El que a Hierro Mata
The garage stank of brake fluid and sweat. Same busted Impala in the bay. Same dying light flickering above Tito’s workbench. Same ghosts hanging in the corners, whispering about all the boys who came through here thinking they had one move left.
Tito was hunched under the hood, arms black with grease, smoke curling off the end of his cigarette like a warning.
Dre stepped inside without a word. The floor crunched under his sneakers—bits of gravel, maybe glass.
Tito didn’t look up. “What now?”
“I need a stick,” Dre said.
Tito pulled himself upright with a grunt and wiped his hands off on a towel that used to be red. “You ain’t got your own pistol?”
“I need one that ain’t mine.”
Tito squinted at him. “You sure that’s all you want?”
Dre met his eyes. “You know somebody can find a nigga? Somebody under protection?”
Silence.
Tito stared, then shook his head. “Nah. I don’t get involved in that kind of shit.”
“I ain’t asking you to—”
“You just did,” Tito cut him off. “You think I’m stupid? You come in here, asking for a throwaway, and then ask if I know how to find somebody in witpro? Come on, Dre. I know you a lil’ juvie but I been out here.”
Dre stayed quiet. Tito stepped closer, his voice lower now.
“You already know your name ain’t clean. Everybody heard your blood running his mouth. Streets don’t forget that. So if I give you this?” He tapped his fingers against his chest. “I’m trusting that my door ain’t getting kicked in two days from now because some dumbass decided to get loud and leave a trail.”
“I ain’t that dumb,” Dre said.
“Just remember I know where your mama stay.”
That landed. Not loud—but deep. Dre didn’t answer. Just kept his jaw tight.
Tito let the silence breathe. Then walked past him into the back office. The drawer slid open, metal on metal, and out came a short .38, dull and squat, grip taped up like it had been passed through too many hands already.
He set it on the desk.
“You get one,” Tito said. “That’s it.”
Dre picked it up, thumbed the cylinder open, checked it. Loaded. No surprises. He pocketed it without ceremony.
“If he shows up,” Tito said, voice almost casual, “you better be sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Tito leaned back against the desk. “You better not miss. You better not bring no heat to my door. And you better not make me regret this.”
Dre didn’t say anything.
He turned and walked out, the gun heavy against his ribs, the street hot and empty ahead of him.
~~~
The apartment wasn’t hers, but it had become the only place she didn’t have to fake like she was fine. Angela’s couch sagged in the middle. The AC barely worked. But it was quiet enough, and nobody asked her why she looked like hell.
Mireya sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to stretch the tightness out of her lower back. Camila toddled nearby with a plastic giraffe, its ears half-chewed from teething. Angela was rolling a blunt she hadn’t lit yet, and Paz was curled into the far corner of the couch, eyes drifting closed.
“How’s it going?” Angela asked, like she already knew the answer but figured Mireya might want to say it out loud.
Mireya gave a short laugh. “Like shit.”
Angela nodded. “Work?”
Mireya’s phone buzzed beside her on the cushion. She didn’t check it. Didn’t have to. The preview already said:
l.b.: need someone to drive me. Know you need the cash
Her jaw clenched. She turned the phone face down and tried to keep her voice steady.
“All of it,” she said. “I’m behind in school, Camila was sick last week, my mom’s on my case every second I’m home, and Jaime’s giving my hours to that new old bitch.”
“Cutting hours when you asking for more?” Paz asked without opening her eyes. “That’s some dumbass boss logic.”
“He said I was looking tired,” Mireya muttered.
“You are tired,” Angela said. “We all are.”
“No, like… like I can’t hang,” Mireya snapped, then immediately regretted the edge in her voice. “Like I’m coming undone.”
The silence was awkward for a second. Camila babbled to herself, dragging the giraffe in slow circles.
Angela broke it. “You wanna talk about it?”
“I don’t even know what ‘it’ is anymore,” Mireya said. “Every day’s just… noise. School. Work. My mom yelling. Camila crying. That motherfucker Leo. Kike. This shit with Caine. And I still feel broke. Broke and wrong and just... done.”
Then came the spill.
A sudden slap of plastic on tile. The cup flipped, bright red juice arcing across the floor, spreading into the carpet.
Mireya’s voice snapped out, sharp and loud: “Goddammit, Camila!”
Her daughter froze. Her face crumpled. The first sob came seconds later.
Angela grabbed paper towels without saying anything. Paz stood and picked up Camila, rocking her gently as the crying deepened into hiccups.
Mireya didn’t move.
She stared at the rug like it had insulted her. Her arms hung useless at her sides.
“I shouldn’t’ve yelled,” she muttered. “She’s a baby.”
“You need rest,” Paz said. “You’re burnt out.”
“I yelled at her,” Mireya said again. “Like my mom yells at me when I didn’t even do anything wrong.”
Angela kept wiping. “It was just juice.”
“It’s not the juice,” Mireya whispered. “It’s me. I’m losing it. Every second I’m either pushing or breaking. I feel like I can’t breathe and no one’s noticing.”
Paz offered Camila back to her, but Mireya didn’t move.
She didn’t want to hold her.
Didn’t want to feel her daughter’s breath on her neck, didn’t want the weight of it right now. Didn’t want to feel anything, because it might all come pouring out.
“I can’t do this alone,” she said. “I thought I could. I thought if I just kept going, kept working—something would change. But nothing changes. Just more hours. More bills. More people needing something from me. And I got nothing left.”
Neither Angela nor Paz said anything. There was no comfort to offer. Just the buzz of the broken AC and the wet stain in the rug and a baby sniffling in someone else’s arms.
Mireya turned toward the window, the night pressing in.
She didn’t cry.
She just sat there, empty and still.
And that, somehow, felt worse.
~~~
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a flat, sickly glow across the concrete. Caine sat on the edge of the plastic chair, spine straight but shoulders slouched, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying without knowing why. His workbook lay open in front of him—half-finished algebra problems smudged from where his palm had dragged across the page.
The door clicked. Caine didn’t look up right away.
“Room still smells like mop water and hopelessness,” Mr. Landry said.
Caine gave a faint grunt of amusement. “Ain’t changed.”
Landry stepped inside, the CO leaving the door cracked behind him. He wore jeans and a tucked-in polo, a canvas messenger bag slung across his chest. He looked tired—but not like he was giving up tired. Just like someone carrying weight for too long.
He set the bag down and pulled out a thin folder. “Got something for you.”
Caine raised an eyebrow.
Landry flipped the folder open and slid a paper across the table. It was an email, printed out. At the top: Promotion Notice – Student: Caine Guerra.
Caine stared at it for a second. “What this mean?”
“You’re officially a junior,” Landry said. “You’ve been moved up to eleventh grade.”
Caine didn’t touch the paper. Just stared at it like it was in another language.
Landry continued, softer now. “Ms. Thomas from Carver sent it over. Said your credit recovery packet hit all the benchmarks. The tests, too.”
Caine let out a breath through his nose. “So what? I’m still in here.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t count.”
“I ain’t walking across no stage from this place.”
“You might,” Landry said. “Not today. Not next semester. But maybe. And even if you don’t, this still matters.”
Caine looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in exhaustion. “Feels fake. Like the system giving me a sticker for surviving.”
Landry didn’t argue. He reached into the bag again and pulled out a few books—paperbacks, worn but solid.
“Thought you might be ready for more than GED prep,” he said. “Here.” He set them down one by one. Between the World and Me. A copy of The Souls of Black Folk with notes in the margins.
Caine thumbed one open and tilted his head. “You giving me your shit now?”
“I teach,” Landry said. “It’s a habit.”
Caine read a highlighted line: “To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time.”
He nodded slowly. “That sounds about right.”
Landry sat down across from him. “You remember that Baldwin essay I gave you last month? The one with the letter to his nephew?”
Caine nodded again.
“What did you think of it?”
For a long time, Caine didn’t say anything. Then:
“I think he wanted him to know it ain’t his fault the world’s this fucked up. But that don’t mean he can’t do something about it. Just... not to hate himself.”
Landry smiled, a small one, like he wasn’t expecting a full answer but got more than he hoped for. “That’s a better read than most of my seniors.”
Caine shrugged. “Ain’t shit else to do in here.”
“That’s not true,” Landry said. “You could’ve shut down. Lots of kids do.”
Caine didn’t reply to that. He turned the book over in his hands, then tapped the cover twice before setting it aside.
Landry stood to go, slinging the bag back over his shoulder. “I’ll bring more next week. Maybe Ellison. Maybe poetry.”
Caine grunted. “Don’t bring none of that corny love shit. Not trying to have motherfuckers leaving honey buns on my bed.”
“I won’t,” Landry said, walking toward the door. Then he paused. “You’re still in here, yeah. But every time you choose to engage instead of fold? That’s a step. Even if no one else sees it.”
Caine watched him leave. The door clicked shut.
He stared at the page in front of him—half algebra, half mess—then flipped to a blank one. For a second, he just held the pencil, tapping it against the corner.
Then, without thinking, he started reworking the first problem from the top. Slower this time. Cleaner.
Nobody would see it but him. That felt okay. Maybe even better.
~~~
The office was quiet but not empty. Bookshelves lined one wall, full of thick legal volumes and worn manila folders stacked at angles that made sense only to the person who used them. Case files were neatly arranged on a central table, not cluttered but visible—organized chaos, the kind that said we work here. Framed articles hung beside degrees on the far wall: “The Man Who Got the Acquittal No One Expected” and “Shaw’s Law: The Relentless Defender of the 7th District.”
Sara stood near the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, damp from the bus ride. Her work shirt stuck to her back beneath her jacket.
Nicole emerged from the hallway, carrying a slim laptop and a stack of documents under one arm. She was mid-sentence into a phone call, nodding as she clicked something on the screen with her thumb. When she noticed Sara, she mouthed “just a sec,” then signed off quickly.
“Ms. Guerra,” she said, adjusting the cuffs of her blazer. “Markus stepped out—had to get across the river for a jail visit before lockup. But I’m here.”
Sara nodded once. “I won’t take long.”
Nicole gestured toward the leather chairs near the window. The office didn’t feel like a waiting room—it felt like someone’s strategy den. A painting of Congo Square hung over the desk. A framed quote in Spanish read: La ley también debe temer al pueblo.
They sat.
“I just got off work,” Sara said. “Housekeeping. Hilton downtown. I been trying to pick up extra shifts where I can.”
Nicole offered a polite nod. “That makes sense. Every little bit helps.”
“I’m not doing it for a little bit. I’m saving in case I need to move. In case my son comes home and don’t got anywhere to go.”
Nicole didn’t blink. Just listened.
“I came to ask you something,” Sara said. “Not as his assistant. As a woman. A person.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Sara studied her. “You a mother?”
Nicole shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
Sara nodded slowly. “Then do me a favor. Don’t give me a speech. Just give it to me straight.”
Nicole set the laptop aside and folded her hands in her lap. “Okay.”
“Is he getting out?”
Nicole exhaled. Not dramatically—just the kind of breath that meant she’d been holding something in too long.
“We’re going to fight like hell,” she said. “Markus already filed a motion on the surveillance discrepancy. There’s a chance the judge sees it. A small one, but real.”
Sara waited.
Nicole continued. “The DA’s office is treating your son like a grown man. Their goal isn’t justice—it’s conviction. That’s not me being cynical. That’s the job.”
“And the odds?”
Nicole looked her in the eye. “You should hope. But prepare.”
Sara sat with that. No change in her face. Just stillness.
“I pray,” she said. “Every day. Every night. Ain’t seen much come from it yet.”
Nicole didn’t respond. She didn’t try to comfort her. That was the right call.
Sara stood.
“Tell Markus I said thank you. And to keep doing what he’s doing. But if this thing is headed off a cliff, I don’t want to find out when we’re already falling.”
Nicole gave a solemn nod. “I understand.”
Sara hesitated at the door. “You’re not a mom. But you talk like someone who knows what it’s like to lose.”
Nicole’s mouth opened slightly, then closed again. She didn’t answer.
Sara didn’t wait for one.
