Beyond Justice Page 3
“Hola?”
Hayden frowned as she scrambled to resurrect her high school Spanish. “Señora Rodriguez?”
“Sí?”
“Me llamo Hayden McCarthy. ¿Hablas inglés?”
“Sí.”
Thank heavens. Hayden leaned against the chair. “I’m with Elliott & Johnson and Mr. McCarthy gave me your case. Could you come into the office tomorrow, so we can meet?”
“No, no, no.” The woman’s voice became increasingly frantic.
Hayden could hear a man’s angry voice shouting in Spanish in the background.
“Mrs. Rodriguez? I know tomorrow’s Saturday, but it’s important we meet.”
The male voice got louder, and then she heard a rustling like the phone was being yanked away, followed by a loud bang.
Hayden winced and pulled the phone from her ear. “Hello?”
A dial tone was the only reply.
CHAPTER 3
Traffic on I-395 barely moved as Andrew shifted lanes. One more mile and he could slip from the rush hour morass. He’d spent time today with Jorge, a new kid who’d arrived from Mexico a couple months earlier. The boy’s steps were unsure and his grin unsteady, but Andrew had successfully coaxed him to talk. As Jorge shared about an older brother who had died, his pain showed. Yet as he kept talking, he showed a curiosity and intelligence that would serve him well. All he needed was a community to help him acclimate, and that’s what New Beginnings provided.
Andrew signaled to take the exit ramp, then wound his way up a steep hill into Fairlington Village’s back entrance. His condo, formerly Pentagon officers’ housing, kept him close to work and available for the command performances his congressman father demanded.
Andrew parked in front of the brick condo and grabbed his messenger bag. He waved at Elaine Bedford, the retired schoolteacher who kept a close watch on the comings and goings in their cul-de-sac. If anything were ever amiss, she’d tell him.
What the spry seventy-year-old didn’t know was that he counted on her to tell him if his dad’s staff appeared. So far no one knew he’d turned his condo’s attic into an art studio. He had done most of the work himself, with a little help from a handyman friend, to avoid a paper trail or other evidence of work being done.
An excited scratch at his front door built in intensity as he turned his key in the lock. The moment the door opened, Zeus, his large black Lab, launched himself at Andrew, who dropped his bag on the black leather couch and bent down to return the welcome. The couch was the selection of his mom’s decorator. He’d wanted a basic sofa, but it was easier to acquiesce than fight his mother, the Virginia tornado.
Andrew snapped a leash on Zeus and took the excited dog outside for a quick stroll before returning inside to reheat a slice of pizza. Then he grabbed an Honest Tea and climbed the stairs to his attic.
He flipped the light switch, and his drawing desk was illuminated in such a way it tricked him into believing it was natural light. While he munched the last bite of pizza, Andrew studied the quick sketches he’d outlined the night before.
This week the politicians weren’t cooperating to provide inspiration for his cartoons. He needed a good old fight in the capital. Something he could satirize with a few swipes of his pen.
Instead he had scrawls a five-year-old could improve.
He wiped his hands on a Lysol wipe yanked from the container on the desk, then spun around on his metal stool.
His thoughts ticked through the headlines he’d scanned on his phone throughout the day. Terrorist threats. Military challenges. Budget woes. Pork barrel squabbles. All old news. He needed something different. The twist that poked an issue in a sarcastic way while shedding light on something people understood but couldn’t articulate. That was what the best political cartoonists did, and he wanted to join them.
Andrew straightened the pencils in their orderly rows, then swiveled toward the laptop sitting on the table next to his drawing desk. With a couple clicks he opened his browser and popped across various editorial pages, looking for inspiration.
As he picked up a pencil, his thoughts turned to Jorge and his journey to New Beginnings. Andrew’s pencil started flowing across the page as he sketched the thirteen-year-old’s thin face. Then his angular body. Jorge’s mother insisted she provided four squares a day for him. Andrew could help the family access resources at local churches and nonprofits if she would let him, but she’d resisted, assuring him she had plenty.
In another box he sketched the ragged image of a Turkish policeman standing at the edge of the ocean cradling the shell of a toddler who hadn’t completed the journey from his homeland to a new land. The photographic image had shocked the world a couple years earlier. It still sucker-punched Andrew. What horrors had chased the toddler’s family and caused them to risk the lives of their small children on such a harrowing journey?
Was this the cartoon for this week? Contrasting the experience of two boys, both of whom had parents who wanted to live free from fear and tyranny. One made it. The other didn’t.
His cell phone rang, and Andrew pulled the phone from his pocket. A glance at the screen showed his father’s number. He sighed. Scott Wesley wasn’t a man who called just to chat.
Andrew stared at the screen a moment longer, then took the call. “Dad.”
“Andrew.” The congressman took a breath. “Did you see the news?”
“I’ve scanned it.”
“Senator Potter just resigned, effective immediately. No explanation, but plenty of speculation.”
The capital ran on speculation. Interesting that the senator would quit with two years left in his term. Had the rancor gotten to him, as it had Representative Boehner, or was he forced to leave? Andrew grabbed a clean sheet of paper and jotted some notes.
“You with me, son?”
“Yeah, just thinking.”
“I’m running for his seat and talking the governor into appointing me to the vacant slot meanwhile. It’s a fine dance, but I’m on his short list.”
“Really?” His father had ambitions, but this appointment could be intense, with candidates appearing from nowhere, eager for a shot.
“The time’s right. Keep your calendar clear.”
Andrew sighed. Guess he’d never outgrow photo ops. “Just give me a heads-up.”
“I’ll have Washburn do what he can. This will ramp up slowly unless I get the nod.”
“Okay.” That was as good as he was going to get. Dan Washburn, his dad’s chief of staff, would assign a minion to keep Andrew in the loop. “Let me know what I can do.”
“There will be fund-raisers and campaign appearances. You know the routine. It’ll be like the congressional races, only—”
“Bigger.”
“Yes.” His dad’s voice deepened to the well-modulated tones he’d perfected as a successful Commonwealth’s attorney. “This is it, Andrew. The perfect time to move to the bigger stage of the Senate. There’s so much good I can do there.”
“Sure.” With only a hundred members, each senator wielded more individual influence than any individual representative to the House. And influence was what his dad craved.
Andrew’s phone beeped, and a number he didn’t recognize came up. “Dad, keep me posted. And congrats.”
“Thank you.” His father ended the call before Andrew could.
The Rodriguez file rested in front of Hayden on the dining room table, but her eyes were on her roommate. Quiet elegance, she decided. That was the right term for Emilie’s loose chignon, khakis, and cardigan set. She looked ready to go out on five minutes’ notice.
Emilie pulled something from the fridge and popped it into the microwave. “Are you working all night, Hayden?”
“I have a new client the partners want taken care of yesterday.” Hayden glanced at the legal pad she’d slowly filled with notes. Legal theories were flooding her mind, but the core question troubled her: Why had the partners accepted the case and pushed to file already? The stack of papers she’d been ha
nded might be thick, but it was short on key information. Like who killed the client’s son, Miguel.
Prison officials owed a duty of reasonable care to inmates, but wrongful death was the wrong theory to get the case out of district court. Litigation 101 said to go for the deepest pockets, and a Bivens action alone, which assumed she knew which individual employees to blame for Miguel’s death and could argue negligence, wouldn’t bring justice to his family.
A jury would kill that case.
That’s why filing the complaint as Gerard had done felt forced, unlike his typical meticulous planning. What unseen pressure was at play?
“While you’re doing your workaholic thing, can I use your phone?”
Hayden glanced up and saw Emilie’s phone resting next to hers on the counter. “What’s wrong with yours?”
“Andrew will recognize the number, so he won’t take my call.”
“What? Why would he do that?”
“Because Andrew is busy Friday nights, and he knows I know that. So he’ll ignore me.”
Hayden rolled her eyes. “Go ahead.” Her mind flashed across the photos she’d seen of Andrew when she’d googled him that morning—an act she’d deny if anyone asked. Each photo showed a different model look-alike hanging on his arm—DC’s best-of-the-best. No matter how long she lived in the pulsating city, she’d never belong in those circles. She could only imagine where and with whom Emilie’s cousin was hobnobbing on this Friday night.
Emilie’s phone vibrated, and she quickly shoved Hayden’s phone back at her friend. “Here, I have to take this call. It’s a domestic violence client. If Andrew answers, stall.” She ducked down the stairs to her basement suite while Hayden looked at the phone in her hand.
“Hello?” a deep voice answered.
“Andrew?” She scrambled to hold it to her ear. “This is Hayden. Emilie grabbed my phone, dialed you, then handed it to me and disappeared.”
He chuckled. “Sounds like Emilie. Any idea what she wanted?”
“It’s Emilie . . . hard to know.” Hayden walked to the stairway and called down.
“I’ll call him back in a minute!” Emilie yelled.
Andrew chuckled again. “I heard that. Tell her I’m at my folks’ place tonight.”
“I will.”
“Thanks.” There was an awkward pause. Just say good-bye and hang up.
“So, has Emilie talked you into helping with the fair?” His voice was warm, friendly.
What had he asked? Oh, the fair. “Not yet.”
“Give her a little time. Emilie thinks her enthusiasm for everything is contagious. Feel free to tell her you’re too busy.” Andrew knew his cousin well.
“I’ll do that. Good night.”
“Night, Hayden.”
After she ended the call, Hayden held on to her phone. There was something steady and calm about Andrew. She bet little rattled him, a helpful characteristic for someone who worked with young people at risk.
She turned back to her notepad, wishing her Friday night consisted of more than working.
CHAPTER 4
SATURDAY, APRIL 1
Saturday’s headlines proclaimed the resignation of Virginia’s sitting senator. The election would occur at the expiration of the original term, Hayden read, and the governor had several individuals he was considering to fill the interim position for the intervening eighteen months. Hayden paused when she saw Congressman Wesley’s name on the very short list. That would make Andrew’s life interesting. The election commission didn’t state a specific date by which the position would be filled, but it would be soon.
Hayden thought, not for the first time, how glad she was that her life did not revolve around politics. It might seem strange to those outside the Beltway, but when you lived inside it, you realized there was more to the city than Capitol Hill.
Instead of being subject to the whims of powermongers, her life was subject to the courts.
After a quick walk to one of Old Town’s coffee shops, she headed to the office. While she didn’t spend every Saturday there, this was far from the first case requiring her to book time on the weekend.
Several offices had light leaking under the doors, but overall, quiet and calm filtered through the hallways and conference space. Hayden opened the door to her office and put her bag on the desk, then set down her tea and pastry bag. As she waited for her computer to boot up, she sank onto her desk chair and pulled out a cranberry-orange scone. She took a bite, savoring the mixture of tart and sweet.
Today she must connect with her client.
Someone tapped on her doorframe, and Hayden glanced up. Seth stood there, looking more like a skateboarder than an attorney with his curly hair flopping in his eyes, wearing a T-shirt and hole-y jeans.
“What are you doing here?” She’d rarely seen Seth in the office on a Saturday, and definitely never this early.
He sagged against the door and crossed his arms. “Working on a project for Johnson. He’s on a rampage about a pile of research he needs Monday.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Sure.” He gestured toward a chair, and she nodded. “How’s the case?” He pointed to the file. “Ready to be the hero?”
“Not quite. I’ve got a few ideas though.”
“Be careful. Campbell would have kept it if it had any chance of success.”
Hayden bit back a retort. Where was the friend who’d been all encouragement yesterday? “It sounds interesting.”
“So does my mom’s grocery list.” Seth scrubbed his face with his hands. “Sorry. Guess I was out too late last night. Should probably head home. If only I didn’t need this job to pay my loans.”
“Some days are like that.” Any job was “just work” if you lost sight of why you did it. “Need help?”
“Nope. Just wanted sympathy.” He pushed to his feet and unfolded like a gangly scarecrow. He picked up the file and flipped through it before returning it to her desk. “I’ll let you get back at it, but let me know if you need help. Later.”
Hayden watched him leave. What had that been about? There was an unwritten code that weekend warriors were left alone unless you needed help. And few attorneys would admit that, even when brainstorming might save hours of work. The law could be crazy competitive, even among members of the same team.
She turned back to the file. She needed to talk to her client. Until she heard Maricel Rodriguez’s story, she wouldn’t know how best to proceed. There was little beyond conjecture inside the file, and the complaint held the barest facts—not uncommon with the notice pleading allowed in federal court—a format that allowed bare allegations to be made in the initial court filing. Hayden liked to know more before she alerted the defendant—in this case the US government—to her case. If she moved courts, that sent negative signals to the defendant, not the least of which was that the plaintiff’s attorney had made a fundamental error.
She’d need to focus on non-parties for information or run afoul of the discovery rules. If she could get some information without the laborious interference of opposing counsel, she would. The detention center management had to understand there was a problem, but if by some miracle they didn’t, keeping them lulled to sleep was a priority.
She blew across the top of her Earl Grey and tipped back in her chair. What she knew was basic.
Seventeen-year-old Miguel Rodriguez had almost made it successfully into the United States from Mexico. Another mile or two and he could have disappeared into the masses of a Texas city and remained undetected.
Instead, two miles into the United States, Border Patrol intercepted him and about twenty other kids. Thanks to the overwhelming flood of unaccompanied children, it had taken a couple days to place him in a detention center. After that the details got fuzzy. A key question: If Miguel’s mother legally entered the country, why hadn’t he accompanied her? If she could immigrate through legal channels, couldn’t he?
Maybe.
All Hayden knew was he hadn’t.
According to the notes, Maricel Rodriguez insisted her son was murdered, but the government denied it.
Never admit anything you didn’t have to, and the center didn’t have to.
Hayden closed her eyes and tried to imagine what had chased Miguel to the United States. What did he hope to achieve here? She needed to understand the human side of the story so the judge could grasp it.
Most people understood the basics: immigration was horribly broken. People on both sides had strong emotions about it. Those would be especially tense and dividing in a state as affected as Texas. A Texas jury would be loaded with members who hated the issue so much they wouldn’t see the bereaved mother and dead son. Hayden had to humanize the story . . . and to do that she needed to understand Miguel and why he died. Had he really been murdered, or was his death an accident?
She broke off another corner of the scone and popped it into her mouth.
With a jury pool potentially set against her client, how could she move venue in a way that wouldn’t immediately get Rule 12(b) motioned out of court? The motion was a quick, effective way for defendants to kill a case at the beginning. To pursue a wrongful death theory, Texas was the best option. The government would request a jury if the case made it to trial—a long shot in a state with a clear interest in the issue.
The Court of Federal Claims?
That Court was so obscure many attorneys didn’t know it existed. Created as a court where the United States government is always the defendant, it had limited jurisdiction to hear cases. But if she could force this case to fit . . . the idea had real possibilities.
She might not know all the facts yet, but she could compile a list of those she needed to have a fighting chance in Court of Claims jurisdiction.
If that happened . . . then maybe she could get answers and closure for her client.
But first she needed more facts. After locating the phone number in the file, she dialed and waited.