uncoiled and Magrady relived, yet again, a soldier named Edwards die spectacularly before him. His entrails splattered over the sergeantâs torso as he sought to get his men together for evac on the Hueys while simultaneously seeking to isolate the source of the incoming VC fire.
Breathing like a labored steam engine and his heart lodged his throat, Magrady heard in real time cops and civilians yelling at each other as pews were upset, their wood splintering and objects crashing and shattering on the earthen tiles of the church. Magrady had once gotten a sweet little gig to replace those tiles in a rear portion of the sanctuary due to damage from a broken toilet pipe. He rolled over on his back, his chest finally rising and falling at a more normal rate.
A female copâs face slid into view over him. She was handsome and alert in a stressed out kind of way, and blinked hard at him.
âIs he one of those Sudanites? A village elder or something?â she incorrectly asked someone out of his line of sight,pointing at him. âTheyâre coming over here now, right? All that shit thatâs going on over there in their desert villages.â
A heavy manâs voice sighed. âThatâs one of ours, Reynolds. Heâs an American black. We canât give him back.â The man chuckled. How right he was. Where indeed would Magrady go if he was kicked out of the U.S.? Or put on a boxcar with other malcontents and shipped out of town on a rail, the method of forced relocation practiced at various times on hobos and union agitators in the â30s by the cops and goon squads in the pocket of the big bosses.
He hummed âJoe Hillâ as heâd heard Paul Robeson singing it on the 78 platter his mother used to play when he was a kid. Another round of shouting started up, only this was orders given from command to the grunts. The flashback wore itself out and some gendarmes roughly got Magrady on his feet. He, along with the other members and staff of several community-based organizations, were culled together on the lawn of the raided Lutheran church.
âThe fuck, man?â Janis Bonilla demanded of the cops en masse. âWe donât need a permit to be on private property. Weâre going to sue the shit out of your donut-eatinâ asses.â
âTake a chill pill, Ms. Bonilla.â A stout LAPD captain addressed her, separating himself from the grouping of cops but not actually moving closer to her. âThis was about the illegals at this meeting.â
Bonilla and several others glared at him openmouthed.
Armed men and women emerged from inside and around the corner of the building. Stenciled on the back of the new arrivalsâ jackets was the word ICE in big yellow cap letters, the Immigration and Customs Enforcement arm of the Department of Homeland Security. Accompanying them were unfortunates in plastic restraintsâmembers of the assembled community organizations.
âThis is bullshit,â somebody said, and there was loud agreement from the gathered. It was the young woman with the glasses Magrady had seen at the UA offices. Amy, that was her name.
The captain smiled knowingly. âThis is a new day of joint cooperation. If it bothers you, take your concerns up with your do-nothings in Congress.â He walked off.
Bonilla muttered âtea bagger,â and began making calls.
Ill
H OURS LATER B ONILLA STILL SEETHED , swirling diet soda in a can. The police and ICE had departed with their undocumented arrestees along with four citizens detained on charges ranging from a bench warrant on a jaywalking beef to overdue child support payments. Naturally the community groups held an emergency meeting after the round up. There would be a formal response involving public interest allies like Legal Resources and Services, and a press conference at UAâs offices was planned for the next morning at 10 a.m.âin time to be broadcast on the afternoon