America Libre (21 page)

“Keep your eyes open, muchacho. I’ve heard talk that tanks have been running through the barrio. There must be big trouble
somewhere.”

“We’re falling behind!” said the voice in Sergeant Brewer’s earphones. “Close it up, Brewer!” his vehicle’s commander ordered.

Wesley Brewer accelerated the M113, struggling to control the armored personnel carrier in the tight confines of South Mott
Street. His brief experience driving the tanklike M113 had been in the high desert around Fort Irwin, where his National Guard
unit trained. In fact, counting the last twelve minutes, the young sergeant had logged less than two hours behind the steering
yoke of an M113. Now Brewer was driving second in a convoy of four, rushing to a disturbance at East Los Angeles College,
where automatic weapon fire had been reported.

Brewer cringed as he peered through his periscope. Ahead of him, the lead vehicle turned right and disappeared behind a building.
Brewer had come to dread the nearly blind right turns of the M113.

Racing around the corner behind the lead unit, Brewer felt the rear end of his vehicle begin to slide.
Shit. I’m going too fast
, he realized as the thirty-three-ton vehicle careened across the narrow street, slamming into the front of a burned-out bakery.

“Goddammit, Brewer. You’re making us look like idiots!” the vehicle’s commander barked into Brewer’s earphones, his own periscope
fixed on the lead M113 rapidly pulling away. “Get us back in convoy formation, NOW!”

The damage to the vehicle was minor, but restricted by their scopes, the crew members never saw the small red-jacketed figure
standing in front of the store. The M113 hurriedly backed away from the rubble and continued down East Second Street, trying
desperately to keep up with the lead unit.

The sight of the armored vehicles had mesmerized the eight-year-old boy standing in front of the store. They were the last
thing Julio Suarez would ever see.

Mano drifted along the teeming street, plagued by the questions he’d been asking himself for days.
Does my loyalty have a price tag? Who do I owe my loyalty to? Could Marcha be right?

In a search for answers, he began sorting through his life, recalling his days in high school. Although he’d done well in
his classes, he’d been steered toward vocational training.
Would I have gone to college if I’d attended high school in an Anglo neighborhood?
His time in the Army raised similar questions. He’d served two hitches and made master sergeant.
Why didn’t I consider applying for Officer Candidate School?
Weighed against his own life, Marcha’s ideas had an element of truth. The question was, how much?

As Mano turned north on Ford Boulevard, his vu-phone rang—an extravagance he’d maintained to help him find work. When he saw
“home” on the phone’s exterior display, he knew the call was important. Rosa hated to use the phone—they were being charged
by the minute. Perhaps she had a lead on some work. Mano tried to quell his excitement as he connected the call.

Rosa’s face was a mask of anguish in the display.

“Rosita, what’s the matter?”

“Mano,” Rosa wailed. “Dios mio, Mano—”

“Calm yourself, mi amor. Tell me what’s happened.”

“It’s Julio… Julio was killed by the soldiers.”

Rosa sat on the edge of the couch, her arms folded tightly, red-rimmed eyes staring at the floor.

Standing before her, his head bowed with respect, Jorge Pujols said, “I’ll stay until your husband arrives, Señora.” While
walking home from work, Jorge had witnessed the armored vehicle crash into the burned-out bakery. Recognizing Julio, the grocery
clerk had rushed to their apartment.

When Mano entered the apartment a short while later, Jorge intercepted him at the door. Speaking in whispers to spare Rosa
the pain of reliving the tragedy, he told Mano what he’d seen.

In the small apartment, it was impossible for Rosa not to overhear Jorge. The account he gave her husband had many more grisly
details. “They never stopped, Mano,” Jorge concluded. “The soldiers ran over the boy and never even stopped.” The words pierced
Rosa’s heart once more.

Mano shook the grocery clerk’s hand. “Thank you, Jorge, for coming to us. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“You’re quite a man, Mano. You just lost your son and you’re thanking me for bringing you the news,” Pujols said, looking
up in awe. “May God keep you, Señora,” he called out to Rosa before leaving the apartment.

Mano crossed the living room, hugged Rosa tightly, then gently raised her face. “Querida, I’m going to have to leave you for
a while. Do you understand?”

They both knew why Mano had to go: he had to recover Julio’s body. But neither of them could say it aloud without breaking
down.

“Go. I’ll be all right,” she answered finally. “I left Elena and Pedro next door with Guillermo and Juana,” she said, rising
from the couch. “I’ll bring them back. It’s time to eat and I know they don’t have anything to feed the children.”

Mano drew her tightly against him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said before stepping away.

She watched Mano close the door. Alone for the first time since receiving the news of Julio’s death, Rosa felt her legs quiver
and fell to her knees, anguish and pain eclipsing all else. She covered her face and wept.
Julio, my son. You hurt no one. There are so many things you’ll never know, so many things you should have done. You’ll never
… She suddenly shook her head.
No, you cannot do this.

Rosa stood, wiped away her tears, and walked toward the door.

She had no time for grief. She needed to feed her children and put them to bed—then prepare her son’s body for burial.

The barrio’s familiar streets no longer seemed real as Mano walked in the gathering dusk.
Could it really happen? Could an American military unit run over a child and not stop or call for help? Have U.S. troops become
so blinded by hate that innocent lives no longer matter?
Part of him refused to believe it. Men who could do such a thing, even if they wore the U.S. uniform, were without honor.

Rounding the corner on Dougal Street, Mano saw the vacant bakery, its caved-in façade gaping like the maw of a bent-toothed
monster.

“That’s the father,” whispered one of the neighbors gathered around the building. The words stung Mano. Although he knew it
wasn’t rational, he still wanted to believe this was all a mistake.

A hush fell over the onlookers as Mano stopped in front of the bakery. After hesitating, he forced himself to look inside.
Beneath a tangle of masonry and splintered lumber was a small, broken body. Mano recognized Julio’s red jacket.

A surge of pain began in Mano’s throat and continued downward through his chest. He braced himself against the wall, hot tears
clouding his sight. Closing his eyes, a question rang through the darkness:
Why my son? Why my son?
Slowly, the words changed to a vision. He was back on Fourth Street, helplessly watching the vigilantes gun down his neighbors.
He had risked everything to protect his family—and it had been useless. In the end, his former comrades had taken his son’s
life.

Lost in shock, Mano knelt near the pile of rubble as his neighbors watched in silence. Then a distant roar broke the stillness—the
unmistakable rumble of a tank.

The vehicle was out of sight but getting closer, its clatter assaulting Mano like an angry fist pounding inside his head.
The sound became a taunt, mocking his futile efforts to protect his family, fueling his growing sense of betrayal.

Mano rose and pushed his way through the crowd, charging toward the sound. He wanted to drag the men out of the tank and kill
them with his bare hands, or be killed—it didn’t matter which. These men were no longer his comrades; they were his enemies.
Exhaling white-hot anger with each breath, he ran toward the roar. For a block he raced ahead, each footfall stoking his anger.
Then the faces of Rosa, Pedro, and Elena flashed through his mind.

The images tempered his fury, bringing him to his senses. Gasping for breath, he stopped. He had a wife and two other children
who still depended on him. Throwing away his life would not bring his son back. He had no weapons and no plan.

Mano walked back slowly to the bakery and began clearing away the debris that covered Julio’s body. Several of his neighbors
joined him in the grim task, some offering condolences, others cursing the heartless men who could kill a child and flee.
Mano could not bring himself to reply.

As he tore through the rubble, Mano found his way blocked by the remains of an interior wall. Grabbing a severed section of
pipe, he swung it viciously, pulverizing a large section of sheetrock. In an eruption of rage, he struck the wall again and
again, his frenzy growing with each blow until the wall finally collapsed.

Breathless, his fury spent, Mano stared at the pipe in his hand.
I do have a weapon to avenge my son
, he realized suddenly.
La Defensa del Pueblo
.

“Jo!” Ramon called out as she hurried past his office at DDP headquarters. “Sonia says there’s someone to see you in the conference
room.”

“I’m really swamped right now,” Jo said, pausing at the doorway. “Can Sonia reschedule whoever it is?”