“They really did just throw you into the job feet first, didn’t they? Fine. Eat.” Bruce tapped his fingers on the table.
“Stop that,” Christina said automatically, and unwrapped her sandwich. Bruce’s fingers stilled.
“Thank you,” Christina said. “That’s better.” She took off the top slice of sourdough bread. Sliced turkey, some white cheese that might be Swiss, tomatoes, lettuce, mayonnaise and black olives were underneath. Christina pulled some plastic tableware from the bag, removed the knife from the protective wrapper and began scraping the olives off the six-inch sandwich.
“That seems like a waste,” Bruce observed, his lips puckering.
“I don’t eat olives,” she informed him simply. “Of any kind.”
He shrugged. “Just make sure Angela knows what you like and she’ll get it for you.”
“I’ll bring my lunch from now on,” she said as she finished scraping.
“You have a food account,” Bruce replied with a backward roll of his shoulders. “All the partners have an allowance, including the junior ones. It’s there for times like today, or for when you entertain clients. Did they forget to tell you that, too?”
“It probably slipped my mind since I’m not entertaining at this moment,” Christina said. Lovely. Now she probably appeared even more incompetent, making Bruce Lancaster feel even more superior. “I just prefer to bring my own food. I’ll only be able to eat half of this.”
She should remove the cheese, as well, but the cheese would drown out the flavor of the turkey. Pregnancy sure had changed her taste buds as well as her figure. She’d needed a nutritionist, a personal trainer and ten months of hard work to get back to her prepregnancy shape. By that time Kyle had had two road affairs, both with cocktail waitresses he’d picked up.
Christina had managed her weight with diet and exercise ever since, although now maintaining her weight was more of a healthy choice, and not anything that had to do with pleasing Kyle.
She returned the bread to the top of the sandwich and cut the sandwich into halves. She pushed one half aside. Then she saw Bruce’s expression. “Are you still hungry? You can have the rest. Seriously.”
“If you don’t want it,” he said. His arm snaked forward and he retrieved the sandwich. “Angela usually gets me a foot-long, but maybe today she was trying to keep everything the same.”
Christina opened the bag of chips. It had been forever since she’d indulged and they were like forbidden fruit—too tempting. She’d only have a few. “She remembered your flavor of potato chips.”
“To forget that is sacrilege,” Bruce informed her as the conference room phone began to ring. He lifted the receiver. “Bruce Lancaster.” His face darkened as he listened. “No, it’s good you interrupted me. Tell her I’ll be right there. She has to go in to work today. She cannot stay off the job. That will allow them to legitimately fire her. Tell her that she’ll be safer today than ever before.”
He put the phone down and stood, his portion of her sandwich remaining untouched. “We’ve got a crisis. Can you eat that on the way? Or I can buy you a hamburger on the way back? That is, if you’re coming with me.”
Her decision was instantaneous, even though she had no clue what he was talking about. “Of course I am.” She rose to her feet. “What’s happening?”
“One of our plaintiffs is refusing to go to work today. She missed two days last week, and if she misses today without a doctor’s excuse, the company will have legitimate reason to fire her.”
“We’re taking her to the doctor?” Christina asked.
Bruce was already halfway down the hall. “No. We’re taking her to work.”
Chapter Four
Fifteen minutes later Christina understood what Bruce meant by her being an outsider. Not that it made his earlier comments about her competence less offensive or any less grating. He’d been right about one thing, though: this was a world she’d seen on TV, never in person. Even in Mexico City, her extended family lived behind walls in an affluent part of town, in luxury, with hired help. She had heard about those who lived in poverty and competed for handouts, but had never seen it for herself.
Here in Indiana, the words ghetto or slum didn’t come close to describing the three single-story rundown motel buildings that sat crumbling next to a barren parking lot. Two rusted-out cars languished next to overflowing garbage Dumpsters. The parking lot was a crisscross of cracks filled with brown weeds. A rusted swing set moved slightly in the breeze, and the chain-link fence surrounding what had once been an in-ground pool had fallen in places. This place was a land that time forgot.
“Oh, my God,” Christina whispered as Bruce’s Ford 350 diesel pickup truck pulled up next to one of the buildings. Yellowed curtains that had decades ago probably been crisp white moved in several of the windows as the curious tenants peeked out, then scurried away.
“Put an interstate through and it’s amazing what happens to places off the beaten path. This whole place ought to be condemned. But that’s another lawsuit for another time. Earning just minimum wage, these people can only afford this lovely oasis.”
“And they’re all legal immigrants with work visas?” Christina asked, still not quite believing what she saw. The day was cloudy and overcast, giving the whole area a cheap, B-horror-movie feel.
“All the women in the lawsuit are legal immigrants. That was one law that the Morrisville Garment Company didn’t violate. The migrant farm workers, who are mostly illegal, have already vanished for the season. This motel flourishes in the summer, with up to ten people in a room. No one but the churches pay much attention.”
“It’s a hellhole,” Christina said, stepping her Italian shoes around a crusty pile of dog feces. A gust of dry wind sent dirt particles flying. Any grass had long browned.
“You’ll learn to dress down except for court appearances. Professional, yet not flashy. The Average Joe does most of his clothes shopping at Wal-Mart in Greensburg.”
“You’re in a suit,” she pointed out, seeking clarification. Her last employer, then Kyle, had always insisted she dress to the nines. Even her maternity wear had been expensive designer creations.
“Yeah, but only because I had that meeting with the partners. These people immediately think of the immigration service when they see people in suits.”
Bruce walked up to one of the doors and knocked on the peeling paint. The number seven hung upside down by one nail and bounced erratically.
“María,” he called. “María Gonzales. Me llamo Bruce Lancaster. Open the door. I must talk to you. Clara sent me.”
The woman inside answered with rapid Spanish, but she still didn’t open the door. Bruce knocked again. “¡María, por favor!”
“Let me try,” Christina said. Already several doors had opened and heads had popped out, only to quickly disappear like in a Whack-a-Mole carnival game. “¡María! Soy Christina Jones, la social de Bruce. Por favor abra la puerta. Le necesitamos hablar. Es muy importante.”
“What did you say?” Bruce asked.
“I told her I’m your partner and I asked her to open the door. It’s important.”
“Oh.” He appeared impressed, maybe stunned. But Christina had little time for satisfaction in her small victory as the worn door opened a crack and landed against the crash bar.
A woman peered out and launched a tirade in Spanish. Christina translated. “She says that the boss still tries to keep her on the