First, we must prove it happened as you say. The Salvadoran authorities claim the Communists killed Mr. Marquez. They claim you arranged the murder. We may in fact need to fight requests to extradite you to face a trial in a Salvadoran court. If we can somehow prove the death squad committed the murder, and that you witnessed it, we will have a good case for asylum. If not… perhaps we can gather public support for your case. However, the State Department does not recognize rallies and slogans in court."

"But he was an American," Senor Rivera protested. "Los Blancosmurdered him. Doesn't your government want justice? Do they not want to protect the rights of their own citizens?"

Holt shook his head, no. "They will not admit his death was murder. The State Department told the press and the Marquez family that he died in a cross fire, an accident of war."

"Machine guns that shoot machete bullets..." Rivera laughed bitterly. "I saw the Blancoskill Ricardo. I saw them take his head and put it on a fence post. I told your embassy of what I saw. I identified the Blancos. Then they came to kill my family. Your country is a democracy. You elect your leaders. How can your people elect leaders who lie and deceive and betray?"

The San Francisco attorney struggled to answer, his lips forming the first syllable of a rational and educated explanation of his president's and nation's Central American policies. But his voice died before he spoke. He knew no rational explanation for the parody of foreign policy his nation's leaders presented to the world: the circus parade of ignorance and fictions, and the vainglorious leading democracy to defeat in the undeclared war against the Soviet empire.

Footsteps stopped at the door. A knock sounded, saving the North American attorney from voicing his own despair.

Senora Rivera answered the door, opening it only a few inches. "Who are you? What do you want?"