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It’s the morning after Peter gave me the bad news about being deported, and I’m still going back and forth between panic and fury.
This is Mike Mills’ doing. I know he has the clout to make it happen, and he’s petty enough to do it.
“I’m afraid it is happening,” Peter says, the bags under his eyes revealing that he didn’t sleep much last night, either.
“How did you phrase the offer to the Mills campaign? Did you make it clear that I’ll donate through a PAC or whatever I have to do to get around spending limits?”
“They said there’s nothing they can do and that it would be unethical for them to take money in exchange for a favor.”
“Fuck.” I toss my pen across the room and it hits the concrete wall before dropping to the ground with an unceremonious plopping sound. “He probably thinks I’m trying to set him up, but I’m not. He got me and I’m willing to pay to make this go away.”
Peter runs a hand through his sparse gray hair, looking frazzled. “I don’t know how that’s possible. We’re under a microscope right now. Any political favor you call in, Mills could find out about it. And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how badly it could blow up if it gets out that you’re trying to buy your way out of a legal deportation.”
I groan and put my head in my hands. “There has to be a way.”
“Well…” he says, sighing heavily. “Here are your options. We can appeal the decision, but if you’re right and this is coming from Mills, an appeal is unlikely to succeed.”
“The president,” I suggest, somewhat joking, but not really. “I’ll make a huge contribution to her campaign if her office can help with this.”
Peter shakes his head. “You can’t risk even saying that out loud to anyone outside of your inner circle. This isn’t Russia, where money can just make anything go away.”
I glare at him. “Money can make things go away everywhere.”
He puts his hands up. “You’ll have to hire another attorney, then. I’m not risking my license over this when there are other solutions.”
“You think I should refuse the $25 million?” I look up at the ceiling. “Damn, that’s so much money. I’d have to”
“Absolutely not,” Peter says.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Okay, I’m glad we’re on the same page. So, we’re still taking the money, and I can’t get deported. What are the other options?”
Peter rubs his chin, which he always does when he has to give me bad news. I’m tired and hopped up on caffeine from the many cups of coffee I drank to stay upright this morning, which means my patience is running thin.
“If an appeal won’t work, what else can I do?” I prod.
He lets out the breath he’s holding. “You can…get married.”
“Married?” I recoil at the suggestion. “Me? No fucking way.”
Peter looks at me like I’m a feral cat he’s trying to catch, his expression a mixture of fear and determination.
“Being the spouse of a U.S. citizen would solve this problem,” he says.
I laugh at the absurdity of the suggestion. “I don’t have a boyfriend, though. I haven’t even been on a date in…well, let just say it’s been a long time.”
I furrow my brow, trying to remember the last time I went on a real date. It’s been years. I’m not exactly the warm and fuzzy girlfriend sort.
“Sure, I understand. I just wanted to let you know what the options are.”
I exhale, steeling myself. “Okay, what else?”
Peter gives me a blank look. “You mean other options?”
“Right. Appealing is a no, and so is getting married.”
“That’s it, Mila. Your only other option is to go back to Russia and apply for a new work visa.”
I shake my head, still in disbelief. “What about the number of people who depend on their jobs here? And the arena, which will contribute millions to the local economy? Why can’t you make the case that there are economic benefits to extending my current visa?”
He shrugs. “I can do that if you want me to, but if an order to deport you has come down from the governor…”
I nod wearily. “It won’t work.”
Quentin speaks up from the other side of the room, where he’s been leaning up against the wall listening to the conversation.
“What about Eli in accounting? His girlfriend just broke off their engagement.”
I gape at him, horrified. “What about Eli for what?”
“You could marry him. It would solve the problem.”
My jaw drops. “Eli usually has an entire salad bar between his teeth. Not only no, but hell no.”
“It doesn’t have to be a real marriage,” Quentin argues. “Just an arrangement on paper.”
Peter cuts in. “If you go that route, it has to be believable. You can’t marry someone and live separately. There are investigators who check the legitimacy of marriages that occur close to deportation dates, and if they don’t believe it’s real, you’ll be in this same boat again. Except you’ll also probably accused of marriage fraud.”
