An American Family: Living on the Verge

When Luis was released, even Father Boyle, who is in the business of helping gangsters start over, says the difference was uncommonly dramatic. “I remembered him as a real jerk years ago when he was out

on the street,” he says. “Really the worst. But when he came out, something fundamental had changed in him. All his kindness and gentleness and intelligence was right there on the surface. It was one of those truly remarkable transformations you always hope for.”

The ritual: Elijah faces at the barber.

While Luis worries about money, Francis worries that Luis’ past will one day reappear as a malign wraith and destroy their future. Luis worries about that too. “That’s why he’s always more comfortable when we’re outside of East L.A.,” Francis says. “When we’re at places like the Universal CityWalk — which we like a lot — or the Long Beach Aquarium with the kids, at those times Luis is a whole different person, all happy and outgoing. But in East L.A. he’s tense because he never knows when he’s going to run into people he knew from back in the day. We’ll be walking and suddenly he’ll say, ‘Oh, shit. I knew him from prison,’ or ‘I knew him from this or that neighborhood.’” Luis’ qualms are serious enough that he always circles the house twice before pulling his car into the driveway, just to be on the safe side. “It’s so he can see if there’s anybody there, you know, waiting.”

Along with threats from the past there is still the matter of the police, whose ongoing attention continues to unnerve Francis. For example, just after Labor Day a neighbor called her at work, saying that a slew of black-and-whites were at her house with a guy from Building and Safety checking to see if she had someone living in the garage. (She didn’t.) Francis raced home sobbing hysterically. “They act like we’re criminals,” she says. “It doesn’t matter how good we’re doing. We’re criminals in their eyes forever.”

As summer turns to fall, the cop scrutiny seems to temporarily slow, but Luis starts having unexplained allergy attacks to the point that he breaks out in gigantic hives at the beginning of November. Then, just before Thanksgiving, the hives are joined by stomach cramps, followed by a shortness of breath so intense he feels like somebody is pressing an anvil into his chest. Francis tells Estephanie to watch the kids and races Luis to White Memorial Hospital three blocks away. By the time he hits the ER, he can’t swallow, and when a nurse takes his pulse, her mood goes from casual to urgent. In short order, Luis is on a steroid IV drip while two doctors, one of them a cardiologist, check his vitals. “If you didn’t bring him, he could have died of a heart attack,” an ER doc tells Francis. The hospital never determines the cause of the allergic reaction, so after a few hours of treatment, Luis is sent home. He stays in bed most of the weekend, weak as a kitten, fretting about whether or not his new medical insurance will cover the hospital bills. By Monday, he is back at work. “I can’t afford to have any more subtracted from my paycheck,” he says.

In early December, a generally blue mood descends upon the family when the flu hits two of the kids, causing Francis to miss more days of work. Then, just a week before Christmas, a good omen arrives in an unexpected guise. The incident occurs just after 9 p.m. when Francis is in the kitchen cooking, and the downstairs neighbors call up to warn her that a police van is parked in front of the house, and some uniformed officers are headed for the front door. Francis flies down the stairs prepared for a confrontation. “Can I help you?” she says tersely as she swings open the door. “Hi,” says the main cop, who introduces himself as Senior Lead Officer John Pedroza. “You might recognize me. I’m the one you always call a motherfucker” — except that Pedroza says “effer” rather than the actual offending term. “How many kids do you have?”

“Five,” Francis replies cautiously, suspecting some sort of trap. “Why?”

Pedroza tells Francis he figured her kids had only seen the negative side of the police. “I want them to see there’s a positive side too,” he says, and asks the children’s ages. Francis rattles off the numbers, then gapes as the officers trot back to the van and return with five age-appropriate gifts, one for each of the kids. As the presents are being distributed, four black-and-whites screech to a stop near the van. In a blur of motion, 16 officers disgorge themselves, clearly expecting trouble. Pedroza rushes over to explain that, no, nothing is wrong, he’s merely playing Santa. The officers are slack-jawed. “To them?!” one officer sputters.

“This isn’t about us or them,” retorts Pedroza. “It’s about their kids. Hey, Santa’s supposed to be blind to hate,” he adds when the cops look unconvinced.