can.
The protesters are a mixed lot, mostly young with a sprinkling of the elderly. They are dressed in bright-colored clothing that makes them seem like they’re heading for a festival, but the upraised fists and shouting dispel that image. They are shouting about freedom, elections, carrying placards with typical slogans. I don’t see any indications of violence like rock throwing or attempts to overturn cars; it seems to be pretty calm compared to some protests I’ve seen. However things can go bad fast with large groups of people like this.
As the protesters approach the plaza in front of the capital building, a row of police equipped with riot gear and gas masks is waiting. Fearing for Maria, I move into the crowd of protesters, searching. I’m getting anxious for her without regard to the fact I’m now part of the mob, a target. The protesters stop short of the soldiers but continue shouting angrily. Canisters spouting smoke fly over the soldiers and into the packed protesters; a few try to throw them back, but the rest begin to scatter as the tear gas takes hold. The police line begins moving forward, clubbing those that do not flee fast enough. I’m becoming frantic; have to find her.
I spot some of Maria’s friends in a cluster and move toward them. Maria is seated on the pavement with blood running from scrapes on both knees. A policeman runs up and grabs one of her arms; my blackjack lays him out before he can do anything. I quickly pick her up. She objects; she’s worried about her friends. Not knowing their fates, I tell her they’ll be fine; my only concern is for her. My car is a good 10 blocks from the square. I move to extricate myself from the protestors and by-standers that have now begun to mix as the protesters retreat from the police line. Some of the protesters are fighting back by throwing things at the police, mostly garbage off the street but a few rocks begin bouncing off the shields. The police react by moving out in small groups to club an individual, regardless of sex, and drag them off. The violence is ratcheting up; time for me to beat a hasty retreat.
Movement is hard since I’m not the only one thinking this is not a good place to be. I look back to see a car on fire just as it’s gas tank explodes sending streams of fire in all directions; covering police and crowd with flames. I stumble a few times due to the jostling and the litter covering the ground, but don’t fall. My arms tire but Maria wraps her arms around my neck to relieve them. My heart is racing, but as to whether it is due to Maria’s warmth or the situation I can’t tell, nor don’t I have much time to dwell on the matter. I need to get her to my car and out of danger.
I finally see my car and carry her there; placing her gently into the back seat. I run up to the door of a nearly house, and, after explaining what I need, an elder woman gives me some wet rags. A steady stream of tears flows from my eyes, but I can see. Maria’s eyes are red and almost swollen shut; I carefully wipe them with the rag. The coolness helps. I lightly kiss her forehead. I then start to tenderly wipe the blood and dirt from her knees; I run the rag over her smooth, brown legs and up her thighs.
Eventually she recovers some sight, and I drive her back to her apartment; jostling my car through the crowds. I put her in bed. I’ve promised to check on her friends, but by the time I return, the plaza is mostly empty. Of people that is, since there is the dendrites of the riot litter the plaza; broken bottles, trash, placards, and the occasional pool of blood. There are still a number of small fires still burning with firemen quickly extinguishing them. Maria’s friends are either hiding or in jail; I have no way of determining which.
I don’t see Maria until work on Monday. Her eyes are back to their usual, beautiful gray. She tells me that her friends are okay, though two were beaten and almost arrested. She fears the government will crack down on dissidents; I agree. She and her friends need to keep a low profile for the time being.
It’s two weeks before we get together again at Los Lagartos Negros. Maria and I are there early. We order drinks and watch as the rest of the group trickles in over the next half hour. Pablo and Camilla enter quietly; both still have facial blotches of fading green from bruising almost healed. Jorge, the humorless, nominal leader of the group, arrives next, followed quickly by Esteban and Jovita. Jorge begins talking almost immediately about future actions by the main group with which they are affiliated. He talks freely; he doesn’t seem to be wary of my presence anymore. I’m not sure of why he’s changed, but it may have been the protest. The discussion revolves around what they, as a small group, should do next. My hotheaded rival Esteban says that there have been reports of some arrests of protesters by the security forces, even some shootings. He wants to take some type of action, even violent action. Jorge is calmer and seems to have a better grasp of the situation. Cute, normally silent Jovita says now is not the time to do anything that would draw attention. Pablo and Camilla are silent and may still be somewhat reticent due to their recent tribulations. I think about saying something, but remain reluctant to interject my opinion. I look at Maria, and she gives me a half smile. She knows what I’m thinking. The group agrees to lay low for a while until things calm down.
As we exit the bar, Esteban, Jovita, and Jorge start off down the street to our right. Pablo, Maria, and I wait for Camilla to use the restroom before heading out. By the time she joins us, the first three are a good half block ahead of us and just about out of the street lighting in front of the bar. As I watch, two men in suits walk up to the three; I see three flashes of light; hear three loud reports. Jorge drops listlessly to the ground. A black sedan drives up in a cloud of dust, and the two men jump in; the gun is thrown out of the window as the sedan drives off. Esteban picks up the gun; I see the flashes and hear the shots as he fires at the fleeing car. We run up as a group to check on Jorge. He’s laying on his back with his legs bent grotesquely back under him; his eyes partially open but not seeing. There are three bullets holes, center mass, very professional; I’d seen this during the War. A dark red stream begins to pool in the dust next to the body. The girls are all crying, kneeling next to Jorge. I tell Pablo to go back to the bar and call the police. There’s nothing to do but wait.
The police show up with their siren blaring. Their arrival is far too quick; there’s no way they could have come from more than five blocks away. Two men in light brown uniforms exit the car. As I move to talk to them, they catch sight of Esteban still holding the gun. Immediately they pull out their own weapons and tell Esteban to drop his. When he does, they advance quickly, throwing him hard to the ground and handcuffing his arms behind his back. I intervene, trying to tell them that he’s not the shooter, but they ignore me and forcefully toss Esteban into the back of the squad car. One officer turns toward me and asks “American?” I reply that I am; this visibly upsets him. He talks to the other officer, periodically pointing at me; now they both look upset. One splits off to look at Jorge’s corpse and checks for a pulse coming to the obvious conclusion he’s dead. Another car shows up containing two more policemen, who exit and beginning talking with the first two. They seem to be mainly talking about me and what my presence here means. I’m an unknown quantity. I walk up to the group and start talking to them in Spanish about what I saw; that it was two men that killed Jorge and that they drove off in a car. They stare at me like I’m an alien with multiple heads. Without saying anything to me, one of the policemen jumps into the driver’s side of the car with Esteban in the back and drives off quickly. I reiterate that Esteban was not the killer, but again the policeman just stares. I’m beginning to think they don’t care if Esteban is innocent nor do they want to talk to me. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Maria starts yelling at the police that he’s innocent and that the killers are getting away. A policeman tells her to shut up; I put my arm around her and glare at the cop; he shuts up. Camilla and Jovita are holding each other crying. Pablo just stands there, stunned like someone hit on he head. After another conversational huddle, the three officers begin taking our statements. They treat me with diffidence; good move, conside
ring how mad I am.
It’s a good three hours before the police are done. The ambulance has finally arrived to take Jorge’s body away, and I leave to take Maria to home. I do my best to reassure her that Esteban will be all right, before heading home with my own doubts about his fate.
The next day I go to the police headquarters to talk to the chief. He is a slightly overweight man of about forty, balding with a small mustache and ruddy complexion. He’s very unhappy to see me but maintains his arrogant air. I tell him that two men in suits killed Jorge. I’m calm and polite. He tells me he is aware of my statement, but he thinks I was too far away to see what happened, especially in the dark. I explain to him I saw the men clearly in the headlights of the car that picked them up; my patience is ebbing. The fact that I’m an American flusters him; he can’t treat me like a local. We talk more, but it’s obvious they’ve already found Esteban guilty of murder. He’s a corrupt cog in a corrupt machine. I resist the urge to jump across the desk and kill him; I’m outwardly calm.
Back in the street, I pick up a newspaper. On the front page, I read how Esteban killed Jorge over a woman, presumably Jovita. Now at least I understand the situation; it was a set up.
I immediately head for the US embassy. The building is an old mansion converted to an office building; a little too ostentatious for an US embassy in this poor country. I think it conveys the wrong message. I flash my passport to the uniformed guard to get through the gate. The mansion’s outside is done in French Second-Republic style with lots of short Corinthian columns on the exterior of both floors. Gilt has been lavishly applied but is wearing off in many places and watermarks mar the facade. I’m escorted in and end up waiting in a comfortable leather chair in a beautiful room that has hardwood walls. One wall is covered with a bookcase filled with old volumes, and opposite are decorative French windows leading out to a patio. Three empty chairs join mine around a round wooden table with a turquoise eagle figure inlaid on the top. Adding the paintings on the walls and gilt along the moldings, the room radiates decadence.
A well-dressed man approaches me with his hand out. He is about thirty-years old, well groomed, handsome, and confident. “Mr. Hamilton?”
“Yes,” I say, rising from my chair. We shake hands; his grip is strong, dry.
“Hello, I’m Jason T. Brooker, Undersecretary to Ambassador Galloway. Please follow me. We can talk in my office.”
“Is that an Annapolis ring?” I follow him down a hall to his office.
“Yes, I went to the US Naval Academy and did a stint in the Navy. So, what can I do for you today?” He sits down behind his desk. I take a chair directly in front. The room is similar to the waiting room with bookcase walls and expensive furnishings.
“You might have read that a young man was shot and killed last night in the Vigésimo Barrio.”
“There are a lot of killings in the barrio. I don’t usually keep track of them.”
“Well, this one I witnessed. I was there with the group when two gunmen walked up to a young man I know and shot him. The police then arrested another young man, named Esteban, who’s innocent. I made a statement to the police at the scene, and I also went to see the Chief of Police today to talk about the case.”
“I don’t see where I come into this.”
“It’s clear that they plan to railroad this boy for the murder. I want to see if there is anything you can do about it. The US has a lot of pull with this government.”
“We don’t normally interfere in local police matters.”
“This is a miscarriage of justice, and I doubt very much that you don’t interfere in local matters. I will testify in court to his innocence. Do you really want an American testifying in this case?”
“First off, I have a strong hunch you won’t be called to testify and, secondly, you may find you are no longer welcome in this country.”
“Then I guess my best recourse is to go to the opposition newspapers here and maybe in the States. I can also file a report with the Human Rights Commission.”
“That would not be a very wise thing to do. You may find your visa revoked.”
“I have a special visa through my company that would be viewed as an unfriendly act by my bosses at home. I believe they are the largest employers in this area?”
“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Mr. Hamilton. I’ll see what I can do. However, I advise you to stay clear of The Black Lizard in the future.”
I hadn’t mentioned the cantina; he knew I hadn’t. He wants me to know he knows of my presence there. No surprise there. I leave without shaking hands.
I hate not knowing what’s going on; I check with some OSS friends of mine back in the States and get the name of a contact in the area. I call him from a public telephone and tell him in very general terms what I need, information.
Maria meets me at work to bring me up to date on what was happening to Esteban and the group. Esteban is fairing badly. Maria looks worried, vulnerable; it makes my heart ache to see her like this. I am drawn even closer to her.
A week goes by and nothing; I call Jason Brooker several times, but my calls are not returned. Instead, I get a call from my boss in the States to ask what’s going on. I tell him mostly the truth about the shooting. His response is predictable: be careful and don’t embarrass the company. I figure one out of two’s not bad. I’m mad; that asshole Brooker.
The office gossip about Maria and me has begun to make its rounds, but I no longer give a shit. There’s not much management can do about it anyway, most of them have mistresses among the staff. I have lunch with Maria about a week after the shooting, so we can exchange information. I fill her in on some of the info from my contact.
I tell her, “There’s a general crack down on opposition groups all over the country. A General Juan Alberto Gomez seems to be leading the effort.”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s a bad man, muy dangerous and powerful.”
“Yours is not the only group targeted. They arrested several opposition leaders on trumped up charges. I don’t know what they plan to do with them, but they haven’t executed anyone yet. My source tells me the government is really shaky right now, and the executions could cause a general strike, but they don’t want the opposition riling up the people either. Some hard liners are calling for clandestine death squads; I think Jorge’s murder was a test of that concept.”
“I’m not sure what we should do.”
I watch her carefully; study her body language. She is scared, rightly so, but also determined, committed. “Right now you’re all in danger. There is no reason the events of Jorge’s death can’t be repeated.”
“But you also said that the government is shaky, now might be the time to push.”
“I’ve found the more scared someone or something is, the more they’re willing to do something extreme.”
“If we can stop demonstrating, we’ll lose what we’ve gained. Jorge’s death will have no meaning.” Her eyes well up with tears as she says this; it’s painful to see. I reach across the table to hold her hand, to console her. Her hand’s soft, warm.
I realize I’m not going to convince her to back off, to not put her life at risk. I’m not even sure it would be the right thing to do anyway. “You need more visibility. Let me see if I can get an international spotlight on your troubles down here. Maybe some pressure from outside will temper any response by the government.”
Next day, I call up the local opposition newspaper and give them my story about the shooting; strongly implying the government is trying to shut up dissidents. I call up a friend at the Washington Post to tell him what is happening down here and that the US is involved. I inform the Human Rights Commission of the Esteban case. They agree to take a look. I wait again; but the waiting’s not as bad this time.
It only takes two days to get a call from Jason Brooker, and he’s not happy. He wants to meet for lunch near where I work. I agree.
>
I’m already seated at the upscale restaurant when Jason arrives.
“Hi, Jason, how’s work?”
“You went to the press. I thought we had an agreement.”
“I thought so too, but, when you didn’t answer my calls, I figured you’d changed your mind.”
“I was working on it; now you’ve screwed everything up.”
I don’t believe him. “I’m sure you were doing your best, but, you were a little too slow. By the way, thanks for calling my boss.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s obvious he knows exactly what I mean. “I have to warn you, because of the mess you’ve made, I don’t know if I can still get this cleared up.”
He’s lying. “Bullshit. One call from you, and it’d be fixed. Make the call, and quit blowing smoke up my ass. I still have a few cards to play,” I lie.
“Listen, I’ll do my best, but you have to give me time.”
“Two days.”
“I’ll do my best. Listen there’s a lot a person like you can do for your country in a place like this. We’re all patriots here. There may actually be some compensation in it for you.”
“Boy, you have some huevos on you. I think I’ll pass.”
“You’ve already made a lot of people mad. Helping us could buy you some good will.”
“I don’t want any good will from your kind of people. I’ll go my own way.”
“I just want you to know you are fast becoming persona non grata here. You don’t realize the consequences of your actions. Maybe you should go home. I can’t protect you or that whore of yours anymore.”
I let the insult to Maria slide. He’s trying to make me mad, successfully I might add. My composure is calm. “I didn’t realize you were. I assume this is a threat.”
“A warning. Go home…soon.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say, as Brooker rises from the table and leaves without an acknowledgement.
Not being too naïve, his suggestion has considerable merit. But when I think of leaving Maria, it hurts sharply, deeply. I can’t or won’t leave her; I can’t imagine life without her anymore. I need to protect her. I’ve asked her if she’d come to the States with me, but she doesn’t want to leave her family and friends. I hope to eventually convince her otherwise. For now, if she stays, I stay. I try to get her to move into more secure housing with me paying the expenses, but she refuses this as well.
Esteban is released the next day. The police claim there is new evidence to