America Libre (8 page)

She wore an elegant blue dress, her golden hair styled in an upward sweep that showcased a gleaming pearl necklace and matching
earrings. Ramon, standing beside her, was also transformed, his denim and fatigues replaced by a tweed sports coat and maroon
tie, which gave his graying ponytail a look of scholarly sophistication.

Mano was suddenly embarrassed. He’d worn a freshly pressed dress shirt and slacks, the outfit he’d used for his many job interviews.
But compared to those in this crowd of dignitaries, he felt coarse and out of place.

As if reading Mano’s mind, Ramon produced a handful of silk neckties from his briefcase. “I haven’t got a coat that would
even come close to fitting you, Mano, but I did bring along a few ties. Maybe you’ll find one you like.”

Mano ran his calloused fingers hesitantly over the sleek fabric, not sure if he remembered how to tie a knot. The last time
he’d worn a tie was for his Army portrait.

“Here… this gray one goes well with your blue shirt,” Jo said, looping the tie around his neck. Mano stood frozen as she wove
the tie into a knot. “I always loved doing this for my father,” she said, smoothing the tie down after she’d finished, lightly
caressing Mano’s muscular chest. The trail of her fingers left an electric tingle on Mano’s skin. Against his will, he looked
into Jo’s eyes. She met his gaze steadily. “How does that feel?”

Mano cleared his throat. “Fine. Thank you.”

“Good. Let’s meet the other speakers.”

“Other speakers? Are you speaking today, Jo?”

“No, Mano,” Ramon answered. “I am.”

Mano’s eyes widened. Clearly, Ramon Garcia was more than a clerk in a bookstore. He should have noticed that before.

“I see you’re surprised,” Ramon said, smiling.

“Yes,” Mano admitted as an angry chant erupted from the crowd. He nodded toward the Anglo contingent making most of the noise.
“What wouldn’t surprise me is if there’s trouble here today. Do you have a plan in case things get out of hand?”

Jo gave Ramon a knowing look before answering. “Do you have any ideas, Mano?” she asked.

“If trouble breaks out, it’s likely to start around the people with the signs over there,” he said, pointing toward the Anglos.
“The police will probably chase them along the front of the grandstand. Our best bet would be to leave toward the north, behind
the stage. That way, we’ll avoid the police—they look tired, and tired cops are likely to start beating anyone who isn’t wearing
a badge.”

“That sounds like a good escape plan,” Ramon replied. “But we need to find a way to avoid any violence today. Politically,
it would be best if this rally remains peaceful.”

“In other words,” Jo added, “we need to demonstrate that we can control our people when we want to.”

“
When you want to?
” Mano repeated. “Are you saying there are times when you
want
people to riot?”

“Mano, do you think all these people and the media would be here today if there hadn’t been violence in the past?” Jo asked.

“No,” Mano admitted. “But that still doesn’t make it right.”

“You’re a rare person, Mano,” Jo said, smiling. “That’s why I think you can help our people. Your ethics and discipline can
help create justicia,” she said. “Maybe you’ll find the answers to some of your concerns after you’ve heard the speakers today.
Right now, though, we need to sit down.” She took Mano’s beefy hand and led him up the grandstand steps.

Appeased, Mano followed quietly as Jo guided him to a row of folding chairs beside the podium. Looking down at the crowd,
he suppressed a surge of pride. In the last two weeks, he’d gone from desperate unemployment to a place among the dignitaries
at a community rally.

A deejay from the local Radio Única affiliate introduced the rally’s first speaker, Octavio Perez, a community leader from
San Antonio whose name drew a loud, sustained cheer. Mano had never heard of Perez, but he was unmistakably popular with many
Eslos.

Perez began by accusing the Texas National Guard of murdering twenty-three people at the Rio Grande Incident. He then linked
those deaths to the vigilante shootings in Los Angeles.

“Where is justice? Where is the protection of the law? Who is responsible for the slaying of these innocents? I lay the blame
squarely on the heads of the agents of repression, the thugs with badges who call themselves ‘policemen.’ Their hands are
drenched in blood,” Perez shouted into the microphones.

The crowd cheered, many shaking their fists toward the police lines. The officers bristled in response.

Mano leaned toward Jo and whispered, “If you want to avoid trouble, you need to shut this guy up, Jo. He’s getting people
pretty worked up.”

“We can’t control what the speakers say. Perez was scheduled to appear before the vigilante shootings started.”

Drawing his speech to a close, Perez worked the crowd with the rising cadence of an expert orator. “We are a people joined
by heritage, by language, and most of all, by the bonds of oppression. Across this land, let us raise our voices together
and speak out against injustice. Let them hear us say: No más!”

The crowd exploded into applause.

Mano was relieved when Perez’s tirade against the police ended without incident. But drenched in the ovation directed toward
the grandstand, Mano could not help feeling stirrings of sympathy for Perez’s message, especially when he recalled the horrific
deaths in his own neighborhood.

After the speech, an aging ranchera band took the stage. In the middle of the group’s second song, the emcee broke in to announce
the arrival of the next speaker—United States congressman Phillip Benitez.

“I didn’t know Congressman Benitez would be here,” Mano whispered to Jo.

“Didn’t you read the flyers and posters we printed?”

“I don’t pay much attention to political stuff,” Mano said. “How did you manage to get him here?”

“He needs us right now as much as we need him.”

Although Mano made little effort to keep up with politics, he knew Benitez was a controversial figure. The congressman had
been accused of receiving unreported campaign contributions from a farm workers’ union, but was cleared after a lengthy investigation.
More recently, he’d seized the national spotlight with his heated opposition to legislation that had made English the nation’s
official language.

Even to those familiar with politics, Benitez’s appearance at the rally was something of a surprise. When the rioting had
erupted in San Antonio, Benitez had publicly condemned it as “the work of idle fools.” Now, with anger growing among his constituents,
Benitez was apparently embracing the cause of justicia, though many in the crowd clearly doubted his sincerity on any issue.

A canned patriotic jingle preceded the congressman’s arrival, masking the lukewarm reception he received from the crowd. Mano
watched as the short man, dressed impeccably in a blue suit, jauntily climbed the steps to the grandstand. He waved energetically,
a smile frozen on his makeup-coated face.

Benitez’s arrival at the podium triggered four sets of thousand-watt floodlights and a barrage of shutter clicks from the
media contingent. After a half minute of smiling and waving to a crowd that had long since stopped applauding, the music was
turned off and Benitez began his speech.

At first, Mano was more absorbed by what Benitez was doing than what he was saying. In an impressive display of media savvy,
Benitez was striking a series of photogenic poses, holding each one a few seconds, then quickly switching to another, never
missing a beat as he spoke. Mano realized his technique was guaranteed to produce a flattering photo.

While Benitez was delivering a sensational performance for the media, his connection with the crowd was another matter. Even
through the glare of the lights, Mano could tell the audience was becoming restless.

“I’m here today to let you know that your voices will be heard in Washington. And come November, we must harness this community
support into votes. Viva justicia! Viva the United States!” Benitez said as he struck his final pose.

The canned music began again, and Benitez went into another round of vigorous waving to the tepidly applauding crowd. With
a final wave, he disappeared down the grandstand steps and dashed into a waiting limousine.

With many of the media crews packing their equipment, the radio deejay rushed back onstage. “Our final speaker is a man who
has worked tirelessly for justicia in Los Angeles and across the nation. I’m proud to introduce Ramon Garcia.”

Ramon walked confidently to the podium and, after a few preliminary phrases, launched into the heart of his talk.

“We’ve heard the word ‘justicia’ a lot today. What is justicia?” Ramon asked and then paused. “Many of our people work long
hours to provide decent homes for their families. Yet we are not welcome to live in other parts of this city. Is this justicia?”

“No!” a few in the crowd shouted in response.

“Our children are forced to attend schools that are under-funded. Yet the affirmative action laws that can help them get an
equal education are repealed. Is this justicia?”

“No!” cried more voices.

“Our hermanos and hermanas who struggle to find work with only a bare knowledge of English are told that federal job applications
may no longer be printed in Spanish. Is this justicia?”

“No!” they screamed back, louder still.

“Legal residents working in this country are forced to pay Social Security taxes—without being able to draw a penny of it
in retirement benefits. Is this justicia?”

“NO!”

“Latinos walking to work are beaten to death because they dared to walk in the wrong neighborhood. Is this justicia?”

“NO!”

“We’ve seen armed vigilantes drive through our barrios, gunning down innocent men, women, and children. But the police have
yet to catch any of these cowards. Is this justicia?”

“NO!”

The passion in Ramon’s voice rose. “The soil on which we’re now standing was once the home of the Californios—Hispanics who
settled this land more than three hundred years ago. This land was wrested away from them and annexed into the United States
of America. Today, on this very soil, the descendants of the Californios are denied equal rights and privileges. Is this justicia?”

“NO!”

“In the words of José Antonio Marcha”—Ramon paused as many in the crowd cheered lustily at the mention of Marcha’s name—“in
the words of José Antonio Marcha, the day will come when Hispanics unite and reclaim the territory that is rightfully ours.
Is this justicia?”

“YES!” roared the crowd.

In a spontaneous outburst, they began to chant, “
JUS-TI-CIA! JUS-TI-CIA! JUS-TI-CIA!
” Their voices echoed throughout the park and the adjoining streets, growing louder with each repetition. Mano felt the hair
on his neck rise.

“
JUS-TI-CIA! JUS-TI-CIA! JUS-TI-CIA!
”

The chant washed over Mano with an energy so great he gripped the edges of his chair, bracing himself against its power.

Ramon held up his hands, quelling the chant, bringing the crowd back under his spell. “We can no longer rely on the current
power structure to protect us. Therefore, we’re launching La Defensa del Pueblo, a community organization to patrol our barrios.
Will you support it?”

“YES!”

“If we are united, the power of justicia will be invincible. But in the struggle ahead, how we use our power will be continually
tested. Today’s test is our ability to lift our voices together—without violence. We need to show our opponents that if they
respond to us with reason and peace, we can do the same.” Ramon paused. “Will we show the world we can do this today?”

“YES!”

“Some will tell you that your votes will help us in this struggle. And I say to you, yes, that’s true. But remember this:
In the end, our struggle will only be won with sangre, sudor, y dolor.” Mano recognized the words of Winston Churchill being
spoken in Spanish—blood, sweat, and tears.

Ramon defiantly thrust his fist in the air. “Viva justicia! Viva La República Hispana de América!”

The applause was thunderous.

Mano sat in awe, overwhelmed by the ovation. As the wild cheering continued, he felt something extraordinary. For a moment
it seemed he and the crowd were somehow a single entity, their voices a presence he could feel in his chest. This strange
oneness faded with the cheers, leaving him with a warm glow he could only compare to the bliss after sex.

Mano glanced at Jo. Her lips were parted slightly; her eyes glazed in a half-closed stare. She turned toward him and their
eyes met. In that instant, he knew she’d felt the same climax of energy. Embarrassed, he looked away.

As the crowd slowly quieted, Ramon returned from the podium, shaking hands with the others on the stage. Most of the people
began leaving the park peacefully, but Mano saw trouble brewing.

Surrounded by TV news crews, the Anglos he’d spotted earlier were taunting the police along the west edge of the park. Mano
left the stage and moved toward them swiftly, assessing the situation.