America Libre (25 page)

Now, less than four months after Blackout Sunday, the central business district of Los Angeles had become a ghost town—every
day of the week.

But their strategic victory came with a price. An Army patrol had stumbled onto one of their explosive-making centers near
Montebello last week. The young vatos at the site tried to put up a fight, using handguns against automatic rifles. All four
were killed.

They’d paid with their lives for plans that they’d had no part in shaping. Although the four young men had not worn uniforms,
Mano knew they’d been soldiers all the same.

From his backpack, Mano produced four small wreaths and placed them solemnly against the wall. After saying a prayer, he began
walking toward his apartment feeling both proud and ashamed.

Back home, as he crawled silently into bed beside Rosa, he once again recalled Jo’s advice about sending his family away.
After almost six months, he was still no closer to a decision. With the first Relocation Communities now complete, waiting
any longer made no sense.

Six sleepless hours later, as the first glimmer of daylight crept into the room, Mano had made up his mind. Now would come
the hardest part yet: breaking the news to his wife.

Rosa stirred slightly and Mano let his hand wander along her undulating body. She still had curves in all the right places—even
after three children. He felt the warmth and smoothness of her skin and sighed. His decision involved many sacrifices. A very
long time might pass before he and Rosa would share a bed again. He embraced his wife gently, savoring her nearness.

Although not fully awake, Rosa turned toward Mano and began caressing him. It was not unusual for them to make love at dawn,
before the children awoke. Mano was becoming aroused, his breath beginning to quicken, when a thought crossed his mind that
instantly diminished his fervor.

Lovemaking would not be a good preface to the news he was about to give Rosa.

He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it gently. “Rosita, we need to talk,” he whispered.

“What is it, mi amor?” Rosa said, stretching languidly.

“They’re saying the first Relocation Community in North Dakota will be ready next month.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied without opening her eyes.

“When the camp is ready, you and the children will have to go.”

“Dios mio, Mano, what are you saying?” Rosa asked, suddenly wide awake.

“You and the children will be safer in a Relocation Community.”

“What about you?”

“I can be more useful staying here.”

“What are you saying, Mano? What kind of man would abandon his wife and children at a time like this?”

“Los Angeles is already a dangerous place, Rosa. It’s going to get worse.”

“But why can’t you go with us? What good can it do for you to stay here?”

“I can fight,” Mano said simply.

“Fight for what, Mano? What reason is there for you to risk your life?”

“Look around you, Rosa. What’s the name of this city? What’s the name of this state? Our people named these places. This was
our
country once. And now we’re being penned up and carted away like criminals.” Even as he spoke, Mano was surprised at his
own words. He had never said these things out loud before. It was like listening to someone else. “Marcha was right, Rosa.
It’s time for us to take our country back.”

“What’s gotten your head full of these ideas, Mano?” Rosa asked angrily. “It’s that woman, isn’t it? She’s the one who’s got
you believing this nonsense.”

“At first, I thought it was nonsense, too. And then I realized we have a duty to our people, Rosa. I wish I had the words…”

“Mano, you’ve always looked out for this family. What about your children? Don’t you care what happens to them?”

“It’s for our children that I’m doing this,” Mano said with an air of finality.

Rosa stared at her husband, knowing more words were useless. From twelve years of marriage, she had come to know Mano as a
man who made few demands, but once his mind was made up, no amount of arguing would change it.

At that moment, Rosa realized she had lost Mano. Josefina was breaking up her family. She was rich and beautiful. But that
was not enough. She wanted her husband, too. Now Josefina would have Mano to herself while she and the children rotted away
in a camp. Without another word, Rosa put on her nightgown, walked quietly into the bathroom, and turned on the faucet to
mask the sound of her weeping.

Maria Prado read the letter again. There had to be some mistake.

During a fourteen-year CIA career, she’d learned it was easy to misinterpret the tortured, arcane prose of government documents.

After the second reading, the message of the certified letter from the Department of Homeland Security was still the same:
her family had fourteen days to move out of their home in La Mirada and report to temporary quarters in Los Angeles Quarantine
Zone B until assignment to a Relocation Community.

Maria reached for the vu-phone.

Professor Francisco Prado saw his wife’s face appear in the vu-phone on his desk. “Hello, dear,” he said.

“Frank, we’re being relocated.”

“What? How can they do that?” Francisco shouted, losing his typically calm demeanor. He switched off the vu-phone’s speaker
and picked up the receiver. “You work for the CIA, for Chrissake,” he said, lowering his voice.

“I don’t think that matters anymore, Frank. First they stripped away my security clearance, and now this.”

“They can’t just take away our house and kick us out like that.”

“We’re Class H, Frank. Our constitutional protections have been revoked. And they’re technically not taking away our house.
The letter says we’ll be compensated under eminent domain laws. It’s hogwash, of course, but it’s all legal.”

“We can fight this, Maria,” Francisco said with a sudden burst of conviction. “We’ve got powerful friends. They can’t do this
to us.”

Sixteen days later, three new names were added to the roll call of Temporary Housing Unit 11 in Quarantine Zone B, a crowded
tent city erected on the grounds of Evergreen Cemetery—Francisco Prado, Maria Prado, and their daughter, Andrea.

M
ano entered his apartment and saw a row of mismatched suitcases lined up neatly near the door. Rosa and the children were
ready to leave.

Looking around the empty living room, he realized it was probably the last time he’d ever see the place—not that he would
miss it much once he went into hiding. But this dark and cramped apartment was the only home his children had ever known.
Leaving it would not be easy for them. God only knew what kind of place Rosa and the kids would find at the Relocation Community.
Mano’s sole hope was that it would be safer than staying here.

“Papi, you’re home!” Elena yelled as she and Pedro ran out of the bedroom, dressed in their church clothes. Mano knelt and
embraced the children, feeling their fragile arms around his neck. It was a moment he wished would last forever.

He had never imagined it would come to this; he was about to part with the core of his life. Holding Elena and Pedro, he wanted
to tell them how much they meant to him, how their absence would leave him hollow, but he held back—it would only make parting
more difficult for the children.

He gently stroked Elena’s hair. “All ready for your trip?”

“Yes, Papi,” she said eagerly. “Mami bought me a new doll. Her name is Sonya.”

Mano was grateful that Rosa was doing all she could to make this easier for the children. They would need her strength more
than ever.

He turned to his son. “What about you, m’hijo?”

An older Pedro was not so easily distracted. “Why aren’t you coming with us, Papi?”

“There are important things I have to do here, Pedro. I can’t explain them right now. We’ll be together again when I’m done.
You have to trust me.”

The boy lowered his eyes. “I wish Julio could have come with us. I won’t have anyone to play with on the trip… I miss him,
Papi.”

Mano lifted the boy’s chin. “Be strong, m’hijo.”

The boy looked silently at his father, fighting back tears. Mano knew there was nothing more he could say; Julio’s loss was
a pain they would have to endure.

“Your mother and I have some things to talk about,” Mano said after a moment. “Why don’t you two go out in the courtyard and
play?”

Once the children were outside, Mano pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Rosa. As she looked, her eyes widened
in astonishment. The envelope was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills—more money than she had ever seen. “It’s twenty thousand
dollars,” he said.

Rosa’s face hardened. “I don’t want this money,” she said coldly.

“Why not, querida? What’s the matter?”

“It came from
her
. She thinks she can buy you with it.”

“You’re wrong, Rosa. This money is an advance on my pay.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want it,” she said, throwing the envelope to the ground and bursting into tears.

Mano retrieved the envelope and held it out to her again. “Rosa, please take the money. The children are going to need it.”

Rosa stared at the envelope for a long time before finally stuffing it into her purse.

Mano encircled her in his arms. “I don’t know how long it will be before I see you again, querida. But once this is over,
nothing will keep me away.”

Rosa said nothing, weeping softly, head bowed against his broad chest. After a time, she broke their embrace and started for
the door. “I shouldn’t leave the children outside alone too long,” she said, drying her eyes.

Thirty-five minutes later, Rosa and the children were on a bus headed for North Dakota.

A hard rain drummed on the roof of the former Greyhound coach, pelting the windows and blurring the view outside. With the
air brakes hissing in protest, the driver brought the aging bus to a stop and turned off the engine. In a protective cage
at the front of the bus, an armed guard beside the driver stared warily toward the locked passenger compartment holding forty-six
detainees—including Rosa Suarez and her children.

“Mami, I think we’re stopping for gas again,” Pedro said, his forehead pressed against the window. Rosa leaned forward, looking
for her daughter and found her playing dolls with another girl two rows ahead. “Elena, come back to your seat, m’hijita. We’ll
be getting off the bus in a while.” After seven days on the road, the routine at fuel stops was a familiar ritual for everyone
aboard the bus.

Rosa’s bus was part of a motley convoy of six civilian buses led by an Army truck carrying a squad of soldiers and a Humvee
bringing up the rear. Each time the column stopped for gas, the Army truck would discharge its soldiers to form a containment
perimeter around the detainees getting off the bus for rest breaks. Fearing the nearly three hundred detainees being transported
by the six buses might overwhelm the eighteen soldiers escorting them, each bus was unloaded separately as it took on fuel.

Assigned to bus number five, Rosa knew their chance to use a real restroom and wash up was still nearly an hour away. Nonetheless,
she rose and dug through the suitcases on the rack above their seats for the children’s rain gear. She wanted to have the
kids ready. Once the gas tank was full, everyone would be ordered back on the bus, whether they’d used the facilities or not.

After a week in the squalid interior, Rosa no longer noticed the foul smell of the broken restroom at the rear of the bus.
But each time they stepped outside and the soldiers turned away from them in disgust, she was reminded that the stench had
permeated everyone aboard. Adding to the humiliation, some of the soldiers wore surgical masks; whether to shield them from
the smell or to protect them from disease, Rosa wasn’t sure.

As bad as it was, Rosa was grateful she’d been assigned to one of the many Greyhound buses commandeered by the government
for the relocations. The unfortunate detainees assigned to former school buses were forced to use a chemical toilet at the
rear of the bus without any privacy at all. Rosa had heard the government’s huge new fleet of buses was at work constantly,
transporting Class H citizens to the camps or heading south with the millions being deported.