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Angela passed Christina the sack. “I bought two kinds of potato chips. Bruce likes sour cream and onion, but I got you plain, Ms. Jones.”
“Christina,” she corrected. “Plain chips are fine. Thank you for getting lunch.”
Angela smiled. “Oh, it’s no problem. I know how driven Bruce is. He wouldn’t eat at all if I didn’t force-feed him. Besides, I had an excuse to get a chicken salad sandwich from Kim’s Deli. Ever since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve craved her chicken salad.”
Angela paused. “So, do you require anything else? The small fridge on the floor over there is stocked with water and pop.”
Christina wished she’d known that earlier. Her throat was parched, and some soda would do her good. Having been raised in Houston, where everyone called the fizzy beverage “soda,” Christina still hadn’t gotten used to calling it “pop” the way these Indiana Midwesterners did.
“I think we’re fine,” Bruce said. His expression dared Christina to contradict him.
“I’m good,” she said. She pushed her chair back a little. “If you’d excuse me for a moment, though.”
“The women’s washroom is this way,” Angela offered, as if reading Christina’s mind. She held open the door, and Christina followed her out. Time to find more common ground and make some connection with Angela. If not, it would be long case.
“My feet are already tired. Is there a masseuse in there?”
“I wish,” Angela said, taking the bait and talking. “I’ve gained two shoe sizes. My husband has the nightly chore of rubbing my feet. He hates it, but it’s heaven for me.”
“You’re lucky to have a husband like that.” Kyle hadn’t done a thing except complain that when pregnant, she’d appeared as if she had a basketball wedged under her clothes.
“Oh, my Bryan is such a sweetheart,” Angela confirmed. “We got married two years ago and it still seems like a honeymoon.” Angela paused at the bathroom door. “You seem really nice, Christina. Don’t let Bruce get you down. He’s a slave driver, but that’s only because he’s so good at his job. He can’t do anything less than one hundred and ten percent. It’s not in his nature.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m fine,” Christina insisted.
Angela bought the white lie, for she said, “Perfect. He’s a great boss. He really knows his stuff. Scored the highest on the bar, as I’m sure you’ve heard. And whatever you do, don’t believe any of his so-called Casanova reputation. All made up by angry Morrisville women who can’t land him. He’s too married to his work. Anyway, call me if you have any more questions.”
“I will,” Christina said as she pushed the door open and stepped inside the women’s washroom. After finishing her business and washing her hands, she took a long moment to study herself in the mirror. Tendrils of wheat-colored hair had come loose, and she pinned them back up. Her brown eyes were puffy, the result of her thinking she’d get an extra hour of sleep during “fall back.” Thank goodness for Angela bringing food. When Christina had fled the house that morning, she hadn’t given a thought to lunch. Tomorrow she’d pack one.
She headed back to the small conference room. Bruce was on the phone, the remains of his sandwich lying on the restaurant wrapper. Next to it sat a twenty-ounce bottle of cola, half-full.
“Go research the dissenting opinion on Martin v. Blatt. The judges locked two-one on it, and the uproar was so strong that the legislature went and voted in a law claiming that justice wasn’t served. I think you’ll find what you’re wanting for your closing arguments there. The minute I hang up, I’ll put Jessica on it and have her fax you the documents.”
Bruce gestured toward Christina’s unopened food as he listened to the caller. Eat, he mouthed before speaking into the phone again. “No, I wouldn’t even open that can of worms. You don’t want the jury off track from the main case. Always hammer your point, and reiterate that justice should be served.” He paused. “Yeah. See you at five.”
He hung up the phone and stared for a moment at Christina. “Get some pop.”
He then pressed a button on the phone. “Jessica, Bruce. Dig up the dissenting opinion on Martin v. Blatt and get it over to Colin at Ripley, ASAP. Yeah. It’s that important. No, I’m not going over there myself today. Just put a move on it. As if the deadline was yesterday. Colin is counting on you.”
He ended the speakerphone call and raised his eyes to observe that Christina was still standing. “What? Do I have food on my face?”
“No.”
“I work through lunch,” Bruce offered as explanation. “Always have. It’s more efficient than taking five minutes to go outside and stare at the birds. Too cold for that, anyway, now that the front moved through last night.”
Christina walked over to the refrigerator and withdrew a 7-Up. Although she could use the caffeine, there was no Mountain Dew and she didn’t like colas.
“That was Colin Morris,” Bruce said, unexpectedly explaining the phone call. “You’ll meet him at some point, I’m sure. He’s a junior partner like me. He’s also Reginald’s son.”
“He needed help on a case?”
“Surprises are never desired in closing arguments, and the opposing counsel just landed a whopper. But Colin will rebound. He always does.”
“And you just popped the answer right off the top of your head.”
“Yeah.” Bruce let the words, “I’m that good a lawyer” remain unspoken, but Christina heard them and was begrudgingly impressed. “I have a photographic memory and I’m good at trivia. One of these days I’d like to go on Jeopardy”
“I don’t watch much television.” She didn’t. Bella had discovered the cartoon channels. When she was married, Kyle had had a VHS-DVD-CD player and a plasma TV in every room. Christina had little use for more than one TV and a DVD player.
“So, where were we?” Bruce asked as she unscrewed the cap and put the soda bottle to her lips.
“I’d like a few minutes to eat in peace,” Christina said. “Unlike you, I deliberately avoid working through lunch. That way I can have some time to clear my mind. I’d go find my office, but that would take too much time.”
“They really did just throw you into the job feet first, didn’t they? Fine. Eat.” Bruce tapped his fingers on the table.
“Stop that,” Christina said automatically, and unwrapped her sandwich. Bruce’s fingers stilled.
“Thank you,” Christina said. “That’s better.” She took off the top slice of sourdough bread. Sliced turkey, some white cheese that might be Swiss, tomatoes, lettuce, mayonnaise and black olives were underneath. Christina pulled some plastic tableware from the bag, removed the knife from the protective wrapper and began scraping the olives off the six-inch sandwich.
“That seems like a waste,” Bruce observed, his lips puckering.
“I don’t eat olives,” she informed him simply. “Of any kind.”
He shrugged. “Just make sure Angela knows what you like and she’ll get it for you.”
“I’ll bring my lunch from now on,” she said as she finished scraping.
“You have a food account,” Bruce replied with a backward roll of his shoulders. “All the partners have an allowance, including the junior ones. It’s there for times like today, or for when you entertain clients. Did they forget to tell you that, too?”
“It probably slipped my mind since I’m not entertaining at this moment,” Christina said. Lovely. Now she probably appeared even more incompetent, making Bruce Lancaster feel even more superior. “I just prefer to bring my own food. I’ll only be able to eat half of this.”
She should remove the cheese, as well, but the cheese would drown out the flavor of the turkey. Pregnancy sure had changed her taste buds as well as her figure. She’d needed a nutritionist, a personal trainer and ten months of hard work to get back to her prepregnancy shape. By that time Kyle had had two road affairs, both with cocktail waitresses he’d picked up.
Christina had managed her weight with diet and exercise ever since, although now maintaining her weight was more of a healthy choice, and not anything that had to do with pleasing Kyle.
She returned the bread to the top of the sandwich and cut the sandwich into halves. She pushed one half aside. Then she saw Bruce’s expression. “Are you still hungry? You can have the rest. Seriously.”
“If you don’t want it,” he said. His arm snaked forward and he retrieved the sandwich. “Angela usually gets me a foot-long, but maybe today she was trying to keep everything the same.”
Christina opened the bag of chips. It had been forever since she’d indulged and they were like forbidden fruit—too tempting. She’d only have a few. “She remembered your flavor of potato chips.”
“To forget that is sacrilege,” Bruce informed her as the conference room phone began to ring. He lifted the receiver. “Bruce Lancaster.” His face darkened as he listened. “No, it’s good you interrupted me. Tell her I’ll be right there. She has to go in to work today. She cannot stay off the job. That will allow them to legitimately fire her. Tell her that she’ll be safer today than ever before.”
He put the phone down and stood, his portion of her sandwich remaining untouched. “We’ve got a crisis. Can you eat that on the way? Or I can buy you a hamburger on the way back? That is, if you’re coming with me.”
Her decision was instantaneous, even though she had no clue what he was talking about. “Of course I am.” She rose to her feet. “What’s happening?”
“One of our plaintiffs is refusing to go to work today. She missed two days last week, and if she misses today without a doctor’s excuse, the company will have legitimate reason to fire her.”
“We’re taking her to the doctor?” Christina asked.
Bruce was already halfway down the hall. “No. We’re taking her to work.”
Chapter Four
Fifteen minutes later Christina understood what Bruce meant by her being an outsider. Not that it made his earlier comments about her competence less offensive or any less grating. He’d been right about one thing, though: this was a world she’d seen on TV, never in person. Even in Mexico City, her extended family lived behind walls in an affluent part of town, in luxury, with hired help. She had heard about those who lived in poverty and competed for handouts, but had never seen it for herself.
Here in Indiana, the words ghetto or slum didn’t come close to describing the three single-story rundown motel buildings that sat crumbling next to a barren parking lot. Two rusted-out cars languished next to overflowing garbage Dumpsters. The parking lot was a crisscross of cracks filled with brown weeds. A rusted swing set moved slightly in the breeze, and the chain-link fence surrounding what had once been an in-ground pool had fallen in places. This place was a land that time forgot.
“Oh, my God,” Christina whispered as Bruce’s Ford 350 diesel pickup truck pulled up next to one of the buildings. Yellowed curtains that had decades ago probably been crisp white moved in several of the windows as the curious tenants peeked out, then scurried away.
“Put an interstate through and it’s amazing what happens to places off the beaten path. This whole place ought to be condemned. But that’s another lawsuit for another time. Earning just minimum wage, these people can only afford this lovely oasis.”
“And they’re all legal immigrants with work visas?” Christina asked, still not quite believing what she saw. The day was cloudy and overcast, giving the whole area a cheap, B-horror-movie feel.
“All the women in the lawsuit are legal immigrants. That was one law that the Morrisville Garment Company didn’t violate. The migrant farm workers, who are mostly illegal, have already vanished for the season. This motel flourishes in the summer, with up to ten people in a room. No one but the churches pay much attention.”
“It’s a hellhole,” Christina said, stepping her Italian shoes around a crusty pile of dog feces. A gust of dry wind sent dirt particles flying. Any grass had long browned.
“You’ll learn to dress down except for court appearances. Professional, yet not flashy. The Average Joe does most of his clothes shopping at Wal-Mart in Greensburg.”
“You’re in a suit,” she pointed out, seeking clarification. Her last employer, then Kyle, had always insisted she dress to the nines. Even her maternity wear had been expensive designer creations.
“Yeah, but only because I had that meeting with the partners. These people immediately think of the immigration service when they see people in suits.”
Bruce walked up to one of the doors and knocked on the peeling paint. The number seven hung upside down by one nail and bounced erratically.
“María,” he called. “María Gonzales. Me llamo Bruce Lancaster. Open the door. I must talk to you. Clara sent me.”
The woman inside answered with rapid Spanish, but she still didn’t open the door. Bruce knocked again. “¡María, por favor!”
“Let me try,” Christina said. Already several doors had opened and heads had popped out, only to quickly disappear like in a Whack-a-Mole carnival game. “¡María! Soy Christina Jones, la social de Bruce. Por favor abra la puerta. Le necesitamos hablar. Es muy importante.”
“What did you say?” Bruce asked.
“I told her I’m your partner and I asked her to open the door. It’s important.”
“Oh.” He appeared impressed, maybe stunned. But Christina had little time for satisfaction in her small victory as the worn door opened a crack and landed against the crash bar.
A woman peered out and launched a tirade in Spanish. Christina translated. “She says that the boss still tries to keep her on the line too long and that the ladies’ toilets are broken and she cannot use the men’s room in her area. He also leers at her and grabs his crotch.”
“McAllister,” Bruce said, knowing instantly whom María meant. “He’s the worst. He’s Donald Gray’s nephew, which is probably the only reason no one’s fired him yet. I’m going to phone OSHA about the broken fixtures.”
“One more federal agency being involved can’t hurt our case,” Christina said. It was probably wise to call the Occupational Safety and Health Administration at this point.
“Rumor has it that they’ve been waiting for any excuse to get into the factory and snoop around for violations,” Bruce said. “Maybe clogged toilets will do it. While I call, you must convince her that she has to go to work. She cannot give them a reason to fire her. Tell her that will let the bad guys get away with what they did. Say something. She must go to work today. She’s already late.”
“She said that she doesn’t have time on her break to use the facilities in the other areas,” Christina said. “She says she’s getting a bladder infection.”
“Oh, wonderful. Tell her the law provides even nonunion factory employees with a bathroom break. If the toilets don’t function in her area, she can use other ones without docked pay. We’ll work out the correct federal agency for filing this new complaint later, but for today she must go in. You have to convince her. She doesn’t even understand me.”
Christina watched as Bruce pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched a number. “Angela, get me the name and number of someone at OSHA,” he said when she answered. “I want to know if it’s legal to have nonfunctioning bathrooms on a factory floor. After that, report this to the EEOC, as well.”
Christina stared through the small sliver of opened door. María Gonzales was a tiny woman, at most five-one. A roach crawled out from under a fallen leaf and scurried on the chipped concrete. Bruce crushed the bug with his foot.
Christina shuddered. She had a case to win and a job to do. No way would she ever be incompetent in front of Bruce Lancaster again, and it was time to prove herself. Besides, these women deserved much better than this hovel. They’d gotten through much already by being declared legal aliens. Just a little more time and their lives would be so much better.
“María,” Christina began, “tiene que ir al trabajo.” She saw the woman’s brown eyes widen with fear at being told she had to go to work. Christina shoved her foot into the opening, wincing as her toes became pinched between the door and the wooden frame.
“No. You will not shut me out.” Christina pushed her hand against the door to allow her foot some breathing room. The peeling paint stuck to her palm like children’s stickers. Using rapid Spanish, Christina launched into an explanation about why María needed to go to work.
It took her five minutes of intense arguing, but finally Christina removed her foot and María Gonzales fully opened the door. Bruce was still on the phone and had moved a distance away.
María stepped out of the motel room, and Christina thought that maybe all the arguing with her mother had paid off. She’d used one of her mother’s many emotional arguments almost verbatim on María. Before María closed the door, Christina could see an elderly lady and a small child inside. María’s family. The reason she went to work, and the people Christina had convinced María that she couldn’t let down.
“We’ll drive you to the factory, and then I’m going to meet your boss,” Christina said in Spanish. “Did you eat lunch?” Christina grimaced, knowing the answer the moment she asked the question. “We’ll stop and get you something,” she said.
Bruce flipped his phone closed and approached. María instantly lowered her head to her chest and gazed at her feet.
“Do not do that,” Christina snapped at her in Spanish. María peered up in surprise. “Do not cower with him. You have heritage. You have pride.” Christina nodded at Bruce. “We’re ready to go. I told her we would take her to work, since everyone else on her shift has already left and they took one car. I also said we would get her some food for her break. I want to meet the company president.”
“Donald Gray doesn’t see people.” Bruce said. “I’ve tried multiple times.”
“Yes, but I haven’t,” Christina pointed out as they reached Bruce’s truck.
Bruce considered for a moment. “Why not? It can’t hurt.”
Christina drew her suit jacket closer once they were under way. She’d opted for a silk shirt, and suddenly she felt exposed in her high-class wardrobe. No wonder María wore an Indianapolis Colts sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. The woman was working in a modern-day sweatshop.
After getting María some lunch, they drove to the factory in mere minutes, and Christina guessed that in the warmer months, many workers walked the distance.
How strange, Christina mused. She herself had gone to the finest schools in the United States and had never felt discrimination, but people like María Gonzales experienced it daily. People like María kept their deep-seated distrust of the government and struggled for the American dream, all the while attempting to assimilate into a culture they did not yet belong to or whose language they didn’t even speak. And they had no idea that the law was on their side, providing them safe working conditions and the right to be treated fairly.
Christina had pointed out to María that the American government had issued her a green card when so many illegal immigrants went without. María had to go to work; it was up to her to create a better future for her family. The law would help. Christina had promised it would. And she was determined to keep the promise.
Bruce drove onto the grounds of the Morrisville Garment Company, giving Christina her first look at the buildings that were the scene of such injustices. They were nondescript structures, like so many other manufacturing facilities. Bruce stopped at a guard shack, signed in, and within moments, María had been seen safely to her employee entry door and had clocked in. María’s immediate supervisor had been nowhere in sight, and Bruce parked the truck by the main entrance.
“May I help you?” An extremely bored receptionist turned her attention away from her fashion magazine. She was about eighteen, probably fresh out of high school last spring. She brightened when she saw Bruce’s dazzling smile.
“I’d like to see Donald Gray.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the girl asked, her expression hopeful.
Bruce shook his head and lifted the name plate. Julie, it read. “Not for today. Could you call him and tell him Bruce Lancaster’s here?”
The girl shook her head and bit her lower lip. “I can’t. He only sees people by appointment. I can take a message, though. You could leave a business card.”
Christina watched as Bruce gave what had to be his signature smile. The man could outsmile Dennis Quaid. If Christina didn’t know him so well, she’d be swayed, too. He had charm that could simply pull one into unprofessional thoughts.
