On Wednesday, she dressed for class and was about to leave when her father called. They were still at the detention facility without a word about their final removal. Nothing had changed since her visit. He tried to sound upbeat, a real challenge given his circumstances. Zola had been trying to locate relatives in Senegal to alert them and ask for help, but so far had not been successful. After twenty-six years of virtually no contact, a pleasant homecoming seemed unlikely. And, since her parents had no idea when they might be returned, making arrangements seemed impossible. According to her father, most of the family had fled the country years earlier. Those still there had their own problems and would not be sympathetic.
They talked for twenty minutes, and when the call ended she broke down again. Going to class seemed like such an insignificant thing to do. She was there because of a misguided dream of becoming a lawyer and fighting to protect her family and other immigrants. Now that was a hopeless cause, a broken dream.
She had collected a small library of immigration manuals and procedures, and she spent hours online reading articles and blogs and government publications. She was in contact with several rights groups and legal aid lawyers. One issue continued to frighten her. ICE, in its random eagerness to seize and deport, had made mistakes. She kept a file of cases where legitimate American citizens had been caught up in sweeps and sent back. She knew of a dozen stories in which citizens whose parents were undocumented had been mislabeled and removed. And in almost every case, the illegal seizure had occurred after the family had been detained.
Alone and vulnerable, and with her family in custody, she once again feared the knock on the door.
On Thursday, she dressed in her best for an interview at the Department of Justice. A number of starting positions were available but they were in high demand. She felt lucky just to land an interview. The salary, $48,000, was not what she had been thinking about three years earlier, but those fantasies were long gone.
The federal government had created a loan forgiveness program for young lawyers who pursued careers in public service. In the program, students who chose to work for any branch of state, local, or federal government, or for certain qualified nonprofits, could repay only 10 percent of their annual salaries, for ten years, and walk away from the rest of the debt. For many students, especially those at Foggy Bottom, it was tempting, especially in light of the soft job market in the private sector. Most preferred to work in some law-related agency, but others were signing up to teach school or join the Peace Corps.
The interview was in the basement of an office building on Wisconsin Avenue, far from the DOJ headquarters near the White House. When Zola signed in, the small waiting room was packed with third-year students, some of whom she knew from Foggy Bottom. She took a number, stood until a chair became available, and had pretty much given up when her name was called. She chatted with a harried flunky from DOJ for fifteen minutes and couldn’t wait to get away.
Given the instability of her life, ten years was a long time to commit to anything.
15
Friday dinner was at The Rooster Bar, a place she had never heard of. According to Todd, he and Mark wanted to treat her to a fine meal. One look at the place, though, and she knew something was up. They were waiting in a corner booth, both dressed in new suits, both unshaven and working on beards, and both wearing odd new eyeglasses. Mark’s were round tortoiseshell. Todd preferred a narrow frameless pair in the European style.
She sat across from them and said, “Okay, what’s going on?”
Todd asked, “Did you go to class this week?”
“I tried. At least I made the effort. Didn’t see you boys around.”
Mark said, “We’ve dropped out, and we highly recommend it.”
Todd said, “It’s exhilarating, Zola. No more law school. No more worries about the bar exam.”
“I’m listening,” she said. “Where’d you get those suits?”
A waiter took their drink orders. Beers for the boys, a soda for her.
“It’s our new look, Zola,” Mark said. “We’re lawyers now and we have to look the part, though in our line we can’t look too sharp. DUI lawyers, as you know, rarely make the cover of GQ.”
“I see. And who would be desperate enough to hire you?”
“We’ve hung out our own shingle,” Todd said. “Hired ourselves. The Legal Clinic of Upshaw, Parker & Lane.” He handed her a new business card with the firm’s name, address, and phone number.
She looked at it, studied it, and said, “You are kidding, right?”
“Dead serious,” Mark said. “And we’re hiring.”
She took a deep breath, slowly showed them both palms, and said, “Okay. I’m not asking any more questions. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m leaving.”
Todd said, “You’re not going anywhere. We’ve moved out of our apartments, dropped out of school, changed our names, and found a way to make a few bucks. We’re going to pass ourselves off as lawyers, hustle the criminal courts for fees, in cash of course, and hope like hell we don’t get caught.”
“We won’t get caught,” Mark said. “There are too many guys just like us doing the same thing.”
“But they’re all licensed,” she said.
“How do you know? No one ever checks. And the clients have no clue. They’re scared to death and overwhelmed anyway, and never think about asking. Just like we didn’t ask Darrell Cromley at the jail.”
“It’s illegal,” she said. “I haven’t learned much at Foggy Bottom but I do know that practicing law without a license is against the law.”
“Only if we get caught,” Mark said.
Todd added, “Sure, there’s a risk, but it’s not that significant. If something goes wrong, we’ll just disappear again.”
Mark said, “And we think we can generate some cash, tax-free, of course.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, we’re actually pretty smart. We’re hiding in plain sight, Zola. Hiding from our landlord. Hiding from the student loan services. Hiding from everyone who might want to find us. And, we’ll be making decent money.”
“And your debts?”
Mark sipped his beer, wiped his mouth, and leaned in closer. “Here’s what will happen. The law school will one day realize that we’ve checked out, but it will do nothing. Most reputable law schools notify DOE and then haggle over how much of the tuition will be refunded for the semester. You can bet Foggy Bottom wants to refund nothing, so it will sit on the fact that we’re gone and keep all the money. We’ll check in by e-mail with our servicers and give them the impression that we’re in class. Graduation is in May, and, as you know, we’re supposed to agree to a repayment plan that starts six months later. When we don’t pay, they’ll throw us in default.”
Todd added, “Did you know that last year a million students went into default?”
She shrugged. Maybe she did; maybe she didn’t.
Mark continued, “So we have some time, nine or ten months before we’re in default. By then, we’ll be kicking ass with our little legal clinic and hoarding cash.”
She said, “But default means default, a guaranteed lawsuit that you can’t defend.”
Todd said, “Only if they find us. My loan servicer works in a sweatshop in Philadelphia. Mark’s is in New Jersey. Where is yours, I can’t remember?”
“Chevy Chase.”