Don't Go L.J. Breedlove (books to read fiction TXT) 📖

a few years back, and we put in some surveillance cameras. Corey did it.” The Reverend rolled his eyes about his tech-savvy son. Still, if Corey installed a system, it worked, Ryan thought, amused.

“And if that’s ICE, they’ll be white men, and they stick out in this neighborhood like those two did the other day,” Rev. Washington said.

“I’m putting you and your wife, and your grandson in jeopardy,” Ryan said numbly.

“Not much, I don’t think,” he said. “Do you realize my family goes back to the 1700s in this country? Black people have deep ties to this continent. Only the Indigenous peoples have deeper. ICE doesn’t worry me. Not even when they sweep up my son and dump him in jail.”

It was the first reference he’d made to Cage’s story the night before. Ryan let it pass.

“My sons — my family — are at risk every day they leave this neighborhood to go into white neighborhoods, and let’s face it, in Portland, all neighborhoods are white. They run the risk of getting shot in a Stop-N-Go. Cage reminded me of that the other night. But I will not back down. Most certainly I’m not going to let them take a 3-year-old in my care.”

“That’s what worries me,” Ryan admitted. “I’m afraid someone is going to try and take him, and you’ll be hurt protecting him. And you’re important to this neighborhood, pastor. To the Black community. We cannot afford to lose you either.”

Rev. Washington looked at the young man standing beside him, startled by his observation. And touched by it. He patted him on the shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ryan stood by the window and watched the car for a long while. Tomorrow, he thought. Maybe the attorney would have answers.

Chapter 19

2 p.m. Monday, Immigration Law Ltd. — Ryan walked by the brick building near the Art Museum twice before he noticed the discreet brass plate that announced the offices he was looking for. It wasn’t far from the Mexican Consulate either, he had noticed that in his search for the offices. He rang the bell, identified himself and was buzzed in. He found the security reassuring.

The attorney was a surprise, however. He wasn’t much older, if any, than Ryan.

“Vic Ruiz,” he said, shaking hands.

Vic was shorter than Ryan by several inches, but he moved as if he worked out, maybe even had some kind of boxing experience. Ryan wasn’t sure why that occurred to him. But there was a physical confidence there. Latino, but if Ryan had to guess, Vic was third generation like Joe Castro. He didn’t have any discernable accent as he made polite small talk and escorted Ryan back to his office. And he didn’t move like Teresa’s cousins had moved. His gestures were as white bread as his own. More so. The Christmas break Ryan had spent with Teresa’s family had given him the body language and the basic street language which — not unlike English — consisted of a lot of ways to insult someone’s mother. He could assume the body language, the gestures. Another form of being a chameleon, he guessed. A communication professor used to insist in one of his intro classes that 70 percent of all communication was non-verbal. That had stuck with him. His Spanish needed work, but he could speak street English like a cholo. He didn’t think Vic Ruiz could. It made him curious. As Sarah said, they were journalists after all.

“All right,” Vic Ruiz said. “So. Teresa is safe. Ryan is with you. Also, safe?”

“ICE has been around,” Ryan said. He described yesterday’s surveillance. “But Ryan is my son. I have the papers. I assume you have the papers. So why are they even expending this much energy and money on him?”

“Why are they doing anything?” Vic Ruiz said wearily. He took off his wire-rim glasses, wiped the fingerprints off of them on his shirttail. Put the glasses back on, tucked his shirt in. Resettled his mask. It reminded him of Will Bristol in the office, and Ryan wondered how many times he did that each day. His glasses already had another fingerprint.

“ICE has become a paramilitary force operating on its own orders,” Ruiz said. ‘It’s crazy. Six more months.”

Ryan realized this was a mantra for the young attorney. “Two weeks until the election,” Ryan corrected him.

“Nothing changes then, except it may get worse, temporarily, especially if Trump loses.”

“If?”

“If. A lot of people in this country like what he’s doing especially when it comes to immigrants. Most of my clients were ratted out by neighbors and even family members.

“But nothing will change until Jan. 21 anyway, and even then? It will take time. So, I keep telling myself six more months. And quite frankly? In six months, I expect to have to tell myself, six more months.”

Ruiz was silent for a moment.

“But this case? There is something weird about it,” Ruiz said.

“How did you get involved?” Ryan asked

“So, I’m just a junior partner here. My uncle is the senior partner in this office; there are six of us here. We have offices throughout the Pacific Northwest including in Yakima. That’s the office the Valdez family first hired to represent the senior Mr. Valdez, then his son, and then Teresa, the granddaughter. There is a great deal of financial capital at stake in this case, as you may be aware. Valdez Trucking is a sound business. I’ve seen the financial assessment. It’s healthy — and in these times with COVID that’s impressive.”

Vic Ruiz grinned. “And unbeknownst to the asshole who is using ICE as part of his corporate takeover strategy, most of the ownership of the company is in the hands of the women of the family. The men run it. They work it. But the women own it. And didn’t that just stick a burr up his butt when he found that out.”

Apparently, Vic Ruiz got involved with his work. Ryan liked this guy.

“So anyway, that’s not my area of expertise. I handle clients, and I handle