“Trust me,” Dad had said, “what happens next happens fast.”
“How did the feds even know about the fight?” Gus had said.
“As soon as our friend Daniel got arrested,” Dad had said, “he went right into the system.”
“All because he screwed up some paperwork?” I’d said.
“Our tax dollars at work, kid,” Dad had said. “We all know the late filing for the DACA renewal was an honest mistake. But the fact is, he was late. Once he was late, he technically lost his Dreamer status. Which means that for now our friends in the government don’t care whether the assault charge is total crap. They’ve got him.”
“By the balls,” Gus had said.
“Now I’ve got to try to make things happen fast for our side,” Dad had said. “Get the charges dropped. Get a new DACA renewal filed. Get this kid’s feet back on solid ground. Goddamn, immigration law is a bear. The lawyers who do this full-time ought to get a medal.”
I’d seen the two ICE agents from Miami, short and tall—I’d blocked out their names—sitting in the back of the courtroom. They’d left before Mom and Grandmother had hugged Daniel and Gus shook his hand. I’d waited and then kissed him and put my arms around him and held on until Dad said, “Honey, let’s get this done.”
Then we were on the sidewalk watching the ICE agents walk Daniel toward the black town car parked out front, having cuffed him for no apparent reason other than they could. The shorter one opened the back door and Daniel got inside. The taller agent was making a phone call, maybe informing their boss that they’d apprehended a dangerous outlaw like Daniel Ortega, horse trainer.
“You have to make this go away, Dad,” I said.
“We’ve got to get rid of the assault charge,” he said. “Then we have a chance to stop any removal proceedings before they really get started. At least in theory.”
Removal. Deportation.
“But he still has to go into detention,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” Dad said.
“This sucks,” I said.
“That ought to be the legal definition of bullshit like this, for guys like Daniel,” Dad said.
We all watched as the taller ICE agent finished his call, took out his keys, and walked around to the driver’s side. The shorter one—Dolan was his name, I now remembered—opened the door and started to get in on the passenger side, but not before taking one last look at where we were all standing on the sidewalk.
For some reason, I felt as if he were looking directly at me. I wondered if the smirk were permanently frozen on his face. I wanted to give him the finger, thought better of that. I stared back at him until he shut the door and the car pulled away, wondering when I might see Daniel again.
ONE HUNDRED TEN
THE HAMPTON INVITATIONAL was the second week of June on eastern Long Island. By the time we arrived, Daniel was still in the federal detention center in Fort Lauderdale.
“Dad, when are you going to get him out?” I asked daily, to which he always replied, “Working on it.”
“When we get back I want to see him,” I said.
“He doesn’t want you to see him there, kid,” Dad said. “That’s still set in cement.”
Tess McGill was solidly in first place in the latest Olympic rankings. Then came Mom and Tyler and me, close enough to cover the three of us with Sky’s fancy horse blanket.
The last chance to move up, or down, or influence the selectors, would be on Sunday in Bridgehampton. As obsessed as Tyler had been about Coronado, he would end up top-ranked with Galahad if he won on Sunday and likely make the team for sure with a decent finish. Mom and I were right there behind him. Three of us would make the team. One would be an alternate.
Gus and Mom had arrived that afternoon at the house we’d rented a few miles north of the show grounds. The drive from Florida had taken them two days, having overnighted in Raleigh. I asked Mom if they’d booked the honeymoon suite at the Raleigh Hyatt. She told me to zip it. Grandmother and I had flown up and arrived on Saturday, when the horses did. So we were all in the Hamptons now. Dad was still in Florida, working Daniel’s case.
I had finished flatting Sky in a practice ring about twenty minutes before. Now while Mom and Gus checked out the stalls, I was taking a walk around the place, amazed at how much bigger it had gotten and how much it had changed since Mom used to bring me up as a teenager when she’d ride in the late-summer Hampton Classic. My first time competing here would be on Sunday at one. The main event. Money on the table. Gus training both Mom and me.