“Spanish?” Mrs. Washington said, taking Rafael.
“He hasn’t talked much at all,” Ryan said. “But he does seem to respond more to Spanish.”
“Not uncommon for children who grow up in a bilingual home,” Mrs. Washington said. “They start slow, but they develop both languages equally and catch up by the time they’re five.”
“I’m not sure how bilingual Teresa’s family was, besides her, I mean,” Ryan said. “I stayed with them once — for Christmas break. Mostly Spanish speaking.”
“Before he was born, I take it,” Rev. Washington observed. “So, this was completely a surprise to you?”
Ryan nodded. “And I’m really worried about Teresa.”
“Cage only gave us the briefest explanation,” Rev. Washington said. “So tomorrow, you can tell us more, and we will see what we can do.”
Ryan closed his eyes briefly, as relief hit him. He was not alone in this. Emily was saying “we”, now the Washingtons. “Not alone felt” good.
“Ryan?” Emily said anxiously. “We need to get back.”
Mrs. Washington showed Ryan a bedroom that had two twin beds in it and gave him a house key. “It will be OK,” she assured him, and gave him a hug. “I’m glad you’re choosing to stay with us.”
“Thank you,” Ryan said, hugging her back. “I’m stunned. But Teresa? Teresa thought she could trust me with him. So, I’ll do the best I can.”
Emily was all but dragging him out the door.
I have a son, he thought. And it actually felt good to say it.
“There’s a problem at the office,” Emily said, as she got in the car and strapped on the seat belt.
“Of course there is.” Ryan muttered tiredly. “What?”
“Miguel sent a text. He says they got a call from ICE looking for Teresa. He’s a bit freaked,” she added.
“What?” Ryan picked up speed. “Miguel is legal, isn’t he? I mean he’s not freaked because of that, right?”
“No, he’s like fourth generation American,” Emily said. “I think his family was in California before California became a state. No, he’s just worried. We’ve already had one encounter with police, or least people pretending to be police, this last week.”
Yeah, but Miguel was right: ICE was an entirely different level of trouble, Ryan thought grimly. A former sheriff deputy from Clackamas County and some of his Reserve buddies? That was nothing compared to what ICE could bring down.
“You’d better call Professor Cooper,” Ryan said, and Emily pulled out her phone. “And ask him to call the Provost.”
Emily paused. “You want to bring the Provost into the conversation this soon?” she asked. They’d hardly given the man five minutes notice before they broke the story about the sheriff deputy’s pursuit of independent journalist Carroll Gilligan.
“I want to bring the Provost into the newsroom for a conversation about this tonight,” Ryan said. “ICE could jeopardize the future of a lot of PSU students, the future of PSU itself. McShane has got to be alerted.”
Emily swallowed hard and called their faculty advisor.
Chapter 3
9 p.m. Tuesday, Eyewitness News — Leaving Emily to run the newsroom upstairs, Ryan met his late-night guests at the front door.
“We can use the conference room here to talk,” he told the Provost, Andrew McShane, when he arrived.
“Don’t trust me to be in the newsroom?” McShane said.
“Haven’t you been there? I’ll happily give you a tour someday,” Ryan said, surprised. “But there are no private spaces to talk. And this needs to be private, I think.”
John Cooper let himself in and followed them into the conference room. “That is the flaw of the newsroom,” he agreed. “Even my office is a glass box. No such thing as a confidential meeting. We go out for coffee for that.”
“Now that’s sad when a coffee shop is more confidential than your own office,” McShane said with a laugh.
“And worse now that there’s no coffee shops open for us to meet,” Cooper said.
It wouldn’t be true of McShane’s office, Ryan thought ruefully. He had one of those offices that had real wood bookcases, an antique rug from McShane’s years-ago sabbatical in Turkey, and an impressive high-gloss wood desk. And he had a secretary who kept out anyone he didn’t want to see. But then the Provost looked like a man who would have that kind of office. Even at this time of night, he was dressed in a tailored dark gray suit, white shirt, and a dark green tie — a nod to school colors? Ryan hoped not — and a black COVID mask. McShane was in his 50s, probably nearing 60. He looked fit. His face was clean-shaven, even tonight. His haircut was expensive and made the most of his gray hair and strong features.
There was a reason why he was the public face of the university more than the President, who was a good man, smart, and actually led the university well. But the President looked like an absent-minded professor who probably needed someone to remind him to tie his own shoelaces.
Ryan admired McShane. Could you admire someone you felt conflicted about? Maybe you had to — if you despised a man you weren’t conflicted.
John Cooper, on the other hand, he actually liked. And respected. Cooper was a part-time advisor in his 60s. He’d retired from the Oregonian, and then found retirement boring. He was happy to be a resource to the students, and a buffer protecting them from administration interference, without taking over. He was wearing an Oregonian mask. Ryan had found himself paying attention to the masks people wore and what it told him about them. He wore whatever mask Emily handed him. He didn’t know where she got them. Maybe they should get Eyewitness News masks.
“So, Ryan, what’s up? Emily didn’t tell me much. Just that ICE called you all,” Cooper said as they took chairs at one end of the conference table.
“Thank you for coming then, Professor
