twenty-four:
tuesday evening

The vigil was organized by a loose confederation of immigration reform groups, some from Denver. Bloom spotted two buses from New Mexico, one from Arizona. A prayer circle had been held the night before, but this one was going to be the big one. For show.

The day had already been a monster, but the pint-size staff at the Post-Independent had been told they would be stretched far beyond normal hours to stay on top of the rolling story. Bloom didn’t mind. He felt the adrenaline, relished the challenge.

The idea was to follow the route Tom Lamott had walked before he was shot, from Sayre Park down to the footbridge, but it was hard to imagine how this swarm would make its way to the pedestrian bridge in an orderly fashion or in any way confined to the sidewalks.

Half Hispanic, half white.

One thousand people? At least. The park, a full city block, is packed. Milling throng.

Candles flicking like fireflies.

Nearly breezeless.

Bloom found a pickup truck where the white candles emerged from stacks of cardboard boxes. When you want to find organizers, Bloom knew, you look for the mess tent or supply wagons.

Luis Tovar was right near the center of the action, but off to the side of the core activity. He was a barrel-chested man with a round face, puffy cheeks, and a white-gray, carefully groomed moustache. Bad knees forced an ungainly walk. His years as a high school and college wrestler had taken their toll. Surgery to fix them hadn’t gone well.

Tovar was the voice of calm among Hispanics in the valley. He lived in a big house downtown with his wife and two girls. He commuted to Grand Junction, where he was the thoughtful History and Hispanic Studies professor who preferred context and dialogue to demonstrations. Reporters had him on speed dial for a good quote. He said what the establishment liked to hear and not necessarily the flame-thrower comments that lefties hoped he would deliver.

“Señor Bloom,” said Tovar. “¿Cómo está?”

Tovar held an unlit candle. Around him, a tight circle of friends and supporters mingled and chatted quietly, mostly in Spanish.

“Muy bien,” said Bloom. “¿Y tú?”

“Bien,” said Tovar. “But very much wishing we weren’t here. Your articles have been good, by the way. And I heard today a major shift in the police work, changing the place where the shots were fired. News alert on my mobile from the Denver Post and they credited the P-I.”

“First time for everything,” said Bloom.

“A hunting guide helped them?”

“It didn’t take her all that long, either,” said Bloom, happy again to think about the sure presence of Allison Coil. “Maybe they are getting closer now.”

Tovar smiled faintly. “Let’s hope,” he said.

“What are you hearing?” said Bloom.

Square, silver-rimmed glasses added to the professorial air. His black hair was streaked neatly with rivulets of gray. A cotton Guayabera shirt, white on ivory embroidery down both sides, topped clean blue jeans and brown sandals. His attire nodded to Mexican heritage but it wasn’t in-your-face.

“Everything,” said Tovar. “And nothing. Nothing new.”

“What would you say is the general attitude among the Hispanic population, you know, about the shooting?”

Bloom hated the question as soon as it was out. He sounded like a rookie.

“There is no general attitude,” said Tovar. “There is no Hispanic monolith. We don’t move in lockstep.”

Tovar had a way of stating things that didn’t make it sound condescending or patronizing.

“But this was a jolt, make no mistake,” Tovar added. “This was a mini 9-11 and I mean only in terms of ugly message, of course, not the scale of the horror.”

Not the scale of the horror.

A thousand white candles sending one message.

The mass of protestors headed out but Tovar stayed put. Bloom felt the urge to go with the crowd, decided to linger.

“Look at the history of immigration,” said Tovar. “At least, look at the history of immigration policy in this country. Look at the number of mixed messages, enticing immigrants one decade—sending them back the next. Look up the Bracero program. Look up investor visas. Look up Operation Wetback. Look up the Border Industrialization Program and on and on. Welcome mat put out, welcome mat yanked away.”

Bloom remembered doing a college paper on Benjamin Franklin and recalled he had argued against immigration from Germany because he didn’t think Germans could assimilate. “So what are people saying tonight?”

Tovar mulled a response. A young female protestor suddenly stepped up and touched her burning flame to Tovar’s cold wick.

“Gracias,” said Tovar with a smile. He dropped the grin, thought some more. “I suppose more than anything that our hearts are with Tom Lamott, what he stood for. This is a vigil, but we don’t want any vigilantes, if you know what I mean. We don’t want to point fingers.”

Those funneling from the park into the thick mass of the walk itself kept strolling by, candles flickering, but Tovar made no move. Bloom told Tovar about the ICE vans, the group of Mexicans whisked away.

“Like street sweepers cleaning trash,” said Tovar.

“Who knows where they are taken?” said Bloom. “That’s what I don’t get.”

“Is that the story you want?” Tovar smiled broadly, looked sideways at Bloom. Light from the candles made Tovar’s teeth glow. They were razor straight, blindingly white. One was capped silver. “You really want to go up against the big boys?”

“Don’t people know what happens?”

“In some ways,” said Tovar. “It’s racial profiling on steroids. And it used to be that the immigration people were one function, one agency by themselves. And now they are all merged under one big house, with Homeland Security. They can punch your ticket back to Mexico in less time than it takes to snap on the handcuffs.”

From everything Bloom had gathered, Glenwood Springs was tolerant on the issue of illegal immigration. There were pockets of radicals, but you didn’t get the sense that this issue was a driving force in the business community or among political leadership, not that there was much difference between the two in a small town. In any town.

“Nobody minds?” said Bloom.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Tovar. “But the mood has shifted and I think many know what they are up against, so there is a bit of acceptance. All the security paranoia, you know, it’s all rolled into a big ball with the terrorism issues.”

The throng spilled over into the street, television cameras and photographers and reporters following. Traffic crawled.

“Shouldn’t there be a process—a process everyone knows about, a process we can see?” If he was really doing his job and if he was really intended to compete with journalism’s best, Bloom wondered, should he be gathering such marshmallow opinions?

“Sure,” said Tovar. “Of course. Some are back home in Mexico before their families here even know they’re late for dinner. Not quite, but that’s the way it seems.”

“So where?”

“If you see another of these vans, don’t let it out of your sight.”

“You got that right,” said Bloom.

“There are those here who have been through everything. Someone might be willing to talk, but you have to understand the level of trust in your public institutions. That includes newspapers, of course.”

“Our ratings are better than Congress. And maybe lawyers as a whole.” Bloom smiled to show the sarcasm.

“Take comfort in that if you must,” said Tovar.

“You are not walking tonight?” asked Bloom. “Or are you waiting to bring up the rear?”

Tovar sighed, looked around. “Only an observer tonight. Watching and thinking.”

“I want to meet these people, the commuters,” said Bloom. The vigil was at a crawl. “I have this feeling there would be anger. Some outrage. People being snatched off the streets, suddenly captives and no due process.”

“Now I see your problem,” said Tovar.

“Problem?” said Bloom.

“Okay, your perspective,” said Tovar. “You think of these people as taxpaying American citizens who are legal residents, that they understand they can fight for something here to change, that they have a voice to advocate for something,”

“No,” said Bloom. “I believe government and the justice system should be open and every individual should have a chance to have their case heard in open court.”

Tovar held his candle in his beefy fist and the light flickered off his broad face.

“You think these illegals feel comfortable,” said Tovar. “But every step in this country—every minute—they watch out. They are on alert. They are all in prison even before they are picked up. It’s not that big a transition.”