by Mark Gimenez
"Not this election. Four years from now, possibly. Eight years from now, probably. Twelve years from now, absolutely. But not this year. Bode Bonner will win this year."
"We don't have twelve years or eight years or even four! We've got to win this year! We need a Latino candidate now! This election!"
"But who?"
"That's your job, Jorge. Find him. Find the candidate, and the national party will put all the money behind him that it takes to beat Bode Bonner in November. The chairman said we'll have a blank check. Texas is now a national election-because if we keep Bode Bonner out of the Governor's Mansion, we keep him out of the White House. And, Jorge, if a Latino is elected governor of Texas, you will have won what you've worked for all your life."
Jorge Gutierrez was seventy-six years old. He had served as a city council member, state legislator, and now mayor of San Antonio for the last fifteen years. He ran for governor once, but lost in the Democratic primary to an Anglo who was backed by the state party. Thirty years ago, the state party did not need Jorge Gutierrez. But they needed him now. Because Texas was now a minority-majority state. Because Hispanics accounted for forty percent of the state's population-which number increased by the day. By the birth. Seven out of every ten babies born in Texas that day would be Hispanic. In ten years, we will be the majority population in Texas, in the U.S. in twenty years. We immigrate, we procreate, and we populate-with a purpose. A plan. To take political power. Over Texas. Over America. For Hispanics.
Know this, my Anglo friends: Every year, six hundred thousand Hispanics born in the U.S. turn eighteen and become eligible to vote. Every year. Year after year. Forever.
Of course, the Democrats think Hispanics will vote always for them. That Hispanics are beholden to them since they call for citizenship to all illegal Mexicans while the Republicans call for a bus to the border. The Democrats think we will vote as instructed, as if they remain our patrons as they were back in LBJ's day. They want to make us dependent on government so that we will be dependent on the Democratic Party. But we will not be beholden to either party. To anyone. Except ourselves.
Then we will have respect.
Jorge Gutierrez was the leading Hispanic in Texas, even though few voters outside San Antonio had ever heard of him. But politicians knew him well. Because he headed the "Mexican Mafia," as he called the network of Hispanics who had infiltrated the Anglo power structure in business, law, media, academics, and politics. Hispanics who long to see Texas and the nation turn from red and blue to brown, who stood ready to use their power to promote a Hispanic candidate for governor of Texas. Jorge had once dreamed that he would be that candidate. But, alas, it was not to be. He was too old and too tired. The people needed a new face, a new voice, a new leader. Someone who inspired them. Someone handsome and charismatic, educated and smart, someone who had one foot in Mexico and one foot in Texas, someone like Jorge noticed now that the cafe had fallen silent. He had been lost in his thoughts. He glanced around. All eyes were turned up to the television. Dr. Jesse Rincon commanded their full attention. On the screen, the doctor wore a white lab coat over a black T-shirt and jeans. He stood in a shantytown surrounded by half-naked brown children. He squatted next to a little girl with a dirty face and a runny nose.
"And this beautiful little nina is Bonita. She is four years old. I delivered her right here in the colonia, as well as her two little brothers. Say hello to San Antonio, Bonita. Saludales a los ciudadanos de San Antonio, Tejas."
The girl smiled for the camera and said, " Hola, San Antonio."
The doctor flashed a bright white smile, and the screen came alive with his face. He was handsome, more handsome than any TV doctor, as the women in the cafe would attest. His black hair was thick and silky and fell onto his forehead. He was tall and lean and photogenic. The children crowded close around the doctor like sinners to Jorge sat up. He said into the phone, "Clint, I will call you back." He disconnected the call. On the TV, the doctor stood and led the reporter through the colonia. The camera captured the desperate living conditions. The doctor gestured at a patch of bare dirt, where a few barefooted boys kicked a soccer ball.
"This is our futbol field."
The ball came to the doctor; he stopped it with his foot then kicked it back to the boys as if he knew how. They continued through the shanties and to a small white structure. The doctor pointed to the blank side wall.
"This is our movie theater. We show movies on the clinic wall every other Friday night."
He walked on until the colonia became the desert. The doctor pointed to a distant shadow that stretched across the land.
"To the north is the border wall."
He now pointed in the opposite direction.
"To the south is the river. These people are caught between the border wall and the border, between America and Mexico, between the future and the past. We stand on land that America has abandoned in the drug and immigration war, a land that is neither here nor there, neither-"
"?Doctor! "
The doctor turned at the sound of a loud voice off-camera. The camera now caught a young boy and a dog running to the doctor.
"Doctor," the boy said in Spanish, "we have been searching for you! Come quickly! To the river! The nurse, she needs you!"
The doctor said not another word. He broke and ran after the boy and the dog, as if in a race for his life. The camera followed, the image bouncing up and down as the cameraman ran to keep up with the doctor, deep into the colonia, cutting between shacks and across dirt roads, ducking under clotheslines and running around water tanks, dodging pigs and goats and squawking chickens and finally arriving at the river. A crowd had gathered on a low bluff above the river. The boy pointed down.
The camera captured the scene.
Down below, a solitary woman wearing a white lab coat over a blue dress and a wide-brimmed hat sat on the riverbank. The hat blocked her face from the camera, but she seemed to be cradling something. She rocked back and forth, as if rocking a baby to sleep. Or was she sobbing? The doctor slid down the dirt bank and ran to her; he dropped to his knees. The camera zoomed in for a closer shot, and Jorge could now see that the nurse was not cradling something. She was cradling someone. A child.
A child in a bloody white dress.
The doctor took the child and placed her on the ground. He leaned over and blew into the child's mouth, then pressed on her little chest. Again and again and again. He finally stopped. He sat on the riverbank a long moment, and his head hung so low it seemed that it might fall to the dirt. Finally, he lifted his head, and then he lifted the child. He held the child in his arms. From off-camera came a child's voice in Spanish.
"She was playing beside the river, and we heard gunfire from Nuevo Laredo. And then she fell. She was only four."
Down below, the doctor stood with the child clutched in his arms. The child's arms and legs hung limp. He left the nurse behind on the bank and walked to a spot where he could step up onto the bluff; hands from the crowd helped him up. He walked toward the colonia. The camera caught his face. He was crying.
Jorge realized that everyone in the restaurant had fallen silent. And like the doctor, they were crying.
Back on the screen, the doctor in the white lab coat now stained red with blood carried the child into the colonia; the crowd and the camera followed at a respectful distance. They walked down dirt roads, past residents who stopped what they were doing and stood frozen in place, as cars on a highway when a funeral procession passed, and who then joined the procession. The doctor finally came to a little travel trailer half sunk into the ground. He stepped to the door. The crowd and the camera stayed back. The doctor knocked on the door. After a moment, a woman appeared. Her eyes found the child. She screamed. She took the child into her arms and went inside. Her wailing could still be heard. The doctor turned and wiped tears from his face then walked down the dirt road. Alone. Neither the crowd nor the camera followed this time, but the camera remained focused on Dr. Jesse Rin
con.
It was one of those moments Jorge Gutierrez would never forget. Like where he was when he first heard that President Kennedy had been assassinated. And then Martin Luther King. And Robert Kennedy. Like watching the television as Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon. Like seeing those planes fly into the twin towers on 9/11. Like witnessing a black man inaugurated president of the United States of America.
This was such a moment for Jorge Gutierrez.
Jorge wiped the tears from his own face then pulled out his cell phone and hit the call back for the state Democratic Party chairman. Clint Marshall answered on the first ring. Jorge Gutierrez's voice was solemn.
"I have found the candidate."
NINETEEN
He was the leading Republican candidate for the White House.
The last week had been a blur of interviews and cameras and cheering crowds from L.A. to D.C. And with each television appearance, his poll numbers and Twitter followers had increased exponentially. Bode Bonner had ridden the tea party wave all the way across America.
But his wife was still in Laredo.
The whirlwind media tour was over, and Bode Bonner was back in Austin-back to budget deficits and a runaway wife who knew about his mistress. She had only been gone nine days, but he found that his thoughts turned to her more each day. He wanted her back. But did he want her back because he loved her or because he needed a first lady to win the White House? He didn't know. He couldn't know. He could no longer separate his political ambition from his personal life. What he wanted from who he was. Ambition burned hot inside Bode Bonner. It always had, as a football player and as a politician. It drove him to win the next game and the next election. But with each win, he wanted more. He needed more. And now, it drove him to become president.
But a president needed a first lady.
"You call her yet?"
"Nope."
"Afraid?"
"Yep."
Jim Bob fiddled with his iPhone then said, "Your followers jumped again after the Fox News appearance yesterday morning and the 60 Minutes segment last night-six million, more than Ryan Seacrest."
"Who?"
There was a knock, and the door swung open on a stout middle-aged woman.
"Mr. Burnet, here are the latest poll results you asked for."
She walked over, handed a stack of papers to Jim Bob, and said, "Good morning, Governor." Then she left.
"Who's she?"
"Helen. My new aide. Mandy hired her."
"What happened to Jolene?"
"She quit while we were out of town."
"Why?"
Jim Bob's focus had turned to the polls. He answered with a shrug.
"Damn, Jolene was a helluva lot easier on the eyes than Helen."
Jim Bob flipped through the pages.
"You pulled ahead of Obama in the Bloomberg poll. In one week you've gone from not even being in the game to leading the game. Hell of a week."
"You were right, Professor. You said I'd be the presumptive Republican candidate for president. I am."
The Professor turned the pages but shook his head.
"No. I was wrong."
"But I'm leading the Republican pack."
"Not about that. About the wave. I said you were just riding the wave. You're not."
"I'm not?"
The Professor looked up at Bode.
"You are the wave."
Lindsay Bonner stood outside the small shanty in the least-populated part of the colonia. A young girl had darted inside when Lindsay had spotted her from down the road. As she came nearer, she heard hushed voices from inside. Pancho barked.
"?Hola! "
No response. Lindsay walked around the outside of the shanty and tried to peek inside. She heard whispers. She stepped to the front door-a piece of sheet metal pulled across an opening-and pushed the door open enough to see inside.
"No, John Ed, I don't have the speaker and lieutenant governor on board yet. We're flying down to Houston later this week, I'll talk to them then."
"Goddamnit, Governor, I need to move on my water deals, before it rains."
"Hell, yeah, you don't want to let a good drought go by without making some money."
John Ed Johnson launched into a profane narrative, so Bode held the phone out with his left hand and made the universal masturbation gesture with his right fist. Jim Bob muffled a laugh from his spot on the other side of the governor's desk. After John Ed had tired of his tirade, he hung up without saying goodbye or go to hell. Bode shook his head.
"Man expects a lot for twenty-five million."
Jesse Rincon was at his desk in the clinic when his nurse arrived in a sweat. Inez was gone. Again.
"What is wrong?"
Lindsay caught her breath. "I found eleven girls… young girls… a man kidnapped them in Guadalajara, drove them north to the border… they said he's taking them to Houston to be-"
"Sex slaves."
Jesse stood and went to the shelves. He found two large syringes.
"The cartels have branched out into human trafficking. They smuggle thousands of girls across the border, stash them in safe houses on this side until they can transport them north to the cities, where they force them to work as prostitutes. When is he coming back for them?"
"Soon."
He grabbed a vial, inserted the needle, and filled the syringe. He then took a vial of Botulinum toxin and inserted the needle. Lindsay read over his shoulder.
"Botox?"
"Vacuum dried. I am reconstituting it with sodium chloride."
He injected sodium chloride then rotated the vial. He then filled the syringe with the liquid Botox. Then he filled the second syringe. Just in case.
"Should be enough to paralyze, at least temporarily."
"You sure?"
"I hope."
The caravan arrived at East Austin Elementary. Bode and Jim Bob rode in the lead Suburban with five of the kids; Mandy and the other six kids followed in the second Suburban. Javier and Pablo were on the state jet at that moment, flying to Brownsville to be reunited with their families. Saying goodbye was harder than Bode had expected.
"Jim Bob, I told you to hire kids."
"This isn't a commercial. And I didn't set it up. Lindsay did, before she went to the border. You're giving out learning awards."
They exited the vehicle. Bode walked up the sidewalk with the kids and into the school expecting to be greeted by Ms. Rodriguez, the kindergarten teacher. Instead, they were greeted by the Austin school superintendent and the entire board of trustees, as well as the principal and teachers. Bode leaned into Jim Bob and whispered.
"What the hell's going on?"
"Beats me."
The superintendent stuck her hand out. Her nameplate read IRINA RAMIREZ, so he figured her for a Democrat. But she smiled like a Republican.
"Governor, it's an honor. Oh, how wonderful-you brought the children."
He shook her hand, but he knew that wasn't going to be enough for her. She moved in for a full-body hug.
"Governor, what you did-saving these children-I cried."
She released him, and Ms. Rodriguez wrapped her arms around Bode.
"Governor, you made us so proud." She pulled back a bit and looked up at him. "You made me proud, because you care."
The tracking polls showed that the shooting was admired almost as much by Hispanics as tea partiers because the cartels terrorized Mexicans who had relatives in America-because Bode Bonner had stood up for Mexicans when Mexican lives were on the line. Twenty-six percent of Hispanics polled said they would vote for Bode Bonner for president. A Republican. Ms. Rodriguez introduced Bode to the others in English and then to the children in Spanish. She then led them down a corridor.
"Which grade today?" Bode asked.
"All of them."
"What?"
"We've set up in the auditorium. You're addressing the entire school. Everyone wants to meet el hombre."
Two beefy guys
who looked like PE coaches yanked open the double doors that led into a vast auditorium filled with students, teachers, and cameras. The place looked like a pep rally before a football game. They walked down the center aisle, and a woman on the stage yelled into a microphone.
"?El gobernador de Tejas!?Y los ninos! "
The students stood and applauded then bolted from their seats and hugged him. Signs on the walls read BODE BONNER — MI AMIGO and MI HEROE and MI GOBERNADOR. The big kid in the Kobe Bryant jersey gave Bode a high-five. The students then greeted the kids like rock stars, mobbing them and reaching out to touch them. Josefina wore her yellow dress and stuck close to Mandy; her face said she didn't know whether to smile or scream in fright. The boys enjoyed the moment, high-fiving and slapping hands with the students. They all took the stage, and the superintendent introduced the governor of Texas-in Spanish.
"Children, we are honored to have with us today the governor of our great State of Texas-Bode Bonner!"
The students screamed his name. The superintendent handed him the microphone. He spoke English; she translated in Spanish.
"Good morning. I'm so happy to be back at your school. Since I was last here, I met some wonderful kids, and I'd like you to meet them now. I'll introduce the children and let them tell you a little something about themselves. First up is Miguel Martinez."
Bode figured each kid would say his favorite food and futbol team. He handed the microphone to Miguel then sat next to Ms. Rodriguez. She would translate for him as Miguel spoke in Spanish. After the media tour, the boy seemed right at home in front of a crowd.
"I am Miguel. I am eleven years old. I lived in San Fernando with my mother and my father. We were very poor but we had a nice life. I was happy. Each year men would come to town and hire us to go north into Texas to pick the fruit in the valley of the Rio Bravo. It was hard labor but also an exciting adventure. So when two men drove into town one day in a big truck with the cover, we thought they had come to hire us. We came outside to greet them, my father and my mother and me. One man walked up and put a gun to my father's head and shot him. Then he shot my mother. Then he pointed the gun at me and told me to get in his truck or he would shoot me, too. I got into the truck. That was my last happy day for a long time."
