The Jaguar's Children by John Vaillant Page A

César.
    â€œReally,” says the officer. “Your license too?”
    César looks down at his shirt pocket. As the officer reaches in to get it, the officer standing behind him with the flashlight says, “Search the car.” It sounds like a woman talking, but it’s hard to know with the helmet and goggles. An officer standing guard comes over to the passenger side of the taxi and starts looking through the glove compartment and under the seats, pulling up the mats.
    â€œCésar Ramírez Santiago,” says the officer by César, comparing the picture on the license to his face. “All the way from D.F. What brings you down here?” He looks over his shoulder and calls out César’s name and license number to his partner in the truck who repeats it into the radio. At that moment, the officer searching the car climbs out and hands something to the man questioning César.
    â€œStolen?” he says, holding up César’s wallet. He opens it, pulls out some bills and puts them in his pocket. “You’ll need a bigger reward than that to get it back.” Then he punches César in the stomach and I can hear the air come out. “What’s a bullshitter like you doing in Oaxaca? Coming to start more trouble? The strike is finished, maricón. We finished it.” César is bent over with his elbows on his knees. He coughs and mumbles something about his father. “This isn’t his taxi,” says the officer. “I thought you said you live in D.F.” César lifts himself up, shakes his head and looks at the ground. The officer pulls some cards from his wallet. “Madre, what’s a campesino like you doing at UNAM? I thought you were a taxi driver.” He looks at another card. “And what the hell is
SantaMaize
?”
    â€œProbably fake,” says the officer with the flashlight. I see César look from side to side like he is trying to see where this voice is coming from, but the light is too bright. Female federales are not common, but when this one turns her head I can see the tail of hair coming out of her helmet. “Are you color-blind?” she asks, pretending to study César’s squinting eyes. “Or does everyone in D.F. run the lights like you?”
    César is standing there like he can’t understand what she’s saying and I wonder if his head is injured. Then, very soft, he says, “¿Mande?”
    â€œYour eyes,” she says. “Maybe you should have them checked.” Another car turns onto the street, but as soon as the driver sees the federales he turns around and drives away. The woman takes a step forward so she is shoulder to shoulder with the other officer and without a warning she knocks César in the forehead with the flashlight hard enough that his head jerks back. “What are you doing in this taxi!” She puts the light right in his face, she’s close enough to kiss him now. “I asked you a question, puto.”
    For César the answer will change everything that comes after. But then I didn’t know how, and it is why I must tell you about the traffic signals. In Oaxaca there are two kinds, those for cars and those for people. The ones for people are made of many little lights that together make a moving picture of a man—a green man walking, but when the time to walk is almost finished, the green man begins to run, faster and faster until he turns suddenly red and stops, like a man waiting, or maybe if you look at it, like a man lying in the street. In the corner of my eye I can see these signals changing one into the other. I know already César is in some kind of trouble and now it is like a choice he must make—a test—and his answer will decide if he is the green man or the red man.
    I hear a siren and I’m holding my breath, wondering what César will say and what the federales will do, when I see the officer with