America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  The sound track was what made the recording so haunting. The angry shouts of the mob, the panicked voices of the family, and their final, desperate screams left an indelible mark on every person who heard it.

  The fate of the Davis family was the nightmare of most mainstream Americans. They feared the growing bloodshed would soon reach them. The reaction among non-Hispanics was now almost unanimous: the violence in the barrios must stop. A USA Today poll taken two days after the Davis tragedy showed ninety-one percent of non-Hispanics now favored the Bates resolution.

  In the days that followed, all congressional resistance to the Quarantine and Relocation Act evaporated. The uncanny progress of the controversial bill left Washington insiders stunned. Among those most surprised was its original sponsor, Nationalist congressman Melvin Bates.

  Jo walked purposefully into the conference room and sat down at the oval table.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, hermanos,” she said to Mano and Ramon. “I’ve been tied up with our friends in Palo Alto. I swear, sometimes I think computer geeks live on a circadian cycle from Mars. Anyway, I’m happy to report our stealth pipeline to the Web is under way. How are we coming with the dummy businesses, Ramon?”

  “Excellent,” Ramon said. “I’ve got three different lawyers setting up a string of LLCs. By the end of the week, we’ll be ready to start buying the materials on our list—very discreetly, of course.”

  “I don’t understand all this, Jo. What’s going on?” Mano asked.

  “I’m sorry, Mano. Ramon and I had to keep this from you. It’s sensitive information and you had no need to know until now,” Jo explained. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, the Quarantine and Relocation Act looks certain to pass in the Senate. Once the quarantine is in place, the government is going to surround the barrios with troops. We need to start our preparations to resist the quarantine right away.”

  “Resist?” Mano asked.

  Jo’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Are you opposed to resisting the quarantine?”

  “Rallying votes to stop the Bates resolution is one thing. But this is a nation of laws, Jo. Once the majority votes for something, the rest of us have to go along—whether we like it or not. I won’t resist the Bates resolution if it’s passed by Congress.”

  Ramon swiveled his chair toward Mano. “You didn’t have any qualms about ‘resisting’ the Aryan Fatherland, amigo.”

  “That was different. We stopped the murder of innocent people. The Bates resolution isn’t putting anyone in danger, and it’s the will of the people.”

  “You forget about the Bill of Rights, Mano,” Jo said. “You see, the Founding Fathers were a pretty cautious bunch of radicals. They were just as worried about a dictatorship by the majority as they were about the dictatorship of a monarch. That’s why they made sure the rights of individuals were guaranteed by the Constitution—regardless of the whims of the public. The Quarantine and Relocation Act clearly violates several amendments in the Bill of Rights.”

  Ramon leaned forward, eager to weigh in. “If the Supreme Court wasn’t stacked with hard-line conservatives right now, this resolution would be ruled unconstitutional overnight. But the Supremes serve for life. So it may be decades before enough of the current court members die and moderates can reverse the decision, Mano.”

  “Until that happens,” Mano said, “you’re breaking the law.”

  “If you took a vote on the Bates resolution here in East Los Angeles, do you think it would pass?” Jo asked.

  “No,” Mano admitted.

  “Now suppose the people of East Los Angeles were a separate nation. Wouldn’t their votes count?”

  Mano raised his palm in protest. “But this is not a separate nation, Jo. It’s part of the United States.”

  “Weren’t the thirteen American colonies part of England until they asserted their independence?”

  Mano sighed. “Look, Jo. Even if it was right to resist the Bates resolution, we’d be opposing U.S. troops,” he said. “I served in that uniform. I could never fight against the people who wear it.”

  “Mano, you remind me of a great military leader who once faced a similar decision,” Ramon said.

  “Who was that?” Mano asked, trying to stifle a surge of pride.

  “Robert E. Lee—the finest military mind of his time,” Ramon said, sipping his latte. “Lee graduated from West Point and served in the U.S. Army for over twenty years. In 1860, Lee was forced to make a big decision. Did he owe his allegiance to the U.S. government or to his native Virginia? It was a difficult choice. Lee knew that, either way, he’d be fighting against comrades he’d served with for decades. His decision to fight for the South eventually came down to a single reason: he felt his native state needed him more.”

  Jo leaned close to Mano, locking him in her gaze. “Who needs you more, Mano?”

  Mano looked back into Jo’s intense blue eyes, a tingle in his chest. Is there another meaning to the question? Jo excited him, and this growing passion was complicating his decision, leaving him baffled and uneasy.

  “I’m going to have to think about it,” he said.

  “Mano, we don’t have the luxury of time,” Jo said, leaning forward in her chair. “We have to make plans and make them fast. I wish we could give you more time to decide, but we can’t afford to wait any longer.”

  Mano stared at the tabletop as Rosa’s words echoed in his head: They’ll lead you to treason. I just hope you can still recognize that when it happens. Was resisting this unjust law treason? Maybe not—but his loyalty to the troops who wore the uniform was too strong. “I can’t do this,” he said at last.

  “Mano, I’m going to be closing down the recycling business,” Jo said. “You’ll be out of work. Think of the consequences for your family.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “You’ll manage?” Ramon said skeptically. “Where are you going to find another job—especially after they wall us in? How are you going to—”

  Jo interrupted him with a soft touch on the shoulder. “Save your breath, Ray,” she said. “You and I both know Mano. Arguing is not going to change his mind. Look, Mano, if you feel differently about this later, come and see me. The door will always be open.”

  She and Ramon then rose wordlessly and walked out of the conference room.

  THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:

  Month 12, Day 17

  The tragedies of struggle forge heroes from common men.

  —José Antonio Marcha, 1987

  Translated by J. M. Herrera

  Thanks, Vargas,” Mano said to the driver of the aging Chevy before the sedan pulled away, leaving him on the crowded sidewalk.

  Entering his apartment’s courtyard, he found his elderly neighbor Guillermo Ortega on a folding chair facing the street.

  “You’re back early. Doesn’t look like you had much luck,” Guillermo said.

  Mano shook his head glumly. “No, the docks didn’t have any temp work today.”

  “Didn’t I tell you not to listen to Mario Crespo? That pinche cabrón likes to sound important, telling people he knows where they can find work.”

  “Crespo was only trying to help, viejito,” Mano said, patting the old man’s stooped shoulder.

  “Only trying to help, eh? Did Vargas ask you for gas money?” Guillermo said, referring to the driver of the car that had taken Mano and four other men to San Pedro Bay in search of work.

  “Vargas didn’t have to ask. I gave him twenty dollars for gas.”

  The old man sneered. “That Vargas is a sly one. I think he’s got something going with Crespo. One makes up stories about finding work, and the other one charges people money to drive them there. Did Vargas collect gas money from everybody else?”

  “Yes,” Mano said, realizing the old man might be right. He and the four other men desperately looking for work had probably been suckered. Mano’s shoulders slumped. The prospects of finding a job seemed hopeless.

  It had been three weeks since he’d qu
it La Defensa del Pueblo, and the consequences of his decision were beginning to sink in. Although they’d managed to put away some of his pay, it was only a matter of time before their savings would run out. Then he and his family would be reduced to the fate of so many others in the barrios—standing in line at the food pantries, dejectedly waiting to take home a cardboard box of withered vegetables, dented cans, and secondhand clothes.

  Mano looked at his apartment door. He could not bear facing Rosa with another excuse, another failure. “I’m going for a walk, Guillermo.”

  “Keep your eyes open, muchacho. I’ve heard talk that tanks have been running through the barrio. There must be big trouble somewhere.”

  “We’re falling behind!” said the voice in Sergeant Brewer’s earphones. “Close it up, Brewer!” his vehicle’s commander ordered.

  Wesley Brewer accelerated the M113, struggling to control the armored personnel carrier in the tight confines of South Mott Street. His brief experience driving the tanklike M113 had been in the high desert around Fort Irwin, where his National Guard unit trained. In fact, counting the last twelve minutes, the young sergeant had logged less than two hours behind the steering yoke of an M113. Now Brewer was driving second in a convoy of four, rushing to a disturbance at East Los Angeles College, where automatic weapon fire had been reported.

  Brewer cringed as he peered through his periscope. Ahead of him, the lead vehicle turned right and disappeared behind a building. Brewer had come to dread the nearly blind right turns of the M113.

  Racing around the corner behind the lead unit, Brewer felt the rear end of his vehicle begin to slide. Shit. I’m going too fast, he realized as the thirty-three-ton vehicle careened across the narrow street, slamming into the front of a burned-out bakery.

  “Goddammit, Brewer. You’re making us look like idiots!” the vehicle’s commander barked into Brewer’s earphones, his own periscope fixed on the lead M113 rapidly pulling away. “Get us back in convoy formation, NOW!”

  The damage to the vehicle was minor, but restricted by their scopes, the crew members never saw the small red-jacketed figure standing in front of the store. The M113 hurriedly backed away from the rubble and continued down East Second Street, trying desperately to keep up with the lead unit.

  The sight of the armored vehicles had mesmerized the eight-year-old boy standing in front of the store. They were the last thing Julio Suarez would ever see.

  Mano drifted along the teeming street, plagued by the questions he’d been asking himself for days. Does my loyalty have a price tag? Who do I owe my loyalty to? Could Marcha be right?

  In a search for answers, he began sorting through his life, recalling his days in high school. Although he’d done well in his classes, he’d been steered toward vocational training. Would I have gone to college if I’d attended high school in an Anglo neighborhood? His time in the Army raised similar questions. He’d served two hitches and made master sergeant. Why didn’t I consider applying for Officer Candidate School? Weighed against his own life, Marcha’s ideas had an element of truth. The question was, how much?

  As Mano turned north on Ford Boulevard, his vu-phone rang—an extravagance he’d maintained to help him find work. When he saw “home” on the phone’s exterior display, he knew the call was important. Rosa hated to use the phone—they were being charged by the minute. Perhaps she had a lead on some work. Mano tried to quell his excitement as he connected the call.

  Rosa’s face was a mask of anguish in the display.

  “Rosita, what’s the matter?”

  “Mano,” Rosa wailed. “Dios mio, Mano—”

  “Calm yourself, mi amor. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “It’s Julio… Julio was killed by the soldiers.”

  Rosa sat on the edge of the couch, her arms folded tightly, red-rimmed eyes staring at the floor.

  Standing before her, his head bowed with respect, Jorge Pujols said, “I’ll stay until your husband arrives, Señora.” While walking home from work, Jorge had witnessed the armored vehicle crash into the burned-out bakery. Recognizing Julio, the grocery clerk had rushed to their apartment.

  When Mano entered the apartment a short while later, Jorge intercepted him at the door. Speaking in whispers to spare Rosa the pain of reliving the tragedy, he told Mano what he’d seen.

  In the small apartment, it was impossible for Rosa not to overhear Jorge. The account he gave her husband had many more grisly details. “They never stopped, Mano,” Jorge concluded. “The soldiers ran over the boy and never even stopped.” The words pierced Rosa’s heart once more.

  Mano shook the grocery clerk’s hand. “Thank you, Jorge, for coming to us. I know it wasn’t easy.”

  “You’re quite a man, Mano. You just lost your son and you’re thanking me for bringing you the news,” Pujols said, looking up in awe. “May God keep you, Señora,” he called out to Rosa before leaving the apartment.

  Mano crossed the living room, hugged Rosa tightly, then gently raised her face. “Querida, I’m going to have to leave you for a while. Do you understand?”

  They both knew why Mano had to go: he had to recover Julio’s body. But neither of them could say it aloud without breaking down.

  “Go. I’ll be all right,” she answered finally. “I left Elena and Pedro next door with Guillermo and Juana,” she said, rising from the couch. “I’ll bring them back. It’s time to eat and I know they don’t have anything to feed the children.”

  Mano drew her tightly against him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said before stepping away.

  She watched Mano close the door. Alone for the first time since receiving the news of Julio’s death, Rosa felt her legs quiver and fell to her knees, anguish and pain eclipsing all else. She covered her face and wept. Julio, my son. You hurt no one. There are so many things you’ll never know, so many things you should have done. You’ll never… She suddenly shook her head. No, you cannot do this.

  Rosa stood, wiped away her tears, and walked toward the door.

  She had no time for grief. She needed to feed her children and put them to bed—then prepare her son’s body for burial.

  The barrio’s familiar streets no longer seemed real as Mano walked in the gathering dusk. Could it really happen? Could an American military unit run over a child and not stop or call for help? Have U.S. troops become so blinded by hate that innocent lives no longer matter? Part of him refused to believe it. Men who could do such a thing, even if they wore the U.S. uniform, were without honor.

  Rounding the corner on Dougal Street, Mano saw the vacant bakery, its caved-in façade gaping like the maw of a bent-toothed monster.

  “That’s the father,” whispered one of the neighbors gathered around the building. The words stung Mano. Although he knew it wasn’t rational, he still wanted to believe this was all a mistake.

  A hush fell over the onlookers as Mano stopped in front of the bakery. After hesitating, he forced himself to look inside. Beneath a tangle of masonry and splintered lumber was a small, broken body. Mano recognized Julio’s red jacket.

  A surge of pain began in Mano’s throat and continued downward through his chest. He braced himself against the wall, hot tears clouding his sight. Closing his eyes, a question rang through the darkness: Why my son? Why my son? Slowly, the words changed to a vision. He was back on Fourth Street, helplessly watching the vigilantes gun down his neighbors. He had risked everything to protect his family—and it had been useless. In the end, his former comrades had taken his son’s life.

  Lost in shock, Mano knelt near the pile of rubble as his neighbors watched in silence. Then a distant roar broke the stillness—the unmistakable rumble of a tank.

  The vehicle was out of sight but getting closer, its clatter assaulting Mano like an angry fist pounding inside his head. The sound became a taunt, mocking his futile efforts to protect his family, fueling his growing sense of betrayal.

  Mano rose and pushed his way through the crowd, charging toward the soun
d. He wanted to drag the men out of the tank and kill them with his bare hands, or be killed—it didn’t matter which. These men were no longer his comrades; they were his enemies. Exhaling white-hot anger with each breath, he ran toward the roar. For a block he raced ahead, each footfall stoking his anger. Then the faces of Rosa, Pedro, and Elena flashed through his mind.

  The images tempered his fury, bringing him to his senses. Gasping for breath, he stopped. He had a wife and two other children who still depended on him. Throwing away his life would not bring his son back. He had no weapons and no plan.

  Mano walked back slowly to the bakery and began clearing away the debris that covered Julio’s body. Several of his neighbors joined him in the grim task, some offering condolences, others cursing the heartless men who could kill a child and flee. Mano could not bring himself to reply.

  As he tore through the rubble, Mano found his way blocked by the remains of an interior wall. Grabbing a severed section of pipe, he swung it viciously, pulverizing a large section of sheetrock. In an eruption of rage, he struck the wall again and again, his frenzy growing with each blow until the wall finally collapsed.

  Breathless, his fury spent, Mano stared at the pipe in his hand. I do have a weapon to avenge my son, he realized suddenly. La Defensa del Pueblo.

  “Jo!” Ramon called out as she hurried past his office at DDP headquarters. “Sonia says there’s someone to see you in the conference room.”

  “I’m really swamped right now,” Jo said, pausing at the doorway. “Can Sonia reschedule whoever it is?”

  Ramon grinned slyly. “Oh, I think you’ll want to take this meeting.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Mano.”

  “I knew he’d come back,” she said before dashing toward the conference room on the floor below.

  Jo’s jubilant mood ended when she entered the conference room and saw Mano seated stiffly at the oval table. He seemed a different man, his eyes sunken, his face harder.