“Yes, but she knows nothing about that fucker’s finances,” Aiden hisses. “She got paid peanut shells, and not from the asshole himself. Couldn’t even be in the fucking lobby. That sleazeball has a history with fraud. Cheated in college, defrauded his ex-wife in alimony. And now, he has concocted this scheme, taking advantage of people with no power.”
Bob assumes the expression of a pallbearer. “That may well be true but, given the fact that Elisa also shows up in his sketches, I suspect that she does know something about Feign and his paintings.”
“What sketches are these?” I whisper. “I never modeled my face at Feign’s.”
Bob flips through a tall stack of papers in front of him and hands me a thick envelope. Aiden leans over to look, his breath hot on my cheek. I open it with shaking hands, and we both gasp. The sketches are practice runs for Aiden’s painting. I set them facedown on the table, unable to look at Javier’s rendition of my eyes. He has given them a happiness I may only ever find in paintings.
Bob turns his full body to face me. “I think it’s time you tell me the truth, dear. So I can help you. And remember—it’s all attorney-client privileged, except as to Mr. Hale here. Whatever you say, it’s safe with me.”
I look at Aiden. He nods without hesitation and fills me a glass of water from a curvy pitcher on the table. But what about Javier’s secret?
“I’ll tell you what I know but I won’t give you any names,” I say.
Bob nods and I start explaining, taking a sip of water every time I skip over Javier’s name. In the end, Bob’s face is pale. Aiden’s is hard steel.
“My dear,” Bob sighs and straightens the stack of papers. “You have no choice but to tell the DOJ the truth. If you don’t cooperate, the green card denial is the least of your worries. They may charge you with aiding and abetting or perjury or obstructing justice. There’s jail time for that. And you haven’t done anything wrong. Why hide?”
The floor is shaking under my feet. “Because they’ll want to know my friend’s name!” I choke.
Bob nods gravely. “Yes, they will.”
“And what would happen to him then? To my family?”
A deep silence descends on the conference room. “He’d likely be deported and not able to return for at least ten years. They can also charge him with fraud too, and a jury would decide whether a fraudulent artist or an illegal immigrant is lying.”
“But he’s innocent! He didn’t participate in Feign’s fraud! He just paints so he can eat!”
Aiden’s arm tightens around my shoulders and he glares at Bob. “What about witness protection visas—S-5, S-6?” he hisses again. “Could they apply to him? Maybe he himself can testify and relieve her of the burden?”
Bob shakes his head. “The government reserves those visas for terrorist or organized crime witnesses. Not an isolated fraud case.”
“What about another witness? Can someone else come forward and render the need for her testimony irrelevant? The smoking gun if you will—so the investigation stops before they get to her.”
“Who else would know about this?” Bob asks, squinting his eyes.
“No one,” I say. “Feign would not have trusted anyone with this.”
“We’ll find someone.” Aiden arm flexes around my shoulders. “I’d do it myself but I’d only implicate her further.”
Bob shakes his head, squinting more at a vein in the black marble. The longer he is silent, the more my airways tighten.
“It’s a good thought,” he says at last. “But we can’t bank on it. Not with only days left. Besides, she has to explain about her modeling work. Otherwise, she’d still lose.”
The deep V cracks between Aiden’s eyebrows. He rests his chin on his fist, narrowing his eyes at the same marble vein.
Bob turns to me. “Elisa, I know this is an impossible position. But my only concern is your best interest. My advice is that you talk to the DOJ and tell them the truth. It will actually help with your green card. By mid-June, you’ll have what you’ve always wanted.”
My head whips up. Despite Bob’s twinkly eyes, all the anguish makes room for anger. What I’ve always wanted? The chair starts shaking again. My teeth snap together before I can scream. The violence turns inward and propels me to my feet.
“Please, listen!” Bob says, raising his liver-spotted hands. “That’s not what I meant, dear.”
“Elisa? Please?” Aiden says very quietly, rising next to me. I meet his eyes. How can I listen to this with my heart imploding? How can I sit when everything inside is shivering like it did in that morgue four years ago? He puts his hand on my shoulder, pressing down gently. I drop. His arm wraps around me again like a rampart.
While we were looking at each other, something changed in Bob’s face. It has creased as though whatever he saw desiccated it. The lawyer is gone. An ancient man sits before me.
“I know what I’m asking you to do,” he sighs. “But I want to talk like a seventy-eight-year-old man to a…a granddaughter.”