When I was young my mom gave me some advice: Don't try to be what you ain't.
Instead I wish she had said, Know your enemy
Instead I wish she had said, Know your enemy
Hide-Out Case by William E. Wallace
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Despite
the painkillers he'd been tossing back by the handful, Art "Mosca" Chavez was still hurting
more than a week after his accident.
Part
of a front clip had jammed in the belt at the Flint, Michigan stamping plant
where he worked. When Art tried to free it without cutting the juice, 20,000 volts
of electricity knocked him on his ass and burned both his hands.
The
pain made rest hard to come by, but Art didn't mind: lying awake in agony gave
him more time to stew about how the feds had fucked him over.
Art
was a former matón—an enforcer—for California's Nuestra Familia
prison gang. He'd mobbed up while doing a juvenile flop in Ione and advanced
through the ranks during stays at Deuel Vocational Institute near Tracy and CSP
Solano, the state joint in Vacaville.
He'd
been "recruited" as a snitch after his racketeering indictment by a
federal grand jury in San Francisco. While awaiting trial, the U.S. Attorney sent
Art to the Metropolitan Detention Center in Los Angeles, an administrative
prison crawling with Mexican Mafia members who'd been at war with the Familia since 1968.
Tossed
into a lockup jammed with people sworn to kill him, Art had reluctantly joined
the Witness Protection Program and agreed to testify against his former colegas in the gang. His deal: the indictment would be dropped in
return for his testimony and he'd get a fresh start outside California.
Since
then, Art had done a shit-load of witnessing, but he didn't feel he'd received
much protection.
First
the feds sent him to Flint, a city with so few Hispanics he stuck out like a
Martian; then they pissed around for three months before providing him with paperwork
for his new identity, moving him from one flop house to another every few days
"for security."
After
they finally came up with a fake birth certificate, Social Security and
driver's license, it took them another two months to find him the job at the
plant making parts for General Motors.
He'd
been working there only three weeks when he nearly electrocuted himself on the
assembly line.
"Fuck
me," he muttered bitterly, frowning at the ceiling over his bed.
***
Jimmy
Feely, the U.S. Marshal who managed Art's case, dropped by when Chavez was
about to be released.
Hey, Esé!" Feely said. "I have good
news and bad news. Which you want first?"
Art hated
it when some pendejo in the Marshal
Service pretended to be his carnale. He
might have ratted out his former gang associates, but Art was just trying to avoid
getting whacked by his former comrades, not make friends with badges.
"Give
me the bad," he said.
"When
you got lit up, you were still a probationary employee," Feely said.
"That means you have no union security—they can fire you for no reason.
Your health insurance hadn't cut in yet, either, so you don't have coverage for
rehab."
Art scowled.
"I can hardly wait to hear the good news."
"The
good news is, you're getting a paid vacation in the Golden State," Feely said.
"We're sending you back to California to testify against Beltran and
Martinez."
Art's
heart sank. Luis Beltran and Ernesto "Cholo" Martinez were the two
top guys in the Familia. Art had killed
seven people for them and supervised Beltran's street crank network in Modesto;
his federal grand jury testimony against them already had made him number one
with a bullet on the gang's hit parade.
"That's
the fuckin' good news?" he asked angrily. "The prosecutor told me
they'd probably both roll over."
"Well,
they didn't," Feely said dismissively as he pulled an envelope from his
inside pocket. "I'll be coming by in a few days to give you your ticket
and San Francisco housing voucher. Here's a grand in walking-around money until
then. Take one of your buddies downtown, get fucked up and chill out. We'll find
you another job when you get back to Michigan."
He put the envelope on the table next to Art's bed and walked out.
Art
sighed. He didn't have any buddies in Flint: he was a California Mexican and the
three Hispanics at the plant were Puerto Ricans. His job was a union gig, but paid
him less than he used to steal from 7-Elevens. Now he'd lose even that—plus
he'd have to testify against the most dangerous men he knew.
"Fuck
me," he muttered. "I'll have to start all over again."
If he
spent it all, Feely's thousand bucks couldn't possibly buy Art enough booze to
chill out.
***
A
week later when Feely contacted Art with his air fare and voucher, the
gangbanger was at the county hospital again.
"What
are you doing back here?" Feely asked. "Did you have a relapse or
something?"
Art shook
his head. "I took your advice and grabbed the bus downtown to get shitfaced
with that money you gave me," he said.
"Yeah?"
Art
nodded. "I was two blocks from the bar where guys from the plant hang when
some asshole stepped out of an alley with a .38-special. He took what you gave
me plus $137 from my last paycheck. Then he shot me in the thigh for no
reason."
Feely
pulled up a chair. "You going to be well enough to make the 'Frisco trip?"
he asked.
Art
nodded. "Yeah, but when I get done, I'm done. I'm going to stay in
California. I've had enough of Witness Protection. It's a fuckin' joke, cabrón."
Feeley's
jaw dropped. "You sure, Art?" he said. "You're on hit lists for
the Nuestra Familia and Mexican Mafia
out there. You're not safe in California."
