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appreciate that.”
    She made a note of the names of two Los Angeles attorneys and thanked him. After getting telephone numbers from directory assistance she dialed the top name only to be told that he would not be in his office until mid-May, and if she wanted to leave a message.… She hung up and dialed the second one, with no better success. He was simply unavailable and there was not even a suggestion that she might leave a name or message.
    God was telling her something, she thought, regarding the telephone and wishing it were a voodoo doll she could use as a pincushion. There were many immigration attorneys, she knew, but to consult any attorney without knowing something about him or her first was often foolish at best, and a catastrophe at worst, with a costly mistake somewhere in between.
    She sat at her desk and considered what to do next. Even if she kept searching and found someone else, that person would most likely do exactly what she had done, tell the client she needed a little time to look into the matter, and use that time to try to verify as much as possible about what the client had said. She shook her head. They didn’t have time for that.
    â€œI just saved you a bundle of money, Martin,” she said under her breath. She would skip the expert advice altogether, assume that both Krugman and the Chicago attorney had already given it by saying the INS would win, in the short run at least. No need to go for strike three, she decided, and pulled the article about the Santos Shipping Company forward to read.
    After reading the article Barbara sat thinking about Santos, Binnie’s grandfather. He would have influence in his own country, she knew. A prominent businessman, important in a small economy. The question was, Would he help his granddaughter? Finally she dialed the number given in the article.
    A pleasant woman’s voice came on in a recorded message: “ Santos Shipping. I’m sorry. The offices are temporarily closed. For information regarding shipments please call —
    Carefully, almost gently, Barbara hung up, cursing under her breath. Another door slammed in her face.

7
    On Tuesday afternoon Barbara opened her door to admit Bailey, whose long face probably mirrored her own, she thought, with a sense of foreboding.
    â€œNo beer, a little wine that might or might not be decent enough for human consumption, and a pot of coffee that’s been sitting all day. Name your poison,” she said, leading him to the kitchen.
    â€œLet’s nuke the coffee,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”
    â€œIn that case I’ll put on a fresh pot. Tell me the worst while my back is turned.”
    She busied herself with the coffee, listening to a rustle of papers, his reports, no doubt. His chair scraped, creaked a little bit, followed by a long silence.
    â€œGet on with it,” she said impatiently, going to the table to join him. “Get it over with.”
    â€œRight. Okay. No point in trying to find a guy named Lawrence at this end. No place to start. State Department, CIA, a university somewhere … I started in Belize. My team, headed by a research librarian, had a go at it. First the newspapers. Nada. Nothing easily found from the time we were after. Then public records. It’s a wash, Barbara, no matter where they start. In October 1961, along came a killer hurricane that wiped out a lot of the country, including Belize City. That was the capital in those days. They moved it inland later on. Anyway, the old city was flooded to the rooftops of anything left standing, and there wasn’t much. But that’s where public records were archived, in the courthouse in the capital. Ninety-nine percent of them destroyed. Who knows where they’ve been since then, or how many were restored?”
    â€œSo we can’t find out whom Anaia married,” Barbara said after a lengthy silence. “I think it’s coffee.” She