Beaten but not Out

Was standing in Plaza Santa Cecilia enjoying the hot day. It was near mid-afternoon and the sun beat down in shimmering heat upon the concrete thoroughfare. The stalls were an arabesesque of multihues selling all types of candy colored curious. The air wafted with smells of spoiled garbage, automobile exhaust, and seared taco meat as local families strolled with their giggling children, bewildered tourists gawked, rent boys prowled and stood in cooling shadows as a band tootled and twanged music indigenous to Sinaloa on the stage under the Millennium Arch.
Like I said, standing there taking it all in when a young man hobbled on crutches up to me all smiles. It was Edgar - a Tijuana native I had known for some years. An all right guy, never looked for trouble, held a steady job at a local farmacia. Just another local jumping through the tough myriad hoops of Tijuana life.
“Hey, Edgar!” I grinned, looking him up and down. “What happened, man? What’s with the crutches?”
His face grimaced into pain and mumbled something about having a hard time standing. I invited him over to a table at The Boys Café and we both ordered a coke.
Again, I lightheartedly inquired what was wrong with his legs. He stared at the passing throng, took a sip of his soda for dramatic effect, and began his tale of woe.
With a determined look deep into my eyes he said, “I was walking home from work two days ago - you know, out by Tiente Guerro Park. A squad car pulled up and two officers started harassing me. They had me sit on the curb as they began going through my backpack. I had nothing in there but my uniform, right? They asked for my ID - which I had, it was current - but, this one pendejo accused it as being fake.” He took another sip of his soda. “They started all kinds of shit that I looked like some runner for the cartel that they had been looking for and right in front of me cut my ID up with a knife. Then they threw me into the back of the squad car.”
“Damn. What happened next?” I asked.
His eyes became misty, “They drove me out to the middle of nowhere, man. Still cuffed they dragged me out behind this building and had me take my shoes off. I was sitting in the dirt when they took their batons and began beating my feet.”
He lifted one pant leg and his skin was mottled with large purple and blue bruises. His tan skin ashy from scratch marks.
I scowled. “Goddam!”
Edgar rolled his pants back down and continued, “They threw me in the back of the car again and drove me to my neighborhood and dumped me about six blocks from my house.”
With the utmost contempt peppered with fear, Edgar eyed two police patrols meandering through the Plaza - one hulking apish looking man and a stone faced dumpy woman. I actually talk with these two and they seem like good people, but at that moment I could not help feeling Edgar’s emotions. I loathed them, too.
“Wow…that’s tough.” I mumbled. I mean, what could I say?
“That’s not all of it.” He spat, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “As I was walking home - the best I could - another patrol car cruises up and they start their shit. I explained what happened, right? They laughed, accused me of not having an ID after I had told them what happened - threw me in the back of the car and drove me around awhile - all along not saying a word. Once at a substation, they put me in a cell and beat my legs as other prisoners silently looked on. It was horrible!”
As tears began to stream down his brown cheeks, I asked, “Then what did they do?”
“They let me go.” He stated flatly. “They drove me a block to my place and let me go.”
He sat there for a moment - I am sure reminiscing about that terrible ordeal. He gulped another mouthful of coke, “The next day - I told my neighbor and she gave me these crutches. I took a taxi over to the police station on 8th and tried to explain what happened. The receptionist just said that it was my word against the cops. And that they would believe the cops - since I had no ID. After that I went to the Human Rights building and told them - but, I got the same response. Man, I tell you amigo - you gringos have no idea how fucked up it is for us here.”
Indeed.