This Is for the Mara Salvatrucha

by Samuel Logan

  No more time for thinking, though, as Veto and his friends circled Javier and pushed him toward a clearing in the woods, just off the access road and closer to the pond. Cars passing on the nearby highway occasionally interrupted the sound of the rain hitting tree branches and leaves on the forest floor. The brush was not thick, and the leafless trees did little to protect the gangsters and their victim from the rain and cold. Their feet pressed into the soft earth. Javier could hear the numerous feet trampling behind him breaking twigs and squishing on the forest floor. He could smell the crispness of the air, his senses on full alert.

  Brenda and Flaca watched from the car as Veto shoved the pistol in his waistband and looked at Javier, then looked at the men in his gang. It was a silent signal. Someone kicked Javier, forcing him to the ground. He immediately tried to defend himself, but kicks to his head, groin, stomach, and back forced him into a tight ball. He instinctively used his arms to protect his head. His legs were drawn up into his torso to protect his stomach and chest. All his nerves became electrified with pain as they continued to pummel him, an onslaught of fists and feet. He couldn’t feel the cold anymore, his brain seizing up, only able to focus on the overwhelming sense of pain. He fought to breathe. Brenda winced each time they kicked Javier in the head. She knew what that felt like. It would be over soon, she thought. Javier was tough. He could take it. The boys would soon grow tired of their fun and they would be off to the party.

  By the time they finished beating Javier, Veto and the others were breathing hard. Their hot breath frosted in the night air as they stood over Javier, who lay on the ground in a mixture of mud, rotten leaves, and blood. He was still conscious, and when he was able to get past the buzzing in his ears, he realized they had stopped beating him. He was able to find relief in that thought as nausea clawed at his stomach. His vision was spotty. At least they were finished and would leave him alone. It was a pause in time just wide enough to allow Javier to hope. But Veto was not finished.

  He motioned to another gangster, who helped him grab Javier and bring him to his knees. Javier swayed with little control over his broken body. He could barely hold himself up. His head fell forward as shards of glass seemed to shoot through his chest with every breath, and he wanted to fall back to the ground. But Veto’s heavy grip with one hand on his shoulder kept him from falling over. The other hand, reaching for his gun, was quick. In one swift motion, Veto pulled the pistol from his waistband, pressed the short barrel against Javier’s left temple, and pulled the trigger.

  Rain continued to hit the windshield of Javier’s car with a natural rhythm until Brenda heard the gunshot. Damp air had muffled the pistol’s bark, but it reverberated inside the car and in Brenda’s head with resounding clarity. She made a slight jump back against the seat when it went off. She took a deep breath, realizing that she felt a little sad. Most of the people Veto killed were nobodies to her, but she had liked Javier.

  Through the rain-streaked passenger window, Brenda saw Veto release Javier from his grip. His body crumpled forward onto the forest floor. No one said a word. It had all happened so quickly, the men could still hear the noise of the kicking and punching and the final bark of the pistol in their ears as they stood in the rain. Their own blood pumped furiously; it took a moment for their instincts to die down and allow the calm of the evening to sink in. All of them knew why Veto had killed Javier. He had proved who was boss by killing a stranger in cold blood. It was their way.

  Before they left, one of the boys squatted down and began to pull off Javier’s shoes. Someone else took his wallet and searched his body for valuables. They left Javier there in the mud and returned to the cars. Before he got into the driver’s seat of the Malibu, Veto wiped his prints from the door handle. He sat behind the wheel and made the sign of the cross. With a detached tone, he said, “Forgive me, Lord, for what I have done.”

  Veto’s long, thin fingers twisted on the keys in the ignition and started Javier’s car. He put the car in reverse, twisted his torso, and squinted into the headlights of the car behind them as he slowly backed down the access road. Once they were in the parking lot, Veto spun the car around with a sharp rotation of the wheel. Soon the small caravan was on its way to Dallas.

  Brenda remained silent. Flaca was almost forgotten in the backseat. No one spoke during the twenty-minute ride back to Carrollton. Veto took an exit off Interstate 35, and headed toward Walnut Hill Lane, where he pulled Javier’s car into a field near a go-cart park located near the old railroad line.

  Veto, Brenda, and Flaca stepped out of the Malibu, careful not to leave prints. After wiping off the steering wheel and the inside of the driver’s door, Veto ordered his crew to get to work on removing the Malibu’s rims. Hands still swollen from beating Javier worked to strip off the lug nuts, one tire at a time. It was slow going. The rain-soaked earth couldn’t support the weight of the car. The jack sunk into the mud before hitting solid ground. Cold, muddy hands fought to grip the slippery tire iron. Eventually the group was forced to abandon the Malibu, heedless of any consequence.

  CHAPTER 2

  Brenda Paz had only been in Texas a few months before she met Veto. Born in San Pedro Sula, Honduras, she legally immigrated to the United States when she was three. Brenda grew up in El Monte, an immigrant community off the San Bernardino highway, east of downtown Los Angeles. She was a remarkable student and a well-behaved member of her loving family, one of sixteen children fathered by the same man with a number of different women. Despite having so many children, José Paz treated Brenda as if she were his only child. She was his youngest, and he worked hard for her. As a young teenager she had a pager and a cell phone. Brenda had two rooms to herself, while most of her cousins shared a single room with at least one other sibling.

  Brenda’s dad worked long hours as a diesel engine mechanic. He specialized in huge Caterpillar tractor engines. Short and stocky with weathered dark skin and close-cropped black hair, José Paz was the quintessential hardworking immigrant. He rose before dawn and returned home after sunset seven days a week. His gnarled hands were swollen and painful. Daily use of industrial solvent to remove grease dried his hands and fingers into a latticework of small cracks that itched constantly. After an accident at work smashed José’s right foot, doctors inserted a metal rod to keep his toe straight. His whole foot hurt when it was cold, but no matter the weather José always wore the same outfit: shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. He was a simple, humble man who wanted little more than to work hard and provide for his family, especially his baby girl.

  Brenda’s mom, Rosa, didn’t work. She doted on Brenda, the only child she had with José, and picked her up from school every day, bringing her an extra umbrella when it rained. Brenda was very close to both of her parents and bathed in the affections of a close-knit family that included aunts, uncles, and cousins. During her childhood, Brenda had learned to depend upon her family’s support and love.

  In the early months of 2001, José and Rosa experienced marital problems. He worked long hours, and Rosa began a long downward spiral into the depths of a psychological disorder poorly understood by José, Brenda, and the rest of the family. It was something like schizophrenia, but no one knew for sure. Focused on supporting Rosa even as her sickness grew from a mild concern to a serious mental illness, José moved his family back to Honduras. There he purchased a house for them outside of San Pedro Sula, the country’s industrial capital.

  But José’s solution wasn’t enough. Rosa descended deeper into her mental sickness and could no longer take care of their daughter. Rosa required a daily dose of medicine to maintain a connection with reality. When she skipped her dose, she would wander through town, unsure of her surroundings or who she was. Brenda turned fifteen in Honduras. She had finished the eighth grade and needed to start high school, and José needed to get back to the United States to work. José was unable to depend on his wife. He wanted Brenda to start high school in the United States at the beginning of the regular scho
ol year, so he made a tough decision: he sent Brenda back to the United States at the end of the summer to live with his brother Rafael in Carrollton, Texas.

  Brenda arrived in Texas with all the motivation of any curious teenager in a new environment, yet she was deeply saddened by her parents’ separation and even more distraught over her mother’s mental condition. For a fifteen-year-old girl, it was a heavy emotional burden to carry.

  The separation was stressful, but her mother’s sickness was the most acute cause for Brenda’s distress. Brenda couldn’t understand what was wrong with her. One day her mother was just as she’d always been; the next she was a complete stranger.

  Living under her uncle’s care in Texas, Brenda quickly discovered that her home life was going to be very different from what she was used to. Rafael Paz had two children and little time for Brenda. She shared a small apartment with four other people, a far cry from her privileged position as the only child in the house with two rooms to herself.

  She felt like a burden, not a loved family member. No one picked her up from school. No one helped her with homework. Her life in Texas was an abrupt, dramatic change. She wasn’t doted on, but was forced to adjust to life in a new town where she had no friends. The love and support she needed and had been so accustomed to simply weren’t there.

  A month after school started, classes became a secondary focus; making new friends became Brenda’s primary goal. She craved attention and hated going home, where her sour uncle and his unwelcoming family offered little more than the bare minimum for coexistence.

  With her naturally outgoing personality Brenda quickly gathered a large group of friends. Eventually her circle widened to include kids who were a little older than her and didn’t go to school. Her friends at school only overlapped a little with the world of street kids, gangsters, and criminals, but it was enough to pull Brenda into a life very different from her old life in California.

  One of her new friends was a Salvadoran of slight build, gaunt face, and burning determination. From the forehead down, he was covered in tattoos that proclaimed his very real power within a street gang. His world was all about survival and living on the street. He was edgy and tough, proud and powerful. But he was a man who looked her in the eye, listened when she spoke, and asked questions that showed he was really interested in what she had to say. He focused on Brenda and filled the part of her heart hollowed out by the distance from her extended family in California and the apathy in her uncle’s home. When she met Veto, Brenda thought he was the love of her life.

  For his part, Veto liked Brenda’s smile, her saucy attitude, and her charismatic presence. They began dating only a few weeks after their first meeting. Veto enjoyed Brenda’s presence. She made him laugh and showed heart. He respected her intellect and attitude. But because of Veto’s position, he could only date female members of his own gang.

  Brenda’s disappointing home life made her an ideal target for any gang recruiter. She needed to belong and needed something to anchor her to her new life in Texas. Veto became that anchor as he evolved into an exciting love interest. After dating through the fall and into the winter, Veto convinced Brenda to join his gang.

  CHAPTER 3

  Women interested in joining Veto’s gang had two options. In the first option they could be “sexed in.” Gang members would force themselves on the female initiate, repeatedly raping her until all involved were satisfied. Women who joined the gang through sex were considered subhuman and had little or no respect among the other gangsters.

  The other option was to endure a vicious beating; this was called “jumping in.” For over ten seconds, five or six gang members punch and kick initiates, who are not allowed to fight back. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand…

  Brenda chose to be jumped in. She was a young woman who always demanded respect, already a difficult proposition for female gang members. Gang banging was not an option.

  On a cold winter night Brenda entered a circle of men and braced herself for a beating she couldn’t have imagined. She was kicked in the head with vicious, full-strength blows. Fists rained all over her body. The men showed no mercy. Time slowed down and she felt every punch. The pain that racked her body was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Flying feet and fists attacked her ears, her ribs, her kidneys, her stomach, and then her face. The kicks were the worst. They made her head ring. She could no longer curl into a ball to defend herself. At the point when she couldn’t take another blow, it ended. Brenda had endured the brutal beating like any male gang member. Veto and the others helped her to her feet. She was shaky. Her fingertips tingled as adrenaline still coursed through her body, but her mind told her it was over. She had made it. The group congratulated her with smiles as if they weren’t the men who had just beaten her like she was a piñata. Though she was disoriented, she could see Veto pushing through the circle of men, the first to give her a hug.

  After her jumping-in ceremony, Veto treated Brenda differently. He was able to open more of his life to her, tell her about his past days with the gang in Los Angeles, and share his plans for the gang in Texas. He was very proud of her. Everyone in Veto’s gang knew she was his girlfriend. If she had cried out or shown weakness during the beating, it would have reflected poorly on him. But she took her beating like a man. There were no tears or girlish whimpering. She paid for the respect in bruises, blood clots, a black eye, and a nasty headache. They respected her all the more for it. She was now a homie, a term of endearment that she quickly learned gangsters used to address one another.

  Once she was a member of the gang, Brenda resolved to live on the streets. She’d had enough of her uncle. He didn’t want her around, and she didn’t want to be there anyway. The gang could provide food and shelter for her and more support than she received from Rafael. School was boring and stupid. Hanging out with Veto and his friends was much more fun. Brenda thought she had chosen a life of freedom and fun and a new family that respected her. It was everything she’d been missing since she moved to Texas, all wrapped up into one experience. Being a gangster wasn’t that bad at all. The decision to leave her uncle and stay with Veto and her new homies was an easy one to make.

  They called her Smiley, and she loved it. But her honeymoon period only lasted a few days. Beyond the pain she endured from the jumping-in ceremony, there was a much steeper price to pay. Just days after her initiation, Veto forced her to go with him to a grocery store and rob the owner at gunpoint. She couldn’t believe the rush she felt when Veto pulled a gun on the guy. She could feel him soak up the power, feeding off of fear. But she was also scared, and watched herself as a gangster going through the motions of the armed robbery as if she was watching a play. In the first few moments after the robbery, once Veto and Brenda were safe, she silently resolved to keep the scared Brenda somewhere locked up in her mind. Veto didn’t like that part of her, so she would only show him the tough Brenda, the woman who had heart and who could take a beating.

  Veto catapulted Brenda into a fast and furious life of crime, violence, and death. She loved the excitement of life on the street, but for all the fun and freedom that came with it, there was constant pressure to prove herself and her loyalty to the gang. The stakes constantly got higher.

  CHAPTER 4

  Smile now, cry later. Brenda learned the saying as she learned the true pains of her chosen gangster lifestyle. Don’t look back at what you’ve seen or done—just focus on the moment and the future. There will be time for sorrow later. This is a common street gang philosophy, represented by the Greek masks for tragedy and comedy. Variations of these masks were a common gang tattoo, and one of the first Brenda received after having Veto’s name inked onto her wrist.

  As Brenda got to know Veto better and learned more about how the gang made money through extortion and prostitution, she realized that Veto’s group of friends was obviously not a group of fun-loving teenagers, as she had thought at first. But once she had jumped in, there was no
way out. She was always surrounded by her homies. Veto’s constant presence reminded her of her place.

  Her love affair with Veto, a source of happiness before she joined his gang, became a source of pain and fear. She could mask the fear but lashed out with strong words and attitude. It was the best way she knew to act like a gangster, but when Veto began to physically abuse Brenda to keep her saucy attitude in line, she learned when she could open her mouth and when she couldn’t. Veto did not allow her to talk back to him around their homies.

  In private, Veto respected her for her intelligence. He thought she had a memory like a video camera. Brenda could see something and never forget it, and for Veto, someone at the head of an ambitious group of Latino gangbangers in Texas, Brenda was a useful tool. Veto kept her close and showed her what the gang life was like from his point of view, through the lens of an old-school gangster at the peak of his game.

  The gang that Brenda joined, and the one Veto was a high-ranking leader of, was the Mara Salvatrucha. The Mara Salvatrucha was a Latino street gang networked across the United States through smaller groups known as cliques. Some cliques, like Veto’s, were large enough to have representation in multiple cities. Others were centralized around a single city or cluster of closely linked urban centers.

  As the head of his clique in Dallas, the Normandie Locos Salvatrucha, Veto was a seasoned gangster from Los Angeles who originally moved from California to Texas to help establish his gang there. He eventually settled on the Dallas area as an ideal place to begin recruiting new members. The towns of Carrollton, Farmers Branch, Grand Prairie, and other towns that were part of the Dallas metropolitan area were full of troubled youth in search of something beyond their frustrating home life. Recruiters in Veto’s gang focused on the schools in the area. They would approach groups of young Latinos at local parks, places where they worked, bars, and nightclubs.