America Libre (7 page)

Ramon was connecting to the Internet when the familiar creak of the steel door announced Jo’s arrival. She entered hurriedly,
a laptop case slung over her shoulder. As usual on even-numbered days, she carried two Starbucks lattes. She and Ramon shared
an addiction to lattes—Jo from her days at Stanford and Ramon from his movie-producer wife. Now that all the coffee joints
in East Los Angeles were closed, the two took turns stopping in Santa Monica to satisfy their morning habit.

“Buenos días,” Ramon said without looking up from his computer.

“Good morning, Ramon. You and Maggie have a good weekend?” Jo asked, placing the latte on his desk.

“We went to see
Il Trovatore
Saturday night. The singing was tolerable. But the direction hasn’t been very inspired this season. How about you?”

“It was OK,” Jo said, meticulously tidying the neat stacks of folders on her desk while the laptop powered up.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you worked all weekend again.”

Jo sighed. “Please don’t tell me again I work too much, Ray.”

“All right, Josefina. We’ll skip my weekly sermon on overwork.”

“Muchas gracias. So what’s on our agenda for today?”

“I think our first order of business is the status of Manolo.”

Lattes in hand, the two walked to a corner of the office shielded from the door by a partition. The back side of the partition
contained six surveillance monitors. In the upper-right screen, Mano was visible inspecting the trucks in the garage. Ramon
twisted a switch and the image of Mano moved rapidly in reverse, the time code in the corner of the screen counting backward.

“He’s been arriving every morning before seven-thirty,” Ramon said. “So far, his behavior has matched up with our research.
He’s got all the qualities we’re looking for in a bodyguard—intelligence, a clean criminal record, and military experience.
I think he’s the most promising recruit Mark has ever sent us, Jo.”

“What’s your take on his politics?”

“Getting him on our side of the fence won’t be easy. He served two hitches with the Rangers and saw combat in Afghanistan.
That’s not exactly the résumé of a radical.”

“No, but there’s something else, Ray. He saw the first vigilante shooting. He didn’t want to talk about it, which tells me
it was pretty bad.”

“I see what you mean. That’ll certainly help us win him over,” Ramon said, rubbing his chin. “But I wouldn’t bring it up with
him, Jo. This could backfire on us if it’s not handled delicately.”

“Yeah, I feel terrible poaching on a tragedy,” she said, suddenly dispirited.

Ramon smiled wryly. “Listen, with all due respect to the feminist deities, I think a woman who looks like a movie star and
is smarter than Henry Kissinger is going to be a damn good recruiter, no matter what.”

Jo shook her head in mock disgust. “You’re a closet sexist, Ramon,” she said, smiling.

“Maybe. But I doubt you’ll spare the charm to bring an asset like Manolo into our camp. A man like that could help us.”

“I wish he spoke better Spanish. Apparently, he only speaks a few words, though I’m sure he understands a lot more than that.”

“That’s not unusual for a third-generation Chicano. The genealogy databases show his grandfather came to the U.S. as a field
laborer under the Bracero program during World War II. He must have been one of the few who didn’t get sent back to Mexico
after the GIs returned. That man must have been one hard worker.”

“The work ethic must run in the family. It took a full week without specific assignments to get him into the bookstore to
read the material.”

“He’s had the weekend to mull it over. I expect we’ll get his reaction this morning.”

“You’re usually right about these things, Ramon. It will be interesting to see how Señor Suarez feels about Señor Marcha,”
Jo said, taking the first sip of her latte.

For the third time that morning, Mano scanned the parking lot behind the bookstore. This time, Jo’s Volvo sedan was there.
The time had come to confront his boss.

Even as he walked across the alley, Mano wasn’t sure what he would say. One thing was certain: he needed this job. But he
felt himself drawn to this encounter by his sense of duty, a need to defend the principles of his country. He entered the
bookstore and saw Jo behind the counter.

“Buenos días, Manolo,” she said with a smile.

Without preface, Mano pulled the
Justicia
pamphlet from his pocket and thrust it toward her. “Ma’am, do you support what’s written here?”

“Yes, Manolo,” she answered calmly. “In fact, I translated and edited
Justicia
.”

Mano looked at the cover of the pamphlet.
Edited by J. M. Herrera
, it read. He had not noticed the editor’s name. “No disrespect, ma’am, but I’ve been trying to figure out whether this is
treason or just plain crazy.”

“There isn’t a third alternative?”

“What would that be?”

“That it’s the truth.”

Mano shook his head, struggling to find the right words. “No, ma’am, it can’t be true. I don’t know how to explain it. But,
it’s… it’s just not the way things are.”

“Manolo, long ago, a wise person said, ‘Time makes more converts than reason.’ Hispanics in America have come to accept the
way things are, not because they’re fair or just, but because it’s the way things have been for a very long time.”

“That sounds anti-American.”

“The man who said this was Thomas Paine, one of the patriots of the American Revolution… although the Tories considered him
a traitorous rabble-rouser.”

Stymied by her answer, Mano tried another argument. “What you’re proposing isn’t legal, ma’am. You can’t just barge in and
take away people’s property.”

“Do you think the Anglos did anything different? The ground you’re standing on belonged to Hispanic settlers when your great-grandfather
was alive. The gabachos didn’t ask permission to come here. They swarmed over the land and overran the locals by sheer numbers.
And the Anglo takeover didn’t just happen in California. The first illegal immigrants in Texas came from Tennessee.”

“Why haven’t I heard this before?”

“The history they teach in American schools glosses over the fact that most Anglo families in Texas were uninvited squatters.
The Anglos not only grabbed up Mexican land, they refused to pay taxes on it. That’s why General Santa Anna marched his army
to a place called the Alamo—to evict the illegal immigrants.”

“No matter how we got the land, there’s no other country on earth where people are as free as the United States.”

“That’s true, Manolo,” Jo agreed. “But did you know that England was the most progressive nation in Europe at the time of
the American Revolution? No other monarchy had an active parliament and a Magna Carta protecting the rights of its citizens.
Yet all those privileges didn’t stop the American colonists from asserting their independence.” Jo paused, letting her words
sink in. “Do you think our cause seems any less justified than that of the American colonists?”

Mano knew he was outmatched in a debate with Jo. His strongest argument came from the gut, and it told him her ideas were
dangerous. “I don’t have your education, ma’am. But I still believe you’re wrong,” he said tersely.

“I realize I’m not going to change your views, Manolo,” she said gently. “I can see you find Marcha’s ideas difficult to accept.”

“I think they border on treason.”

“Surely you agree that people have the right of free speech in this country.”

“Treason is not protected by any rights, ma’am.”

Jo reached for the
Justicia
pamphlet he was holding, gently cradling his hand in her own. “Look at this, Manolo,” she said, pointing to the back cover.
“The works of José Antonio Marcha are registered with the Library of Congress. If there was anything illegal in his writings,
I wouldn’t be allowed to publish them.”

The warm softness of her hand left him speechless for a moment. “I… see your point,” he finally managed to say.

“So you agree this document does not break any laws?”

“Apparently not.”

“That’s good to hear. From what I know about you, I can’t imagine you’d work for an organization that did something illegal,”
she said with a soft smile.

Mano’s throat tightened. Talk of ending his job was territory he did not want to cross.

Without waiting for an answer, Jo continued. “Manolo, I realize Marcha’s ideas seem strange to you. But you should know there
are a lot of others who share them—and I have a suggestion that may help. There’s a community rally next Saturday at Salazar
Park. Why don’t you come and listen to the speakers? After that, if you feel that working here compromises your principles,
you can quit. What do you say?”

“Look, ma’am, I’m starting to think there won’t be a job for me here much longer anyway.”

“Why?”

“How long can you carry a salary for someone who isn’t doing very much?”

“You let me worry about that, Manolo. I know we haven’t had much for you to do yet. But that’s temporary. We’re planning to
expand our routes. Your job is safe.”

Mano rubbed his face, trying to mask his relief. He’d listen to these crazy ideas if it meant a chance to protect his family.
After all, Jo seemed to mean well—the drivers certainly believed that. Besides, attending a rally didn’t mean you supported
the cause. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go,” he said finally.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Jo said, leaning closer. “I’ll be driving with Ramon to save parking space. Do you want a ride?”

“Thanks, but I think it’d be best… for family reasons, if I walked, ma’am.” The thought of Rosa seeing him get into Jo’s car
made him uneasy.

“I understand,” she said, nodding. “There’s something else, though. This ‘ma’am’ thing is starting to get very old. Would
you mind calling me Jo?”

“Sure… Jo,” he said, almost whispering her name. “Most people call me Mano.”

She reached out and shook his hand firmly. “It’s a deal, Mano,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I think you may be surprised
by what you hear at the rally.”

Intellectuals are the prime ingredient of social ferment. Their ideas are the yeast that raises the masses into rebellion.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1979
Translated by J. M. Herrera

I
don’t understand why you have to go to this rally,” Rosa said, bringing her husband an espresso. She’d risen at 6 a.m. to
prepare Mano’s breakfast, making this Saturday morning feel like a workday.

Mano reached distractedly for the small cup. “I gave Jo my word.”

“It doesn’t seem right, Mano. A boss shouldn’t force her politics on you.”

“That’s not what Jo is doing.”

“No? Then what do you call it?” she asked, buttering slices of toast.

“She wants to make sure I’m OK with the things she believes.”

Rosa looked up suspiciously. “Why is it so important to her what you think?”

“Because she doesn’t want me to quit my job,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Do you?”

Without answering, Rosa placed the toast in front of him and retreated to their bedroom. Mano finished his breakfast alone
and quietly left the apartment. The walk to Salazar Park would take a good part of the morning.

Turning west on Whittier, Mano saw fresh evidence of rioting. The blackened husk of a warehouse was surrounded by piles of
ashes still soggy from the fire department’s hoses.
Such a waste
, he thought, walking past the burned-out building. Destroying businesses was no way to bring jobs to the barrios. Yet he
had to admit his own feelings were no less confused. He was troubled by Jo’s ideas but wanted desperately to keep his job.
These conflicting thoughts swirled in his head as he paced steadily toward the rally.

It was almost noon when he reached Salazar Park. Although a gray sky threatened rain, the crowd was nearly shoulder to shoulder.
Above the sea of bodies on the scruffy grass, he saw a large banner behind the makeshift grandstand.

RALLY FOR JUSTICIA

Unity. Community. Strength.

A couple dozen Anglos with professionally lettered signs supporting the rally stood near the large media contingent ringing
the platform. The rest of the crowd appeared to be Eslos—Chicanos from the barrios of East Los Angeles.

As he walked toward the grandstand, Mano spotted several bands of young men in sports jerseys, many in the 49er uniforms of
the 19th Street Gang, as well as the UNLV gear worn by their bitter rivals, the Pachucos. Ordinarily, this would have meant
heavy trouble, but for some reason, the vatos seemed content to coexist today.

Deployed in a ragged line along the west edge of the park were over a hundred LAPD officers in riot gear. Their slumping postures
worried Mano. He knew exhausted men had short fuses.

Near the east stairway to the podium, where Jo had arranged to meet him, Mano saw a posh group of people who looked like dignitaries.
Suddenly, a woman among them waved to him.

“Mano… over here,” she said. It was Jo.