The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [72]
Dan removed his hand. “That’s not the right answer, Scott. Try again.”
“My answer is no.”
Dan stood, walked across the room, and sat behind his desk. He folded his hands on the mahogany top.
“Scotty, Mack McCall’s a U.S. senator now. He dresses nice and talks nice on those Sunday morning political shows…but underneath that politician’s demeanor, he’s still just a Texas roughneck. He grew up poor in the West Texas oil fields, started working the rigs when he was fifteen. It’s a hard life, it makes a man hard—it makes some men mean. Mack’s one of those men.”
Dan picked up a pen and studied it a moment; then he said, “Back in college, we were at a party at Martha’s sorority house. She was Mack’s fiancée then, a pretty girl and wealthy. She was Mack’s ticket, and he wasn’t about to let someone else punch it. Well, a football player got drunk and made the mistake of flirting with Martha. Mack told him to leave, but he said no. So Mack told him to step outside. Now, that boy outweighed Mack by fifty pounds, but he didn’t stand a chance. Mack beat him with brass knuckles, might’ve killed that boy if I hadn’t pulled him off. I said, ‘Mack, why the hell did you do that?’ All he said was, ‘No one takes something that belongs to me.’”
Dan shook his head in apparent disbelief at the memory.
“Scott, I learned three things about Mack McCall that night: he doesn’t take no for an answer; he doesn’t fight fair; and he’s the meanest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”
Scott let out a nervous chuckle. “So what’s he gonna do, beat me up?”
Dan sighed. “I don’t know what he’s going to do, Scotty. Forty-two years, I’ve never said no to him.” He paused, then said, “But I do know one thing, Scott: Mack McCall thinks the White House belongs to him.”
SIXTEEN
¡USTED ME LO PROMETIO, Señor Fenney! ¡Usted me lo prometio!”
Consuela’s brown face was wet with tears and contorted with fear as she cried out—You promised, Señor Fenney! You promised! Her eyes were begging for help, her round body was shaking uncontrollably, and her arms were held behind her colorful Mexican peasant dress by handcuffs. INS policy, the agents had said.
Two agents from the Immigration and Naturalization Service had arrived at the Fenney residence at exactly 6:30 A.M. that Monday morning. Consuela had collapsed into Scott’s arms when they flashed their INS badges. The fear that had haunted her always now possessed her. All her protections had failed her: the crucifixes, the prayers, the candles, the Town of Highland Park…and Señor Fenney.
Ten minutes later, the agents were departing with Consuela de la Rosa in federal custody. Scott stood by helplessly as the agents escorted her to their waiting car. He shouted, “INS doesn’t come into Highland Park, that’s the deal! This is gonna cost you your jobs!”
One agent smiled and said, “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Half the homes in Highland Park employ Mexican maids! Why’d you come to my house?”
“Anonymous tip, sir,” the same agent said over his shoulder.
Scott gave the agent the best glare he could work up in his boxer shorts.
“Anonymous tip, my ass!”
Boo pushed past Scott and ran barefooted in her nightie down the walkway shouting, “Consuela! Consuela!”
Consuela turned back just as Boo threw her arms around the older woman’s wide waist and clutched her tightly. Consuela bent over and said, “Oh, niña.” Boo reached up and wiped tears from Consuela’s face. After a moment, one agent tugged at Consuela’s arm, so she kissed Boo and motioned for her to return to the house. Boo ran straight into Scott’s arms, her face frantic.
“You promised they wouldn’t come to our house! You promised! Where are they taking her? What’s gonna happen to her?”
Pajamae was now standing next to them. “That’s how they do it,” she said. “They just come and take you away.”
Finally Rebecca appeared. She punched her fists into her hips, sighed, and said, “That’s just great. Who’s gonna cook now, me?”
One agent put Consuela in the backseat of the dark sedan while two morning