Howtown (30 page)

Peña, reaching for his wife’s hand as he rose from his seat, said, “This is what life is really about, a loving family, people who stand by you no matter what, and these are the people I know I hurt the most with my alcoholism.”

He paused for effect, and got it, the cameras clicking, the crowd whispering. I watched his family. His wife’s mouth twitched but her expression did not change. The girl retreated farther back. The boy looked straight ahead. Now that he was on his feet, Peña was as relaxed as a talk show host working the crowd.

“I know that some of you in the press expected me to be making a different kind of announcement today, and I would be lying if I didn’t tell you I would rather be standing here announcing my candidacy for mayor than admitting that I’m an alcoholic. Still,” he smiled, “you roll with the punches.” The back room echoes of that remark were more authentic than what came next. “But maybe by doing this, I can help someone else. All I can say is that I have had to look at my human weakness right in the eye and realize that I have spent so much time caring about and worrying about others, that I have not worried or cared enough about myself. I now know that it’s time for me to take care of me, to accept my responsibilities and my weaknesses. But I say to others who are as pained and hurt as myself,” and here he draped an arm over his son’s shoulders while gripping his wife’s hand, “I say to you, ‘Join me brothers and sisters. We can make it. We will make it. It’s going to be a lonely journey, but I stand and God stands with me.’”

He released his children and his wife. “As you know, I have been at an alcohol rehabilitation center, and I believe that I have been cured of this disease of alcoholism. I have begun to heal my body and my soul.”

Looking at the camera rather than her husband, his wife said, “Gus, for you to admit you have this problem and to deal with it has truly lifted a burden from our souls.” She gestured vaguely toward the children. “I thank God you have had the strength to realize that you are truly in God’s hands. I know for our family this is just a beginning and we, Tino, Angela, and me, we will be with you every step of the way.”

“God bless you, Graciela,” he said, choking back tears. To my astonishment, people around me were also crying.

The presiding senator hammered the table with her gavel and said, “The committee stands in recess for fifteen minutes.”

The media descended on the Peñas, who were soon obscured by flashing cameras and shouted questions. An old gray-haired woman sitting near me cast a skeptical eye on the scene and muttered to no one in particular, in Spanish, “The man has no shame.”

The cameras were gone when the hearing was called back to order, as was Peña’s family, and the proceeding reverted to its original purpose. Peña had resumed his seat and watched a parade of witnesses through half-glasses, showing increasingly less interest as the morning wore on. He passed a note to his neighbor, smiling like a schoolboy, and lit a cigarette, oblivious of the no-smoking sign posted on the wall just a few feet behind him. This face, that of the bored legislator who knew where the real deals were made, seemed more authentic than the teary penitent.

Still, the speech had served its purpose. The old woman who’d pronounced him shameless was definitely in the minority. His East LA constituents had lined up to shake his hand, delaying the resumption of business for nearly an hour.

As I sat and watched him, I wondered whether he would have met with such unquestioning forgiveness had he been a white politician. Minority politicians liked to complain about being held to higher standards than their white counterparts by the press, but within their communities, even the most outrageous behavior was often pardoned. I understood the reasons for this: mistrust of the media by people who were usually neglected by it and a hunger for leaders among groups who had for so long been without them. Still, when I analyzed what Peña had actually said in his defense, it amounted to a self-serving statement about the burdens of high office. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that he had taken another man’s life, much less expressed any remorse for it. His grief seemed directed at the setback to his career. I could have forgiven him for his human frailty but not his arrogance. By the time I heard my name called to testify I was incensed.

“Senators, ladies and gentlemen,” I began, “I don’t think anyone disagrees that there is a growing problem with gang violence in the poorest neighborhoods of the city. This bill, however, will not solve that problem. It will make it worse. This bill is a blank check for the police to come in and round up young men and women because of how they dress, or who they choose as their friends, or simply because the police don’t like their looks.”

“Excuse me,” Peña cut in. “You are a criminal defense lawyer, aren’t you, Mr. Rios.”

“That’s right, Senator.”

“And isn’t it true that you have defended gang members in the past?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He lurched forward, startled by my asperity. “Well, Mr. Rios, I don’t think anyone’s surprised about what side you’re taking.”

“I defend criminals, Senator, but I’m not one myself. Can you make the same statement?”

Everything got very quiet. Peña nodded slowly, as if he’d taken my measure, but I could see he was struggling for a response that wouldn’t make him appear completely hypocritical.

“I guess I’m going to have to get used to that kind of smear,” he said.

“You have a homicide charge hanging over your head, Senator. That’s not a smear, it’s a statement of fact.”

“My personal problems don’t have anything to do with this hearing,” he replied.

“Nor does the fact that I’m a defense lawyer,” I snapped back. “So if you’ll stop imputing my character, I won’t discuss yours.”

With a dismissive shrug, he leaned back into his chair and focused his attention on the ceiling. I finished my statement and left the podium, catching sight of Tomas Ochoa who winked approval. Ignoring him, I headed for the door. I heard someone at my back running toward me. I stopped and turned. It was Peña’s aide. Breathlessly he said, “Senator Peña would like to talk to you for a minute.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, but he’s waiting.”

Curious, I followed the aide back up the aisle and through a door that led to a small anteroom behind the chamber. Peña was slouching against the wall, smoking. When he saw me, he dropped the cigarette, crushed it, and extended his hand with a broad grin.

“Henry,” he said. “It’s nice to see you again.” My expression must have been as blank as my mind at that moment because he added helpfully, “Last year at the MALDEF dinner. You were with Inez Montoya.”

“Of course,” I said, remembering that he had been glad-handing at Councilwoman Montoya’s table.

He wagged a genial finger at me. “You were pretty tough on me out there.”

“You deserved it,” I replied.

He clamped his hand on my shoulder, massaging it with thick fingers. “It’s all a show, Rios. Nothing personal.”

“Under the circumstances, Senator, that’s a remarkably cynical thing for you to say.”

He dug his fingers deeper into my shoulder. “Henry, truce, OK?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Listen, we’ll let the courts decide whether my bill is constitutional. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“No?”

He dropped his hand from my shoulder, lit another cigarette, and with a curt nod dismissed his aide. “I fucked up good in Sacramento, Rios. I killed a man, and I hurt a lot of other people.” His long face took on a distant, pained expression. “I’m still hurting a lot of people. I read that piece about you in the
Times,
he continued. “You’ve been where I am.”

He referred to a profile that had appeared in the paper a few months earlier which appeared under the caption “Gay crusader fights for the underdog.” The reporter had been thorough in his research, even prevailing upon my sister to describe our bleak childhood, not to mention my own stays at alcohol rehabs over the years, and the fact that my lover was HIV-positive. He seemed to regard these matters as evidence of my saintliness. Reading his piece had made me want to change my name and move to another state.

I said, “The reporter was looking for a hero.”

“I’m looking for a friend,” Peña said. “Someone who knows what it feels like to fail a lot of people who look up to him.”

“I know what it feels like to fail myself,” I replied.

“Yeah, well,” he exhaled a plume of smoke, “that’s the most humiliating part, isn’t it? I made myself into somebody from nothing, Rios, just like you. Sure, I made mistakes along the way, but there wasn’t anyone to tell me how to do it right. But I got most of it right, anyway,” he said, tapping his chest. “Only this thing that happened up there, I don’t understand it.”

“What don’t you understand, Gus?”

“How I got so out of control. I mean, the one thing I know about is control.”

“Control’s an illusion, Gus,” I said. “Being born is like being tossed from a cliff. Grabbing on to the rocks that are falling around you doesn’t keep you from falling. You just fall faster.”

He smiled bleakly. “What’s the difference if you still hit the ground?”

“You can always learn to fly.”

He put his cigarette out on the marble wall behind us. “Is that what you do?”

“I’m still letting go of the rocks myself.”

“You’re a good man, Rios. Can I give you a call sometime?”

“Of course.” I gave him a business card, pausing to write my home number on it.

He examined the card, slipped it into his wallet, and patted me on the back. “Say a prayer for me.”

I watched him slip back into the council chamber, ashamed of the way I had taken him on during the hearing, but not entirely convinced that I hadn’t just been brilliantly manipulated.

I
T WAS NEARLY NOON
when I left City Hall. I found a phone, checked in with my secretary, Emma Austen, and returned calls. When I finished, I still had an hour before a court appearance at the Criminal Courts Building, just across the street from City Hall, so I called home to invite Josh to come and eat lunch with me. All I got was his voice on our answering machine, urging me to leave a message. I hung up.

There had been a time when the course of his day was as familiar to me as mine. Now, I stood there for a moment, wondering where he might be. It was spring break at UCLA, so I knew he wasn’t in class, but beyond that, I could only guess. I began walking to a sandwich shop in the Civic Center mall. It was warm and smoggy. The only sign of spring was the flowering jacarandas, bleeding purple blossoms onto the grimy sidewalks.

On the way to the sandwich shop, I passed a bookstore. Displayed in the windows was a book entitled
Vows: How to Make Your Marriage Work.
I stopped and read the book jacket, which promised new solutions to old marital problems. What about when one of you has a terminal disease and the other doesn’t? Each time Josh’s T-cell count dropped, I felt him drift further away from me, into his circle of Act Up friends, and his seropositive support group. Josh had become an AIDS guerrilla, impatient with my caution. Just that morning, bickering again over the wisdom of outing closeted gay politicians, he’d snapped, “Spoken like a true neggie,” as if being negative for the virus was a defect of character.

Our arguments were no longer intellectual disagreements. He had adopted an “us vs. them” mentality over AIDS, and the more anxious he felt about his own health, the more strident he became. There might have been less ferocity in our quarrels had we been able to talk about his anxiety, as we once had, but he had decided that even this, or perhaps especially this, was beyond my understanding. I reacted with my own anger at being treated like an enemy by the man with whom I’d shared the last five years of my life.

I went into the bookstore and bought the book, suffering the sales clerk’s sympathetic glance as he stuffed it into a bag. Over a limp ham sandwich I flipped through the chapters. Finding nothing relevant, I buried it in my briefcase and set off to court, the one place where I knew the rules.

I arrived in court a few minutes late. The deputy district attorney, an amiable man named Kelly Miller, who had been chatting with the clerk, said to me, “Your kid’s a no-show, Henry.”

‘My kid’ was a twenty-two-year-old gay man named Jimmy Dee, Deeds on the street, where his deeds were legion. He was a beautiful black boy with a luminous smile, undeniable charm, a four-page rap sheet for hustling and theft, and a romantic attachment to heroin. His last boyfriend, a much older man, had had him arrested for stealing from him to support his habit. After grueling negotiations, I had persuaded the boyfriend, Miller, and the judge to let Deeds plead to trespass on condition that he enter a drug rehab. The purpose of this hearing was for him to submit proof that he’d found a bed somewhere. He was being given a break, a fact that I impressed upon him at every opportunity. When I did, he would turn his klieg light smile on me and say, “I know, Mr. Rios, I know. God put you in my life.”

“He’s not that late,” I said.

“Fifteen minutes late.” Judge Patricia Ryan strode out of her chambers, arranging the bow of her blouse over her judicial robe. She was a patrician black woman with an acute street sense. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this, Henry. I should have had your client led away in manacles.”

Although she was joking, I could tell she was irate.

“The case would have fallen apart without this deal,” I said. “The boyfriend is deeply in the closet. He wouldn’t have testified.”

Miller said, “Your kid copped out, Henry. I could’ve convicted him on his statement.”

“Juries aren’t buying cop-outs from black defendants in LA these days,” I replied.

Judge Ryan said, “Save this, gentlemen. I’m going to issue an arrest warrant.”

“Wait, Judge, will you hold it one day? I’ll go out looking for him.”

She narrowed her eyes. “We’ve given him every opportunity.”

“Let’s give him one more.”

“Mr. Miller?” she asked.

Kelly shrugged, “Why not? I’m sure Henry’s not getting paid for this extra work.”