C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-NINE
“I was a Border Patrol agent for five years,” Reuben Torres said as he sat at a table in the community center with his father, Stark, Hallie, Jack Kasek, Nick Medford, and several other Shady Hills residents. “I was hired right out of college.”
“It was all he ever wanted to do,” Henry said with a note of pride in his voice. “He was smart enough he could have done anything, but he wanted to do something that would help the country.”
“I thought about joining the military,” Reuben said, “but it seemed to me that we have plenty of enemies closer at hand. Right in our backyard, so to speak. Like anybody else who lives near the border, I've seen the way crime has risen in these parts over the past twenty years. Once I was in the Border Patrol, I started to understand why that's happened. There are certain elements in Washington that want us to fail. They keep the Border Patrol around for show, so they can pretend that they're doing something about the drug smuggling and the illegal immigration, but they keep cutting our budget and tying our hands so that we can't succeed. Too many good agents get fed up and quit because they're so frustrated.”
Stark nodded and said, “If I was them, I'd probably feel the same way.”
“I doubt that, John Howard,” Hallie said. “You're too blasted stubborn to quit on anything once you've made your mind up about it.”
“That describes most of the agents who are left, ma'am,” Reuben said. “Too blasted stubborn to know when they don't have a chance. So they keep on trying to make a difference.”
Henry said, “You did everything you could. None of it was your fault. It was all Washington.”
Reuben shrugged.
“Maybe so. That didn't change anything, though.”
“What happened?” Hallie asked.
“I was out with three other agents, making a sweep along a section of the border where the smuggling traffic had been particularly heavy lately. It was night, so we were using infrared to locate suspects. We came across a group of eight illegals . . . two grown men, and six boys ranging in age from ten to fourteen. All of them were carrying such heavy packs full of drugs that they were just staggering along.”
“They were using children to carry drugs?” Jack asked.
“That's right, sir.”
“Those animals!”
Reuben smiled faintly and said, “I won't disagree with you about that.” He paused, then went on, “We closed in on them and told them to halt. They scattered, of course. We took the two adult suspects into custody first, secured them, and then pursued the kids. Since we were tracking them by infrared, it didn't take long to round them up. They were all pretty scared, so I don't think they were that upset about being caught. There wasn't any trouble until we got to the last one. We pinned him up in a little wash, and he said he wanted to surrender. One of the other agents, Luiz Garcia, and I went in there to get him. The kid had put his pack on the ground. Luiz reached down to get it while I held my flashlight on the boy. That was when he reached behind his back and came out with an Uzi.”
“An Uzi?” Jack repeated. “Like, one of those machine guns?”
“That's right,” Reuben said. “He was swinging it up toward Luiz. I had my gun in my other hand. I could have shot him. Maybe I should have. But he was fourteen years old. I didn't want to kill him.”
“What did you do?” Hallie asked.
“I threw my flashlight at him. They're pretty heavy, you understand. They're made that way so you can use them as a weapon if you have to. It smacked him across the face and knocked him down. Broke his nose. Luiz took the Uzi away from him.” Reuben drew in a deep breath. “As it turned out, the gun wasn't operational. He couldn't have fired it.”
“But you didn't know that at the time,” Stark said.
“No, I didn't. I acted to save the life of a fellow agent, and I'd do it again in a second. But as soon as we brought the kids in, some lawyer who works for the cartel showed up and started yelling about how we'd beaten them and violated their civil rights. The kid I'd walloped was actually the only one who was hurt, but he had that broken nose and a couple of black eyes and looked really pathetic when he was photographed. It didn't take long for the Mexican government to lodge a formal complaint of brutality with our Justice Department.”
“And they actually prosecuted you for that?” Hallie asked in amazement.
“Not at first. My supervisors investigated the incident and issued a report clearing me of any wrongdoing. Homeland Security looked into it, too, and decided that I hadn't done anything wrong. I.C.E. said the same thing. The attorney general himself, though, decided that the complaint had merit and took it to a federal grand jury. They indicted me for assault and civil rights violations, and then a jury convicted me. I was sentenced to three years in prison.”
A stunned silence hung over the table for a long moment after Reuben stopped talking. Finally, Jack Kasek said, “That's the craziest thing I've ever heard!”
“We were devastated,” Henry said. “His mother and I didn't believe Reuben had done anything wrong. We still don't. But he went to prison anyway.”
“I served eight months before I was paroled,” Reuben said. “It was pretty bad, but I made it through. Now I'm an ex-convict, though, with a felony conviction hanging over my head. It won't be easy finding a job.”
“We'll just see about that,” Jack said. “I can make some calls.”
Reuben smiled and said, “I appreciate that, Mr. Kasek, but I don't know anything about aerospace engineering. All I know how to do is be a cop, basically.”
“Don't worry, son,” Stark told him. “Something will come along. In the meantime, I suspect you're welcome to stay here at Shady Hills as long as you want. As long as your folks go along with that.”
“We're thrilled to have him home,” Henry said. “As far as we're concerned, this is Reuben's home, too.”
Everyone around the table nodded in agreement.
“Of course,” Stark said, “if you want to take a turn at guard duty . . .”
“Yes, sir,” Reuben said with an eager smile. “I'd be glad to do that.”
Hallie said, “I still can't believe you were prosecuted and convicted.”
“Well . . . the Justice Department gave the kid immunity from the drug-smuggling charges and for crossing the border illegally. That way they could bring him in to testify against me. By the time of the trial they'd fixed his nose and his bruises had gone away, and when they brought him into the courtroom he looked like a sweet little altar boy. Then they showed these huge close-up photos of his face after that flashlight hit him, and you could just see the jury sympathizing with him. It didn't help that the gun he had wouldn't work, although there was no way in the world for us to know that at the time.”
“The government got what it wanted,” Stark said. “A sacrificial lamb to shut up the complaints from Mexico, and a case they could point to as evidence of how sensitive they are to the plight of minorities.”
“Hey, what about me?” Reuben said. “I'm a minority.”
“You sure are, son. You're an honest, hardworking citizen who was doing your best to fight the evil that's trying to take over this country. These days, that's the only minority our government just doesn't give a damn about.”
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
As Hallie had predicted, the weather on September 7 was gorgeous. At that time of year in Texas, the temperatures can still be blistering hot, soaring to more than a hundred degrees, but instead the predicted high was eighty-two, the blue sky was streaked with feathery white clouds, and there was just enough of a breeze to keep things comfortably cool.
Stark hoped the weather was a good omen and that the election would proceed without any trouble.
He knew better than to expect that, however.
The story had picked up steam in the media again as Election Day approached. The regular protesters had been there every day, although the Black Panthers hadn't shown up again. With the sheriff's deputies posted at the gate, the protesters were on their best behavior, which was still pretty danged obnoxious and annoying as far as Stark and the other residents of Shady Hills were concerned. No one liked being accused of the things they'd been accused of, even if they knew it wasn't true.
Election judges appointed by Judge Oliveros would run the actual election, which was to be held in the community center. In addition, officials of the Justice Department had shown up early that morning, before the polls opened at seven o'clock, demanding to be allowed to monitor the election as well. Jack Kasek had told them that they were welcome and to go right ahead, although the “welcome” part of that was stretching the truth.
Representatives of the media were on hand, too. Previously they hadn't been allowed inside the retirement park, since it was private property, but as Hallie had explained, holding the election in the community center meant that they couldn't enforce those limits today.
“All the registered voters inside the proposed boundaries of the town have a right to come in and vote,” she said in a meeting of the community's leaders early that morning. “So we have to let everybody else in too, although we can keep the protesters back two hundred feet. Also, we're within our rights to allow only those registered voters into the community center. Anybody else will have to stay outside. There won't be any electioneering or intimidation inside the polling place.”
“We could make sure of that if we posted a few fellows with shotguns in prominent places,” Jack suggested.
Hallie shook her head.
“That could be interpreted as intimidation, too. Sheriff Lozano has promised to have deputies on hand to make sure everything is peaceful. We'll just have to hope for the best.”
They would be using old-fashioned paper ballots, and one large metal box with a sturdy lock and a slot in the top would serve to hold them all. That box was at the end of the table where the election judges sat. When the deputies arrived, one of them planted himself behind that box to keep an eye on it and make sure no one tampered with it.
Sheriff Lozano showed up with the deputies. He came into the community center, looked around, and nodded to Stark.
“I hope everything goes well today,” Lozano said.
“Thanks, Sheriff. We do, too.”
“I've said all along that I support you folks, even when there was nothing I could do to help. I still feel that way.”
“Just make sure there's no trouble outside,” Stark told him. “Everything ought to take care of itself, one way or another.”
“I hope so.” Lozano looked at his watch. “Five minutes to seven. I guess you're about to get started.”
“That's right. Election Day's finally here.”
And so it was. At seven o'clock, the main doors of the community center were swung wide. The polls were open.
Before the first voters could come in, the thunderous beat of rap music exploded outside. Stark looked out and saw a sound truck parked down the street, beyond the two-hundred-foot limit. It was surrounded by Black Panthers, all of them wearing dark sunglasses and carrying baseball bats. More of them spread out on both sides of the street.
Jack Kasek came running up to Stark.
“Look at that!” Jack said. “People will have to walk or drive right past them to get here and vote! That can't be legal.”
Stark looked around for Sheriff Lozano but didn't see him. The lawman was already gone.
“Hallie, what do you think?” Stark asked, raising his voice above the pounding beat of the music.
“They're not actually blocking the sidewalks,” she said. “And those are baseball bats they're carrying. Technically they're not weapons. This isn't my area of expertise, John Howard, but I'd lay odds they know exactly how much they can get away with legally. They've done things like this before.”
Stark figured she was right. He thought quickly and said, “We need to get some people up to the gate. There's nothing wrong with us escorting anybody who wants to vote, is there?”
“Don't ask me. Like I said, I'm not an authority on election law.”
Stark glanced at the observers from the Justice Department and muttered, “I'd ask those folks, but somehow I don't think I'd get an unbiased answer.” He turned back to Jack Kasek. “Spread the word to the volunteer captains, Jack. We'll provide escorts for anybody who wants one.”
Jack nodded, but he sighed and said, “This is gonna be a long day.”
Stark had a feeling his friend was right about that.
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As soon as Stark had cast his own ballot, he joined the volunteers escorting voters to the polls. Many of those who lived in the retirement park could walk to the community center. They were joined by several volunteers who formed a buffer between them and the Black Panthers and the other protesters. Some of the demonstrators shouted angrily at the people coming to vote, calling them racists and fascists. The Black Panthers didn't say much, just leveled hostile glares at the voters.
“Don't worry about those folks,” Stark told his friends and neighbors as he walked alongside them, shielding them from potential harm. “They've just got a lot of poison inside them, and it has to come out some way.”
When the trouble started, it wasn't on the street but rather at the entrance to the community center. Several pickups full of men had pulled into the parking lot, and their passengers, a dozen in all, piled out of the vehicles and lined up at the doors to show their voter registration cards to the election judges posted there.
One of the judges said to the first man in line, “There seems to be something a little off about this card, sir. Do you have any other ID on you?”
“Why should I have to show you anything else?” the man demanded. He pointed at the card in the election judge's hand. “You got my card right there. That's all I'm supposed to need to vote, ain't it?”
“Yes, but it's not signed, and the printing on it is a little smeared, like it's been photocopied.”
“Well, that's just a bunch of bull! That's my card, sent to me in the mail proper-like.”
“It's the law that we can ask you to produce a photo ID if there are any doubts about your eligibility to vote,” the judge insisted. “If you can't do that, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to step aside and let someone else come in.”
Stark had walked up in time to hear most of that exchange. He stood nearby, watching intently, as the would-be voter grumbled some more but pulled a wallet from his hip pocket and produced a driver's license.
The election judge compared it to the voter's registration card and then said, “The addresses don't match. I'm sorry, sirâyou're not eligible to vote. The address on your driver's license doesn't fall within the proposed boundaries of the new town.”
“I moved!” the man insisted. “I live in Dry Wash! We all do!”
He waved a hand to indicate the men who had arrived at the community center with him.
“That's not true!” Ben LaPorte said loudly as he walked up. “I've lived in Dry Wash for fifteen years, and I don't recognize any of these fellas.”
The first man in line sneered at Ben.
“Are you sayin' that you know everybody who lives there?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I believe I do,” Ben replied in his characteristically mild voice.
“Well, you're either wrong or a damned liar, and either way I'm goin' in to cast my vote against this phony town!”
The man snatched his card and driver's license back from the election judge and started forward, obviously intending to bully his way in. His companions crowded up behind him.
Ben reached out and grabbed the man's arm. He was six inches shorter and at least forty pounds lighter than the troublemaker, but he didn't hesitate.
“No, you're not,” he said. “This is an honest election, and it's gonna stay that way.”
With a bellow of rage, the poll-crasher whirled around and swung a sledgehammer blow at Ben's head.