“FOR IMMEDIATE DEPORTATION!”
“No!” Eleanor screamed.
“Mrs. Rodriguez! If you don’t quiet down, I’ll have you thrown in a Federal Prison for a month before you’re deported,” warned Judge O’Connor.
Eleanor wept openly in court.
“I understand from reading Mr. Bennett’s notes that it was you, Mrs. Rodriguez, who thought up this phony marriage for a green card scheme. It’s women, like you, Eleanor who are tearing down this country by giving unfettered access to these people who then turn around and commit all sorts of heinous crimes,” admonished the Judge.
Juan stood silently by Eleanor’s side, his head down, hands cuffed in front of him, and both of his legs shackled.
“Now, for those reasons I’ve just stated, Mr. and Mrs. Juan Carlos Rodriguez you both are to be bound over for immediate deportation to the Brownsville, Texas deportation center,” the Judge O’Connor repeated, leaning forward and aiming his unflinching gaze on Eleanor emphasizing his decision.
“Mrs. Rodriguez, I hear Mexico’s Dia de los Muertos (The Day of The Dead) celebration will kick-off in the next two days. From what I’m told, it’s quite an exuberant celebration. You should thank me. You’ll be in Mexico in time to witness it. Next case,” demanded Judge O’Connor pounding his gavel.
Eleanor clasped her hand over her mouth to prevent herself from screaming.
Juan’s heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. Going back to Mexico, as a married man unwilling to traffic drugs, he was facing a death sentence. But his heart ached for Eleanor. She didn’t deserve this. Instinctively, he reached out for her, but she rejected him, screaming, “This is all your fault. I wish I’d never laid eyes on you.”
Eleanor was cuffed to Juan before they were led out of the Courtroom. As they were being led away, Juan leaned over and whispered to Eleanor, “Just before we leave, ask to use the restroom. Take this plastic bag,” he said, trying to shove a clear heavy duty sandwich bag into her hand, “and put all of your money, IDs, and credit cards into it and pin it to the inside of your underwear. Not your pants. Your underwear.”
“What kind of freaky crap are you asking me to do, now,” Eleanor snapped, glaring back at him with full on hatred.
“Then hand everything over to me. I’ll pin it to the inside my underwear.”
And for the second time that day, the fear of being abandoned in a strange country swept over Eleanor, reducing her insides to jelly.
“If you think I’m going to hand over all of my money to you, you’re dead wrong.”
Eliza D. Ankum
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OneThreeThirteen – A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 1
The Hunt For Red November – A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 2
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A Woman’s Voice: A Little Book of Poems
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