Dominga Torres was a stout, brawny woman. Under her uniform, her abdomen still bore a calligraphic “Chola 4 Life” tattoo, an embarrassing reminder of her teen years in East L.A. Much of her early life was spent in and out of juvenile detention centers, cursing authority figures with vows of vengeance. But when she’d become a mother, she’d taken stock of herself and the kind of world she wanted for her babies. Her dream now was to land a position with the LAPD, and then see the expressions on her old friends’ faces when she’d come back into her old hood on the other side of the thin blue line. For now, though, she carried no gun, and her badge was simply a token brass shield printed with the words “Security Guard”, provided by the Medina Gallante.
A female voice squawked from the walkie-ta
