“The phone call to turn your life around will arrive any moment.” I told myself this while waiting in court for a woman I had recently met. She was from China and about to be deported unless I could prevent it. I didn't want to be there.
I'm a lawyer--or so says my business card--and it's not like I was insensitive to her plight. I was preoccupied. Yesterday's audition had gone really well. Sound and lighting at Sunset Studios were state of the art. Hip director with perfect hair real upbeat when he said “thank you we'll be in touch.” Not naive. I know such remarks are meaningless, but the way he said it. Emphatic. Enthusiastic. As if he really meant “you are exactly what we want.”
Wishful thinking getting the better of me? Maybe. A small indie film with a great title: Deception Game. Gritty. Edgy. Mametesque. My character--if I got the part--bank teller by day, drug dealer by night. I kept looking at my cell phone. I wasn't the only one trying out for the role. Still I'd be perfect for it.
“Louis, have you been waiting long?” The voice with a slight accent belonged to a woman in a modest black dress. Behind her was a couple with a screaming baby. They spoke a foreign language I couldn't recognize.
Was that Ying? I hardly recognized her. So stylish the day before in her designer suit when we rehearsed her testimony. She was friendly, engaging, even laughed at times, although the matter was serious and the stakes high. Reminded me of good looking fashion models in travel magazines. I knew the facts of her case, but little about her.
At the end of our meeting, she touched my arm, smiled and said “I know I am good hands. If I win, I will take you out to celebrate." She then handed me her business card, Ying Yang, Realtor, and asked if I knew anyone looking to buy a house.
The courtroom, an interior office without windows, was on the upper floor of a commercial tower situated situated between shiny skyscrapers and Skid Row. On the steps outside the entrance, a couple with a dirty nylon sleeping bag and bad teeth asked me for a dollar. I wondered where they spent the night. Across the street was Pershing Square Park, a stone's throw from the plush lobby of the Biltmore.
On the wall behind the judge's executive chair hung a gold plaque with the American bald eagle. In front, identical desks for the attorneys. Side by side, almost adjacent. Wooden-backed benches were in the rear for any observers. An intimidating woman with short hair and leather briefcase, no nonsense personified, made her entrance.
“Who is she?” said Ying.
“Must be the attorney for Immigration & Customs Enforcement."
"Why is she here?"
"To deport you."
No Nonsense appeared immune to friendliness. The heavyset judge walked in next, long black robe and serious expression to match. He said nothing. It started to feel like a real court.
"Are you ready for the questions we discussed?”
“Yes, I am ready,” said Ying in a controlled voice. “Are you?”
Not long after passing the bar I realized that law school had been a big mistake. I should've pursued my passion. But I was first in the family to graduate from college, first with a chance for a real profession. I couldn't throw it away, not after being raised by professional guitar player who went from one menial job to another in between rare gigs where he actually got paid to do what he loved.
But then the rude awakening, the mind-numbing details and high-stress deadlines in a repressive atmosphere. Not to mention the inability to fit in with the real lawyers who had been wearing Brooks Brothers since they could walk. It didn't take long to see into what I had stepped.
Changing careers would be a gradual transition. I would break into acting while practicing law by making special appearances. Translation: stand in for other lawyers in the most unpleasant of cases: people claiming to be injured from minor traffic accidents, deadbeat dads shirking child support, drunk drivers copping guilty pleas to avoid jail time. Still a lawyer but with with the freedom to pursue acting and even participate in classes and workshops. When the client at last week's deposition answered questions about the pain in his neck--how severe it was on a scale of 1 to 10--I went over lines in Death of a Salesman.
In court with Ying, I obsessed over my chances. I had a slight bubble-bursting feeling when I recalled that among my competition was Rick Roberts. Mediocre actor but great bs-er. We were the same age and height. I overheard him sweet-talking the buxom twenty-two year old trying out for the love interest. He told her she had the “most incredible smile” before segueing into a monologue about his supposed accomplishments. The hell of it, she was eating it up.
"Appearances please," said the judge. It took me a moment to get into character. No Nonsense stated her name for the record. I did the same.
"Please proceed," said the Judge, That was my cue. I retrieved a folded sheet of paper from my breast pocket and delivered my opening line.
“Why are you afraid of returning to China?” My tone was serious. I fixed my eyes on Ying, glancing only occasionally at the judge.
“I am a Christian. The Chinese government does not approve. They have arrested me before and would do so again."
“How long have you been a Christian.”
“Ever since I was a child. My parents were also Christian," said Ying with conviction.
“When was the last time you were arrested?”
“Just before fleeing to the United States.”
I was impressed by Ying's composure. We had been introduced by a Mr. Chen in Monterey Park, a suburb east of downtown where Chinese letters jump out at you from every store. Word got around that special appearances were my specialty. When Chen contacted me, he explained he was an attorney in China, but only a paralegal in the United States.
“I need a lawyer to appear for an immigration case.”
“What kind of case?”
“Asylum.”
The word intrigued me. Asylum. Berlin Wall, Cold War, John Le Carre. This had potential. I marveled over the list of questions that Chen handed me. A script, a live performance where I was allowed to read.
"What happened when you were arrested?”
"I was at a Bible study meeting in a private home. The police arrived and broke it up. They handcuffed me, blindfolded me and took me to a police station. They confiscated all the Bibles.”
I looked up and caught the judge rolling his eyes. It was quick, almost imperceptible. No Nonsense grimaced.
“I was imprisoned for many days," Ying continued. "I was warned that if I was ever caught practicing Christianity again, the consequences would be very harsh."
"What did you understand that to mean?"
“Long years in prison. Torture. Maybe even death.” Well said, I thought.
“Do you know what happened to your group leader?
“They informed me he was beaten to unconsciousness.”
My examination of Ying's arrest continued. I elicited details: dates, names, places. I was half-listening to the answers. My mind was back at the audition, analyzing my chances. When I was out of questions, the judge announced a recess, and disappeared into a corridor. No Nonsense made an exit as well. Intermission at last.
I promised Ying I would be “right back” before creeping away to a crowded waiting area where I was greeted by a cacophony of foreign languages. Next to me was a man with cowboy boots and tattoos covering both arms. He was angry about something in Spanish and berated a much shorter man in a pin-striped blue suit. I tried to ignore them. I spotted a message from my agent Dave and felt a surge of excitement.
“Possibly good news,” was the first part. Even though Dave was not the most sought after agent in Hollywood, persuading him to add me to his roster had been no easy task. “It's down to you and Roberts.”
Exactly what I feared. The master of self promotion, the man with no conscience strikes again. No one flinched or even asked any questions when Roberts casually claimed to have performed in the West End when he was “living in London.” This would've been a good time to have a powerful godfather intervene on my behalf.
"What do you think of the case?" Ying had discovered my hideout.
"What do you mean?" I said trying to hide my irritation.
"How is the case going?"
"Oh, I think it's going well."
"Do you think the judge believes me?” That smile again. Her hand on my arm and a look of vulnerability.
“Hard to say. I believe you.”
“If I said that I was beaten and tortured in prison, would that improve my chances?”
“I beg your pardon?” I looked around to see if anyone had overheard.
“What will happen now?”
“Cross examination. Questions from the serious woman.”
"How much longer will it take? I am supposed to show a potential buyer a condo this afternoon."
"Isn't this more important?"
"Yes. Of course. But Mr. Chen told me that even if the judge denies my case, we can still make an appeal. Is that right?”
"Yeah, sounds about right," I said. “Can you excuse me one moment? I need to call my office.” I didn't have an office. I worked out of my home, a studio apartment in Silverlake.
I was dying to call Dave and whine about Roberts' insufferable behavior when a familiar Asian gentleman in a chalk-stripe suit and shiny shoes with leather tassels unexpectedly appeared.
“How is it going?” asked Mr. Chen. “Do you think the judge will grant Ying asylum?”
“I'm not sure,” I said.
“I think he will. Did Ying tell you what happened to her in China?
“Yeah. She was arrested after getting caught with a Bible.”
“Is that all she told you? Ying is very proud. Her father was a well known political dissident. When he was imprisoned, Ying's mother became very ill. When Mr. Yang was finally released, he was a very changed person."
I said nothing.
“There is more. Ying has had a hard life."
“Wouldn't those facts help her case?”
“Perhaps. But she refuses to talk about it. Do what you can.”
I chewed on this unexpected exchange while waiting for Act II. When the case resumed, I sensed uneasiness in Ying for the first time. No Nonsense pitched a series of follow up questions about her confinement. Ying hit them out of the park. Then the curve.
“You have testified you are a Christian. Can you please tell the court what was the Last Supper?”
“It was the meal before Jesus Christ, my lord and Savior was crucified.”
"Why do Christians celebrate Easter"? What is this, Bible school?
"That is when Jesus Christ was resurrected." I felt a rush of relief each time Ying answered correctly.
"What did Jesus say to his disciples when asked about the end of days?”
I waited nervously. No answer was forthcoming.
"Objection," I said. It was my first--almost involuntary. No Nonsense looked mildly impressed. I improvised. “Aren't we getting a bit esoteric here? How many Christians would know that?"
"I'll allow it," said the judge.
Ying was stumped, without expression.
"Would you like me to repeat the question?" No Nonsense made good on her offer and then provided the answer herself. “Jesus said ‘watch out that no one deceives you.' Does that sound familiar?"
"Move on counselor,” said the judge, who had been taking notes. What next?
"Did you ever live in Las Vegas?"
"Yes."
“Were you ever arrested for solicitation?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
Ying was matter of fact, “Twice, but the charges were dropped both times.” My mouth opened involuntarily. What the hell was going on? The judge's interest was noticeably peaked.
“Do you know a realtor named Charles Wang?”
“Yes. I worked for him.”
“Were you employed by him when he was arrested for real estate fraud?”
“Yes.” Ying's expression revealed nothing.
“Have you ever gone by any other names? Ever use the name Susie Song?”
“Objection,” I said instinctively, starting to get the hang of it. I felt like I was on a roller coaster.
The judge asked No Nonsense where she was “going with this.”
“We have reason to believe this woman is not who she claims to be.”
"You have reason, do you? Do you have evidence? Or are you simply hoping your questions will persuade Ms. Yang to incriminate herself?” His Honor sounded irritated.
“Nothing concrete at this time.” Music to my ears.
“If there is nothing else,” the man deciding Ying's fate paused a moment, “I'll render my decision." The torturous cross examination was over. I exhaled.
The judge glared at Ying. “I have heard your testimony. I have my doubts. But you have stuck to your story. Truth be told, it's a story I have heard before. Nevertheless, if I don't grant your case, a higher court will probably undo my decision. So I am going to save everyone a lot of time and trouble and allow you to stay in America." Then with a subdued chuckle, "You can now practice your religion freely.”
"Congratulations," I said to Ying. "Glad it worked out.” I was confused by what had transpired but genuinely happy for her.
"Thank you. You were great. I will talk to you later,” said Ying as we exited the elevator.
I was tempted to remind her of her offer and ask a couple follow up questions of my own when I felt a vibration from my cell phone. Too late. Missed call from Dave. When I looked up, Mr. Chen was fast approaching. He and Ying soon became engaged in an animated conversation in a language that was clearly not the Queen's English. I envisioned a fallling curtain.
I walked across the noisy street to the purple bell tower at Pershing Square. Colorful characters with an abundance of time on their hands gave me a funny look until I found an isolated enough spot for an intense conversation.
"Brace yourself,” said Dave. “Roberts got the role."
"The prick." The feeling of disgust returned, mixed with immeasurable disappointment.
"You might be right. They may have been impressed with his resume.”
“His resume is bullshit.”
“But they don't know that. Or maybe they don't care.”
Dave indulged my ranting for a polite duration. “Listen,” he cut me off, “ I got something else, an audition for a contemporary adaptation of Shakespeare's As You Like It. Can't say I'm overly familiar with it.”
“That's the one with the line ‘All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players.'”
“Say anything about agents?”
I retorted and Dave laughed heartily.
“Will was right. Anyway, listing says ‘Elizabethan theatre experience strongly preferred.' Whaddya think?”
Dave knew as well as I that the only place I had performed Elizabethan drama was my studio in Silverlake. But couldn't that be embellished? Couldn't that just as easily have been summer theater in a small town? Shakespeare in the park in the middle of nowhere? I pictured myself Richard III, on a tacky stage with poor lighting delivering lines in a contrived English accent. “And seem a saint when most I play the devil.” Hoodie clad teenagers from the local high school sitting on blankets over the lawn accompanied by some lonely middle aged instructor monitoring their behavior while pretending to comprehend the old English dialogue. Further back by the lighted tennis courts, older couples with aluminum folding chairs, plastic wine goblets, and picnic basket. Enthusiastic applause and standing ovation every night. Rave reviews praising my performance in the Name-Escapes-Me Township Gazette.
“Go ahead, Dave. Set it up.”