The Roman Catholic Church constructed the San Agustin Cathedral in downtown Laredo in 1872. La catedral features a clock tower that rises five stories above the pavement and a stark white exterior that continues inside to a sanctuary with a tall arched ceiling and a white altar. Lindsay Bonner knelt in the back where the pews were vacant. Jesse had driven her to church but refused to enter the church. He believed in God and he was Catholic, but he understood neither God nor the Catholic church. Why had God abandoned this border and the church these people? She too had questioned her God and her church, but she needed to be in church and to pray to God that Sunday morning. Because she was contemplating sin.
The sin of adultery.
One hundred sixty miles north of the cathedral in which the governor's wife now prayed, San Antonio Mayor Jorge Gutierrez took a bite of his migas which he chased with the strong coffee. He was watching Fox News on the flat-screen television mounted on the wall above the counter in the small cafe. Normally, the television would never be tuned to Fox News in this cafe in the Prospect Hill neighborhood, but given that the governor of Texas was on the national show that morning, an exception had been granted. When his face appeared on the screen, the patrons booed and made derisive comments in Spanish. San Antonio's Hispanics-which is to say, all of San Antonio-did not vote Republican.
On the TV, the host said, "Welcome, Governor. It's an honor to have you on the show. You're a genuine American hero."
"Aw, heck, I only did what any American male with a three-seventy-five-caliber safari rifle fitted with a scope would've done in the same situation."
"I'm not so sure about that, Governor. I think a lot of Americans would have cut and run."
The governor nodded. "Democrats."
The diners booed again, but Jorge chuckled. That was a good line, he had to give the governor that. Jorge sipped his coffee just as his phone rang. He checked the caller ID then answered.
"Clint, my friend."
Clint Marshall, the state Democratic Party chairman.
"You watching this?"
"Yes, I am."
On the television, the host took the governor through the hot-button issues of the day, like ticking items off a shopping list-spending and taxes, the debt and deficit, abortion and gay marriage, welfare and ObamaCare-and Jorge's attention alternated between the governor on the television and Clint on the phone.
The host, on the TV: "Governor, you've railed against the stimulus, but you took the money to balance your state budget last year. Why?"
"Because the Feds took that money from us. Texas is a donor state-we pay more in taxes to Washington than we get back from Washington. Texans are funding New York and California, and we don't appreciate that."
Clint, on the phone: "Well, if Texas had voted for Obama, maybe he'd give us more federal money."
"I think that is his point, my friend."
The governor, on the TV: "We're fifteen trillion dollars in debt. We're spending ten billion a day and charging four billion to our Bank of China credit card. Borrowing money and printing money isn't the same as having money."
Clint, on the phone: silence. Jorge chuckled.
"Come on, Clint. That was a good line."
"Jorge! You're just encouraging him."
"He cannot hear me. He is in Washington."
"Oh. Yeah. Still, it's the principle."
"Ah, yes. The principles of politics."
The governor, on the TV: "It used to be a crime to charge more than ten percent interest, so only the mob engaged in loan sharking. But the big banks bribed Congress with campaign contributions to legalize loan sharking. Now credit cards charge thirty percent. How many trillions of dollars have been transferred from Main Street to Wall Street because of that one federal law?"
Jorge noticed a murmur of grudging approval from the crowded cafe. They were middle-class Hispanics who used credit cards.
Clint, on the phone: "Okay, he's right about that."
The governor, on the TV: "Twenty million Americans are unemployed on Main Street, but Wall Street is making record profits. Where's Main Street's bailout?"
The murmur grew louder. Everyone in the cafe had a spouse, sibling, child, or friend who was unemployed.
"And what about that, my friend?" Jorge said.
Clint, on the phone: "Yeah, yeah."
The governor, on the TV: "The government steals money from one citizen and gives it to another, but both citizens lose their freedom. One becomes dependent upon the government, the other a slave to the government."
The murmur broke into Spanish… words of approval.
"He is very good," Jorge said.
Clint, on the phone: "Tell me."
The governor, on the TV: "I really don't care what two consenting adults do, as long as they do it inside. But, if it's okay for two men or two women to marry, then why not one woman and two men or one man and two women?… Well, actually, that should be illegal."
The host: "One man marrying two women? Why?"
The governor: "No man should be forced to bear the shopping expenses of two women."
The diners laughed heartily. And they applauded. The governor of Texas.
Clint, on the phone: "Are they clapping? Hispanics?"
"Yes, my friend."
The host, on the TV: "Governor, the latest Fox News poll shows that you now hold a commanding lead among Republicans with forty-two percent. And while Obama beats every other Republican by double-digits in head-to-head matchups, he doesn't beat Bode Bonner. It's all square. Which means the Republican Party needs you. Question: Don't you want to be president?"
"I'm not running."
"No way, no how?"
"Nope."
"You're absolutely sure?"
The governor gave the camera a broad smile.
"Pretty sure."
The Fox News show ended, and the cafe became noisy with animated political discourse. The proprietor changed the channel to a local Spanish station favored by his Hispanic clientele. Jorge waved to the waitress for the check.
"We've got to beat him," Clint said.
"Next year? For the White House?"
"This year. For the Governor's Mansion."
Jorge laughed.
"That will not happen, Clint. He is the governor-for-life."
Clint launched into a profane narrative, so Jorge focused on the local Sunday morning show on the television. A pretty Latina reporter named Gaby Gomez introduced the lead story. That past Monday, she had journeyed to a colonia outside Laredo to tape a "day in the life of" profile of a young Latino doctor named Jesse Rincon. Harvard-educated and born in Texas to a Mexican mother-one of those so-called "anchor babies"-Dr. Rincon had returned to the border to care for his people. Jorge grunted. These human interest stories often proved not so interesting, but this story held promise. So when the waitress brought his check, Jorge held up his coffee cup for a refill. He would wait for the show to return from a commercial break.
"Jorge," Clint said, "I just got off the phone with the national party chairman. He wasn't happy. Shit, he got a standing ovation at Yankee Stadium."
"The chairman?"
"No! The governor-by Yankees!"
"The baseball team?"
"The people! They fucking love him. You see how many followers he's got on Twitter?"
"Twitter? Uh, no, I did not see that."
"Four million-that's more than Snoop Dog."
"Whose dog?"
"Another week like this, and he'll have more followers than 5 °Cent."
"Snoop Dog, 5 °Cent… these are people?"
"Jorge, this is no longer just about the Governor's Mansion. This is about the White House."
"Oh, Clint, you worry too much. After George W., no Texan will again be elected president, not in our lifetimes."
"Don't bet on it. He's a hero now, and heroes are hard to beat. Especially a hero who kills Mexicans… no offense. You see the latest tracking polls? He's in a dead heat with Obama. A couple of our internal polls put him ahead."
"He will fade. They all do."
"Maybe. Maybe not. No other Republican has a snowball's chance in hell of beating Obama-but Bode Bonner's got a chance. A damn good chance."
Jorge heard heavy breathing on the line. He often worried about Clint's heart.
"We've got to stop him, Jorge."
"How?"
"We've got to beat him here in Texas."
"A Democrat beating Bode Bonner in Texas? That is not possible. Not now."
"Not a Democrat… a Latino. Me and the national chairman, we think a Latino could beat him."
"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 Rincon.
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."