Emergency, Chapter 1

Angelita, with her mop of black curls, was waddling around her playpen while me and her mama watched TV. A commercial showing lots of food came on. My woman, who can easily get a case of the munchies when seeing television food said, “Mario, we need some papitas.”

I said, “Hey, I only got a dollar and change. Can’t buy nada with that.” She said, “I’ve got a little change. That should be enough.” Her long,

black hair shimmered as she walked out of the room. I’m proud of her, she’s smart. She graduated high school and got a full time job. I only got a part-time job, but she don’t put me down like my suegra Lydia. Lydia reminds me every chance she gets that I’m not good enough for her Vero. Veronica smiled at me as she came out of the bedroom and dropped some cash in my hand.

“I’ll be right back,” I said. I had no wheels, so I walked a couple of blocks to 7-11. The store was

empty except for the clerk, a tall, lady about 3O something, with hair in a ponytail. I never seen her there before. She didn’t say hi. She just stared at me like she was lookin’ through me all the way down to a hole in my sock.

I checked out the sodas and the candy, and the chips which Veronica likes but I’m not too hot about. I had enough for two sodas, a bag of corn chips and a candy bar. I had too many things for my hands, so I stuck one of the sodas in my pocket. As I did, I looked for a short second at the clerk.

When she seen me, her head jerked like she just seen a criminal break

out of jail. I walked toward the register and she stepped back like she might be scared. I put the chips, the candy, and a soda on the counter. Before I could get the other soda out of my pocket she said, “I saw you put the soda in your pocket.”

I thought, There’s no way she’s gonna believe I ran out of hands. The sound of a car in the parking lot made me turn my head. It was

cops. The clerk’s eyes shifted toward the cops and back to me. She said, “Put the items on the counter, including the soda in your pocket. Leave quietly and I’ll say nothing.”

I done nothing wrong, but I understood. I placed the snacks and one

soda on the counter and fished the other soda out of my pocket. I put it with the rest and turned toward the door.

The cops came in as I was going out. I wondered if the clerk would

blow the whistle on me. She didn’t. Anyway, that was a close call. I guess I was lucky.

Veronica would understand why I got no snacks. She knows how some

clerks look at Mexicans. I was born in California, my parents and grandparents, too. But that don’t mean I won’t get “the look.” My Abuelita Reyna used to call it “ La Mirada de la mala suerte.” I had been warned from a young age to take it seriously. Abuelita said, “You can serve time for it if you aren’t careful.”

Half way back to Veronica’s place, I spotted Roberto leaning against a

fence in the shadows near a streetlight. Roberto sells stuff. “Hey, Mar” he stopped me. “You got a little cash? This is some good stuff. You can have a good time with this. There’s enough for you and your old lady. Share and share alike.” His grin told me he was already high on something, and his jitters told me it was probably meth.

“No can do, Beto. Since Angel came into the picture, Vero is strict. No

smoking of any kind around the baby. Sorry, man.” Roberto pleaded, “Man, I need cash.” He showed me a roll of bills. He

said, “I’ve got to pay the man tonight. I don’t have enough and I’m hurtin’ bad right now.”

I said, “Hey, man, put that away! You askin’ for trouble!” I knew he didn’t know what he was doing. I felt sorry for him. “Here

man, here’s a couple of dollars if that’ll help you out.” “If that’s all you can do. Thanks, Mario, I won’t forget this. I’ll pay you

back, for sure.” He took the money and walked back into the shadows. I had gone about half a block when I heard the screech of tires. The

cops from the 7-11 had blocked Roberto so he couldn’t run. Roberto leaned forward and put his hands on the roof of the cop car. I could see them taking his stuff and his cash, handcuffing him, and pushing his head down into the back seat.

They headed my way. If I run that would give them the wrong idea, so

I looked straight ahead and kept on walking, like I was calm. They pulled up beside me, got out and placed themselves on either side of me just like they did Roberto.

“Place your hands on the car,” one of them ordered. “You got any stuff

on you, Pepe?” “No, sir,” I said, placing my hands on the car. “I got nothin’ on me

except a little change.” My face was inches away from Roberto sitting in the back seat with his head down.

“Not that I don’t trust you,” said one of the cops, “but we’ll do a little

pat down just to be sure.” “You can pat me down all you want, sir. I got nothin’,” I told him. “We’ll be the judge of that. Where’s your ID?” he asked.

I gave it to him knowing I was in their system. I was out on probation. My curfew was 10:00 and that gave me another half hour. He patted me down once, twice, ‘three times a lady,’ and got nothing.

From the cab, the cop yelled to his partner, “Hey, partner, must be a sale on soap! We got a clean one,” he laughed.

I said, “Hey, man, why you raggin’ on me? I never done nothin’ to you.” “Let’s get out of here,” one of the cops said. He lifted his eyebrows like

he was sorry to let me go, and Roberto—he never spoke to me or looked my way.

They darted away with their back seat only half full. Tough luck for

Roberto maybe, but good for me. Twice in one night I got lucky. Maybe my luck was changing.

When I turned into the parking lot at Veronica’s, I saw her mother

coming out of the apartment. If Vero called Lydia, something happened to Angel. She must have had an accident.

Lydia yelled as she flew past, “Angel is bleeding! We’ve got to get her

to Emergency! I’ll get the car!” I ran up the steps. Veronica was holding Angel’s head. The diaper

around her jaw was spotted with blood. “What happened?” I shouted. “She fell. Her teeth cut through her lip. I think the blood has stopped

but she might need stitches,” Veronica said. “Mom will take us.” I could tell Veronica’s mom wanted me to stay out of it, but I got in the

back seat. I needed to be with Veronica and Angel.

The hospital emergency room was full like always. An old man sat staring into space. A family of four huddled around their abuela who looked as if she wasn’t long for this world. A homeless man kept rattling on, but nobody was listening to him. We sat without talking, knowing it would be a long wait.

We had been there about 15 minutes when the automatic doors sprang

open. In came Roberto walking with a limp. Blood made a trail from his skull to his neck. Something bad had happened to his nose and face. The cops crossed right in front of me with Roberto in tow.

One of the cops spoke to the woman at the desk. “We found this one

down in the Mission District spread out on the sidewalk. Can you fix him up enough so we can take him down to booking? He can sleep it off in jail, or you can keep him here. We’re sort of in a hurry. We gotta get back to our beat.”

The woman asked, “Does he have any ID?” I watched the cop pull a paper out of Roberto’s pocket and hand it to

her. While she was typing on her computer, one cop’s eyes swept the room. When he saw me, he did a double take. His face turned white. Had I seen them arrest Roberto, or, if I had seen them, would I call them out?

He elbowed his partner and nodded in my direction. When the second

cop saw me, he didn’t recognize me right off, but then it hit him. His eyes darted back and forth like he’d like to find a quick exit. His mind was probably going a mile a minute like mine was. Veronica needs my help taking care of Angel. If I speak up and this ends up in court, it would be my word against the cops, and that’s not worth much, but Beto is my friend. If I clam up now, what does that say about me?

I stood up and took the deepest breath I ever took in my life. I blurted

out, “What did you do to Roberto? He was OK when you picked him up an hour ago. Not in the mission district, but on Olive near the 7-11.”

The woman at the desk turned to me. “Do you know this man?”

indicating Roberto. Before my fear could stop me, I said, “I know him. These cops arrested

him less than an hour ago. He was fine when they put him in their squad car. He was high, but not a mark on him!”

The woman glared at the cops. Had she seen them before? Had they

brought in others who had been worked over? Was I confirming suspicions she

already had? One of the cops said, “We found Mr. Valdez on the sidewalk down near

the mission. You must have him mixed up with someone else,”—then he looked hard at me like it was a threat, and said quietly—“don’t you?”

“No!” I came back. “I don’t have him mixed up. This is my friend

Roberto Valdez. And he didn’t have a scratch on him when you picked him up!” The cops could alibi all they wanted to, but their faces told the truth.

One of the cops recovered and said, “If he’s your friend, OK, but why

make up a story about him getting worked over?” I came back at him, “I know what I seen, and I seen you put Roberto in

the back seat of your car just a few minutes ago. He was okay.” The woman at the desk looked first at the cops, then at me. She said to

the cops, “I think I had better call your supervisor and get him down here so we can sort this out.”

“That’s not necessary,” one cop said. “If we could speak to this young

man outside for a minute, I think we can clear this up.” He looked at me and I shook my head. No way was he getting me outside.

She picked up a phone and dialed. “Hello. This is the admitting nurse

at Central Emergency. We have a situation here. We need a watch supervisor. Is there someone available to come over right away?” She listened and then hung up. “They’re sending someone.” The nurse’s eyes squinted like a detective that had uncovered the key to a case.

In a few minutes a man arrived and introduced himself as Sergeant

Walker, night watch supervisor. He nodded to the officers but spoke to the nurse. “What seems to be the problem?”

“These two officers brought in this man, Roberto Valdez,” the nurse

said. “While I was checking him in, this gentleman, who’s waiting for his daughter to be seen, said that he saw the officers put Mr. Valdez in their car less than an hour ago and that he wasn’t injured. He says he watched them pick up Mr. Valdez on Olive near a 7-11 store.”

Walker turned to the cops and asked what had happened. One officer

spoke for both of them. They stuck by their story. Then I told the Captain what I seen. He didn’t say sorry, but he said,

“You stay here with your child. Will you come to the station tomorrow and give us a statement?”

I looked at the cops and said, “Yeah, I’ll come.” He took my name and

put all the information about me in his book. Nodding towards Mario, Sergeant Walker said to the nurse, “Call us

when Valdez is able to give a statement.” To the cops he said, “You had better come down to the station, turn in your report, and take the rest of the night off. Tomorrow we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Veronica glowed with pride, like I was suddenly a hero. Even Lydia

looked at me in a different way. A nurse said, “You can bring the baby in now.”

Emergency, Chapter 2 We got back to Veronica’s at about 2:00 in the morning. Angel was asleep with two stitches in her lip. As we pulled into the carport, Lydia broke the silence. “Mario, I’m proud of you. Roberto is no prize, but the police shouldn’t mistreat someone just because that someone’s not a saint.” I felt myself blush. I would’ve hugged her, but I didn’t think I could get by with it. “Thanks,” I said. “He’s not much worse than a lot of people.” A few minutes after we were settled in the apartment, a knock at the door brought in Jaime, Veronica’s younger brother. “How’s Angel?” he asked,

Veronica told Jaime everything that had happened. Jaime said, “Mario, you da man! Stepping in for Roberto like that.” I felt embarrassed, but Jaime went on, “Going against the Blue Brothers, you got cajones.” “I think I stuck my hand in the fire, and no way I can back out. Even if I wanted to, I’m screwed,” I hedged.

Jaime’s forehead creased and he said, “You’re right. If the Sergeant doesn’t believe you, those cops will be back in the hood in a few days. You can expect some fireworks if that happens.” I said, “If those two hurt me, everybody would know. I doubt they would want that to happen. They might get their buddies to do it—but not in our hood. Come to think of it, I’m probably safer here than I ever been.” I paused. “I’m worried if Roberto backs me up. Once he comes down off his

high, he might not remember anything. If he don’t, it’s my word against the cops’.” Veronica said, “Mario, what about the nurse? Do you think she’s seen those officers before, maybe bringing in other men that are beat up?” Lydia chimed in, “I’m betting that Sergeant’s had trouble with them before. But that’s tomorrow’s business. I’m exhausted and I have to get up for work in a few hours. Come, Mario. I’ll give you a ride home.” In less than ten minutes, the back door of the Acura opened. I slid across the leather seat and stood on the sidewalk in front of my house. “Thanks, Lydia,” I said as she drove away.

I tried to be quiet going in, but the old door had swung too many times to be silent. The hall light came on. In her flannel robe stood Mama, hand on the light switch, her face wrinkled with worry. “¿M’ijo, dónde estabas? You got to go to work pretty soon.” “Angel fell and hurt herself. We took her to Emergency.”

“What happened? Is she OK?” said Mamá. “She cut her lip and needed stitches. She’s OK. She was asleep by the time we got back to Veronica’s.” I didn’t want her to worry about my troubles. “You get some rest,” she said. “I’ll have something for you when you get up.” By 6:00 I was showered, shaved and in my uniform. Mom filled me up good with her specialty: scrambled eggs with cactus, tomatoes, and onions, with refried frijoles and a flour tortilla. I gave her a peck on the cheek, grabbed my jacket and closed the door behind me. I would have said adios to my viejo as well, but I hadn’t seen him in over 10 years. At the bus stop, I walked a few feet out into the street to see if I could see the bus coming, but I knew, no matter how many times I looked, it never came sooner. When it finally lunged to a stop, I hustled up the steps and found a seat. I saw familiar faces, people like myself, locked in minimum wage jobs. The bus rumbled out of our neighborhood on its way to the north end of town where gringos rule.

I got off at the corner opposite the car wash. It was my week to work on the finish deck where cars are wiped down. That’s the only place you get tips.

My friend David was there before me. “Mario, whassup?”

For a second, I thought about telling David about the previous night’s activities, then I decided not to. “Not much. Same old, same old.” David said, “You ready to make some mon-ay, old man? Remember to smile, open the door, hand the keys nicely, give the newspaper. And one extra swipe of your rag over the door—that works sometime.” “I taught you that line.” I grinned. “Don’t worry ‘bout me.” “Let’s see who has the most tips by 12:00. Loser buys lunch,” said David with a smile his girl says sparkles like a jeweler’s case.

Always open to a challenge, I said, “You’re on.” As soon as the traffic cones were removed, cars poured through almost bumper-to-bumper. Heavy business on Mondays from salesmen who want to drive up to their clients’ places in clean, shiny cars. I lowered my head and never looked up, except to smile when I got a tip. David tapped me on the shoulder, “Mario, time for a break. Let’s take ten.” Resting a few minutes with a cold soda gave me energy I would need in a couple of hours. I couldn’t get my mind off the trip I had to make to the police station downtown to give a statement to Sergeant Walker. What if I run into the cops that beat up Roberto? “Bro, you’re looking worried, man. It can’t be back taxes, ‘cause you don’t make that much,” David laughed. “What’s up?” I said, “I might as well tell you. Last night I was in Emergency with Veronica and Angel. While we waited, a couple of cops brought Roberto in. I seen them arrest him a few minutes before down by 7-11 and Roberto was okay. But when they brought him into Emergency, he looked like someone ran his head through a meat grinder. The cops’ boss came over to Emergency, and I told him what I seen. He told me to come downtown today and give a statement.”

“Taking on the cops, you bit off a big chunk. I hope you don’t choke on it,” said David. “Cops think beating up people is fun. Nobody trusts cops anyways.” At noon I announced, “David, twenty six dollars in tips. How much you got?” David answered, “I only got twenty-four. Looks like lunch is on me. Jack’s or Wendy’s?” “Jack’s. Looks like I’m getting a little luckier. What I really need is more hours so I got some benefits.” I took the 2:00 o’clock bus like I was going home, knowing that today I would transfer to go downtown. Familiar faces welcomed me aboard. The woman who cleaned houses starting at 6:00 each day always looked tired. One man sat in the same seat half way back next to the window. He had no job. He just rode around all day. When I transferred to #41, the faces on the bus looked the same as the faces I had seen on the other bus. I got off and walked a block to police headquarters. Two rows of black and whites waited, ready to roll out and break a few heads, I’m thinking. Through the glass doors of the headquarters I saw a swarm of blue uniforms. It was cop city, not my playground. Once I got past a metal detector, I asked for Sergeant Walker. The uniform at the desk said, “Sergeant Walker’s not due for another hour. What’s it about? Someone else can help you.” “No. I’ll wait,” I answered, “if that’s okay.” He shrugged. Cops going back and forth through the office, none smiling or friendly, only glanced at me. The longer they eyed me, the more nervous I got. I thought maybe I might leave and forget about it. Another man waiting was on his cell phone, texting or playing a game. I wasn’t sure which. After a while, I was relieved to see Sergeant Walker come through the door and move through the metal detector. He recognized me. “Mr. Hernandez, right?” “Yes, sir,” I said.

“Thanks for coming. Let’s go into my office.” The clerk buzzed a door open and I followed down a hall and into a small office. “Take a seat.” The wall behind his desk had framed certificates, one for marksmanship, one from a college. He hung his hat on a hook on the door, sat down and motioned me to a chair. He took out a pen and a paper that looked official. “Mr. Hernandez, I’d like to ask first how’s your little girl?”

“She’s okay. Thanks for asking.” He said, “I need to hear your story including all the details you can

remember. Complaints are a serious matter, and everything you say will help me make a better assessment.” “I’ll tell it as best I can,” I said. He began to write about when I was inside the 7/11. “I’m not a thief. Years ago, when I was a kid, I did some stupid things—but no more. I have too much responsibility. I got a daughter.” I told him about Roberto’s offer of drugs a few minutes after I left 7/11 and the cash Roberto showed me. Then I told him about the cops stopping Roberto and patting him down, and the look I got at Roberto in the back seat of the squad car. “He was not hurt in any way,” I said. “The next time I saw him was when the cops brought him into Emergency.” Walker’s expression did not change through the whole story. “Is there anyone else who saw any of this other than the clerk at the store, the two officers, Roberto, and yourself?” “I don’t think the clerk at the store saw anything. Have you talked to Berto?” Walker said, “Roberto’s injuries are serious, and he’s experiencing withdrawals according to the doctor at the hospital. You might want to visit him, but you shouldn’t. If you discuss what happened with him, your version of the story might get into his head. We want his testimony to be his own witness, not something he heard from another person.” “I get it,” I said. “Now what happens? Do I have to be scared every time I see a cop—officer, I mean?” “Well, since this has to do with personnel matters, I can’t discuss anything other than your own story, but I can tell you this. When an officer is accused of mistreating any citizen, regardless of race, color, or gender, we

follow up on the complaint. If we need you further, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, your complaint will go into their files for review.” “So, you keep records of which officers report people injured when they are arrested?” “We do, but that’s confidential. Every officer has a file.” “You can check the arrests made by the two guys who brought Roberto into Emergency?” “That’s right. You statement will be compared to the records we already have on each of those officers. If we find a pattern, then we will deal with it internally.” “Internally?” “We will handle it ourselves. We have a lot of options.” “But isn’t beating up a person against the law, even for cops? Shouldn’t they be arrested?” “You’re right—if they’ve broken the law. But that’s hard to prove unless there’s strong evidence, testimony by more than one witness. Your complaint will carry much more weight if Roberto is able to corroborate your story.” “Are you going to talk to the nurse in Emergency? The look she gave those two made me think she seen them before, like maybe they brought in other guys who been beat up.” Walker said, “We’ve thought of that, and we’ll pursue that as far as we can. Privacy laws protect the hospital records, so that makes it harder for us to follow up.” “Does Emergency make a record of which cops—officers—bring someone in?” “Yes. That’s part of their record for admittance.” I left for home. I was still on probation. I was hoping this didn’t get me fired.

Emergency, Chapter 3 At the car wash the next day I grabbed the blue rags and wiped the first car that came down the line. The driver was an old man. “Old people tip good,” David reminded me, and with a grin, he added, “And for you, I notice that the ladies tip good, too.” Sure enough, the man thanked me and gave me two dollars, took his keys and newspaper, and drove away.

Half an hour into my shift, my boss’ voice boomed out on the PA system: “Mario, in the office, please.”

That’s never happened before. Have I done something wrong? Has

someone complained? Am I about to get fired? Where could I ever find another job?

I tossed my rag to David and hurried into the office. My middle-aged

boss, bald head shining, work shirt open at the collar, sat behind a neat desk. “Yes, Mr. Phillips?” I said.

“Mario, I just got a call from a Sergeant Walker at police headquarters wanting to know if you’re reliable, how long you’ve worked here, and what sort of person you are, but he wouldn’t give me any details. Are you in some kind of trouble? A call from the police about one of my employees gets me a bit nervous.” I told him about my run-in with some cops and my talk with Sergeant Walker yesterday.

“I see,” he said. “You took a big risk defending your friend like that, but I’d say you did the right thing. You know, you were on probation when I hired you, but I’ve never been sorry. You’re a good worker, and you’ve never given us any problems.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said surprised. “We’re always looking for people with initiative, you know, go out of their way, sort of ‘above and beyond the call of duty.’ I’ll make a note for your file. It could eventually mean a full time job.” “Thanks, Mr. Phillips. I appreciate that,” I said. Freakin’ think of it, if I got on full time, me and Veronica could get married. With benefits we could take Angel to a regular baby doctor instead of a clinic.

On my way to check on Angel after work, I was still thinking about me and Veronica getting married. I got off the bus and walked past the 7-11. Inside, the same clerk that gave me a hard time two days ago was busy with two cops standing at the checkout counter. I kept walking, past the spot where Roberto had been arrested. A few minutes later, the patrol car cruised past me. I kept on walking, looking straight ahead like I didn’t even see them. They were out of sight by the time I turned into the parking lot at Veronica’s apartment. I knocked, because she keeps her door locked and chained like I told her to. She opened the door a crack, smiled, and let me in. I kissed her long and good and held her close, and she hugged me back. That makes me feel strong. “How is Angel?” I asked. “When will the stitches come out?” “They don’t have to be removed,” she said. “They’ll dissolve naturally. The nurse said they shouldn’t leave a scar. I called at lunch to be sure she was okay. The Day Care worker said she played with the other kids and got along fine. She’s already asleep.” “How was your day?” I asked. “Busy. So many companies are going to robo-calls. I’m glad our company only makes live calls. I read my script just like I’m supposed to, and if the person I’m calling asks a question, I answer it, or I ignore it and go on like they tell us. I feel better if the customer sounds old and really needs an Emergency Alert button.” “Did you get your quota today?” “I went over it. The supervisor came to my cubicle and said she thought I was outstanding, because I go over my quota so often. Plus, it helps my average for when I have a bad day. Everything okay at the car wash?” “David tried to give me the big head when I told him about Roberto getting beat up and me stepping up for him. I told him Sergeant Walker said one person’s word is not enough. Roberto has to get better. He’s gotta remember what happened to him. If he don’t, that’s it.” “What did Roberto say?” “I can’t talk to him. Sergeant Walker told me not to. That way, if Roberto remembers, it will be his memory and not mine.”

“How about if I call? Would that be OK?” I shrugged and she picked up the directory. When the hospital answered, Veronica said, “I am calling to ask about a patient, Roberto Valdez.” She paused, then, “No, I’m not a relative, just a friend.” She listened, and in a minute, she hung up. “I got the nurse’s station. She said Roberto’s condition is stable. That’s all she can tell us since we’re not related.” Just as Veronica hung up, her phone rang. She said, “Angel is fine, Mother . . . Yes, Mario is here . . . Mario, Mother wants to come over. She says she wants to talk to us. Is that okay?” Not Lydia again! Can’t she leave us alone? “What about?” I asked. “Mother, what do you want to talk about? . . . She says it’s about us, about our future.” “I don’t need her to tell me that I’m not good enough for you. I already know that.” I forced the words out, “I’ll sit though another lecture, but we have to figure out things for ourselves without Lydia sticking her nose in.” For Veronica’s sake, I said, “When does she want to come?’ “Now, if we have time.”

“Okay, but I don’t like it,” I said.

Veronica hung up. “Mother means well, Mario,” said Veronica. “She worked hard to get where she is. Maybe she feels like she has a right to interfere. I’m still her little girl.”

A half hour later the doorbell rang. Lydia, dressed in a dark pantsuit and low-heeled dress shoes, had come straight from her job at the IRS.

“You look nice, Mom,” said Veronica. “I like to look professional,” a line I had heard before. “People at my

level have to maintain high standards.” Like she was above us. “Did you have a good day?” “I had a very good day. All of my staff showed up. No one called in sick.

They all had their heads glued to their monitors all day. I had hardly anything to do,” she said. “Now let’s get right to it—“

I seen that look in Lydia’s eyes before. She was about to do something

hard for her. But she lowered her head and came at it like a toro at a bullfight.

“Mario, I know you want a better life for Angel and Veronica. I want to

know if you’re willing to work to make that happen.” She was all business. “I have a granddaughter. I want Angel to grow up and have a future. She needs a family and a stable environment for that to happen.” Veronica said, “We want that, too, Mother. I do. Mario does.” Was she going to tell me to get a better job? Was she going to insist that we get married? Does she think I’m not a man? “I want a better future, but I don’t like you trying to run our lives.” “Mario, hear me out. I know you mean well, but at the speed you’re moving, all you can hope for is to squeeze by, live from paycheck to paycheck, and end up right where you are now.” She turned for a jab. “I don’t insist that you and Veronica marry unless you want to, but you can’t provide the a future for Angel on what you make, both of you combined. You can scrape by, but that’s about it.” “Maybe. Maybe not.” She wasn’t gonna push me around. We don’t need her meddling in our lives. “Today, I told my boss about Roberto. He thought I did the right thing. He said that I might get promoted to full time.” “That’s fine, Mario,” Lydia said. “But I’m asking you to look further ahead than a promotion at the car wash. What about 20 or 30 years from now? What do you want your life to be like when Angel’s ready for high school and college?” She had me there. “What can I say? Maybe I can’t find a better job right now. Everybody wants a high school diploma.”s “That’s the point,” said Lydia. “To move ahead, you need education and training. And you won’t get either of those at a carwash. You’re not my favorite person, Mario, and you know why. But you’re Angel’s father, and I want to help you because I want a better life for Veronica and Angel. If you’re serious about a better future, you have to go back to school.” “I’m too old to go back now. I’d be too embarrassed. The seniors now were freshmen when I was in school.”

“I don’t think you should go back to high school. You ought to go to junior college and get training for a career.” “College? Are you kidding? Don’t you need a high school diploma?” “I met a man at a seminar I attended, a counselor at City College and at Sacramento State. He told me you could enroll in summer school at the junior college. If you make good grades, you can enroll in the fall as a continuing student. They won’t ask to see a diploma. All you have to do is take nine units in summer school and make good grades.” “I don’t have time to go to college,” I objected. “My schedule at the carwash, it’s all messed up.” Lydia said, “Talk to your manager. Ask him if you can work afternoons only. That would leave your mornings free for class and study.” “But I’d still need money for books and other stuff. I barely got a part time job. All my pay goes to Mamá and to Veronica.” Lydia said. “I’ve got some savings. I figure by helping you, I’ll be helping Veronica and Angel. I’d rather spend it helping them than let it sit in the bank. It’s a loan, not a donation.” She sat down at the kitchen table across from me with a dead serious face. ”I expect you to pay it back—all of it. And if what I can lend you is not enough, you can talk to the school financial counselor about help.” “That’s a lotta stuff to think about,” I said. I couldn’t believe it. For the first time, Lydia was in my corner. It was time for me to step up.

Emergency, Chapter 4

I lay on my bed unable to stop thinking about Lydia’s offer. If I took her money, she’d have her claws in me. She could make my life miserable till I paid back every last dime. Maybe she thinks she could drive a wedge between me and Veronica, and it’s her way of getting rid of me.

When I finally dozed off, I slept soundly. In my dream I was about to kiss Veronica. The telephone shot that to pieces. Who calls before breakfast? Did Lydia know I was about to kiss Veronica in my dream?

“Yeah?” I barked.

The familiar sound of David’s voice. “Mario, ‘Berto died.” “What?” I said. “How do you know?” “I went by the hospital. His room’s empty. They were washing down the bed and mattresses. They already took him away.” “That’s the pits,” I said. My brain was spinning. The only other person who knew the truth about what happened is gone. I had to get a grip. “We have to see his mom and see can we help out.” “I can’t,” David said. “I’ll miss my bus. I’ll see you at work.”

As I opened the door to leave, Mamá handed me my sack lunch. She crossed herself and said, “Tell Roberto’s Mamá that we will light candles and say prayers for them.”

I rang the bell at Roberto’s apartment. His brother came out and closed the door behind him. “Hey, Mario. You heard?” “I heard, man. I’m sorry.” “We heard what you did in Emergency when the cops brought ‘Berto in. We won’t forget that.” “How’s your mom?” “You know. She’s crying. She knew it was coming. She’s been waiting for something bad to happen to ‘Berto. She’s goin’ on about a mass for him. Mi madre still believes all that stuff, so she’s hoping Roberto is safe, up in heaven. I’m not so sure, but I don’t want to make her feel bad.” “Mamá said to tell you she’ll be at the church today to light candles. Tell your mom we’re thinking of her and your family. Listen, I know funerals cost a lot. I’ll see can we help,” I said. “Thanks. We’ll scrape together all we can, but we’ll need help.” As the metro bus rattled away toward the car wash, I was making plans. I knew, in a few hours we could get friends on a street corner, asking for donations, or washing cars. You can’t die cheap, I thought.

When I got to the car wash, David had already punched in. I found him in the snack corner of the break room having his usual jufnk food breakfast.

He said, “Mario, wuz up? You go by ‘Berto’s house?”

“They’re gonna have a hard time. We got to help them. If we don’t, they’ll be paying for Berto’s funeral for years.” “Well,” David said, “if we man the street corners, people in our neighborhood understand. The first time I tried it, I was ashamed to beg. Some people stare straight ahead or give you dirty looks, but enough drop in something. Our neighborhood knows how hard it is.” Before the car wash opened for business, I called Veronica at work. I had to listen to “our menu, which has changed,” and receiving a warning that “this call may be monitored or recorded for training purposes.” Finally, I dialed her extension and heard her voice, “This is Veronica. May I help you?” “Veronica, come to the Rec Center this afternoon as soon as you get off work. I’m going straight from the car wash. We’ll making posters for when the rush hour hits. The sooner we do this, the more people will remember Roberto’s death. Can you leave Angel at day care for a couple of extra hours?” “I did it before and it was okay.” At the Center making posters, Tomas, who is one great tagger, told us, “Be sure to make the letters thick so people can read them, and don’t put too many words.” One sign said simply: “For Roberto’s funeral,” another said, “Please Help Roberto’s family.” Tomas said, “Keep the sign facing on-coming traffic. People have to get a good look at it, or they won’t even slow down.” We had more than enough volunteers to put two or more people on each corner and on the medians at the busiest intersection in our neighborhood. I was on the northwest corner of Grand Avenue and Jackson Boulevard, where cars making a right turn slow down and sometimes stop. During the two hours I spent there, I noticed that things haven’t changed all that much. People who want to donate fumble around for a wallet or purse, sometimes even slowing up traffic. Others look like zombies who can’t turn their necks. Most people dropped in only a dollar or two, but a few were very generous.

At about 5:45, on the corner opposite where I was standing, I spotted Lydia’s black Lexus. It slowed, and the passenger side window slid down. I didn’t know if she cared, especially since Roberto was into drugs. After she drove off into traffic, I walked over to that corner. “Did the woman in that Lexus leave a donation?” I asked.

“You’d better believe it,” Silvia said. “She put in a $50 bill! She must know the family. Maybe she knew Roberto.” So, Lydia has a heart, after all, I thought. We didn’t get much, but it was enough to help some. Vero and I walked the half-mile to his home to take the money. His family told us the funeral director had offered them the cheapest package he had and even offered a small discount off that. Roberto’s brother said, “We must have a mass for Roberto. Mi madre will not rest until we do.” The next afternoon I put on my white shirt and a tie and waited for Lydia. She picked up Veronica first, then me and Mamá. No one spoke on the short drive to St. Joseph’s. The few cars in the parking lot were mostly from our barrio. People entering ahead of us dipped a finger in the font at the door and made the sign of the cross. We walked up toward the front of the church where Roberto’s body lay in a cheap wooden casket with gray cloth stretched over it. I knelt and made the sign of the cross again before entering a pew to sit with Mamá, and Vero holding Angel, and Lydia.

In a few minutes the Father, whose robe almost matched the color of Roberto’s casket, came up the center aisle with altar boys carrying a cross while he was swinging the censor, its smoke rising like prayers. He walked up to the pulpit and began the mass, but I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. I kept thinking, No one can say life is fair, but we all could use a break from getting stepped on from birth, right up to the time our body is lowered into the grave. Roberto’s casket will be covered over and life will go on, as if he was never born.

I came fully alert when the Father said that we celebrate death just as

we celebrate a newborn baby. What? What’s he saying? “We can celebrate death,” he said, “because death is simply a step into God’s presence. God is always present, in birth, in life, in death, and in eternity.”

God is always present? Where was He when those cops were beating hell

out of Roberto? Was he counting the blows till Roberto paid for his sins? ¿Dios mío, porque?

I could tell the Father was walking a tightrope when he referred to Roberto’s death. He never said, “In police custody.” It was no longer an issue for Roberto, but I was mad, and I didn’t know if I could ever let it go.

The Father reminded everyone, “This is the body and the blood of Jesus,” who died for everyone. But I thought, What did Roberto die for? Where was the benefit in Roberto’s death? Is his death going to bless anyone? Look at his family. They all have faces of stone, except his mother. She made no sound or movement, but she could not stop the flow of tears. Maybe that was the way Mary felt watching Jesus die. Did Jesus’ death mean something? How about Roberto’s? We stood around on the sidewalk and watched as the casket was wheeled out the front door of the church and slid into the hearse. As it moved silently away from the chapel, I thought, Surely, somebody can do something. Maybe no one will listen, but from this day on, I will speak. This I promise. Now I was facing a chance to have a better life. But the package was marked: Made by Lydia. Not my favorite brand.

Emergency, Chapter 5

On the bus ride to work I had time to think. Lydia makes more than anybody else I know. So what? Her Lexus is chido. So what? That don’t give her rights over me. She don’t respect me. Still, I gotta admit she’s probably right—about me going back to school. Offering to loan me money—where did that come from? Is she giving up tryin’ to get rid of me? Did she offer help because Veronica asked her? I couldn’t figure it out.

No matter why, if Lydia ponies up the green, I was ready to step up. I asked Mr. Phillips could I talk to him. I told him it’s important. At

1:00, he was in his office waiting. “I’m sorry to hear that your friend died. I noticed the newspaper didn’t

mention how or why. I expect you’ll need time off to attend the funeral.” “The funeral was yesterday. His family wanted to have it soon.” “I see. And how is the family? Are they okay?” “Yeah,” I told him, “they’re okay. His mom is having a hard time—you

know.” “I’m sorry. It’s a tragedy no matter how you look at it,” he said. “What

did you need to see me about then? Time off to testify?”

“It’s not about testifyin’, sir. With Roberto dead, I doubt anything will be done unless the police department has something on those two policemen. I’m not counting on that. Actually, sir, I want to ask a special favor.” I explained Lydia’s offer. I told him I’d need a regular work hours, one where I’m free mornings for classes and study. “If you’d put me down to work only afternoons, I’d have time for school in the mornings.” Mr. Phillips said, “Hey, I’m surprised, but I’m glad you’re giving college a try. You’re a good worker. You could be a good student. I started this business and made a success of it because I went to school and got some training. I’m pretty sure your future will look better after you get school and training behind you.” “So, you could fix it for me to work only afternoons?” I asked. “I think we can accommodate you, Mario, and glad to do it.”

I could hardly wait to get back to Veronica’s to tell her my schedule was a done deal. I think she just about cried. Her face shined. “Mario, we can dream a little bit. Our future looks better. We have a lot of work to do, both of us, and I’ll help you all I can. I love you so much.”

When she talks like that, I feel my spirit rising. I hugged her close. We

didn’t care that it was the middle of the day. An hour later at her kitchen table, we went over finances. Since I’d still

put in the same number of hours, I’d have money to give to her and Mamá, like always. We went through the college catalog to find the courses, and to figure out how much more money we’d need. Lydia’s loan would cover books and transportation, but it wasn’t enough for tuition and school materials.

We talked about how to get more money. The catalog said there’s a

finance office at the school, but I was nervous about starting out with a loan. “If we start out getting a loan, how many loans will it take, and how many years to pay ‘em off?” I decided to try for a grant, free money from the government. I wasn’t sure I could get it, still single and living at home. They probably didn’t care if I had other responsibilities.

Veronica and I went to the city library to use a computer to enroll in math, English, and social studies, and one unit of PE. Sitting at that computer with Veronica, I got a good feeling. I might actually graduate. Picturing myself marching across a stage in a cap and gown—it got me a little bit high.

At home, I was barely in the door when Mamá said, “Mario, you look happier than I seen you in a long time.”

Mamá’s eyes stayed locked on mine while I told her all that had happened in the last couple of days. She cried a little bit and placed her hands, now softer, but still calloused from years in the fields, over mine. Her lips were trembling as she said, “O, Madre de Dios! We must light candles for your good luck. We must thank the Virgin and say prayers for Veronica’s mother.”

“Better pray that I make good grades, too, Mamá,” I said. “If I don’t, the whole thing falls apart.” “Then we will pray for good grades, too.” Two weeks before summer school began, carrying Angel, I went with Veronica on bus #24 that stopped in front of the college. Walking through the pillars at the entrance was special, like walking into a theme park in Disneyland. We wandered around the nearly deserted campus. The beautiful buildings, neat lawns, fountains, and benches beneath shade trees seemed like some foreign country. We located the buildings for each subject, English, science, and math, like a kindergartner finding out which door to line up before school. The classes were only 50 minutes, to allow students time to cross the campus to their next class. On the bus to work, I smiled and spoke to everyone I saw. I didn’t tell them I was going to college, but they could see how happy I was. When I got to the car wash, David was there before me, as usual, and as always, breakfast at the snack machine. “Hey, Mario! You gonna be a college boy!” he teased. “Hey, David. I’m gonna be a college boy,” I mocked him. “You wanna know something? Ask me. Ask me anything.” “Okay. Who was the eighth President?” “How should I know? Gimme time and I’ll get back to you.” “Don’t have to wait, smart school boy! The answer is on a $20 bill.” I had to think a minute. “Jackson? He was the eighth President? Whadayou know?”

“I heard on the news he won’t be on it much longer,” David said.

The morning was busy, and we were both glad when break time came. We just turned the corner leading to the soda machine when I heard my name on the PA system. “Mario Valdez! To the office. Mario Valdez. To the office.” I couldn’t think of anything I done wrong, but maybe I had. Mr. Phillips was always nice when he called me in, usually to tell me some way to do a better job. And I always took his advice. I wanted to do good for him. But now? “Mario, come in. Sit down.” This might take a while. Probably take my entire break. But that was okay with me. “Mario, how are your plans coming along to get into City College?” I gave him the whole story. “I have some news for you. During the last two weeks, Mrs. Phillips and I have been talking. Each year we give a scholarship to some student. We call it an ‘air’ scholarship, because there is no paperwork involved. We don’t ask for it to be repaid. The student we’re helping graduated last month, and we’ve been searching for the next person to help.” Had I heard him right? Was Mr. Phillips offering to help me pay for college? “Sir, I don’t know what to say.” “So,” he smiled, “you won’t turn the money down?” “Oh, no, sir, absolutely not, sir. I’ll take the money—and be very grateful. Please, thank Mrs. Phillips, too.” When I told Mamá about the Phillips’ gift, she bowed every so slightly and said, “We must pray for these good people, too. And light a candle.” On my first day as a free-of-debt college student, with a backpack filled with pens, pencils, and paper, I was ready to find a desk with my name card on it in block print.

Professor Terri Montgomery, my math teacher, was a tall, skinny woman with a nice smile. I didn’t know a name for her hairstyle, but her dark brown hair was short and straight. She wasn’t much older than me, and she

seemed a little nervous. What could she be nervous about? Was it her first day of school, too?

For the first two weeks of class, she told us where different kinds of math came from. Each type was invented when there was a need for it. Like, math dealing with weights and measurements came when merchants wanted to sell their goods in other countries or villages, not, as I thought, by druggies in garages using scales and filling plastic bags. Surveying was invented in Egypt to help farmers find their farms again after the Nile River overflowed then went back down again. So, I got it. Math wasn’t invented to persecute school children. The English professor, Dr. James Owens, nicknamed “Dead Eye” because a funny left eye. It didn’t twitch, but he sort of squinted. He had a lot of ideas that were news to me. Such as, there’s no such thing as “correct” English. He said he taught “standard” English. That’s how to say something that makes more sense and is more logical, according to him. He gave us an example. “He jumped into a lifeboat, and they rowed out to the island.” He said, “Either get them into the lifeboat so they can row, or get him into the boat so he can row. Logic, he said. He gave lots of examples. The more examples he gave, the more sense “standard” English made to me. After the first few classes, he told me to make an appointment to see him in his office, which was in a separate building. When I found the English department offices, the secretary told me which office was his, and added, “He’s expecting you.”

The office seemed small for a professor. Two of the walls were shelves full of books almost to the ceiling. On his desk he had a framed 8” x 10” photo of himself, with a woman and three small children. He looked older than the man in the photo, but I could tell it was him. Dead-Eye sat in a fancy office chair. I sat in the only other chair.

He asked me to sit down. “Mario, you’re working hard and I’m pretty

sure you’ll succeed. I’d like to help you if I can. I don’t want to embarrass you, but your English needs a little help. It won’t take much, just a little practice, if you’re willing.”

“What’s wrong with my English?” I asked. “Nothing. It’s that your mind thinks in Spanish, and the two languages are not alike.” “I don’t know what that means,” I said.

“I’ll give you an example. In Spanish, it’s okay to use a double negative. ‘I will not lend you no money.’ Spanish uses ‘no’ and ‘not’ in the same sentence for emphasis. In English we mean the same thing by leaving out one of those two words. Either ‘I will not lend you money,’ or ‘I will lend you no money.’ In English, logically, ‘I will not lend you no money’ means that I will lend you some money. That double negative, saying ‘no’ or ‘not’ twice in the same sentence, that’s fine in Spanish, but not in English. One of my grandparents, after years in this country, still has this problem. Don’t worry. I don’t expect these ideas to become natural to you all at once, but in the end, I want you to be able to use English well.

“Your tongue and your ear,” he said, “need to get used to saying and hearing words you don’t usually use.” He gave me drills to practice at home, and at work when I wasn’t busy. “I am, you are, he is.” And past tense: “I was, you were, he was.”

He explained irregular verbs, and I practiced them, too. “I do, he does,”

and the opposite, “I don’t, he doesn’t.” Some of it was hard for me, because the sound coming out of my mouth wasn’t what I heard in my brain. Whenever I missed one of the forms, I let out a swear word or three. Dr. Owens told us, “An educated person doesn’t need slang to express himself forcefully.” I didn’t think that was true, but he had a point. The new way of talking felt more comfortable each day.

When I used “he doesn’t” instead of “he don’t,” Lydia gave me a look

like, “Who’s the stranger?” When I said, “He and I caught the bus,” instead of “me and him,” Veronica just smiled. David said, “Hey, Mario, movin’ uptown?” and even Mr. Phillips said, “I don’t know what kind of grades you’re making, Mario, but what I hear tells me you’re making progress.”

My biggest trouble was learning “lie” and “lay.” Professor Owens tried

to explain by saying that chickens lay eggs, objects, and that if you lay ‘down,’ either you’re a duck or you work in a mattress factory. And you can lie standing up, or you can lie in a bed, just don’t get caught lying. It still confuses me.

I met Dr. Owens on the way to class. I told him about my friends and

family and their reactions to the change in my speaking. He said, “They’re all correct, Mario. You are making progress. I’ll see you in class.”

Math was interesting, English taught me the power of language, however, social studies really got my attention. The teacher talked about political parties, voting groups, and how boundaries of districts in California

are drawn to help certain types of candidates. A map of the district where I lived showed how it was mostly white. “A Hispanic,” that’s what he called a person like me, “has never been elected there. However,” he said, “the movement of population has been changing the makeup of that district.” “Studying how communities organize to get things done,” I told Veronica, “I see that where we live, our community, isn’t organized to get anything done. We get left out all the time. Maybe that’s why the police could get by with so much crap.” The image of Roberto being dragged bleeding into Emergency kept me focused on a goal—to do something, anything, to fight police brutality, which had been a reality for me as long as I could remember.

I took a PE class just before lunch, so that I could work out, shower, and catch a bus back home before lunch. “Dog” Dawson, the football coach, caught me coming out of the gym the second week in the term. He said, “Mario, right? You should try out for the team. I watched you doing weights. You’re strong. My TA tells me you do a mile in close to five minutes. You’re built just about right for a good tight end. We can always use new talent.”

I would’ve tried out for football in high school if I hadn’t dropped out, but I told him I had no time for sports. He said, “Keep it in mind in case things change for you.” I just had one big problem—a police problem—and I wasn’t sure how to deal with it. f

Emergency, Chapter 6 Early in my freshman term I spotted one of the campus rent-a-cops. When I got off the bus, he was there, as if he was waiting for me. As soon as I started toward my class, he followed me. I never caught him looking directly at me, but those guys are all in the club. If he’s in with the two cops I called out, he could be watching for an excuse to bust me. They’re all alike. You can’t trust ‘em.

I stopped to let Dead-Eye go in the building ahead of me, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the rent-a-cop talking to another uniform. They looked my way and the other one nodded. They were watching every step I took.

In class I sat on the back row, hoping Dead-Eye wouldn’t call on me. He said, “Today’s lesson is about stereotypes.” I knew what a stereo was, but a type of stereo? I didn’t have a clue. Why was he gonna talk about music in an English class? I’ve found things sometime fall into place if I just keep my

mouth shut and wait. He held up a poster of a man in a blue uniform wearing a badge. “How many things we can say about the man?” I dived right in. “He can’t be trusted.”

A girl frowned at me and said, “He’s trained to do a job.” “He doesn’t get paid enough for risking his life.” “He looks serious.” “He’s neat.” “He might coach Little League on his day off.”

Dead-eye said, “This man is an escaped convict, a murderer who assaulted a police officer, took his uniform, and left the officer for dead.” I wasn’t sure about the escaped convict part, but I knew that a police officer could kill somebody and get by with it. For all I knew, the rent-a-cop who followed me around could be a murderer. One student said, “The man’s wearing a uniform and has a badge and gun. He looks like a police officer.” “Right,” Dead-eye said. “When all we did was look at him, everything we thought about this man was wrong. That’s stereotyping, judging by what we can see without further investigation.” He held up another poster. “How about this one?”

We were all quiet. Someone finally said, “He’s a boy.” “He looks like a teenager.” “He needs a haircut.” I said, “He’s got a backpack, so he might be in high school. Or he might

be carrying around someone’s head he just sawed off.” The class laughed.

Dead-Eye said, “You’re closer this time. He is a teenage boy enrolled in a high school and has a mild form of autism. Why do we stereotype people?” he asked.

Bill, from behind me, said, “It saves a lot of thinking.” “Explain,” Dead-Eye said. “If I can put a label on someone,” Bill said, “I don’t have to listen to

what he’s saying. I have already decided in advance what he thinks.” “So, Bill, what’s the problem?” he asked. “The problem is that no one perfectly fits a stereotype. You can be a

Democrat and oppose Obama care. You can be a Republican and still want better treatment of illegal aliens.”

“Go on, Bill. You’re on a roll.” “I know some Catholics who practice birth control, and some

environmentalists who burn wood in their fireplaces. Stereotyping assumes that everyone in a group is identical,” Bill said.

“How can a person avoid stereotyping?” Dead-eye asked. The

discussion included not judging by how a person looks, by his clothes, or his skin color, or anything visible to the eye. He said, “That’s a pretty good list.”

I knew street cops, lots of them. I never saw a good one yet. I wanted to

ask, “Would I be stereotyping policemen by saying that cops can’t be trusted?” I decided to save that for another day. I liked that people had different opinions, and it was okay.

Dead-Eye said, “Class, I’m assigning you an 8-page report. I hope to

make it easier for you by allowing you to choose your own topic. State your topic at the beginning, give your opinion, then reply to arguments from the opposite viewpoint.”

We did what Dead-Eye called brainstorming to help any who had

trouble coming up with a topic. On his whiteboard, he listed topics we suggested. The first few topics, like “How to get along with others,” and “what’s wrong with religion today,” were lame, and everyone knew that. As his list got longer, the topics got more interesting. Long before we stopped, I had my topic, police brutality.

“Anyone who needs help getting started, make an appointment to see

me,” he said. Sure. I needed help, lots of it. Was I the only one? Was I the slowest

dog in the pack? Eight pages? I never wrote anything two pages long, let alone eight. So I decided to act like un guey. Right after class, I went up to him. “I need help,” I said. “I don’t know where to start.”

“If you’re free, let’s walk over to my office now.” Nothing in his office had changed since my first visit. He said, “Mario,

tell me a little about yourself.” I explained to him how I happened to be in a freshman class even

though I was a year or two older than the other students. I told him about Lydia, my girlfriend’s mother, how she sort of forced me into doing something. I told him about Roberto being arrested then dying later like he did. That, I told him, was my reason for choosing the topic of police brutality.

“You’ve chosen a highly-charged topic. However, no matter what your

topic, the next step is research. I’ll give you a note for our librarian, Mrs. Sommers. She’ll get you started by teaching you how to use a library.”

I thanked him and went with his note in search of Mrs. Sommers. She

was busy, so I waited. When she got to me, she asked, “What can I do for you?”

I said, “My name is Mario. I have a note from Dr. Owens.” No way

would I call him Dead-Eye to the librarian. She read the note and went to her file cabinet. She pulled out a

handful of papers and stapled them together. “Follow the instructions on each page and come back when you’re finished,” she said.

“The papers are like a scavenger hunt.” She explained that a scavenger

hunt was a game played many years ago. Groups of people went out into their neighborhood with a list of things to see which group would be the first to find all the items. Mrs. Sommers’ list took me to all parts of the library. Fiction and non-fiction are divided, and the ISBN system labels all library materials. After I got some idea of where books were on the shelf, Mrs. Sommers showed me how to find information using a computer and, by using key words, how to do research on the Internet.

She typed in “Police Brutality” for me. A long list popped up. Could

there possibly be that many people and places worried about police brutality? The first five were enough for me.

The first item was something called the ACLU. That stood for the

American Civil Liberties Union, which turned out to be a large organization. They said their job was defending civil liberties. Looking at a few of the cases they were working on, I knew I had a good hit. Police brutality in a town in Texas was the first item on their website with some statistics about it. Their site even had support for civil liberties for policemen. I wondered, Am I seeing things? Do cops need defending?

Sergeant Walker treated me with respect, but he’s a desk cop. He gave

me the impression that he would try to do something about the cops who beat up Roberto, but nothing’s happened. If it had, maybe the rent-a-copy wouldn’t be doggin’ me. Maybe it’s just the cops on a beat. I’m not sure.

A week later, when the professor had looked over our papers, he

brought them back to class and stacked them on his desk. He read parts of the paper on top, about local politics and the issue of zoning. “The paper is organized as I asked, topic, supporting statement, opposing viewpoints and replies to those points. Some of our local politicians appear to be genuinely struggling with zoning issues. The paper points out that builders and realtors are a strong factor because they donate so much money to local campaigns. This paper is well done.”

“Mario’s paper,” the professor began slowly. “Mario’s done a good job on

a sensitive topic. He discussed the pro’s and con’s. He’s made an effort to put subject of police brutality into 8-pages and states the obvious, that the topic could take books to cover.”

When I left for my next class, the rent-a-cop was nowhere in sight. It

was time I had it out with him this bedbug. He’s got to get off my back.

Emergency, Chapter 7 Again! The rent-a-cop followed me from the bus stop to my first class. Going inside, I met Bill Thornberg. We were both in Dead-Eye’s English class. Bill seemed cool, and he knew the answers to a lot of things. I stopped him in the hall. “Bill, you got a minute after class? I have something I need to talk over with someone.” Bill said, “Okay. I have an hour before my next class. Let’s go to the Student Center.” After Dead-Eye dismissed us, we got sodas at the Student Center and went outside to a table on the patio. It wasn’t in the shade yet, but the morning was still fresh and breezy.

“So, what’s going on?” Bill asked. “I feel a little silly even asking the question. For several nights, I’ve lost sleep over this guy who follows me every morning. I can’t decide what to do. Here’s the deal. Every morning, when I get off the bus, the rent-a-cop’s there. He follows me up to the English building then goes on past me to the steps of the Admin building. After looking back, he goes inside. He doesn’t try to hide what he’s doing. He just keeps on doggin’ me, every morning. My gut says, ‘Face the guy, even if you get in trouble.’ After Dead-Eye’s lesson on stereotyping, a tiny voice tells me that I might not have all the information I need.” Bill said, “I’d say report the guy, but no one likes a rat. What makes you think you’re the one he’s following? Could it be someone else?” I told Bill about Roberto and the cops who put him in the hospital. I thought they were responsible for his death. This rent-a-cop may be working with those two. They’d get at me if they could.” “Perhaps you’re a little paranoid. Maybe the guy has no connection to the police you had a problem with.” “Then, why’s he following me? That’s what I can’t figure out. Is he hoping to catch me doing something? Trying to get me kicked out or something?” “I doubt it. Why don’t you meet him? See what he has to say, then see what happens. I’ll wait for you at the bus stop in the morning. I’ve got your back.” I thought all night about what to say and when to say it. I was mad, and getting madder all the time. If I lost control, I might do something I’d regret. In my brain I knew I should control myself, but my brain wasn’t in charge of me at times. The next morning Bill was on the bench at the bus stop. And there he was. For the first time, he looked me in the eye. I stared back until he looked away, then I started toward the English building. He stayed a few paces behind me, and Bill came a few paces behind him. I walked past the English building to the steps of the Admin building where he went every day. Standing one step above him, I turned to block his path. He frowned up into the sun. I threw my chest out in my rooster stance and demanded,

“Why are you following me every day from the bus stop to class? Do you have a problem?” “First of all, get out of my face. And no, I don’t have a problem. Maybe you’re the one with the problem.” “Why do you follow me every day from the bus stop to class?” “I’m not following you. Who do you think you are? I’m a campus cop. That’s my beat. I walk the same path every day.” “You’re not following me?” I had to think a few seconds. “You think I’m following you? For what?” He held up a leather case. “See this machine strapped to my shoulder?” “A camera, right?” He took a step up to my eye level and squinted like he might be mad. “No. It’s not a camera. The school is old. They still use the old method of providing security. This is a clock with a key. I go from one station to the next and key in each station, so the school knows every area is secure. I key in the bus stop just before the bus gets there. The next station is just inside the Admin building. That’s the end of my shift. I shed the uniform and go to class—just like you.” “You’re a student? And you walk a beat?” I slapped my palm on my forehead. How could I have been so wrong? I had been caught with my pants down, stereotype-wise! “My bad! I owe you an apology. I’ve been worrying since the first day of class about you following me. I thought you were some kind of stalker.” “Well, sometime I feel like a zombie at 8:00 in the morning. I walk the campus for 8 hours starting at midnight, three days a week. I’m going around in circles from one station to the next all night. It’s paying my tuition.” “Sorry, man. I guess I had it all wrong.” I needed to do something. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I held out my hand. “I’m Mario.” “Mario. I’m Greg.” “I owe you, Greg.” He showed no sign of being mad. “Can I buy the coffee in the Student Center?”

“Free coffee? Sure.” Bill and I walked with Greg to the Student Center. Turned out, he was majoring in criminology, earning money, and getting a little extra credit in one of his courses. Two days later in Dead-Eye’s office, I spilled it. “I’m guilty, as charged. Guilty of stereotyping. It was the uniform that got me.” I shrugged. I told him about thinking I was being watched, how Bill had helped me, and about facing Greg on the steps of the Admin building. Dead-Eye put on a big smile and said, “Okay, Mario. So, he wasn’t the bad guy you thought he was. Did you learn anything?” “If you have a problem and you don’t face it, it’s like walking around with a stone in your shoe. It gets worse every day. I worried a long time—for nothing. I had it all wrong. He’s just trying to pay his bills, just like I am. He doesn’t know the cops—officers—that have it in for me. The only weapon he’s got is pepper spray, and he has to file a bundle of paperwork if he ever uses it. Greg’s cool.” After class, I stopped by the john before catching the bus to the car wash. Two guys from my English class followed me in. One of them blocked the entrance. Was he trying to keep me in, or keep other people out? I couldn’t tell at first. The other one came and stood next to where I was washing my hands. His eyes squinted like he was having a hard time focusing. Was he grinning, or was he high on something? “Mario, right?” “Right. Mario. You’re Archie.” “Right. You’re cool, aren’t you, Homie?” “I’m cool. What’s on your mind?” “Me and my friend wondered if you know where we could score some weed, or something better. We lost our connection.” “What makes you think I could locate something for you?” “Well, you’re Mexican. Mexicans have better connections than anyone else.”

I almost laughed out loud. Two white boys, stereotyping me. They hadn’t caught on to Dead-Eye’s lecture any better than I had. I thought, why not have a little fun? “Well, you’re right, but can’t help you right now. I lost my connection, too. An undercover cop busted ‘em. Two of ‘em are in jail. One’s been deported. Two got away. But hey, keep in touch. If I find someone who can fix me up, I’ll be in touch.” “Sure, Mario. Sorry to hear about your situation. Cops are everywhere nowadays. You can’t hardly breathe sometimes.” Was it a stereotyping virus? Why didn’t someone invent a shot for that, or a pill? I felt like I might be in need of a good shower, but that had to wait. I had bigger things on my mind—much bigger things.

Emergency, Chapter 8 We packed a picnic lunch at Veronica’s apartment. She carried the food

and I took Angel in her baby carrier three blocks to Cesar Chavez Park. Veronica spread a blanket under a big oak tree. I propped up Angel’s carrier so she could sleep in the shade while Veronica laid out our food. Angel, with her head slightly tilted, slept in her baby carrier. We could hear a Little League game on one side of the park, and closer to us, the sound of “Feliz Cumpleanos” sung to a young girl wearing a paper crown.

After we ate, I helped Veronica collect the picnic dishes and asked her

to sit down. I turned to her and said, “Veronica, my love, in our hearts we’ve been married for a long time. It’s time for us to be a family. I want to come home to you every evening, lie beside you every night, and wake up each morning looking at your face. And I want Angel’s earliest memory of me to be in the home, loving her and taking care of her.”

Her eyes got bigger when she saw me open a blue velvet-covered box. “I

love you, Veronica. The ring is real gold. The diamond is small—but real—like my love for you.”

“I love you, Mario. And I know you love me. We’ve said all along that when the time is right, we would marry . . . but can we afford it now?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said. “With the added money from Mr. Phillips and from your mother, we can make it. The biggest change is that we’d be married and living as a family.” “I can’t say, ‘This is so sudden,’ but you’ve caught me by surprise,” she said. “You don’t have to decide now, but I have an idea that might seem weird at first. How about if we get married where we met?” “Where we met?” she looked puzzled. “We met at the carwash. I had my learner’s permit. Mother let me drive. While you were writing up our ticket, I fell in love with your face, your smile, your hair. You gave me our ticket, and my wobbly legs barely made it inside to the cashier. I swore we’d come back soon, and we did.” “And I remember. How could I forget? You were a looker back then, and you still are.” “But marry at a carwash? If I thought for a thousand years, I don’t think I’d ever imagine a wedding at a car wash. Whoever heard of that? It wouldn’t seem like a real wedding, would it?” “I thought about that. Before you say yes or no, lemme draw a picture of what it might be like. The ceremony takes place in a limo that has room for eight—me, you and Angel, Lydia and your brother Jaime, mi madré, a photographer, and a priest. You and your friends decorate the inside. A cameraman will tape the ceremony. Passing through the spray and rinse machines make very little noise. The only time we hear any outside noise is a few seconds when we pass through the scrub brushes. The rest of it will be as quiet as a chapel. Our vows come out over the PA system so our friends can listen. The priest will time it so we come out of the tunnel just as we say ‘I do.’ We take a few pictures, the limo takes us to the Rec Center. We watch our video and party all day.” “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” “One more thing. If we let them know, I’m pretty sure the Sacramento BEE will cover the story. The publicity will sort of repay the Phillips for helping us out.” “What would Mother think?” Veronica hesitated. “Should we run it by her?”

“That’s okay by me, but you need to make up your mind first. If you say yes or no, that will be final. When we talk to Lydia, it’s to let her know what our plans are, to see if she’ll cooperate or if she’ll make a fuss. But it’s our wedding, our decision.” “I don’t have to think it over, Mario,” she said. “The day I marry you will be the happiest day of my life.” Later that day Mamá was glad to hear we were getting married. She was okay with a carwash wedding. Jaime, Veronica’s brother, thought it would be a blast. It was Lydia who shocked me. She’s high class, and I thought she’s likely to go off like a stick of dynamite. Instead, she said yes almost immediately. She was so glad we were finally getting married, she didn’t even hear the word carwash. I hoped she didn’t wake later and say “Wha-a-a-a-t? Carwash? Are you crazy?” You can do a lot in two weeks if you run around like a monkey on speed. I drained all the cash from my mattress bank. I borrowed heavy from my best friend David for the Rec hall. We asked for a priest, but the Church would only send an Officiant. They don’t like to do masses, especially a wedding mass, outside the church. The priest said he would gladly send an Officiant because they knew Mamá, a woman “who’s in love with the Church.” And with some publicity coming their way, the limo company gave us a cut rate, but we paid full price for a driver in uniform. The night before the wedding, Veronica’s friends and her mother decorated the limo, mostly white flowers with some green leaves. Veronica made her own dress. It was light yellow. Her veil was light yellow, too. Her best decoration was one she wore all the time—her smile. I wore a tie, and I borrowed a jacket from David, a jacket he borrowed for another wedding and never returned. The limo smelled like a perfume factory. The Officiant, carrying his book of masses, climbed in and sat in the center on one side. Me and Veronica sat in the center on the other side, facing him. The cameraman hung one camera that was fixed on me and Veronica. He sat at the other end with a hand-held camera. A small mike hung from the ceiling so the people outside could hear the ceremony. Angel was already napping like the angel she was, strapped in on a bench seat at the back end. This long, white limo drove slowly into the carwash like we were VIP’s. Our friends stood on both sides of the entrance and cheered as we passed them. While we went through the carwash, they’d walk across the parking lot to welcome us at the other end. Mr. Phillips, owner of the carwash and my

generous boss, dressed in a suit and tie, set the machines in motion. The driver made a wide circle and drove into the tunnel. As the limo straightened out, the driver put on a CD of a wedding song I heard in movies before. The cameraman turned his camera on and the driver turned the taped music down low so everyone could hear the mass. The first workers swabbed the front and back of the limo with long-handled brushes like always as it moved past. We got through the first rinse, then suds splattered over the limo from all angles till the windows looked like a snowstorm.

The Officiant was reading too fast, like he was in a sprint. At the rate he was going, we’d be saying “I do” before we were halfway through the tunnel. That would leave a long, blank gap before we reached the other end. I didn’t know how to slow him down.

When we got to the four-foot rotating scrub brushes, I expected some noise, because the brushes slap the limo to knock off dirt and bugs. The sudden whack! whack! whack! at the window was louder than I thought. The Officiant stopped reading, but the noise scared Angel. She let out a yelp and her arms flailed right and left, fighting off some invisible monster. She accidentally hit one of the buttons and the sunroof began to open.

Suddenly, we were in a sauna, like a sudden spring downpour, water splashing, and a swish, swish, swish overhead. The cameraman dived for cover at the front but kept recording.

I grabbed Angel to move her over by Veronica. I tried to find the button to close the roof while the shower over our heads was getting stronger. For a split second I thought I might push the wrong button, then I didn’t care. I pushed all the buttons as fast as I could, but couldn’t find the right one.

Veronica yelled, “Mario, do something!” The Officiant jammed his missal under his robe and blurted out, “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” I shouted to the driver, “Close the sunroof!” but he was wearing earplugs and his head appeared to be swaying to the music.

Lydia shot up like a rocket, banged her head on the ceiling, and

dropped back into her seat. Water poured off mama’s nose as her fingers counted rosary beads. Veronica’s veil clung to her face. All the women’s fancy hairdo’s looked like they were standing in a shower. Angel blubbered and shrieked.

Water kept falling as the limo inched slowly forward. Without warning, everything got quiet. The water stopped. Then the blowers began. We were instantly in a wind tunnel. The water inside the limo turned into a mist. For a second, I saw no one. Then everything was clear again.

The blowers were still going full blast when the Officiant shaded his

eyes with one hand. He yelled, “Mario, do you take Veronica?”

I screamed, “I do.” “Veronica, do you take Mario?” “Yes,” she gasped. “I do.”

The one thing that didn’t fail was the mike. The mike picked up every sound, the limo, the splashing water, the whooshing of the wind machine, Angel screaming, me yelling at the driver, and shouting our vows.

The limo pulled out of the tunnel onto the apron and parked between

two flower arrangements on tall stands. The driver got out and walked calmly around to our side of the limo and swung open the wide doors as if the Queen of England was inside. When water poured out, his mouth fell open. There we all sat, looking like dishrags. Photographers clicked away. TV cameras kept rolling as we dragged ourselves out, one by one, and stood in a line. Our soaked clothes stuck to our bodies while water puddled around our feet. Angel was still unhappy, but she had calmed down.

Our friends stared. They didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. As if on cue, it hit us all at the same time—how we must look. Smiles broke through like sunshine after a storm. We first giggled. Then everyone, including the reporters, roared. Our friends clapped and burst out in cheers.

On the ride to the Rec Center, the limo made stops like a bus, at the church to drop off the Officiant, at Mamá’s and Lydia’s for them to change, and then at Veronica’s. The party went on for hours. We laughed at the wedding video even though we knew what was coming next.

The wedding went viral on YouTube and was the first story on the evening TV news. The next day the Sacramento BEE had a large photo at the top of the front page. In the photo, our wedding get-up looked like we got caught out in a rainstorm. Angel’s mouth was wide open, her arms up in the air. The Phillps’ carwash was mentioned several times, and the limousine company got more publicity than they had asked for.

Emergency, Chapter 9

The first day of the new school year I was a man in a dream world. I had a wife who loved me, a baby who’s finished with her “terrible two’s,” even a mother-in-law. She’s not that bad. I strolled across the campus and saw lots of familiar faces. They greeted me like I was a friend. Many smiled and gave me a nod up, and a few gave fist bumps, probably from seeing the video of our wedding on YouTube. I was a number and it felt good. “We still have a couple of classes together, Mario,” said my friend Bill Thornberg. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been trying to think what ‘hands-on’ means. The catalog says, ‘Students will be involved in local politics.’” “I’ve heard about Jordan. My friends say he’s good,” Bill said. “He doesn’t teach like most college profs.”

We took our seats in a small classroom along with 27 other students in American Politics 201. Professor Jordan blew into class. “Good morning, students!” he boomed. “Ready to get your hands dirty? Politics means people. Any activity of human beings is going to be messy at times. The original meaning of politics, the actor’s mask, evolved to mean ‘human being.’ One of the major ways people organize themselves to achieve their goals, we call politics.”

He quickly got all the attendance bullshit out of the way, and I’m

thinking, Okay. Let’s rumble.

“I’m assuming you’re interested in politics. Jordan’s eyes bugged out like a guy ready to go after a juicy steak. “We’re lucky,” he said. “This is an election year. Voting begins in less than three months. Your class assignment will be to work on a campaign of your choice, so start looking around for a candidate you can support. If you’re not registered to vote, do it before our next class. There’s an office downtown where you can register, and almost any political campaign will have voter registration forms on hand.

“Your first task will be to learn something about people running in the district where you live. Find out what positions the candidate takes. Try to find one who sees the issues as you do, someone you think might actually make an effort to solve a problem or two.

“Each Monday we’ll meet to share what we’ve learned about American politics. For now, if you don’t already know what district you live in, find the number on the map posted on the wall. Partner with another student from the same district, and start your search.”

Bill sat across the aisle from me. I said, “Bill, we both live in District 4.

You wanna partner?” “Sure, Mario. Working in a real campaign, we’re bound to learn a lot.”

Professor Jordan had three tables covered with letters, bulletins, posters, and news releases he had gathered from local campaigns. The neat table quickly turned into a grab bag as students picked up one paper, read a few lines, and dropped it back on the table, then pick up another paper and do the same. “Look! Here’s someone who wants to put sex ed back in the schools. I’ve got my candidate,” one guy declared. “Here’s a state senator who wants to build more dams,” said someone. “Maybe he should talk about water conservation during our drought.” “You’ll have a couple of weeks to select your candidate,” Professor Jordan said. “At the end of two weeks, you’ll go to the candidate’s headquarters and volunteer to work in that person’s campaign. You’re required to spend at least 30 hours, about two or three hours a week, working on the campaign. Think of it as a lab.”

Bill and me--I mean, I--grabbed a handful of papers and moved two desks together in a corner.

I said, “After sitting through a lot of classes and listening to some

heavy lectures, I like the idea of getting out and finding out about politics in real life.” I tried to think about what issues were important to me. “You know my neighborhood is mostly Mexican. We have issues like immigration and treatment of farm laborers, but I don’t know anyone who’s looking for an answer in politics.” I said. “One issue that’s important to me, I don’t know how you feel about it, police brutality.” I reminded him of Berto’s death.

“Everyone’s heard about police brutality,” Bill said. “It’s in the

newspaper or on TV almost every day. I’ve never known anybody who was an actual victim. But police brutality—I doubt if any candidate who raised that issue would stand a chance of getting nominated, let alone elected. That’s a very touchy subject.” He paused. “All the candidates have positions on

immigration, like giving driver’s licenses to aliens, paying medical bills when they end up in emergency. Giving aliens free student loans. Opening the doors to citizenship for illegals. It’s a long list.”

I said, “Let’s check out the candidates for Congress. We might as well

think big.” Bill said, “Right. I think parties like the Libertarians or the

Independents are a waste of time. Professor Jordan says they know they’re going to lose, but they want to make a statement. They have a point but personally, I’d rather spend my time with someone who actually has a chance.”

Bill looked up the addresses on his smart phone. He went to the

Republican headquarters to meet their workers and get their literature. I did the same at the Democrats. We planned to meet in the library just before our next class to compare what they say about immigration.

When Dr. Jordan came to Bill and me, he asked, “Which candidate did

you choose?” I said, “The Democrat running for Congress sounds more like he wants

to help people muddle through the mess. Bill says the Republican guy is heavy on the laws and enforcement.”

“Laws are important,” Bill said, “but law enforcement alone can’t solve

social problems. You can’t just fence in the entire United States. A lot more thought should be put into the immigration problem. I’m ready to support the Democrat.”

Two girls in the class decided to support candidates for city offices. “We

think a lot can be done for people by local officials,” they said. Every student had chosen a candidate. Now, as Professor Jordan said, it was time to “get our hands dirty.”

Bill and I went to the headquarters of Tom Lincoln, a candidate for the

House of Representatives. We were told he was out campaigning. His headquarters was a very large room with tables spread throughout. A couple of small offices in the back were enclosed in glass. The tables were covered with letters, envelopes, and computers. Large posters plastered the wall, and a banner proclaimed: “REFORM NOW!”

We explained to the person who greeted us why we were there. We told

her we chose to support Lincoln, and this is our class assignment. She said,

“We can put you to work. Fill out these forms with your name, address, and phone numbers. Then sit down here. Start stuffing envelopes. These mailers have to go out to every voting household in the district.”

We raced to see who could stuff more envelopes. Sometimes I won.

Sometimes, Bill. All the workers looked busy, but organized. Sometimes a person would shout out, and someone at a table would go on the run to take care of whatever it was. I watched for a few minutes, and I thought, Like a swarm of bees.

In class on Monday it turned out that a lot of others had also spent

time stuffing envelopes. A few had done phone surveys trying to register new voters. I decided to volunteer at the Lincoln headquarters to call people in my neighborhood, and they seemed okay with that.

When the class met on the following Monday, one girl said she got a lesson about how things are done in legislatures. “We both remembered a flick on the old movie channel where the hero stood for hours on end, debating before a packed house, then winning big while the little people in the gallery rooting for him. That’s not even close to how it really happens,” one said. “Tell us more,” said Jordan. “Well, for one thing, the leader of the House knows if a bill will pass before he lets it come up for a vote. He might still bring it for a vote even if he knows it will fail. If it fails, his party members, speaking in their districts, can blame the other party for its failure. On CSPAN, we watched people talking passionately--to an empty house. I asked one of the workers why they even bothered to make the speech. She said, ‘They want it on record that they tried. Win or lose, they can take that back to their district.’” Using a word I had learned recently, I said, “Isn’t that cynical? How do they ever get a bill approved?” “That’s the interesting part,” she said. “They trade votes. One says, ‘I’ll vote for your bill if you promise to vote for my bill.’ It’s like a swap meet!” The next day, we told the people at Lincoln’s headquarters that we wanted experience in other kinds of work. They gave Bill and me a clipboard and some blank forms, and sent us into my neighborhood to register voters. We got a paper that had the exact words we needed to say, so that the registration was done right, even though only a signature, address, and party were necessary to be legal.

My nearest neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, who has known me since I was a kid, said, “Why should I sign your paper? Nobody cares what I think.” I said, “Mrs. Alvarez, nobody will ever care what you think unless you vote. Your vote, for or against a candidate, tells others what is important to you. If you want something done to help farm workers and immigrants, your vote will help make it happen. The more votes we get, the more likely something will be done.” She took my pen and said, “Mario, you’re a good boy. I don’t know about politics, but if you think it will help, I’ll sign your paper. And I’ll call the neighbors to let them know you’re coming to sign them up, too.”

When we got back to the headquarters, they seemed impressed at how many people we had registered. One of them slapped me on the back, and said to a coworker, “Hey, look at this, troops!” Waving the registration forms over her head, she shouted above the din, “Give these guys a hand!”

The following Monday I had an even bigger announcement. “My

candidate is going to be interviewed by one of the local TV stations. They asked me to sit in the bleachers behind him.

I said, ‘Sure. I’ll do that. Does it matter which seat I sit in?’ “Whoever’s in that seat will be visible over Lincoln’s shoulder. The

people you registered will see you’re there backing him. Wear your Sunday best.”

The morning Lincoln made his speech, his handlers--that’s what they

call themselves--put me in the assigned place. They said, “When people get bored with a speaker, they check out the background. If you’re looking at the candidate and responding to what he is saying, laugh if he makes a joke, or look concerned when he is serious, people notice and will take your cue.”

The next session I reported to the class, “I did what they asked me. A

lot of my neighbors said they saw me on TV. I tried to act a little bit embarrassed when they mentioned it, but I really wasn’t. I hope it gets some votes for Lincoln in my part of town.”

One girl said, “Don’t you feel bad when you are being used by that

campaign?” I said, “I did it because I wanted to do it. No one forced me.”

Bill said, “It’s not as if Mario was the first. They all do it. Every politician is always looking for an edge.”

Two students told what they learned about negative campaigning

working on the mayor’s campaign. Apparently, it works. And the candidate who delivers the first punch is usually ahead. The one under attack has to spend time fighting the charges instead of talking about issues.

“Can negative campaigning backfire?” Jordan asked our class. “If people think you’re mean, that might be a turn off,” someone

suggested. “Perhaps,” Jordan said. “Any other reasons?” “If the charge turns out to be untrue, then the person making the

charge looks bad,” Bill said. “He’s guilty of lying. But it still works. Some voters will still cast their ballot believing the lie.”

“Right,” said Jordan. “The election is nearing and we have to move on.

Your next project is to discover, as much as possible, who’s financing your candidate’s campaign. Where’s the money coming from? How many small donors, say, give less than $50, and who are the large donors?”

I asked, “Professor, what difference does it make who contributes to a

campaign?” “Good question, Mario. Class, what difference does it make?” Someone from the back answered, “I don’t know if it makes much

difference who the small donors are, but if I were running and I knew someone dropped in a huge amount of money, the donor could say, ‘You owe me.’”

“But isn’t that against the law? To vote a certain way just because of a

particular donation?” a student offered. My cynicism kicked in. “I bet there are ways around that law.” Bill said, “That would be an ethics violation. If a person got caught

doing favors for a large donor, he might get censured like Senator Wilson, taking gobs of money from the drug companies then letting them write the bill for how they are taxed and regulated—the ‘hand in the cookie jar,’—but I don’t know how that affected him.”

That made me curious about who pays for the stamps on all those letters, and for slick ads like Lincoln ran. They don’t come cheap. Mrs. Alvarez and people like her don’t put in enough to print all those posters or pay for a one-way airline ticket to Washington. But someone did. Who could it be, and why is he, or she, doing it?

After my shift at the car wash, the bus ride put me home that evening at about 7:00. Angel was asleep so I went in quietly. I heard an unfamiliar sound coming from the kitchen. There was Veronica, at our table, sobbing quietly. She must have been crying for a while, because it looked like a whole box of tissue piled in front of her. When she saw me, she sobbed even more.

Emergency, Chapter 10

“Veronica pulled out tissue after tissue, blowing her nose, then crying some more. I sat beside her and put my arm around her shoulders. She acted like I wasn’t even there. Gradually the tears became just sniffling. Her eyes were red and her makeup runny. “¿Por que tan triste, mi amor? ¿Que pasa?” I pleaded. The doorbell rang, but I ignored it. I wouldn’t leave her side. The bell rang again and again. Whoever was at the door wasn’t going away. “Let me get rid of whoever’s at the door, and we can talk.” I opened the door. There stood Lydia with fire in her eyes. “What have you done now?” she demanded. “Why is Veronica upset?” “How should I know? I just got here a few minutes ago.” Lydia barged past me. “Veronica called me. She wants to talk to her mother.” I sat on the couch in the living room, but I could hear everything that was going on. “I feel so alone. He’s gone all the time, to work, to school, on class assignments. He has no time for me and Angel. This morning I decided to surprise him. I packed a lunch and took a bus out to the college. When I walked around the corner of the science building, he was sitting at a picnic table with a girl, a pretty girl.” Veronica sobbed. “They were talking and

laughing. She put her hand on Mario’s. I couldn’t stand it. I turned around and ran back to the bus stop.” I jumped up from my seat and rushed into the kitchen. “Vero, you left too fast,” I said. “If you had stayed, you would have seen me pull my hand away. We just came from class. She was telling me a funny story about the campaign she worked on. When she laid her hand on me, I told her I was married and I love my wife.” Lydia demanded, “Couldn’t she see your wedding ring?” “The ring is cutting my finger. I have to get it sized, so, no, she didn’t see my wedding ring.” Vero said, “He’s so good looking, and he makes friends easily. I know girls will be after him.” Lydia turned on me. “What do you have to say for yourself?” “I have this to say for myself. Thank you for coming over, but now I want you to leave. If there’s a problem, it’s between me and Vero, not me and you and Vero.” “Well, she called me.” “I’m sorry. It’s still between us. I want you to leave and let us work this out. If we need your help, we’ll both call you.” “I’m not leaving unless Veronica asks me to,” she fired back. “Vero, ask your mother to leave. If there’s a problem, let’s handle it. This is our marriage. Please,” I begged. “I called Mother because you’re so busy. You never seem to have time for me any more.” “Vero, I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. I’m trying hard to succeed. If I’m not paying attention to you, my bad. I don’t want anything to come between us,” I said. Veronica said, “Mother, I’m sorry I bothered you. I was wrong. Maybe you’d better leave.”

“I hate to admit it, Veronica, but Mario is right. Problems like this are for you to sort out. If you have a problem in the future, before you call me, talk to your husband.” Lydia’s backing off. She’s taking my side! “Thank you, Lydia. For your help—and for your respect.” With that, Lydia left. “Mi Corazón, I’m stressed out. I know, you have pressures, too, working full time, taking Angel back and forth to day care, taking care of the apartment. It’s true I’m enjoying being in school, learning things I never thought of. I’ve met some professors and some nice people who make me wonder what might be in my future, in our future.” “I feel you disappearing from our barrio,” she said. “You’re changing. That makes me afraid.” “I am changing. There’s a bigger world than the barrio, bigger than our town. Lydia’s Mexican. She works with all sorts of people at the IRS. I can do that. We don’t have to live in a small world. Be patient and trust me. I love you. Nothing will change that. You’re not just my Number One. You’re my only one.” We talked. Veronica said, “I have ambitions, too. I can run a call center as well as anyone I’ve ever worked for, but you have to have a degree in accounting and management. I could take night courses one or two nights a week if you watch Angel.” “You’re right. I’m stupid for not seeing it. We should both go for it. I’ll gladly watch Angel. There are lots of schools around town. Let’s start looking for the right school. I’m happy you want to move ahead, too. I love you more every day.” I hugged her and she hugged me back. I pulled my chair close and we sat, not speaking. After a moment she looked up at me and smiled. That was her signal that we have bared our souls, and now we could bare our bodies. I love making love to her. She knows how to turn me on and make me feel good all over. In the bed, we slept with her curled in my arms, like we only had one body. I whispered in her ear, “I’ll take Angel to Day Care this morning. You sleep in if you want. I’m putting my wedding ring on my pinkie, in case the question comes up again before I can have it sized.”

I packed Angel’s things and kissed Veronica goodbye. I stopped by

Mamá’s for a few minutes. She had made a cloth doll with dark hair and dark eyes for Angel. Angel took it quickly and cradled it in her arms. She made a sound. To me, it sounded like “Ba-by.” If she did, it was her first word. Her smile told Mamá how happy the doll had made her. She insisted on taking the doll with her. I figured the workers at Day Care were going to have trouble getting it out of her hands.

When I got to class, Professor Jordan told us we were going to look at

where politicians get their financing. It didn’t sound complicated. I’m thinking, Just walk up to a candidate and say, “Sir, or Ma’am, I am a poly-sci student at Sacramento State. Our class has an assignment to find out who financed your campaign. Could you tell me how many people donated less than $10,000, and the names of the people who gave more?”

“Why separate the smaller donors from the larger ones?” asked Professor Jordan. One boy said, “The public might like to know the names of the heavy hitters. People that make large donations probably expect something for their money.”

“And that’s the problem,” Professor Jordan said. “People who have the ear of the candidate can influence legislation that is favorable to them.”

“How would it favor a business?” a girl asked. “Class?” Bill liked to get into it. “A businessman can promote laws that give

him tax breaks, or let him keep wages low, or help him get agreements with customers from another country, or lots of other things.”

Professor Jordan said, “Politicians, and people who pay for their campaigns, have a lot to say about our lives. When you’re getting names of individuals and corporations, try to guess why those people and businesses donated to your candidate. Are they seeking favors? Are they looking for a tax break? Or, looking for some vote that will let them make more profit? There are all sorts of reasons. See what you come up with.” A girl asked, “How would a candidate remember all the individuals who gave money?”

One boy said, “If a person goes to a dinner where the plates go for thousands of dollars apiece, the candidate doesn’t need a list. He knows.”

The girl asked, “Why pay so much money just to have dinner with a candidate?” Bill seemed to know a lot about this. “They’re not paying for the chicken cordon bleu. They’re paying for access. They have the ear of the candidate, unlike most of us who never even see one.”

One of the girls asked, “Do businessmen like Republicans or Democrats better?”

The professor said, “You might want to research that. Some businesses

donate to both parties. That way, no matter which candidate wins, he might feel like he owes the one who put stacks of money into his campaign. So some of you who research the successful candidate should compare notes with the person who lost. See if you see any of the same names.” Since I worked on Representative Lincoln’s campaign, I decided to look into his financing. He was long gone to Washington, but he had a local office. I telephoned Celeste, one of his aides I met during the campaign. She told me that donations were not discussed much, at least not publicly. “We don’t get a lot of requests. Small donors are anonymous, but large donors have to be reported by law.” The websites she gave me still left a lot of digging to get to names. So I got my Internet shovel and, after two hours of work, I had what I wanted. I didn’t recognize any of the names of the top ten people who donated money to Lincoln. I knew where to go for information. I called, “Bill, I’ve got a list of names. Tell me who they are.” “I’ll try.” “George McClintock.” “McClintock is at the First National Bank. Not sure what his job title is, but he’s pretty high up, possibly CEO or President. Why do you ask?” “McClintock is the biggest donor to the Lincoln campaign. He really, really wanted Lincoln to be elected. Why so many thousands of dollars, do you suppose?”

“I suppose,” Bill said, “that it would be worth checking to see which committees Lincoln sits on. If he’s on the committee that regulates banking or investing, it could be money well spent for McClintock.” I read the rest of the list to Bill. He said, “It sounds like a Chamber of Commerce roster. Those are the men--and I notice they are all men--who pretty much run Sacramento. They probably have fingers in a lot of other pies, not just in Washington and Sacramento, but throughout California. They’re called power brokers for a reason. They have enough money to outlast the competition. “Do you remember during Lincoln’s campaign?” he asked, “Did Lincoln ever say anything about banking or Wall Street, or regulations, or anything that has to do with finance?” “Not that I can recall. It’s a sure bet the people in high finance take care of themselves. If we get screwed in the process, I doubt if they care that much. They look at the bottom line. If it’s in the red, they either change it or start looking for another job. Business people run their lives by numbers. They have to. If the numbers aren’t good, they’re out of a job.” Bill said, “No women are on the list. No Mexican names either. The district we live in has a lot of Latinos. Makes me think there’s no one up there looking out for the little guys. “There’s more than one way to make a point. The way I heard it, King told all the people in Montgomery, Alabama, who were forced to sit at the back of the bus, ‘Stop riding the bus.’ The poor blacks walked or got to work in other ways. It took a long time, but the buses lost so much money, the city finally caved. They begged the blacks to ride the buses and save their city budget. They told blacks they could sit anywhere they like. The blacks showed their power in numbers.” “Maybe the people in the barrios around the capitol should do something like that,” I said. “Cesar Chavez won some battles, but the war isn’t over. Big farmers found a way around the regulations. They hire a contractor, and it all falls on him. The farmers get out of the responsibility. “If we stopped picking the fruits and vegetables, that might make the big farmers give better wages and better working conditions. The pickers work their butts off. When they get sick, they wait for hours in Emergency to see a doctor. Then the hospital puts the worker back on the street as fast as they can. Do you think there’s anything we can do that might help?”