The Founders' Plot

JULIO ARRIVED EARLY for the immigrant rally in downtown Los Angeles with his son Roberto who, much to his father’s disapproval, chose to march with the Reconquista contingent. They’d argued vehemently the previous night, but it did no good. Roberto was passionate about the Reconquista cause. More than just a member of the group, he was one of its leaders in Los Angeles.

It was Saturday, just five days since Carlos left, and around him were 5,000-plus people gathering with American flags and posters reading: “America Is a Nation of Immigrants,” “All We Want Is a Better Life,” “DiGrasso’s Law Is Unconstitutional,” “Mexicans Vote Too, Governor.”

The march began at 10:00 a.m., and Julio was relieved to see that it was proceeding peacefully, even though counter-protesters lined the streets behind the police barricades. Their posters read: “Get Legal,” “We Like Your Burritos But Not You,” “Fix Mexico, Don’t Ruin USA.” Almost 200 police on foot, horseback, and in patrol cars accompanied the marchers, whose column stretched for blocks.

Half an hour after the march began, Julio heard shouting a few blocks ahead of him. He’d expected hecklers, so he thought nothing of it. As he trudged along, however, the shouting intensified. Initially, he stepped toward the commotion out of curiosity.

Then, the gunshot and the screams echoed across the tall buildings.

People scurried from the area. Sirens blared in the distance.

He strode faster, pushing and twisting his way through the crowd.

At the scene of the shooting, police had restored order. But he heard that a man had been arrested and an ambulance had taken another to a nearby hospital. Julio recognized a friend of Roberto’s, a Reconquista, and ran to him. “Roberto. Roberto Perez,” he said. “Where is he?”

The Reconquista lowered his head. “He was shot.”

“What! Roberto got shot? Oh, dear God.” He grabbed the man’s shoulders. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure it was Roberto?”

The Reconquista nodded.

“How bad was he hurt?”

“I don’t know. They just took him away in an ambulance a few minutes ago.”

Julio ran his fingers through his hair. He went to one of the policemen questioning witnesses. “My son Roberto was the one who was shot. How is he? Where did they take him?”

“I can’t say for sure. He was unconscious when they took him away. I’ll have you driven to the hospital,” the officer said and radioed for a squad car.

“How did it happen?” Julio asked.

The police officer shrugged. “I got here after he was shot. I don’t know.”

A middle-aged woman standing nearby stepped toward Julio. “I’m deeply sorry about your son, but the Reconquistas brought this on. They instigated it.” She pointed to Reconquista signs and banners lying in the street: “You stole this land from us” … “We’re not illegal, you are” … “We’ll take our land back.”

She told him the Reconquistas began shouting insults at hecklers. Roberto was at the front of the group, walking close to the barricades and laughing at and taunting the people behind them. Roberto raised his middle finger, she said, and shoved it at one of the counter-protesters and shouted, fuck you, Gringo son-of-a-bitch, and the fight was on. Roberto was knocked to the ground, and two men began kicking him.

“He took a gun out of his jacket, but one of the men grabbed his hand. They wrestled and the gun went off.”

The squad car arrived and took Julio to the waiting area of the emergency room. Weak and wobbly, he walked into the waiting room and approached the nurses’ station. About half of the plastic chairs in the center of the room and along the walls were occupied with people whose faces were twisted in fear. Some were crying.

Julio trembled as he asked one of the nurses at the desk about his son. She picked up the phone and called the emergency room. A minute later, she said, “Take a seat please. A doctor will be out shortly.”

“Can you tell me nothing?” Julio pleaded. “Is he alive?”

The nurse tilted her head and opened her palms. “I’m sorry, sir. I wish I could help but I can’t. The doctor will be here shortly. Please take a seat and try to be patient.”

Julio stared at her for a moment, then sat in a chair by the wall. He told himself that just because his son was shot didn’t mean he was dead. He put his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. Oh, Lord, what would this do to Carmella?

A doctor in surgical scrubs arrived shortly.

Julio stood. “My son. My son, Roberto. The one that was shot. How is he?”

The doctor bowed his head and before he said anything, Julio knew. He sat down, bent over, and sobbed.

The doctor sat next to him. “I’m very sorry,” he said, and waved a nurse over. “There was nothing we could do. He was shot in the heart, and he was dead when he got here. Are you on any kind of medications?” the doctor asked Julio as the nurse approached. “Blood pressure, cholesterol, anti-depressants. Anything like that?”

Julio said no, and the doctor turned to the nurse. “Get an Alprazolam. Two milligrams and bring some water.” He looked at Julio. “That’s a sedative. It’ll calm you down a little. I’ll write you a full prescription before you go.”

Julio looked up, tears still welling in his eyes. “Thank you. What is it I do now?”

“Just relax here for a while, then we’ll get you home. The next thing is to contact a funeral home. They’ll take it from there.”

The nurse returned with a pill and a paper cup of water. The doctor handed them to Julio. “This will help.”