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maribelvela · 7 years

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INVOLVED → a client, her son, a “businessman” TIME FRAME → over the course of a few weeks in mid 2014 LOCATION → El Paso, Texas SUMMARY → A little threat, a little crime, a little wreck, a little deed. Something better forgotten and never to be confessed. lmao it’s 2236 words

I DIDN’T MEAN FOR THIS SHIT TO GET SO LONG.

TL;DR maribel could be sued for law malpractice, perhaps even something criminal. after a crime boss requests the deportation of someone who witnessed a murder, maribel tries to keep her integrity together until her son is put in harm’s way. her mother instincts flare up, risking her professional reputation, she sends an innocent boy home. all in the name of motherly love and keeping your job, i guess.

SCENE → 9AM. Dream Defenders HQ.

Maribel always approved each case that came in before it could be taken up. While it was easy to try accepting them all, she took it upon herself to vet and examine each for potential. Like every morning before, Maribel was at her desk reading through a mountain of files and summaries prepared by her employees. As the woman in charge, her own desk wasn't grand but it was separated from everyone else. She could have the privilege of privacy and quiet, but the taps of productivity were still heard. Hearing people work made her feel secure.

Her secretary knocked and opened the door. "Ms. Vela, Mr. Santos is here for his appointment." Maribel froze, the page she was turning slipped from her finger and slowly landed. She peered over her reading glasses. "Gilbert Santos?" She knew the name. The secretary nodded and spoke before Maribel could respond further. "I'll send him in."

Uh, Maribel didn’t confirm that he could enter.

His footsteps made Maribel uncomfortable, loud and obnoxious. She could only dread as to how he would talk like. He wasn't a large man, a willowy figure who couldn’t have been taller than 5′8″ but his presence took up so much space — not counting that strong waft of cologne. It made Maribel want to puke because it smelt like rotten bergamot orange. Mr. Santos put his jacket where Maribel had hung her scarf. He made himself comfortable in the seat before her desk, settling until he was still as a stone. Maribel's disposition mirrored him, yet her head pounded intensely. He leaned forward with his hands holding the chair's sides. "You're the one defending Skinner Martinez, aren't you?"

How did he know? Maribel broke their gaze, by shutting her open file and tidying the space immediately in front of her. "We're handling Ernesto Martinez's asylum claim, yes." She paused, looking back at him and raising her voice. "I can't discuss this with you. I can confirm that he's my client but whatever you’re here for, this is the most I can reveal." She sighed before standing up, walking around her table towards the door. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure why you’re here. I don’t need your likes around here so you can just head on—” Her babbling was interrupted by a thump. She turned around to see a thick envelope on her desk. Santos had sly smile.

“Open it,” he said, before throatily chuckling. His voice was raw yet suspiciously smooth. “You’re looking at it like it’s your dead cat.”

The two held each other’s stares once again. Oddly enough, both had ancestors dating back to Spanish Texas. They were channeling the intensity of two gun-wielding duellers. Maribel could never foresee the lawlessness of the Wild West manifested in her sleek modern office. Here she was, like the Vela forebears who defended their property against bandits like Santos.

“If you’d stoop as low to give me ca–” “Open it,” Santos growled. She wanted to get rid of him, but she felt reduced. It disgusted her. Maribel obeyed, if that’s what it took to rid him. She ripped the envelope open, expecting to feel dollar bills but she froze as her fingers touched glossy paper. Photographs. She took each one out, laying them in front of her.

There was her fourteen year old son at the mall with his friends. There was her husband on his morning jog in the park, alone. Another shot of both having conversation outside a Starbucks.

Gilbert knew who her family was and where they were. She couldn’t even think of how these shots had been taken: they were close distance, not far away. Their subject — her loved ones — didn’t notice anything.

Maribel was too scared to look in Santos’ direction. She heard his voice, as he narrated each image. “Ms. Vela, you’re a smart gringa.” She raised her eyebrow. That was uncalled for. Before he could continue, Maribel mouthed under her breath. Hijo de puta. “And very direct too. Listen carefully. I want Martinez out of here. He’s trouble.”

Son of a bitch. It was stuck in her throat. He had choked her without laying a single finger. Gilbert Santos grabbed his jacket and left. Maribel’s hands curled into fists that didn’t let go for a while.

SCENE → 12PM. Dream Defenders HQ.

“Hey, Maribel, my lunch break might be a bit longer today. Justin and I want to try the new place around the corner.” Her secretary had most of his body hidden behind the door as he nonchalantly reported his tactical retreat. Maribel wanted to snarl. He couldn’t avoid her.

“Rob, don’t go just yet.” The young man tensed up. “You better give me an explanation of this morning’s guest because what happened today was absolutely inexcusable.” Gilbert Santos did not have an appointment and the encounter had thrown off her focus for the rest of the day.

Rob finally exhaled. Please breathe. Instead, he panicked. “It’s difficult to say no to a man like that. Ask anyone out there, he bust right in like he owned the place. He probably does. They call him–”

“I know his street name, something like tiburón, shark. And his name is Gil, like gills on a shark. He’s a loan shark.” The concept was cringeworthy if it wasn’t so terrifying. “You think I don’t know this? You think I want an actual dangerous criminal under my roof?” She didn’t mean to push her frustration on the secretary. After all, she was becoming undone just like Santos probably intended. But it made her so angry, that someone like him could penetrate her organisation and just barge in like that, demand something from an honest non-profit like that. She huffed. “Why do you think he was asking about Martinez?”

As much community engagement Maribel did, she could never be truly a part of who she served. Her staff were mostly locals, perhaps people she’d helped in the past. They knew the status of migrants better than she did, by their sheer experience. Rob was one of them.

“He’s such a leech. My parents couldn’t get a loan for their store so uh, he approached them. God, he has ears everywhere. How could he know? Anyway, like so many others, my parents were victims to his crazy interest until—”

Maribel interrupted her employee again. “But Ernesto doesn’t have any debt. Santos would have nothing on him.” That was certain. They worked for free but Ernesto “Skinner” Martinez had pride and savings, insisting on paying.

“Maribel, Ernesto’s sister was shot in San Antonio last week!” Maribel put her hand up and narrowed her eyes. What? She wasn’t being rude. She had been consoling her client when he came in bawling. It was just an exclamation to her, not an explanation from Rob. He was displaying severe nervousness and struggled to further explain. “I know he came in all lamenting and shit. Okay, I heard from some people that he was there when it happened. He didn’t want to tell us because he thought it would, uh, jeopardise or ruin his application.”

That didn’t make any sense. But obviously that’s why services like Maribel’s were needed with all this misinformation. Maribel dismissed Rob for his lunch. She flopped in her desk chair. Fuck. That’s when it started to sink in. Why couldn’t this just hit her like a wave, swift and done with? The implications of everything just collapsed on her instead, slowly burying into her conscience.

She opened the door of her private space and looked out at her team, some were still working. These were the people building her empire. When Gilbert took a shot at her heritage, he wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t a full, indigenous, Mexican. Her mother was Catholic but still European: Irish mother and peninsular father. Maribel’s father, like most Mexicans, was mestizo but that didn’t mean their family could recall their culture. As much as Maribel would’ve loved to claim one. There was a time when teenage Maribel adored civilisation. Ever the aspiring Classics major, studied Greek myths philosophy and quoted Latin phrases for fun. She decolonised her mind soon enough. The wonders and legacy of the Aztec was a civilisation. She had the blood of its empire regrettably, alongside the Spanish colonisers but still, only an Aztec descendant could have the passion and drive she had. This NGO’s office? This organisation was her own Templo Mayor. She was Mexican, no matter what that puta insisted. Gilbert Santos had the gall to cherrypick her ethnicity but was willing to con and deport a fellow Latino. This was chaos, not civilisation.

SCENE → 2AM. Maribel’s suburban home.

Maribel slammed her car door shut. Her son followed. She took out her mobile and dialled. “Rob, get here now. My house.” The lights were still on when they entered. Maribel’s husband (her second one) was watching a late night talk show.

“What happened? What did the kid do?” Maribel’s son widened his eyes as if the man had insulted her mother. He really didn’t. He was there when Maribel received a call about her son being at the police station. “I did nothing. We got jumped,” her son snapped. “Who the fuck holds some teens at gunpoint?” Getting robbed in central El Paso. That wasn’t right. Maribel’s husband sat up straight from his slouch, apologised and offered some comforting, if useless, words and reprimanded him about his language.

Maribel had bells inside her head ringing. When they sent her down to the station, she had to be there while they questioned him. Lucky kid, with an attorney as a mother. As he recounted the incident, she picked up on some features of the crime. They were familiar. Her son was privileged and surrounded by enough affluence to not know it. But, anyone within Gilbert Santo’s vicinity would recognise it all immediately. She couldn’t believe it. The son of bitch would target a fourteen year old, one exiting the movie theatre in a decent neighbourhood with his friends. Santos was beneath sub-human.

“Why would you even go into town that late?” Maribel had put her stuff on the kitchen counter. Her son was pouring himself some juice. He almost over-poured with Maribel’s piercing interrogation. She was a chill parent, not one that yelled. Maribel wasn’t even angry when she found the bong in his room. “Why are you and him both riding my dick like this?” He shouted, before storming off with his juice. She wasn’t going to bother confronting him. She couldn’t blame him for being on edge, close to death even.

Maribel’s second husband walked past him. He found Maribel teary-eyed and hunched over as both hands pressed on the counter. Her hair was all over the place. She had a wild look in her eye. At the same time, he knew her well enough to know that cogs were spinning inside that mind. She was overthinking, running out batteries like the machine she was. He started to rub her shoulders. “Not now. Work is bad too.” Maribel said immediately. Come on. Relax. He was in his pyjamas yet Maribel didn’t even change out her work clothes. The heels could’ve slain her by now. He stroked her hair, her neck, moved his hands down to her hips before wrapping them around her. “Human warmth works in times of distress.” Cute, but they weren’t penguins. Albeit she could have let loose, let her own damn husband love her, care for her but, no...

That was the moment Rob stormed in, having rushed over since the phone call. “Your son let me in, he doesn’t seem too–” Oh. As he saw the intimacy of his boss and her husband. “Should I wait outside?” Maribel slipped out of the embrace, flustered. She kissed her husband good night and sent him off, leaving her and Rob in the kitchen. They were both visibly uncomfortable.

“He’s done it. You know what this means,” Maribel spoke, once she knew she heard her husband go upstairs. Rob nodded, already opening files on his tablet computer. “Martinez has a solid case for asylum, Maribel, torture claimant and all. You want us to get rid of all that? Send him back?”

“Or you want us Ernesto to die for being a witness, Rob?”

Gilbert had made it very clear. It was Ernesto Martinez or her son.

SCENE → 2PM. USCIS Building.

She met Ernesto outside. He said that ICE were hanging round his neighbourhood. He couldn’t wait until they didn’t scare him anymore. He entered illegally, but that didn’t mean he was a bad person. The USCIS would take a while to respond to his claim, but if all they did what they usually did, they were unlikely to accept it.

Rob and Maribel had done their best, that is, done their best to be bad at their job. They didn’t give enough details to advocate, only enough to fill the blanks. Ernesto would never know. Ernesto trusted his existence in her organisation. They knew what the officials wanted to hear on their forms. People knew that their efforts were never 100% guaranteed. But Maribel knew what she was doing, right? All they could do was wait for the system to hopefully work.

She wished Ernesto luck and entered the building to meet another client. All she smelt was rotten orange bergamot.

#@luna where are your replies? GREAT QUESTION #this is what happens when i drink too much black coffee #this fucked me up #I AM SECONDHAND STRESS FROM MARIBEL #omfg bitch gilbert santos scares the fuck outta me #if u want a visual: her second husband looks like alfonso herrera he is a complete rip of hernando from sense8 #froy...gutierrez...as son.....because.....#niko pepaj as rob(erto) tbh #and poor second husband??? he would've got pretty shitty by the end of their marriage #but he was a genuinely good guy in this piece #a better father than their biological one #oh my fucking god i miss writing prose #this really was only supposed to be four paragraphs max #idk how to cut this down #milv (selfpara)

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