Marc Schuster

Mr. Cardinas Alleges

     Mr. Cardinas wears a dirty tee-shirt and cutoff blue jeans. I offer him a glass of ice water, a soda perhaps, because someone stole our air conditioners overnight, but he declines, eyes on the floor, tracing the outlines his feet leave on the putty-colored carpet.

     "Thanks for meeting with us, Mr. Cardinas," I say, scratching notes in a yellow legal pad: Fernando Cardinas, age 36, naturalization status: green card. I scribble a series of question marks after green card to cover my ass and extend a hand to him. He shakes without raising his eyes. I wheel the swivel chair out from behind my desk and take a seat next to him. Our knees nearly touch, gray polyester blend on dark flesh. "I’m going to ask you some questions, Mr. Cardinas. I want you to take your time and answer those questions to the best of your knowledge. Do you understand, Mr. Cardinas?"

     He nods. I turn to a clean page. We begin.

     When I ask Mr. Cardinas the nature of his grievance, he shifts his weight and drags his feet across the carpet. His shorts bunch up in the crotch, so he pulls them loose. I draw three lines with my pen to keep the ink flowing while Mr. Cardinas ponders my question. Back home, I imagine, the mailman’s dropping off a load of mail from Delaware and Minnesota and other states whose tax laws encourage what amounts to postal terrorism, and I wonder what I’ll be having for dinner tonight. There’s half a meatloaf in the freezer, and I have some peppered cold cuts left over from my sister’s graduation. Eyeing the silent immigrant, I count the days between then and now and decide to smell the meat before committing to anything.

     "Mr. Cardinas," I say again, thinking maybe I’ll order some Chinese. Our field manual tells us never to use big words like nature and grievance, but I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. "Why did you come to us today?"

     "To get some respect," Mr. Cardinas says as if this much were self-evident.

     I’ve seen where he lives, or places just like it, visited fieldworkers under cover of night while farmers patrolled their land with Dobermans and shotguns, hunting for trespassers and stray liberals. Sometimes I imagine getting caught and pleading with angry farmers to set me free while they blast gaping holes through my body and bury me knee-deep in the dry, brown earth beneath mounds of cow dung and other fertilizers.

     "I respect you, Mr. Cardinas," I say.

     His breath is loud. He breathes through his mouth, thick lips nearly quivering as he waits for an actual question. Men like Mr. Cardinas usually eye me with contempt, exposing the silver blades of butterfly knives while I say things like Hola! Me llamo David and remind them of their civil rights in broken Spanish. Their wives offer me ears of corn or blueberries they’ve stolen from the fields. Their children sleep on thin mattresses laid down on dirt floors, murmuring words they’ve heard on the radio.

     "Who doesn’t respect you, Mr. Cardinas?"

     That’s another thing they tell us in the field manual. Repeat your client’s name often and correctly. Doing so not only engenders a sense of rapport with the client, but builds the client’s confidence as well. A confident client is a forthcoming client, and a forthcoming client can often mark the difference between winning and losing a case.

     "The man," Mr. Cardinas says after a moment’s consideration.

     Part of me wants to explain to Mr. Cardinas the difficulty of prosecuting the nebulous man on equally nebulous charges of disrespect, but the field manual warns against it. A more fruitful approach, it suggests, is to probe for specifics, asking such key questions as who? what? when? and where? Professionals—though which professionals the manual does not make quite clear—frequently refer to these questions as The Four W’s.

     "And by the man, Mr. Cardinas, you mean?"

     "Farmers. Cops. Everyone."

     I pour myself a glass of water and offer one to Mr. Cardinas. He declines again. I write police on my legal pad, black ink on yellow paper, because the field manual tells us to always go after the big fish first. Mr. Cardinas alleges, I scribble above it, again to cover my ass.

     "How did the police disrespect you, Mr. Cardinas?" I ask. Two naked children hold hands on the side of my drinking glass, belly-buttons and pinhead nipples being their only sexual organs. The caption below them reads love is…, and the girl clutches a fistful of daisies. Sweat rolls off their pink, hairless skin and onto my lap.

     We play a game here in the office, a kind of lottery to see who can amass the most hopeless cases by the end of any given week. In the three months since they welcomed me aboard, I’ve gotten very good at this game. On Monday, I drew a crack whore who was suing her former employers for disability benefits and a working mother who hadn’t paid her income tax in seven years. As far as this round is concerned, Mr. Cardinas is just the icing on the cake.

     My notes read Mr. Cardinas alleges police stole $300 when my supervisor pokes his head into the office asking for a minute of my time. His name is Keith, and his teeth are perfect. Mr. Cardinas shrugs, mumbling in Spanish. I ask if it can wait, but Keith insists.

     "Do you like folk music, David?" he asks in the hallway. The words drift out of his mouth in long, southern syllables—tired, lazy. I tell him I don’t know anything about folk, but he invites me into his office anyway. A framed license plate hangs on the wall—KLA-487. His first car was a ’78 Nova that he drove from Houston to New Jersey in the summer of 1984—without air conditioning, he sometimes brags. "But I’ll bet you play an instrument."

     "Not since high school."

     "You don’t say. I play the banjo, myself, David. I find it very relaxing. Not many people play the banjo these days. It’s what you might call a lost art."

     "My client’s waiting for me, Keith."

     "There was a time when the banjo was the most popular instrument in America," Keith says wistfully. The cooler in the corner of his office goes glug, glug, glug as he fills a paper cone with water. He takes a sip, fills it again and sits down, motioning for me to do the same. "Nowadays folks just make jokes about it."

     When I take a seat in front of his desk, Keith eyes me up and down, probing for sympathy. His cheeks are sharp and angular like the man in the old Arrow Collar ads, and his lips turn invisible when he licks them. I nod slightly, and he grins.

     "What do you call a hundred banjos at the bottom of the ocean, David?"

     "A good start, Keith. They make the same joke about us."

     "Right, right," absently. He finishes the water and places the cup upside-down on his day planner. His days are all blank except for a dental appointment and a haircut. "I wonder why."

     I make a show of looking over my note on Mr. Cardinas, but Keith doesn’t notice. His fingers have begun to fiddle with a wooden biplane he keeps to amuse himself when the days turn slow, twirling the balsa propeller until he gets bored and puts it down again.

     "David," he says, "I really need your help with something."

     "Anything, Keith. You name it."

     Ominous words flash through my head: Midlife Crisis. Corporate Downsizing. Prostate Cancer.

     He waters the fern on his desk.

     "The thing of it is, David," Keith says, "I have this dream. Not the funny kind, you know, like you get when you take too much cough medicine, but the real kind. The kind people sing about. The kind you might call impossible. An aspiration, if you will. Do you know the kind of dream I’m talking about, David?"

     When I was a boy, my dad used to tell me that there were two kinds of people in the world: the kind who dream and the kind who work. The kind who dream, he told me, think they can change the world. The kind who work die young. My dad worked in a paper mill and died of a heart attack when I was sixteen. The way Keith’s going, he’ll probably live forever, so I nod stupidly and ask what his dream is.

     "I want to be a singer," he says bluntly, and I bite my lip. "But not just a singer. I want to write songs, too. Like Dylan and Springsteen. Like Gordon Lightfoot. I need to express myself, David. My inner self. The real me. It’s in my blood. I can feel it."

     "Good for you, Keith." My brain invents random tragedies like tidal waves and thalidomide babies to keep me from laughing as the hole in my lip deepens. "I’m sure I speak for everyone in the office when I say you have our full support."

     "Thank you, David. I appreciate that. Really, I do. But I was hoping you’d give this here song I wrote a little bit of a listen-to. You know, let me know what you think of it. Make a few suggestions maybe. I’m always open to suggestions."

     "I really hate to keep Mr. Cardinas waiting," I say, struggling to free myself like a dinosaur caught in a prehistoric tar pit. In a million years, I imagine, museum curators will tell children on grammar-school field trips that I had sunken into an intense malaise while Keith was speaking, and it was that very same malaise that kept me perfectly preserved me for the ages.

     Mayonnaise? the children will ask.

     "It’ll only take a minute, David. I promise."

     He gives me a second to crack, and I break down, saying, "Let’s have it."

     Keith smiles and tells me it’s a song about Cesar Chavez. "I left my banjo at home," he says, "but I have a pretty good ear." Slapping his thigh, he starts to sing: Fields and factories, gas stations, too! Down-trodden immigrants, who will fight for you? Cesar Chavez! Cesar Chavez! Cesar Chavez, that’s who! The other verses get lost in the cynical radio static of my subconscious, and I tell him I like the way it rhymes.

     "I knew you’d like it," Keith says, and I leave before I wet myself. In the hallway, a woman in thick makeup sucks oxygen from a tank on wheels.

     "Sorry about that, Mr. Cardinas," I say, taking a seat next to him again. He hasn’t moved since I left, and I’m not sure he’s awake. "Let’s start at the beginning. When did the police steal your money?"

     "When I was in jail."

     "And when was that?"

     "Yesterday."

     I take down the date and approximate time. Mr. Cardinas doesn’t know the name of the arresting officer but remembers he was white. "Pink," he says, "like a dog’s asshole," and it’s shaping up to be a real hum-dinger of a case.

     "Why did the police arrest you, Mr. Cardinas?"

     "Because they have no respect."

     It also comes out that Mr. Cardinas was charged with drunk driving and reckless endangerment, both trumped-up charges that fall under the category of disrespect as far as Mr. Cardinas is concerned. A hot wind blows through my open window. The air outside is ripe with garbage and exhaust fumes from a passing truck. I consider closing the window but think the better of it. The truck’s engine rattles and grows faint in the distance, but the stench remains.

     "Had you been drinking when the police arrested you, Mr. Cardinas?"

     "I had a few beers. A couple shots of whiskey."

     "How many shots, Mr. Cardinas?"

     "Half a bottle."

     "And then?"

     "I went to sleep."

     "So you weren’t driving."

     "I was asleep all day."

     "And where did the police find you, Mr. Cardinas?"

     "At home."

     "Which is where?"

     "La Cruz Negra," he says. "Crutchfield Farm."

     I’m trying to remember if Crutchfield is the farm that blocked the entrance of Catholic priests on Sunday mornings or the one that refused to install indoor plumbing in the laborers’ quarters when Keith’s head pops into my office again. He blushes and says, "I’m sorry to bother you like this, David, but would you mind if I forwarded my calls to your office? I’m stepping out for a minute, and I’d hate to make our clients talk to a machine. It’s rude, you know. And they’re not exactly used to the technology."

     "To tell you the truth, Keith, I’m real busy with Mr. Cardinas here."

     "I understand." He shuffles his feet in the doorway and grins. "I’m not expecting any calls, though, so it shouldn’t bother you in the least. I would ask Maria to take them, but she’s working on a special project for me."

     "Let me guess," I say. "Cesar Chavez."

     "I knew you’d understand," Keith says, clicking his heels like a Gestapo officer before he leaves. A boy in yellow and green pajamas chases his sister through the hallway with a toy gun, and their mother yells at them to sit down. Her voice is rough and gravelly. They run through the hallway again, this time in the opposite direction, girl chasing boy, and the woman starts a hacking fit that lasts five minutes.

     "Sorry, Mr. Cardinas," I say again. His fingers curl into fists at regular intervals. His tee-shirt is damp with sweat. "You’re sure you don’t want any water?" I ask, and the phone rings.

     "Legal Services," I say into the receiver, "this is David speaking. How may I help you?"

     "I have a question about my little tax," a female voice says, and she proceeds to explain in painful detail how it’s not really hers but her boyfriend’s little tax that she’s concerned about. Trouble is, she says, that he never got around to filing it and is now in arrears to the tune of a couple thousand dollars plus penalties. When I ask exactly what she means by "little tax," she answers, "Not the big one, but the little one," and I forward her call to an attorney down the hall.

     "Let’s start at the very beginning, Mr. Cardinas," I say, hanging up the phone. Another apology would be a slap in the face at this point. "What were you doing before you started drinking?"

     "I was at the dentist."

     The interview stalls and starts more than once before a clear picture begins to form: Mr. Cardinas had a toothache and went to the local dental clinic where a hygienist with large breasts pulled a rotten tooth from his mouth in exchange for a few ounces of marijuana, a detail I leave out of my notes. From there, he drove to a liquor store to purchase a six-pack of beer and a bottle of whiskey. When he returned home, he drank the beer and half the bottle of whiskey—"because my mouth hurt"—and went to sleep.

     "Had you been using any other drugs that day, Mr. Cardinas?"

     "Only what the girl gave me," Mr. Cardinas says. "Aspirin, I think. Maybe the other one."

     "Nothing illegal, Mr. Cardinas? No pot? No angel dust?"

     "No way. That stuff clouds your mind."

     A thin stream of mucous runs from his nose. He rubs it with his finger, sniffles, rubs his finger on the leg of his shorts. I take down the details without looking at the paper. Mr. Cardinas sniffles again

     "You were drinking, Mr. Cardinas, but you weren’t driving. So why—aside from their obvious lack of respect—did the police find it necessary to track you down and arrest you?"

     "Someone," Mr. Cardinas says slowly, "borrowed my car."

     He doesn’t know who for sure, and he doesn’t know when exactly, but Mr. Cardinas has a theory about who borrowed his car. A woman—known to Mr. Cardinas only as the Santeria Woman—decided to teach him a lesson or two for failing to pay the proper respect due a woman of faith. Lesson one: black-magic toothache. When that didn’t do the trick, she resorted to lesson two: grand theft auto.

     "Excuse me, David," Keith says, grinning. "I hope I’m not interrupting. Did I get any calls?"

     "No, Keith."

     "None at all?"

     "Were you expecting any?"

     "No. But a fella likes to know he’s needed. Have you been outside, David? It’s beautiful out. The kind of day that makes a man glad to be alive. Kind of got my poetic juices flowing, if you know what I mean."

     He stands in the doorway, nodding with his mouth open, alfalfa sprouts stuck in his perfect teeth. I tell myself that most Texans are probably decent, hard-working people with an IQ well above that of the average carrot, but I only half believe it and wonder how many shotguns he owns.

     "You must be Mr. Rodriguez," Keith says, extending his hand. He’s been dropping hints lately that he may be thinking of running for office—Labor Party, we imagine. "David here is one of our finest attorneys, Mr. Rodriguez, so don’t worry. You’re in good hands."

     Mr. Cardinas mumbles something that ends in tu madre and looks the other way. Keith pulls a white handkerchief from his front pocket and dry-wipes his fingers vigorously. Replacing the hanky, he hums a few bars of his Cesar Chavez song and retreats into the hallway. "Why hello, Maria," I hear him say. "How’s that special project coming along?"

     "Let’s go over this one more time, Mr. Cardinas." I look at my notes and rub my forehead. "The Santeria Woman borrowed your car, led the police on a wild goose chase, parked the car exactly where you left it, then told the police where to find you."

     "Yes."

     "And you were drunk when the police came to arrest you because your mouth still hurt when you woke up, and you finished off the bottle of whiskey."

     "Yes."

     "Okay. One last question, Mr. Cardinas, then we can move on to the money issue. How did the Santeria Woman start your car?"

     I pray that she broke in and hot-wired the engine—smashed the window, maybe, or cracked the steering column, left even the slightest shred of evidence that might support his theory.

     "With the key," Mr. Cardinas says. "I leave it in the switch."

     "The switch?" I ask.

     He holds out his fist and jiggles an imaginary key. My sister tells me it’s the same sign severely retarded people make when they have to go to the bathroom.

     "The ignition, Mr. Cardinas? You leave your key in the ignition?"

     "Yes," he says. "In the switch. I don’t want to lose it."

     "Of course not."

     Reasonable doubt, I remind myself and pour another glass of water. Keith hovers in the doorway, waiting for me to acknowledge his presence.

     "Yes, Keith?"

     "I hate to bother you again, David," Keith says, refusing to sweat, "but I was thinking about that matter we discussed earlier, you know, regarding the Chavez case." He raises an eyebrow and tries to wink. The lines on his forehead run deeper than I expect. "Would you mind if I picked your brain for just a second?"

     "I’m busy, Keith."

     Keith swings his left foot back and forth in the doorway. Mr. Cardinas rubs his nose. I sip my water and wait for Keith to leave.

     "It won’t take a minute, David. And I’m sure Mr. Rodriguez won’t mind."

     "Go away, Keith."

     "You don’t mind, do you Mr. Rodriguez?"

     "You ever been shot?" Mr. Cardinas asks without looking up.

     Keith smiles and makes a hasty exit. I thank Mr. Cardinas, and he tells me it’s no problem. He works with assholes, too.

     "Water?" I ask.

     "No," he says.

     I pour it anyway. Out in the hallway, a woman is telling her children to study hard so they can wear nice suits and get good jobs like me and Keith some day. Someone coughs violently. Mr. Cardinas drags his feet across the carpet. Keith hums his Cesar Chavez song.

     "Drink," I tell Mr. Cardinas. "We’re going to be here for a while."

     He takes the water, mumbles gracias, and drinks.

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     Marc Schuster received an M.A. in English from Villanova University before entering Temple's Ph.D. English program. His math skills are very poor, and he frequently resorts to removing his socks and shoes in order to compute tips at swanky restaurants. This behavior embarrasses his family greatly, but they get him back by splitting infinitives and dangling participles whenever they get a chance to

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