Текст книги "The Cartel"

Автор книги: Don Winslow

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 39 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

Which is all that keeps him from walking across the Bridge of Dreams.

–

Eddie Ruiz is already back in Texas.

But he’s thinking about Mexico.

Sitting in his apartment on Fort Bliss, his babysitters playing cards at the kitchen table, he sips on a cold Dos Equis as he watches Univisión coverage of the elections.

Eddie figures he has a dog in that fight.

Face it, man, he tells himself, your chips are stacked with PAN. All the valuable information you have is on PAN politicians and their police. If PAN loses, like the analysts on TV are predicting, your value goes way down. The people you’re going to rat out are going to be gone anyway.

Prosecutors get hard-ons for corrupt politicians who are in office. Once they’re out their appeal fades like an old girlfriend you’re tired of tapping. No one writes headlines about politicians who are finished, and prosecutors love headlines like goats love garbage.

Eddie figures he’s looking at a wilting dick.

The negotiations with the prosecutors have dragged on for months. Eddie’s is a good poker player who knew he was holding face cards and played them well. He was in no hurry because he knew he was looking at fifteen-to-thirty and would get credit for time served.

Eddie just sat tight.

Because, what the fuck, right? Let the suits argue as long as they want.

Sit here or sit somewhere else.

The AG came back with an offer of fifteen years, seizure of Eddie’s personal assets (Eddie don’t give a shit because everything is in his wives’ names anyway), and a $10 million fine (serious money but not serious money). Eddie’s lawyer countered with twelve years, seizure, and $7 million.

Eddie’s going to take it. He’ll be at least four years testifying, with time credited. That left six, but it was really four, federal time. By the time he got to prison, he’d be old news in the narco-world. Then into the program, a whole new life ahead of him, selling aluminum siding in Scottsdale or something.

But that deal still has to be approved by a judge at the time of sentencing, and the judge might get buyer’s remorse if he sees that what he’s purchasing is a collection of out-of-office politicians and retired (or dead) cops.

I’m a used car, Eddie thinks.

As election day drags it’s like that old song, “Fast Women and Slow Horses.” The Ken doll candidate from PRI is in the lead, closely followed by the old whiner from PRD, and PAN…that filly is bringing up the rear.

You might as well just rip up your ticket, Eddie thinks, you ain’t goin’ to the window to collect.

Then Art freakin’ Keller walks through the door.

And makes Eddie an offer he can’t refuse.

–

Adán walks away from the television.

It’s over.

At least as far as PAN is concerned.

Neither Peña Nieto nor López Obrador is going to win. There will be the routine accusations of voter fraud, the usual protest marches, and then the electoral officials will do the intelligent thing and install Peña Nieto as the winner.

The election is not a disappointment, as he had expected that PAN would lose. Peña Nieto won’t throw the North Americans out, but he will neutralize them. Which would have been a dream just a few months ago, but now is a problem in that they’re allies in his war against the Zetas.

All the new government wants is peace, an end to the violence, Adán thinks. It will accept whatever arrangement we make in order to achieve peace and order. It will accept a Sinaloa-Zeta division of the plazas, it will accept a Sinaloa victory, it will accept a Zeta victory.

It only wants a pax narcotica.

Five months, Adán thinks.

We have five months until the new president takes office.

One hundred and fifty days to destroy Ochoa. Can it be done? Or is Nacho right, should we try to make peace?

It’s a hard calculation. So tempting to push for victory. Even now the Zetas are in the process of losing their deal with ’Ndrangheta, in fact, losing all of Europe. The prince of darkness himself, Arturo Keller, personally saw to it, and the Zetas waltzed into his trap that will also set the North American antiterrorist apparatus against them.

Then again, a hundred things could go wrong.

Ochoa still has the upper hand in Guatemala.

He has thousands of fighters. He is without morals, restraint, or scruples—the truly ruthless man.

And that is the hell of all this, Adán thinks.

The unvarnished truth is that Mexico would be better off with you, rather than under the Zetas. You would run a business that didn’t touch the ordinary person’s ordinary life; Ochoa would preside over a reign of terror.

The current government understands this, the future one thinks like a goat bleating “just make it stop.”

“Where are you going?” Eva asks him.

For some reason, she is glued to the elections, her attempt, Adán thinks, to display that she’s a serious person with a real interest in current affairs. It’s part of her new maturity campaign. Eva has adopted the “concerned young parent” role. Now she reads—articles about early education, organic nutrition and climate change, global warming and rising sea levels.

“What kind of a world,” she has asked Adán several times, “will our children grow up in?”

The same world we did, Adán thinks, only hotter.

And with more beachfront property.

And yet it is time for a change.

For the country.

For yourself.

For your family.

Nacho is right—we have billions of dollars but live like refugees. We have to hide, look behind our backs, always have to wonder if this day is our last.

It’s not the life you want for these boys in their cribs.

You could be El Patrón again, if you win. But you could also do what no patrón has ever done.

Walk away.

With a life and family intact.

No one has ever done that.

Every “drug lord” before you has ended up either dead or in prison.

You could reinvest your billions in legitimate concerns and your sons could grow up and live as titans of business.

You could live to see your grandchildren.

It could be done.

He goes upstairs to the nursery, where an abuela sits asleep in a chair beside the boys’ cribs. Eva has decorated the nursery in soothing “womb tones” with letters from the alphabet painted on the walls and ceilings in the belief that it’s never too early for them to start learning.

The boys have nannies, but Eva is what they now call a “helicopter parent,” hovering over them constantly, supervising every detail of clothing, diet, and environment.

Ah well, he thinks, be patient. She tried for so long and so hard to have a baby, it’s natural that’s she’s going to be overprotective for a while. She’ll get over it and start a new phase. With any luck it will be “I’m sexy even though I’m a mother.”

The abuela wakes with a start when Adán comes into the room and he shakes his head quickly to let her know that he doesn’t mind her dozing. He looks down at the two babies, who are breathing softly and evenly, their foreheads dewy with a sheen of sweat.

They’re beautiful.

He remembers Gloria when she was a baby. She was not beautiful, with her heavy misshapen head, except to him.

To him, she was lovely.

Adán looks down at his boys and then suddenly he doesn’t see them but two other children and he gets hot and dizzy as he sees those two children on a bridge in Colombia, a boy and a girl, not babies but little, and he’d already had their mother killed and the little girl screamed Mi mamá, mi mamá and he gave the order and his man threw them over the side and he made himself watch as they plunged onto the rocks below and now he sees their faces in the faces of his sons and he recoils, staggers away from the crib, his children are dead children, all his children are dead.

He leans against the wall trying to catch his breath.

Then he forces himself to look into the crib again.

His boys are sleeping.

Adán kisses them on their cheeks and goes back downstairs and makes the call that will set up the peace meeting with Ochoa.

–

The election is called by 8 p.m.

The following morning, the numbers are in:

Peña Nieto receives 38.15 percent of the vote.

López Obrador gets 31.64.

Vázquez Mota comes in with 25.40.

PAN is finished, Los Pinos will go back to the PRI, which also gets a heavy plurality in the Chamber of Deputies.

Victoria is bitterly disappointed.

“Did you call to gloat?” she asks Pablo.

“No,” Pablo says, “just to firm up our plans.”

“She should have won,” Victoria says. “The country would be so much better off than with this…this…”

“I need your flight information.”

“It’s the media,” Victoria says. “Media bias.”

“You are the media.”

“I mean the rest of the media.”

“Of course.”

“You, for instance,” Victoria says. “And Ana. And El Niño Salvaje. How dare that…blogger…write a story the day before the election, accusing PAN of supporting the Sinaloa cartel?”

Perhaps because it’s true, Pablo thinks. “I don’t know, Victoria. Give me a clue—morning, afternoon, or evening?”

“Morning, afternoon, or evening what?”

“When you and Mateo are coming,” Pablo says. “Is Ernesto coming with you?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know yet,” Victoria says. “Pablo, I have stories to write, unfortunately. Stories on how this election will damage the economy. Now all we need is for the Democrats to get elected and we’ll all be selling apples.”

“Flight times?”

“I don’t know.” She sounds confused, impatient. “I’ll have Emilia call you.”

“Who’s Emilia?”

“My new assistant.”

“But you are coming,” Pablo says.

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Yes!”

“Okay, have Emilia call me.”

“I will.” She clicks off.

“Is Victoria beside herself with disappointment?” Ana asks, rolling her chair up to his. “I am sorry we won’t have a woman president, only not that woman. Our answer to Maggie Thatcher.”

“Ana?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t care.”

Óscar comes into the room. “Ana, write the story, straight news, facts and figures. Then get a jump on the inevitable fraud angles. Pablo—”

“Man-in-the-street.”

“How did you know?”

“I just knew.”

Pablo grabs his laptop, goes out into the parking lot, and gets into the fronterizo. He has no intention of going out and doing man-in-the-street interviews, because he already knows what man in which street is going to say.

And it doesn’t matter.

He’s leaving the paper, leaving journalism, leaving Mexico.

Leaving Juárez.

Pablo drives back to Ana’s apartment and throws what little he has into a backpack.

–

Manuel Godoy is a self-described geek.

A graduate student at Juárez Autonomous University, he’s the best computer hacker in the city, maybe in all of Chihuahua.

Now he has a gun to his head.

Literally.

Three men picked him up as he left campus, shoved him into a car, hooded him, and drove him to this nondescript building. They sat him down in a chair in front of a computer, removed the hood, and stuck the pistol into the back of his head.

“You want to live?” the man they called “Forty” asked him.

“Yes.”

“Good answer,” Forty said. “You know Esta Vida?”

Manuel didn’t know how to answer. This wasn’t some oral exam at the university, defending his thesis. The wrong answer could get that trigger pulled. He dissembles. “I’ve heard of it.”

“All you have to do,” Forty said, “is tell us who’s behind it. We know it comes from Juárez. You tell us who, we’ll pay you very well. You don’t, we kill you. It’s that simple. Go.”

“I can’t do it on this computer.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a piece of shit.”

Forty laughed. “What do you need?”

Manuel gave him a list of hardware and software and Forty sent his guys out to get it. When they got back, Manuel assembled the hardware, downloaded the programs he needed, and went to work.

Now he sits at the computer and hacks for his life.

–

“What do you mean?” Pablo asks Victoria over the phone.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” she answers, sounding aggrieved. “I have work, Pablo—stories to file—and can’t come until tomorrow, at the earliest. You and Mateo can meet us in El Paso.”

Pablo thinks he might throw up. “Mateo can’t come to Juárez.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not safe.”

“You pick him up at the airport and go straight over to the U.S.,” Victoria says. “Ernesto and I will meet you there. I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem is that Mateo can’t come to Juárez.”

“He’s dying to see you,” Victoria says. “When I told him it would be another day or two he threw a fit, and he can throw a fit these days, believe me.”

“For God’s sake, Victoria, just tell him no.”

“Too late,” Victoria says. “Emilia is putting him on a flight now.”

“Stop her.”

“Aeroméxico 765. He gets in at 8:10. Be there.”

She clicks off.

It will be all right, it will be all right, Pablo tells himself. Ana goes with you to pick up Mateo and you drive straight across the border. But the airport is on the southern edge of the city, a long drive down the 45 and back.

He looks over.

Ana’s not at her desk.

Pablo leaves the office and crosses the street to the coffee shop. Ana is at the counter, smoking a cigarette and banging away on her laptop. She closes it when she sees him come in.

“Okay,” Pablo says, “are you coming with us?”

“If you really think it’s a good idea.”

“Yes,” Pablo says. “Go home right now and pack your things. Then we’re going out to González to pick up Mateo. There’s been a change of plans.”

He tells her about Victoria.

Ana says, “Listen, I’m just okay with Mateo. I don’t know about seeing Victoria and her new man. I mean, the whole ‘exes meet’ scene—”

“You’ve known Victoria for years.”

“Exactly,” Ana says. “Look, you go do your thing with the Ice Maiden and I’ll meet you and Mateo when you’re done.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Ana, come with me now,” Pablo says. “We’ll get Mateo and go to El Paso tonight?”

“Tonight? What’s the hurry?”

“Ana.”

“Pablo.”

They stare at each other.

“We’re leaving tonight,” Pablo says. “Please. Just do this for me.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Ana says. “I’m a woman, in case you don’t recall. I need a little more time to pack. You go get Mateo, then swing by my place, I’ll be ready and we’ll go.”

“Okay, but be ready.”

“Okay, Pablo.”

“I have to go talk to Óscar,” Pablo says. “I’ll meet you at your place and we’ll go, okay?”

“As previously stated, okay.”

Pablo walks out of the coffee shop.

Chuy watches him cross the street.

–

Pablo knocks on Óscar’s door.

“Come in!” Óscar is sitting in his office, his bad leg propped up on a stool, his cane leaning against the desk.

“Óscar, I need a few personal days.”

“All right, Pablo. When?”

“Now. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Óscar asks.

“It’s a family matter.”

“I’m sorry,” Óscar says. “Is Mateo all right?”

“He’s fine. He’s coming to Juárez. I’m going to take him away on a small holiday.”

“Usually, a little more notice would be appreciated,” Óscar says.

“I’m sorry. I am.”

“Well, don’t be too sorry,” Óscar says. “An excess of contrition is bad for the digestion. A small joke, Pablo—you look like your best friend just died.”

Pablo stands there.

“Is there something else?” Óscar asks.

“I just wanted,” Pablo stammers, “to thank you.”

“It’s a small thing.”

“No, I mean for everything,” Pablo says. “For everything you taught me, and…for being who you are.”

El Búho blinks at him. “Well, thank you, Pablo. That’s very gracious.”

Pablo nods, turns, and leaves.

–

Manuel sits back from the keyboard.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

The address from which 80 percent of the Esta Vida articles have been posted. The rest were posted from the offices of El Periódico or a coffee shop just across the street.

Forty calls Ramón and gives him the address.

–

Pablo drives down the 45 to Abraham González International Airport.

The trip takes only twenty minutes but feels like forever, and he also has the sense that he’s being followed. Paranoia again, he tells himself. Shake it. They gave you a couple of weeks. Please God, he thinks as he parks in the short-term lot and walks into the terminal, for once let Aeroméxico be on time.

“Papi!”

Mateo has grown.

He looks skinny now. Not underfed, by any means, but his body is in the process of becoming lanky like his mother’s. Pablo picks him up and swings him around. “M’ijo! Sonrisa de mi alma!”

The smile of my soul.

“Are we going on a holiday?” Mateo asks.

“Yes, we are.”

“Can I go down the waterslide?!”

“As many times as you want,” Pablo says.

“I’m not too small?”

“If I’m not too fat.”

“You’re not fat, Papi.”

“You are a very kind boy, m’ijo.” He takes Mateo’s bag, slings it over his shoulder, then takes his son’s hand and starts to walk out of the terminal. “How was your flight?”

“I had a Coke. Don’t tell.”

“Don’t worry.”

They walk outside.

The night is warm and close. Pablo throws Mateo’s bag into the backseat, then opens the passenger door and straps him into his seat.

“Papi, your car is a mess!” Mateo laughs.

“You can help me clean it when we get to El Paso.”

“When are we going?”

“When?! Now!”

“Now!?” He’s delighted. Little boys so rarely hear the word “now.” Usually, it’s “later” or “we’ll see.”

“Right now,” Pablo says, sliding behind the wheel. “We’re going to go pick up Tía Ana first. She’s coming with us. I hope that’s okay.”

Mateo looks very serious. “Is Tía Ana your girlfriend?”

“Well, she’s a girl,” Pablo says, “and she’s my friend. Are you hungry? Did they give you anything to eat on the flight?”

“Is she?” Mateo asks.

He’s a reporter’s son, Pablo thinks as he starts the car and pulls out of the lot.

–

The car, a silver Navigator, pulls up in front of Pablo and stops.

Pablo hits the brakes.

He starts to back up but another SUV pulls up behind him. Then he sees Ramón get out of the car in front and walk back toward him. A short, skinny kid who can’t be more than a teenager is behind him. Ramón taps on the window and motions for Pablo to roll it down. When he does, Ramón says, “This is a fine automobile you have, ’mano.”

“It’s just a fronterizo,” Pablo says, his voice shaking.

“When you headed out to the airport I thought maybe you were going on a trip,” Ramón says, “but you were just picking up little Mateo. Hola, I’m your Tío Ramón.”

“Hello.”

“He’s a cute one,” Ramón says to Pablo.

Pablo can’t breathe. His throat tightens as if he’s being choked from the inside. “Please, Ramón—”

“You’re out of time. We want an answer. Tonight. Otherwise we’re going to come visit you.” Ramón leans in and smiles at Mateo. “Maybe I’ll see you later, okay, mi sobrino?”

“Okay.”

Ramón smiles, makes a phone me signal to Pablo, and then walks away. His car takes off and Pablo, his hands shaking, pulls back onto the road.

“Who was that man, Papi?” Mateo asks.

“An old friend.”

“What did he want?”

“Just to say hello, I guess.”

Pablo’s in agony as he drives to Ana’s. He doesn’t have a choice now.

He has to tell them what he knows.

–

Ana stuffs a flannel shirt into her backpack.

Even in July, it can get cold in the desert at night.

She’s still not so sure about this, not at all sure she should be making this trip. The thought of an awkward dinner with Victoria and her fiancé is appalling, and Mateo is too smart and sensitive a kid not to pick up on that, and react to it, so the whole thing could turn into a hot mess.

But it seems important to Pablo that she goes, so—

She hears a car door shut, and then another.

That must be them, she thinks.

–

Pablo lets himself into the house.

Ana is just finishing packing. She takes Mateo into her arms and gives him a long hug. Then she leans back, looks at him, and says, “You’ve grown so much!”

“I know.”

“I’m almost ready,” Ana says to Pablo.

“That’s okay,” Pablo says. “I need to make a phone call.”

He walks out into the backyard, where he’s spent so many great evenings. The parties, the music, the conversations and arguments…Ana shouldn’t have done it, he tells himself. She put us all in danger, writing that goddamned blog. She knew what she was doing, knew the chance she was taking, knew that it would come to this eventually…

–

He takes his phone from his jeans pocket and hits the number.

It’s his last chance.

Keller doesn’t answer—the call goes straight to voice mail.

Where the hell are you? Pablo thinks. You’re the last chance I have, the last chance Ana has, you…North American…could get us out of this. Whisk us across the border and hide us the way you hide narcos who change sides.

Narcos can get asylum visas. The journalists who write about them can’t.

And now it’s too late anyway.

All you can think about is Mateo, he tells himself.

Do what you have to do for your son.

But, oh, Ana.

–

Chuy gets his orders from Forty.

When we get the Wild Child…

Make it long, make it last.

Make it hurt.

Send a message.

–

Pablo walks back into the house.

“Where’s Mateo?” he asks, panicked.

“In the bathroom,” Ana says.

“Listen, something’s come up,” Pablo says. “Could you do me a huge favor? Take Mateo to El Paso and I’ll meet you there tomorrow?”

“Why don’t you just do what you need to do and we’ll all go then?” Ana asks.

“Ana…”

“What?”

“Just go. Please.”

“What is it you need to do?” Ana asks. “Can I help?”

“Yes. Take my son across tonight.”

“Pablo—”

“Ana, it’s okay.”

“Come with us.”

He shakes his head. It’s no good anyway. The North Americans will only toss them back into Mexico, sooner or later, and even if they don’t the narcos will track her down and kill her there.

There’s only one way to save her.

And protect Mateo.

Pablo says, “I need you to get Mateo across. I’ll come over tomorrow, I promise.”

Mateo comes out of the bathroom. Pablo kneels in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says, “M’ijo, I have a nice surprise for you. I have a little more work to do, so Tía Ana is going to take you and I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Mateo looks uncertain.

“You love Tía Ana, don’t you?” Pablo asks.

“Yes.”

“So you’ll have a great time,” Pablo says. “Tía Ana will let you get a Coke out of the machine at the motel.”

“We’ll have fun,” Ana says.

“Okay.”

Pablo holds him tight. Feels his soft warm little chest against his own. “Papi loves you very much. You know that, don’t you?”

“I love you, too.”

Pablo kisses him on both cheeks. “Okay, you’d better go. I’ll see you both tomorrow and we’ll go to the waterslide. Did I ever tell you that I’m the world’s champion waterslider?”

“Why are you crying, Papi?”

“Just because I love you so much.”

Ana takes Mateo’s hand and walks him outside. Pablo stands in the door and watches them drive away.

He waves.

Then he goes back inside and finds a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in the kitchen cupboard. He pours himself a glass, goes into the bedroom, and once he’s drunk enough to stop his hands from shaking, he sits down at Ana’s desktop computer and starts to type.

–

“Look at this,” Forty says to Ramón.

It’s Esta Vida—the latest post.

An article signed by the author.

“Son of a bitch,” Ramón says.

It takes him less than an hour to track Pablo down at Ana’s house. He and the kid Chuy go out, and when they get there Pablo’s sitting on the back step drinking a beer, a dead bottle of scotch beside him.

Pablo looks up at him.

“Time to go,” Ramón says.

“For old time’s sake,” Pablo says, “I don’t suppose you could just do it here? You know…”

He mimes pointing a pistol and pulling the trigger.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Ramón says. “I don’t know why you had to go and do this.”

“I don’t know why, either.” Pablo grabs the railing and slowly pulls himself to his feet. His legs start to go out from under him and Ramón grabs his elbow. “You’re pretty drunk, ’mano.”

“Probably better, huh?”

“Probably.”

“I’m really scared, Ramón.”

“Yeah, well…”

They take him out to the car and drive to one of the old maquiladoras that’s been shut down.

–

The street sweepers find him just before dawn.

Paper wrappers, old newspapers, and other trash blow across Pablo Mora on the Plaza del Periodista.

His killers took great trouble to arrange the pieces of his body around the statue of the newsboy—Pablo’s amputated arms and legs frame his trunk, which is disemboweled and emasculated. His head is carefully set at the base of the pedestal, his mouth stuffed with the severed fingers with which he used to type, his tongue has been pulled through a gash in his throat, his empty eye sockets are bloody and raw.

A placard is set at his neck.

NOW WRITE YOUR STORIES, WILD CHILD—THE Z COMPANY.

But later that morning, it seems as if everyone in Mexico is reading Wild Child’s last words:

FOR THE VOICELESS by El Niño Salvaje

I speak for the ones who cannot speak, for the voiceless. I raise my voice and wave my arms and shout for the ones you do not see, perhaps cannot see, for the invisible. For the poor, the powerless, the disenfranchised; for the victims of this so-called “war on drugs,” for the eighty thousand murdered by the narcos, by the police, by the military, by the government, by the purchasers of drugs and the sellers of guns, by the investors in gleaming towers who have parlayed their “new money” into hotels, resorts, shopping malls, and suburban developments.

I speak for the tortured, burned, and flayed by the narcos, beaten and raped by the soldiers, electrocuted and half-drowned by the police.

I speak for the orphans, twenty thousand of them, for the children who have lost both or one parent, whose lives will never be the same.

I speak for the dead children, shot in crossfires, murdered alongside their parents, ripped from their mothers’ wombs.

I speak for the people enslaved, forced to labor on the narcos’ ranches, forced to fight. I speak for the mass of others ground down by an economic system that cares more for profit than for people.

I speak for the people who tried to tell the truth, who tried to tell the story, who tried to show you what you have been doing and what you have done. But you silenced them and blinded them so that they could not tell you, could not show you.

I speak for them, but I speak to you—the rich, the powerful, the politicians, the comandantes, the generals. I speak to Los Pinos and the Chamber of Deputies, I speak to the White House and Congress, I speak to AFI and the DEA, I speak to the bankers, and the ranchers and the oil barons and the capitalists and the narco drug lords and I say—

You are the same.

You are all the cartel.

And you are guilty.

You are guilty of murder, you are guilty of torture, you are guilty of rape, of kidnapping, of slavery, of oppression, but mostly I say that you are guilty of indifference. You do not see the people that you grind under your heel. You do not see their pain, you do not hear their cries, they are voiceless and invisible to you and they are the victims of this war that you perpetuate to keep yourselves above them.

This is not a war on drugs.

This is a war on the poor.

This is a war on the poor and the powerless, the voiceless and the invisible, that you would just as soon be swept from your streets like the trash that blows around your ankles and soils your shoes.

Congratulations.

You’ve done it.

You’ve performed a cleansing.

A limpieza.

The country is safe now for your shopping malls and suburban tracts, the invisible are safely out of sight, the voiceless silent as they should be.

I speak these last words, and now you will kill me for it.

I only ask that you bury me in the fosa común—the common grave—with the faceless and the nameless, without a headstone.

I would rather be with them than you.

And I am voiceless now, and invisible.

I am Pablo Mora.