Money Matters

by Brian Finney

  Suddenly the cell door is unlocked. A guard gestures for Miguel to follow him out of his cell and into a room where an official wearing a navy sweatshirt with POLICE ICE in huge white block letters waves him to a chair facing his desk. The official has a shaved head, flaring nostrils, a double chin, and drooping jowls. His manner is impassive, robot-like.

  “Name?” he barks.

  “Miguel Mondragon.”

  “Social security number?”

  Miguel recites the number.

  “Are you aware that that number matches that of a man in Pensacola, Florida, who died in 1998?”

  Miguel shrugs. “There is some mistake.”

  “Don’t bullshit me.” Raising his voice, the agent glares at him.

  Miguel says nothing.

  “You and I both know that you’re an undocumented alien.”

  The term sounds so formal to Miguel. “Wetback,” or “Floater,” he’s used to. The legal term sounds much more threatening.

  “I spent my entire life here in America.” Miguel says calmly. “My first and only language is English. I graduated from West Covina High School. I work at—”

  “Now you’re bullshitting me some more. If you were born here you’d have a legitimate social security number of your own.”

  Miguel clams up. He was brought to the States by his parents when he was just one-and-a-half. He has no memory of his first eighteen months in Mexico.

  “Where do you live?”

  “West Covina.”

  “Address?”

  Miguel hesitates. He isn’t going to give La Migra information that would enable them to arrest the rest of his family. He stays silent.

  “I said, what is your address?”

  “I know my rights. I don’t have to say anything I don’t want to.”

  The agent raises his voice threateningly. “Rights! You have no rights. You are in this country illegally.”

  Miguel shrugs. “I am still not giving you my address.” He waits for the storm to break.

  Instead the agent addresses him as one reasonable human being to another. “Listen here, Miguel. There’s a choice you need to make. You can waste my time and everyone else’s time by continuing to deny the obvious—that you’re here illegally. If you continue to insist on this obvious lie you’ll spend six months to three years in a detention center waiting for the inevitable—deportation. You know what life in a detention center is like?”

  Miguel shakes his head, though a friend of his did describe his experience of one last year, and it sounded terrible.

  “Shall we say extremely uncomfortable? And the end result will be the same—a forced trip over the border.”

  “So what other choice do I have?” Miguel asks.

  “What’s called a fast-track deportation, which would mean that you would be released over the border in a matter of days.”

  “It’s so unfair,” Miguel says. “I’ve been here my whole life. I’ve never broken the law—”

  “I know that,” interrupts the agent. “We’ve checked your records, and they’re clean.”

  “I contributed to the economy and paid my taxes. It’s just not fair.”

  “I don’t make the laws. I simply enforce them. Legally, you have no defense.”

  Miguel stays silent.

  “So why sentence yourself to months of unpleasant confinement?”

  Miguel sees the sense in his argument. Why put off the inevitable and make his life a nightmare? On the other hand, what alternative options might be open to him? If only he had more time to think things through.

  “What do I have to do?” he asks.

  “Just sign these papers.” The agent pushes a set of official documents across the desk. Miguel looks at the stack. Emerging from the sides are Post-it arrows indicating where Miguel’s signature should go.

  The top page is headed:

  STIPULATED REQUEST FOR REMOVAL ORDER AND WAIVER OF HEARING.

  “What does this mean?” Miguel asks, pointing to the first sentence. “‘I have received a legal aid list.’”

  “Just a formality,” the agent replies reassuringly. “But here’s a copy if that makes you feel better.”

  He hands Miguel a printed list of immigration lawyers in the city.

  Faced with so many technical terms, Miguel feels out of his depth. He tries to remain calm.

  “And what are the ‘allegations in the NTA’ that I have admitted to?” Miguel asks uncertainly.

  “Notice To Appear,” the agent replies. “That’s what you’re waiving your rights to.”

  “Appear where?” Miguel persists.

  “Before an immigration judge.” The agent’s getting more annoyed with each question.

  “And what do I admit?” If only he had time to think clearly, Miguel thinks.

  “THE OBVIOUS!” the agent snaps with obvious annoyance. “That you’re in the US with false documentation. Any more stupid questions?”

  Miguel feels dizzy. He can’t think straight.

  “But I don’t admit that my papers are false.”

  “You don’t have to, idiot. They’re false whether you say so or not.”

  Miguel feels his grip on the situation slip away. It all seems so hopeless. However unjust it is, he has no legal case. His social security number is fraudulent. What can he do?

  “I’ll sign,” he blurts out.

  “Then do it—here, and here, and here.”

  Miguel’s head feels it’s going to burst. He just can’t see a better option. Defeated, he signs his name again and again and again.

  Monday

  NOVEMBER 1, 2010

  I‌‌listen to Rihanna all the way to Eduardo’s mid-Wilshire office, singing along to her sexy fantasies, while reminding myself that I’ve only met Eduardo in person once. For all I know he’s already in a relationship. Or gay. Or just not interested in me. Still, my heart is racing as Sofia, his assistant, leads me down the hall. How many hopeful, smitten women has she led to Eduardo’s office, I wonder.

  Eduardo greets me with a warm hug. He shows me to a comfortable chair next to a low coffee table.

  “Coffee?” he asks me before Sofia leaves the room.

  “Already had too much, thanks,” I reply.

  “I probably have too.” He turns to Sofia. “One coffee then, please.”

  “One of my vices,” he grins at me. “Caffeine only, for breakfast.”

  “If that’s a vice, the whole country’s in trouble.”

  “It’s not my worst vice, though,” he adds. Am I dreaming, or is he flirting with me?

  “I won’t ask you what that is,” I flirt back, just in case.

  “Of course, being a woman, you have no vices,” he teases.

  “Rest assured. I have more than my share.”

  “What a relief,” Eduardo says, and we both laugh.

  Eduardo pulls out a sheet of notepaper.

  “As there are only a small number of detention centers in California, I have decided to make all the calls myself.”

  I was hoping for more flirting first. I remind myself that he’s doing me a big favor, helping me do something I wouldn’t even know how to start doing on my own. I am feeling confused—grateful and disappointed at the same time.

  “What’s Miguel’s full name?” Eduardo asks.

  “Miguel Mondragon.”

  “Good. Here goes.”

  I listen to him go through the routine with the first center, in Santa Ana. It only takes us about twenty minutes to get through the list. The officials at the end of the line are uniformly curt and negative. Miguel has disappeared into the system. Or the system’s records haven’t caught up with his movements. He has become what he was charged with being—stateless, a non-being.

  “Don’t be frustrated,” Eduardo reassures me. “This often happens when a detainee is in transit. We’ll try again later in the day.”

  “You’ve already done enough,” I say without conviction. “I can take the list with me and call again
this afternoon.” I can’t believe I just suggested this.

  Happily, he rejects my offer. “What will you do if a center confirms that they’re holding him?”

  “Phone you,” I say sheepishly.

  “So what’s the point? I’ll try all of the centers again later and let you know as soon as I have located him.”

  I reflect how superfluous I have been. That suggests that he was looking for an excuse to see me again. Which makes me feel good.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I say.

  “I can think of a few ways,” Eduardo says, laughing.

  I look at him with my eyebrows raised.

  “Just joking,” he says.

  Don’t be just joking, I implore him silently. “Seriously,” I say. “I owe you one.”

  “Are you going to give me an IOU?”

  “You’ve already got it.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Eduardo says.

  He walks me down the hall to the front door. We turn to one another to say goodbye. Impulsively I pull his head down with both hands and kiss him briefly on each cheek. Then I make a hurried exit, mortified by my pushiness.

  ✽✽✽

  I have hardly got back to the apartment when my phone rings.

  “Hello, Jenny.” It’s Dad.

  “Hi, Dad. What’s up?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure whether I should be sharing this with you.”

  “Sharing what?”

  “What happened when I got home last night.”

  “Tell me, Dad.”

  “I found your mother sitting at the kitchen table staring at a pile of antidepressants she had poured out in a heap—at least two weeks’ worth.”

  “You mean she was planning on taking them all?” I’m in shock.

  “When I think back on it now, I don’t know whether she staged this for me, or whether I had interrupted her from swallowing them all.”

  “Even if it was only meant as a warning shot, this needs to be taken seriously.”

  “I know that. When I saw her like that I broke down crying. I couldn’t even say anything for ten minutes.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. What happened next?”

  “I told her we couldn’t go on like this. Either we got a second opinion, or I would have to move out.”

  “Very likely! I doubt whether she believed that threat for a moment,” I say.

  His reply surprises me. “She responded, ‘Typical! You just needed a good excuse to abandon me by going to Oklahoma—and ruin my life in the process.’”

  “She sounds very bitter.”

  “When I told her that I had decided not to take the job there, she just got angrier. She shot back, ‘And you think that will make me feel any better? At least there I could have made new friends.’”

  “Oh, dear,” I sigh. “She seems to want it both ways. That suggests that she’s really confused.”

  “I tried again. ‘I beg you,’ I pleaded, ‘please let me make you an appointment with a psychiatrist.’ She stormed out of the room.”

  “Poor Dad. Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’m not asking you for help. Just keeping you informed. But honestly, I don’t know what to do next.”

  I am at a loss to suggest anything.

  Dad interrupts my thoughts. “Your mother is coming downstairs. I have to go.” The phone goes dead.

  Poor Dad. I reflect that only a day ago I was identifying with Mom and assuming Dad was the cause of their problems. I remind myself that there’s always another angle, an alternative story, where couples are concerned. Time to get on with my own life.

  ✽✽✽

  I phone Felicia to tell her that so far we haven’t made much progress with Miguel.

  “Let’s ask Mr. Todd if he and Mr. Dan intervene for us with la migra?” she suggests.

  Highly unlikely, I tell myself. But what use have I been so far?

  “Is he in this morning?”

  “Sí. Sí. I ask if he see us in one hour. Is that good?”

  “I guess so. I’ll be there by 10:30.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, preciosa.”

  Back in my Corolla I turn on KCRW. A commentator is talking about Dan Granger’s stance on immigrants. Before the Gomez scandal he was slightly ahead of Jerry Brown in the polls. Now Brown has an overall ten-point lead over Granger.

  I change channels. It’s Kesha halfway through “TiK ToK”—

  Tick-tock on the clock . . .

  She’s infectious. I want to be dancing as soon as I hear this party track. She’s set on having a good time and offers no excuses for simply wanting to enjoy herself, turning and twisting to the music. I need to release the Kesha in myself. I need to do a lot of things. But first I have to make one last attempt to help Felicia.

  ✽✽✽

  “Hola!” a serious-faced Felicia greets me as I walk into the kitchen. “You arrive in time. Mr. Todd is waiting for us in the den.”

  She’s changed. How? She seems more tentative than usual. More lost.

  Todd is on the phone. He waves us in and points to two chairs facing his desk. “Can you confirm that a hundred thousand was deposited in my Number Two Business Checking Account this morning? Thank you. That’s all for now. Goodbye.”

  Dirty money, I think.

  “So what can I do for you?” Todd asks, looking from me to Felicia and back to me again.

  “My nephew,” Felicia blurts out. “La migra took him. ICE.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Felicia. What was he arrested for?”

  “We cannot find him,” she replies without answering his question.

  “Yes, but why was he arrested?” Todd asks again.

  “He was charged with being in the US illegally,” I interject.

  “But he’s been here all his life, hasn’t he?”

  “Sí. Sí.” Felicia cries eagerly.

  “What’s his legal status?” Todd asks.

  “I’m not sure,” Felicia answers. “His mother says his number is not good.”

  “That’s serious,” Todd says. “But he still has the right to be heard by an immigration judge.”

  I shake my head. “Miguel signed away his rights to a hearing. He’s facing fast-track deportation. We can’t even find out which detention facility is holding him—”

  Felicia breaks in. “Please, Mr. Todd. Your brother is important person in California. He can stop this.”

  Todd’s demeanor changes.

  “Felicia, I don’t think you understand what you are asking.”

  “What you mean?”

  “My brother is running for governor on a platform that promises to deport undocumented aliens. I can’t possibly ask him to argue in favor of one.”

  “But Miguel is American,” Felicia pleads. “He speak only English. He go to school here. He pay taxes.”

  “He’s still illegal,” Todd replies. “My brother can’t help him without damaging his campaign.”

  “Please Mr. Todd. Help me. You are the only one that can help.”

  “I’m sorry, Felicia, but there’s nothing I or my brother can do for your nephew. He should have applied for legal status a long time ago.”

  “But his parents don’t have documents either.”

  “Then they should have done the same.”

  “Is not fair,” Felicia says tearfully.

  “I’m afraid life isn’t always fair.”

  Felicia is sobbing now. She tries to speak, waves her hands, and rushes out of the room.

  An instant later we hear a crash. Todd and I rush into the kitchen, where we find Felicia, still in tears, in the act of cleaning up a burnt soufflé she must have dropped as she was taking it out of the oven.

  “I’m no better than Miguel,” she says between sobs.

  “What are you talking about, Felicia?” Todd asks.

  “I’m illegal too. Like Miguel.” She says.

  “You’ve got a social security card,” Todd says. “I’ve seen it.”

&nbs
p; “Miguel has one too,” Felicia says. “Means nothing. I paid a Mexican lawyer for the card. Miguel too.”

  “You mean . . .” Todd shakes his head, as if to orient himself. “You’re undocumented too?”

  “Sí. Sí. And if Mr. Dan get elected I will be sent back too.”

  My heart sinks. Todd and I are shocked into a brief silence while we process this news. Felicia could become another Gomez.

  Todd abruptly leaves the kitchen, and I follow him to the den. He dials a number on his cell phone—Dan’s, I realize, as I listen to Todd explaining what he just heard to his brother.

  “I know. That’s why I phoned you . . . I agree . . . Of course . . . She’s been with me for years now . . . Naturally you come first . . . Okay, I’ll do it now . . . Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the press hears nothing about her . . . Leave it to me . . . Talk to you later . . . Bye.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask, knowing the answer.

  “What else can I do? I have to let her go.”

  “I can’t believe you’d do that after all this time.”

  “Truly, I wish I didn’t have to.”

  I follow him to the kitchen, where we find Felicia still crying.

  “Felicia,” Todd says, “I’m really sorry, but I cannot afford to let you continue working here. It will jeopardize my brother’s career.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Todd?” Felicia asks in a frightened voice.

  “I mean that you are going to have to find a position somewhere else.”

  “You firing me?”

  “I have to. I am giving you immediate notice. You’ve left me no choice.”

  Felicia breaks out in a new fit of sobbing.

  “Can’t you just ask her to take a break until after the election?” I ask.

  “No. I can’t. Even if he loses, my brother is a leading Republican politician with a strong stand on immigration. He can’t be tainted by a brother employing an illegal immigrant. Felicia has to go. Now.”

  He turns back to Felicia. “I’m going to write you a check for three months’ pay. On top of that I’m giving you a lump sum of $5,000. I hope that will give you time to find another job.”