The Book in Room 316

by ReShonda Tate Billingsley

  They quieted down as my interview continued. This all seemed surreal for me, a person that had never wanted any type of attention. I had now been thrust stage front and center.

  My interview concluded and Savannah wrapped up her report with “The Freedom Coalition plans to picket this evening and are working to get Rodríguez released on her own recognizance.”

  “How’d you get so lucky?” someone yelled from behind me.

  I couldn’t answer that. I didn’t know what I’d done. Other than try to stay faithful in even the darkest hour.

  “Shoot, we’re all here illegally,” someone else said. “Where is our story?”

  The three-timer turned to the people throwing out questions. “Everybody ain’t meant to take a divine path. Some of you are worthless and need to be sent home. So lay off her and let her get her blessings.”

  “Ummm, isn’t she a career criminal?” someone muttered from the back.

  “What did you say?” the three-timer muttered as she stomped over to the person who’d said it.

  I blocked them out of my mind as I clutched the necklace bearing my children’s names. I thought about the divine being that had laid this all out so perfectly. My only hope was that it would make a difference. My report wrapped up and the guards put the TV back on mute and everyone slowly went back to their respective spots.

  + + +

  The cornucopia of thoughts had kept me tossing and turning all night. I couldn’t help but wonder what, if anything, would come of the interview.

  That’s where my mind was when an officer approached the cell just after they’d given us our breakfast of dry toast and lumpy oatmeal.

  “Anna Rodríguez?” he said.

  I jumped up, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Your attorney is here.”

  “My attorney?”

  He didn’t reply as he opened the cell to let me out. I followed behind him to the attorney-client room, where inside I saw Jerri from the Freedom Coalition and a distinguished-looking balding man. He smiled as he saw me.

  “Hello, Mrs. Rodríguez.” He extended his hand.

  “Hi,” I replied, shaking his hand but looking at Jerri for answers.

  “My name is Oliver Johnson, and I am an attorney with the law firm of Johnson, McHarden, and Olympia.”

  Jerri was grinning behind him, but I was still clueless. On the list of things I’d hoped for, I hadn’t even thought about an attorney. “I know this is all overwhelming because things are moving pretty fast, but Oliver saw the story and immediately contacted me,” she said.

  I waited for her to continue.

  Oliver snapped open his briefcase as he picked up the conversation. “I am very excited because you are the perfect candidate that we’ve been looking for to represent in a groundbreaking immigration case. Our firm is a leader in immigration law. With the recent deportation enforcements, we’ve been looking for a case to highlight our struggle, and we think yours is perfect.”

  I was speechless.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said, motioning to the chair on the other side of the table.

  Jerri couldn’t stop grinning, which to me was a good sign. Oliver removed a piece of paper from his briefcase and slid it across the table to me.

  “I have already filed a motion to have you released, and it will go before the judge in the morning,” he said.

  “In the morning?” I said. “So, you mean I could go home tomorrow?”

  Jerri nodded. “That’s exactly what he means.”

  I couldn’t help but smile as my heart danced with relief. “Oh, that is so wonderful. But what happens after that?” I said.

  “Well, it will be a long journey, but because of the president’s travel ban and all of the attention to his crackdown on immigrants, we expect we’ll get a lot of publicity.” Oliver took out another piece of paper and passed it to me. “This is our standard agreement to represent. If you’re amenable, we’ll immediately move forward to have the charges against you vacated.”

  “But . . . but I broke the law,” I said.

  “And you will probably have to pay a price for that, but because you have been here so long, because your children are American citizens—and in the past, the court has been sympathetic to parents of American citizens—our hope is that we can convince the judge to give you some type of probation. Have you check in with an immigration officer and then—”

  Jerri cut him off. It was obvious that she could no longer contain her excitement. “Let me tell her.” She smiled at me. “And then begin your path to citizenship.”

  I was floored. “You mean, I could really become a citizen?”

  “I can’t make any promises,” Oliver said. “But that’s our goal. It’s a lengthy and extensive process, but if there’s ever been a candidate that America should welcome into its ranks, it’s a person like you.”

  I couldn’t help it. I stood and threw my arms around Oliver. The move must have caught him off guard, because he said, “Wow. Okay. Well, that’s what I like. I always like to be paid in hugs.”

  That made me stop, and I stepped back. “Oh, my God. I can’t afford you,” I said as if that problem had just dawned on me.

  Jerri spoke up before he could. “That is the least of your concerns,” she said. “The Freedom Coalition has that part all taken care of.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” she replied. “Now, if you are looking for some way to return the favor, we have an opening in our main office for an assistant. It’s full-time, not a whole lot of money, but probably more than you made at the Markham. And if you don’t have office skills, I can train you. So, what do you think?”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “I think, yes. Absolutely, yes!”

  She smiled and hugged me again. “Now, you just give Oliver here everything he needs, and we’ll make sure he is properly compensated.”

  “This is a calling for us,” Oliver said. “We work with Jerri and the organization. We don’t want you to be concerned with that.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” I said.

  Oliver flashed a warm smile. “Yep, He was definitely looking out for you today.”

  chapter

  * * *

  32

  I had dozed back off with thoughts of going home when I felt someone shake me.

  “Hey, Superstar, you’re on TV again!” I glanced up from the hard cot at one of my cell mates, who was pointing to the TV outside the cell.

  I jumped up, assuming that they were running Savannah’s story again. I was praying for some kind of miraculous update. Instead, I saw the reporter for the NBC station. The volume was up loud, and when my picture popped up on the screen, the room quieted.

  “. . . Anna Rodríguez has been at the center of an immigration debate, with noted attorney Oliver Johnson leading the fight to keep the woman from being deported,” the reporter said. “But in an exclusive Channel 2 investigation, we’ve learned that fight may have just intensified. That’s because police say this man . . .”

  My heart plummeted when an enhanced surveillance picture of my son Paco popped up on the screen.

  “. . . may have been involved in last month’s shooting of six-year-old Lupita Garcia. You may remember she was the little girl gunned down outside of the Main Event in Stafford as she was leaving with her family. Police say two men, Paco Rodríguez and another unidentified suspect, were firing at a rival gang member. Channel 2 can exclusively report that Rodríguez is the son of Anna Rodríguez, the woman at the center of the immigration debate.”

  My mouth fell open in horror, and I had to hold on to the bars to steady myself.

  The reporter continued. “We’re told that the son is undocumented, just like his mother. And anti-immigration activists have jumped on that piece of news.”

  A white man with jet-black hair and a mustache that made him look like the Lone Ranger popped up on the screen.

  “This is exactly what we’re fightin
g against,” he barked at the camera. The chyron under his name said he was with the Anti-Immigration Foundation. “This here gangbanger killed a little girl. We let these illegals into the country and they send us their worst. They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists . . .” he continued, repeating the refrain that I’d been hearing for the past two years. “And they’re murderers! The news is trying to paint that lady as a saint, but if she hadn’t snuck in our country, her gangsta son wouldn’t be here and that little girl would be alive today!”

  The sins of the child.

  Plenty of American citizens had children who did bad things beyond their control, but I was being lambasted because of a son I couldn’t control.

  I squeezed the bars tighter because I felt myself hyperventilating. It was then that I noticed the way the detention officers were looking at me—as if I was scum. As if I had somehow put the gun in Paco’s hands. And the way the others in the cell were looking at me—as if I had messed up things for them—made my heart want to cry.

  “Dang, J.Lo,” the three-timer said as she walked past me. “Your boy is killing kids?” She shook her head and sat on the far side of the cell. I guessed this news had made me a leper.

  A guard approached me, his disdain evident. “Is that true?”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  “Is that your son?” he asked when I couldn’t get my answer out.

  I nodded. “B-but, h-he doesn’t live with me.”

  “Hmph” was all he said as he stormed off.

  Someone muted the volume on the television, and everyone slowly returned to whatever they’d been doing. I needed to talk to Rosa and try to find out what in the world was going on. But judging from the scowl on the officers’ faces, no one would be letting me use a phone anytime soon.

  + + +

  “So I have good news, and I have bad news.”

  I trembled as I sat in the small conference room with Mr. Oliver. Last night had been one of the longest of my life. A guard had felt sorry for me and allowed me to use the phone, and I’d called Rosa, who told me Paco had taken off earlier in the day. After the news report—which she said everyone in our neighborhood was talking about—she was doubtful that he would return. So my heart broke as I wondered if the report was true. Did Paco really have anything to do with that little girl’s death? Then I wondered what that meant if he did. And finally, I wondered what that meant for me.

  Judging by the look on Oliver’s and Jerri’s faces, it wasn’t good news for me.

  “Here’s where we stand,” he began. His optimistic light from the other day had definitely dimmed. “I’d love to hand you your citizenship papers and we wrap this up in a nice little bow, but unfortunately, with these new revelations it’s not going to be that easy.”

  I trembled with nervous anticipation as he continued. “Based on the surveillance tape, the district attorney can’t tell if it was your son or the other boy who fired the fatal shot. But your son is the only one who they have a clear ID on. Turns out Paco went to a convenience store about an hour before the shooting and tried to buy beer. They wouldn’t sell it to him and the clerk still had it behind the counter. When he saw the surveillance tape and info about the shooting on the news, he recognized your son and told police. They were able to pull Paco’s prints from the beer. Regardless of whether Paco killed the girl or not, under Texas law, he’s just as guilty.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked as my heart plummeted into the pit of my stomach.

  “It means the DA has leverage,” Mr. Oliver answered. “And let me shoot straight. While they’re two different entities, any kind of legal trouble can make things difficult. You’re facing a long road, but the DA said he may be able to get INS to work with them—provided you help them turn your son in.”

  “What?” I said, tearing up. “Turn him in?”

  “I know it’s hard. But it’s a choice you’ll have to make,” Mr. Oliver said. “Are you going to sacrifice your son for your other three kids?”

  I couldn’t believe this was the position that I was being put in. I loved all of my kids. Was I really supposed to give up Paco in order to be there for my other children? And what if I turned Paco in and they still deported me?

  Finally, I asked, “Why do they think I can get him to turn himself in? He doesn’t live with me anymore. I don’t condone his lifestyle so we barely even talk.”

  Mr. Oliver shrugged. “Well, if you want your case to move forward, you’d better try to find him. This hanging over us will make things very difficult. As your attorney, my advice would be: give them what they want.”

  “Turn in my son,” I repeated. “Will he be deported?”

  “I don’t know. It’s either him or you. And since you have three other kids who need you, that would be a no-brainer for me.” He grabbed his briefcase and stood. “But that’s a choice you have to make on your own. Think about it. I’ll come back tomorrow. We have to give the DA an answer. Honestly, I doubt I’ll even be able to get you released unless you cooperate.”

  With that, he signaled for the guards to let him out.

  I fell back against the wall, tears coming down my cheeks. I could go home. I might even get what I had worked so long for—citizenship—but what price would I have to pay?

  chapter

  * * *

  33

  Fresh air had never smelled so good. I’d been locked up in that cage for two and a half weeks. And it had been the longest two and a half weeks of my life.

  After Mr. Oliver left, I’d spent the next two days tossing and turning in my cell. Paco’s sin had indeed made things worse for me. The guards were cruel and the inmates looked at me in disgust. The three-timer had stopped talking to me. But I held back until Rosa revealed that Alejandro had had another asthma attack—one that landed him in the ER. I didn’t have a choice. I had to give the DA what he wanted.

  Mr. Oliver drew up the paperwork. I was released on my own recognizance on a thirty-day Government Assist program, meaning the government needed my assistance to help solve a major crime.

  All I had to do was hand them my son on a silver platter, and I could go live happily ever after.

  What mother could live with that?

  Though I had agreed to the DA’s terms, I hadn’t come to terms on whether that was something I could really do. How did a mother turn in her son when she knew it would alter his life forever?

  Even if Paco was innocent, which I was still praying that he was, he would still be deported if he was arrested.

  Savannah waved to me from the end of the hall. I really didn’t want any cameras there, but I owed Savannah that much, so I had agreed to allow her to film me as I was being released today. Knowing the camera was rolling, I maintained a grateful smile.

  She reached in and hugged me.

  “I’m so glad that you’re out,” she said.

  “Thanks to you. I can’t wait to get home and hug my kids.”

  A thought seemed to occur to her, because the smile left her face and she shifted uncomfortably. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “We probably shouldn’t go out the front.”

  “Why?”

  “There are picketers out there,” she said.

  “Picketers for what?”

  She sighed. “They’re protesting you. The Anti-Immigration Foundation is fighting your release from jail. Some conservative media pundits have picked up the story and”—she released a long pause—“let’s just say it’s not pretty. My sources are telling me that the White House may even make a comment on it.”

  “Oh, my God,” I groaned. This nightmare would never end.

  “But Oliver and Jerri are focused. While those protesters are focused on the bad son, they’re going to play up the good son. I had a chance to sit and talk with Miguel and he is an amazing child.”

  “Yeah, but Miguel is an American citizen.” My hands shook as I spoke. What had I gotten my family embroiled in?

 
“I know. But we want to contradict the picture the anti-immigration group is trying to paint of you as a mother. We want the courts to see the mother that is raising three wonderful U.S. citizens.”

  I fought back tears. Today was supposed to be a happy day. I couldn’t let sorrow drown me.

  Still, I said, “With these protesters, the judge could just deport me to make it all go away.”

  “If you didn’t have your other children, I’d be worried,” she admitted.

  I bit back the thought that came to me: That’s easy for you to say. I couldn’t help but be worried when my future—when my children’s future—was at stake.

  “Yes, you have a battle ahead,” Savannah continued, sensing my angst. “I don’t know how this will end. But I’m faithful that it will all work out.” She smiled knowingly at me. “A wise woman once told me things have a way of working themselves out.”

  I sighed. She was right. I didn’t come this far to give up. I needed to hold on, because as bumpy as the ride was going to be, I had to remain faithful that it would all work out in the end.

  chapter

  * * *

  34

  “Please just leave us alone!”

  I slammed the phone down, then, after thinking about it, I snatched the cord out of the wall.

  My phone had been ringing nonstop. Either they were calling about doing an interview with me or trying to get information about Paco.

  I’d only been home forty-eight hours and the barrage was driving me crazy. My story had made Fox News and the vitriol of those commentators made me seem like the worst person to walk the face of the earth.

  Yesterday, a reporter had accosted Miguel on the way home, and the mama bear in me almost attacked. Luckily, Rosa was there. She’d been amazing at helping me stay under control. She’d cursed the reporter out in Spanish and English, then shielded us both until we ran inside. I had to figure out an alternative way to get them to school, because we couldn’t take too many more days like this.