With The Help of God

By Nicolas Vaca

Teresa Santos, a woman with gray hair and sorrowful eyes, sat across from El Licenciado's desk. She perched on the edge of her chair, her ankles locked tightly together, her hands clasped and resting on her lap. Teresa had brought with her a large, brown paper bag filled with tattered letters, yellowed rent receipts, frayed utility bills, and other aged documents that she had been told would help her become a legal resident of the United States, which she presented to El Licenciado to study. Teresa sat patiently as El Licenciado performed his silent and mysterious task. When El Licenciado finally paused and looked up, Teresa lifted her sad gaze to him and asked, in Spanish, "What do you think?"

"I don't know yet."

"The priest said you could help me," Teresa said in a toneless voice. She had been sent to El Licenciado by Father Rinford, the priest at St. Linus, a Catholic church located in the south part of Stockton. St. Linus, like many of the other Catholic parishes in Stockton, had undertaken as one of its secular duties the filling out of immigration applications. When it encountered one that was out of the ordinary or that presented novel questions, the applicant was sent to El Licenciado. El Licenciado would review each case, and if he believed that he could render some assistance he would take the case, lowering his fees to an amount he thought the applicant could pay.

"Well, if you can't help, I'll understand."

"I didn't say that. What I said was that I had to examine your documents to see if you qualify for amnesty."

"Calificar?" Teresa pronounced the unfamiliar word with hesitation.

To calificar meant that you qualified to become a legal resident of the United States, and in so doing ended the desperate fear of being apprehended by the border patrol and sent back to Mexico. But to calificar was shrouded in mystery. The rumor among the people was that some who had arrived recently from Mexico had qualified, while others who had lived and worked in the United States for years had not. How this could be true was a source of unending discussion in the community.

"Yes, qualify. If you qualify, then I simply have to put your documents in order and file the necessary papers."

"Well, if God is willing, then I'll qualify." Teresa's eyes softened, and she tilted her head once again and locked her gaze on the floor.

"Well, right now God doesn't have much to do with it. It has to do with when you entered the United States and what documents you have to prove that you've been here since 1972."

"1972?" Teresa once more raised her head, faster this time, and then shifted her body. "But I thought I only had to be in the United States since 1982. That is what everyone is saying."

"That's true, if you want to qualify under section 245A of the Immigration Act ..." El Licenciado was unthinkingly embarking on one of his tireless lectures on immigration law, to a very uninterested student. When he first began his practice, he believed that his role was not only to perform the services of a lawyer but also to enlighten his clients. However, he soon concluded that lengthy and detailed discussion of immigration enlightened no one, and in fact caused many of his clients great anxiety. Now, he stopped himself and simply told Teresa that she would apply under the registry section of the immigration law because it would be faster for her to get her permanent residence.

"However, " El Licenciado continued, "with an application under the registry section you need more documents, and Immigration will look at them more closely. Also, your interview will take place not here in Stockton but in Sacramento--we'll have to drive."

Lifting her gaze to El Licenciado, Teresa said, "Well, whatever you say."

"It's not what I say, it's what the law states and what documents you have to prove your stay in the United States."

"All right," Teresa said with a mixture of resignation, confusion, and trust in her voice. "What do I do now?"

El Licenciado explained that he would prepare all the necessary documents and file the application in Sacramento.

As she turned to leave, she paused at the door and said, "Thank you, and with God's help I'll qualify."

That was early in the fall. In the following days El Licenciado completed his review of Teresa's documents and concluded that she did qualify for registry.

From reading over her papers El Licenciado learned that Teresa had been married but that her husband left her when the youngest of their three children was only two. She had suffered from cancer, for which she had been hospitalized, and as a consequence was now on public assistance. The rent receipts, the correspondence, the utility receipts--all of the documents were legitimate. There was no fraud involved, and Teresa clearly qualified to become a permanent resident of the United States. He filed Teresa's application.

Though El Licenciado had prepared these applications many times, he never felt certain that he had done so correctly. He was knowledgeable and careful, and he kept up with the ever-changing regulations interpreting the immigration laws, but the immigration service would frequently change internal forms and procedures without informing anyone. Consequently, what was acceptable one day would not pass inspection the next day. He also knew that once the documents entered the labyrinthine corridors of the immigration service, he could get no reliable information about their progress or status. And so he waited--meekly, politely and patiently--for word on Teresa's case.

In due course the immigration service informed him that Teresa had been granted an interview date in early January. Sixta, El Licenciado's secretary, telephoned Teresa and arranged for them to meet once more so that they could review the application and documents and prepare her for the interview.

"Teresa, I want to talk to you a little bit about your application and what's going to happen at the interview in Sacramento," El Licenciado began.

"Yes," Teresa responded softly.

"You entered the United States in 1971. Is that correct?"

"Yes, my husband and I entered through San Ysidro and went to live with some friends in Venice."

"Where is your husband now?"

"I don't know. He left me, and I haven't heard from him since."

Teresa continued, "He wanted a younger woman, you know. After he left, I lived with my sister here in Stockton until her husband told her that I had to leave. So I took my children and left. You know, it's not good to live where you're not wanted. That's when I found a house, and began to work and continued my life."

"You're not working now are you?" El Licenciado inquired. The letter from the County Social Services said she had surgery for cancer and had been on disability ever since.

"Yes, I don't work."

"I want to tell you"--El Licenciado was about to issue what he believed were absolutely essential instructions for the interview with the immigration service, as important as the documents that were being presented and the completed forms--"that I have reviewed all of your documents and everything is in order. During the interview it is important that you tell the truth. The truth, do you understand?"

Teresa's thin lips wrinkled slightly as she nodded her head and said, "Yes."

"Just tell the truth and you will be fine."

"The truth and God will help me qualify."

El Licenciado pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and thought better of speaking against God. "Yes," he added, "we will need God's help."

On the morning of the interview El Licenciado arrived early at his office, reviewed Teresa's file, put it in his briefcase, and waited. The appointment was at 10 a.m. Teresa arrived at exactly 9 a.m. She had dressed in a black crêpe dress better suited for a funeral than an interview with the immigration service, and she wore a brown handmade sweater to keep her warm against the winter cold. She carried a large black leather purse that she pressed close to her bosom. Her gray hair was neatly combed, and her thick eyebrows were knitted in worry and consternation. El Licenciado greeted her, and they quickly got into his van for the hour-long trip to Sacramento. They would have no time to spare.

Once on the freeway, El Licenciado ventured, "The priest tells me that you're very active in the church."

"Yes. That's why I believe that I have survived my life. I told you that my husband left for a younger woman. I had problems with cancer, and still I survived and I am able to care for my children. I believe that praying did this for me. God heard me and He helped me. That's why if I qualify today, it will be with God's help."

"Well, if you qualify today, it will be because your documents were all in order and you are entitled to qualify."

"Yes, and because God desires it to be."

"Do you live near the church?"

"Yes, three blocks from the church. I'm fortunate to be so close."

"Why?"

"Because where I live is dangerous, and that way I can walk to church without being too afraid. But God looks after me, and nothing will happen to me."

They reached Sacramento and El Licenciado drove quickly to the parking garage, slipped into a parking space, and leaped out of the van.

"Hurry!" He shouted to Teresa. "We can't be late."

They walked briskly to the large government building where the interview would take place. El Licenciado pushed open the heavy glass door and threw his briefcase on the security conveyor belt for the usual X-ray scan. He knew Teresa was behind him, but because he was anxious about the interview itself as well as being late, he did not pay her much attention. He grabbed his briefcase from the conveyor belt and headed toward the hearing offices. He had taken several steps when he heard one of the guards behind him say, "Joe, you want to check the purse."

El Licenciado froze. He had been through a hundred such security inspections, and witnessed many more, without ever hearing those words uttered. As he turned to locate his client, he saw the guard pull a snub-nosed .38 special from Teresa's purse. The guard held it at eye level, pinching the short, blue barrel. El Licenciado, stunned, dropped his brief case. He approached the guard and said, "I'm her attorney."

"Good, she's going to need one," the security guard said. He checked the pistol and added, "It's loaded, too."

"Loaded?" El Licenciado repeated weakly.

"That's right."

Teresa looked at El Licenciado. Her eyes did not blink, and he could detect no sign of guilt or remorse. El Licenciado grabbed her by the arm, pulled her aside, and--making certain the guard did not hear him--asked, "Is that your gun?"

"Yes," she answered.

"Did you know it was loaded?"

"Yes."

"Why did you bring it?"

"I didn't know that they would examine my bag. If I knew that, then I would have left it in your glove compartment."

"My glove compartment!" El Licenciado's eyes were blinking uncontrollably as he half-swallowed his words.

"Yes, then after the interview you could give it back to me."

"Jesus, " El Licenciado hissed, "And you think that I would let you do that? Put it in my glove compartment?"

"Why not?" Teresa answered. Her face was expressionless, apparently unmoved by the unfolding drama.

"Because you're not supposed to carry a gun. Hell, I'm not supposed to carry a gun. Do you have a license for it?"

"No. But I have a receipt."

"That's not the same!" he groaned.

"Sir," the security guard said as he steered El Licenciado to a nearby corridor, "we called and the federal marshal is coming down. They're going to confiscate the gun and book her."

"But she has an interview with the immigration service," El Licenciado blurted.

"Well, I don't know anything about that," the security guard said. He did not appear to be upset by his discovery of the loaded weapon. He seemed to understand that El Licenciado had been as surprised as he was, and because of this he seemed a little sorry for him.

"Where will they book her?" El Licenciado's mind flashed through one scenario after another, trying to devise a way in which Teresa's interview could proceed.

"Here, in the basement."

"Great! How long will that take?"

"Maybe an hour."

"Then what?"

"They'll release her into your custody and give her a hearing date with the judge upstairs."

El Licenciado determined that perhaps all was not lost, that there was still a chance the interview could take place that day. Plus, carrying a weapon without a permit was at most a misdemeanor, not a crime of "moral turpitude," which would disqualify any applicant from receiving residency.

He told Teresa what was going to happen. After she was taken away for booking, El Licenciado walked to the waiting room where all the applicants who were to be interviewed sat. He placed the residency application cover sheet in the box, thus informing the immigration service that he had arrived for his client's interview on time. Then he counted the number of cover sheets ahead of Teresa's and prayed that the immigration service would delay their processing, as it so often did, long enough for Teresa to return.

He took a seat, and his mind--fueled by adrenaline--raced through thoughts and images of the small revolver, dangled in midair by the guard as if he were examining a rare and dangerous insect. A gun! A loaded gun! El Licenciado thought to himself. He had other clients who he thought were capable of carrying guns. He even had some who he believed would use a gun. But Teresa? This gray-haired matron, stoic and reserved--who at times reminded El Licenciado of his own mother--not her. "Damn it!" he mumbled and bit his lower lip.

And then his prayers were answered. A marshal brought Teresa to him and delivered a copy of the citation. As El Licenciado reviewed the developments in his mind for the hundredth time the door opened, a head peered around from behind, and a clerk called, "Teresa Rodriguez Santos!"

"That's us!" El Licenciado blurted.

"Follow me," the clerk said without looking at either of them.

El Licenciado and Teresa trailed after the clerk in her clattering shoes.

"This is Ms. Santos." The clerk dropped Teresa's appointment sheet on the desk of the agent who would conduct the interview, then turned quickly and left.

The agent was a tall, heavyset black woman with shortly cropped hair, a black pin-striped suit, and a face that appeared never to have been creased by the warm wrinkles of a smile. El Licenciado recognized her immediately. Though he had never appeared before her, other immigration attorneys had described "Agent Roberts" to him. They had told him bad things about her--that she was terse, overbearing, and sometimes even abusive. First the gun incident and now this, El Licenciado thought. His palms began to sweat.

Agent Roberts looked up at El Licenciado and said, without a hint of amusement, "Is this the pistol-packing mamma?"

"Oh, you heard about the incident?"

"Everyone has. It's not every day that we get someone in here carrying a gun."

"Well, I'm sure of that," El Licenciado answered, unsure of what else to say.

"Why was she carrying it? It wasn't for me, was it?" Agent Roberts leaned forward as she spoke.

El Licenciado felt perspiration forming on his forehead. He knew that unless he controlled the situation, the beads of sweat would join as one and form a thin, crystalline trickle down his face, announcing to Agent Roberts the level of his fear.

"No. I'm sure it wasn't. More likely it was for me," he joked. "You know, in case she didn't qualify."

Agent Roberts grunted and returned her focus to the subject matter at hand. El Licenciado had succeeded in diverting her attention away from the gun incident. The sweat began to evaporate.

Agent Roberts began to question Teresa about her application. She asked each question slowly and deliberately, fixing her eyes on his client. El Licenciado knew that Agent Roberts had conducted countless interviews. He also knew that what interested her was not so much the content of the answers--that information was before her in the application--but the manner in which the answers were given. What she was looking for was honesty and integrity. If Teresa displayed both, then she would qualify.

The interview was going well. Agent Roberts would ask the question, chosen from a standard list, and El Licenciado would translate the question for Teresa and then translate her answer for Agent Roberts. El Licenciado had anticipated both the questions and the answers, and gradually he began to relax.

"Ask her question F," Agent Roberts directed, placing the palms of her hands together on top of the desk so her fingertips pointed directly at El Licenciado.

El Licenciado hesitated. He was puzzled. In all the years he had accompanied clients to interviews, no agent had ever asked that question.

"Go ahead, ask her the question," Agent Roberts prodded.

El Licenciado studied the question briefly and began reciting in Spanish, "During the period beginning March 23, 1933, and ending May 8, 1945, did you order, incite, assist, or otherwise participate in persecuting any person because of race, religion, national origin, or political opinion, under the direction of, or in association with either of the following: 1. The Nazi government in Germany ..."

"Sí," Teresa interrupted. A flash of heat shot through El Licenciado. He closed his eyes momentarily and continued.

"2. Any government in any area occupied by the military forces of the Nazi government in Germany."

"Sí," Teresa answered again.

Holy shit! El Licenciado thought to himself. He hadn't seen any of this coming.

El Licenciado looked at Agent Roberts, his eyes filled with anguish and desperation. Agent Roberts returned his gaze, her eyes empty and cold. Agent Roberts said, "She answered yes to all parts of that question, Mr. Attorney." With this she leaned across the desk, coming closer to El Licenciado.

The sweat reappeared. El Licenciado was in a war zone, and he was about to step on a land mine that could demolish Teresa's chances for residency. It was obvious that Teresa did not understand the significance of the questions--or her answers. But Agent Roberts now appeared to view Teresa as if she were a cockroach, and El Licenciado knew that Agent Roberts regarded him similarly--as a cockroach with a suit and a tie, but a cockroach nonetheless. He had to do something.

El Licenciado looked from Agent Roberts to Teresa, then back to Agent Roberts. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "What can I say. She's a Nazi."

Agent Roberts looked at Teresa and leaned back in her chair. A broad smile broke across her face, and then she burst into deep laughter.

"Yeah, and a dangerous one too." She continued chuckling as she returned to the application.

"Well," El Licenciado offered nervously, "she couldn't be a Nazi. She was born in 1937. So she'd have had to have been a Nazi between birth and the age of eight while she was living in La Piedad in Michoacan, Mexico. I don't believe that the Third Reich ever had a stronghold there." El Licenciado knew that he had broken through to Agent Roberts, but bad things could still happen. The woods were still thick and dark.

Agent Roberts continued to smile, shook her head and said, "Not that I'm aware of. Ask her question S."

Once again El Licenciado studied the question and began his recitation, "Are you a medical graduate coming principally to work as a member of the medical profession, without passing Parts I and II of the National Board of Medical Examiners Examination or an equivalent examination?"

Teresa shifted slightly and answered, "Sí."

El Licenciado smiled at Agent Roberts, who was already roaring with laughter, her broad shoulders quivering and shaking.

"There you have it," El Licenciado said shaking his head, "she's a Nazi doctor."

El Licenciado translated the question again, this time emphasizing the part about graduating from medical school. Teresa sat up and seemingly finally understood the question and answered it correctly.

The rest of the questions were asked and answered without incident.

"Well, what's the verdict?" El Licenciado asked.

"Oh, she qualifies for registry. There is no doubt," Agent Roberts said. "Your client couldn't lie to me even if she wanted to. Here," and she handed a slip of paper to El Licenciado. "This is a conditional approval. I have to wait for the FBI report on her fingerprints before I can give her a final approval. She'll get her green card in about three months. It will be sent directly to her from Texas."

On the way back to Stockton, Teresa took on a most penitent posture. She stared out the window of the van, crowded the passenger's door with her shoulder, and hunched down in her seat.

"Well, Teresa" El Licenciado began, "you qualified."

"Yes, God helped me."

El Licenciado did not respond.

But he had to know: "Teresa, why did you have that gun?" After all he had gone through, he felt entitled.

A long silence followed. Teresa continued to look out the window at the passing countryside. Finally, she said, "I told you that I live in a dangerous neighborhood."

"Yes, you did."

"Well, two months ago, I was robbed by two morenitos, just boys, I thought. At first they grabbed my purse and tried to jerk it away from me. I wouldn't let it go, so they hit me and still I wouldn't let go. Finally, they gave up and ran away."

"Why didn't you just let them take your purse? You could have been seriously hurt or even killed," El Licenciado asked.

"I couldn't let them have my purse. It had all my money. If I had let them take the purse, then I would have no money to pay the rent or to buy food for my family."

El Licenciado asked, "Is that when you bought the gun?"

"I didn't buy the gun. My cousin bought it for me. He told me he knew what to get."

"Would you use it?"

Teresa turned back from the window, looked at El Licenciado, and said, "Next time a morenito or anyone else tries to steal my purse," she paused, "lo doblo."

Lo doblo. El Licenciado reflected on Teresa's choice of words. Doblar was Spanish for the verb "to fold," and Teresa Rodriguez Santos meant to fold her next assailant with a couple of well-placed bullets.

"Why do you need a gun?" El Licenciado argued. "You told me that God helped you. Wouldn't He help and protect you if you were being robbed again?"

Teresa did not hesitate to answer. "God is very busy and sometimes He doesn't have time to protect me," she said. "He wants to, but He has many other lives to look after. He could be protecting someone else while I'm being attacked. So I'm helping God help me."

Eventually, El Licenciado reached the darkening streets of Stockton and parked in front of Teresa's home. "You'll get your green card in the mail in about three months," he told her.

"I will, with God's help," Teresa answered as she tugged her sweater about her and pulled her purse close to her bosom. She closed the door of the van and, instead of walking into her home, turned in the direction of St. Linus. El Licenciado watched her disappear down the block, into the darkness beyond the streetlight, and he hoped that on this night God would not be too busy to look after her.

Nicolás Vaca is a contributing writer to California Lawyer and a partner in the San Jose office of Garcia Calderón Ruíz.

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