Mark Gimenez: The Color of Law

“Will that work?” Sid asked.

“It worked for the tobacco companies, Sid. They kept all that evidence about nicotine being addictive secret for forty years-because their lawyers hired the scientists who conducted the studies. So the studies were protected from subpoenas by the attorney-client privilege. No one ever knew that evidence was out there, because their lawyers hid it behind the privilege. Just like we’re going to do.”

Sid was beaming. “That’s brilliant. We can then close the deal with the appropriate environmental escrow.”

“Exactly,” Scott said. “And those environmentalists can go fuck a tree.”

“Frank, how the hell you been, buddy?”

Scott got Franklin Turner, Esq., famous plaintiffs’ lawyer, on the phone on the first try. No doubt Frank had instructed his secretary that if Tom Dibrell’s lawyer called to put him right through, aware that one phone call might net him a handsome fee.

“Two million, Scott.”

Scott had the door closed and Frank on the speakerphone so he could practice his golf swing while negotiating the settlement of a young woman’s claim that Tom Dibrell had used his position as her employer to pressure her to have sex with him-which, knowing Scott’s rich client, was probably true. Scott swung the 9-iron he kept in his office; he used to swing a 6-iron, but he had punched holes in the ceiling tile on his follow-through, so he had dropped down to a 9-iron. From across his office, Scott said: “Jesus, Frank, we could at least shoot the shit for a few minutes, just out of professional courtesy.”

“Scott, Dibrell’s a fifty-five-year-old father of five-”

“Six,” Scott said while checking his golfing address position in the window’s reflection.

“Father of six, married-”

“For the fourth time.” Scott checked his takeaway.

“Married and CEO of one of the biggest goddamn real-estate companies in Dallas, he’s a member of the business council, the chamber of commerce, and every other important civic organization in this city, and he forces himself on a naive twenty-two-year-old young woman-”

“ Forces himself? Give me a break, Frank. Knowing the girls Tom hires, she probably went down faster than Monica Lewinsky.”

He chuckled and checked his backswing at the halfway point.

“It’s not a goddamn joke, Scott! Nadine was irreparably harmed!”

“But two million bucks would make the hurt go away, right?”

“No, but it would make her go away.”

There was a soft knock on the door. Scott turned from the window to see Sue poking her head in. She said in a low voice: “Mr. Fenney, your daughter’s on the phone. She says it’s an emergency.”

An emergency? A jolt of fatherly fear ricocheted through Scott’s central nervous system like a pinball setting off alarms. Four long strides and he was at his desk. He said to the phone: “Frank, hang on the line, okay?”

Scott didn’t wait for a response. He leaned the 9-iron against the desk, picked up the receiver, and punched the blinking light on the phone, putting Frank Turner on hold and his nine-year-old daughter on the line.

“Hi, baby, what’s wrong?”

A tiny voice: “Mother’s gone and Consuela’s crying.”

“Why?”

“They arrested Esteban.”

“ Who? The INS?”

“He said ‘ inmigracion. ’”

“You talked to him?”

“Consuela talked to him first, but she started crying so I talked to him. He said they arrested him where he was building a home, said they’re sending him back to Mexico. Can you help him?”

“Honey, there’s nothing I can do. Esteban’s a tough kid, he’ll be all right. They’ll bus him down to Matamoros, he’ll cross back over the next day, and he’ll be back up here in a few weeks, just like the last time.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said.”

“So why’s Consuela so upset?”

“She’s scared they’re gonna come for her, send her back to Mexico, too. She says she has no one in Mexico, that this is the only home she’s ever had.”

Consuela had come with the house. When the prior owner had filed bankruptcy and could no longer afford the mansion or his Mexican maid, the Fenney family had acquired Consuela de la Rosa like an appurtenance to the property.

“A. Scott, I told her you were fixing things so she can always live with us…you are, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m working on that.” He’d been meaning to hire an immigration lawyer to get Consuela’s green card. “Look, tell her not to worry. INS knows better than to conduct raids in Highland Park. Heads would roll.”

“Huh?”

“They’d get fired if they took Highland Park maids away.”

“Oh. But she’s really scared. She shut the front drapes, she won’t even go outside in the backyard, and she’s saying the rosary. It’s just us here and…well, it’s kind of scaring me, too. No one’s gonna come to our house, are they, and bust in the door like on TV?”

“No, baby, no one’s coming to our house.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. Let me talk to her.”

Consuela was an emotional girl, given to sudden bouts of tears over fears real or imagined, which she warded off by wearing three crucifixes, saying daily prayers to various saints, and keeping enough candles lit on the windowsill above the kitchen sink to light a convenience store. But the fear that never left her was being sent back to Mexico. Esteban was her boyfriend; they had met at the Catholic church in the Little Mexico section of Dallas. Scott drove her over every Sunday morning and picked her up every Sunday afternoon, their weekly visit. Esteban worked construction in other parts of Dallas and faced the risk of INS raids, but Consuela was protected by the unwritten rule that the INS did not enter the Town of Highland Park, home to the richest and most politically powerful men in Texas-and their illegal Mexican maids. Scott’s illegal Mexican maid was as sweet as she was round, and after three years of tending to the Fenney household, she was like a member of the family, albeit one who reverted to her native tongue when distraught. Consuela’s sobbing voice came over the line.

“Senor Fenney, tengo miedo de inmigracion.”

“Don’t be afraid, Consuela. It’s okay. Esta bien. No one’s gonna take you away. You’ll always live with us.”

Scott had picked up some Spanish skills from his Mexican maid, who sniffled and said, “?Para siempre?”

“Yes. Forever.”

“Senor Fenney, you make the, uh… promesa a Consuela?”

“ Si, Consuela, I promise.”

A sniffle. “O-kay. Adios, senor. ”

His daughter came back on. “She stopped crying.”

“Good.”

“A. Scott, you’re not gonna let them take her away, are you?”

“No, baby, that won’t happen.”

“Okay.”

“Look, honey, I’m kind of busy, so if everything’s under control there, I need to get back to work.”

“We’re good. See you later, alligator.”

“After while, crocodile.”

Scott hung up and made a mental note to call Rudy Gutierrez, an immigration lawyer he had met years ago. He’d been meaning to do that for six months now, or maybe a year, almost two come to think of it, but something had always come up and…the blinking light on the phone caught Scott’s eye and he remembered Frank Turner holding-not that Scott minded making a plaintiffs’ lawyer wait for his contingency fee. The image of his daughter huddled behind closed drapes in their Highland Park home with their Mexican maid faded from his mind and was replaced by the image of a smug-faced Frank Turner, famous plaintiffs’ lawyer, leaning back in his chair in his fancy office convinced he was about to win this game and beat Scott Fenney out of two million dollars to buy off sweet Nadine. Not today, Frank. Scott grabbed the 9-iron, punched Frank’s button, engaged the speakerphone, and picked up right where he had left off.