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w ee r 314 Mario Candi in Paris, 1979. no truck with revoluntionary socialism. In Texas, Mario walks alone, and to their left. I gave Mario but a brief mention in my book on immigration, which did not praise him at all; I had theories of my own to tout. Nevertheless, he continued to aid me. Because I wanted to do an article on the rarity of honest reporting in Mexico, Mario called me up, invited me over, and made introductions whenever a Mexican reporter came to interview him, which was often. If today I am on terms of confidence with some Mexican journalists, it is in part because Mario gave me openings. Always, Mario was eager to help. When he called asking that I testify, I felt obliged. I knew that other people who have been involved with Mario would have felt indebted, too, even if for somewhat different reasons. Cantu has been padre o partero to a dozen infant causes called Chicano, though he orphaned many of them in their adolescences. In the early 1970’s, he put together a broadly-supported San Antonio movement against police butality. He helped found La Raza Unida Party. When the Texas Farm Workers Union was not much more than an idea in Antonio Orendain’s head, Mario gave him money and introductions. He edited Sin Fronteras, the newspaper of the once farflung Centro de Accion Social Annonima, an organization which defended immigrants facing deportations. When San An tonio’s garbage workers went out on wildcat strike in 1978, Mario went to jail with them. His character was nowhere more evident, though, than in 1970, when he cancelled a contract his restaurant had to provide lunches to inductees. Mario didn’t care about passing up Army money; he cared about protest. Journalists, however, are more indebted to the truth than to any movements, or to any individuals, with the possible exception of their mothers: if nothing were true, journalists would soon run out of stories to write. Mindful that I knew some things about Cantii that his lawyers wouldn’t want aired in court, I warned him that I would testify truthfully. “Sure,” he said, “don’t worry about it.” Still reluctant, and mindful of my disorientation, I told him that if he wanted me to appear, he’d have to subpoena me. I hung up, and went out for smokes. Mario must have gone straight to the courthouse. Two days later, the subpoena I demanded was delivered. I called Mario. “Now what do I do?,” I asked. He told me to be at the downtown Holiday Inn in San Antonio April 2, the day before the court hearing. I was to meet with his attorney, William Kuntsler. Whether we like him or not and I don’t like him the profile of gangling William Kuntsler is familiar to anyone who THE TEXAS OBSERVER 5