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 fighting 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?