Three Keys: Chapters 39–62

“Bad coyotes?” I gasped. I pictured conniving wolves with twitchy ears tying up Lupe’s mom and going through her purse.

I’d never seen my teacher so riveted, not even the time when she let us watch TV in class and Wilson announced he was cutting welfare.

“That’s me, Prisha Patel, sole practitioner,” she announced.

“What’s pro bono?” I asked.
“Pro bono is when you take on a case for free,” Ms. Patel said. “Lawyers do that sometimes, if they find something worth fighting for. I’m sure you guys have let guests stay at the motel for free before?”

“And I liked this: Some of the immigrants who come to the motel on Wednesdays, they have it even harder than us. Some of them haven’t yet found the side streets. They are just forging their way through thick brush, with only the stars to guide them," Mrs. Welch read.

Hank came into the manager’s quarters and looked at the TV, his eyes transfixed.

A guy from the Southern Christian Leadership Conference was shouting at the podium, “California will not stand on a platform of bigotry, racism, and scapegoating!”

I peered down, expecting to see headlines that read, “Tens of Thousands Take to the Streets to Renounce Hatred and Racism.”

Instead, the headlines said, “Sea of Brown Faces Marching Through Los Angeles Antagonizes Voters.”
“What’s antagonize mean?” I asked Mrs. Welch.
“It means you do something that makes people not like you,” she said, frowning at the article.

I drummed my fingers, quietly mulling. I had an idea that was going to be a long shot, but it was worth a try.

Dear Editor,
As an immigrant child, I am deeply saddened by all the Prop 187 and anti-immigrant sentiments in the news.

For years, he toiled in the Central Valley heat, picking grapes off the prickly vines until his fingers bled.

The wound had solidified, growing more powerful and pungent, like my dad’s leftover oil.

Lupe and I looked up at him with big, hopeful smiles on our faces, and my dad relented. “All right,” he said finally. “Let’s do it.”

“And now the poor guy’s facing deportation. If he gets deported, he may never see his daughter again. His daughter, by the way, what an incredible girl. Straight-A student, super articulate,” the radio host said.

“I was so impressed with her. I’ll tell ya, I couldn’t do that when I was her age, stand there so poised and speak so eloquently on TV.”

“I was so impressed with her. I’ll tell ya, I couldn’t do that when I was her age, stand there so poised and speak so eloquently on TV.”

Just as we were about to walk out, I looked back at Mrs. Zhou’s, Mrs. Li’s, and Mrs. Fang’s appalled faces—and stuck my tongue out at them.

“Why not?” she asked, shaking her head curtly.

It was a sharp difference from the first time I saw him in this very room, sitting atop his throne, oozing opulence and power.

With a smug face, he announced, “I voted for Wilson and Prop 187.”

As he turned back to his bills, Mr. Yao let out one of those exasperated sighs my dad usually reserved for unflushed toilets in the guest rooms.

I fidgeted in my seat while Mrs. Welch spent recess trying to teach me how to analyze literature. We had moved on from the beginner stuff to motifs and themes and characterization.

Though Prop 187 passed, there was a court injunction, meaning it couldn’t be enforced until the courts said it was legal.

But the aunties and uncles looked warily at us, like they didn’t trust our words.

“All rise!” the bailiff called.

As Ms. Patel presented José’s case, using terms like cancellation of removal and deferred action status, Judge Hughes neither nodded nor frowned.

“This is a man who has contributed substantially to the California economy,” Ms. Patel said, nodding at José. “With the money he and his wife earned, they put it right back into their home state, investing in a motel in Anaheim, California.”

Ms. Patel approached the bench to hand Judge Hughes the purchase papers for the motel as well as the letter from Mrs. Welch, attesting to the fact that Lupe was in school in Anaheim and that she was doing wonderfully well, showing particular promise in math and art.

I scrutinized his face for signs, reading into every nose twitch and blink.

“I would beg your honor to please think about the precedent we are setting here. The law is the law. While the circumstances are very moving and we are grateful to Mr. Garcia for his labor and work, if we allow Mr. Garcia to stay, then what about the next illegal immigrant? And the next? We must honor the law, even if it is difficult, or the law becomes meaningless.”

I would like to reiterate to all in this room, it is a violation of United States law to enter this country illegally.

“And so it is that I am granting Mr. Garcia a temporary stay of removal. Mr. Garcia, you are free to go home with your daughter until such time as this court decides to reopen and reevaluate your immigration case. This court is adjourned.”

“Just think, if we truly doubled our profits, maybe we’d finally have enough money to hire someone to help us clean. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
A whimsical smile played on my dad’s lips as he reached a hand to his achy shoulder.

It was the big day we’d all been waiting for—the official grand opening of the Calivista Hostel Motel!