America Libre (10 page)

In reality, the consolidation was a bureaucratic nightmare. The CIA had been forced to keep each organization’s leadership,
setting off endless turf battles. And with the restrictions on domestic surveillance Congress had imposed after the early
excesses of the war on terror, even routine investigations became mired in legal bottlenecks. As a result, Evans had seen
his workload explode and his budget slashed.

The Agency faced another loathsome burden: it had been enlisted to conceal the extent of U.S. military involvement overseas.
The memos circulated by Brenner appointees emphasized this was to keep our enemies in the dark, but Evans knew better. The
American public was the real target of the misinformation campaign.
They aren’t even called wars anymore
, Evans thought,
just another “military intervention.”

When his desk phone rang, Evans glared at the archaic device, galled that the CIA was still saddled with voice-only telephones.
Congress had cut the upgrade to vu-phones from the consolidation budget. After several rings, Evans listlessly reached for
the phone. “Evans,” he answered mechanically.

“G’morning, Hank. It’s Maria Prado. I’ve got a report for you on a rally in East L.A. Saturday. There are some new bogeys
on our radar screen you should know about. I e-mailed you a photo of them just a few minutes ago.”

A veteran field agent, Prado had been hounding Evans for weeks with reports on the disturbances in East Los Angeles. After
decades as a CIA officer dealing exclusively in foreign intelligence, Evans looked dubiously at domestic surveillance. To
him, this urban violence was the work of hooligans and petty criminals—a matter for the police, not the CIA.

“Hang on a minute,” Evans replied, scrolling through hundreds of new messages. “Here it is,” he said, double-clicking on the
attachment.

The image showed a group seated at a grandstand with three heads circled in red. Marked in the front row was a slender man,
probably in his late sixties, dressed in a tweed jacket and sporting a gray ponytail. Circled in the row behind was a burly
man in his mid-thirties, along with a striking blonde about the same age.

“What’s the scoop?” Evans asked after glancing at the photo.

“The guy in the front row was one of the speakers, a real rabble-rouser, too. His name’s Ramon Garcia. No priors, but he’s
a sixties radical who’s resurfaced. The FBI started a file on him in ’71, when he worked as an aide to Cesar Chavez. Turns
out he’s now setting up a group called La Defensa del Pueblo in response to the vigilante shootings.”

“Can this guy cause any trouble?”

“Well, he’s connected to some serious cash. His wife is Margaret Zane, a producer for Lion Pictures. They live in a Bel Air
mansion big enough to house a regiment. I checked this guy out, Hank. He’s got connections within the Eslo community—and around
the country, too. If you ask me, he’s worth watching.”

“Is the blonde in the back row his wife?”

“No, that’s Josefina Herrera. She’s a dual citizen of the U.S. and Uruguay. Made a pile of money with a med-tech startup while
she was pre-med at Stanford, then sold her shares just before the biotech bust. She’s either very smart or very lucky. Anyway,
she moved to the L.A. area three years ago and runs a bookstore and a recycling business. They seem to be mostly hobbies for
her. My guess is she’s a rich liberal who’s fond of bankrolling do-gooder causes. You know the type: likes to slum with the
masses during the week so she feels better about the Brie and Chablis aboard her yacht on Sunday.”

“Who’s the muscle?”

“We don’t have much on him. The Face ID unit says he’s Manolo Suarez. Worked as a mechanic until six months ago—been unemployed
since. He was a sergeant in a Ranger support unit. Got the Bronze Star in Afghanistan for carrying a guy more than a mile
to an aid station after their Humvee was hit.”

“You know we’ve got a lot on our plate right now, Maria. Do you think this organization poses a serious threat?”

“Well, their rally could have turned ugly, Hank. But they went out of their way to keep it peaceful. They don’t seem to be
an overt threat. Still, I think we need to keep an eye on La Defensa del Pueblo.”

“What’s your recommendation?”

“I can sniff around. Maybe we can get a mole inside this group.”

“Let’s just keep an eye on them for now, Maria. Quite frankly, I haven’t got time to read another field report on a bunch
of small-time barrio radicals,” Evans said wearily before hanging up.

I
t was after seven when Mano pulled the Mack into the garage, tired but content. He’d gotten lost twice in the northern suburbs,
setting him back a couple of hours, but on the whole, his first day as a driver had gone well. He looked forward to two weeks
of real work while Jesús Lopez was on vacation.

While locking the compound gate, he noticed Jo beside her Volvo.

“Mano, do you have a minute?” she called out across the alley.

“Sure,” he answered, walking toward his boss.

“Did you have any trouble with the special addresses?”

“No. Your directions were very clear, Jo. I tagged the bags from those houses and locked them in the storeroom.”

“Good, I’ll take care of them from here.”

“It may be none of my business, but why don’t we recycle the material from those homes like the others?”

Jo hesitated. “It’s for security reasons,” she said guardedly.

“For whose security?”

“Mano, the very nature of security involves discretion. That’s all I can tell you. Look,” she said, placing her hand lightly
on his arm, “I’m sure it’s been a long day for you. Would you like a ride home?”

“No… no, thanks. I’d rather walk,” he said, unnerved by her touch.

“Mano, I feel badly about last Saturday. I invited you to the rally and you wound up walking home in the rain. I’d like to
make it up to you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“OK, I’ll be blunt, Mano. I know you’re worried about what your wife might think. So let me drop you off a few blocks from
your apartment. If you walk home now, you’ll hardly get to see your kids before bedtime. What do you say?”

Mano had little doubt Rosa would be jealous if she saw Jo drive him home. On the other hand, accepting Jo’s ride would avoid
a very late supper for his family. Rosa always made the kids wait until he was home before they ate—even when he called to
say he’d be late. In any case, there was little chance his wife would see Jo if he walked the last few blocks. “It
is
getting late,” Mano agreed reluctantly.

“Then hop in,” Jo said, unlocking the sedan.

Once inside the Volvo, Mano was surprised to see his address already entered into the driving directions on the top-of-the-line
GPS array. “I see you were pretty sure I’d accept your invitation,” he said, gesturing toward the display.

Jo smiled sheepishly, starting the engine. “It always helps to plan ahead. I hope you don’t see anything sinister in it.”

“No, but I
am
surprised someone who seems like a tree hugger would drive a car with 326 horses.”

“There are times when the extra power can… well… get you out of trouble,” Jo said, choosing her words carefully.

While weighing Jo’s cautious reply, Mano was struck by an intense sensation. The Volvo’s crisp, new-car smell had been replaced
by a sweet, musky scent, thrilling him in a way that was almost primal. It was coming from Jo.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Jo casually move her smooth, slim arm onto the center console, only inches away. Against
his will, he was aroused by her nearness. He squirmed his large torso against the door frame, trying to increase the space
between them.

“Have you thought any more about Marcha’s ideas since the rally, Mano?” Jo asked, merging into the traffic on Fisher Street.

Mano looked through the Volvo’s tinted window. Outside were the hand-painted signs and graffiti he’d walked past in the rain
two days before. “Well, I still don’t think this country belongs to Hispanics, but I believe we need to protect our people
from the vigilantes. We can agree on that much.”

“If you’re interested in protecting our people, Mano, there’s work you can do that’s more important than recycling trash or
fixing trucks.”

“What kind of work?”

“I can’t tell you everything. For now, the important thing is to know you’re committed to our cause.”

“I want to help our people, Jo, but you have to tell me what you intend to do.”

“We need to unite our people, Mano. When we finally join together, we’ll earn the dignity that’s rightfully ours—and protection
from attackers like the vigilantes,” she added quickly. “But first we need to build a coalition with true political power.
Intellectuals, community organizations, labor unions, the church—even the gangs. We all need to join forces. That’s what the
movement for justicia is all about—justice.”

“And exactly how do you see me fitting into those plans?”

“When the time comes, you’ll see just how important your contribution can be. But for now, knowing you’re committed will be
enough.” She turned and met his eyes. “Can Ramon and I count on you?”

Mano didn’t have an answer. Two weeks earlier, he would have immediately rejected Jo’s request. Since then, though, the world
no longer seemed so simple. “I want to help our people, but I can’t promise I’ll go along with everything you ask.”

A smile spread across Jo’s face as she returned her eyes to the road. “That’ll work for now,” she said. “The GPS says we’re
getting close to your apartment. We can talk more about this later.”

At an intersection two blocks from Mano’s apartment, Jo pulled the sedan smoothly to the curb.

“Thanks for the ride, Jo. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Buenas noches, Mano.”

As Mano emerged from the car, a small figure watched him through the window of the Laundromat across the street. It was Nana
Jimenez, the grandmother of the slain twins.

T
he call came on a Saturday afternoon. Rosa answered their ancient voice phone, then handed it to Mano after only a few words.
“It’s Felipe,” she said, covering the mouthpiece. “He sounds upset.”

“Lucia… was… shot, Mano,” Felipe said, fighting back sobs. “The vigilantes killed her.” In a voice choking with grief, Mano’s
brother-in-law gave him the details. Mano’s sixteen-year-old niece had been killed near a Wal-Mart on Washington Boulevard.
Lucia had died trying to shield her younger siblings from the gunfire. “I’ll let you know when we’ll have the funeral Mass,”
Felipe said before hanging up.

Mano sank back in his chair, eyes hollow with shock. It was clear the police could not stop these shootings—or maybe they
didn’t want to, as many in the barrios believed.

In the three months since the first drive-by raids, the vigilantes had launched five more attacks in East Los Angeles. The
LAPD had formed a special task force to find the perpetrators. But the only lead so far was a dead end: an SUV and a sedan
fitting the descriptions of those used in the latest raid were found torched in the San Gabriel Mountains. Both had been stolen
shortly before the attack. Now the vigilantes had killed again—this time someone of his own blood.

Mano heard the voices of his children playing outside in the courtyard. A cold knot formed in his belly as he realized only
luck had kept them safe so far.

Three days later at Holy Trinity Church, Mano sat in the pew behind his sister, gently stroking her trembling shoulder. Teresa’s
veiled head was bowed, a handkerchief pressed against her face. She’d struggled to keep her composure during the opening of
the Mass, but as Father Johnson started her daughter’s eulogy, Teresa began to weep.

“Lucia was a gentle girl. She was quiet and never asked much for herself,” the young priest said from the pulpit. “Her joy
came from the happiness of others. As the oldest of Teresa and Felipe’s six children, she was like a second mother in the
family, mature beyond her years. In her last act on earth, she gave her life to protect her brothers and sisters. Her loss
will be felt deeply by so many.

“We are told that God has plans for all of us. What was God’s plan for Lucia? Perhaps it is not for us to know yet. Her young
life was ended by men filled with hatred, men who killed without question, men who knew nothing about Lucia except one thing:
she was not like them. And that was enough to condemn her in their eyes.”

Mano felt a hot swell of anger fill his chest. He pictured these men who fancied themselves heroes, laughing and swilling
beer, bragging with one another about their deeds. They would strike again—he was sure of that.

Father Johnson’s voice became hoarse with emotion, drawing Mano’s attention back to the pulpit. “Like our heavenly Father,
Lucia was an innocent who gave her life to save others.” The priest paused, raising his gaze to meet the eyes of those gathered
in the near-empty church. “Let us pray that her death was not in vain.”

As Mano bowed his head, an audacious plan began to form in his mind.