The Horsewoman(87)

So far, so good.

I walked down from the bridge and got on my horse in the schooling ring. Only rooting for me now, and Sky. And from the time the buzzer sounded, it seemed as if both of us were in charge.

We didn’t need to break any records. Just needed to go clean. When we finished, we were a half second behind Mom’s time of 71.6. Didn’t matter. What mattered was that we were in the jump-off, too. By the time the round was over, there were five riders who’d gone clean. Tess, Jennifer, Matthew, Mom, and me.

Back in the schooling ring, there was no conversation between Mom and me as we leisurely flatted our horses to keep them warm. Tess McGill pulled up alongside me at one point and said, “You and your mom riding like this in the same event and the same ring? Crazy.”

“You have no idea,” I said.

Tess was beautiful, talented, rich, never big-timed anybody because of who her dad was. Always had great horses. As great as she was, she still hadn’t made the Olympics yet. It meant she wanted it as badly as Mom and I did.

Maybe more, if that was even possible.

Mom went first in the jump-off, went clean, came in at 35.5. Sky and I went next. She was fast, but somehow Coronado had found an extra gear today. We came in at 36.2. Mom was still in second by the time Tess McGill was in the ring. I was fourth.

Then Tess proceeded to blow everybody away. Her ride, Volage du Val Henry, pretty name for a pretty horse, went around the jump-off course at what looked like the speed of light, finishing clean in 34 flat.

Still not a bad Sunday for the women of Atwood Farm, all in all.

Monday wasn’t anything like that at the Palm Beach County Courthouse in West Palm Beach. As soon as the judge in Daniel’s assault case had released him on his own recognizance, ICE was waiting for him outside the courtroom.





ONE HUNDRED NINE



DAD HAD TOLD ALL OF US—me, Mom, Grandmother, Gus—to say our good-byes before Dad walked Daniel out of the courtroom and into federal custody.

“Trust me,” Dad had said, “what happens next happens fast.”

“How did the feds even know about the fight?” Gus had said.

“As soon as our friend Daniel got arrested,” Dad had said, “he went right into the system.”

“All because he screwed up some paperwork?” I’d said.

“Our tax dollars at work, kid,” Dad had said. “We all know the late filing for the DACA renewal was an honest mistake. But the fact is, he was late. Once he was late, he technically lost his Dreamer status. Which means that for now our friends in the government don’t care whether the assault charge is total crap. They’ve got him.”

“By the balls,” Gus had said.

“Now I’ve got to try to make things happen fast for our side,” Dad had said. “Get the charges dropped. Get a new DACA renewal filed. Get this kid’s feet back on solid ground. Goddamn, immigration law is a bear. The lawyers who do this full-time ought to get a medal.”

I’d seen the two ICE agents from Miami, short and tall—I’d blocked out their names—sitting in the back of the courtroom. They’d left before Mom and Grandmother had hugged Daniel and Gus shook his hand. I’d waited and then kissed him and put my arms around him and held on until Dad said, “Honey, let’s get this done.”

Then we were on the sidewalk watching the ICE agents walk Daniel toward the black town car parked out front, having cuffed him for no apparent reason other than they could. The shorter one opened the back door and Daniel got inside. The taller agent was making a phone call, maybe informing their boss that they’d apprehended a dangerous outlaw like Daniel Ortega, horse trainer.

“You have to make this go away, Dad,” I said.

“We’ve got to get rid of the assault charge,” he said. “Then we have a chance to stop any removal proceedings before they really get started. At least in theory.”

Removal. Deportation.

“But he still has to go into detention,” I said.

“Unfortunately,” Dad said.

“This sucks,” I said.

“That ought to be the legal definition of bullshit like this, for guys like Daniel,” Dad said.

We all watched as the taller ICE agent finished his call, took out his keys, and walked around to the driver’s side. The shorter one—Dolan was his name, I now remembered—opened the door and started to get in on the passenger side, but not before taking one last look at where we were all standing on the sidewalk.

For some reason, I felt as if he were looking directly at me. I wondered if the smirk were permanently frozen on his face. I wanted to give him the finger, thought better of that. I stared back at him until he shut the door and the car pulled away, wondering when I might see Daniel again.





ONE HUNDRED TEN



THE HAMPTON INVITATIONAL was the second week of June on eastern Long Island. By the time we arrived, Daniel was still in the federal detention center in Fort Lauderdale.

“Dad, when are you going to get him out?” I asked daily, to which he always replied, “Working on it.”

“When we get back I want to see him,” I said.

“He doesn’t want you to see him there, kid,” Dad said. “That’s still set in cement.”

Tess McGill was solidly in first place in the latest Olympic rankings. Then came Mom and Tyler and me, close enough to cover the three of us with Sky’s fancy horse blanket.