South Phoenix Rules (18 page)

27

The next night I drove toward the blinking red lights of mountaintop communications towers again. Something kept drawing me back to south Phoenix and I didn't know what it was.

When I was a boy, our weekend drives to the Japanese gardens were down Seventh Avenue. Often we stopped at Union Station along the way so I could watch the passenger trains, or see the freight cars switched across the many tracks—seventeen as I recall—that crossed the street at grade level. Now Seventh Avenue soared across the tracks on a concrete overpass, but it didn't matter because Union Station was closed, the passenger trains were gone, the thriving industries that once lined the tracks were empty lots or decaying buildings, and most of the tracks were long gone.

Back then, we drove through the poor side “south of the tracks.” No bridge carried cars on Seventh Avenue over the Salt in those days—we simply followed the pavement across the dry, wandering riverbed. One of the many quarries was near the road and it contained a pit nearly always filled with water. I imagined it as a fathomless depth, and for a child from a place with dry rivers, even passing close to this tiny inland sea filled me with terror. The city gradually fell away, replaced by pastures, fields, groves, and irrigation ditches, presided over by the South Mountains and the Sierra Estrella. I hiked both of them as a boy and from their summits, the green fields, this civilizing enterprise, which went back centuries to the Hohokam, only barely kept the desert wilderness in check. The wild West and the frontier seemed very near.

Almost all this was gone as I drove south now. Seventh was a wide arterial with curbs and sidewalks. It crossed the river on a span with no character or beauty, matching the built environment of the entire route. If the tree restoration along the river was moving this far, I couldn't see it. The quarries had moved farther west and the river had been confined to an unnatural dredged passage to prevent flooding. I saw one old farmhouse and a rickety barn that transported me back to being ten years old. But it didn't last. When I hit Baseline Road, I turned east on just another look-alike, six-lane Phoenix highway, known locally as a “street.” The agriculture, and of course, the flower fields with their fantastic spectrum of colors, were long gone.

If you followed the road in the opposite direction, it led to a spot that marked the Gila and Salt River “baseline” for the surveys of the territory and the state. It was one of the most important manifestations of the white man's conquest of the land. In many ways, it was the beginning of everything you saw now. Hardly anyone knew about it. The only way you might get their attention would be to say that the baseline is near Phoenix International Raceway, but you wouldn't keep their attention long. This wasn't their hometown. They had come here to escape history.

But history would not be evaded long. Perhaps that's why I kept coming down here. South Phoenix had always been the poor side of town. The barrios and shantytowns near Buckeye Road and Seventh Avenue were slums so atrocious that they were identified as some of the nation's worst during the Depression, this when Phoenix was smaller than a hundred other cities. Much of the area lacked even running water or a sewage system. This was where Father Emmett McLoughlin toiled for decades to help the poor, and the Henson housing project was built in 1941 as a beacon of hope—not the crime-infested danger zone I later knew as a young deputy.

Now an ugly new apartment complex had replaced even that, a good intention I was sure, but the trees and shade that had once made Henson livable had been torn out, swapped for gravel and off-the-shelf suburban architecture. The old black community had diminished and although the Hispanic population had soared, the barrios had been disrupted and in many cases destroyed.

The Anglos who ran Phoenix historically thrived on ignoring the south side—prospered through its cheap labor, kept comfortable in their soft apartheid. It was a place to put the landfill, the toxic disposal outfits, and all manner of not-in-my-backyard enterprises. It was a place whose history was to be overlooked and marginalized. Now I wondered how much had changed, despite the newer subdivisions along Baseline, the tilt-up warehouses that were raised on spec, or the city signs that proclaimed this “South Mountain Village.”

The well-off had decamped for north Scottsdale, Paradise Valley, and the fringes, leaving millions of working poor all over the city that once haughtily neglected these neighborhoods. Every place outside of the newer areas was partly south Phoenix now. But this place, south of the tracks and, especially, south of the river, was also special, anointed by its unique history, and it had soul and edge, however many cheap, new houses sat behind walls along Baseline, no matter how horrid the fast-food boxes that squatted at Central and Baseline.

I turned north, the city lights briefly before me, before I crossed the canal, passed the Catholic church, and started the long, slow glide back to the valley's center. The gaudy lights at the Rancho Grande supermarket were misleading. No place had been hit harder by the combination of the recession and the anti-Hispanic fervor of the Anglos than South Phoenix. The Ed Pastor Transit Center was nearly deserted, with only one bus idling in the bays. A man filled large jugs from a water machine while his children yelled from the open windows of the car. Did the water machines mean the families didn't have operable plumbing? For whatever reason, they proliferated here.

It was this reverie that prevented me from noticing the vehicles that swarmed me.

***

They executed the maneuver as expertly as cops handling a felony stop. We were just south of the Central Avenue bridge. I was boxed in by a tricked-out Honda in front, a white car behind, and, what finally got my attention, a jacked-up, extended cab pickup truck. Before I could fully react, the truck swung over and bumped the Prelude into a warehouse parking lot. Then the car ahead suddenly stopped, forcing me to brake hard. I had the insane thought: Was this where the old Riverside Ballroom stood? I had a choice between using the cell to dial 911 or pulling out the Python. I chose the latter. But by then, six men were on the far side of the car, M-4 assault rifles with scopes and laser sights leveled at the windshield and door. All wore black protective vests.

Oh, I wished I had the Five-Seven. I wished I had backup. I wished Robin's laughter still graced the world and that my wife loved me and that our child would have lived a long and full life and remembered us well. Instead I had six rounds in the Python and two Speedloaders. Eighteen rounds in all, but no time to reload. The Prelude was not, to put it mildly, armored. More men appeared around me, but they evidenced no gang hauteur. Instead all moved with a military-like competence. If this wasn't the ATF, I had only one hope. It had little chance of success, but it was all I had.

South Phoenix Rules.

I was not afraid as they tore open the driver's door and dragged me out, taking the Python, pinioning my arms at my sides, and roughly backing me up against the side of the car. My spine bent painfully backwards. The men all spoke Spanish. They were not the ATF.

“Let him go.”

This command came in accented English, his voice sandpapery. My arms were released.

A dark-skinned man walked close. He was my height with bad skin and dressed all in black, including a Kevlar vest. Now I really missed the Five-Seven. He spat in my face.

“You gunned down my people and you just thought it would be okay?”

“I didn't have anything to do with that.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I didn't do it. Didn't you read the newspaper?” Of course, he didn't.

“Screw this. Take him.” My brief and conditional freedom was rescinded, replaced by strong hands gripping my arms.

“You were lucky last night. We should have just come in the house and finished it. But this will be better. I'm going to feed you to my dogs. They like human flesh. They have a taste for it now. But first, I want you to have a little traveling companion. Let's say it'll help keep you quiet.”

He produced something dark and round, and another man latched onto my head.

“Open his mouth! Pull on his jaw!”

The next few seconds passed in a long, painful, frantic dream-state, ending with a man's scream, something like a wet Chicken McNugget in my mouth, and half-proprietorship in a hand grenade.

A man was still screaming, as well he should. I had just bitten off one of his fingers at the second knuckle. Now I spat the bloody remnant on the pavement and stared at the
jefe
. The idea had been to put the grenade in my mouth. He held it up to my face as I struggled. Unfortunately, the man's timing was bad and I have good teeth. The sudden turnabout had caused four-finger's friends to loosen their grip, and I latched onto the grenade.

The
jefe
held it too, trying to wrestle it from me, tendons standing out in his neck and forearms. The crew could easily have overpowered me, but everyone hesitated. They could see that I had control of the top and the pin. That provided enough time to bend forward and pull the pin with my teeth.

Then I spat it away. The metal hitting the pavement was unnaturally loud.

The leader tried to back away but I wouldn't let him. I held his hands wrapped in mine. His men were unsure what to do. The man who now had four fingers on one hand was reduced to moans as he ripped off his shirt to staunch the bleeding. All were confused by the new reality that had entered their lives: South Phoenix Rules—when you're outnumbered and backup can't arrive in time, when you have more assholes than bullets, all you can do is become the crazy Anglo.

I spat bloody saliva back at him. “Let's all die today.”

His eyes widened and he tried again to disengage. It didn't work. I had one hand firmly around his grip on the grenade and my other hand as the only thing holding down the safety handle. If my left hand was pried away, it was nearly impossible that anyone could move fast enough to keep the handle from springing, setting off the fuse, and leading to a short-countdown to explosion. What was it? Five seconds? Was it worth the risk? All had come to realize that
el gabacho loco
held their destiny, literally, in his hand.

I went on in Spanglish: “
Ya no se puede hacer nada. Estamos jodidos
.”

They all knew there was nothing they could do. We were screwed.

“Who the fuck are you? La Familia? No, too disciplined. Los Zetas? Mexican police? I don't even give a shit.” I lightly fluttered my grip atop the safety handle and everyone tensed. Four Fingers stopped whimpering.

“You…” The leader stammered as his men regained themselves and aimed their M-4s at me. A new sheet of sandpaper colored his words. “You're not going to just walk away…”

“Then we're all gonna meet God in five seconds, and even if you shoot me, I guarantee you'll go with me when this
piña
blows.” I watched his luminous brown eyes as they failed to blink. My arms ached but I fought to conceal it. “Or, we can talk,
entre machos
, warrior to warrior. ”

“What can you possibly give me?” he demanded, his hand still firmly in my grip. We were both sweating heavily but his hands were starting to shake.

“I can give you what you want.”

28

Back at the house, I tried to take stock. After brushing my teeth like a maniac, I put the Bill Evans Trio on the sound system, made a martini, and settled at the desk to think. I thought about Lindsey, wondered about the man or men she might be seeing. Might be in bed with right now. What was he like? Lindsey was so conservative, almost a prude in some ways. Now I guessed she had rubber to burn. My lodestar lost, perhaps irrevocably. Common male jealousy twined with my vivid imagination wrestled with grief over control of my emotions and lost. The level of the liquid in the martini glass went down. I was too broad shouldered to carry off the narrow neckties popular when Bill Evans was at his peak. I still didn't understand why Robin mattered so much to Sal Moretti that he would put a hit on her.

For the first time, I looked at Robin's legal pad as more than a painful relic. I pulled it over and started reading the notes she had made on that long afternoon she spent alone, after she had given me a kiss at the light rail station near the central library. Soon, I was making my own notes on a separate pad.

Peralta answered on the second ring.

“Have you murdered anyone?”

“No.”

“And you just happened to see the hit woman walking down the street several miles from your house.”

“I was just a concerned citizen.” When he didn't answer, I went on. “You still have the contacts to get a fast-track check on military records…”

He reluctantly said yes.

I read him the information from the aged dog tags that I held in my hand.

Then I called a friend back east. She was an expert in the history of the Mafia. It was late her time, but she was indulgent. Something in my voice, perhaps. When I ended the call, all I could do was lay my head on the desk.

***

The next morning, I was at the ASU Hayden Library early. The Arizona Historical Foundation archives were a starting point at least, and by ten, a preservationist named Susan had set me up at a table where I was surrounded by the comforting mass of gray Hollinger boxes.

The Japanese internment of World War II was one of the sorrier chapters in American history, when more than 100,000 Japanese-Americans and Japanese living in the country were forcibly moved from the West Coast into concentration camps. The reasoning had been fear of a Japanese invasion or sabotage of war industries, even though there was never an instance of sedition or espionage. But it had been arbitrary: Hardly any Japanese living in Hawaii, which had actually been attacked, were interned.

No matter: the anti-Japanese feelings that had long simmered, especially in California, were unleashed by Pearl Harbor. Franklin Roosevelt signed executive order 9066 in 1942. Many were brought to camps constructed in Arizona, including one at Poston, in the western desert. Most lost everything and after the war had to start over. Today, conservatives were defending this move by the otherwise hated FDR as a useful precedent for profiling Muslims living in America. Everything comes around.

At my crowded table, like a credible historian, I moved through primary source material, the recollections and documentation of people who had actually been there. The Frances and Mary Montgomery Collection—they had been teachers at the Gila relocation camp south of Phoenix. The Wade Head Collection—he had been the director of the Colorado River War Relocation Center at Poston. I set aside the memoranda about camp construction and organization. Letters about individuals and families took more of my time.

It was a rich archive. I wanted to spend a month there and listen to the hours of oral histories. There was no time. And I couldn't find much on the relocation in Phoenix itself. It was probably there. Everything is somewhere, if you look long enough—ask the archeologists who found ancient Jericho. But the records concerning Arizona related to the camps themselves. The same was true of the secondary source materials, such as the scholarly articles and a couple of Ph.D. dissertations.

I was ashamed to know so little. I remember Grandmother telling me about the German prisoners of war being marched into town to work. About the Japanese, she and grandfather said little. I did remember one thing: the line that separated the families to be relocated from those who could stay ran along U.S. Highway 60—Van Buren Street and Grand Avenue. Those living south of the boundary, including the Japanese farmers along Baseline Road, were sent to the camps.

I found a couple of good academic articles, but they were mostly confined to Japanese immigrants to Phoenix and Maricopa County prior to World War II. First-generation, or Issei, families began arriving early in the 20th century. The first American-born child came around 1906. The state's Alien Land Law of 1921 prohibited property ownership by “Orientals,” but it was overturned in 1935. The Japanese were innovative farmers and encountered prejudice and envy, but they also built good relationships with many Caucasian farmers and business owners. Kajuio Kishiyama was among the first farmers near the South Mountains, first leasing land and then buying it. Members of the Nakagawa family were also early growers. Both had been interned during the war. After the war, they came back and started over.

With these flimsy threads, I tried to narrow my search.

Peralta called at one. He had the information that I needed.

***

Back home, I pulled out phone books, opened up Google on the Mac, and started making calls. It was tedious work but at least it kept the panic attacks away. On the thirty-seventh try, I reached a man who took my name and number, and said he would talk to his cousin. In an hour, a young woman called. After some persuading, she said she would be willing to talk with me. She lived near Los Angeles and agreed to meet me the next day.

I made another call, to a cell phone I was sure couldn't be traced, not that I even wanted to try.

“I need another forty-eight hours.”

“I knew you'd fuck me over.” The sandpaper voice. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“It didn't work out that way.”

“Maybe you're afraid to get your hands dirty, history teacher.”

“You know better than that.”

“Why should I even trust you? You're a former cop?”

“Because you want more than me.”

He didn't speak for a long time. Then, “I'll give you twenty-four. That's all. Then we're coming for you, this time for keeps. We'll start by cutting off your finger.”

“Whatever.”

***

I flew into Burbank and rented a car, driving an hour through the dismal traffic to a comfortable house with a view of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was not a very smoggy day. Phoenicians always talk about not wanting to become “another L.A.” It's the smugness of yokels. Phoenix had become another L.A. in all the bad ways, including the gangs. It lacked almost all the good things, from the extensive rail transit to the cool vibe to the world-class universities and talent. Oh, and there was the ocean—and mountains, when you could see them, as magnificent as the San Gabriels.

The young woman I had spoken to on the phone only had a youthful voice. She was close to my age, but attractive with shoulder-length hair, large eyes, and a fine figure in an expensive suit. It turned out that she worked in the L.A. County District Attorney's Office and was not prepared for any bullshit from David Mapstone, of late the historian for the Maricopa County Sheriff.

“I checked you out,” she said, standing in the doorway.

“Did I pass?”

My flirting skills still needed work. She said, “Let me see them.”

I handed her the plastic bag with the dog tags. She took them out, held them in the sunlight, and ran a finger over the metal.

“Oh, my God.”

She introduced herself as Christine Tanaka Holmes, stepped aside, and let me come in.

She led me back into a large family room lighted by an arcadia door that led out onto a sumptuous garden. But much of the interior space was taken up with the tools of old age: a walker, a four-footed cane, a wheelchair with a thick, black cushion as the seat. And in a print armchair sat a small, very elderly woman with hair the color of lead pulled back into a bun. She assessed me with bright eyes.

The deputy D.A. bent down on her haunches.

“GiGi, this is David Mapstone from Phoenix. This is my great-grandmother, Sarah Kurita. GiGi, he brought Johnny's dog tags home.”

I pulled up another chair and sat before her as she held the objects. Tears dimmed the bright eyes. She took both of my hands. “My big brother, Johnny.”

She instructed the younger woman. “Bring them.”

We sat in silence, her diminutive, bony hands clutching mine, until Christine returned. She opened a wooden box and began to hand out objects.

“This was Johnny in 1943. He sent it to us in Poston, from his training.”

The photo showed a cocky smile on a young soldier. “He trained in Mississippi, if you can believe that,” Christine said.

“He was his own man, Johnny,” the old woman said. “He was a rebel, had to do it his way. Didn't want to follow the old ways. Wanted to marry who he wanted. He was such an American boy, even though they called him a Jap. But he was a good brother and a great soldier. He didn't want to stay in Poston. He and his friends enlisted as soon as they could. It wasn't easy. Lots of resentment about what the government did to us. But Johnny was going to show them.”

More photos: Johnny with other soldiers; aboard a troop ship; another man. “This was his friend Shigeo,” the old woman said. “He was killed on the beachhead at Salerno.” She touched each of the photographs as if they were religious icons. “Johnny wrote us every other day.” She pointed to stacks of letters inside the box, neatly tied with silk bands. “Johnny fought all the way up Italy and into France, with the rest of the 442nd.” Her face clouded. “Then he came back home…”

Christine said quickly, “The 442nd Regimental Combat Team was made up exclusively of Nisei who chose to fight for their country. It was the most highly decorated unit in the Army's history—twenty-one Medal of Honor winners. Meanwhile, their relatives were forced to live in the relocation camps.” She allowed her first smile. “But you know that.”

Next came shadow boxes with medals and ribbons. One was a Silver Star. It was the third highest decoration for bravery and this one looked as if it had just come from the War Department. In a laminated cover was a citation for Johnny Kurita, for gallantry in action against the enemy at the battle of Biffontaine.

All this was living history, right before me. I let it wash me along, carry away my impatience, and then distract me from my heartbreaks and losses. Against all this, mine seemed small.

Two hours went by at warp-speed before I finally asked my questions. Her hearing was keen, so I could speak in a normal voice. Her memory was vivid and precise. The answers she gave knocked me sideways. The same was true for Christine.

“GiGi, I've never heard this before.”

“What was the point? We knew we couldn't get justice in Phoenix. The other Japanese on Baseline tried to help us, but they were just getting re-established. Most of the whites didn't care. Oh, we grew so many things. The South Mountains shielded us from the frosts. The whites just said we were taking the best land. What was the point in carrying around such bitterness.” She nodded to Christine. “None of you young ones knew. Except…well, he read Johnny's letters, so I eventually told him.”

It was only then that GiGi wanted to know, so politely, how I had found Johnny's dog tags.