Red embarrassment replaced red anger on Mikey’s face, and Jessica’s youngest trained his focus on the salad he was pushing around his plate with a fork.
Jessica gave Conor a death stare for being a jackass, but he wouldn’t give her the pleasure of looking in her direction. “Mikey, we’re proud of you for going out for the student council. Right, honey?” She nudged Danny with her psychic powers, not wanting to be the sole defender against sibling rivalry.
Danny obliged. “Of course. Congratulations, Mikey. Conor, we’d love to hear about your latest successes.”
Conor had no response, but Mikey sat a little taller now.
Zombie-apocalypse planning resumed then morphed into updates on everyone’s day. Swim practice was grueling, the math quiz was easy, the sixth grade was having a bowling social next week, and everyone wanted to know if there was something for them in all those boxes from Oma.
ONCE the kitchen sparkled again, ready to be destroyed afresh in the morning, Jessica headed toward the stairs so she could pick up with Danny where they’d left off when Conor and Mikey had interrupted them.
Movement in the parlor stopped her at the base of the stairs. Someone must have taken her up on her offer to open a box or two.
Jessica stepped into the room. “Hi.”
Cricket sat on a chair that Jessica had pushed next to the doorway earlier. A tan leatherette jewelry case sat open on her lap. “Jewelry,” she said simply.
Oma had kept her few pieces of fine jewelry with her at the assisted living facility, and they had gone to Jessica’s mom, to be divided among the granddaughters someday. “It’s probably just Oma’s costume jewelry. But you can have it. I bet there’s something in there you might like.”
Cricket held up a silver cross embedded with rough squares of green stone. “I really like this. It had a note with it that said it was Oma’s grandmother’s. Grandma Margarethe?”
In the lamplight, the color of Cricket’s eyes, a green deeper than even her mom’s, glinted as if they were reflecting the stones.
Jessica stepped forward for a better look. “So pretty. I think I might have a silver chain that would go with it. I’ll check upstairs.”
Cricket placed the cold cross in her hand. Surprisingly heavy, the cross invited Jessica to embrace it in her fist.
Cricket left the room, taking the jewelry case with her. The collection of boxes didn’t look any less daunting than it had earlier in the day. It just looked like a lot of work. But maybe there would be more than a couple of gems among Oma’s things.
“Why, Jessica, have you found religion?” The mirror above the vanity reflected Danny’s feigned look of sincerity. Mussed hair lent to his air of earnestness. They weren’t regular churchgoers, though Danny had been raised Catholic.
Jessica laughed. “Oma’s grandmother, the kids’...” Jessica set the cross on the vanity and counted out on her fingers. “Great-great-great-grandma Margarethe, I guess. Crick found it in one of the boxes downstairs. I’m sure I have a chain that would work with it.” She lifted the lid of a chestnut jewelry box.
“Celtic.”
“Pardon me?” Jessica didn’t look up from the jewelry box. The tangle of silver knots made it hard to see if she had a chain long enough for the pendant. The silver dollar already had its spot in the corner, catching light from the lamp on the dresser.
“This is a Celtic cross. See the etchings?”
She picked it back up. “Ah, and the circle. Of course.” Jessica hadn’t noticed the etchings in the lamplit parlor, but they were distinctly Celtic, with dense, interwoven lines between the green stones. “Remember when we got married and Oma cornered me in the church?” Jessica put on her best northern Iowa accent. “‘Since you’re marrying an Irish...’ I loved how she always called you ‘an Irish.’”
“Makes me sound like a dog.” He glanced over at Gracie, who lay at the end of the bed. “No offense, Gracie.”
Gracie didn’t lift her head, but her tail wagged in acknowledgment.
“She said we had some Irish in our family, but it was something that just wasn’t discussed. You know, like cancer or homosexuality. I figured it was just a bit of fun because of my green eyes, especially considering my great-grandma’s references to the ‘dreaded papacy’ when I was a kid.” She jabbed Danny playfully.
“I was an altar boy, I’ll have you know. Even thought about becoming a priest.” Danny raised his eyebrows, daring her to challenge his qualifications.
“You would have been the ‘hot priest.’ That’s for sure.” She brushed away his wandering hands, which had found their way from her shoulders to her hips. “Though I don’t know how you would have been able to keep your vows.” Jessica finally freed a chain from the knotted mess and threaded it through the loop on the pendant. “In any case, I like it. Oma seems to have a few surprises up her sleeve. Do you think I’ll look like Madonna, circa 1985?” She held the necklace over her chest.
“Only if you wear it with your cone bra.”
He didn’t seem to remember her plans for the day, so Jessica asked him about his. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you how your meeting went today. You seemed to be in a pretty good mood when you got home.” Jessica flicked off the light before sliding under the covers.
The bed creaked as Danny climbed in beside her. “Things are moving along. I met with our contact at the Department of Defense, and he said Binnacle’s proposal is really strong. None of the other firms have the encryption capabilities that our team has put together. From there, it’s just a matter of politics.”
This was a big deal, possibly the biggest in Binnacle’s history, and not because the company wasn’t already successful. An encryption software patent and a charismatic founder who put in crazy hours ensured that it was. But this deal, with both its scope and its high profile, would propel the company into the vanguard of the industry. It was why Danny had been working so much this year and would likely continue to do so if they got the contract. “What exactly are they buying from you?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Danny’s steely eyes bore through Jessica before he cracked a smile.
It still made her laugh. Early in their relationship, she had learned he couldn’t tell her about some of his work, and he knew she couldn’t tell him about hers, back when she was a practicing attorney, anyway. She thought about her earlier client meeting and cringed at Amina’s rejection of her and of her own relief in the rejection.
“But I can say that the table you made for my office out of that old ship hatch door made quite the impression when he came in today, hon. He’s a naval officer, and he knows good work when he sees it. I know I always questioned you leaving those remnants of the original naval gray paint on it, but that’s what pulled him in. He’s convinced it’s from a World War II ship. Between your workmanship and our product, the meeting went really well.”
“I’m glad somebody had a good client meeting today.”
“That doesn’t sound good. What happened with yours?” He placed his hand on her cheek, the warmth helping ease the lingering ache from the clenched jaw.
“I showed up expecting Leslie to be running the show, but she ghosted.” She rolled over and turned off the lamps, first on her side of the bed, then on Danny’s side. Then she decided that even the dark wouldn’t make giving him a play-by-play less demoralizing. “Let’s just say it didn’t go well.”
“You’ll bounce back. You always pull things together.” He ran his hand past her cheek and through her hair then pulled her closer.
She was on no ledge, but she’d hoped he would at least sense her self-doubt, ask more questions, and say something to validate her internal conflict—the fear of leaving behind nothing but boxes, the memory of the failed meeting that morning, and her sick feeling about not being as open-minded as she thought she was. Instead, he caressed her back and kissed her softly on her temple.
She may not have wanted to be in that office this morning, but this could be wo
rse, to be so dependent on someone else to validate her feelings. If she started to unload on him now, it would prove a reliance on Danny’s imprimatur or confirm that she was a failure, or both.
Jessica rested her head on Danny’s bare chest as he pressed the full length of his body against hers. She would need to figure this one out herself.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Jessica, I am so sorry about the mess the other day. If I hadn’t been at the conference, I would have been able to help out.” Rosalie sat behind a desk that seemed much too cluttered for someone who was the director of the IAP.
“It’s fine,” Jessica replied. “It was just unexpected, having to go in there myself.” And be faced with a defensive woman from Syria rather than a sweet, scared child from Guatemala. But she couldn’t say that out loud.
“I hope you’ll reconsider volunteering, though. I know you said in your message that this isn’t a good fit for you—”
“Forget I left that message. I called in the heat of rejection. I’ve had some time to think about it.” That, and she’d had time to realize that if she gave into self-doubt and other weaknesses, she wouldn’t like the person she became. “I’m still on board.”
“Great.” Rosalie clasped her hands together and leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “So, what happened in your meeting?”
“I met Amina Hamid, and she fired me.” Jessica shrugged to mask the remnants of her earlier embarrassment.
Rosalie pursed her lips in commiseration. “Yes, you mentioned that. Any reason? What did she tell you?” She put on red-rimmed reading glasses and then, somehow knowing which of the hundred or so folders on her desk was the right one, pulled out the Hamid file.
“She didn’t tell me anything. She just didn’t like the idea of having me as her attorney. We really should have rescheduled for when Leslie was available. I think Leslie could have explained to her the challenges of not having an attorney and what IAP can do to help. Is she back?”
Rosalie drummed her fingers on the desk, staring intently at Jessica. “Leslie isn’t coming back for a while.”
Jessica caught herself tapping her foot against the chair leg and stopped. “Oh, okay, that’s fine. I can shadow her replacement or some other attorney. I’m flexible.”
Rosalie squinted, drawing Jessica’s eyes toward hers. “Believe me when I say I would love to have a replacement lined up. But I don’t have a replacement lined up. It’s tough as a nonprofit to fill some of these staff positions. It’s hard to compete with the law firms and the corporations.” She locked onto Jessica’s gaze, and Jessica restrained herself from squirming.
In law school, Rosalie had distinguished herself as an outward-thinking progressive on day one, joining the indigent legal clinic and assorted service-oriented student groups before graduating and heading to Thailand to do human rights work. Meanwhile, Jessica had joined so many of her classmates, heading off after graduation to make serious money at a big law firm without leaving much of a community service mark behind her.
For Jessica, it wasn’t about the paychecks, though they were nice. It was about the bigger and better things she had promised herself when she’d decided to leave Iowa. Working at a big firm and representing international clients on multimillion-dollar deals was heady stuff—the kind of work that a kid who’d worried she might never leave Idaville couldn’t even have dreamed of doing.
Yet somehow, Rosalie had just made Jessica feel personally responsible for making it difficult for nonprofits to hire attorneys.
Rosalie pulled her keyboard forward. “I can assign you to shadow a different attorney on one of their open cases. Let’s see...” She opened a spreadsheet populated with tiny, anonymous font.
Jessica interrupted Rosalie’s scrolling. “What about the Hamid case?”
The corners of Rosalie’s mouth turned downward. “If Ms. Hamid doesn’t want us on her case, we’re under no obligation to pursue it. We can’t force ourselves on her. Besides”—Rosalie waved her arms, highlighting not just the files on her desk but also the ones on the file cabinet and on the floor next to it—“we aren’t hurting for cases.”
It made sense to focus on the people who were happy to accept IAP’s help, and there seemed to be an endless supply. But Jessica couldn’t shake the feeling of smallness she’d had when Amina walked out that door two days before. She had to prove she could handle this case—to Amina and to herself. “I want to do Ms. Hamid’s case.” She almost surprised herself with the definitiveness of her assertion, but the resulting jolt of confidence in her chest confirmed the veracity of the statement.
Rosalie brushed her fingers through her gray streak, mixing it with the dark strands around it. She flipped the first few pages of Amina’s file. “We always give our newest volunteers uncomplicated cases so we don’t scare them away. That’s why I assigned you to this one.” She spoke slowly, letting her thoughts form before the words came out. Rosalie threaded her forefinger behind the gray, and the colors separated again. “It should be manageable. Ms. Hamid speaks English, and she has her application submitted already.” She closed the file. “You would just need to help her through the rest of the process.”
Jessica knew there was no “just need to” in asylum cases, and she noted the “you” that Rosalie employed seemed to be singular, as in singular to Jessica. “Assuming Ms. Hamid agrees to go with IAP, when will you know who her staff attorney is?” she asked, dreading the answer.
Rosalie placed the file back on the pile in front of her, removed her glasses, and twirled them thoughtfully. “We are being overrun. You can handle this case yourself. Of course, I and the other staff are here to help you, and you know we have a resource library here and access to extensive online materials. If you’d rather handle a case with a staff attorney, I would honestly rather put you on a different one than burden one of our staff with another case.”
Shaking her head, Jessica privately resolved never to attend any law school alumni event ever again, lest she run into someone who might rope her into another pro bono position she didn’t have the balls to say no to.
Jessica expected to see an air of triumph on Rosalie’s face for having converted a reluctant volunteer into a champion for the persecuted, but Rosalie remained pensive. “I’ll take the headshake as confirmation that you want to do this yourself.” Rosalie patted Amina’s file. “The application does look pretty thin. If what’s in there is accurate, then your job—if you can convince her to work with you—will be to help flesh out her story, pull together documentation, and get her prepared for her interview, because her interview could come at any time. I’m guessing four to five months based on the current backlog. You’ll have to be on your toes to pull everything together and get it to the USCIS.”
Rosalie leaned back in her chair. “It’s worth going over a few things now, especially considering some of the things I learned at the conference. When you came in for introductory sessions, you met a lot of children and families from Latin American countries.”
“Right,” Jessica said. “And I expected an unaccompanied minor. Where the hell did you find a Syrian? It’s not easy to get into the States from over there... Can you even get into the States from over there?”
“You’re right. There aren’t many Syrians seeking asylum, and that’s because it’s so hard to get into the country. But after the civil war began, a lot of Syrians with means were able to leave Syria, some before the travel restrictions. Others with means had connections that helped them even after the restrictions. Most went to Europe or other Middle Eastern countries. But a small number ended up here. Amina’s one of the few.”
“Lucky me.”
“Lucky her,” Rosalie corrected. “Though she’ll need more luck. There are always political arguments around immigration in general, but the public rhetoric against Middle Eastern refugees is off the charts, and politicians are feeling the heat about tightening restrictions and reviews. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. But here’s something you mig
ht not know yet.” She leaned forward again, inviting Jessica into the immigration lawyer fold by imparting special information. “The US will be accepting a wave of Middle Eastern refugees by the end of the year, with even more after that. This is going to make it hard for people like Amina. There will be a lot of political pressure, and the bar for Muslims—probably anyone, to be honest—seeking asylum will be higher, even if the USCIS doesn’t admit it.”
A wave of second thoughts washed over Jessica, triggering her foot to tap against the chair leg again. She uncrossed her legs and anchored each foot to the ground.
“You have to emphasize the importance of honesty, consistency, and evidence with her.” Rosalie’s attention diverted again, this time abruptly, to a pile next to her computer, and she selected the top folder. “We just brought on a case for a man from Venezuela who was smuggled by a coyote. A notario charged him five thousand dollars to put together his application, and the application was a complete fraud. The immigrant doesn’t speak English and had no idea what was going on, but he signed the application and let the guy file it. He’s barred now. Deportation is imminent. We can try to file for reconsideration based on the circumstances, but...” She shrugged.
With Amina’s unwavering stare still vivid in her mind, Jessica paced through what she knew. “Ms. Hamid seems pretty savvy and tenacious. She speaks three languages. She managed to get the asylum filing done accurately and on time. She has a job. She’s educated. She probably could follow the process by herself, though with the increased scrutiny, I imagine her odds of success are slim without an attorney.”
“Are you trying to convince me or you?” Rosalie displayed a hint of the triumphant air Jessica had missed seeing earlier, though maybe it was just supportive amusement.
“Ms. Hamid’s the one I need to convince. I’ll follow up with her and see if I can get her to meet with me. I don’t have any delusions that I exude charm—I leave that to Danny. But I’ll review her file, do some research, and try to talk with her. She’ll have to open up for me to help her, though.”
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