America Libre (22 page)

Ramon grinned slyly. “Oh, I think you’ll want to take this meeting.”

“Who is it?”

“Mano.”

“I knew he’d come back,” she said before dashing toward the conference room on the floor below.

Jo’s jubilant mood ended when she entered the conference room and saw Mano seated stiffly at the oval table. He seemed a different
man, his eyes sunken, his face harder.

“You don’t look well, Mano,” she said gently. “Is everything OK?”

Mano stared at the tabletop.
She doesn’t know about Julio
. That was not surprising. Another child’s death in the barrios wasn’t news these days. The few people outside his family
who’d shown up for Julio’s funeral were proof of that. One thing was certain. Julio’s death was a family matter—and that’s
how it would remain.

“You said the door would still be open,” he said at last.

“Of course, Mano,” Jo said, sitting down. “I think you made a wise decision coming back.”

“Have you hired a new security director?”

“We’ve looked. I’m doing the job for the moment—although not very well.” She smiled and added, “I suppose I shouldn’t say
that. Now you’ll want more money.”

“You paid me well, Jo. I don’t want more money.”

“That’s a relief. The government’s trying hard to choke off our funds.”

“Whatever you can pay me is fine.”

“We can talk about that later. What I want to know now is the reason you came back.”

Mano studied the table again. “I changed my mind.”

“I see,” Jo said, leaning closer. “Can you tell me why?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Mano, a man like you doesn’t wake up one morning and suddenly change his mind. You had some very serious qualms about resisting
the Bates resolution.”

“I don’t anymore. Isn’t that enough?”

“Look, I don’t want to pry, but I need to know why you’re doing this. Frankly, bringing you back could put our security at
risk. How do we know you haven’t gone over to the other side?”

Mano managed a weak smile. “If I’d turned against you, you’d be under arrest by now, Jo. I already know enough to get
all
of us locked away.”

“That convinces my mind,” Jo said, looking deep into his eyes. “But it doesn’t convince my heart.”

Mano lowered his gaze, trying to hide a sudden rush of excitement. His grief and anger had dulled his infatuation with Jo.
In one look, his passion for her was back. Along with it came a wave of guilt. “This is wrong,” he said, rising from the table.
“I should go.”

“No, wait,” she said, reaching for his hand.

Mano stopped, held by her feather-light touch.

“I shouldn’t have doubted you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not why I should go.”

“What is it, then?”

“I don’t know how to say this, Jo… I love my wife, but—”

“Mano!” Ramon called out, entering the conference room. “It’s good to see you, hombre!” he said, then looked him over and
added, “Although you look like hell.”

Mano was startled by the interruption, then relieved. “You don’t look so great yourself,” he replied, his face warming into
a small smile.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Ramon said, clapping his shoulder. “We could sure use your help again.”

“Mano’s not sure he wants to come back, Ray.”

“What?” Ramon said, frowning. “Mano, you’re not one to make social calls. Why else would you come?”

Jo answered for him again. “It’s my fault,” she said. “Mano agreed to join us. But I pressed him for his reasons and now he’s
balked about coming back.”

Ramon turned to Mano. “Whatever reasons you have for joining us again are good enough for me, amigo.”

“That goes for me as well,” Jo added. “I was wrong to question your motives.”

“Well?” Ramon asked, spreading his palms. “Are you with us?”

Mano glanced at Jo. Her eyes were on the floor. He could do this; he
had
to control his impulses. There was no other way to avenge his son’s death. “I can start whenever you need me.”

Ramon beamed. “Good. Because we’ve planned some very special surprises for Mr. Bates and his friends once the Quarantine Zones
are in place.”

W
alking across the defunct railway bridge, Mano gazed at the Los Angeles River below, wondering why Jo had asked to meet here.
He wasn’t familiar with this area of the river, which abutted the rail yards of the Southern Pacific.

For most of the year, the Los Angeles River was an oversized, graffiti-covered culvert with a meandering trickle. As a kid,
Mano had often played on the river’s paved channel—it was one of the best places around to skate and play stickball.

Mano’s memories of childhood reawakened the pain of losing Julio. The twelve days since his son’s death had been the most
agonizing of his life. As he’d done in the past, Mano dulled the pain by burying himself in work. Rosa, consumed by her own
grief, didn’t question his actions.

In anticipation of the quarantine, Jo had launched a flurry of preparations for self-sufficiency. Throughout the barrios,
they were already stockpiling caches of food, water, medical supplies, and gasoline, purchased through the dummy businesses
set up by Ramon to avoid suspicion.

Halfway across the bridge, Mano saw Jo and a stranger waiting on the other side. Walking closer, he recognized Ramon—without
his ponytail.

“I imagine you’re wondering why I asked you to meet us here—and maybe why Ramon cut his hair,” Jo said after Mano reached
them.

“Both those questions crossed my mind.”

“Well, to begin with, Ramon has gotten way too easy to spot with that infamous ponytail of his,” Jo explained, smiling.

Ramon also grinned. “We kept the hair, though. I’ll keep wearing my fake ponytail in public and take it off when I need to
go undercover.”

“As for you,” Jo said to Mano, “you’re going to need a new identity to travel outside the Quarantine Zone.” She reached into
her backpack and handed Mano a rolled-up piece of khaki fabric, about six inches in width.

“What’s this?”

“It’s your turban. Once you grow a beard, you’ll be ready to pass for Mr. Ajitkumar Singh,” Jo explained. “I think you’ll
look pretty dashing as a Sikh.”

“Sikhs are tall and warriorlike,” Ramon added. “You should fit the part well.”

“We didn’t have to meet here for you to tell me this.”

“That’s true,” Jo agreed. “Look around, Mano. What do you see?”

“The L.A. River. Is there something else?”

Jo nodded. “I see a lifeline for our barrios once the quarantine begins.”

Mano gazed up and down the river. “Yes, I see what you mean. The river and these railroad tracks cut right through the middle
of Los Angeles. The government will have to keep this area open after the quarantine.”

Jo smiled, impressed by Mano’s strategic grasp. “That’s right. This corridor can be our pipeline to get people out and supplies
in.”

Sensing the possibilities, Mano pointed toward the succession of mammoth drainage pipes lining the concrete riverbank. “Those
storm sewers feed into the river from every part of the city. If we connect some new tunnels to them, we’ll have an invisible
supply network.”

Ramon grinned wryly. “It sounds like you’ve just outlined the plans for the East L.A. version of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.”

THE QUARANTINE
AND RELOCATION
ACT

Leon Trotsky said war is the mother of revolution. He might have added that government repression is usually the midwife.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1989
Translated by J. M. Herrera

O
n a rainy Tuesday in July, the U.S. Senate convened a special session. Four months after the Quarantine and Relocation Act
was first proposed by Melvin Bates, eighty-two of the nation’s senators voted in favor of the bill. With unprecedented swiftness,
President Brenner signed the act into law the same day. On Wednesday, the ninety-point headline on the front page of the
New York Post
read:

THEY MUST GO

Overnight, one of every six people on U.S. soil was designated Class H—“H” as in “Hispanic.” This classification was given
to anyone with a Spanish surname or at least one parent of Hispanic origin. Anyone with a Hispanic spouse was also included.

The ACLU and the National Council of Churches contested the classification in a case taken by the Supreme Court. As expected,
it was to no avail. Meantime, lower federal courts were swamped with thousands of cases in which families with culturally
ambiguous names like Estes, Marin, and Martin requested an exemption from Class H designation.

Class H status included two categories: citizens and non-citizens. Immediate deportation awaited anyone designated Class H
who was not an American citizen.

To expedite their relocation, Class H citizens were required to register their home addresses within thirty days with the
CIA. Failure to comply would bring a ten-thousand-dollar fine and three years’ imprisonment.

With the enactment of the law, teams of government bureaucrats began the arduous task of determining the boundaries of the
temporary Quarantine Zones around Hispanic urban enclaves. The construction of the first Relocation Communities also became
a priority. With these plans under way, a purge began of the Class H population from government positions of power and influence.

Class H government employees were required to reapply for security clearances. None received a “secret” clearance after reapplying.
Class H bureaucrats at every level were assigned to nonessential projects. The secretary of housing and urban development,
Judith Ramirez, was no exception. She was no longer allowed to attend cabinet meetings in which matters of national security
might be discussed, in effect making her a figurehead with no real authority. Class H judges at the federal, state, and local
levels were banned from adjudicating criminal cases. From privates to generals, military personnel with a Class H status were
reassigned to maintenance units with no access to weapons or military intelligence.

Class H citizens were allowed to vote, but only for congressional representatives within the Quarantine Zones and Relocation
Communities. Congressional representatives from these areas would hold non-voting seats in the House of Representatives.

Within two months of the Quarantine and Relocation Act’s adoption, the first walls began to rise around the nation’s forty-six
Quarantine Zones—and the neutralization of Hispanic political influence in the United States was well under way.

Y
our purpose for entering the Quarantine Zone, ma’am?” asked Private First Class Paul Little as he examined the three-day pass
issued to Emily Barnett.

“I’m a deaconess of the First Apostolic Church,” answered the primly dressed blonde. “We have a congregation in the zone.”

Private Little jerked his thumb toward the steel gate behind him. “There’s not much hope of saving any souls in there, ma’am.
They’re all scum. A white woman alone around these people had best be careful.”

“Cool it, Little,” said the other guard at the fortified checkpoint.

“Nah, man. The lady oughta know what she’s getting herself into.”

“Ma’am,” the other guard said to Emily. “My squadmate’s just an ignorant redneck. There’s good folks in there that need all
the help they can get.”

“Yeah, and she’s going to find out how good when some Pancho pulls a knife and rapes her.”

Emily retrieved her pass from the soldier. “Thank you for your sensitively expressed concern, Private,” she said, and entered
the North Gate into Quarantine Zone B.

The government bureaucrats had split Los Angeles into two Quarantine Zones divided along the L.A. River—Zone A in the west
and Zone B in the east. Wedged precariously between the zones was downtown Los Angeles.

Walking into Zone B, Emily glanced at the graffiti-covered wall behind her. Erected only two months earlier, the wall facing
the central business district had been the first section completed—a ten-foot barrier of stacked concrete slabs topped with
concertina wire. Work on the wall along the eastern and southern boundaries of Zone B was still under way. In those areas,
dense coils of concertina wire served as an interim barrier.