“You don’t look well, Mano,” she said gently. “Is everything OK?”
Mano stared at the tabletop. She doesn’t know about Julio. That was not surprising. Another child’s death in the barrios wasn’t news these days. The few people outside his family who’d shown up for Julio’s funeral were proof of that. One thing was certain. Julio’s death was a family matter—and that’s how it would remain.
“You said the door would still be open,” he said at last.
“Of course, Mano,” Jo said, sitting down. “I think you made a wise decision coming back.”
“Have you hired a new security director?”
“We’ve looked. I’m doing the job for the moment—although not very well.” She smiled and added, “I suppose I shouldn’t say that. Now you’ll want more money.”
“You paid me well, Jo. I don’t want more money.”
“That’s a relief. The government’s trying hard to choke off our funds.”
“Whatever you can pay me is fine.”
“We can talk about that later. What I want to know now is the reason you came back.”
Mano studied the table again. “I changed my mind.”
“I see,” Jo said, leaning closer. “Can you tell me why?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Mano, a man like you doesn’t wake up one morning and suddenly change his mind. You had some very serious qualms about resisting the Bates resolution.”
“I don’t anymore. Isn’t that enough?”
“Look, I don’t want to pry, but I need to know why you’re doing this. Frankly, bringing you back could put our security at risk. How do we know you haven’t gone over to the other side?”
Mano managed a weak smile. “If I’d turned against you, you’d be under arrest by now, Jo. I already know enough to get all of us locked away.”
“That convinces my mind,” Jo said, looking deep into his eyes. “But it doesn’t convince my heart.”
Mano lowered his gaze, trying to hide a sudden rush of excitement. His grief and anger had dulled his infatuation with Jo. In one look, his passion for her was back. Along with it came a wave of guilt. “This is wrong,” he said, rising from the table. “I should go.”
“No, wait,” she said, reaching for his hand.
Mano stopped, held by her feather-light touch.
“I shouldn’t have doubted you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s not why I should go.”
“What is it, then?”
“I don’t know how to say this, Jo… I love my wife, but—”
“Mano!” Ramon called out, entering the conference room. “It’s good to see you, hombre!” he said, then looked him over and added, “Although you look like hell.”
Mano was startled by the interruption, then relieved. “You don’t look so great yourself,” he replied, his face warming into a small smile.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Ramon said, clapping his shoulder. “We could sure use your help again.”
“Mano’s not sure he wants to come back, Ray.”
“What?” Ramon said, frowning. “Mano, you’re not one to make social calls. Why else would you come?”
Jo answered for him again. “It’s my fault,” she said. “Mano agreed to join us. But I pressed him for his reasons and now he’s balked about coming back.”
Ramon turned to Mano. “Whatever reasons you have for joining us again are good enough for me, amigo.”
“That goes for me as well,” Jo added. “I was wrong to question your motives.”
“Well?” Ramon asked, spreading his palms. “Are you with us?”
Mano glanced at Jo. Her eyes were on the floor. He could do this; he had to control his impulses. There was no other way to avenge his son’s death. “I can start whenever you need me.”
Ramon beamed. “Good. Because we’ve planned some very special surprises for Mr. Bates and his friends once the Quarantine Zones are in place.”
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:
Month 12, Day 29
Walking across the defunct railway bridge, Mano gazed at the Los Angeles River below, wondering why Jo had asked to meet here. He wasn’t familiar with this area of the river, which abutted the rail yards of the Southern Pacific.
For most of the year, the Los Angeles River was an oversized, graffiti-covered culvert with a meandering trickle. As a kid, Mano had often played on the river’s paved channel—it was one of the best places around to skate and play stickball.
Mano’s memories of childhood reawakened the pain of losing Julio. The twelve days since his son’s death had been the most agonizing of his life. As he’d done in the past, Mano dulled the pain by burying himself in work. Rosa, consumed by her own grief, didn’t question his actions.
In anticipation of the quarantine, Jo had launched a flurry of preparations for self-sufficiency. Throughout the barrios, they were already stockpiling caches of food, water, medical supplies, and gasoline, purchased through the dummy businesses set up by Ramon to avoid suspicion.
Halfway across the bridge, Mano saw Jo and a stranger waiting on the other side. Walking closer, he recognized Ramon—without his ponytail.
“I imagine you’re wondering why I asked you to meet us here—and maybe why Ramon cut his hair,” Jo said after Mano reached them.
“Both those questions crossed my mind.”
“Well, to begin with, Ramon has gotten way too easy to spot with that infamous ponytail of his,” Jo explained, smiling.
Ramon also grinned. “We kept the hair, though. I’ll keep wearing my fake ponytail in public and take it off when I need to go undercover.”
“As for you,” Jo said to Mano, “you’re going to need a new identity to travel outside the Quarantine Zone.” She reached into her backpack and handed Mano a rolled-up piece of khaki fabric, about six inches in width.
“What’s this?”
“It’s your turban. Once you grow a beard, you’ll be ready to pass for Mr. Ajitkumar Singh,” Jo explained. “I think you’ll look pretty dashing as a Sikh.”
“Sikhs are tall and warriorlike,” Ramon added. “You should fit the part well.”
“We didn’t have to meet here for you to tell me this.”
“That’s true,” Jo agreed. “Look around, Mano. What do you see?”
“The L.A. River. Is there something else?”
Jo nodded. “I see a lifeline for our barrios once the quarantine begins.”
Mano gazed up and down the river. “Yes, I see what you mean. The river and these railroad tracks cut right through the middle of Los Angeles. The government will have to keep this area open after the quarantine.”
Jo smiled, impressed by Mano’s strategic grasp. “That’s right. This corridor can be our pipeline to get people out and supplies in.”
Sensing the possibilities, Mano pointed toward the succession of mammoth drainage pipes lining the concrete riverbank. “Those storm sewers feed into the river from every part of the city. If we connect some new tunnels to them, we’ll have an invisible supply network.”
Ramon grinned wryly. “It sounds like you’ve just outlined the plans for the East L.A. version of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.”
THE QUARANTINE
AND RELOCATION
ACT
THE QUARANTINE AND
RELOCATION ACT:
Day 1
Leon Trotsky said war is the mother of revolution. He might have added that government repression is usually the midwife.
—José Antonio Marcha, 1989
Translated by J. M. Herrera
On a rainy Tuesday in July, the U.S. Senate convened a special session. Four months after the Quarantine and Relocation Act was first proposed by Melvin Bates, eighty-two of the nation’s senators voted in favor of the bill. With unprecedented swiftness, President Brenner signed the act into law the same day. On Wednesday, the ninety-point headline on the front page of the New York Post read:
THEY MUST GO
Over
night, one of every six people on U.S. soil was designated Class H—“H” as in “Hispanic.” This classification was given to anyone with a Spanish surname or at least one parent of Hispanic origin. Anyone with a Hispanic spouse was also included.
The ACLU and the National Council of Churches contested the classification in a case taken by the Supreme Court. As expected, it was to no avail. Meantime, lower federal courts were swamped with thousands of cases in which families with culturally ambiguous names like Estes, Marin, and Martin requested an exemption from Class H designation.
Class H status included two categories: citizens and non-citizens. Immediate deportation awaited anyone designated Class H who was not an American citizen.
To expedite their relocation, Class H citizens were required to register their home addresses within thirty days with the CIA. Failure to comply would bring a ten-thousand-dollar fine and three years’ imprisonment.
With the enactment of the law, teams of government bureaucrats began the arduous task of determining the boundaries of the temporary Quarantine Zones around Hispanic urban enclaves. The construction of the first Relocation Communities also became a priority. With these plans under way, a purge began of the Class H population from government positions of power and influence.
Class H government employees were required to reapply for security clearances. None received a “secret” clearance after reapplying. Class H bureaucrats at every level were assigned to nonessential projects. The secretary of housing and urban development, Judith Ramirez, was no exception. She was no longer allowed to attend cabinet meetings in which matters of national security might be discussed, in effect making her a figurehead with no real authority. Class H judges at the federal, state, and local levels were banned from adjudicating criminal cases. From privates to generals, military personnel with a Class H status were reassigned to maintenance units with no access to weapons or military intelligence.
Class H citizens were allowed to vote, but only for congressional representatives within the Quarantine Zones and Relocation Communities. Congressional representatives from these areas would hold non-voting seats in the House of Representatives.
Within two months of the Quarantine and Relocation Act’s adoption, the first walls began to rise around the nation’s forty-six Quarantine Zones—and the neutralization of Hispanic political influence in the United States was well under way.
THE QUARANTINE AND
RELOCATION ACT:
Month 2, Day 2
Your purpose for entering the Quarantine Zone, ma’am?” asked Private First Class Paul Little as he examined the three-day pass issued to Emily Barnett.
“I’m a deaconess of the First Apostolic Church,” answered the primly dressed blonde. “We have a congregation in the zone.”
Private Little jerked his thumb toward the steel gate behind him. “There’s not much hope of saving any souls in there, ma’am. They’re all scum. A white woman alone around these people had best be careful.”
“Cool it, Little,” said the other guard at the fortified checkpoint.
“Nah, man. The lady oughta know what she’s getting herself into.”
“Ma’am,” the other guard said to Emily. “My squadmate’s just an ignorant redneck. There’s good folks in there that need all the help they can get.”
“Yeah, and she’s going to find out how good when some Pancho pulls a knife and rapes her.”
Emily retrieved her pass from the soldier. “Thank you for your sensitively expressed concern, Private,” she said, and entered the North Gate into Quarantine Zone B.
The government bureaucrats had split Los Angeles into two Quarantine Zones divided along the L.A. River—Zone A in the west and Zone B in the east. Wedged precariously between the zones was downtown Los Angeles.
Walking into Zone B, Emily glanced at the graffiti-covered wall behind her. Erected only two months earlier, the wall facing the central business district had been the first section completed—a ten-foot barrier of stacked concrete slabs topped with concertina wire. Work on the wall along the eastern and southern boundaries of Zone B was still under way. In those areas, dense coils of concertina wire served as an interim barrier.
After walking two blocks, Emily turned east, out of sight of the checkpoint guards, and entered a black Audi sedan parked along the street.
“The pass worked perfectly, Mano!” Jo said, climbing into the Audi’s passenger seat. “The guards never raised an eyebrow. Ramon’s document team did an exceptional job.”
Mano started the Audi and pulled away from the curb. “Ramon’s people are already working day and night. How much longer do we wait?” he asked, rubbing the new growth of beard on his chin.
“I’m glad you’re eager to start our operations, Mano. But we shouldn’t make any moves until we’re ready. Once the government opens the Relocation Communities, all Hispanics will be moved into quarantine. That means Ramon and I are going to lose our homes outside the zone—and that’s going to make it much harder for us to travel. We all need identities that will hold up. Otherwise our plans will be worthless.”
“Maybe we should take on one of these guard posts along the wall while we’re waiting. We’ll need to test their defenses eventually.”
“No. An attack might draw a military crackdown in the zones before we’re ready. We need to be patient.”
I’ve been patient. Very patient, Mano said to himself. But as the launch of their operations grew closer, he ached for the chance to lash back at the soldiers. Still, he knew Jo was right about striking too early. “I see your point,” he said aloud.
They traveled several blocks in silence before Jo spoke again, almost in a whisper this time. “Mano, there’s something else… something personal,” she said, nervously stroking her hair.
Her intimate tone made Mano’s pulse quicken. His love for Rosa was unshaken, but his infatuation with Jo was becoming a live wire, something sparking wildly inside him. The idea Jo might share his attraction filled him with delight—and dread.
“I think your wife and children will be safer in one of the Relocation Communities the government’s building in the Dakotas. Once we start our operations, it’s going to get pretty dangerous for us here.”
Mano was thunderstruck. The thought of separating from his family had never crossed his mind. “What makes you think Rosa and the children will be safer in a camp?” he said, bringing the Audi to a stop along the curb.
“The U.S. government can be repressive, Mano, but it’s rarely cruel. As Marcha pointed out, most Americans are decent people. Living in a camp won’t be pleasant, but your family won’t be mistreated. On the other hand, the leadership of the DDP will need to go underground once the relocations begin. We’re going to be in extreme danger… at all times.”
“How long will we be apart? How do I know I’ll ever see them again?”
“I can’t answer that, Mano. If we win—when we win—there will be negotiations to return those who were relocated. But that could take years. It’s your decision, of course. But I think your wife and children run a greater risk staying here.”
Jo’s words rekindled a hurt never far from Mano’s heart. Julio’s death had been like the loss of a limb. Although the most intense pain had faded, Mano knew the feeling of being incomplete would stay with him forever. Looking back, he now realized his wounded pride had driven him to keep the news from Jo.
“You may be right, Jo,” he said softly. “My youngest son was killed by the soldiers.”
Jo gasped, startled by the news. “Dios mio, Mano!” she said. “When?”
“Just before we were quarantined.”
“That was two months ago.”
“I know. I should have told you,” he said, lowering his eyes.
She touched his shoulder tenderly, her eyes welling with tears. “I understand, Mano. People think it helps to talk about a tragedy. Sometimes, though, it only makes the pain worse. I found that out when I lost my mother.”
The wa
rmth of Jo’s hand melted his last resolve of silence. In a voice hoarse with emotion, he told her about Julio’s death at the hands of the convoy. “They left my son to die,” he said, almost whispering. “I didn’t want to believe it. American troops weren’t like that in my day.”
Jo withdrew her hand to wipe away her tears. “That’s the reason you came back, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Mano said without looking up.
“Now I understand why you didn’t want to tell me. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“Not many people knew. The funeral was very small.”
Jo stared at the floor for a moment. “Look, Mano,” she said uneasily. “You’ve become more than an employee to me. What we’re doing together… well, it’s not just a business relationship anymore.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“God, this is getting complicated,” Jo said, chewing her lip. “What I’m trying to say is that I care for you—and your family. You’ve already lost a child, Mano. I couldn’t live with myself if anyone else in your family was hurt by our work with La Defensa. That’s why I think you should move your wife and children away once the quarantines begin.”
Mano looked into her eyes. “Are there any other reasons you want me to do this?”
Jo turned away, tugging at a strand of hair. “Even if there are, those reasons shouldn’t matter,” she answered softly. “Any feelings we may have are not important, Mano. We have a duty to our people. But if your family stays here after the quarantine, they’ll be in more danger than ever,” she said, facing him again. “Please promise me you’ll think about sending them away.”
Mano started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “When the time comes, I’ll consider it,” he said, staring straight ahead.
The CIA’s regional secretary had just bitten into his third donut of the morning when the phone rang.
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