more able hands – hands like his.
As the only child of first-generation American immigrants from Honduras, Enrique Ramirez had had a rough childhood. The inner city of Los Angeles and the cycle of poverty that afflicted so many of his peers plagued his upbringing, but it was his father, Juan Pablo, whom he feared the most. When Enrique was fourteen, he had come home to another of his father’s drunken rants, the paper-thin walls of the apartment ensuring that the family’s dirty laundry was no secret to their equally despondent neighbors. Juan Pablo was in the kitchen with Enrique’s mother, Luisa. Normally, his mother would try to calm him down, to placate him somehow until he sobered up. To yell back would only infuriate him further, and that was when he turned violent, as both Enrique and Luisa had found out more times than they could count. On this day, however, Luisa neither yelled nor placated. The voice that Enrique heard as he entered the house was fearful, pleading as though for her very life. And as he discovered when he approached the kitchen, he realized this was, in fact, the case.
His back to the entrance to the kitchen, Juan Pablo stood over the crumpled body of Enrique’s mother. Luisa’s blue gingham housedress was splattered with the crimson that leaked from her nose and mouth, and a pool of blood was beginning to form on the yellowed linoleum. Attempting to curl into a fetal position, she was shaking with fear and with the onset of shock. And Juan Pablo continued to yell, punctuating his hateful tirade with kicks to the shins, kidneys, arms, and face.
Enrique didn’t remember picking up the long cutting knife from the counter; it was just there, in his clenched fist, ready to help him dispense justice. Juan Pablo was so consumed by his drunken fury that he didn’t even notice Enrique come up behind him until the knife was already driven into his spine, almost to the hilt. The man whirled in surprise, flailing about to defend against his teenage son, but Enrique stabbed him again and again, pummeling him with his free hand in between thrusts. After his father had finally fallen to the ground in a bloody, dead heap, Enrique finally dropped to his knees beside his mother, who was still quivering on the floor. She looked at Enrique through blackened eyes that were already beginning to swell shut. Her lips seemed to form the word “why” as she exhaled a soundless bubble of blood from her mouth. Whether that questioning word was directed at him or his father, Enrique had never been able to decide.
Luisa died from internal bleeding on the way to the hospital. Juan Pablo had been dead before the paramedics even showed up. Enrique Ramirez, fourteen years old, was alone in the world.
After an investigation into the affair, the authorities decided not to pursue charges against the teenager. Between the history of abuse, the boy’s age, the motive of defending his helpless mother, and the passionate nature of the crime, the police wrote it up as self-defense, the justifiable homicide of a man no one would miss.
Months of counseling and years of revolving door foster families followed for Enrique. Social workers and guidance counselors described him as somber, angry, and lacking direction. But the day he turned eighteen, he discovered the direction he was destined for: the armed services.
When Enrique joined the United States Army in the build up to NATO’s invasion of Yugoslavia in 1999, he immediately stood out as a formidable soldier. Fearless and cunning, his instincts on the ground would often lead him to improvise changes to his missions – changes that always either granted surprisingly successful results or avoided the massive casualties that the ill-conceived original plan would have incurred. Even his senior squad members listened to his advice with an open mind, usually opting to follow the rookie soldier. But when one of his improvised missions took a turn for the worse, forcing him to
As the only child of first-generation American immigrants from Honduras, Enrique Ramirez had had a rough childhood. The inner city of Los Angeles and the cycle of poverty that afflicted so many of his peers plagued his upbringing, but it was his father, Juan Pablo, whom he feared the most. When Enrique was fourteen, he had come home to another of his father’s drunken rants, the paper-thin walls of the apartment ensuring that the family’s dirty laundry was no secret to their equally despondent neighbors. Juan Pablo was in the kitchen with Enrique’s mother, Luisa. Normally, his mother would try to calm him down, to placate him somehow until he sobered up. To yell back would only infuriate him further, and that was when he turned violent, as both Enrique and Luisa had found out more times than they could count. On this day, however, Luisa neither yelled nor placated. The voice that Enrique heard as he entered the house was fearful, pleading as though for her very life. And as he discovered when he approached the kitchen, he realized this was, in fact, the case.
His back to the entrance to the kitchen, Juan Pablo stood over the crumpled body of Enrique’s mother. Luisa’s blue gingham housedress was splattered with the crimson that leaked from her nose and mouth, and a pool of blood was beginning to form on the yellowed linoleum. Attempting to curl into a fetal position, she was shaking with fear and with the onset of shock. And Juan Pablo continued to yell, punctuating his hateful tirade with kicks to the shins, kidneys, arms, and face.
Enrique didn’t remember picking up the long cutting knife from the counter; it was just there, in his clenched fist, ready to help him dispense justice. Juan Pablo was so consumed by his drunken fury that he didn’t even notice Enrique come up behind him until the knife was already driven into his spine, almost to the hilt. The man whirled in surprise, flailing about to defend against his teenage son, but Enrique stabbed him again and again, pummeling him with his free hand in between thrusts. After his father had finally fallen to the ground in a bloody, dead heap, Enrique finally dropped to his knees beside his mother, who was still quivering on the floor. She looked at Enrique through blackened eyes that were already beginning to swell shut. Her lips seemed to form the word “why” as she exhaled a soundless bubble of blood from her mouth. Whether that questioning word was directed at him or his father, Enrique had never been able to decide.
Luisa died from internal bleeding on the way to the hospital. Juan Pablo had been dead before the paramedics even showed up. Enrique Ramirez, fourteen years old, was alone in the world.
After an investigation into the affair, the authorities decided not to pursue charges against the teenager. Between the history of abuse, the boy’s age, the motive of defending his helpless mother, and the passionate nature of the crime, the police wrote it up as self-defense, the justifiable homicide of a man no one would miss.
Months of counseling and years of revolving door foster families followed for Enrique. Social workers and guidance counselors described him as somber, angry, and lacking direction. But the day he turned eighteen, he discovered the direction he was destined for: the armed services.
When Enrique joined the United States Army in the build up to NATO’s invasion of Yugoslavia in 1999, he immediately stood out as a formidable soldier. Fearless and cunning, his instincts on the ground would often lead him to improvise changes to his missions – changes that always either granted surprisingly successful results or avoided the massive casualties that the ill-conceived original plan would have incurred. Even his senior squad members listened to his advice with an open mind, usually opting to follow the rookie soldier. But when one of his improvised missions took a turn for the worse, forcing him to
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