money he had he put into that business and it was lost when he was interned. You read the
Korematsu
case, you know the great dissent by Brennan. That’s the justice part.”
“True, except that the dissenters in
Korematsu
were Murphy and Jackson. You and Bennie always get that wrong. Brennan wasn’t even on the Court at the time.” Judy smiled. “And justice can wait until after dinner.”
Mary knew Judy was kidding, at least about justice. An honors graduate of Boalt Hall, editor in chief of the
Law Review
, and a former law clerk to the Chief Judge of the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, Judy Carrier had legal credentials that enabled her to correct everybody in the office, and far surpassing others who dyed their hair with Jell-O.
“Wait a minute,” Judy said, frowning at the documents scattered over the conference table. “You must have read these documents at the National Archives when you Xeroxed them. Did you see Brandolini’s file then?”
“No, but I’m double-checking. I could have missed it. It has to be here.” Mary skimmed the next document and sent up a silent prayer to St. Jude, Patron Saint of Lost Causes and Document Productions.
“
You
miss it?” Judy’s eyes flared in blue disbelief. “You never miss anything. You’re the most careful girl I know.”
“Except for the dissenters in
Korematsu
. Besides, I couldn’t concentrate when I was Xeroxing. I had to find the right files and I could only use the copy machine for five minutes at a time. They had so many rules, between the declassification stickers and the Identicards and the one-folder-at-a-time.” Mary didn’t add that she’d gotten distracted by just being at the National Archives. The College Park building was sleek, modern, and beautiful, a fitting edifice for the documented history of her country. She’d loved every minute of her research there, down to the cheery red pencils they gave you for free and the sign that read THIS IS YOUR HERITAGE !
“Mare, you’re wasting your time.”
“My time is officially worthless. This case is pro bono, remember?” Mary finished reading the letter, which was USELESS, too. She reached for a Post-it, slapped it on the letter, and instead of USELESS, scribbled THIS SUCKS. For variety.
“Okay. Fine. You force me to Plan B.” Judy produced an almond Hershey bar from her jeans and unwrapped the tinfoil. She took a huge first bite, ignoring the perforations around the chocolate rectangles. Judy didn’t like to be told what to do, even by candy.
“Don’t get chocolate on my files,” Mary said, but Judy was already chomping a coveted almond and soon would begin excavating all of them, saving for last the nutless chocolate remnants. It was one of her saturated fat fetishes. “Jude, I mean it, with the chocolate.” Mary set her letter aside and scribbled THIS SUCKS, TOO on a Post-it. “Don’t touch anything.”
“Hey, what’s this?” Judy picked up a sheaf of papers, which Mary grabbed back.
“Please! They’re Amadeo’s personal papers.” Mary set the stack safely on her side of the table, but when she looked up, Judy was picking up something else. “Stop! That’s an original, too!”
“An original what?”
“It’s his alien registration booklet.” Mary grabbed it back, relieved to see it wasn’t chocolate-covered. A pink booklet, it measured slightly larger than her palm and its faded paper cover was as soft as her old Catechism manual. It bore a round purple stamp dated MAR 6, 1941. “Amadeo had to register as an enemy of the country, even though his son fought for us in the same war. I can’t believe that my country did this to its own people, to Amadeo. It’s not the American way.”
“Amadeo wasn’t an American.”
“He was too. He lived here for thirty years. He offered up his only son to the war, to fight for the country. If that isn’t an American, what is?”
“But he wasn’t a citizen, was he?”
“You’re being legalistic.”
“I’m a