice vantage points. Behind them, around the six-hundred-meter-long Reflecting Pool, surged more people.
The bodies in the restless mass roiled like a turbulent sea, banners and placards snapping in the brisk May breeze. Responding to the call for Relocation Communities, an angry chant rang spontaneously through the crowd: “Hell no! We won’t go! Hell no! We won’t go!”
Mano knew the buildings lining both sides of the Mall held law enforcement officers monitoring the agitated crowd. However, in the great open space at the Mall’s center, the police were noticeably absent—and Mano understood why. If trouble broke out, any officers in the middle of the crowd would be cut off and surrounded.
Mano turned to look for Jo and spotted her at the rear of the grandstand, preparing for the ceremonies. She was engrossed in a flurry of logistical details and ego tussles with the staffs of the celebrities and politicos who would occupy the podium. As they traveled together, his attraction to Jo had reached the point of delicious discomfort. He relished following her with his eyes, yet was stung by guilt when his gaze lingered. Despite himself, there were times when he imagined—
“Mano!” Margaret Zane called out, drawing closer. “Have you got a minute?” Ramon’s wife asked.
Margaret was a striking presence, striding confidently in a sheer peach gown that streamed in her wake, her bright orange hair piled precariously in the �
��Tower of Pisa” look that was the rage on Rodeo Drive. Mano knew Margaret was largely responsible for the demonstration’s immense turn-out. She’d sweet-talked or strong-armed most of the celebrities into attending the demonstration, then cajoled her studio’s top publicist into sending out a blitz of press releases on the event.
Walking alongside Margaret was a tall brunette in a tight metallic-gold jumpsuit.
“Hello, Ms. Zane,” Mano said.
“Oh, Mano, you are so gallant. I just love it! But please, call me Maggie,” she said with a gleaming smile.
“OK, Maggie. What can I do for you?”
“Manolo Suarez, this is Estelle Clark,” Maggie said, gesturing toward her companion. “Estelle is an executive assistant for Ben Torres, and she has some concerns about security. So I thought we should talk to you.”
Mano didn’t watch much television, but even he knew Ben Torres was the star of Salsa on the Side, a hit sitcom about a Latino detective in New York’s posh East Side. Mano also understood why Torres might be worried about security—he was the event’s opening speaker.
Estelle stepped forward, flashed a perfunctory smile, then got down to business. “Ben is going to be escorted by his two security regulars, but he’s never done an event like this before and he has some concerns. To begin with, what precautions have you taken to protect the speakers?”
Mano waved his arm toward the buildings lining the Mall. “There are federal officers in every structure you can see from here, Ms. Clark. The chances of a sniper using any of them are very small. And the podium is bulletproof. The level of security for the speakers here today matches the president’s.”
Estelle’s face warmed slightly. “Ben also wants to know what’s being done about crowd control.”
“There are probably more than two hundred thousand people out there already, ma’am,” Mano said, turning toward the crowd. “There’s going to be a lot more by the time Mr. Torres starts to speak. Nobody can control a crowd that size. But you can assure Mr. Torres that we have an evacuation plan in place. If there’s any trouble, our contract guards will form a corridor behind the grandstand and escort the dignitaries toward the river. We have a number of boats waiting there to get everyone away safely.”
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