"I'm Floyd Jefferson. Mr. Holt told me to come here..."

"Floyd!" Holt ushered the young black reporter into the crowded apartment.

"I would've called but your office couldn't give me a number."

"You have the photos?"

Jefferson passed an envelope to Holt. "Got on the plane as soon as I got them from the lab."

The attorney introduced the aspiring journalist to the Riveras. "Floyd Jefferson worked with Ricardo. Now he's working with us. Mayor Rivera, Mrs. Rivera..."

The young man surprised them with Spanish. "Mucho gusto, senor. Senora. Lo siento por las problemas mipais da ustedes. Antes del muerte de mi amigo Ricardo, pienso…" When he paused to think of the correct Spanish phrase, Senor Rivera cut off the apology.

"You are not responsible. Please, we speak in English, so we are not rude to Mr. Holt. Did you study Spanish in college?"

Jefferson laughed. "No, I studied English. I talked Spanish with my mother."

They sat around the table. "Your mother spoke Spanish?" Senora Rivera asked.

"She came from Puerto Rico. My dad spoke some Spanish, too. And Indian. And Gaelic. He came from New Mexico."

"You have many bloods," Senor Rivera commented. "Truly a child of America."

"I got a lotof different people in me — black, white, red, maybe yellow." Jefferson laughed. "When people call me black, I want to set them straight, 'Nah, rainbow.' Nino del arco iris."

Holt stopped the small talk. "Floyd has just returned from Miami. Look at these photos. Perhaps…"

Despite the low light and forced development, the prints captured every feature and expression of the Salvadorans. Holt spread the eight-by-ten blowups across the table's pink Formica. Senor Rivera pointed to one young Salvadoran.

"This one. He was one of the soldiers who killed Mr. Marquez. This man..." he pointed to the photo of the death-squad commander "...I have seen him in the newspapers. A colonel, I believe."