Irish Crystal Page 8

  “Pubs.”

  “Well, I used to when I was young. Now I pretty much stay out of pubs.”

  “Is it not true that you sing at IRA pubs in both Ireland and the United States?”

  “’Tis not. They’re a bunch of eejits.”

  “We have evidence that you do.”

  “We’ll have to see that evidence before Ms. McGrail goes beyond her denial.”

  “Where do you sing,” Tim Novak demanded, “that you make all this money?”

  “Well, I sing for me children …”

  “I’m sure they don’t pay you.”

  “Don’t I make some records now and again and sing on the telly at Christmastime and at your mall on the Fourth of July?”

  “And what mall is that?”

  “Och, isn’t it the one down in Washington by the Capitol Building?”

  “Shit,” muttered the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois.

  I knew then that we’d won. Cindy would let them play out the game to gain material for the motion she would shortly file in Federal District Court.

  “Isn’t it true, Mrs. Coyne, that you have two children?”

  “’Tis not!”

  “We have birth certificates …”

  “We’ll stipulate”—Cindy sighed—“that she has three children. You seem to have missed one of the birth certificates.”

  Unfazed, Gog continued.

  “What nationality are these children?”

  “Aren’t they Irish now?”

  “Yet, madam,” he said triumphantly, “the records show that they were born in the United States. How can you expect to be granted citizenship when you deny the citizenship of your children?”

  “I never said they weren’t Yanks,” Nuala replied, genuinely confused. “Can’t they be Yanks and Irish at the same time like all the other Irish-Americans?”

  “Don’t argue with him, Nuala,” Cindy said. “Let the record show his incompetence.”

  The United States Attorney winced.

  “I see,” Agent Magog returned to battle, “you have made substantial donations to various Irish funds. How many of them are affiliated with either the IRA or the Sinn Fein?”

  “None of them.”

  “There’s one called Trocare? What is Trocare, Ms. McGrail?”

  “Isn’t it the official social action fund of the Catholic Church in Ireland?”

  “I’ll direct my client to answer no further questions about her financial contributions unless and until you offer proof that any of the recipient organizations are affiliated with violent groups.”

  Agent Gog took over.

  “You were deported once, were you not, Ms. McGrail?”

  “I was.”

  “And the reason?”

  “They said I didn’t have me green card and I didn’t because they’d taken it away. Like youse did when I filed my citizenship papers.”

  “How long has been the delay on your papers, Ms. McGrail?” Cindy asked.

  “More than two years. They keep saying it’s a routine delay.”

  “Are you suggesting that the Department of Immigration and Citizenship is lying, Ms. McGrail?” the U.S. Attorney asked.

  “Not at all, at all, your honor. I’m just saying they’re eejits.”

  “How did you finally get back into America? Did someone retrieve your green card?”

  “Didn’t I get a new one?”

  “Might I ask from whom?”

  “From your man.”

  “And who is my man?”

  “Wasn’t he the chief executive of this republic, once removed?”

  Dead silence in the room.

  “I’m going to end this conversation right now,” Cindy said, standing up. “Enough is enough … I don’t know what to be more angry about—the gratuitous harassment of my client or disgrace to the United States of America caused by such sloppy legal work.”

  “Sir,” Magog insisted, “we still have lots of evidence against the detainee.”

  “Let me see it,” snapped the Agent in Charge. He scooped up the papers from the table and scanned through them. He made a face and passed them to the United States Attorney. The latter performed the same ritual.

  “Cindy,” he said slowly, “this investigation is over … Ms. McGrail, I apologize for your inconvenience.”

  “I want those papers, Joe,” my sister said.

  “You can’t have them!”

  “Then I’ll subpoena them. I warn you not to destroy any of them. Mr. Casey, you are my witness to this warning.”

  “What are you intending to do?” the U.S. Attorney asked irritably. “I’ve apologized. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Not nearly enough. I’m entering the court of Judge Ramona Garcia at noon to seek injunctions barring the federal government from further harassment of Ms. McGrail and ordering the Secretary of Homeland Security to issue her citizenship papers by the end of next week or show cause why he should not be held in contempt of court.”

  “Wouldn’t that be brilliant! Meself a real Yank!”

  “Cindy, I promise both … Why go public?”

  “To show in public how close my country has come to Fascism and how stupid and inept that Fascism is … Ted, if you’re going to send storm troopers out in the middle of the night, at least make sure they’re competent! . . Remember, Joe, I want those documents you have in your hand.”

  “You’re not thinking of a damage suit against us? You won’t win that!”

  A beatific smile transformed me sister’s face.

  “I may not win, but in the court of public opinion you’ll lose! Come on, guys, let’s get out of here!”

  She led her troops out of the interrogation room like we were a conquering army. Maybe we were.

  “Wasn’t that fun now!” my good wife said as she grabbed my arm.

  “You didn’t get much chance to kick shite. Me sister did it all for you.”

  “’Tis true, but didn’t I enjoy it altogether!”

  “Will you really sue them?” I asked.

  “Probably not. But we’ll file suit just to describe in full detail what they tried to do to this new Yank of ours and her family.”

  We went up a couple of floors in an elevator and found a lawyer’s room where a paralegal and a stenographer from Cindy’s firm were already waiting for us. They set to work drafting motions for Judge Garcia. I went in search of tea for everyone. When I returned, the legal folks were working rapidly. My sister could dictate a motion off the top of her head. Mike Casey had left. Nuala had the phone number of his agents in the car. She closed the Seamus Heaney book and gave me the sheet of paper with numbers.

  “Didn’t he say to call them as soon as we go into the courtroom? He thought there might be a bit of attention to the case and we’d need our security guards? Security everywhere, isn’t it, Dermot love?”

  Would it be that way for the rest of our lives? Who had done this to us? Why?

  “There are a lot of crazies in the world, Nuala Anne.”

  “’Tis true”—she sighed—“all around us … What will happen to those poor men?”

  “Which poor men?”

  “The men who came to our house last night?”

  “I hope they come back again. I’ll let the dogs take care of them.”

  “That’s not a nice thing to say, Dermot Michael … Will they lose their jobs? What will happen to their families like?”

  My shite-kicker has a soft heart.

  “They’ll be reassigned to some harmless desk jobs … They didn’t care about breaking up our family.”

  “Our family?”

  “If we didn’t have Cindy, they would have dragged you before one of their immigration judges and you would be dragged in chains this afternoon and shipped off on Aer Lingus. The rest of us would have had to follow afterwards as soon as we could.”

  “What about Nelliecoyne’s First Communion?” she said in genuine dismay.

  “Homeland Security
couldn’t care less about that.”

  “Gobshites,” she said with a loud sigh. “Haven’t I been telling you that there’s a lot of evil around us?”

  “Woman, you have.”

  I wondered if this were the end of it. I was afraid to ask.

  At precisely twelve o’clock, we walked down the corridor to Judge Garcia’s courtroom, Cindy leading the phalanx.

  “Call Ethne,” Nuala ordered me. “See how the small one is.”

  I pushed the code on my cell phone.

  “We’re fine, Mr. Coyne. Little Socra Marie loved her mother on television.”

  The small one babbled away.

  “Ma gorgeous on telly. She beat up on bad guys. More!”

  I passed the phone to my wife as we waited at the door to the courtroom wing for another security search. Her face lit up and tears poured down her cheeks as she listened to babble.

  She did manage to slip in, “I love you, Socra Marie” before Ethne regained control of the phone.

  “I could have lost her,” she leaned against me and wept. “They might have taken her away from me.”

  “Not for long. Nuala Anne. We’re Irish-Americans, a race of lawyers. We would have beat them one way or another. If you were a Moslem or a Mexican-American or even a Polish immigrant, it might have been another matter.”

  “Gobshites,” she said with considerably more vigor. “Dermot, who could have told them awful things about me?”

  “’That’s what Cindy wants to find out.”

  “The little brat wants me to kill all the bad guys … We better be careful about those Westerns she loves on television.”

  “Real ’Mercan television.”

  “I hope they don’t lose their jobs, still.”

  The media were waiting for us at the door of Judge Garcia’s courtroom. Her bailiffs were struggling to maintain order.

  “Will they deport you, Nuala Anne?”

  “What makes them think you’re a terrorist?”

  “Why are you in so much trouble?”

  “Who’s behind this plot against you?”

  “Are you going to sue the Department of Homeland Security?”

  “Would this happen to you in Ireland?”

  My wife smiled at them, which temporarily stopped the flow of questions—and the flow of blood to my heart.

  “’Tis good to see you all, again, but I don’t think I can sing a song just now … Back home and across the Irish Sea too, they can lift you and your lawyers can’t stop them. So I’m glad I’m here in Yankland. And didn’t your man say the case was closed. So, thanks be to God, I’ll be going home to me children this afternoon.”

  “Which man?”

  “Himself.”

  “The United States Attorney,” Cindy interjected. “Now we must go into Judge Garcia’s courtroom.”

  “I feel terrible sorry altogether for the poor people, Mexicans and Muslims and Asians and suchlike who them fellas separate from their spouses and children. I’ll pray for them and support them that fights for their rights.”

  Cindy rolled her eyes and guided me wife into the courtroom. The brick throwing and the shite kicking had started again.

  The media piled into the courtroom after us. Every seat was taken. Nuala beamed at everyone, kissed Cindasue, who was there in her Coast Guard blue, embraced a proudly grinning Tom Hurley, and kissed the ring of the little Archbishop, who was seated right behind us, practically invisible as he always was.

  Judge Garcia, a thoroughly gorgeous Mexican-American woman in her middle thirties, frowned in displeasure at the disturbance in her courtroom and pounded her gavel.

  “I will have order in this courtroom or I will clear it immediately.”

  I caught my wife sending a “good for you smile” to the judge, who moved her lips in response.

  “You have requested two injunctions, Counselor,” she said to Cindy.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  My sister described at some length and in rich detail the indignities heaped on her client and the client’s family.

  The judge nodded.

  “I have heard such stories often in this courtroom … Is there a United States Attorney in the courtroom?”

  “Stop staring at the judge, Dermot Michael Coyne,” me wife whispered in my ear.

  Young Tim Novak erupted to his feet.

  “Your Honor, the United States will not oppose the granting of these injunctions, but we believe that the injunctions are unnecessary. The United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois has already dropped the charges against Ms. Coyne and apologized to her. This emergency hearing is simply an attempt by counsel to turn the courtroom into a media circus.”

  Bad move. Judge Garcia’s jaw tightened and her eyes flashed dangerously.

  “Look, sonny, the only reason I will not ask my bailiff to lock you up for contempt of court is your patent inexperience. However, when you return to your boss’s office, tell him that I never want to see you in my courtroom again.”

  Tim Novak, poor jerk, melted back into his chair.

  “She is beautiful,” Nuala whispered. “Pretty boobs.”

  “You’ll be held in contempt if she hears you.”

  “She won’t at all, at all. Doesn’t she like me?”

  “Well, Counselor,” the judge said to Cindy, “I will grant your injunctions and note for the record that the incidents you describe are not only appalling and incredible, they have become commonplace in our country. Please God they will cease soon.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “And Ms. McGrail …”

  “Yes, your worship …”

  Me wife popped up like she was a kindergarten student being called by her teacher.

  “I hope that this is the last time you have to suffer such indignities from the government of the United States. If they violate these orders, I’ll put the lot of them behind bars.”

  “Thank you, your worship, fair play to you!”

  “Now I wonder if you would give me your autograph so I can show my children that you were in my court today.”

  “Certainly, your worship.”

  Me wife bounded up to the bench, pulled a disk out of her purse, and signed it with an immense flourish. Then she and Ramona Garcia showed each other pictures of their respective children.

  “She never fails to surprise me,” Cindy observed. “I hope you realize how lucky you are.”

  “She thinks she’s the lucky one,” I responded.

  The media were waiting in the corridor when we came out.

  Cindasue sidled up to me at the entrance to the court, huge but attractive in her Coast Guard blues.

  “Them thar vermin you a stompin’ on be the ones who been a harassing folks in our part of the holler.”

  “Homeland will leave them alone.”

  “Happen the spies complain, they send out new varmints.”

  The supply of varmints was apparently unlimited.

  “Nuala, why do you want to become an American after what the United States has done to you?”

  She waited for quiet.

  “The Special Branches in both Ireland and England might have done the same thing. America is a great free nation that’s in a bad patch just now. Didn’t your Mr. Jefferson write that everyone has inalienable rights? Wouldn’t that include immigrants and aliens and suchlike—Arabs and Chinese, and Mexicans, and Cubans and Haitians, and even the odd Irish person that comes along? Isn’t it wrong altogether to try to break up families in the name of patriotism?”

  National news tonight. All networks.

  “I’m proud of you, wife.”

  “Me too, sister-in-law.”

  And didn’t the tear ducts open and spill on the corridor of the Federal Building named after Everett McKinley Dirksen, aka “The Big Ooze.”

  Me wife sagged against the cushions in the Town Car as we rode back to the DePaul neighborhood.

  “I’m tired, Dermot Michael. It was great
craic, but I’m worn-out.”

  “And your sleep was interrupted last night.”

  “’Tis true … and didn’t you wear me out before I fell asleep.”

  “You wore me out.”

  We giggled and leaned against one another.

  “Well, it will be a quiet night,” I said.

  “Is that a promise?”

  “I’m making no commitments.”

  Quiet it was not when we entered our house. The kids screamed and shouted and cheered when they saw their mother on the three TV sets we had assembled in the playroom. Ethne and Damian applauded fervently. The dogs barked, recognizing not the image but the voice. My siblings called and repeated their frequently stated praise of my bride and the warning that I didn’t know how lucky I was. The friends and neighbors who knew our phone number also called to celebrate her victory. I was what I usually am, the big lug in the background. I turned on her Web page and deleted hundreds of hate mail letters before she got to them. There would be more. Goonlike people assembled in front of our house at supper time, sullen folks of both genders, in jeans, old sweatshirts, and sports jackets. The police and the Reliables kept them moving. The rain, which had stopped in the morning, returned and drove them off eventually. Thanks be to God, my exhausted wife never noticed them.

  Would they hassle the kids in the morning? Would we need the dogs to be serious escorts?

  Nuala Anne and I huddled protectively in our bed that night, too weary to consider anything else.

  “Are you still awake, Dermot love?”

  “Woman, I am.”

  “Didn’t I think the evil would disappear after this morning. It’s still around and it’s thicker than ever. The spies are still watching us.”

  11

  Didn’t I do a brilliant job altogether? Only this poor dear husband of mine knew that I was scared and he didn’t realize how scared. I was afraid You were angry at me because I was such a poor wife and You were going to send me back to Ireland and poor Dermot and the kids wouldn’t come after me? I’m the worst gobshite of all! I fooled them still. They thought it didn’t faze her at all, at all. Well, it did faze me. I knew Dermot would take care of me, no matter what. Now I’m totally exhausted-like. It will take a week before I recover. I’ll be an angry little bitch with me poor children. Fine example I’m giving to Nelliecoyne before her First Communion. I don’t know what to do about Dermot. Doesn’t he distract me something terrible! A look, an accidental touch, and I melt. It isn’t healthy for a woman to react that way to her husband, is it now. There’s probably something wrong with me. Or maybe there isn’t. Maybe that’s the way You want a husband and wife to feel about one another. I don’t know. I’m a nervous wreck. I must get some sleep. I have so much work to catch up with tomorrow. Well, I love You anyway. Thank You for sending Dermot to represent Yourself.