been the Louis Carver
Administration Building. The camera panned out, revealing row after
row of prisoners lying belly down in the yard, arms handcuffed behind
them with those white plastic cinch strips. Stark naked . . . every
one of them, all of them with their faces turned to the side and
their butts pointing up at the sky. Didn’t matter that she’d
turned down the volume. The closedcaption function took over and the
words appeared on the screen anyway. It was all Iris Cruz could do
not to laugh. Apparently, Mr. Asuega felt differently. His face was
turning the color of an eggplant as he watched the flickering images
dance across the screen. It was as if they were hypnotized. Standing
around with their mouths open reading the little white words as they
popped up on the screen. Iris didn’t bother to try reading. The
words always came too fast for her anyway. She brought the back of
her hand to her mouth to hide her mirth. And then the blue shirts
appeared, coming out in twos from the doors, with their hands waving
high in the air like children at play. Rows of soldiers, guns at the
ready, trotted alongside the blue shirts, prodding them forward,
forming a nearly solid line between the blue shirts and the naked
prisoners.
“They rescued the hostages,” said Elias Romero.
“Thank God,” somebody whispered.
“How many?” another voice asked.
“Why have they got their hands up?” Asuega asked. “It makes
them look like they’ve done something wrong.” He pointed at the
screen, where the camera had panned back far enough to show the
blue-clad men and women being lined up against the fence. Hands on
the chain link. Feet spread out behind like the cops are always
making people do. Asuega was incensed “Look. What are they doing?
Why are they lining them up like that?”
Nobody answered. They stood there in the sun-washed room watching
the little box with the picture of the guards coming out of the
cellblocks two by two like calves out of a chute, then lined up
against the fence. The line seemed to go on forever, until finally
the color changed to white.
“Kitchen crew,” somebody said.
And then gray. “Maintenance and Sanitation,” Romero offered.
His big round face split with a smile. “Looks like they got most of
them,” he said hopefully. When he closed his eyes and allowed a
silent prayer to find his lips, for a moment Iris liked him again.
She got over it as soon as he started to talk “We better start
making phone calls,” he said. “We don’t want anybody finding
out about their loved ones from the television.”
A hum of agreement rolled around the room.
“Iris . . . ,” he started. She was about to cross the room and
whisper in his ear. Tell him that they couldn’t be calling anybody
at home because they were all out there on the access road, behind
the barricades and the soldiers, waiting to find out what had
happened to their loved ones; but she never got that far because the
door banged open.
Colonel Williams had a black smudge on one cheek and a bloody
knuckle on his left hand. He threw his leather gloves into his helmet
and stuffed the helmet under his arm. His thick sandy hair was soaked
with sweat. He gave the room a curt nod, sending several drops of
sweat cascading from the tip of his nose. He ran a sleeve across his
face, caught himself and stopped. “I need personnel files,” he
announced. “Anything official with a photograph.”
Asuega stepped forward. He pointed at the TV. “What’s this?”
“That’s my men doing your job,” Williams said.
“Case you haven’t noticed, we got your hostages back for you.”
“How many?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He turned his gaze
to Elias Romero. “The files?”
Romero shrugged resignedly. “They were kept in the admin
building.” He pointed at the TV set and shrugged again. Williams
gave a short bark of a laugh, as if to say “wouldn’t you know
it.” Before he could decide what to do next,
Administration Building. The camera panned out, revealing row after
row of prisoners lying belly down in the yard, arms handcuffed behind
them with those white plastic cinch strips. Stark naked . . . every
one of them, all of them with their faces turned to the side and
their butts pointing up at the sky. Didn’t matter that she’d
turned down the volume. The closedcaption function took over and the
words appeared on the screen anyway. It was all Iris Cruz could do
not to laugh. Apparently, Mr. Asuega felt differently. His face was
turning the color of an eggplant as he watched the flickering images
dance across the screen. It was as if they were hypnotized. Standing
around with their mouths open reading the little white words as they
popped up on the screen. Iris didn’t bother to try reading. The
words always came too fast for her anyway. She brought the back of
her hand to her mouth to hide her mirth. And then the blue shirts
appeared, coming out in twos from the doors, with their hands waving
high in the air like children at play. Rows of soldiers, guns at the
ready, trotted alongside the blue shirts, prodding them forward,
forming a nearly solid line between the blue shirts and the naked
prisoners.
“They rescued the hostages,” said Elias Romero.
“Thank God,” somebody whispered.
“How many?” another voice asked.
“Why have they got their hands up?” Asuega asked. “It makes
them look like they’ve done something wrong.” He pointed at the
screen, where the camera had panned back far enough to show the
blue-clad men and women being lined up against the fence. Hands on
the chain link. Feet spread out behind like the cops are always
making people do. Asuega was incensed “Look. What are they doing?
Why are they lining them up like that?”
Nobody answered. They stood there in the sun-washed room watching
the little box with the picture of the guards coming out of the
cellblocks two by two like calves out of a chute, then lined up
against the fence. The line seemed to go on forever, until finally
the color changed to white.
“Kitchen crew,” somebody said.
And then gray. “Maintenance and Sanitation,” Romero offered.
His big round face split with a smile. “Looks like they got most of
them,” he said hopefully. When he closed his eyes and allowed a
silent prayer to find his lips, for a moment Iris liked him again.
She got over it as soon as he started to talk “We better start
making phone calls,” he said. “We don’t want anybody finding
out about their loved ones from the television.”
A hum of agreement rolled around the room.
“Iris . . . ,” he started. She was about to cross the room and
whisper in his ear. Tell him that they couldn’t be calling anybody
at home because they were all out there on the access road, behind
the barricades and the soldiers, waiting to find out what had
happened to their loved ones; but she never got that far because the
door banged open.
Colonel Williams had a black smudge on one cheek and a bloody
knuckle on his left hand. He threw his leather gloves into his helmet
and stuffed the helmet under his arm. His thick sandy hair was soaked
with sweat. He gave the room a curt nod, sending several drops of
sweat cascading from the tip of his nose. He ran a sleeve across his
face, caught himself and stopped. “I need personnel files,” he
announced. “Anything official with a photograph.”
Asuega stepped forward. He pointed at the TV. “What’s this?”
“That’s my men doing your job,” Williams said.
“Case you haven’t noticed, we got your hostages back for you.”
“How many?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He turned his gaze
to Elias Romero. “The files?”
Romero shrugged resignedly. “They were kept in the admin
building.” He pointed at the TV set and shrugged again. Williams
gave a short bark of a laugh, as if to say “wouldn’t you know
it.” Before he could decide what to do next,
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