Page 6 of Worth the Risk
Harrison wants to manage opposition with legal teams and security contractors—my father’s old playbook for dealing with community resistance. But what if we managed resistance with partnership instead of intimidation? What if we gave Maya Navarro exactly what she’s been asking for six months—a seat at the table, a voice in Highland’s future, a real chance to save what her father built?
Not charity. Strategy.
Highland serves three thousand people in the heart of downtown LA. Those three thousand people have friends, families, social networks that extend throughout the city. They vote in local elections, participate in community organizations, influence neighborhood dynamics that can make or break development projects.
Maya organized eight hundred and forty-three signatures in six months while being systematically ignored. Imagine what she could accomplish with actual support, with Pierce Enterprises as a partner rather than an adversary.
Harrison won’t like it. The board might question it. My father’s ghost will certainly disapprove. But as I straighten my tie and prepare for my next meeting, one thing becomes crystal clear: I’d rather deal with their disapproval than become the kind of man Maya thinks I am.
The kind of man my father apparently was.
3
“Ate Maya,where do you want the sound system?”
I look behind me to see Carlo Martinez wheeling in a portable speaker, his fifteen-year-old frame dwarfed by the equipment. His mother, Rosa, follows behind him with a thermos of coffee and the kind of determined expression that built Highland Community Center one volunteer at a time.
“By the front entrance,” I tell him, checking my phone for the tenth time as I stand in Highland’s main hall surrounded by poster board and enough coffee to fuel a small revolution.
Six AM. In two hours, we’ll march from Highland to Pierce Enterprises, and I have no idea if anyone will show up besides the usual suspects—the core group of families who’ve been with us through everything.
“Anak, here. I made siopao. This one is bola bola. With egg.” Rosa presses a white steamed bun into my hands, still warm from her kitchen. “You can’t lead a protest on an empty stomach.”
This is why Highland matters—not just because it’s a building, but because it’s filled with people like Rosa who show up at dawn with homemade breakfast and volunteer their teenage sons to haul sound equipment. People who call meanaklike I’m their own daughter.
“Thank you.” I take a bite, though my stomach is too knotted with nerves to properly appreciate Rosa’s cooking. The familiar flavors of garlic and ginger should be comforting, but all I can think about is how many people might actually show up, and whether any of this will matter to a man who can ignore eight hundred and forty-three signatures.
“Has anyone heard from the Times reporter?” I call out.
“I’m handling media,” comes the crisp response from across the room. Lianne Peralta emerges from behind a stack of protest signs, phone pressed to her ear and that familiar look of controlled efficiency that makes her so successful at running Luminous Events. Even at six AM, coordinating a community protest between client calls, she looks like she stepped out of a business magazine.
Lianne ends her call and gives me a thumbs-up. “Confirmed—the Times, Channel 7, and KPCC. Plus, someone from the Downtown News said they’d try to make it.” She consults her phone with the same precision she uses to coordinate celebrity galas. “We’ve got sixty-seven confirmed on Facebook, but you know how social media goes.”
I do know. Digital activism doesn’t always translate to bodies on the street. But as I watch Lianne seamlessly juggle Highland’s protest logistics with what sounds like a high-profile wedding planning call, I’m reminded why we’ve been best friends sincecollege. Where I’m all intensity and righteous anger, Lianne is pure strategic charm.
Of course, we’ve been planning this protest for weeks. My visit to Pierce Enterprises yesterday was spontaneous frustration, but organizing a hundred people takes time.
“Maya?” A familiar voice makes me turn. Enrique de Leon stands in the doorway, and the expression on his weathered face tells me everything I need to know about why he’s here so early.
Tito Ricky—my father’s closest friend and Highland’s volunteer legal counsel—has been my surrogate father since Papa died. Which means he’s about to give me advice I probably don’t want to hear.
“Can we talk?” He gestures toward the office.
I follow him past the photos lining Highland’s walls—twenty years of community events, graduations, cultural celebrations. Papa’s smiling face appears in dozens of them, and I catch my reflection in the glass covering his portrait. Same determined jaw, same fire in our dark eyes. Same stubborn refusal to back down from a fight.
Tito Ricky closes the office door and settles into the chair across from Papa’s old desk—my desk now, though I still think of it as his.
“I’ve been researching Pierce Enterprises,” he says without preamble. “Their development pattern shows they’ve demolished twelve community facilities in the past five years. Three of those under Declan Pierce personally.”
I stare at Ernesto. Three communities destroyed since Declan took over. So much for thinking he might be different from his father.
“Churches, community centers, affordable housing—all replaced with luxury developments,” Tito Ricky continues. “Their strategy focuses on transit-oriented development, maximizing property values near Metro stations.”
“What’s your point, Tito?”
“My point is that Declan Pierce is exactly who you think he is. Which means polite presentations won’t work. We need to prepare for a real fight.”
Before I can respond, the office door bursts open. Lianne appears, breathless and clutching her phone.
