Читать книгу Legally Tender - Michele Dunaway - Страница 11

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.

Bruce pulled a card out of his pants pocket and toyed with it as if it were a poker chip. “Come on, Julie,” he cajoled. “Call him for me.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said, wavering a little under the deliberate high wattage.

“He’ll be glad you did. Trust me.” Those blue eyes twinkled, and Christina shifted her weight to the opposite leg, again acknowledging that Bruce Lancaster’s charm affected her, as well.

As for Julie, she picked up the phone and dialed. “Yes, this is Julie in reception. Mr. Bruce Lancaster of Lancaster and Morris is here in the lobby and wishes to speak with Mr. Gray.”

Her gaze darted back from Bruce to Christina. “There’s some female with him.” Julie lowered her voice. “She’s wearing Prada. I recognize it from last month’s Cosmo.” She waited a moment. “I’ll tell them.” Julie replaced the receiver. “Mr. Gray is unfortunately indisposed, but his legal counsel, Elaine Gray, is on her way down.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said. He cupped Christina’s elbow and moved her away from the reception desk. “It had to be your Prada. Elaine Gray never comes down, either.”

“What—your charm can’t sway her?”

Bruce grinned again. “Not since I went to prom with Marilee Becker, instead, no. She’s thirty-two, went to Washington University, worked for a St. Louis firm and then returned home two years ago after a failed relationship.”

“Out of curiosity, where did you go?”

Bruce turned slightly. “To Morrisville High School, like everyone else around here.”

“No. I mean to law school. I just realized that not only do I not have any business cards yet, but I also have no idea about your background.”

He leaned closer, and she stopped herself from stepping back. “I went to undergrad at Purdue and then Indiana University in Bloomington for my J.D. Yes, IU’s public, but going there’s a family tradition and it’s one of the best law schools in the country. Ah, here she is. Smile, Christina. You’re our ace. Make her worry.”

Bruce extended his hand. “Elaine, how are you? You’re looking exceedingly well. I’m sorry we just dropped in and I’m so glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to see us. Let me introduce you to Christina Jones, Lancaster and Morris’s newest partner.”

“Nice to meet you,” Elaine Gray said politely as she and Christina sized each other up. Christina was five-nine, and Elaine probably five-ten. Bruce was taller than them both, but not by much.

Elaine’s hair was platinum blond, almost white when compared with Christina’s natural honey-wheat color. Up on the latest fashions from when she’d been Kyle’s wife, Christina recognized a Dolce & Gabbana suit when she saw one, and that Elaine sported the latest haircut. Elaine extended her hand and gripped Christina’s. When she let go, Christina resisted the urge to flex her fingers to revive them. “I take it you’re new in town,” Elaine said.

“Relocated from Cincinnati,” Christina confirmed.

“Well, I hope you like it here. The shopping’s terrible. I have to make quarterly trips to New York to find anything decent to wear. So tell me, what brings you both by? Our meeting regarding your little matter isn’t until next week.”

Christina kept her instinctive bristle hidden. Title VII sexual harassment and ethnic discrimination were not “little matters.”

Bruce, however, remained calm, as if he’d known exactly how Elaine would react and exactly how to play her. “One of our clients, María Gonzales, returned to work today. Her supervisor has been threatening to dock her pay if she leaves her work area. Unfortunately, because the women’s facilities are inoperable, María must leave the area in order to carry out basic bodily functions. Elaine, my client should not have to fear going to work. Her supervisor cannot harass her for legitimate health and safety issues. On her behalf, I have contacted OSHA, and my paralegal will also keep our EEOC mediator abreast of this development.”