His limbs felt shaky. The back of his neck turned slimy with sweat. He wasn’t afraid for himself. He didn’t care if they sent him back to El Salvador. His life was worthless without his family anyway.
But he cared for their sakes—for the danger he’d be leaving them in. His stomach began a slow twist as he thought about that phone call last night. Those threats. Lissette was gone, maybe even dead by now—he didn’t know. What he did know was that men like that were capable of anything. He’d seen their anything in El Salvador. When he closed his eyes, the memory of his dead cousin came flooding back to him. The way his blood pooled and glistened like spilled engine oil all over the street and into the gutters. There was so much blood running down the street that day, it was a wonder it all came from one skinny little teenager.
No police department in the world could protect his family from men who could do that. Not in El Salvador.
Not here either.
He heard footsteps walking up the stairs and tried to compose himself. To feel nothing. That’s how he did it when he walked his way from El Salvador to the United States. He willed himself to feel no hunger or thirst. No pain or fear. Be a stone, he used to tell himself. A stone feels nothing.
A stone does not have a wife with lupus and a son with cancer, thought Aviles.
The footsteps came closer. Aviles expected the heavy, insistent tread of cops. But the steps were light, almost hesitant.
“Edgar?”
It was the señora. Aviles willed his feet to walk to the conference room door and poke his head out. Their eyes met from a distance of maybe ten feet. She stopped and studied him, tucking a strand of wavy, flowing hair behind one ear.
“I assume you know who’s downstairs,” she said softly.
“I want you to know, the temple didn’t call those men. Not my husband. And not the board either. I have to assume they came because they know you work here.”
“Yes. I understand.” His voice sounded weak and blocked. He cleared his throat to make it stronger. “It’s no one’s fault.”
The voices had gone quiet downstairs—all except for one. Max Zimmerman’s. Aviles could hear the accent. He had no idea what Zimmerman was saying, but the old man sounded angry. And not just at the cops. It sounded like he was speaking Yiddish—or maybe Hebrew—Aviles wasn’t sure. Which meant his anger wasn’t just at the ICE police. It was directed at the board members in his own congregation.
“The two agents promised if you leave with them now, they won’t give you any trouble,” said the señora. “We’ll make sure the congregation knows. We’ll collect money for your appeal. For Noah’s and Maria’s medical bills.”
“Thank you.”
She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Edgar—if I could do something, you know I would. But there’s nothing—”
“I understand.”
“I’m just the rabbi’s wife. I have no say in any of this. And even Mark—he’s an employee of Beth Shalom. Their spiritual leader, yes. But still an employee. Like you.”
Aviles took a deep breath and willed himself to walk with her. The terra-cotta tiles he’d so often mopped felt like pebbles beneath his work boots, like he was crossing a raging river that was about to suck him under. He shot a glance at the sanctuary to his right. The heavy double doors were open. The eternal light above the ark glowed serenely over the empty worship hall with its cavernous ceiling. God was supposed to be present here. But maybe God only listened to Jews in a synagogue and to Christians in a church. Maybe it was like having a ticket to the wrong movie.
Or maybe God didn’t listen at all, no matter which movie you bought your ticket for.
Aviles put a hand on the chrome banister he always polished and stepped onto the red carpet he’d just vacuumed this morning. All conversation stopped on the landing below. In the doorway, he saw the same two ICE agents who’d chased him this morning. The white man with no lips and pale, cataract-looking eyes, and the black man with loose jowls and a bored expression. Aviles froze.
The black man with the loose jowls called up the stairs.
“You come down now, you hear? Game’s over, man.” His voice was friendly and casual, but there was no mistaking the way he fingered the handcuffs on his belt that he was growing inpatient.
The rabbi looked up the stairs at Aviles with pleading eyes. He spread his palms.
“We didn’t call Immigration, Edgar. I swear.” His voice was thin and his face looked especially young in the flashing strobe from the police lights. “Mr. Zimmerman called La Casa before he came over here this morning. They’re trying to reach Adele Figueroa to see if there’s anything she can do.”
Aviles didn’t know Adele Figueroa except by reputation, but he doubted she could help him if his own lawyer couldn’t. And yet he thought he saw something cross the two agents’ faces at the mention of her name. Like they’d eaten something they weren’t sure of, and they couldn’t tell if they were getting heartburn or food poisoning.
Were they afraid of her? Of La Casa? They were the law. They didn’t have to be afraid of anybody.
Or did they?
The black agent straightened, his voice trying to relocate its casual tone without success. “Makes no never-mind who you called,” he said. “This illegal alien is under arrest.” The agent lasered his eyes on Aviles. “Come on down here. We’re through playing around.”
Aviles trudged down the stairs. He passed by Zimmerman, who gripped his elbow with his bony fingers. “Don’t step outside,” Zimmerman muttered in Spanish. “Wait for Adele. She’ll come. You’ll see.”
Aviles wasn’t sure what surprised him more—the old man speaking Yiddish-accented Spanish or the firm, strong grip a man pushing ninety could have on Aviles’s elbow.
“Whatever the hell you’re saying, you keep out of this, Rabbi,” the white agent barked.
“I am not the rabbi,” said Zimmerman. He pointed to Rabbi Goldberg. “He is.”
“Doesn’t matter, old man,” said the agent. “You all look like rabbis to me.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. The men’s postures turned rigid. Something electric seemed to travel through the group. Zimmerman’s grip on Aviles’s elbow became even firmer. Like they were glued together. Sam Lerner—the man who couldn’t wait to turn Aviles over—stepped in front of both of them.
“Just who the hell do you think you’re speaking to here, Agent”—Lerner squinted at the badge strung around the white agent’s neck—“Donovan.”
“Stand out of the way,” Donovan barked. “And get your people here to do the same.”
Donovan attempted to step around Sam Lerner’s girth and over the threshold, but the rabbi and Ben Levine blocked his path.
“Please, Agent Donovan,” said Rabbi Goldberg, patting the air. “I ask that you not enter the synagogue. This is a house of worship. A mikdash—a sanctuary.”
A vein in Donovan’s neck bulged. His face turned red. He glanced at his partner, who held up his hands and backed off. This wasn’t a fight the black agent was willing to pursue—not here and now at least. But Donovan was. He narrowed his gaze and fanned a look across the crowd. The contempt in his pale eyes a minute ago had just been for Aviles. Now, it was for all of them.
“You are in violation of Title Eight, subsection one-three-two-four,” Donovan hissed at the rabbi. “Which makes it a federal crime to attempt to shield, harbor, or conceal from detection any illegal alien in any building or form of transportation. That law applies to you”—Donovan pointed a finger at the rabbi—“just the same as it applies to anyone else. Your people,” he leaned on the word, “are not above the law, even if they think they are.”
Aviles could feel the tension rising in the group. Donovan wasn’t just speaking to him anymore. He was speaking to them. American citizens. American citizens with a painful history of their own.
Ten years ago, when Aviles started work at Congregation Beth Shalom, he knew nothing about Judaism or anti-Semitism. He had a fifth
-grade education from a third-world country. He’d never even heard of the Holocaust until Rabbi Weiss, now retired, took him aside one day and gave him a Spanish-language copy of the Diary of Anne Frank. Aviles brought it home, too embarrassed to admit that it would be a struggle to read it. But his wife, Maria, did. She filled his head with the stories and images of that poor little girl and her family in hiding—not just from the Nazis but from Dutch neighbors who sympathized with the Nazis.
Until Aviles heard those stories, he assumed that only his own people could be so cruel and ruthless. After that, he began to develop a special feeling of kinship toward his employers and their families. He got angry if someone he knew tossed off an anti-Semitic remark. He learned some of the traditions and stories of these people who’d always treated him with kindness. And sure, there were a handful in the congregation who acted like he was invisible. Or their personal servant. But so many others passed along clothes and toys and books for his children. After Noah was diagnosed, they raised an astonishing $18,000 to help with his medical care. Many still came up to him to ask about Noah’s progress.
Donovan was probably so used to treating the people he arrested with contempt, he gave no thought about extending that to others. But it had been a grave mistake here. If Aviles’s ten years at Beth Shalom had taught him anything, it had taught him the special and fragile history of the Jewish people. For all their wealth, education, and citizenship, they were only a few generations removed from the fear of men in uniforms like Donovan. The ICE agent’s words had brought it all back.
Everyone started shouting at once after that. About lawsuits and defamation and words Aviles didn’t know in English or Spanish. Aviles said nothing. The noise of their voices drowned out the sound of a car pulling behind the agents’ sedan. A pale green Toyota with a few dents on the doors. A Latina got out. She was short and pretty and dressed in casual jeans and a bright blue cotton sweater. Her black silky bob of hair caught the sun. She cupped a hand across her eyes to shield them from the glare.
“Hello?” she called from the steps. She had to say it twice before anyone heard her. The black agent turned. The muscles in his face tightened. His bored gaze snapped to attention.
“Ma’am,” he growled. “Do not interfere. This is a police matter.”
“Then don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” she replied. “You know damn well who I am. And you know damn well that I could call every major TV station in the area and have them here in five minutes filming federal agents trying to forcibly remove the father of a grievously sick child from a house of worship. A synagogue. After the media has its way with you, the Anti-Defamation League and the ACLU will keep you tied up in court so long, you’ll be collecting your pension from a witness stand.”
“That’s Adele Figueroa, head of La Casa,” Zimmerman whispered to Aviles. Aviles nodded. He’d figured as much.
“The synagogue is in violation of federal law,” Agent Donovan shot back. “They need to turn this illegal alien over.”
“Do you have a signed judicial warrant for Mr. Aviles’s arrest?” asked Adele.
The two agents exchanged glances. Donovan’s lips thinned into pencil lines.
“What are you, his lawyer now?” Donovan jerked a thumb in Aviles’s direction. “Dude’s probably got a dozen of them in there already.”
“Keep going, Agent”—she squinted at his badge around his neck—“Donovan . . . and”—she turned to the black man—“Tyler . . . You are both doing a great job of making the Anti-Defamation League’s case for them. Now, I ask you again—do you have a signed judicial warrant for Mr. Aviles’s arrest?”
“Aw, for crying out loud . . .” Tyler turned to Donovan.
“Show her the damn paper.”
Donovan whipped out a folded piece of paper and flung it at Adele Figueroa. She slowly unfolded it and read the document. Then she folded it up again.
“Did you break down this man’s door when you attempted to arrest him this morning, Agent Tyler?”
“Huh? No! We didn’t break down any—”
“Did you force your way into his building?”
“He ran.” Donovan sneered at her. “Like a scared rabbit. You’ve got nothing on us.”
“That’s right.” She smiled and handed Donovan back the paper. “Just as you know, you’ve got nothing on Edgar Aviles.”
A murmur went up through the figures in the doorway. Adele turned to the rabbi.
“Agents Donovan and Tyler just showed me something called an administrative warrant,” she explained. “It’s basically a piece of paper issued by ICE that gives its agents the authority to arrest someone in a public place. Repeat—a public place. It does not allow them to break down anyone’s doors and haul them away.” She turned to the agents and smiled sweetly. “If I’m not mistaken, gentlemen, those restrictions against arrest also include schools, hospitals, and houses of worship—Jewish or otherwise.”
“What does that mean?” asked Rabbi Goldberg. “Does that mean he’s free?”
The smile on Adele’s face faltered. Donovan answered.
“Your boy’s not free. Not by a long shot,” he sneered. “He steps one foot outside that door, he’s ours.”
The rabbi looked at Adele. “Is that true?”
“For the moment,” she said.
“Damn right, for the moment,” said Donovan. “Aviles is getting deported. Today. Tomorrow. Makes no difference to us—it’s just paperwork. We’ll get a signed judicial warrant. And then we’ll be back. Nothing you say”—he pointed to Adele—“or you say”—he pointed to the rabbi—“will make any difference. In the meantime, you want your precious illegal alien? You got him. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Enjoy, Rabbi. Your congregation’s gonna love you after this.”
The two agents got into their car and drove out of the lot. The group unclenched. Rabbi Goldberg shook Adele’s hand and Max Zimmerman patted her on the shoulder and beamed.
“What did I tell you?” he asked no one in particular.
“She has chutzpah. And integrity and honor, besides. I knew she could do this.”
Adele Figueroa stood in deep conversation with the rabbi and his wife for a few minutes. Aviles had a feeling the picture wasn’t quite as rosy as Mr. Zimmerman seemed to think. He waited until they’d all said their piece. Then Aviles approached her.
“Thank you, señora,” he said. “I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am. Can I go home now and see my family?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“But you just told the agents that they can’t break down my door and arrest me.”
“With an administrative warrant, they can’t, no,” she explained. “But two things are going to happen now. The first is, if you go home, they’ll harass and threaten anyone and everyone who goes in or out of your building until you surrender. They’ll tell your friends and neighbors that if you don’t surrender and ICE gets a judicial warrant, they’ll arrest everyone in that building who doesn’t have papers.”
“Can they do that?” asked Aviles.
“Yes, unfortunately,” she replied. “Once they have the legal authority to enter your premises, they can arrest and deport anyone and everyone who can’t prove legal status—whether they have a removal order against them or not. So going home can hurt a lot of people and cause a lot of bad feelings.”
Adele flicked her eyes across the room. Not at the rabbi. At his wife. “That’s why you need to stay here for a while. The synagogue has plenty of space. You already work here and can keep on earning some money to help your family.”
“But I can’t live here forever.”
“That brings us to the second thing,” said Adele. “You need to file a request for an administrative stay of removal. A stay is basically a request that ICE stop proceedings to deport you.”
“But my lawyer already filed,” said Aviles.
“He filed a judicial appeal,” she explained. “He asked a federal court to
overturn ICE’s order of removal against you and maybe grant you some long-term protected status. Appeals like that can take a year or more. In the meantime, ICE can still deport you. That’s been the law since 1996.”
Aviles felt like his head was spinning. Immigration law was hard for people with a lot of education. It was especially hard for a man like him with very little. He’d always been so self-reliant his whole life. It pained him that he was so powerless in this.
“This stay,” said Aviles. “How do I file it?”
“You file it at the local ICE office—in this case, the one in Broad Plains,” Adele explained. “ICE will consider a stay if you can prove immediate humanitarian concerns. In this case, your son’s cancer. Your wife’s medical issues. I can help you file but you need to gather all the paperwork and we need to act quickly.”
“Thank you, señora,” said Aviles. “I would appreciate that. If we do this, will ICE grant this . . . stay . . . as you call it?”
“It’s hard to predict,” said Adele. “In your situation, they might. As I understand it, you have no criminal record. You have steady employment. You were previously protected under temporary status. And your wife and children are all American citizens.”
“Yes. That’s correct.” Aviles felt hopeful. But he could see that the señora didn’t look quite as hopeful as he did.
“The thing is,” she continued, “a stay is just that—an extension. Usually six months to a year. The government could still deport you after that. And you have to check in with them periodically. But at least it would allow you to keep fighting your legal appeal in the meantime.”
“I want to file a stay,” said Aviles.
“Good.” She smiled but there was something forced around the edges. “Speed is everything now,” she explained. “If those two agents can get a federal judge to sign the order for your removal before we can gather the paperwork and make an administrative appeal, ICE can arrest you anywhere—including in this synagogue.”
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