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  Redemption’s Warrior

  By

  Jennifer Morse and William Mortimer

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE: THE KILO

  CHAPTER TWO: JUANITA

  CHAPTER THREE: ISLAS TRES MARIAS

  CHAPTER FOUR: LA LUNA

  CHAPTER FIVE: THE CHICKEN AND THE EGGS

  CHAPTER SIX: THE PUTAS

  CHAPTER SEVEN: A FIRST DATE

  CHAPTER EIGHT: REDEMPTION’S WARRIOR

  CHAPTER NINE: THE FIRST AND LAST LESSON OF REDEMPTION

  CHAPTER TEN: DANIEL’S SHAME

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: DOUBLE DREAMING

  CHAPTER TWELVE: FROM FAMINE TO FEAST

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A GIFT FROM EL JEFE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: OLIVIA

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: RECONSTRUCTION

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: ADIOS AMIGO

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: RECOMPRENSA

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: BANDITOS

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: THE CROSSING

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE KILO

  Do you believe in beneficence? Can you fathom a goodness requiring you to create acts of power and truth that resonate out into the world forming waves of intention where the impossible encounters the possible?

  Redemption’s Warrior is the story of Christopher Marcos and his journey into beneficence and beyond. His transformation begins in the shadows of deceit, betrayal and violence.

  Stars fade as light edges the horizon. Dawn of Christopher’s eighteenth birthday, to celebrate, he’s driving his restored Chevy to Tijuana, Mexico. His errand is a journey to the Tuck and Roll upholstery shop. His Chevy will have a new interior before afternoon. Tonight friends and family will gather. Votive candles in glass jars will sparkle and light each guest’s path to the front door. Lights already strung through the rafters of the back porch will twinkle. The barbeque… Christopher’s mouth waters in anticipation.

  His nagging worry: His parents don’t know what he’s up to. Should I have left a note? No, he decides. If no one knows the errand no one can discourage him. He’ll be back before his party. The Chevy’s wicked interior something to celebrate. Pushing the uneasiness to the back of his mind, Christopher’s hands squeeze the steering wheel. Palms flatten pounding out a rhythm. This is his first trip across the border solo I need to focus. Stay focused.

  Master Jojo’s words echo across time, “Focus Christopher! Focus a resource of mastery. No one can take it away from you.”

  Visible through the wind shield, Christopher watches stars withdraw, light expands. Night recedes. For a fleeting moment they blend and balance. The world highlighted in sunrise, his Chevy drops into the curve. He loves how it hugs the road. Together, he and his Dad have worked on this car since he was thirteen. Accelerating onto Interstate 5 he reaches into the cooler gripping a thick molasses cookie, dusted in sugar, rich. Christopher closes his eyes for one inhale of appreciation. Looking down he sees sugar and crumbs covering his shirt. He brushes off white sugar from his blue shirt and reaches for another cookie.

  The International Border is surprisingly free of traffic. He’s waved through one of the five lanes designated “nothing to declare.” Slowing down through the tourist area, friendly vendor’s wave as his shiny car passes their booths. Further on, the road deteriorates. Garbage cans overflow. Woman bent with fatigue hang laundry on lines strung between houses patched with cardboard. They glare as his car passes. Old men leaning back on front porch chairs scowl behind half closed eyes.

  A group of kids race after his car throwing stones and cans. They yell, “Go home gringo!” Punching the accelerator the Chevy leaps forward. Out of range of the missiles Christopher slows once again to navigate the potholes. The Chevy chugs up the hill, its growl subdued. His car is too bright in this impoverished landscape, Christopher sinks deep into the seat. Catching himself he sits up straight. He will not shrink.

  The rumble of the modified camshaft and dual exhaust vibrates off the asphalt announcing the car’s muscle. The Chevy’s power music to Christopher’s ears he never tires of hearing.

  At the top of the mesa he finds the warehouse and the sign: Tijuana Tuck and Roll. He has arrived. Anxiety and excitement stream through his body vying for his attention. I should have left a note.

  Once the tuck and roll is installed, he imagines his Dad running his hands over the smooth leather and nodding. He can picture the smile they will share.

  In stark sunlight bins overflowing are sentinels guarding the three garage bays. Women sit at sewing machines stitching tubes of leather. Teams of men rip out old upholstery and staple in rolled leather. Christopher parks as directed in the empty bay. Circling the car he pats the hood before walking thru the door marked Office. Sweat heavy with bacteria and glue bombard him, a toxic perfume.

  He stands behind two surfers with sun bleached hair paying the owner. They are peeling money, overflowing, into the man’s hands. The tallest blond says, “Thanks for the smoke. It helped pass the time.”

  As the surfers turn to leave, Christopher reads their red rimmed eyes. These guys look like dirty pennies.

  He spent too many years fleeing gangs. Under the influence of drugs gangs used violence to intimidate, steal, and silence. Whatever the conflict drugs and violence was their solution. As a boy he watched his small neighborhood, collapse under the strain of thefts, drugs and violence.

  In high school united with dojo buddies they formed a patrol. They freed the neighborhood shops and streets of drugs and violence.

  Watching the surfers climb into their black van he glimpses through the open door pale blue leather, flawless.

  Turning back to the counter, Christopher swallows hard. The owner is bordered in a grainy black haze. The man pounds his fist on the worktop. “Hey gringo! You have an appointment? Dinero?”

  Christopher spots a skunk wrapping the man’s neck. It has glossy black hair, two white stripes. Front paws have long, arching, dangerous nails.

  “Um,” Christopher’s mouth goes dry. He feels too young, too vulnerable to decode the man’s hostility. “Yes. I have an appointment. I wired a deposit.”

  The skunk’s tail waves, Christopher smells skunk spray. Out of the corner of his eye a blue dragonfly darts at the door. Too much is happening. He doesn’t feel safe. Should I leave?

  Pounding the counter the owner’s face darkens, “My dinero!” Christopher flinches. Do I forfeit my deposit? Drive home?

  They are alone in the office. The surfers with their pale blue upholstery are gone, probably already at the border. A few blocks —but another world— away. Remembering the glimpse of blue leather, Christopher thinks the upholstery was flawless. Entangled in his dream, he visualizes his black and white leather interior and hands over the remaining money.

  The owner smiles, teeth stained dark with tobacco. “Leave your ‘shiny car.’ Come back in a couple of hours.”

  A lurch in his stomach and Christopher wants to be away from this man and his small office. But he will not leave his car. Through the window he watches. The Chevy is surrounded by a hive of men buzzing around the seats, material flying. Sitting at the sewing machine a woman folds black and white leather. It disappears between her fingers, reappearing as perfect rolls. Christopher sighs with relief.

  The redeeming feature of the dirty office is a stack of hot rod magazines. Making eye contact with the owner he says, “I’ll wait here until my car is done.” Picking up a magazine, it remains unopened. His attention is riveted on his car as he studies the transformation of his Chevy’s interior.

  Out of the corner of his eye he senses movement. The owner is dangling a shrink wrapped bag of marijuana. Chr
istopher is stunned. The man yells, “Hey gringo! Would you like to buy a kilo of dye-no-mite?”

  Is he crazy? Golden tipped buds are visible across the room through the clear plastic. A kilo! Looking the skunk straight in the eye Christopher says, “No thanks, man.” He pats empty pockets. “I only have money for gas.”

  Face flushing, the skunk tail waves perfuming the air. Replacing the kilo under the work table the owner calls out, “Your loss, hombre. It’s sweet stuff.”

  A line of sweat trickles down Christopher’s back. He feels the man’s menace. As if he is the bull’s eye of a target. The man’s aggression is sticky and smelly. Christopher longs for a shower. If his car wasn’t torn up he’d get in, right this minute. He’d drive down the hill back through the tourist market place. Crossing the border he’d never come back to Mexico. He’s seen the true face of Mexico’s poverty. He’s seen their hatred for a gringo in their midst. He will never return. Sitting in the grimy office he waits for his car’s interior installation to be complete. Every muscle in his body aches.

  • • •

  Christopher exhales pure relief. The installation of tuck and roll upholstery complete he slides behind the Chevy’s wheel. Alternating white and black leather, he runs his hands over the seats. They are smooth to his touch. He sniffs the rich odor, elated. His relief settles in his gut now the errand is complete.

  The Chevy responds eagerly as he maneuvers the car down the hill. Driving the bumpy road his thoughts track to his party. It will be crowded with relatives and friends. His Filipino dad will make lumpia. In a moment of reverie Christopher imagines wrapping the Filipino burrito, stuffed with pork, rice and sweet sauce. He loves the ritual of rolling the ingredients. Eating, the flavors and textures blend and the sweet sauce will spill out the corner of his mouth pooling at his chin until he wipes it off.

  His mom will make challah. Dojo buddies will show up for the food! Shop owners serviced by Iron Fist Security will stop by. His excitement builds while hands beat a rhythm on the steering wheel. The soft leather interior, only one word describes the color and texture, flawless. Christopher’s happiness soars.

  At first glance he doesn’t notice the faded Buick pulling up beside his Chevy. Lights flash. The driver presses a badge to the glass pane. Pointing to the side of the road, he gestures Christopher to pull over.

  Squeezing the steering wheel, his anxiety surges, and Christopher mutters, “What the…… ?”

  When the Chevy and Buick are parked, a big bellied cop followed by his thin partner approach. Gauging his options, stalling for time, Christopher offers, “Do you need to see my passport?”

  Standing just behind the driver door the officer peers in, and says, “Step outside Senor. Keep your hands visible.”

  Christopher cannot read the micro-indicators, the small muscles of eyes, covered by the man’s mirrored sunglasses. He repeats, “Do you need to see my passport?”

  Before he can say another word the car door flies open. The oversized cop grabs the front of his shirt and wrenches him out of the car. Christopher stumbles. The big bellied officer steps to the side. The thin cop blindsides him with a club, slamming him below his buttocks. Christopher looks over his shoulder. Theirs is a well-practiced step in the dance of detainment.

  In a flash of neon blue the dragonfly appears. Within the dragonfly’s light Christopher sees the vicious pleasure of a man who enjoys inflicting pain. Gravity catches up with him. The final third of his fall plunges him face first into the dusty road. His mouth fills with blood. He has bitten his lip. “What’s going on here?” He croaks, spitting dirt and blood out of his mouth.

  The first cop shoves his foot into the small of Christopher’s back. “We have it on good authority you are smuggling drugs, senor… ,” flipping open Christopher’s passport, “Marcos.”

  Christopher hears the terrible sound of leather ripping, followed by, “Found it Jesse. The fool gringo stored it in the passenger door.”

  Adrenalin pours through his veins, powering his muscles. As confusion tumbles into clarity Christopher jumps to his feet. “These drugs have been planted! You’re working with that skunk, the upholstery man!”

  Both men burst into laughter. White teeth flash at Christopher with vicious pleasure, “Stupid, gringo, we’ll take you our hotel, the Tijuana jail. Jesse will confiscate your car for evidence… drugs are a serious crime in Mexico.”

  They shove Christopher into the back seat of the Buick, handcuffs attached to a metal bar. The seat is piled high with stacks of paper and empty beer cans. The car reeks of sweat and beer. While opening the driver’s door of Christopher’s Chevy the lean cop whistles his appreciation of the smooth leather. “Maria will love going to the movies in this car. I’ll tell her ‘no panties.’ We need to break in the upholstery.”

  The oversized cop’s belly jerks and bounces fueled by laughter. The sound infuriates Christopher. He grits his teeth in frustration before roaring, “I’m a United States citizen. I’ll call the American Consulate and be out of jail before you can eat a tortilla.” He prays this to be true. “And you better take care of my car!”

  Ignoring him the two men continue strategizing. “With this Chevy, Tuck and roll has paid its dues. Weed and a car… We’ll have to get rid of the gringo.”

  “Lose him on Islas Tres Marias. El Jefe will take him with no paperwork.”

  Rubbing his belly the cop nods. “Okay. He’s young and strong. El Jefe will use his muscle. He’ll owe us a favor and he can get rid of him.”

  Christopher hears a lighter, smells the cigarette, the Chevy’s car door slams. The Glasspack Cherry Bomb mufflers rumble. Christopher feels the power vibrate in his gut. His Chevy pulls out. Christopher bends over in pain. The cop looks at him through the rear view mirror, “Gringo,” he smiles.

  The Buick pulls into traffic. The cop knows hijacking Christopher’s car hurts more than the whack of his partner’s baton. His laughter fills the air with black bubbles. Christopher strains to spot his car. Vanished.

  Tijuana Jail stinks of hopelessness. Christopher is pushed and shoved down a narrow hallway. Hands reach through bars pulling on his clothes leaving grimy smudges. A cell door slides open. He’s shoved inside. The force of the thrust so violent he crashes into the opposite wall. Rubbing his neck he yells, “I’m adding this to my list of complaints for the American Consulate.”

  His answer is the sound of the cell door sliding shut with a metal clank. Cell mates shuffle to the end furthest from Christopher. He drops to the floor heedless of the grime. Envisioning flashes of the party, he can see friends arriving and laughter building. The back yard brimming with hanging lights, the barbeque stoked and smoking. His Dad smiling, a beer in one hand while turning the sizzling meat. His Mom starting to look at the clock wonders when he will arrive. The scene crushes him. He hopes, he prays, they enjoy a good meal before worry of his whereabouts sets in.

  Looking back he can see telling no one of his errand was a mistake. He’d been proud taking a trip over the border. Wanting to prove himself, he made a rookie error. Now his parents will pay the price for his choice.

  Trying not to think what might be on the floor and walls he leans back against the bumpy surface. Grime layered with despair coats his skin and clothes. The stench clinging to his head blooms into a pounding headache.

  He longs to run free pounding down the street. In the twilight he would sprint the endless blocks until he reached the beach. Tearing off clothes, rubbing himself with crusty sand, he’d rub and rub until every pore was purified. Only then would he enter the cool water, the ocean with its own wilderness, dangers and freedoms.

  But he cannot flee. He’s stuck in this smelly dungeon imagining his mother and father looking at each other, scared out of their minds. Wondering, has their only son has disappeared on his eighteenth birthday? He closes his eyes, seared with the images.

  Night in the Tijuana Jail is noisy with whispered confessions, mumbled prayers, shouts and threats, cries of pain. A
s the cell door slides open Christopher feels the reverberation in his gut. He knows they have come for him. He was never arrested. There is no record of charges against him or documentation taking him into custody. Too late he finds freedoms and due process in the United States do not exist in Mexico. There is no phone call allotted him. In the periphery of his sight, awash in florescent blue the little dragonfly darts around him. Fear has made his mouth dry as dust. His skin pulses with each beat of his heart. Four guards escort him, front back and sides.

  Outside, hidden in shadows created by floodlights, a waiting van is parked. Not dawn yet. He guesses the time just before three in the morning. In a surge of vivid clarity, lodged between one heartbeat and the next, Christopher realizes trapped in the van he’ll have no authority over his future. This is his moment to escape. He will never see his car again but he’ll be alive, home.

  Leveraging his body between captors on each side, he swings his feet off the ground pushing. He lands a solid kick to the back of the jailor leading the way. The man stumbles crashing into the exterior wall. The guards on each side of him tighten their grip. He breaks one with an upper cut followed by an elbow to the chin. Stomping on the foot of the second guard with his now free hands he pulls the guard toward him. Christopher crashes his knee into the man’s groin.

  The guard trailing behind races forward. Christopher steps aside and pushes. The man face plants landing on his belly skidding to a stop. A quick assessment before sprinting finds the first guard regaining his balance. Face a mask of contorted rage he slams a nightstick into Christopher’s gut. A second strike crashes down on Christopher’s head. The angle breaks open his eyebrow, cutting flesh to the bone. Blood pouring down his face obscures his vision.

  Christopher falls to the ground. Curled tight against the kicks, inches from the ground, he sees the blue dragonfly spiraling down a faded version of its florescent self.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JUANITA

  Rebellious, Juanita pushes back long strands of hair. Her father chugs into the Mazatlan harbor while she scrubs the boat’s galley. Throwing the water overboard, exhaustion clouds her view. Auras of the putas preparing to disembark waver in front of her.