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«Be
Be
Amorfina Angeles was terrified, and I could fully empathise with her. Merely living in the neighbourhood would have terrified me-all the more so had I been harassed by members of one of its many street gangs.
Hers was a rundown side street in the extreme southeast of San Francisco, only blocks from the drug – and crime – infested Su
I watched Mrs. Angeles as she crossed her tiny living room to the front window, pulled the edge of the curtain aside a fraction, and peered out at the street. She was no more than five feet tall, with rounded shoulders, sallow skin, and graying black hair that curled in short, unruly ringlets. Her shapeless flower-printed dress did little to conceal a body made soft and fleshy by bad food and too much childbearing. Although she was only forty, she moved like a much older woman.
Her attorney and my colleague, Jack Stuart of All Souls Legal Cooperative, had given me a brief history of his client when he'd asked me to undertake an investigation on her behalf. She was a Filipina who had emigrated to the states with her husband in search of their own piece of the good life that was reputed to be had here. But as with many of their countrymen and women, things hadn't worked out as the Angeleses had envisioned: first Amorfina's husband had gone into the import-export business with a friend from Manila; the friend absconded two years later with Joe Angeles's life savings. Then, a year after that, Joe was killed in a freak accident at a construction site where he was working. Amorfina and their six children were left with no means of support, and in the years since Joe's death their circumstances had gradually been reduced to this two-bedroom rental cottage in one of the worst areas of the city.
Mrs. Angeles, Jack told me, had done the best she could for her family, keeping them off the welfare rolls with a daytime job at a Mission district sewing factory and night-time work doing alterations. As they grew older, the children helped with part-time jobs. Now there were only two left at home: sixteen-year-old Alex and fourteen-year-old Isabel. It was typical of their mother, Jack said, that in the current crisis she was more concerned for them than for herself.
She turned from the window now, her face taut with fear, deep lines bracketing her full lips. I asked, "Is someone out there?"
She shook her head and walked wearily to the worn recliner opposite me. I occupied the place of honour on a red brocade sofa encased in the same plastic that doubtless had protected it long ago upon delivery from the store. "I never see anybody," she said. "Not till it's too late."
"Mrs. Angeles, Jack Stuart told me about your problem, but I'd like to hear it in your own words-from the begi
She nodded, smoothing her bright dress over her plump thighs. "It goes back a long time, to when Be
Hearing the name of her street spoken made me aware of its ironic appropriateness: the last letter of the Greek alphabet is symbolic of endings, and for most of the people living here, Omega Street was the end of a steady decline into poverty.
Mrs. Angeles went on, "Be
"What was the name of Be
"The «Kabalyeros.» That's Tagalog for Knights."
"Okay-what happened to Be
"The house next door, the one with the dog-that was where Be
"And that brings us to last March thirteenth," I said.
Mrs. Angeles bit her lower lip and smoothed her dress again.
When she didn't speak, I prompted her. "You'd just come home from work."
"Yeah. It was late, dark. Isabel wasn't here, and I got worried. I kept looking out the window, like a mother does."
"And you saw…"
"The guy who moved into the house next door after Be
"Well, that started one hell of a fight-Victors and «Kabalyeros «and folks from the neighbourhood. And while it's going on, Reg Dawson just stands there in Be
"And what was that?"
She hesitated, wet her lips. "The leader of the «Kabalyeros,» Tommy Dragon-the Dragon, they call him-was over by the fence in front of Reg Dawson's house, where you couldn't see him unless you were really looking. I was, 'cause I was trying to see if Isabel was anyplace out there. And I saw Tommy Dragon point this gun at Reg Dawson and shoot him dead."
"What did you do then?"
"Ran and hid in the bathroom. That's where I was when the cops came to the door. Somebody'd told them I was in the window when it all went down and then ran away when Reg got shot. Well, what was I supposed to do? I got no use for the «Kabalyeros «or the Victors, so I told the truth. And now here I am in this mess."
Mrs. Angeles had been slated to be the chief prosecution witness at Tommy Dragon's trial this week. But a month ago the threats had started: anonymous letters and phone calls warning her against testifying. As the trial date approached, this had escalated into blatant intimidation: a fire was set in her trash can; someone shot out her kitchen window; a dead dog turned up on her doorstep. The previous Friday, Isabel had been accosted on her way home from the bus stop by two masked men with guns. And that had finally made Mrs. Angeles capitulate; in court yesterday, she'd refused to take the stand against Dragon.
The state needed her testimony; there were no other witnesses, Dragon insisted on his i