Redemption's Warrior (22 page)

He cries for Juanita. Tears soak into his
serape
. Snot flows from his nose, rivers of mucus and tears, he mops up with his shirt. Taking a shaking breath, he’s empty, hollowed out with crying. He leans his head against the limestone wall and closes his eyes. Asleep Christopher jerks upright when search lights blaze across the desert and an amplified voice calls out “Alto!”

High pitched screams pierce the night. Children shriek for their mothers. Single men split off from the group and run. Border patrol compresses the several groups into one and herds them into their jeeps and trailers.

Christopher watches his
compadres
rounded up. Eventually the search lights turn off. Car doors slam. Synchronized head lights of the vehicles drive off together. He thinks
if I’m captured by the Border Patrol without identification I could be returned to Mexico and
Islas Tres Marias
.

It’s a bitter realization. He is across the border on United States soil but without identification he could still be returned to
La Luna
. He backs further into the cavern. The night has become cold and the ground hard. In the distance he hears the soft yelp of coyotes. Why didn’t he think to bring bottled water? He remembers the last time he became dehydrated. Initiated; Redemption’s Warrior, the Divine Transmuting Flame. Huddled behind some boulders he drops into an uneasy, wakeful sleep.

Dawn falls across the open desert and Christopher sits at the opening waiting for enough light to walk down the desert outcropping. Diffuse gold and pale desert greens mingle.  Christopher rubs his face. Looking again across the desert he shouts, “I’m Home!” The stiffness of sleeping on rock falls away. Excitement energizes his muscles.

But he’s had no food or water in twenty hours.
Why didn’t I prepare
?

He sets out slipping down the hill. At the bottom of the incline he heads north. North to home and family in Los Angeles,
I’m home
.

In the saddle between two hills, a tamped down section of dirt is littered with cigarette butts, candy wrappers and aluminum foil along with tamale corn husks. He is on the trail of previous illegal immigrants. Litter marks the trail. He thinks
it’s not the rock carrions of the boy scouts marking the trail. Casual littering: A dark side of illegal immigration.

The outskirts of San Diego glitter in the fading dawn. Excitement bunches his muscles and he breaks into a jog. Freedom the elixir quickens his pace. Arriving at a freshly bulldozed firebreak he follows the path. Surrounding vegetation has been recently burned in a wild fire. The sound of a helicopter overhead reverberates in the ground beneath his feet. Literally out of the blue sky a “Whomp, whomp” announces the helicopter descending upon him.

Should I hide? Should I wave my arms
?  He dives for the ground. The brush is low burned stubble. It provides no cover. Lying flat on the ground, tuffs of grass barely one foot high; dust flies, the ground quakes. In the midst of billowing earth the helicopter lands. Choking Christopher decides to stand up. He’s been spotted.

Voices carry as the flying machine is disengaged.

Momentarily confused, he realizes
they’re speaking English
. For a moment he hears the words but cannot decode their meaning. His eyes are burning. Air born dirt, debris stirred by the helicopter is sticking to him. Dismayed he realizes he’s coated in dust. To the border patrolman exiting the helicopter he looks like a brown man covered in dirt.

Two uniformed men run towards him, pistols drawn.
Guns! Do they think I’m a criminal? Wait! They think I’m an illegal alien
. Christopher’s heart pounds so loudly it rings in his ears. He struggles to find English words.
When have I forgotten how to speak English
?

Why didn’t I think to practice English
? He forms a stumbling sentence. With a placating gesture of hands he says, “I’m sorry for running.” Horrified to hear he speaks with an accent.

The officers stare him down. Legs in a wide stance, guns still pointed at him. They are ready for trouble. Clipped masculine voices,
speaking in clear English,
order him, “lay flat with your hands behind your head.”

They cuff him.

The last time he felt hand cuffs bite into his wrists his car was hijacked and he was abducted. Repeating the experience on United States soil is more than disturbing. Spitting out dirt he yells “I’m an American!”

Their silence is the only response as they drag him to his feet. In a panic he continues. “My name is Christopher Marcos. My home and family are in Los Angeles.”

Desperation fuels his words. He stumbles. “Please look me up in your records. My parents must have reported me missing.” Stress has thickened his accent. “On my birthday, I went missing on my birthday.”

The officer holding him by the plastic flexible cuffs says, “Sure brown man. My name is Mickey Mouse. My country is the Magic Kingdom.”

Both men snicker.

What a nightmare. Traveling across Mexico I was terrified to be identified “
gringo.”
Now I worry about being identified as an illegal alien
.

“Please,” he pleads, “I went missing on my eighteenth birthday.”

To the men watching him he looks and sounds like a Mexican. And he was walking a path carved out by illegals before him.

Christopher groans.
Why didn’t I think to practice English? I’ve thought day and night of my American citizenship. What an emergency. I could be sent back to
La Luna
.

Hostility radiates from the uniformed officers. One of them growls, “Hey buddy.” He gives a yank on Christopher’s cuffs. “We don’t take kindly to people impersonating our missing children.”

Hauling Christopher toward the helicopter, looking over to his partner he says, “These idiots are really getting good with their stories. Next he’ll be telling us he is a La Jolla surgeon.”

Enjoying their banter, his friend adds, “Maybe he fell off his yacht in
Cabo
and had to sneak across the border because his passport was stolen.”

The King’s Run
. Christopher chimes in, “Yes! My passport stolen! Stolen by the Tijuana police!”

“Sure buddy. We’ve heard those Mexican cops are corrupt.”

This brings a chuckle. The men begin a conversation about the drug cartel. More and more children are sent across the border, clogging the system. Border patrol busy with the children, allows opportunistic and dangerous illegals to sneak past the international line.

Christopher can only endure their frustrated witticisms as he’s dragged into the helicopter with each Border Patrol officer maintaining an iron grip on his elbows.

The pilot turns, looking over his shoulder, “Why are we wasting fuel on one illegal?”

The officer clicks into his safety harness saying, “This Mexican could be mixed up with drugs. A wise guy with a vocabulary the accent is one hundred percent Mexican.”

The second officer says, “We’ll check him out at headquarters. Maybe he’s wanted in Mexico.”

Christopher hangs his head in despair. He swallows, desperately thirsty.

On the ground officers escort Christopher into the deportation building. From there he’s led into a small examination room. A table and two chairs fill the tiny space.

A black woman in uniform tells him to sit and wait. She removes his hand cuffs.

Dehydrated he can barely form the words. He asks, “May I have a glass of water?”

“I see you speak English,” she retorts.

Beside himself with frustration and fatigue Christopher yells, “Yes, I speak English. I’m a United States citizen!”

“Ah, a smart-mouth,” looking over her shoulder as she exits, she says, “Do you still want water?”

Christopher can only nod. His outburst has used the last vestiges of his energy.

She huffs out of the room. “They don’t pay me enough to take attitude off an illegal.”

The room swims. He burns with a dry heat. His eyes burn so painfully the only relief is to close them. He is swollen with frustration locked tightly into joints and muscles. To be back in his country yet on the cusp of being ejected is more than he can bear.

More pressing is his need for food and water. The last days of waiting for
El Coyote
he barely ate. Now he could drink a gallon of water. He’s hungry too. The emptiness presses on him. He feels hollow and alone. He even feels faint, discombobulated.
How can I make them see me, Christopher, a citizen of the United States
?

After all he’s been through he’s at a loss.

The officer brings him a glass of water.  Making eye contact with her he says, “thank you.”

He is shaking. It takes two hands holding the plastic glass to bring it up to his lips. The room is spinning. The walls and floor, across the furniture, are small infinitesimal cracks. A roll of thunder and the cracks widen. Light is pouring through the fissures leaving Christopher disoriented and confused.
How many days has it been since I’ve eaten
? When Officer Goldberg enters the cubicle Christopher slumps defeated in his chair. Goldberg’s voice cracking like a whip, commands, “Sit up!” He peers into Christopher’s eyes. “Are you on drugs? Are you a mule? Show me your arms and feet.”

Goldberg straddles the chair backwards. He is a large well-muscled man in his thirties. He has a wife and daughter at home whom he loves. And he loves his country enough to protect its borders and maintain its sovereignty.

Silently Christopher offers Goldberg his inner arms. Peeling away his new but now dirty socks reveals his feet. Goldberg nods. He studies the report in front of him. Christopher has lapsed into silence. After struggling to live through and escape
La Luna
, to be back in his country, unable to reach his family, it has broken something within him.

Traumatized to find his words accented. His hopes are dim that he’ll have a better conversation with this supervisor. For the first time since his arrest in Tijuana he has given up. This quest has taken every bit of ingenuity and fight he can muster. He has no more to give,
it’s true. We all have a breaking point
.

Goldberg looks at Christopher. “My people tell me you are a wise guy. You’re even impersonating a missing person.” Squeezing the top of the chair, scowling at Christopher, he says. “How did you come by this information?”

Christopher is silent. He wants to speak over the knot lodged in his throat. He wants to tell this man his whole terrible story. He needs the voice of Christopher the American, not the voice of Christopher the
gringo
prisoner on
La Luna
He thinks
I’m not sure my parents would recognize my voice.
Hungry and dehydrated, he wonders,
can I form a coherent thought or sentence?

Goldberg continues. “What brings you to our borders?” He growls, “Are you setting up a connection?”

Taking a deep breath for one last try Christopher says, “Sir, my name is Christopher Marcos, if you’d hear my story.”

Gold berg leans his elbows onto the table. “We don’t listen to stories here
amigo
. Where we found you tells us you made a border crossing last night. If you’re a citizen why do you need to sneak into our country?”

“If you’d listen,” Christopher begs.

Goldberg stands. “I don’t have time to play your games. Davis in here now, help Bernice cuff this guy for deportation.”

Dios! After all this I’m going back to Islas Tres Marias
? The room darkens. Every ounce of strength is leaving his body. He is at one with a great void, an empty vessel. The room is fragmenting into a million pieces.

A great terror seizes him, shattering. The puzzle broken Christopher doubts he’ll be able to put the pieces of himself back together. He stumbles and Goldberg grabs his elbow. He is eye level with the officer’s chest. The blue dragonfly bounces. Vivid, florescent blue holograph highlights Goldberg’s name tag.

A flash of inspiration and Christopher comprehends the dragonfly’s message. He says, “Goldberg. Wait. Officer Goldberg, do me a
mitzvah
. Call my mother’s Rabbi at the Temple. He can identify me. Call Rabbi Foxx. The Rabbi. Wilshire Boulevard Temple.”

“
Mitzvah
?” Goldberg grabs Christopher’s elbow for the second time. With a penetrating stare he asks, “Are you Jewish?”

Christopher smiles for the first time since he kissed Juanita goodbye. “My mother is Jewish!”

Officer Goldberg rubs his chin. “Okay. Davis, hold that order for a minute.”

Christopher’s legs are wobbling. They feel like rubber. He sways drunkenly.

“Bernice,” shouts Goldberg, “bring this man some juice.”

Smiling at Christopher he says, “I’ve got a good feeling about this call.” He pulls out his phone from his back pocket.

To avoid falling Christopher sits. He lands hard on the plastic chair. The woman officer hands him a large plastic glass filled with pineapple juice. Watching Goldberg talk to directory assistance he sips slowly.

He listens as Goldberg asks for Rabbi Foxx. The connection is so clear from across the room Christopher hears the Rabbi. “Yes, I am Rabbi Foxx. Christopher? Christopher Marcos? Why yes, I know him. I officiated at his mother’s Bat Mitzvah.” Rabbi Foxx’s voice raises, filled with excitement. “Christopher disappeared on his eighteenth birthday. Do you know where he is?”

Goldberg smiles at Christopher. “Yes Sir. I’m looking right at him.”

Rabbi Foxx cries out, “Praise God. We thought he was dead!”

Officer Goldberg looks over at Christopher. “Welcome home Mr. Marcos.  The Rabbi knows you.”

R
eviews from Billy Blue and crew of the Wave make Christopher’s cheeks heat red with pleasure and embarrassment. Providing security to local businesses began as a neighborhood job when Christopher and his buddy Joe were teens. Over the years it has grown to include providing security for visiting performing artists at the Los Angeles Forum.

Shaking Billy’s hand Christopher says, “Bill I know you love American barbeque. You have some downtime. Why don’t you bus your crew out to my house for a barbeque on Sunday?