Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (4 page)

“What’s your name?” Mike asked.

“Brandi.”

“Hi, Brandi. My name’s Mike. Nice to meet
you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” She was very
polite.

“Brandi, I’m afraid you’re in grave danger—”
Shit, bad start
, he thought. “—I’m afraid the people around
you might be in danger, too.”
That wasn’t so great,
either.

Brandi, exhausted, simply nodded.

Mike worked the cuffs on her wrists and onto
the gurney. “I’m afraid you might get sick like your mom and
brother. Very sick.”

“She’s not my mom. She’s my
step
mom.”
Obvious disdain peppered her comment.

“Brandi, the medics are going to put
something over your mouth in case you get sick like your family.
Don’t be afraid. Everything is going to be A-okay.” Mike hated
lying.

“Say a prayer for me and my family,” she
whispered. “And thank you.”

“I will,” Mike said. “And you’re
welcome.”

Mike signaled to the medic, who was ready
with a makeshift gag of gauze, wrapping it around her head and
mouth.

Mike walked away. He couldn’t look back.

“I tazed that little bastard at least fifteen
times, Mike,” Derek said, frowning in disbelief as Mike approached.
“He should be dead.” The two watched as the Crime Scene Unit began
yellow-taping the area.

“I hit the mom at least ten times,” Mike
said.

Derek asked what was on both of their minds.
“So what the fuck is going on here, anyway?”

7:31 PM

Travis County Jail, Cell Block 4

Survival has a way of honing one’s skills, of
making you hard, of desensitizing you to pain, violence, even
death. Civilized nations typically do not have to deal with these
kinds of human realities. Most civilized nations unleash their
aggression and frustrations in civilized ways. They go to the gym
and lift weights, peddle elliptical machines in a civilized way to
release energy and keep fit to attract the civilized man or woman
with dollars or sex, respectively, and not with a caveman’s club.
They play or cheer for organized sports and other games in their
community that substitute for the wholesale slaughter of people;
games that prove the dominance of one city’s people over another.
In Texas, nothing comes close to the jingoistic fanaticism of high
school football. Despite its roots in tribal conquests, sport is a
healthy way of releasing aggression.

But Hector ‘Sleepy’ Arana did not have the
opportunity to participate in civilized sports. Going to the gym to
work out was an opportunity he had only in jail. And any sort of
conditioning exercise came from running from authorities or gunfire
from rivals on the steamy roads of El Salvador. This was his life
as early as the age of nine, when most American children were still
trying to coax their parents to buy them Hannah Montana dolls or
Transformer toys. There would be no playing in Hector Arana’s life.
Running day and night, getting into fights, and robbing and
thieving to survive made Hector a very tired boy. That’s why the
Mara Salvatrucha gang he eventually joined called him “Sleepy.”
Whenever he had a chance, whenever he felt safe, he would
sleep.

His crimes in El Salvador made him run to Los
Angeles. Entering as an illegal alien, his potential for a
profitable job was minimal. After killing two gang members in
defense of the L.A.-based Mara, it took little time for him to join
the ranks of some of the city’s top drug runners.

But with murders executed by his command and
by his own hands stacking up, even his ruthlessness needed to be
curtailed. Captured twice by LAPD, but released both times by lack
of evidence (and a good lawyer in the pocket of the Mara,) he was
ordered to journey to Texas, where the Mara was close to setting up
shop. Within days, he traveled to the Lone Star State, with a new
outlook and a new attitude. Having experienced the consequences of
his actions firsthand, he learned that the ruthless road had a high
price. If it wasn’t for the lawyer, he would most certainly be in
San Quentin. But he was given two chances at freedom, and he wasn’t
going to spoil it.

That was, of course, until the double cross
in the dark alley of Sixth Street. Just a learning curve, balancing
ruthless efficiency with measured risks.

So when he arrived at jail, he anticipated
the attacks from the mob of strangers restlessly imprisoned within
its walls. Survival teaches you to find weapons, to make them. And
before he was released into the general population, he was
armed.

It was two men he had never seen before and
would never see again. It was only a matter of seconds before both
were sent to the morgue by his hands and a crude but effective
shiv. To his surprise, he was not punished. Nick Lopez, Travis
County Jail security guard, had watched the attack, and was there
to help break it up—that is, restrain Sleepy after the men had
their throats ripped open and faces pounded to meat pie.

Nick vouched for him, having enough influence
within the ranks of the proper leadership as well as the inmates.
He informed the officials that Sleepy acted in self-defense.

The influence and respect of Sleepy was
quickly building within the facility. And the alliance between Nick
and Sleepy was forming swiftly as well, all in the course of a
day.

The iron bars to the prison cells clicked,
then rattled open. The inmates of Cell Block 4 stepped out, forming
a line in front of their cells. Racial tensions were high, and
though the deputies did not admit it, the meal times for inmates
had been split along racial lines. The line for dinner Sleepy was
now in was predominantly Hispanic.

The security guards led the line of Hispanics
to the mess hall where they were served food under the watchful
eyes of mirrored sunglasses worn by stout men holding riot
shotguns.

Dressed from top to bottom in an orange jump
suit, Sleepy pulled up a chair to dine on the jail’s fine
cuisine.

His long hair was tied and held up by a
hairnet, exposing his bushy moustache and pockmarked face. The
tattoos, signifying his eternal allegiance to MS-13, were covered
by the orange jump suit. Ink on his hands and neck were the only
indication of his gang membership.

He was given no special treatment for his
meal and was expected to sit among the general population. He had
already sat with them once, where the initial contact with the men
he killed occurred. The guards, however, kept a close eye on him.
Quietly, Sleepy took note of his surroundings, intuitively
connecting to the vibe of his immediate area. No one seemed to be
threatening, posing, or challenging his status. Once everyone
seemed settled, he began to eat.

Three Hispanic men out of his sight stood up
from their table and approached Sleepy’s. They sat down next to him
in spaces that immediately opened up by men who had quickly scooted
over. Sleepy held tight to his plastic spoon, quietly gauging the
men’s intentions.

“
Bienvenidos
, Sleepy,” one of them
said.

“What’s your name?” Sleepy demanded, still
curious as to their motivations.

“Tiny.” He was, in truth, tiny; five
foot-three and perhaps one hundred fifteen pounds. “And this is
Ducky, and this is Mousetrap. We’re down with you. And all my other
boys are, too.” He indicated a table two places away from theirs.
The men there nodded in acknowledgment.

“
Y este cabron Lopez
?”

Tiny knew just who he was talking about.
“
Con nosotros
.”

“
Que bueno
,” Sleepy said, holding back
his glee that Nick Lopez was, indeed, in the pocket of the gangs.
“
Que bueno
.”

“He’s even been slipping us guard schedules,
maps of this place. Everything.”

“Why the fuck is he doing that shit?”

“We don’t fuckin’ know, and don’t ask
questions.
Sabes como te digo
?”

“Si, mon.”

Before the men could continue their
conversation, a fight broke out between two inmates. One was
swinging wild at his foe who he had pushed up against the wall.
Blood was sprinkling around the fighters as one guy pummeled the
other man’s face into a bloody mess. It was a sound Sleepy had
heard many times before. Cracking skulls. It reminded him of eggs
breaking, and somehow made him hungry for an egg sandwich.

Watching the scene unfold, one could describe
it as a prison version of the start of World War I. Like the
nations that had formed defensive pacts with one another before the
start of the Great War, one inmate came to the aid of the man
getting pulverized. Another came to the other man’s aid, and
another to the other’s, and so on. Before long, the fight had
numerous participants.

Sleepy, Tiny, and his other compatriots
wisely moved away from the fracas and watched security jump in to
squelch the mini-riot. By the time the guards reached the original
combatants, the puncher had mounted his foe and had beaten the
man’s face into a bloody mush that looked like several tomatoes had
been stomped in preparation for a guacamole dip. There was no
resistance from the man on the bottom. It was clear he was
dead.

“Motherfucker bit me!” yelled the puncher as
he allowed himself to be subdued by the guards.

Distracted by the action, no one cared to
view or listen to the news report on the television screen above
the lunchroom.

“…in other news, a San Antonio woman claims
her mother rose from her

death bed at Brook Army Medical Center and
violently attacked staff members

before being subdued by law enforcement
officials. Dory Brewster has more…”

11:37 PM

Quates Liquor, William Cannon and
Congress

Suspicious Activity Call

“Watched Saw III last night when I couldn’t
sleep,” Derek said over his cell phone.

Mike was turning his cruiser into William
Cannon off of IH-35 south. After the catastrophe of their last
call, Mike had convinced Derek to take out a separate cruiser. He
hoped the alone time would give him ample opportunity to meditate
on what had happened, and also so Derek would stop getting on his
nerves, at least for a while. But it was a brave new world out
there—a world with cellular phones.

Mike sighed before replying, “Saw III, huh?
So what did you think?”

“I think I could come up with some better
devices.”

“What do you mean?” Mike asked, taking a sip
of coffee.

“Whoa. You mean you haven’t seen it?” Derek
asked. He turned into William Cannon, en route to the same location
Mike was headed.

“Not much for horror movies. Give me a
chick-flick any day.”

Derek took a bite from his Snickers bar and
talked with his mouth full. “This guy picks on people who make
really bad choices and forces them…” he took a moment to swallow
the rich nougat, peanuts, chocolate, and caramel concoction. “…He
forces them to make hard choices that costs them or other people
their lives. Anyway—”

“You notice something strange tonight?”

“What?”

“I’ve counted at least four military hummers
out-and-about,” Mike said. “I’m talking mounted guns and all,
driving up 35.”

“You heard the all-call at four o’clock,
right?”

“What all-call?”

“Dispatch called and mentioned that Homeland
Security would be

leading some relief exercises around
town.”

“I didn’t get that memo.”

“I heard it loud and clear over the
walkie-talkie.”

“Aw, shit,” Mike said. “I turned mine down
when I was talking to the mechanic at Jiffy Lube. That was around
four.”

“What were you doing at Jiffy Lube?”

Minding my own business
, Mike thought,
but instead said, “I think they fucked up the oil filter on my
truck last week. I wanted to know if they were going to charge me
to return it and fix it.”

“Why didn’t you fix it?”

“They messed it up. They need to fix it.”

“Mike, Mike, Mike. I love ya man, but you’re
a
gee-golly
naïve sort of fellow. Just because they
should
fix it doesn’t mean they can’t talk circles around
you instead.”

They pulled in at their destination, Quates
Liquor, within seconds of each other. The small, narrow alley
behind the store had a growing reputation of being a regular
hangout for drug users and dealers, and this was at least the third
time Mike and Derek had been called here.

They stepped out of their cruisers and
clicked on their flashlights. The clouds tonight were thick and
gloomy, like a heavy crocheted blanket of black and gray yarn
spread across the sky. The concentrated beams from the flashlights
danced on the pavement and walls of the liquor store like drunken
specters.

“864 to dispatch. We’ve arrived at Quates
Liquor. William Cannon and Congress. Over.”

Dispatch buzzed back. “Roger, 864. Use
caution.”

Mike and Derek turned the corner and spotted
two white males sitting on overturned trash cans. The first man
immediately raised his hands in an unconscious show of guilt and
obvious experience with police, (or having watched too many
episodes of
Cops
,) while the other jumped up and started
running.

Derek was already chasing after him. He
shouted, “Stop!”

Mike shone his flashlight beam directly at
the first suspect’s face. “Stand up, sir.” Familiar with this
routine, the man obliged with no more encouragement. Mike secured
his compliant suspect on the ground, face down on his belly, while
Derek was in the process of tackling his own suspect some twenty
yards up the alley.

Mike and his suspect waited in awkward
silence as they listened to the scuffle. Mike was reminded of a
time when he was a child and was sleeping over at his friend’s
house next door—in particular, the time when his friend broke the
cookie jar—and Mike had had to sit in his friend’s living room
while the parents gave his friend a drawn-out spanking in the
garage at the end of the hall. The yelping was certainly
similar.