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“Garren, this is Lucy Garcia. She’s been telling me about a property issue she and her husband have been having.”
    “His father willed us the place,” Lucy explained, reaching out to shake my extended hand. “He said it was fully paid for but the government had papers saying otherwise. They evicted our family.”
    I’ d heard similar stories a dozen times; people’s property usurped because the government felt they had a better use for it. They knew people like Lucy didn’t have the means to fight them very hard. If it weren’t for lawyers like Michael, the Cursed wouldn’t have any legal assistance whatsoever, and as it was he was continually stonewalled by the governments and its allies, facing an uphill battle on nearly every occasion. Lucy would be lucky if she and her family were offered even a small settlement sum.
    Michael repeat ed the details the woman had already told him and I wrote them out by hand in a paper notebook. In practical terms the action was unnecessary, as everything we said was being recorded. But people liked to see the activity—it made them feel as though something was being done.
    D uring Michael’s questioning it came to light that Lucy was a descendent of a woman named Marian Anderson, a delegate to the U.N and the first African American to sing a leading role with the Metropolitan Opera. She’d sung at President Dwight Eisenhower’s inauguration. John F. Kennedy’s too.
    I watched Michael begin to get excited as he probed further and then disappeared behind his eyes to confirm Lucy’s information on gushi. “Now, this will help your case immeasurably,” he said, swiftly returning his attention to us. “The government won’t want to be seen mistreating the descendent of such an esteemed American historical figure. If we threaten to pass that info on to the grounded movement we’ll certainly be able to get a healthy settlement out of them.”
    “But my relationship to Marian Anderson has nothing to do with the facts surrounding the property,” Lucy countered, an anger line slashing her forehead. “That shouldn’t have any bearing on the outcome of the case.”
    “It shouldn’t,” Michael agree d. “But it will. If you want me to leave the fact of your relationship to Ms. Anderson out of the case, I can, but it would be to your detriment. One has to use whatever leverage they have these days and this is your best chance.”
    Lucy look ed at me and slowly shook her head, disappointment settling on her features. “What a world we’re giving you,” she murmured. “What happened to this country?”
    “ Ros and fascists,” I mumbled, before I had a chance to stop myself. I wasn’t in Fairfield to spout my personal beliefs; I was supposed to be helping Michael.
    “ Ain’t that the truth,” Lucy said, sounding like someone from an old-time movie.
    I suddenly remembered the Abraham Lincoln quote grounded hackers had splashed over the Dailies one morning in April. “America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.” But I’d said too much already and bit my tongue, the quote repeating in my head.
    “Do whatever you have to,” Lucy advised Michael. “We’ll worry about the rest later.”
    Michael smiled as if she were joking, but there was a quiet steeliness about Lucy that told me otherwise, and when she was leaving the consultation room later I excused myself, pretending that I’d missed breakfast earlier and wanted something from the dining hall level. I followed Lucy stealthily down one corridor and then another, trying to formulate a question about the dishes in my bag that wouldn’t sound suspicious.
    “Have you lost your way?” she asked, turning to look at me.
    “Not exactly. I… Do you know many of the people who live here?” I patted my bag, the fragments clanking in response. “I met a man from here who wanted me to give these things to his wife but I never got