They hesitated, and the pause conveyed the answer. Mark said, “No, I have not told my mother, because she has enough problems right now. She thinks I’m in class and looking forward to graduation with a nice job all lined up. I suppose I’ll wait a couple of months, then lie and tell her I’m taking a semester off. I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”
“And you?” she asked Todd.
“Same here,” he said. “Right now I don’t have the balls to tell my parents. I’m not sure which version of the truth sounds worse. On the one hand, I’m $200,000 in debt and have no job. On the other hand, I’ve dropped out and decided to make a buck hustling DUIs for cash with a new identity. I’ll wait, like Mark, and think of something later.”
“And if the scheme blows up and you get into trouble?”
“It won’t happen, Zola,” Mark said.
“I’d like to believe you but I’m not convinced you know what you’re talking about.”
“We’re not convinced either,” Todd said. “But we’ve made our decision and there’s no turning back. The question is whether or not you’re with us.”
“You’re asking a lot. You expect me to walk away from three years of law school.”
“Come on, Zola,” Mark said. “What has law school done for you? Nothing, except ruin your life. We’re offering a way out. It may not be the cleanest exit, but right now it’s all we’ve got.”
She crunched on a nacho and looked around the bar. It was packed with young men in their thirties and forties, all drinking and watching basketball and hockey on the big screens. There were a few women, but not many, and almost no students.
She asked, “And both of you guys work here?”
Todd said, “Yep. It’s a lot more fun than sitting in class and studying for the bar exam.”
“And what are the terms of the partnership?”
Mark said, “We’re pooling our expense money for this semester. Ten thousand each. That covers the launch: new computers, new phones, some office equipment, new identities, some nicer clothes.”
“Are you in?” Todd asked.
“Let me think about it, okay? I still think you’re crazy.”
“We won’t argue that.”
16
Some thirty months earlier, when Mark Frazier signed his name on the last federal loan form and jumped headlong into the quagmire of student debt, the Department of Education assigned him a loan servicer, a woman by the name of Morgana Nash. She worked for NowAssist, a private company in New Jersey hired by the DOE to service student loans, and her selection had been at random. Mark had never met her and had no reason to. As the borrower, he was allowed to establish the lines of communication and had chosen to keep the chatter to a minimum, like most students. He and Ms. Nash corresponded by e-mail only. She had once asked for his cell phone number, but since he was not required to divulge it, she didn’t get it. NowAssist was one of several loan service companies, and all were supposedly monitored closely by DOE. Those with subpar performances were either given less business or terminated altogether. According to its website, DOE ranked NowAssist in the middle of the pack. Other than the suffocating debt itself, Mark had no complaints with Ms. Nash and her efforts so far. After thirty months of listening to the bitching of a bunch of law students, he knew that there were some bad service companies.
Her latest e-mail, one received on his old account, read,
Hello, Mark Frazier: I trust your holidays went well and you’ve buckled down for your final semester of law school. Congrats on making it this far and best of luck in these final months. When we last communicated, in November, you were excited about your position at Ness Skelton but still uncertain as to your starting salary. An update on this issue would be appreciated. Based on your salary, I would like to begin the process of structuring a repayment plan. As you know, the law requires a repayment plan to be signed at graduation, with your first payment due exactly six months after that. I know you’re busy but please check in at your convenience.
Most recent installment Jan. 13, 2014 = $32,500. Total due, principal and interest: $266,000.
Best Regards, Morgana Nash, Public Sector Representative
Mark waited two days and on Saturday morning replied,
Dear Ms. Nash: Thank you for your note, so good to hear from you. Hope you are well. Things are sort of up in the air over at Ness Skelton these days. The firm merged with some British outfit and everything seems to be in flux. In fact, I can’t find anyone there who’s willing to talk about my position. I even get the impression that the job offer might have vanished in the merger. It’s very unsettling. And add the fact that my best friend jumped off the Arlington Memorial Bridge and into the Potomac (see link) last week, and, well, I haven’t thought much about law school. Give me some time and I’ll put myself back together. The last thing I want to talk about is repayment. Thanks for your patience. Your friend, Mark.
—
TODD WAS STUCK with an outfit called Scholar Support Partners, or SSP. Or simply SS, as Todd and many other students called it. It was based in Philadelphia and had a dismal record handling loans. Todd had found at least three lawsuits across the country in which SSP had been sued for abusive debt collection practices. The company had been caught tacking on unwarranted fees to its loans, and had already paid fines. Nonetheless, the DOE stuck with it.
His “counselor” was a real smart-ass named Rex Wagner, a bully Todd would love to punch if he ever had the chance, which of course he never would. He envisioned Wagner stuffed in a cubbyhole in a boiler room in some low-end basement office, probably fat and eating chips with headphones stuck to his bald head as he hounded kids on the phone and fired off pissy e-mails.
His latest read,
Dear Mr. Lucero: Down the home stretch now with graduation right around the corner, so it’s time to talk about repayment, which I assume you have no desire to discuss since, based on our last correspondence a month ago, you still have not found “meaningful legal employment.” I hope this has changed. Please update me on your latest efforts to get a job. I’m afraid I will not be able to accept a repayment plan predicated on your apparent desire to work only as a bartender. Let’s talk, and the sooner the better.
Most recent installment: $32,500, Jan. 13, 2014; total principal and interest: $195,000.
Sincerely, Rex Wagner, Senior Loan Counselor
To which Todd eventually replied,
Dear SS Senior Loan Counselor Wagner: I can make more money tending bar than you can harassing students. I’ve read about your company and all its lawsuits and abusive tactics, but I’m not accusing you of any abuse, yet. I am not in default, hell I haven’t even graduated, so back off. No, I don’t have a real job, because there aren’t any, at least not for graduates of low-end for-profit schools like FBLS, which, by the way, practically lied to us way back then when we were thinking about signing on. Boy, were we stupid.
Give me some time and I’ll work out something. Todd Lucero.
Wagner replied,
Dear Mr. Lucero: I would like to keep things positive. I’ve worked with many students who struggled to find work, but they all eventually did so. It just takes a lot of gumption and shoe leather to get out there and knock on those doors. D.C. is full of great law firms and well-paying government jobs. I’m sure you’ll find a rewarding career. I will ignore the fact that you used the words “abuse” and “harassing.” All of our e-mail correspondence will become public and I suggest we choose our words carefully. I would like to discuss this with you on the phone, but of course I do not have your number.
Regards, Rex Wagner, Senior Loan Counselor
Todd replied,
Dear SS Senior Loan Counselor Wagner: My apologies if I offended you. I’m not sure you realize the pressure I am under at this point in my life. Nothing has gone as planned and the future looks awfully bleak. I curse the day I decided to go to law school, and especially the one at Foggy Bottom. Do you realize that the Wall Street dude who owns the
school nets $20 million a year from it? And it’s just one of eight in his portfolio? Fascinating. Looking back, I should’ve bought myself a law school instead of enrolling in one.
No, you can’t have my phone number. According to the numerous lawsuits against SS, the worst abuse was over the phone, where it’s almost never recorded. Let’s stick with e-mail, where every word matters.
We’re still pals. Todd Lucero.
—
THEY SPENT ALL of Saturday cleaning, painting, and hauling away sacks of garbage. Zola’s “suite” was actually three rooms: one for the bed, one for the den/office, and a utility closet that had potential. They convinced Maynard to allow them to move a wall and add a door. One of Maynard’s cousins was an unlicensed contractor who did odd jobs without bothering with the permit routine, and for a thousand bucks cash he said he could jerry-rig a small shower, commode, and vanity and convert the utility closet to a bathroom. Todd and Mark doubted that Zola would be impressed, but she really had no choice.
She had not agreed to join the partnership, but it was only a matter of time.
—
THE DAY WAS cool and sunny, and Zola needed fresh air. She left her apartment early Saturday morning and walked to the Mall, where she sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and watched the tourists. Gazing at the Washington Monument and the Capitol in the distant background, she thought of her parents and brother locked away like prisoners in a miserable detention center, awaiting removal. Her view was majestic, with every building and monument a symbol of unbridled freedom. Their view, if they had one, was of fencing and razor wire. Because of their sacrifice, she had been given the gift of citizenship, a permanent status she had done nothing to earn. They had worked like dogs in a country they were proud of, with the dream of one day belonging. How, exactly, would their removal benefit this great nation of immigrants? It made no sense and seemed unjustly cruel.
She tried to keep Gordy out of her thoughts. His tragedy was behind her and dwelling on it served no useful purpose. They’d never had a future together and she had been foolish to think otherwise. But he was still there and she couldn’t shake the guilt.
She drifted past the Reflecting Pool and tried to envision the place packed with about 250,000 people back in 1963 when Dr. King described his dream. Her father always said that the greatness of America was that anyone could pursue any dream, and through work and sacrifice the dreams could come true.
Now his dreams had become nightmares, and she was helpless.
At the Washington Monument, she fell into a long line for the ride to the top, but soon got bored and left. She loved the Smithsonian and spent a few hours lost in American history. At no time throughout the day did she waste time thinking about law school or the pursuit of “meaningful legal employment.”
Late in the afternoon, Todd sent a text and suggested “another fine dinner.” But she declined, saying she had plans. She read a novel, watched an old movie, and went to bed just after eleven. The apartment building was rocking with loud music and rowdy students coming and going. Saturday night in the big city. An argument in the hallway woke her around one, but she managed to drift off.
She was sleeping soundly when someone began pounding on her door. For immigrants, especially those without the paperwork, the rules of engagement were well-known. Keep clothes and shoes close by, along with the phone, do not answer the door, and hope and pray it’s not ICE. If it is, they’ll kick through the door anyway and there’s no place to run. Though she was as legal as any ICE agent, she certainly wasn’t living like it.
Zola jumped out of her skin and pulled on her jeans. The pounding continued and a loud voice yelled, “Open up! Immigration!” She eased into the den and stared at the door in horror, her heart beating like a jackhammer. She was holding her phone and was about to speed dial Mark, as if he could hustle over at two in the morning and save her. The pounding stopped. There were no more voices, only the shuffling of feet. She braced for the crash of her door, but there was nothing but silence. Then, at the far end of the hallway, laughter.
Was it really ICE, or just someone’s idea of a sick joke? She waited and tried to control her breathing. As the minutes passed she stood in the darkness, afraid to move, to make a sound. It was possible that ICE might stop by for questions, but not at that hour, right? When ICE arrived they meant business. They didn’t knock and walk away when no one answered.
Regardless of who was there, the damage was done. Zola slowly returned to her bedroom, pulled on a sweater, put on her shoes, and waited some more. When things were quiet, she unlocked her door, took a peek up and down the hallway, saw no one, and locked her door behind her. With Gordy’s spare key, she entered his apartment, kept the lights off, and stretched out on his bare mattress.
Sleep was impossible. She could not live like this. If her two friends were crazy enough to assume new lives, she would take her chances with them.
—
Morgana Nash checked in:
Dear Mark: I’m so sorry about your friend. I understand why you are upset. However, let’s try and nail down the situation at Ness Skelton and begin talking about a repayment schedule. My sympathies. Morgana Nash, Public Sector Representative.
Sunday morning Mark fired back:
Dear Ms. Nash: Thank you for your sympathies. It means so much. It appears as though I’ve been fired from Ness Skelton, fired before I even started, which is okay because it was a bad place on a good day and I despise the people who work there. So I’m unemployed again, along with the rest of my class, and I really don’t have the emotional strength to start looking for another dead-end job. Please back off, okay? Love, Mark.
First thing Monday morning, she replied,
Dear Mark: I’m sorry you are upset. I’m just doing my job and my job requires me to engage you in a conversation about repayment. There are many good jobs in the D.C. area and I know you will find meaningful legal employment. Just keep me in the loop. Morgana Nash, Public Sector Representative.
Mark responded,
Dear Ms. Nash: There are no loops. There is nothing. I’m in therapy and my therapist tells me to ignore you for now. Sorry. Mark.
17
They waited until late Monday morning, when the building was empty and the neighbors were in class, and they moved Zola’s boxes to her new third-floor suite above The Rooster Bar. If she was unimpressed with her new digs, she kept it to herself. In fact, she unpacked her clothes and belongings with a smile and seemed pleased with her new hiding place. It was only temporary. As a child in Newark she had lived in far tighter quarters with almost no privacy. Mark and Todd had no idea how poor her family had been in those days.
The contractor, with his crew of hardworking and undoubtedly illegal Slovakians, was busy transforming the utility closet into a bathroom, so the partners walked down the street for a late lunch. Over salads and iced tea, Todd covered some of the basic rules of engagement. They would live in a world of cash, no credit. Credit cards leave trails. They had convinced Maynard to swap labor for rent. Todd and Mark would each work twenty-five hours a week tending bar and no records would be kept. Maynard would accept this for rent and also cover the utility bills, Internet, and cable, and allow them to use the address for what little mail they anticipated. He seemed to like the idea of having three budding lawyers practically hiding in his building and appeared to miss the distinction between a legal clinic and a law firm. Maynard asked few questions.
It was ironic that their zeal to avoid credit was predicated on the fact that they collectively owed more than $600,000, but the irony was lost at the moment.
They would revisit their shady security contact and buy a fake driver’s license for Zola as her only form of ID. Once she became Zola Parker, they would get her a cell phone, but they would keep