At breakfast the next morning at the Sandoval house, Ernesto got a call on his cell. He looked away from his huevos, opened the phone, and said, “Yeah?” He didn’t like to be interrupted during breakfast.
“He’s dead man,” Julio told him.
“Who’s dead?” Ernesto gasped.
“Rezzi,” Julio replied. “Rezzi’s dead.”
Ernesto felt the blood rush to his head. He felt numb and sick. He pushed himself away from the table. He got up, but his legs were almost too weak to support him. He leaned on the table, shock coursing through his body.
His family stopped eating and stared at him. They knew something was terribly wrong.
“What happened?” Ernesto finally found the voice to ask Julio.
“They found him dead in the wash,” Julio answered. “He drowned man. You know we had a lot of rain last night. They’re sayin’ he slipped and went down into the wash. Usually it’s just a trickle or it’s dry. But it was running fast when Rezzi went in.”
“Julio, you think—?” Ernesto gasped.
“That somebody pushed him?” Julio finished the sentence. “Maybe. I told the guy not to tell Esposito in advance. But he wanted to let the guy know what was coming down. He didn’t want him to find out from the newspeople. Him drowning like that. That’s a real good break for Esposito.” Julio sounded bitter.
Ernesto closed the phone. Luckily, the girls hadn’t gotten up yet for school. Ernesto told his parents what had happened. “This dude, Rezzi, he used to work for Esposito. He had the goods on the guy. He was planning to tell the district attorney today . . .”
A few moments of silence at the table followed. Then Maria Sandoval spoke. “I can’t believe Monte Esposito would sink so low as to murder somebody. I know he’s corrupt and all that, but to kill a man? Besides, how would Esposito or his people know Rezzi’s plans?”
“Mom, the poor fool told Esposito last night. He told him what he planned to do,” Ernesto explained.
“Uh-oh,” Luis Sandoval remarked, shaking his head. “Bad move.”
“We’re not sure about anything,” Ernesto said. “Maybe Rezzi got so upset about what he planned to do that he drank too much and slipped. When it rains hard, that ravine gets really muddy. The poor guys living there have a terrible time. Maybe he . . . just slipped.”
“Esposito has a lot of people working for him,” Luis Sandoval speculated. “Some aide may have gotten Rezzi’s message and gone to talk to him. Maybe there was an argument. The guys who work for Esposito are going to go down with him if there’s a big corruption scandal. Remember that congressman who was a big war hero, and then they uncovered a lot of corruption. He’s in the slammer now, but he didn’t go down alone. Other people got burned too. Maybe some aide decided he wasn’t going down because of an old homeless guy who lived in the ravine.”
Maria Sandoval’s eyes widened. “A few years ago, down south, we had several council members on trial for taking bribes,” she recalled. “Even a mayor . . . and a U.S. congressman and judges. I guess when you get into positions of power, the temptations are very strong.”
“Yeah,” Luis Sandoval agreed. “You get elected to serve the people, and you end up serving yourself. Greed. Avaricia.”
Abuela had been sitting there listening quietly. Then she spoke. “My parents always taught us to never let money be your God. Never.”
Luis Sandoval reached over and put his arm around his mother’s shoulders. “And this is what you and Papa taught us, Mama. You taught all five of us to work hard and do the right thing.”
After breakfast, Ernesto drove his Volvo to school. When he saw Julio jogging onto campus, he hailed him. “Oh man, that call this morning really shook me up. You hear anything more?”
“My dad, he got together with the veterans at the hall, Commander Sena and the others,” Julio answered. “They’re raising money for Rezzi’s service. The military honor guard’ll be there. He was a soldier. He had a good war record. Rezzi had a wife and kids, but nobody knows where they are now. We’re seeing if we can’t get in touch with them. Probably the wife remarried and just forgot about Rezzi.”
“That’s sad,” Ernesto commented. “I’ll see if my folks want to chip in for the burial expenses.”
“Thanks, man. Every bit helps,” Julio said. “Padre Benito is going to have the funeral at Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. Rezzi didn’t go there too often, usually just at Christmas, maybe Easter. But he was baptized there. It’s so sad how Rezzi spent his last days livin’ under a tarp. My dad is down-and-out too. But he’s got his Social Security, and me and him got a room. Poor Rezzi didn’t even have a home address, and he didn’t even get his checks. The guy never caught a break man. Maybe thinking about all the hassle of blowing the whistle on Esposito was too much for him. Maybe he just lost it in the rain last night.”
“It makes me sick,” Ernesto said in disgust.
“Yeah,” Julio agreed. “I told my dad it ain’t gonna be that way for him, not ever. Dad’s an alky like Rezzi, but he’s got a son who cares about him. I’m seein’ that he’s okay. And when he dies, ain’t nobody gonna have to beg for money for his funeral. You know, Ernie, lot of the Nam vets got a bad deal. They came home without nobody thanking them. They had emotional problems, and nobody paid any attention. No welcome-home parades for those dudes. No thank-you-for-serving kinda stuff. Now they’re getting old and dyin’. And some of them, like Rezzi, are dyin’ in the rain. Somebody needs to do something for these guys.”
Julio’s voice broke a little, and he looked away. “That’s why I’m a Zapatista man.”
At Rezzi’s funeral—his real name was David Juarez—there was no family. So the soldier gave the folded flag to Rezzi’s best, and only, friend, Julio’s father. Some of the guys from the ravine came to the funeral. They sat in the back of the church because they were dirty, and they didn’t smell very good. They didn’t want to offend anybody. Some veterans from the post came with Commander Sena. Julio Avila came for his father’s sake. Luis Sandoval came to support his son and because, like Rezzi, he was a veteran.
Walking from the little frame church, Ernesto said, “Thanks for coming, Dad.”
Luis Sandoval put his arm around his son’s shoulders. “They say going to funerals like this one makes a difference.
Ernesto saw Julio walking with his father, and he waved. They came over. Julio’s father was carrying a plastic bag. “All his stuff is in here,” Mr. Avila explained. “I gathered it from his tarp down there. He had pictures of his kids. He told me once, if anything happened to him, I should try to find his kids and give them the pictures and a diary he kept. I guess he wrote personal stuff in there. I got a manila envelope from his tarp too. It says ‘Important’ on the outside.”
Ernesto and his friends had two weeks before the election to canvas the neighborhoods for Emilio Ibarra. After school every day, they all walked through the barrio with campaign literature in their backpacks. They talked to anybody who would listen.
Not all the contacts were pleasant. A woman on Cardinal Street told Ernesto that she was supporting Monte Esposito. He’d been in the job so long, she asserted, he knew how to do it. Besides, Ibarra looked like a fool with that big mustache.
Ernesto didn’t argue with anybody. He was cheerful and pleasant even to the man who told him that all politicians were crooks anyway and that it didn’t matter whom you voted for. Ernesto thanked the man for listening to him and moved on.
An elderly woman on Tremayne took the brochure that showed the smiling Ibarra. She frowned and asked, “Why is he laughing? He looks like a clown. We don’t need a clown in the city council. It’s already a circus.”
“Oh, he’s actually a very serious man,” Ernesto explained, “but he likes to smile and make people happy.”
“Oh, so he is a clown,” the woman sniffed before handing the flyer back and moving on.
Some of the people Ernesto talked to were registered to vote, but they didn’t plan to vote in this election.
“I just vote when the president is up,” a man declared.
“Sometimes city councilmen have more effect on our lives than the president,” Ernesto told him, handing the man a flyer.
“I’d like to know what the city council does that matters to me,” the man asked.
“They decide how many police officers and firefighters we have,” Ernesto answered. “They manage the libraries. They fix the potholes and make intersections safer by putting in traffic lights.”
“Oh,” the man said. “I didn’t know that. Then maybe I will vote for—this guy Ibarra?”
“That would be good!” Ernesto affirmed.
Whenever Ernesto was finished walking the streets for the day, his feet hurt and he was tired. And then some days he had to go work at the pizzeria.
One night, when Ernesto got home from work, his father was working on the computer, preparing tests for his history classes.
“I’m worn out!” Ernesto declared, collapsing onto the sofa. “I walked around for a couple hours talking to people about the election. Then I was dishing up pizzas. But, you know what, Dad? It’s kinda exciting to be part of something like this. I’ve never been involved in an election before, and it’s kinda cool.”
Luis Sandoval smiled. “Yes, when you feel passionate about something, you find the energy, no matter how tired you feel.”
“The polls are looking good, Dad,” Ernesto told him. “I think we’re gonna win. Man, election night will be so exciting. I can hardly wait. Me and Naomi are going over to the Ibarra house for the big celebration.”
Ernesto’s father looked a little troubled. “How is Naomi’s father dealing with all this?” he asked. “I mean, with his daughter campaigning against his cousin, his friend.”
“I think he’s kinda accepting it, Dad,” Ernesto answered. “I was kinda surprised by him. When Naomi stood up to her father, he didn’t go ballistic. I think he loves her very much.”
“Ernie,” Mr. Sandoval said, “I meant to tell you . . . Today at school, Julio brought me an envelope from Rezzi’s property. The envelope was filled with what looked like legal papers. They involved city transactions. I’m a history teacher, not a lawyer. So I didn’t understand all that was there. I asked my brother, your Uncle Arturo, to look at the stuff. Arturo is a lawyer, and he’ll know what he’s looking at. Maybe Rezzi had some assets we don’t know about and he wanted to leave them to someone.”
“Yeah, that’s good, Dad,” Ernesto acknowledged. “Julio is still searching the Internet for Rezzi’s kids.”
“Arturo said he’d be looking too,” Dad said. “Poor Rezzi, didn’t have much of a life, but at least he had a decent burial. I was glad the veterans came. They never forget their own.”
“Yeah,” Ernesto agreed.
“So, go to bed and get some sleep, mi hijo,” Mr. Sandoval commanded with a smile. “Who knows? Perhaps all this politicking will get into your blood. Maybe someday you may decide to be a lawyer, and then a politician too.”
Ernesto laughed. “I don’t think so, Dad. It’s too dirty a business. I couldn’t handle that. Look how they tried to smear Mr. Ibarra.”
“Mi hijo,” Mr. Sandoval advised, “politics will always be as dirty as the men and women who participate in it. If good, honorable men and women get elected, then it won’t be dirty anymore.”
“Maybe,” Ernesto conceded, heading for the shower. But as the hot water splashed over his tired body, he had a strange thought. Maybe he should consider going into law and then politics. Representative Ernesto Sandoval? Senator Ernesto Sandoval? Ernesto laughed to himself. The idea was ridiculous. No, he would become a teacher like his father. Dad did so much good as a teacher. Ernesto could too, but still . . .
A fantasy came to mind. “President Ernesto Sandoval, the first Hispanic president of the United States, is now taking the oath of office.” He chuckled at the mental image.
Usually, whenever the president or governor or senators were not on the ballot, the election turnout was small. That was typically the case all over the city, and the barrio was no exception. When only city council candidates and a few propositions that people didn’t understand anyway were on the ballot, a handful of people trickled to the polls.
But not this time. On this election day, Ernesto noticed quite a few people making their way to the polling places. Some were even lined up before seven when the polls were due to open. That was unusual. At Cesar Chavez High School, one of the polling places, signs directed voters to the library, where everything was set up. A flag stood at the door with a list of voters who belonged in that precinct.
Ernesto was pretty sure Emilio Ibarra would win, but one never knew. You couldn’t be totally sure. The smear seemed to have backfired, but maybe some people still wondered whether the accusations were true. Maybe they would go into that booth and choose the safe name, the one they recognized—the incumbent, Monte Esposito. He was the devil most people knew. And he was better than the devil they didn’t know, Emilio Zapata Ibarra.
Ernesto was on edge all day. He found it hard to concentrate on his classes. He kept looking at his phone and checking the time. How many hours were left until the polls closed? When would the returns come in? Luckily, he thought, election day was a Tuesday. He didn’t have to work tonight.
When the last bell of the day rang, Ernesto went to the parking lot to wait for Naomi to take her home. Then, around eight o’clock, he’d pick her up and take her to the Ibarra house. There would, of course, be a victory celebration downtown at the Ibarra headquarters if he won. But Ernesto and Naomi wanted to be part of the celebration on Nuthatch Lane. Ernesto and the other neighbors would share Conchita’s homemade posole and Mexican hot chocolate. Then, much later, Emilio Ibarra would make his acceptance speech downtown, which would be carried on local television.
The first returns were the absentee ballots. They came in early, right after the polls closed, and they were mixed. Ibarra was leading, but not by much.
Naomi, Ernesto, and about twenty other people waited in the Ibarra house for the returns. They hoped the trend would be established early, and it was. Emilio Ibarra surged ahead. As he did, wild cheers exploded from the people in the Ibarra living room. Carmen’s voice was the loudest. She and her mother grabbed each other and danced around the living room. With every announcement of the election results, Ibarra’s margin of victory increased. It was beginning to look like a landslide. Cheers and yells filled the small house on Nuthatch Lane. It was becoming more and more certain that the next councilman from the barrio would be Emilio Zapata Ibarra.
Ernesto hugged Naomi, and they both hugged Carmen.
After the celebration, when Ernesto dropped Naomi home, the Martinez house was very quiet. Ernesto gave Naomi a long kiss. Then she whispered, “I’m going to sneak in very quietly. Goodnight, Ernie.” She giggled and danced up the walk to her door.
When Ernesto got home, he shouted, “We did it!” He was grinning from ear to ear. The local news was telecasting Monte Esposito’s concession speech, followed by Emilio Ibarra’s very humble acceptance speech. Mr. Ibarra promised to work with all his heart and soul for all the people in his district. In an emotional voice, he pledged to be a true servant of the people.
“I believe him,” Ernesto’s father stated fervently.
“Yes,” Maria Sandoval agreed.
Ernesto’s father clicked off the television set, stood, and came over to Ernesto. He had a very serious look on his face.
“Tío Arturo called me, Ernie. The manila envelope contains evidence—shocking evidence of long-term corruption in Esposito’s office. Favors were exchanged for substantial bribes. Arturo is turning everything over to the district attorney.”
As Ernesto went down the hallway to his room, he felt both sad and triumphant. He wasn’t sure whether Rezzi fell or was pushed into those dark swirling floodwaters the night he died. He might never know. But if Rezzi had died trying to expose corruption, then at least he didn’t die in vain. Like the good soldier he was, he upheld his principles even from the grave.
Ernesto showered, toweled off, and got into his pajamas. He glanced at himself in the mirror, with his black hair wet and water still shimmering on his skin. Suddenly the whole world seemed to be open to him. The most improbable dreams seemed within his reach. Maybe not likely, but possible. All a man or woman needs to pursue such dreams is courage. The courage of conviction. The courage to go forward, even against impossible odds.
Dad was a man of courage. Once gangbangers threw a chunk of concrete through the window of the Sandoval house. They meant to threaten Dad because he was trying to get dropouts off the street and back into school. But Luis Sandoval never backed off. He kept doing what he needed to do. That took courage.
Even Naomi showed more courage. Sure, Ernesto encouraged her to stand up to her dad. But she was the one who had to walk through the door and face him. And she did. That took courage too.
Ernesto winced a bit when he thought about his own lack of courage. He wimped out of becoming a Zapatista because he was afraid of losing Naomi. It took the outrage of the smear flyers for him to see what he had to do.
“Well,” Ernesto declared to himself, “basta! There are times for courage. And, from now on, I must make them times of courage.”