Zariah
Having just returned to work after an extended weekend in Vegas, I don’t have much on my plate. The case I’m currently handling deals with the Versa family will. Edgar Versa, the owner of a line of upscale home improvement businesses in Southern California died. And with death and rich offspring, thus began a lengthy argument. Sarah Versa is my client, and Edgar’s granddaughter was the black sheep of the family. A party hardy, pill popping, alcohol guzzling, toss a grand each night for fun, type of girl. Until her parents cut her off. She sobered up to care for Edgar when he was dying of cancer, now her mother believes she tampered with said will.
Sarah does have much to gain. And with her parents sticking it to her, Billingsley Legal was all she could afford. But the real kicker is, nobody, but her appeared to give a damn about their great-grandfather until he gave up the ghost.
In order to gather evidence of his frame of mind while altering the will during the few months prior to his death, I’m reviewing information regarding the grandfather’s last days with his doctors and nurses when Lanetta pops her head inside of the door.
“Mrs. Resnov, we have a mother who just arrived with her children.” She chews her gum impatiently. “She’s saying if she goes away, she might not come back… She received your card from that nonprofit, The People’s Love. Tyrese is trying to handle it but she’s asking for you.”
Oh, Tyrese is it? Over half a year has passed since I became her boss, and I’m referred to by my last name, but the newbie is Tyrese?
“Okay,” my eyebrow furrows. It’s a quarter past five and the front door should’ve already been locked. The top attorneys, myself, Connie and Samuel work on rotation in the evening and our secretaries assist with lock up. Clearly, Lanetta has her shoes geared toward the back exit. It’s summer, the nights are long, but why work overtime?
While reviewing the last note from the man’s doctor, I mumble, “Just leave the keys, I’ll place the alarm on my way out.”
“Alright, you may want Ty to stay,” she advises as I glance up, “just to make sure nothing happens. Look at me like that if you want, but…” her voice trails off, she shakes her head in disgust. And over her shoulder, mentions, “I’m leaving the keys on my desk. I have to get to the childcare center in a few.”
Um hmm, she has until 6:30 and lives a few blocks down the road
“Thanks,” I call out while logging off my computer. Rising to my feet, I slide into my cardigan and exchange the house shoes that have kept me comfy all afternoon for my high heels.
A woman with a Hispanic accent continues to ask for me as I walk around the cubicles surrounding the middle of the office. A voice, that I assume belongs to Tyrese, offers to help her.
“No, no, I talk to Zariah, just Zariah, por favor,” she says. As I near the bend to the front door, there’s stifled crying.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs. Noriega. Please bring your children to my office, and I’d be glad to assist you.”
“No,” she replies.
My eyebrows crinkle. If the woman insists on receiving help from myself why would Tyrese attempt to intervene? The doorbells chime, and my first line of vision is Tyrese taking a deep breath while placing his hands into his suit pants. His back is to me. The mother and children are gone.
“Mr. Nicks, why wouldn’t you escort Mrs. Noriega and her children to my office if she was so insistent? This was a prime opportunity to empathize and help.”
He scoffs. I haven’t seen the man’s dimples since I chewed him up and spit him out. “Mrs. Resnov, it’d be better if she received assistance from—”
I place up a hand, my expression is enough to get him to shut up. I stalk out the door, into the evening summer heat. Headed to the bus stop is a woman, who cannot be more than five feet tall, with two children clinging to either side of her, crying into her chest. There’s another young mother with stroller already standing next to the bus stop sign. By process of elimination, I determine the shorter of the two mothers is Mrs. Noriega. My pace falters a few empty parking lot rows away as the sun gleams down onto what I assume is a neck brace.
“Mrs. Noriega,” I call out while hustling over to her.
She turns around, eyes swallowed up by shiners, and glossed with tears. The apparition I assumed was a neck brace is actually some sort of anchor, wired to her jaw. The look on her face pains me, and I can almost feel how badly it hurts to talk. Intuition warns that Tyrese’s attempt to keep this case was due to whoever caused Felicidad so much pain. My mind instantly goes to my family. Vassili would snatch me out of the workplace and slap an apron on me for the rest of my employable life. He doesn’t want me defending cases like this.
“I am Zariah Resnov, nice to meet you.” I extend a hand.
“Felicidad Noriega,” her thin lips move with restriction.
“And you are,” I hold my hand out to the oldest, her son is about ten, his fingernails are dirty, and his clothing is soiled.
“Juan,” he gives my hand a hearty shake.
Felicidad’s daughter has her face burrowed into her voluptuous hip. I place the girl to be around five at most.
“My sister is Rosemary, she doesn’t speak.”
“Are you guys hungry? I’m starving.”
“No, no,” Felicidad has difficulty shaking her head.
“Yes,” Juan replies at the same time.
Rosemary peeks at me. They’re all hungry.
“Well, Felicidad, Hot Chilly’s across the way might be a great place for us all to talk.”
“That’s a great idea,” Tyrese speaks from behind me. “The chilly cheeseburger has your name on it, Juan.”
“Oh yeah!” The boy agrees enthusiastically.
I glance back at him as he catches up to us.
Felicidad bites her lip. “Uh… I don’t know, it might be too expensive.”
Tyrese is finally at my side, he places a friendly arm around my shoulder. His hand clasps around my elbow to hold me into position. “On me.” As he holds out the opposite hand to gesture toward the pedestrian walk, he whispers into my ear. “You might think I’m a jackass but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you with them.”
I grind my teeth and glower at him. “Remove your arm, Mr. Nicks.”
“Her husband is one of the top dogs of the Loco Dios gang. Nothing you say or do will get rid of me. Call that my good deed for today, if you’d prefer, but I won’t budge on this.”
Damn, I’ve heard of the gang before. In the late 90s, my father was leader of the gang unit. He was in charge of cleaning the streets, and he did. The Loco Dios were rid of each of their highest-ranking members. Nobody is still aware of how, but just like with many gangs, what goes down must come up. By the next year, there were family members from Mexico, more illegal residents, and younger members flooding into the spots where the top dogs were.
We walk across the street, and I’m hesitant for the first time. Each of my domestic violence cases in the past has given women a voice. Helping them seems like I’m paying penance for not serving my own father the bear down he deserves. But the Loco Dios Gang? What about Natasha? She’s my priority now.
Rosemary peeks over at me from her mother’s arm and my heart swells with a wish to keep her safe. I have to help.
While pressing the pedestrian button, I wonder if the Noriega’s are here illegally due to Felicidad’s scattered speech. Yet, Juan seems like he has a very strong head on his shoulders, he met my eyes and introduced himself in perfect English.
Well, at least we are in a predominantly black neighborhood. So, I can’t see any cholos, Loco Dios or not, attempting to start anything.
There’s a strong oil frying scent coming from Hot Chilly’s as we enter. The restaurant has a seating area with old dusty red vinyl booths. But with no servers to bus tables, we all glance up at the backlit menu on the wall to determine what to purchase.
Juan goes for the chilly cheese hamburger Tyrese recommended and it takes prompting for Felicidad to choose two street tacos for herself. I opt for a wedge salad while Tyrese subtly convinces Rosemary to try what he and Juan are going to eat in a kiddie combo version.
It’s a quarter to seven when we return to the law firm. True to form, Tyrese has not made any moves to leave me to lock up. I settle Rosemary in the toy area, in my office, across from the table.
“Juan, I don’t have too many toys for a boy your age—”
“Toys,” he shrieks, not an ounce of testosterone in his tone, “I am too old for toys.”
Felicidad glances back and forth from us, something I noticed that she does when not comprehending.
Rosemary is predominantly Spanish speaking like her mother, but with hand movements and other gestures, she’d caught on at the fast food joint. So, I try out my high school Spanish, asking, “Toys… uh… yo quiero—you want. Uh… ¿Quieres jugar con juguetes?” I finally allow each word to slowly slip out asking if she’d like to play with the toys.
Her mother offers the most humble, beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, as she appreciates my attempts.
Rosemary moves in trepidation. She unwinds her arm from around Felicidad’s waist and then takes tiny steps to the toy chest before something of interest must catch her eyes because she zips the few yards and hunkers down to play.
“Juan, I have a Nintendo Switch somewhere around here,” I begin, sitting down and opening my left file cabinet. “And a whole lot of new games for you— “
“But I know everything you want to ask,” Juan assures. “I have to help my mother say what she needs to say.”
His mother eyes him as if attempting to read his lips. She’s aware he’s talking about her.
“Buddy,” Tyrese leans against my file cabinet along the back wall. “Some of the stuff we’d like to ask your mother might not be appropriate for your ears.”
I almost smile at his response. What can I say? That was a perfect age-appropriate rebuttal.
“But I know everything. My father beats my mother as you can see,” He states matter-of-factly. “I’m too old to allow him to hit my mother anymore.”
Tyrese and I exchange glances. For a man I can’t pinpoint in time, we have an entire silent film conversation in less than a second. The few interpreters on payroll unattached from the world of work when off the clock. No cell phones. No calls. No nothing. This is time sensitive. We need to be aware of what Mr. Noriega has done. It’s imperative to her welfare, and maybe even her children as well.
“What happened?” I hesitantly ask.
“My father hit me, too.” He rubs a hand underneath his left eye. Upon peering closely, there’s a grayish half-moon that I previously assumed was due to lack of sleep. “My teacher harped about being a mandated reporter. She called CPS. They didn’t come. My mom is afraid to go to the cops. Yes, she’s illegal, Rosemary is too. But we cannot go to the cops because some of those cops are friends with my father.”
“Are you illegal?” I inquire.
“Nah, my father snuck my mother over here a long time ago, they had me. Mom got caught working at a cleaner, she was sent back. But I think my dad is the reason those people—I don’t know the names of them—come and get illegals.”
In his haste to speak, I decipher that he means ICE or another immigration official came to get his mother at his father’s request.
“Why would your father rat out your mother?” I inquire, hoping my friendly jargon keeps him speaking. Much of what Juan has divulged can be verified.
“He had just beat up my mom, I was five. He had another woman on the side. Mom tried to fight him, that was the first time and last time she did that.” He huffs.
“So, you’ve stayed with your father while your mother lived in Mexico?”
“No, I stayed with my abuelita. My father’s mother. Then my father went to see my mother. She got pregnant with Rosemary.”
I want to ask a question but can’t get a word in edgewise as Juan continues to tell the story of how his father snuck his mother back to California after promising life would be better, and he would be better.
“Where’s your grandmother?”
“Dead.”
Shit, I keep a straight face. “I’m sorry to hear that. Does your mother have any other family in the states?”
“No. Her family isn’t in Mexico either, they’re dead, too. Or maybe they don’t want to see my mom because of my dad. Sometimes I wonder.” He licks his lips. “I’ve never been to Mexico and I ain’t trying to go either. Can you help my mom and sister stay? Can you keep them safe from my dad?”
His dark brown orbs plead with me to work wonders. Which is harder? Our current president doesn’t give a shit about Mrs. Noriega or keeping her near her son. Her husband, clearly, doesn’t give a shit about her in general. And he has an entire dang family to assist with apprehending his wife and punishing her as he sees fit.
“We’ll speak with an immigration attorney about your mother and sister.”
“Thanks. That would be great,” he says.
I text Vassili that I’ll be home late tonight, and mumble to Tyrese, “Can you call the Four Seasons and see if there’s a vacancy?”
His eyes sparkle with hope. Did this fool think that myself and him would be frequenting the establishment?
I redirect his ass with, “We might not be in Noriega’s neck of the woods, but let’s have his family stay somewhere he’s even less likely to frequent.” With the other half… rich white folks.
“But we have vouchers for the general area.”
“Unless you’re on your way out for the evening, I would be so grateful.”
“We will lock up together,” he mumbles under his breath, hopping off the file cabinets and exiting the room.
***
It’s past nine when low and behold, I end up at The Four Seasons with Tyrese Nicks. Felicidad is wiping away tears as she takes in the double bed with clean sheets.
“Can you tell your mother that you all should head to the welfare office tomorrow?”
“She won’t go,” Juan replies, truly parentified—a term I learned in child development, which indicated that the youth held on a parental role. He makes a good attorney in her defense.
“Please and thank you.” I smile.
He starts off in Spanish. She makes scissor movements with her hands, saying “No, mijo, no.”
“I told ya.” Juan huffs.
“You have the right to have food stamps, Juan. Your mother and sister are undocumented and therefore won’t be calculated into the amount. But you have the right.”
He continues to shake his head. “No. I don’t care. We will go hungry.”
Tyrese tries. “It’s against the law for the eligibility technician to— “
“But these are my mother’s words. She’s paranoid. Thinks my dad knows everybody in Cali.”
“Alright,” I say, dishing out a few dollars. I don’t keep change around. Tyrese pulls out a money clip and gives them three crisp twenties.
Dang, I can agree with her paranoia. The Loco Dios has gained notoriety in recent years. They’re even more infamous than in the past because of the new ties they made while resurrecting themselves. They’re a ruthless, rowdy bunch backed by cartel connections. I need some intel as to how deep Noriega is with this gang.
I know exactly the person to apprehend that information from… my father.