America Libre (9 page)

A young man with blond braids, about ten paces from the police line, appeared to be leading the demonstrators. “Hey, pig!
Were you one of the vigilantes?” he shouted at the police. “You like to go around shooting women and children? Maybe it’s
because your dick is so small and you can’t satisfy your wife. You bring her to me, man. I’ll show her a good time!”

Mano grabbed the young man’s arm below the armpit and lifted him like a naughty schoolboy, his toes barely touching the ground.
“We’ve had enough trouble around here. Please don’t start any more,” he said calmly.

“Easy, bro, easy,” the young man said, suddenly deflated. “I haven’t got a beef with you, man. We’re out here for
your
people, you know.”

“If you’d really like to help, the best thing you can do is tell your friends to go home quietly like everyone else.”

“OK, dude. All right. It’s cool, man.”

Mano released his grip and the young man immediately called out to his cohorts, “All right, people. It’s over. We’re cutting
out.”

As the protesters retreated from the police lines, the TV crews turned off their cameras and called it a day. Hanging around
until the end had not paid off as they’d hoped. The rally had ended peacefully.

Even the rain couldn’t dampen Jo’s mood.

As she powered the Volvo into the fast lane toward Bel Air, the clunk of the wipers seemed to be playing a conga rhythm with
the clicking of her turn signal.
Thump. Tock. Tock. Tock. Thump. Tock. Tock. Tock
.

While Jo cheerfully tapped out a counterbeat on the steering wheel, Ramon’s vu-phone rang. He flipped open the silver clamshell
and saw his wife’s face in the display panel.

“Hi, Maggie,” he said into the unit.

Ramon’s wife, Margaret Zane, was on a location shoot in New Zealand. Now nearing fifty, Maggie had risen from publicist to
senior producer at Lion Pictures thanks to her uncanny ability to twist arms without making enemies.
Not bad for a working-class kid from Pittsburgh born Margaret Zembrowski
, Jo thought.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Maggie said. “We’re on a break between shots. How did it go?”

“I’d say it went well,” Ramon replied, the corners of his mouth arching slightly.

“He’s being modest, Maggie. Your husband was magnificent!” Jo called out. When Jo had moved to Los Angeles three years earlier,
she’d sought out Ramon Garcia for his connections within the Eslo community. His power as an orator had been a pleasant surprise.

Ramon angled the vu-phone toward Jo.

“That’s wonderful, Jo,” Margaret said from the small screen. “I wish I could have been there.”

Jo flashed a smile into the display. “Somebody’s got to keep those flamboyant directors in line,” she said.

“This one likes to spend money like he’s van Gogh heaping paint on a canvas… except he doesn’t have near the talent. If he
keeps it up,
I’m
the one who’s going to cut off his ear. In fact, I might even start lower on his anatomy,” Maggie said.

“Hang on, I’m going to switch over to secure mode, Maggie,” Ramon said, pressing the button that encrypted their connection
and blacked out their visual contact. “Everything went according to plan,” he said into the vu-phone’s mike. “The gangs kept
their truce.”

“That’s good,” Maggie said with relief in her voice. “Frankly, I was worried—especially when you told me there would be families
at the rally. God knows enough people have been killed in East Los Angeles lately.”

“The last thing we wanted to do was to jeopardize innocent lives,” Jo said hurriedly. “If we’d had trouble break out in front
of the media, it would have looked like we were inciting violence. That’s not the public image La Defensa del Pueblo needs
to cultivate right now.”

“You have a gift for politics, Jo,” Margaret said. “I’m just glad no one was hurt.”

“I wasn’t surprised the gangs honored the truce,” Ramon said. “They can be vicious, but they also value honor. Each mero gave
me his word there wouldn’t be trouble, and they all kept it. Of course, spreading a little cash among them always helps.”

Jo’s expression turned grim. Ramon’s words reminded her of the business with Nesto and the cops. The mero had taken things
too far; she’d never intended for him to kill the cops. Still, the results had been good for their cause—today’s turn-out
was proof of that.
The momentum for justicia is growing—but does that justify murder?
Jo buried her remorse once again and turned her attention back to Ramon and Margaret.

“Did it help to have Benitez there?” Margaret asked.

“You were right about inviting him, Maggie,” Ramon replied. “He really brought out the cameras.”

“Every share point in ratings is worth a thousand bullets,” Jo added.

Margaret laughed softly. “You certainly have a colorful way of putting it, dear.”

Jo smiled. Maggie’s celebrity connections had once again helped their cause. “I wish you could have seen your husband on the
podium, Maggie. He was in total control today.”

“Thanks, Jo,” Ramon cut in. “But let’s give credit where it’s due. I don’t think the responses from the audience would have
happened on cue if you hadn’t arranged for a few of our friends in the crowd to get them started. It was a brilliant idea.”

“Well, congratulations to you both,” Margaret said. “It sounds like you pulled off a minor miracle today. Look, I hate to
run, but I’ve got to lean on my little prima donna. If he doesn’t get this crew back to work soon, we’re going to lose the
light and fall another day behind schedule. I’ll call you again tomorrow, Ramon.”

“Bye, love,” Ramon said and disconnected. After returning the phone to his pocket, he looked out the window. “You know, Jo,
our cause hasn’t had an opportunity like this since the sixties. I feel like a young radical again.”

“That’s a good thing, viejo. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. Getting La Defensa del Pueblo in place is going to be a
grind over the next few months. But today, I think we seized the day.”

“Yeah, we even caught a break on the rain. I doubt if anyone in the crowd got wet… except maybe Mano. He’s got a long walk
home.”

“Coño!” Jo cursed, pounding the steering wheel with her fist. “I’ve been so giddy over the rally, I forgot about Mano. I offered
him a ride, but I think he’s worried his wife will get jealous.”

“Wasn’t Mano great at the rally, though? Dios mio, he’s got the instincts of a sheepdog. It’s like he’s hardwired to protect
his flock. I know you noticed it, too. He immediately worked out an escape plan for us, without being asked.”

Jo nodded. “I was amazed at how quickly he calmed down the group from UCLA.”

“Yeah, I saw that. He spotted the leader, confronted him, and hasta la vista, the trouble was over.”

“I’d love to know what he said.”

“I don’t think it really mattered much. A man who can lift you off the ground with one hand can be pretty damned persuasive.”

Jo laughed, then suddenly got serious. “We seem to be getting through to him, Ray. I watched him during the speeches. He was
moved by what he heard today.”

“I hope you’re right. We’re going to need more people like Mano—and soon. As Marcha said, ‘Wars are won by moral men who can
kill in cold blood.’ ”

Mano walked upright in the downpour, untroubled by the wet clothes clinging to his skin. The rain had chased the evening crowds
indoors, transforming the barrio’s familiar streets into a strange and silent place. Although he was getting closer to home,
everything seemed changed in a way he could not describe—including his outlook. The uncertainty that had plagued him for the
last few days was nearly gone. In its place was… well, if not clarity, at least calm. He knew the rally had something to do
with it, but as yet had not figured out why.

Striding along the empty street, Mano remembered the early years of the new century when East Los Angeles, like many Hispanic
communities across the country, had been the target of a massive ad blitz. Sparked by the 2000 U.S. Census that showed the
soaring growth of the Latino population, the advertising was usually stupid and insulting, often awkwardly translated versions
of English-language campaigns. Before long, the advertisers discovered that the “bonanza” of the Hispanic market was empty
hype touted by ad agencies desperate for new revenues.

The only corporate presence in his neighborhood these days was the perennial liquor, beer, and cigarette videoboards. The
commercial giants whose brands dominated the urban landscape of the American mainstream had once again shunned the barrios
of Los Angeles. Outside the barrios, national franchises were ever-present on most main thoroughfares. The streets were lined
with a jangling array of electronic signs that continually flashed, blinked, and pulsed, beckoning consumers with jingles
and video-animated messages. In the barrios, these slick displays were rare.

Then Mano noticed something he never had before: almost every building was covered with images made by a human hand—the crude
signs of mami-and-papi businesses, the murals of aspiring artists, the placas of the gangs. He’d known these streets all his
life. But tonight, for the first time, Mano saw more than the surface of the motley walls. He could sense the people who created
them.

The people of his barrio lived in a world of stark contradictions. Dreams flourished alongside despair. Honor was twisted
into the self-destructive violence of the gangs. The fast lane for great ambitions was often the sale of drugs. The family
was revered, but many women raised their children alone.

Mano had always believed most Hispanics worked harder than Anglos. Yet in pay, in education, even in dignity, they seemed
continually mired in second-class status. They were not welcome to live outside the crowded barrios. Only last week, Mano
had seen innocent people gunned down in the street. Their only crime had been their heritage—
his
heritage.

That thought brought Mano to a disturbing realization. Although he’d never been ashamed of his ancestry, Mano could not truly
say it had ever been a source of pride. Being Latino was something he’d simply learned to endure with dignity, like a handicap.
The revelation shamed him. The people at the rally were his own. He could not escape who he was.

Almost home, Mano stopped where the Jimenez twins had been killed and stared at the pavement. The neighbors had tried to scrub
away the stains, but the concrete was still tinted brown with their blood.

Moving away won’t save my children
, he realized suddenly.

The vigilantes had only one goal: to attack Hispanics. Today it was in the barrios. Tomorrow it could be anywhere. Moving
away from here would not change who they were. As long as these killers were loose, his wife and children were targets.

Until now, Mano had disdained Hispanics like Jo and Ramon who shouted about prejudice and injustice. He’d considered them
whiners, too weak to overcome the adversities fate had dealt them. He still felt Jo and Ramon were wrong about a lot of things,
but they were right about one: those in danger had to defend themselves from the vigilantes. That was something in their cause
he could support.

In every revolution, patriots rise from the least likely of places. Men and women who have never taken an interest in political
processes become infused with passion. They find a wellspring of duty and devotion they never knew existed within them.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1986
Translated by J. M. Herrera

H
enry Evans II stared at the glut of unopened e-mails and sighed. Although it was not yet nine on Monday, he was already exhausted.
Over the last year, Evans had grown pale, overweight, and nearly bald—hardly the look that would help the regional director
of the CIA move up the government services ziggurat. But then again, the last eleven months had been unlike any other in Evans’s
twenty-six-year CIA career.

According to many outsiders, the previous year’s merger of all federal security organizations into the Central Intelligence
Agency was a shrewd power move by President Carleton Brenner—a former CIA director. Promising a leaner, meaner federal security
effort, the president had ordered the FBI, NSA, ATF, and Department of Homeland Security to cease operations as independent
entities.