The cops there were hassling him at Easter because of the license plate on his car.
Read this:
The 25th of August in 2004 was the day of my birthday, and I was expecting a phone call from Alex, which he never miss, to say, "Happy Birthday, Dad." My mother start baking a cake, and I was working outside with my cell phone in my pocket when I saw the Marines get off the van. Thought it was a surprise, and my happiness was overwhelming. Next thing, the Marines ask me if I was Carlos Arredondo. I don't understand why they asking me that, and I don't see my son anywhere. I even ask them, "Are you guys here to recruit some kids?" because I have a second son, a 16-year-old, Brian. And he said, "I'm sorry, I'm coming to notify you that Alexander Arredondo got killed in combat." At that moment, not expecting those words, my world tumbled and I felt my heart go down to the ground and rush up through my throat. I run from my house to the backyard, looking for my mother to tell her what these men were saying. And she run to try to talk to them, while I was trying to call Maine to reach Alex's mother. Brian answer the phone and because I was in tears, all I could say was, "Sorry, I'm sorry. They're telling me your brother got killed." And Brian said, "I know that, I know." "How do you know that?" "'Cause the Marines, they're here right now, and when I saw them coming, I know."
I run back into the house, grab Alex's picture to give it to my mom. Then seeing the uniforms, ask the Marines to please leave, leave. "Can you please leave." Perhaps I thought that if they did leave, then none of this was happening. I ask God to help me, then call my wife, who was working down the street. And again I ask the Marines to leave, to leave the house. When they answer that they are waiting for my wife, I went into the garage and got a hammer. After asking them to leave again, I walk toward the van, wanting to smash it, all the time hearing the Marines telling me, "Sir, don't do that, don't do that," and my mother yelling in Spanish, "Carlos, Carlos, we've already lost Alex." My head full of confusion, asking myself what's going on, what's going on, I pounded the hammer hard into the ground, then went behind a tree to cry when I think to call Alex's recruiter, Sergeant Martinez. I have his telephone number in my phone. I call him, explain that I'm Alex's father and ask him to please help me, the Marines are telling me Alex has died. The voice on the other side say, "Sir, sir, you've got the wrong number." I look and the phone say "Sergeant Martinez." Pretty sure it was Sergeant Martinez's voice. I call him back again, and again he hung up on me.
I got so angry I go to my garage and get a five-gallon can of gasoline that I keep for my lawn mower, also a torch like they use for welding. And with one in each hand, I once again ask the Marines to leave my house. And they... I don't really remember what was the answer, but they didn't move. So I approach the van, pick up the hammer, bang at that window so hard I cut my arms. When my mother pull the gasoline can away I chase her, got it back, open the van door, begin banging everything inside the van--the computer, the dashboard, the seats, the roof. I couldn't find my son. I was screaming for my son when I threw everything, everything from the van. When I have nothing else to throw, I found the five gallons of gasoline and began pouring it everywhere, everywhere. I was splashing my body, my legs, my clothing. And there was my mother, screaming, the Marines outside the van, talking the whole time on the phone, the fumes that were so strong I couldn't breathe, though the windows were broken.
I am with one leg out of the van, holding the acetylene torch, with my mother pulling at me, when I lose my balance. But what happens was I press the button, which ignite the torch. Next thing was an explosion that threw me out with a lot of fire, and I was falling head down on the ground in flames. And not knowing yet what happen to my mom, I run across the street, until one of the Marines jump on top of me, on my back. And I was screaming, "Momma, Momma, Momma," because my socks, my feet, my shirt were burning. As they dragged me away from the van something blew up. A big bang. And I continue screaming, yelling for my son Alex. "Are you sure that was Alex? Are you sure?"
The day of my son Alex's wake, I was on a stretcher because of the burns.
more . . .
http://www.thenation.com/doc/20060508/richards
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