Bad to the Bone (12 page)

There had been many times when Esme had sat in the La Verdad coffeehouse in Echo Park with Jorge and his father, Roberto. As she stepped inside, she tried to think back to the very first time she'd met them. It had to be when she'd lived in Fresno. Back then, she'd come to the Echo from time to time with her parents, to visit friends or relatives who lived here. She thought she remembered coming when she was in fifth grade, and meeting Jorge and his father at a Fourth of July picnic in someone's backyard. Yes. That was it. She recalled how she and Jorge had played a funny game of Scrabble together, using both Spanish words and English words. Who had won? She couldn't recall.

This time was totally different. Back then, she hadn't known that Jorge's father was a lawyer, very active in the civil liberties community, as well as being an important figure in Los Angeles Democratic politics. He'd gone to law school at
UCLA, and then, rather than take one of the plum six-figure jobs that were dangled in front of him by law firms galore, he'd opted to go to work for the county public defender's office, representing indigents in criminal cases. Now he was part of a general practice firm of Latino lawyers who did a good deal of public interest law.

She spotted Jorge and his father immediately at a table in the back corner; they waved and she waved back. As usual, La Verdad was crowded, but not the usual neighborhood people coming in for icy homemade
horchata
. Instead, the café had turned into an informal gathering place for people to talk about the Immigration and Customs Enforcement raid. There was a TV turned to Univision on the counter. As Esme made her way back to Roberto and Jorge's table, she took in the grim faces, heard snatches of hushed conversations. So-and-so had been arrested. So-and-so was trying to find a lawyer. So-and-so had papers, but the Feds didn't believe them. Tense. So tense.

Roberto stood. He was an older version of Jorge, dressed in a rumpled gray suit and a white shirt open at the collar.
“Hija mía,”
he said affectionately, hugging Esme and calling her “daughter” in Spanish. “Come sit. There is
horchata
for you already.”

Esme slid into the chair next to Jorge. “Thanks, but I'm not thirsty. I'm too worried.”

“About your parents,” Roberto responded. “I'm worried too.”

“My father's been on the phone almost nonstop since I first told him,” Jorge relayed.

“Has it done any good?” Esme asked hopefully.

“I'm not sure yet.” Roberto rubbed his temples tiredly.

“The ICE is looking to make a name for itself, I think,” Jorge said. “That's why they're being so tough on this particular raid. Your parents were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

This was not good news, this lack of reassurance. She'd hoped Roberto would say that he'd talked to people he knew in the government, and that her parents had nothing to worry about. But now those hopes were dashed.

“Where are your parents now?” Roberto asked.

“In Alhambra with friends. They left the Goldhagens'.”

“I talked with Steven Goldhagen earlier. We're working our sources,” Roberto confided.

A waitress that Esme knew moved to their table. Her name was Maria but everyone called her Sad Eyes. Esme had gone to her quinceañera when Sad Eyes turned fifteen. Since then, her big brother had been shot in a drive-by and Sad Eyes had given birth to a little girl and dropped out of school.

“¿Qué pasa, chica?”
Sad Eyes asked. “What's up with you, Esme? Still livin' it up in Beverly Hills?”

“Bel Air,” Esme automatically corrected. “How's your girl?”

Sad Eyes grinned, and her thin face lit up. “She just turned two and got her ears pierced. She's great.” Then her face darkened again. “But my cousin Raphael got caught in that raid.”

“My parents, too,” Esme told her.

Sad Eyes just shook her head. “You want to order somethin'?”

“No, thanks. Nice to see you,” Esme said, and Sad Eyes moved off.

“Raphael was the only boy in that family who didn't
become a gangbanger,” Jorge said. “Ironic, huh?” He sipped his coffee.

“It just—it makes me so angry!” Esme exclaimed. “These are good people that got arrested. They have jobs that the gringos don't want.”

“And the rich man who owns Consolidated gets cheap labor, doesn't have to pay them any benefits,” Jorge added. “He's the one who should be penalized.”

An older man named Paco approached the table, hat in hand. He looked immeasurably sad. Esme had no idea what his last name was, but she knew him because of his popular “roach coach”—a street stall that sold homemade tacos and tortillas to the lunch crowd downtown.

“¿Don Roberto?”
Paco's voice was high-pitched and almost reverent in tone, and he used the form of address meant to convey respect, though Roberto was two or three decades younger than this wrinkled man in dungarees and a clean black shirt.

“¿Sí, Don Paco?”
Roberto's response was unfailingly polite.

“Mi hermana, mis hermanos. Todos están con el ICE.”

Esme drew her breath as Jorge frowned and Roberto nodded thoughtfully. They all listened as Paco shared his story—his sister and two of his brothers from Jalisco had been working under the table for Consolidated and had been arrested in the big raid. They were currently being held in federal custody. Paco handed Roberto a much-folded piece of notebook paper with their names printed on it.

Roberto put the paper in his briefcase, and promised to do what he could to help. Paco went on about how he would
come up with a payment plan, but Roberto insisted that Paco was not to worry about the cost. The older man thanked him profusely, and then moved away. It nearly broke Esme's heart.

“What have you done, exactly?” she asked Jorge's father. She knew from experience that feeling sad about a situation didn't help things at all. You had to harden your heart and take action.

For the next five minutes, Roberto listed everything he had done. Not just to protect Esme's parents, who hadn't been arrested, but also for eight or ten residents of the neighborhood who'd been swept up in the immigration raid. He'd negotiated with Immigration and Customs Enforcement, called the mayor's office, called a congressman with whom he was friendly, and gone down to the United States Marshals' office to meet with the detainees. But this was one of those situations where the government was playing it close to the vest.

“Your parents were lucky to get away,” Roberto told her.

“They said ICE was taking pictures. They said—”

“Shhhh!” Someone in the front of the cafè shouted for everyone to be quiet.
“¡Cállate!
The television! About the raid!”

Esme's eyes went to the TV on the counter, as did everyone else's. Univision's
telenovela
was interrupted for a special report on the events at Consolidated. Esme watched in shock as the breathless reporter standing outside the ICE head quarters downtown reported on the scope of the raid. Three hundred and twenty people had been taken into federal custody. The company had been shut down. The detainees were going to be processed quickly and deported. And then, the no-nonsense spokesman for the agency stood by the reporter and issued a chilling warning.

“We know that there were many people at Consolidated who managed to elude our first attempt to enforce the law of the land. But we know who they are, and we will find them. When we do find them, we will prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law, including immediate deportation to their nation of origin. The smartest thing they can do, to avoid any risk of injury in the course of an arrest, is to turn themselves in to law enforcement immediately.”

Esme and Jorge locked eyes as Roberto blew out a quick breath, and the café quickly erupted in frenzied conversation.

“They know who they are,” Esme repeated dully.

“Your parents said they were filming,” Jorge said. “Dad, there must be something else we can do.”

Roberto frowned. “I don't know. I think I'd better get back to my office. I have a long night ahead.”

Esme thanked him, then Roberto hugged them both and stepped toward the door, stopping to talk for at least a moment with the dozens of people who approached him for reassurance that he really couldn't give.

“Your father is a great man,” Esme told Jorge as she watched Roberto with yet another concerned member of the community. She was ashamed for all the times she had thought Jorge's parents were loco for staying in the Echo when they could move out.

Jorge reached for Esme's hand. “I know you don't want to hear this. But you heard what that jackal from Immigration just said. I think they really are going to track your parents down.”

“So do I,” Esme agreed. She felt like screaming, or throwing up, or hurting someone. But none of that would do any
good. There was one thing she
could
do, though; something that not even Jorge or his father could do. She was the only one who could do it.

She took out her cell phone.

“Who you calling?” Jorge asked.

Esme didn't answer. She knew the digits by heart. And she punched them in.

A half hour later, Esme and Jorge walked up the short gravel driveway on Allison Avenue that led to the front door of her ex-boyfriend's bungalow. Parked in the driveway was his pride and joy, a classic yellow Dodge Charger with a 357 Hemi engine that Junior had modified himself. As gasoline prices had soared, Junior was able to drive his pride and joy less and less, which Esme knew broke his heart. Not that Junior would allow that broken heart to show. He was a
veterano
, a former gang member, who had become a paramedic. He still hung out with his homies, most of whom were still bangers. They looked up to Junior, and Junior tried to convince them that there was a life beyond being a member of Los Locos, the crazies. Esme didn't think he tried hard enough. Once you were in, Junior had been fond of telling Esme, there was only one way out. That way—he always laughed here—meant you wouldn't know you were gone, because you'd be gone too. Literally.

Even now, when Junior had become a paramedic and had left the seamier side of gangbanger life behind, this little bungalow was a safe haven for his friends. The rules were strict. No drugs, no weapons, no fighting. Junior had done overtime shift after overtime shift on the ambulance to buy this place.

He didn't want to have to think about paying the mortgage from inside a jail cell.

“You okay?” Jorge asked her. “This can't be easy for you.”

“It isn't.” Esme fixed her eyes straight ahead. It wasn't easy coming back here. She and Junior had broken up at the beginning of the summer, when she'd decided to take the nanny job at the Goldhagens'. Junior had opposed it. He'd said that Esme was an Echo girl, and she'd always be an Echo girl. There was no reason for her to try to be someone she wasn't.

Then, when Esme had hooked up with Jonathan Goldhagen, Junior had been pissed. He was sure that Jonathan was using Esme and sure that it would turn out badly for her, to the point where a couple of Los Locos came to the estate and punched out the Goldhagens' son. Esme had gone ballistic over that one, and had pretty much vowed never to talk to Junior again.

Now here she was, with Jorge, about to ask for Junior's help.

The door swung open even before she clacked the rusty knocker. There he stood, wearing baggy jeans and a muscle T-shirt covered by an open black cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. On his forearm was the triple lightning bolt that Esme herself had tattooed—the mark that he was a member of Los Locos.

“Esme,” he said, making her name into a caress.

Esme went right to the point. “Junior. I gotta talk to you.”

“Hey, Junior,” Jorge added.

Junior's dark eyes penetrated Esme's soul. She felt her stomach stir as it always did. This guy was raw. Dangerous. So different from Jorge or Jonathan. Primal, in a way.

“Can we come in?” Esme asked.

“You
can come in. Not this chickenshit,” Junior declared. “Jorge, you wait out here. Or go back to the coffeehouse. Or go sit on the curb. I don't fucking care.”

Jorge shrugged; he didn't seem to mind. Esme knew that Junior didn't like him, and Jorge knew it, too.

“Fine. I'll meet you back at the coffeehouse,” Jorge told Esme.

She agreed, and he left. Junior motioned Esme in.

It was as if she had never left. Same sports on the TV, same Tecate and Dos XXX beer bottles on the table. Same pizza boxes. Same bulletproof glass in the front window.

Junior didn't even ask her to sit down once the front door was closed. He was already up to speed about her parents, because she'd told him on the phone, so he cut right to the chase. “Where are your parents now?”

“With Paco and Maria.” Paco and Maria were good friends of theirs who lived in Alhambra. Junior knew them.

“That's smart. They're not at the Goldhagens'.”

“Too dangerous, they thought.”

Junior nodded. “Nice to see that someone in the family still has some brains.”

“Don't be a dick.” Esme couldn't help herself. She didn't take shit from anyone, not even Junior.

Junior smiled dangerously. “Careful. You need my help. That's why you're here.”

He was right, so she swallowed her pride. “
Mis padres are
scared. I'm scared.”

“You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, baby girl,” Junior told her. “Word is, the Feds aren't messing around this time. They'll come after your parents.
Right now, I'd say it's time to fold 'em. You know what we gotta do?”

“I think so, yeah.”

Junior ran his fingers through his dark hair. “You gotta get them back to Mexico before ICE catches them and locks them up. I'm gonna do that for you,
esa
. Unofficially.”

“Thank you,” Esme whispered.

“Can't leave it to you, you don't know what the hell you're doing.” He folded his arms, biceps bulging through the thin black cotton of his shirt. “Me and the boys help you out because we remember who you
used
to be.”

Esme nodded, accepting the insult. “I appreciate your help more than I can ever say.”

“Yeah?” He picked a toothpick up from the table and stuck it in his mouth, letting it dangle from his lower lip. “The big question my boys are going to ask—after how you dissed them—is why should they help you at all?”