The Rooster Bar

14

Zola attended one class on Monday but found it so depressing she blew off the others. The class, Rights of the Elderly, was one of those useless electives so popular with third-year students coasting to the finish line. She and Gordy had signed up for it and planned to take turns suffering through the lectures, then compare notes at the end and get rewarded with either As or Bs. It was a small class, about twenty students, and when the seat to her right remained empty she couldn’t help but think of Gordy. He should have been sitting there.

When they had started dating the previous September, they had been cautious. Gordy was a popular student with an outsized personality and commanded a lot of attention. Zola was not the first girl he’d chased, but certainly the first black one he’d fallen for. Their friends knew he had a serious sweetheart back home, one who was jealous and came to D.C. often to check on him. Zola and Gordy had been careful, but with time they had been noticed. Word had spread.

The professor had started his lecture with some sad comments about Mr. Tanner’s tragedy, and Zola got a few looks. She heard little else and couldn’t wait to leave the building, but not before picking up her check for $10,000. She deposited it in her bank, bundled up, and drifted through the city. When the sky turned gray, she ducked into the National Portrait Gallery and killed some time.

During law school, she had managed to find part-time jobs for a few hours here and there. She lived more frugally than the rest of her impoverished friends, and since she didn’t drink, partied little, and used public transportation, she had saved money. The $20,000 the government lent her each year to live on had been more than enough, and with one semester left Zola had $16,000 in a savings account no one else knew about. Chump change in D.C., but serious money in Senegal. If her parents and brother were finally deported, the money could become crucial to their survival. Bribery was common, and though she shuddered at the thought of traveling to Senegal, and of being either detained or denied reentry, she knew that she might one day be forced to rush to the aid of her family with as much cash as possible. So she saved and tried not to think about her loans.

She had not heard from her parents. Telephone use was limited at the detention center. Her father had been confident that he would be allowed to notify her before they were finally removed and flown back to Senegal, but with deportation the rules seemed to change daily. She convinced herself they were still in the country, and that provided some comfort. Why, she wasn’t sure. What was worse — living like prisoners in a federal camp or being turned loose on the streets of Dakar? Neither scenario held the slightest hope. They would never be allowed to return to their neighborhood in Newark. The menial jobs they had scrambled to get for the past twenty-six years would be taken by other undocumented workers. The cycle would continue because the work had to be done and real Americans preferred not to do it.

When she wasn’t longing for Gordy and blaming herself, she was worrying about her family and their frightening predicament. And if she somehow managed to put those two tragedies aside, she was confronted with the uncertainties of her own future. As the cold, bleak days of January crept by, Zola fell into a deep and understandable funk.

After ten days of virtually living with Todd and Mark, she needed some distance. They were skipping classes and were adamant that they would not return to school. They texted her occasionally to check on things, but seemed occupied with more important matters.

Late Tuesday morning, she heard noises from across the hall and realized the Tanners were removing boxes of Gordy’s belongings. She thought about saying hello and offering condolences, but let it pass. Mr. Tanner and Gordy’s brother spent an hour going back and forth to a rental van parked on the street. Grim work, and she listened to their efforts through a cracked door. When they were gone, she took an extra key and walked through Gordy’s apartment. The old furniture that came with the place was still there, and she sat on the sofa, in the dark, and had a good cry.

On two occasions and at very inopportune times, she had fallen asleep on that sofa, and allowed him to venture into the night. Her guilt was overwhelming.

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.