Betrayed Page 4

  They pulled into their garage and William shut off the engine, left his hands gripping the steering wheel, and looked straight ahead. "Austin, when we get inside, just go to your room. Go to your room, and Mom and I will come get you when it's time to talk."

  "Yes, sir." He knew those were the only two words his father expected to hear. He opened the door to the SUV. William followed suit and as they stepped toward the door to the mudroom, Karen opened it and came outside. She wiped her hands with a dish towel and had a strange expression on her face.

  "I know this isn't the best time, but Carla just called and the Alvarezes are coming over in an hour."

  "Why? William asked. "We just left. Armando and I talked over everything that happened at the gym. What else could be left to say?"

  "I don't know, William," she spread her hands out indicating she was just as confused, "but I think it's a little more serious than the fight. Carla sounded a little frantic and like she'd been crying, too."

  William sighed deeply and shook his head. "Whatever. I guess our little talk will have to wait, pal," he said looking at Austin. "But don't think for a minute we won't have it."

  * * *

  When the Alvarez family arrived, everybody gathered in the den, and Austin could see that Mrs. Alvarez had indeed been crying. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was red where she'd wiped her tears away.

  "I'm sorry to intrude, William," Armando said, his accent thicker than his son's, but his English practiced and clear. "But there are some things you've been kept in the dark about you should know." At his last words, he looked toward his son.

  William, his brow crinkled, also turned toward Rico. "No, it's fine. Something you need to tell me, Rico?" The young man poured out his heart. He told William about dirtying Jordan Steele's suit and their bitter conversation that followed. He told Karen that was his reason for missing school, and he apologized for lying about being sick. "I just felt sure my stupid pride had cost you a huge account with Senator Stevens, and…I don't know…I just felt like I couldn't face any of you. Not even Austin."

  Rico also said that after all that pent up frustration, Bobby McAlister proved to be just a little more than he could stand. He spoke for nearly fifteen minutes barely taking a breath. "I know it wasn't right. And I'm sorry for getting Austin in trouble for something stupid I did."

  William sat on the arm of the chair Rico was in, and he put his forearm around his shoulder. "Rico, I'm sorry you had to go through all that. Heck, after five minutes around Jordan Steele, I'd sized him up as a class A jerk. I wish you would've told me when it happened and I'd have taken him down a notch or two." William looked up toward his own son. "And as for Austin… well fighting is not the answer and this only makes things a little better," he said, staring into Austin's eyes for emphasis "but part of me is glad that he's loyal enough to fight for his friends."

  Rico put his head in his hands. His cheeks were cherry red, so Armando spoke for him. "William, you don't understand. This Mr. Steele and Mr. McAlister, though I don't care for the way they upset my son, they're suspicions are right about one thing." He swept his hand toward Rico and Carla. "We are here illegally."

  Chapter 9

  Washington, DC

  Russell Senate Office Building

  The telephone line rang one-and-a-half times before he placed a hand–half covered by blinding white, starched French cuffs and gold cuff links–over the receiver and picked up. He always let it ring that way, even the private line. Pick up on the first ring and you were either too eager to hear from the caller or simply not busy enough. Answering between rings two and three meant you were too arrogant or not attentive enough to whomever might be calling. One-and-a-half rings, now, that was the ticket–busy, but never too busy for the caller.

  His office looked out over the intersection of First Street and Constitution Avenue. Through the trees, now in full bloom, he could see traffic flowing by, flying forward, then halting, typical big city traffic. He felt certain people were honking their car horns and shouting out curses at one another. He knew tires were screeching and engines were revved up to full whine as people–the little people, he liked to think of them–jockeyed for position on the street. He knew there was noise, he just couldn't hear it from his office, its windows soundproof and bulletproof. Just like me. He chuckled at the thought. Thank God for limousines.

  He plucked the receiver from its carriage and simply said, "Yes?"

  "Time for our weekly status report," said the voice on the other end of the line. Its thick Latino accent belonged to Generalissimo Omaga.

  "And?" said the man in Washington.

  "The moisture control efforts are proceeding. We've cut back on leakage by twenty-five percent."

  "That's not good enough," the man hissed. "By the time the election rolls around, I want it down by sixty percent or more. Understand?"

  "Moisture" and "leakage" were code words that meant "illegal immigration." At first, Omaga said he felt like a schoolboy playing some kind of game. But the man in Washington convinced him he was too powerful to take any chances. That's why they used landlines instead of cell phones and why the gunmen who helped control the "leakage" were called "plumbers." It's why they used phrases like "put a Band-Aid on the problem" when they had terrorized someone into compliance, "prevented further damage" when they had arrested or kidnapped someone, or "eliminated the problem" when they simply killed somebody.

  "Sixty percent by November? These things take time and money," Omaga said.

  "Yes, and I've given you enough money to buy a small army of plumbers. Do you not comprehend the concept of man hours? The more people you have on a project, the less time it should take." The man was desperate to stay in power. To do that, Texans needed to see a slowdown in illegals coming across their border.

  At first, it seemed too simple a solution, but the idea grew on him. Instead of Congress throwing billions of good dollars after bad building fences or hiring more border guards, why not divert a few million in campaign contributions to the general and let him solve the problem? Then the senator could let the credit go to one of the programs he had created to appease his constituents. These Mexicans worked for pennies on the dollar anyway.

  These two men, General Omaga and the Washington powerbroker, were alike in their lust for power and money. While the general explained his next steps toward securing not only the border, but also the cooperation of the people of the border towns in the State of Coahuila, the man on the other end poured himself a Scotch on the rocks from the private reserve in the office. With one ear he listened to the conversation, and with the other, the tinkle of ice cubes into a heavy glass and the dribble of two fingers worth of hundred-year-old liquor. He lifted the glass and swirled it, inhaling the scent of the liquid before he tilted the glass slowly toward his lips. Smooth, he thought, like drinking silk.

  "All right, I understand," he finally said to the general. "You just stay on top of the situation and make sure by November we hit some numbers that will impress the American media. You have no idea how hard they can be to deal with. Now, about our other land acquisition project…"

  "I am just one man," the general said. "And the people who own the land believe it is sacred. They will not sell. Of this, I am certain."

  The man was beginning to believe he was getting shaken down for more money. "If you aren't up to the task, there's another general contractor down there I've dealt with before, a man named Luida who would be more than willing." He let his voice trail off. When he heard only silence in response, he knew the mention of Generalissimo Luida Montenegro had hit as hard as he'd wanted it to. The two generals hated each other to the point that one had vowed to kill the other on numerous occasions. After more silence, he had to ask, "You still with me?"

  "I am very much with you. The job will get done."

  "Good. Good," he said in his husky drawl. "You see to it. After the election, you, me, and a certain Texas pharmaceutical company will be very happy. You have
a good day, now, hear?"

  A few miles away in the dimly lit basement of the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building, an audio surveillance technician lowered his headphones from his ears and motioned his supervisor over. The technician informed him about the conversation he just overheard.

  "Did you get a trace on the call?" asked the supervisor, Harvey Gillem, a tall African-American with muscles that stretched the sleeve bands on his Polo shirt.

  "Yes, sir. The call originated from Piedras Negras just across the border. It lasted roughly five minutes." The technician checked his computer log and shrugged. "Five minutes, twenty-six seconds to be exact."

  The supervisor nodded his head. "How about on this end? Same as last time?"

  "That's affirmative, sir" the technician said. "A private line belonging to Senator Stevens."

  Chapter 10

  Columbia, South Carolina

  Austin felt like an atomic bomb had just gone off in his family room. Only a few seconds passed but it seemed like an hour. Illegal? Oh my God!

  Karen's jaw dropped at the news.

  "What?" William said. Austin thought his voice sounded an octave higher than usual. Carla began to sniffle again.

  Armando shifted in his chair. "We came to this country five years ago. I had a work visa through my company, Acciona Labreros Contratas. When we completed the project I was brought in for, I still had time on my visa, so we moved here and I opened my own engineering firm. When my visa expired," he clasped his hands and looked toward the floor, "I decided we would stay. Rico had become 'Americanized' and Carla and I had made some very close friends."

  "We count you in that group," Carla said, finally breaking her silence. Karen reached over and grabbed her hand. Carla used her other to dab tears. Her lip trembled, and Karen began to tear up as well.

  "I apologize for sounding so technical or legal or whatever the right word is, but I'm just amazed that nobody official has figured this out. I mean there are income taxes and the property tax on your house." William fell silent, a bewildered look on his face.

  "The house is a rental. We're always on time with the payments and we give no one any reason to question us as far as or finances are concerned." The look on his face grew grave and cheerless as he looked at his wife. "As for income taxes, I am sorry to say we pay none. I have a fake Social Security card for the times I need a number, but as an independent engineer with no one else on my payroll, it's as if I do not exist on any tax list." He breathed deeply and Austin could hear in that deep intake of air the burden Mr. Alvarez must have felt. "I am sad to say that is how I…we all…feel at this very moment–as if we do not exist. But our deception has caused you trouble, and may still cause you more if what Rico said about your conversation with Mr. McAlister comes true. So we felt you deserved to know. And we'll listen to whatever you believe is best for us to do."

  Austin knew his dad handled many politicians' campaigns that stressed the problems with illegal immigration. He appreciated the dilemma this news put his father in, but he also felt defensive about his best friend. He felt his stomach tense into a knot. William chewed on his thumbnail and began to pace. Austin's spirits immediately lifted. He recognized this behavior. Nobody liked problems, but nobody liked solving problems more than William Pierce. Austin knew the process always began with a slow deliberate walk about the room, thumbnail between teeth.

  "Okay, here's what we're going to do," William finally said. "First, I'm going to call Steve Curtis."

  "From church?" Carla asked.

  "Yes. He's our business attorney, and he's done some personal stuff for Karen and me."

  "How do you think he can help, Dad?" Austin spoke to his father for the first time since this afternoon at the gym.

  "I'm thinking." His thumbnail went back into his mouth for a half second. "This may be a bit beyond his expertise and he might have to refer us to an immigration attorney, but it'll be a good place to start." He looked toward Rico, Carla, and Armando. "At least we can find out what rights you do have and how to protect them."

  Even though for a moment, no one said anything, Austin could tell everybody in the room felt at least a ray of hope, that perhaps this problem had a solution. "Well, Dad," he said picking up his father's cell phone from the coffee table and handing it to him. "Make that call."

  By the time Steve Curtis arrived, Karen had made a pot of coffee and gotten Austin and Rico soft drinks. William and Armando filled him in on everything that had happened. He scratched notes furiously on a legal pad, frequently flipping back to notations he'd made. From the sound of Mr. Curtis' questions, it was obvious to Austin he thought the families had called him about the gym fight.

  Since the Alvarezes were members of Covenant Presbyterian with Curtis and the Pierces, Austin paid close attention when they revealed to the lawyer they were here illegally. His reaction was barely perceptible. Austin thought it must have come from years of practice as an attorney where you don't give away any clue as to what you're thinking. The only thing he noticed was that the lawyer's eyebrows flickered upward just for a nanosecond and he rocked back ever so slightly in his chair before he recovered.

  He laid his pad and pen aside and reached down for his mug and took a sip of coffee.

  William spoke. "So, Steve, what do you think our options are?"

  The lawyer bit his lower lip, tapped his pen on his pad, and said, "Well we really don't have many. They're limited at best." He stared off into some distant corner of the room as if making a mental list of options. "We essentially have only three choices. One, we can do nothing, but that places everybody in this room at risk–the Alvarezes for jail and then deportation, and the rest of us for harboring illegal immigrants. Two," he said nodding at the Alvarez family, "you could turn yourselves in, but they would put you in separate detention facilities pending a deportation hearing."

  "Absolutely not," Armando said. "I will not separate my family, especially to send us into three different prisons. There has to be another way."

  "Well that brings us to option number three. You could self-deport. Go back to Mexico and apply for U.S. citizenship."

  "No," Austin said standing from his chair. "They haven't stolen anything or hurt anybody. We've got people who were born here who abuse the system every day–frauds, cheaters, thieves, and killers–and they don't even get long prison sentences and all of a sudden we're going to kick an entire family out of the country? It's not fair! They haven't done anything wrong!"

  "I'm afraid we have, Austin," Armando said. His voice was low and quiet, the sound of defeat. "Carla and I knew we were breaking the law when we stayed. This sounds like the best option."

  "How long does it take, Dad? If they go back, how soon can they get citizenship?" Austin asked.

  William sighed heavily before he answered. "It could take years, Austin. I know that's not what any of us want to face, and you guys know I'll call in every favor I'm owed to make it go faster, but this is a huge, huge issue this year, so the chances of somebody helping us even quietly is low for fear they'd be exposed as soft on illegal immigration."

  "What if the church sponsored them for citizenship?" Karen asked. "Wouldn't that help?"

  "It would if it were the law," Curtis said. "That's just one of the proposals up for debate, but it hasn't even been brought up for a vote yet. But you know it wouldn't be a bad idea to get the church behind us on this. It can be a very powerful voice in this area of the country. And you are especially well respected in the church." The Pierces nodded their agreement. "We should at least present the idea to the church leadership and see what they say."

  "If we do that," Armando said, "I wouldn't want you to identify us as the family. I want people to speak their minds freely, to support us because they support the issue, not because we are well liked."

  "As your attorney, I agree," Curtis said. "As much as I love everybody at Covenant, a church is about as political and gossipy as any one organization can be. So, while I want people to speak freely, too
, I don't want them speaking to any cops or immigration officials. Period. So first we'll bring it before just the deacons and even then we'll just say I have a set of clients who are here illegally and not even identify them as church members. We'll see how it goes from there."

  "Agreed," Armando said.

  "Agreed," said Carla, Rico, Karen, and William in unison.

  Agreed, Austin thought, but at the same time his heart sank. He looked at Rico and thought they both must be having the same feeling–that this wouldn't end without a significant amount of pain.

  Chapter 11

  Austin hardly slept that night after Rico and his family and Mr. Curtis left. The fight at the gym seemed as if it happened weeks ago, not just hours before the Alvarez's revelation. William and Karen didn't even address it with him. They simply let it drop. Austin was glad they hadn't said anything. It seemed like such a small matter now compared to the possibility of losing his best friend. The thought occurred to him that at some point it may come back up, but he really didn't care. The only thing that mattered this moment was finding a way to keep Rico and his family in the United States.

  Before Mr. Curtis and the Alvarezes left, William called the pastor at Covenant Presbyterian, Randy Sinkler. Karen handed Steve Curtis a second handset, and together William and he explained the situation. They asked Randy to call an emergency meeting of the deacons and elders at Covenant for the next evening, to which he agreed. He also agreed not to reveal the Alvarezes identity and to let Steve merely say the people they would be discussing were clients of his. When both William and Steve closed their eyes, Austin knew Reverend Sinkler had offered a prayer, and he said a silent one of his own that somehow, some way this problem would resolve itself. Then everyone left and he went up to his room for a fitful night staring at the gloomy shadows on his ceiling.