America Libre (19 page)

The shooting sent a chain reaction of panic and anger through the massive crowd. Many bolted away from the gunfire. Others
charged into the fray. Even as Torres called desperately for calm from the podium, the confrontation exploded into a chaotic
street battle captured by the cameras of the national media.

An aerial view showed the two opposing groups clashing, the border between the angry masses marked by a jagged line of flailing
limbs. In another view, taken from a tower, two men were seen in a gun duel, puffs of smoke bursting from their weapons with
each shot. A telephoto lens captured a close-up of a woman kneeling beside a bleeding man, begging for help from passersby.
Another camera recorded a circle of men mercilessly kicking a prone victim. A pan of the Mall showed it littered with unmoving
bodies.

One network anchor was left speechless by the violence. Another tried to keep up a commentary, adding a surreal, blow-by-blow
description of the frenzy. Millions at home watched in shock and horror.

When the violence was quelled forty minutes later, more than six hundred people lay dead. More than two thousand were wounded.
Most of the victims were unarmed demonstrators caught in the crossfire.

The rest of the ceremonies were cancelled. The Forum for Justice was over before the first speech could end.

The mood of the crowd ranged from anger to dismay as the demonstrators cleared the Mall. Many felt cheated of their chance
to protest an unjust resolution. Many more felt deep despair at the senseless carnage. Most Latinos watching at home shared
their outrage and grief.

The mainstream public saw the incident differently. The demonstrators, they believed, had provoked the attacks. If the Hispanics
and their supporters had stayed home, they reasoned, the violence could have been avoided.

As the sun began to set on that cloudy Saturday, there seemed to be only one point of consensus about the tragic event: the
Forum for Justice had been a bloody public spectacle that had driven a wedge between the nation’s rapidly cleaving factions.

As the first anniversary of the Rio Grande Incident approached, the U.S. was dividing into two hostile camps.

Before entering the Beech 400A, Ramon turned for a last look at the Washington Monument. In the horizon beyond Dulles Airport,
the floodlit obelisk with its distinctive red lights pierced the dusk.

His footsteps silenced by the shrill whine of the engines, Ramon slouched dejectedly into the chartered plane and found his
wife already inside. “What a disaster, Maggie,” he said, making his way aft. “I’ll be glad to get out of this town.”

Margaret, wearing a T-shirt and cut-off jeans, was cradling a tumbler of scotch, her gown and hairpiece safely packed away.
“I’ve never seen anything so horrible,” she said, filling her glass with another shot of Chivas. “The violence was bad enough,
but a lot of people on that podium had important things to say.”

Ramon dropped heavily into the seat next to her. “This is going to set back our cause.”

“Thank God Mano got the dignitaries out safely. Think about the bad press that could have—” But before Maggie could finish,
Jo entered the plane.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jo said, slinging herself into one of the seats. Unlike her companions, she seemed energized and excited.
Without pausing, she picked up the phone to the cockpit. “We’re all on board now, Captain. I’m sorry for the delay,” she said
into the receiver. A few seconds later, the co-captain emerged from the cockpit and closed the plane’s door.

“Where’s Mano?” Ramon asked.

Jo’s face hardened. “I couldn’t get him to leave,” she said, trying to mask her irritation as she fastened her safety belt.
“He’s staying behind to help the medical teams carry away the wounded. He’ll catch a commercial flight back later.”

“You made a wise choice in hiring Mano, Jo. That kind of man is very rare.”

A slight smile warmed Jo’s face. “You’re right, Maggie. I should know by now that Mano is going to be Mano. I’m just disappointed
because we’ve got so much to plan, and not a lot of time.”

Ramon looked puzzled. “I don’t understand, Jo. What’s so critical right now?”

Jo swiveled in the leather seat to face him. “When the shooting started today, I saw all our work to derail the Bates resolution
go up in smoke, Ray. I was sure it was a catastrophe for our cause. But then something happened that changed my mind.” The
roar of the engines grew louder and Jo’s voice rose in response. “I saw a group of elderly women on the Mall charge into the
skinhead line, swinging their sign poles like Vikings. They were angry, Ray, and they were fighting back. That’s when I remembered
something Marcha wrote: ‘Repression is a revolutionary’s best recruiter.’ Don’t you see, Ramon? If the Bates resolution is
inevitable, we need to make the most of it. The deportations, the quarantines, the relocations—these things are going to make
our people angry. It could turn out to be a golden opportunity—if we’re ready to seize it,” Jo said, almost shouting. “What
happened today might turn out to be a godsend.”

As the small jet began climbing into the air, Ramon noticed the glimmer of a smile on Jo’s face.

N
earing the door to his apartment, Mano stopped to compose himself. He did not want to bring his problems home to Rosa and
the children.

Since returning from Washington two days ago he’d made an effort to get home on time, but it was stressful leaving work with
so much undone. Tensions were escalating daily, and there never seemed to be enough time to oversee security at the five DDP
locations spread across the city. Making matters worse, the trip east had put him further behind. By force of will, he relaxed
and cleared his mind before unlocking the door.

The children were sprawled on the couch, watching television, when he entered the living room. Mano knelt on the floor near
them and spread his arms. “Who’s going to challenge the linebacker?” he asked with a mock growl.

“I will! I will!” Elena and Julio shouted in unison. Pedro ignored his father, his eyes locked on the television.

“All right, Elena—on three. Hut… Hut… Hut…”

Elena cradled an imaginary football, lowered her head, and charged into her father’s chest.

Mano made a big show of being bowled over by the five-year-old. After squirming past him, Elena pretended to spike the ball
and raised her hands in triumph, grinning widely.

Mano let his shoulders sag theatrically. “All right, showboat,” he said to her. “Act like you’ve been in the end zone before.”

Rosa, in the kitchen preparing supper, peeked out and smiled. It had been months since Mano had played the Line-backer with
the kids.

Julio looked at his father, his face serious. “Play for real. OK, Papi?”

“Bring it on, big guy,” Mano answered, thumping his chest. “On two.”

Grim-faced, the boy took a three-point stance as Mano began the cadence.

“Ready… Set… Hut… Hut…”

Julio charged but feinted left then veered right, forcing Mano to reach for him. The boy ducked under Mano’s arm and spun
past him.

“What a move, ladies and gentlemen!” Mano said, now an announcer. “Suarez has scored to give USC the lead!”

Julio and Elena exchanged high-fives as the eight-year-old strutted victoriously, nodding his acknowledgment to the imaginary
crowd.

“C’mon, Pedro,” Mano said to his oldest son. “The line-backer’s ready for you.”

“I don’t want to play,” Pedro answered without looking away from the screen.

Mano tugged playfully on Pedro’s leg. “What’s the matter? Don’t think you can get past the linebacker?”

“This is stupid. You’re just pretending that we win.”

Mano sighed, his energy suddenly drained.

Julio put his arm around Mano’s bulky neck. “It’s OK, Papi,” he whispered. “Pedro’s mad because he misses you.”

Mano felt his throat tighten and his eyes grow moist. “You’re a good son, Julio,” he said softly.

Julio took his hand. “C’mon, Papi. Watch the show with us,” he said, leading his father toward the couch.

Once Mano sat down, Elena and Julio huddled against him on the sofa. After a while, Pedro moved to the floor and nestled between
his father’s legs. At six on the dot, Rosa called them to the table for dinner. After the meal, they cleaned up the kitchen
together. Later, Rosa and Mano helped the boys with their homework, and by nine-thirty all three kids were in bed.

After her usual evening shower, Rosa found Mano in the living room tinkering with the window air conditioner they’d purchased
recently—another by-product of Mano’s increased pay.

“We need to talk, Mano,” she said, fastening a towel around her hair.

“I’m trying to fix this condenser. It leaks when the humidity gets too high.”

“Mano, you promised we’d discuss your job when you got back from Washington. You’ve been home four days now.”

Mano put down his wrench and exhaled slowly. “What do you want me to say, Rosa? I’ve been trying to get home earlier and spend
more time with the kids.”

“I want you to say you’re going to look for another job.”

“You’ve got to stop being jealous, querida. There’s nothing between Jo and me.” Even as he said it, Mano knew he could not
deny a mounting attraction to his boss. All the same, he was certain he’d never allow himself to act on it.

Rosa took Mano’s hands in hers. “Look, even if there’s been something between you and Josefina… well, if you end it, we’ll
get through that,” she said almost in a whisper. “But you’ve got to get away from her, Mano. She and her kind are trouble.
They’re the reason we have all this fighting in the barrios—and the soldiers,” she added, recalling the crude Guardsmen who’d
harassed the Cardona girls. “This DDP business is dangerous, mi amor.”

“Rosa, La Defensa del Pueblo has saved lives. I know it.”

“Saved lives? Look at all the people who were killed at your rally in Washington.”

“What happened in Washington was a tragedy, Rosa. But it wasn’t wrong. Our people stood up for their rights—and they did it
under the law.”

“All it’s done is stir up more trouble.”

“We have to raise support against the Bates resolution, querida. I won’t deny it’s dangerous. But a man has a duty to do what’s
right for his people.”

Rosa pulled her hands away. “Can’t you see what she’s doing, Mano? She’s got you wrapped up in this whole Hispanic business.
Why should you risk your life for a bunch of strangers just because your parents spoke Spanish? Your family comes first.”

“That’s true, mi amor. But there’s something you need to understand,” he said, taking her hands again. “It doesn’t matter
how you and I feel about other Latinos. People like Bates will hate us anyway. Don’t you see? You, me, the children, and every
other Hispanic are all the same to them. They want to lock all of us up inside these Quarantine Zones—and they’re not going
to stop and ask if you supported the Latino cause.”

Rosa turned away, closing the collar of her robe. “You don’t sound like the man I married anymore.”

“This country’s changed, mi amor. I don’t like it—but helping the DDP is what’s best for our family. We don’t have any other
choice.”

“Where does it stop, Mano? They’re radicals. I’ve heard people talk about this Marcha and his ideas for a revolution. Just
because you won’t tell me everything doesn’t mean I don’t know. How far will you go with these people?”

“Trust me. I would never do anything to betray our country.”

Rosa turned and looked into his eyes. “They’ll lead you to treason, Mano,” she said softly. “I just hope you can still recognize
that when it happens.”

In the week following the aborted Forum for Justice, rioting flared in the barrios of Atlanta, Charlotte, Chicago, Cleveland,
Des Moines, Miami, Minneapolis, New York, and Tampa—the first Hispanic disturbances outside the Southwest. Attacks by vigilantes
also spread, repeating a destructive pattern.

Hastening the cultural fracture, the major Spanish-language television networks began broadcasting editorials for the first
time. These highly rated programs presented a decidedly pro-Hispanic view of events.