Free The Hidden Law by Michael Nava Page A

man stood on the corner of Main and First, shrieking passages from the Bible, a Styrofoam cup balanced on his head. As we approached him, he stopped in mid-imprecation, reached for the cup and took a drink from it.
    She put her arm through mine and said, “I’ve always wondered what he had in that cup.”
    “God’s work is thirsty work, I guess.”
    “LA, don’t you love it?”
    “It got to be a hot weekend,” I said, not referring to the weather.
    “I know, I know. I’ve spent the last five days trying to keep people in my district calm.”
    “Tomas Ochoa didn’t help matters.”
    “That shit,” she said.
    “I saw you on TV last night talking about Gus,” I said, pulling her toward me to avoid a broken bottle of Gallo port on the sidewalk. On the tube, she had praised Peña as a friend of the poor and leader in the continuing fight for the civil rights of all people. “Did you mean it?”
    “You’re so cynical, Henry. You should go into politics.” Waving away a panhandler, she said, “Of course I meant it. Gus had an excellent record on social legislation. In his own way, he was a powerful advocate for the community. The fact that he was also an asshole is neither here nor there. Besides,” she added, thoughtfully, “there aren’t so many Chicano politicians that we can afford to lose one.”
    “Who do you think killed him?”
    She wasn’t listening. We’d crossed First and were heading down Main, past boarded-up storefronts that reeked of urine, and a parking lot where the homeless lived in tents made out of plastic garbage bags and cardboard boxes.
    “Look at this,” she said, indignation darkening her voice. “In one of the richest cities in the world people live like this.” She looked at me, frowning. “Gus wore thousand-dollar suits, but he knew what it was like to be poor. Unlike the gringos who run this town.”
    “I’m on your side,” I reminded her.
    Traffic had been diverted around the church, and a line of black limousines was parked alongside it. Police officers patrolled the area keeping the crowd at bay. I began to hear chanting. As we approached I saw that it was coming from a contingent of black T-shirted, placard-waving Act Up members. One of them read, “Save the Minority AIDS Project.” Others repeated in Spanish the group’s motto, Silence = Death.
    Separated from them by a line of cops was another group, mostly Chicano kids, holding up their own placards denouncing the police. Some of them had started shouting “Faggots,” and “Queers,” at the Act Up contingent. I thought I caught a glimpse of Ochoa among them.
    “What’s Act Up doing here?” Inez asked.
    “They’re pushing funding for the Minority AIDS Project,” I said, repeating what Josh had told me. “They figured there’d be a big contingent of politicians at the funeral.”
    “It looks to me like there’s going to be a fight,” she said.
    We’d come to the police line. I looked over to where the cops had contained the Act Up people, searching to see if Josh was there. He was, one hand raised in a fist in the air, and the other around Steven Wolfe’s waist. He saw me and began walking forward, but a black cop pushed him back with the edge of his baton.
    “There’s Josh,” I said, pulling her with me as I hurried over to him.
    Josh was arguing with the cop, Steven coming up behind him, when we got there.
    “Excuse me, officer,” I said. “This is a friend of mine.”
    The cop looked me up and down in my black suit, and glanced at Inez. “Sorry, sir, the demonstrators have to stay behind the lines.”
    “I just want to talk to him,” I said.
    “Officer,” Inez said, pulling her wallet out of her purse. “I’m with him.” She flipped her wallet open, showing some kind of badge. He looked at it.
    “OK, but just you,” he said to Josh, letting him through. Steven smiled at me with unmistakable disdain.
    “Hi, Inez,” Josh said. “What was that you showed him?”
    “City