Lines and shadows by Joseph Wambaugh Page B

11/20/2009
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    cracks from the other patrol cops as the task force gathered shotguns, revolvers, flares, first aid kits, goggles, flashlights, binoculars, ammo, radios, handcuffs. As sunset approached, Eddie Cervantes, the Marine reservist, said, "Time to saddle up," and someone pissed him off by noting that in The Sands Iwo Jima that was John Wayne's line.
    Then Dick Snider—who was as big as John Wayne, with more lines eroding his dust-bowl kisser—said, "Let's go out and put some crooks in jail." It didn't sound right coming from someone dressed in camouflage fatigues and a black woolen watch cap and combat boots, and armed to the teeth. It sounded like cop talk just when they were starting to think of themselves as some kind of commando raiders, ready to outswat SWAT.
    The whole operation sounded military enough on paper. Renee Camacho, one of the first men chosen by Dick Snider, was going to work a support team with a border patrolman. They'd handle the equipment, and God knows what-all they had that four-wheel-drive vehicle loaded down with.
    "Everything but frigging C rations!" one of the patrol cops said when he looked into the Bronco. And he called them "Flea swaters."
    Eddie Cervantes was working the other support team with a U.S. Customs officer. One observation team would be manned by a big young cop named Felix Zavala and a border patrolman. The main observation team would be handled by the supervisors, Dick Snider and Manny Lopez. They had the valuable commodity: a starlight scope for nighttime observation work.
    The arrest team would be manned by the two ex-Marine D.I.'s, Ernie Salgado and Fred Gil. They would be assisted by rookie cops Robbie Hurt and Carlos Chacon. The victim team, which would be responsible for corralling the alien robbery victims, was worked by another rookie, Joe Castillo, who was disappointed that he might not get enough action, along with the other U.S. Customs officer, who spoke the good Spanish needed for victim interrogation.
    There was a continuation of chatter and jokes as they took the short ride to the canyons, impatient for sundown. There was plenty of reconnoitering to do once they got there and placed the teams where they could observe unobserved after darkness. And though some of the cops of Southern Division had occasionally driven up those bone-jarring rock-clay trails, which were slimy-slick in winter and cement-hard in summer, they hadn't really seen and heard and smelled this patch of land when it came alive . file://C:\Documents and Settings\tim\Desktop\books to read\Wambaugh, Joseph - Lines a... 11/20/2009
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    It was not a large area of responsibility, not geographically. Just a few square miles of low hills and shallow canyons, full of dry brush in Indian summer, and cactus. And mesquite losing its vitality and balling up into prickly tumbleweed. The parched vegetation was stunted but surprisingly relentless and enduring, like the scorpions and tarantulas. Wind rattled the dry brush. Every rattle was spooky because of snakes. First impressions: two hawks wheeling in the sky through-smoke plumes drifting north from the Mexican city. Then a pack of coyotes, brown shapes and gray, slinking across the trails at dusk, eyeing these humans with indifference! The overriding image at dusk was of shadow. Looming shadow, fleeting shadow, silvery light and cloud shadow in the canyons. Sometimes brassy light as the sun rested suddenly on the ridge. Then shadows crossed the sunball on the horizon. Silhouette shadows. Human beings. An unbelievable tableau to digest all at once. The garishly painted shacks blanketing the hillsides across the imaginary line quickly assumed the color of urban smoke. Smoke at dusk in the shadowlight. There was the "upper soccer field," a plateau so called because the aliens did indeed play while they waited. And the lower soccer field, a smaller plateau. And Deadman's Canyon, Spring Canyon, Washerwoman's Flats,