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didn’t mean nothing.”
    Donnally noticed that the two were carrying textbooks and concluded that they’d just been playing a part they’d learned in the neighborhood.
    â€œIt’s okay.” He pointed at her books. “Good luck in school.” He then headed toward the Rojos’ apartment, three doors down.
    Donnally knocked, waited, and watched the peephole go dark. Five seconds later, he heard the sound of a chain chinking as it was unhooked and then the click-thunk of a deadbolt sliding.
    The elderly woman he’d seen in the window earlier opened the door. She had a wide Indian face and dark skin. He guessed she was Magdalena Rojo, Edgar Sr.’s mother and Junior’s grandmother.She was drying her hands with a dishtowel. Five-year-old twins sat on the couch behind her watching television. They glanced up at him as they would at Junior’s parole officer come to do a search for drugs and weapons, with a mix of familiarity and anxiety on their faces, then focused again on the screen.
    Magdalena waited for him to speak.
    â€œMy name is Harlan Donnally and I wanted—”
    â€œTo start a riot?”
    She didn’t smile.
    Donnally shook his head. “I haven’t spent much time in San Francisco in the last ten years, so I didn’t know about the Muslim Nation moving in here.”
    â€œThey haven’t moved in here yet, at least into this building, but they will.” She glanced toward the direction from which the Nation members had marched that afternoon. “They’ve only gotten as far as the next block.”
    Magdalena backed away from the threshold and gestured with her free hand toward the interior, inviting him to enter. He stepped inside. She closed the door and pointed at the kids, and then down the hallway. Donnally wondered whether they were Junior’s children, her great-grandchildren. Without giving Donnally another look, they turned off the television and walked down the hall and closed the bedroom door behind them.
    Magdalena led him to the dining table and they sat down. The surface was still wet from wiping after dinner, and the apartment had the limey smell of corn tortillas mixed with the earthy aroma of pinto beans.
    â€œYou wanted?”
    Donnally knew that question would be coming from whoever had answered the door, but other than knowing he wouldn’t mentionJudge McMullin, he hadn’t decided on how he would answer it, until just then.
    â€œI’m trying to understand why I was shot ten years ago when I was a cop.”
    Magdalena drew back a little, her body tensed.
    â€œAnd not because I think your grandson was involved. The guy who shot me is dead.”
    â€œDid you kill him?”
    Her words came across less as an accusation and more as an attempt to position herself in relation to him. Was she sitting across from a man who’d taken a life?
    â€œNot because I wanted to. He was coming at me firing. I was caught in a cross fire between Norteños and Sureños over on Mission Street.”
    Magdalena’s gaze shifted toward the television for a second, then back at Donnally.
    â€œI saw it on the news. You were lying by the curb.”
    Donnally nodded.
    â€œI think one was dead in the street and the other was on the sidewalk.” She fell silent and bit her lip. “My grandson knew one of them.”
    â€œThe Norteño?”
    She nodded. “I don’t know how he became involved with them.”
    â€œYes, you do.”
    The words came out sharper than Donnally intended, but she didn’t strike back. She just lowered her head and sighed.
    â€œWhy did you stay here after your son was killed?”
    She looked up again. “For the same reason my ancestors buried their relatives on the family’s ranchito in Mexico. You can’t escapeyour history. It makes no sense to try. It just breaks you apart in your heart.”
    Donnally felt his hands clench under the table.