America Libre (20 page)

Street interviews on the major broadcast networks seemed to suggest most mainstream Americans were fed up with the Hispanic
issue. They simply wanted an end to a thorny and intractable problem. Among large numbers of scared and frustrated citizens,
the simplicity of the Bates resolution was growing in appeal.

A Gallup poll taken before the Forum for Justice showed thirty-seven percent of Americans favored the Quarantine and Relocation
Act. One week after the bloody spectacle on the Mall, the number rose to sixty-four percent. Ironically, support for the bill
was strongest in areas unaffected by the turmoil.

Sensing the changing mood of the American public, the Brenner administration announced its support for the Quarantine and
Relocation Act. Twelve days after the bloody demonstrations in Washington, the bill was ratified by the House of Representatives.
Still, many doubted it would make it through the Senate.

Then the fate of a suburban family from Indiana sealed the bill’s fate.

“Ron, I don’t see any gas stations around here,” Cristy Davis said nervously, toggling through the GPS display on the dash
of their Envoy.

“Will you relax?” her husband answered testily from behind the wheel. “You know how those damned things work. If you don’t
pay to advertise, they won’t list you. There’s gotta be a filling station somewhere around here.”

Cristy glanced again at the gas gauge. “We’re getting really low, Ron. If we’d stopped at that exit outside of Gary like I
asked you to, we wouldn’t be doing this.”

“Dammit, Cristy! Proving you were right isn’t going to help right now. Why don’t you do something useful? Try to figure out
what our next exit is because I’m gonna take it. I don’t care what the GPS says.”

In the rear seat of the SUV, eleven-year-old Kasey Davis pulled off her headphones. Although she’d not heard her parents’
conversation, the tension on their faces alarmed her. “What’s the matter, Mommy?”

“It’s nothing, Kasey. Everything’s fine, honey. Why don’t you take some more movies of our vacation to show Grandma?” Cristy
said, hoping to distract her daughter.

Since they’d left their home in Connersville that morning, Kasey had spent a good part of the drive capturing the rural countryside
on her new digital camcorder. As they neared downtown Chicago, the view outside had changed drastically. There were closely
packed buildings of every shape and size as far as she could see.

Kasey raised the camcorder and began to record.

After exiting I-55 in search of a gas station, the Davis family found themselves in the middle of a confrontation between
Hispanic rioters and police on Chicago’s southwest side. Some eyewitnesses claimed the driver of the SUV panicked after seeing
the crowd and swerved into an alley, running down a child and prompting the angry mob to turn on the cornered vehicle. That
story was contradicted by other witnesses, who said the mob fell upon the vehicle without any provocation. When the police
finally forced the crowd back and reached the SUV, all three members of the Davis family were dead. The camcorder disc shot
by Kasey Davis was recovered by an opportunistic Chicago resident who immediately posted it online.

Over the next two days, the horrifying footage was viewed by millions on the Internet and broadcast repeatedly by the networks.
The blurred and jerky recording showed an angry horde swarming the SUV, pounding on the vehicle and screaming at its occupants.
At that point, Kasey dropped the camera on the floor, but it continued to record. What happened next was not totally clear.

The sound track was what made the recording so haunting. The angry shouts of the mob, the panicked voices of the family, and
their final, desperate screams left an indelible mark on every person who heard it.

The fate of the Davis family was the nightmare of most mainstream Americans. They feared the growing bloodshed would soon
reach them. The reaction among non-Hispanics was now almost unanimous: the violence in the barrios must stop. A
USA Today
poll taken two days after the Davis tragedy showed ninety-one percent of non-Hispanics now favored the Bates resolution.

In the days that followed, all congressional resistance to the Quarantine and Relocation Act evaporated. The uncanny progress
of the controversial bill left Washington insiders stunned. Among those most surprised was its original sponsor, Nationalist
congressman Melvin Bates.

Jo walked purposefully into the conference room and sat down at the oval table.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, hermanos,” she said to Mano and Ramon. “I’ve been tied up with our friends in Palo Alto. I swear,
sometimes I think computer geeks live on a circadian cycle from Mars. Anyway, I’m happy to report our stealth pipeline to
the Web is under way. How are we coming with the dummy businesses, Ramon?”

“Excellent,” Ramon said. “I’ve got three different lawyers setting up a string of LLCs. By the end of the week, we’ll be ready
to start buying the materials on our list—very discreetly, of course.”

“I don’t understand all this, Jo. What’s going on?” Mano asked.

“I’m sorry, Mano. Ramon and I had to keep this from you. It’s sensitive information and you had no need to know until now,”
Jo explained. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, the Quarantine and Relocation Act looks certain to pass in the Senate. Once the quarantine
is in place, the government is going to surround the barrios with troops. We need to start our preparations to resist the
quarantine right away.”

“Resist?” Mano asked.

Jo’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Are you opposed to resisting the quarantine?”

“Rallying votes to stop the Bates resolution is one thing. But this is a nation of laws, Jo. Once the majority votes for something,
the rest of us have to go along—whether we like it or not. I won’t resist the Bates resolution if it’s passed by Congress.”

Ramon swiveled his chair toward Mano. “You didn’t have any qualms about ‘resisting’ the Aryan Fatherland, amigo.”

“That was different. We stopped the murder of innocent people. The Bates resolution isn’t putting anyone in danger,
and
it’s the will of the people.”

“You forget about the Bill of Rights, Mano,” Jo said. “You see, the Founding Fathers were a pretty cautious bunch of radicals.
They were just as worried about a dictatorship by the majority as they were about the dictatorship of a monarch. That’s why
they made sure the rights of individuals were guaranteed by the Constitution—regardless of the whims of the public. The Quarantine
and Relocation Act clearly violates several amendments in the Bill of Rights.”

Ramon leaned forward, eager to weigh in. “If the Supreme Court wasn’t stacked with hard-line conservatives right now, this
resolution would be ruled unconstitutional overnight. But the Supremes serve for life. So it may be decades before enough
of the current court members die and moderates can reverse the decision, Mano.”

“Until that happens,” Mano said, “you’re breaking the law.”

“If you took a vote on the Bates resolution here in East Los Angeles, do you think it would pass?” Jo asked.

“No,” Mano admitted.

“Now suppose the people of East Los Angeles were a separate nation. Wouldn’t their votes count?”

Mano raised his palm in protest. “But this is not a separate nation, Jo. It’s part of the United States.”

“Weren’t the thirteen American colonies part of England until they asserted their independence?”

Mano sighed. “Look, Jo. Even if it was right to resist the Bates resolution, we’d be opposing U.S. troops,” he said. “I served
in that uniform. I could never fight against the people who wear it.”

“Mano, you remind me of a great military leader who once faced a similar decision,” Ramon said.

“Who was that?” Mano asked, trying to stifle a surge of pride.

“Robert E. Lee—the finest military mind of his time,” Ramon said, sipping his latte. “Lee graduated from West Point and served
in the U.S. Army for over twenty years. In 1860, Lee was forced to make a big decision. Did he owe his allegiance to the U.S.
government or to his native Virginia? It was a difficult choice. Lee knew that, either way, he’d be fighting against comrades
he’d served with for decades. His decision to fight for the South eventually came down to a single reason: he felt his native
state needed him more.”

Jo leaned close to Mano, locking him in her gaze. “Who needs
you
more, Mano?”

Mano looked back into Jo’s intense blue eyes, a tingle in his chest.
Is there another meaning to the question?
Jo excited him, and this growing passion was complicating his decision, leaving him baffled and uneasy.

“I’m going to have to think about it,” he said.

“Mano, we don’t have the luxury of time,” Jo said, leaning forward in her chair. “We have to make plans and make them fast.
I wish we could give you more time to decide, but we can’t afford to wait any longer.”

Mano stared at the tabletop as Rosa’s words echoed in his head:
They’ll lead you to treason. I just hope you can still recognize that when it happens.
Was resisting this unjust law treason? Maybe not—but his loyalty to the troops who wore the uniform was too strong. “I can’t
do this,” he said at last.

“Mano, I’m going to be closing down the recycling business,” Jo said. “You’ll be out of work. Think of the consequences for
your family.”

“We’ll manage.”

“You’ll manage?” Ramon said skeptically. “Where are you going to find another job—especially after they wall us in? How are
you going to—”

Jo interrupted him with a soft touch on the shoulder. “Save your breath, Ray,” she said. “You and I both know Mano. Arguing
is not going to change his mind. Look, Mano, if you feel differently about this later, come and see me. The door will always
be open.”

She and Ramon then rose wordlessly and walked out of the conference room.

The tragedies of struggle forge heroes from common men.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1987
Translated by J. M. Herrera

T
hanks, Vargas,” Mano said to the driver of the aging Chevy before the sedan pulled away, leaving him on the crowded sidewalk.

Entering his apartment’s courtyard, he found his elderly neighbor Guillermo Ortega on a folding chair facing the street.

“You’re back early. Doesn’t look like you had much luck,” Guillermo said.

Mano shook his head glumly. “No, the docks didn’t have any temp work today.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to listen to Mario Crespo? That pinche cabrón likes to sound important, telling people he knows where
they can find work.”

“Crespo was only trying to help, viejito,” Mano said, patting the old man’s stooped shoulder.

“Only trying to help, eh? Did Vargas ask you for gas money?” Guillermo said, referring to the driver of the car that had taken
Mano and four other men to San Pedro Bay in search of work.

“Vargas didn’t have to ask. I gave him twenty dollars for gas.”

The old man sneered. “That Vargas is a sly one. I think he’s got something going with Crespo. One makes up stories about finding
work, and the other one charges people money to drive them there. Did Vargas collect gas money from everybody else?”

“Yes,” Mano said, realizing the old man might be right. He and the four other men desperately looking for work had probably
been suckered. Mano’s shoulders slumped. The prospects of finding a job seemed hopeless.

It had been three weeks since he’d quit La Defensa del Pueblo, and the consequences of his decision were beginning to sink
in. Although they’d managed to put away some of his pay, it was only a matter of time before their savings would run out.
Then he and his family would be reduced to the fate of so many others in the barrios—standing in line at the food pantries,
dejectedly waiting to take home a cardboard box of withered vegetables, dented cans, and secondhand clothes.

Mano looked at his apartment door. He could not bear facing Rosa with another excuse, another failure. “I’m going for a walk,
Guillermo.”