you, sir, thank you.” On the ride up, Mami has coached them, using Tía Lola’s saying about catching flies with a drop of honey, not a quart of vinegar.
“Muchas gracias,” Tía Lola echoes in Spanish, adding, “El amor lo vence todo.” It’s one of her sayings: Love conquers all.
“Not yet, Tía Lola,” Miguel whispers. She should save her sayings for later. This officer is not the person Tía Lola has to impress.
But Tía Lola’s smile is so radiant, the gruff-looking man smiles back. “Watch your step,” he cautions, and opens the door for her!
Inside, Carmen is so happy to see them, she gives them all hugs, even though she and Mami usually just shake hands. When they are done with their greetings, a tall brown-skinned man steps forward. His hair is black and disheveled, his glasses small and round. He looksmore like an absentminded professor than a sharp New York City lawyer. “Ay, perdóname,” Carmen apologizes. She introduces her lawyer friend, whose specialty is immigration law: Víctor Espada. That is a lucky omen, Miguel can’t help thinking: a lawyer whose name means “victory sword.”
“Hola, mucho gusto,” he greets them in perfect Spanish. It turns out that Víctor’s ancestors came from Mexico a long time ago. “Actually, they didn’t come here as much as the United States came to them in 1848.” Miguel remembers learning about the Mexican-American War in history class, how a whole chunk of the Southwest was handed over by Mexico when the United States won the war.
After the introductions, Mami explains about the oracle idea her brilliant son came up with. “Sounds like a plan,” Víctor says, giving Miguel a man-to-man nod. It’s enough of a compliment without being all gushy, which Miguel appreciates.
“What do you say we bring in a few of the town’s prominent citizens to speak up for Tía Lola?” Víctor looks over at Miguel like they are planning this case together. That is how Mrs. Stevens and Rudy and Colonel Charlebois, dressed in his old army uniform, are allowed inside the building.
Once their party is all assembled, the switchboard person calls for a Homeland Security officer to come escort them to the hearing room, where Judge Reginald Laliberte is waiting for them.
“Reginald Laliberte?” Colonel Charlebois recognizes the name. “Why, I shipped out to Korea with his father. Got shot down. Left the family fatherless. Mother died soon thereafter. Heard the six kids were farmed out to relatives, a couple to a home. Last I heard, some did well, some ended up behind bars. I guess we’re about to see one of the ones who did okay. Reggie’s son—who would have thought!”
Miguel isn’t sure if this is good news or bad news. Sounds like this judge has had a tough life, and sometimes that can make a person be tough on everyone else. But it’s too late to request an alternate.
They file down the hall quietly, overtaken by the somber air of the place. The walls are bare, except for a few posters with warnings (no smoking, no firearms, no photographs)—nothing cheerful like kittens playing with balls of yarn or photographs of pretty scenes in Vermont. Only Tía Lola seems relaxed, smiling eagerly, as if she’s about to enter a party rather than a room where her fate will soon be decided.
“Aren’t you nervous, Tía Lola?” Miguel whispers just before they go in.
“A mal tiempo, buena cara,” she replies, flashing him an extra bright smile. In bad times, put on a good face. And that’s exactly what she does when she stands before the judge, who sits behind a big desk on a raised platform. He is an older man, gray-haired but with eyebrows that have not aged: they are an astonishing jet-black. This gives him a stern look, as if he is permanently scowling.
“Good morning,” he says, not unkindly. “Looks like spring has finally arrived.” Miguel knows the gray-haired man is talking about the sunny day outside the window. But he can’t help thinking
“Muchas gracias,” Tía Lola echoes in Spanish, adding, “El amor lo vence todo.” It’s one of her sayings: Love conquers all.
“Not yet, Tía Lola,” Miguel whispers. She should save her sayings for later. This officer is not the person Tía Lola has to impress.
But Tía Lola’s smile is so radiant, the gruff-looking man smiles back. “Watch your step,” he cautions, and opens the door for her!
Inside, Carmen is so happy to see them, she gives them all hugs, even though she and Mami usually just shake hands. When they are done with their greetings, a tall brown-skinned man steps forward. His hair is black and disheveled, his glasses small and round. He looksmore like an absentminded professor than a sharp New York City lawyer. “Ay, perdóname,” Carmen apologizes. She introduces her lawyer friend, whose specialty is immigration law: Víctor Espada. That is a lucky omen, Miguel can’t help thinking: a lawyer whose name means “victory sword.”
“Hola, mucho gusto,” he greets them in perfect Spanish. It turns out that Víctor’s ancestors came from Mexico a long time ago. “Actually, they didn’t come here as much as the United States came to them in 1848.” Miguel remembers learning about the Mexican-American War in history class, how a whole chunk of the Southwest was handed over by Mexico when the United States won the war.
After the introductions, Mami explains about the oracle idea her brilliant son came up with. “Sounds like a plan,” Víctor says, giving Miguel a man-to-man nod. It’s enough of a compliment without being all gushy, which Miguel appreciates.
“What do you say we bring in a few of the town’s prominent citizens to speak up for Tía Lola?” Víctor looks over at Miguel like they are planning this case together. That is how Mrs. Stevens and Rudy and Colonel Charlebois, dressed in his old army uniform, are allowed inside the building.
Once their party is all assembled, the switchboard person calls for a Homeland Security officer to come escort them to the hearing room, where Judge Reginald Laliberte is waiting for them.
“Reginald Laliberte?” Colonel Charlebois recognizes the name. “Why, I shipped out to Korea with his father. Got shot down. Left the family fatherless. Mother died soon thereafter. Heard the six kids were farmed out to relatives, a couple to a home. Last I heard, some did well, some ended up behind bars. I guess we’re about to see one of the ones who did okay. Reggie’s son—who would have thought!”
Miguel isn’t sure if this is good news or bad news. Sounds like this judge has had a tough life, and sometimes that can make a person be tough on everyone else. But it’s too late to request an alternate.
They file down the hall quietly, overtaken by the somber air of the place. The walls are bare, except for a few posters with warnings (no smoking, no firearms, no photographs)—nothing cheerful like kittens playing with balls of yarn or photographs of pretty scenes in Vermont. Only Tía Lola seems relaxed, smiling eagerly, as if she’s about to enter a party rather than a room where her fate will soon be decided.
“Aren’t you nervous, Tía Lola?” Miguel whispers just before they go in.
“A mal tiempo, buena cara,” she replies, flashing him an extra bright smile. In bad times, put on a good face. And that’s exactly what she does when she stands before the judge, who sits behind a big desk on a raised platform. He is an older man, gray-haired but with eyebrows that have not aged: they are an astonishing jet-black. This gives him a stern look, as if he is permanently scowling.
“Good morning,” he says, not unkindly. “Looks like spring has finally arrived.” Miguel knows the gray-haired man is talking about the sunny day outside the window. But he can’t help thinking
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