one of Atlantaâs big, downtown law firms. Six years later, she realized she would never be made partner. Why? Although a Levine, she was Latino. While some Jews made partner, no such rewards awaited Latinos. She was unmarried. She was a mother. Who knew why? She quit. Elana Levine opened her own law office in Roswell, near home, all by herself. She did everything a lawyer couldâwills; evictions; pre-nuptial agreements; divorce and custody; civil suits of all shapes and sizes; and minor criminal offences, DUIs and drug busts for rich suburban kids. As a Spanish speaker, she was sought out by Atlantaâs growing Mexican population, usually for matters pertaining to immigration. Her practice thrived. Very soon she earned more money than Larry Fagan did. She paid half the familyâs expenses and could easily have afforded a home of her own but Elana neverânot once, not everâconsidered moving out. Sadie would not have allowed it anyway.
In the hot summer of 1991 Harryâs mother was retained to represent two Mexican men, both undocumented, each charged with rape and murder. It was a death penalty case, high profile considering the nature of the crime and the defendants. The victim was a white woman, a cute blonde in her twenties. Family photos showed her glowing good looks and beaming personality. They were plastered all over local TV and in the newspapers. The time-honored, southern tradition of demonizing the dark-skinned perpetrator prepared to roll like a roaring train, full-steam at these . . . Mexicans. Elana mounted a spirited defense. In so doing she became the darling of the Atlanta media. An attractive woman, in her early forties, she was a natural for local television. That, like the defendants, she was herself a Latino was the icing on the cake.
The judge failed to put a gag order on the lawyers and Elana trumpeted her clientâs innocence. Television ate it up. The camera loved her: long hair, dark eyes, tan skin and ruby red lips. Both men were, in fact, completely innocent, falsely accused, indistinguishable by the local cops from any of a million Mexican men. They had absolutely nothing to do with the crime. There was no evidence and, after Elanaâs closing argument, no doubt about the verdict. Both of them were found not guilty. Their rejoicing was short-lived. No sooner had the judge declared the men âfree to go,â than agents of the federal government, INS, approached, arrested and carried them off. They were illegals, wet-backs, undocumentedâcall them what you willâthey were ripe for deportation.
The young, impressionable Harry was so taken by the circumstances of the case, by the job his mother had done, and by what he saw as the gross injustice of a callous, unfeeling federal government, he made up his mind right then what he would do for his lifeâs work. He wanted to be a Foreign Service Officer. He wanted to represent his government with compassion and dignity, so people like his mother and her clients would no longer toil and suffer under the weight of a perfidious state. Of course, he was only seventeen years old.
After high school, Harry attended Tulane University in New Orleans, where he studied International Relations. He loved New Orleans yet always looked forward to coming home, to Roswell, for summer vacations, Thanksgiving and Christmas. He never went to Panama City or Ft. Lauderdale for Spring Break. He never drove across country for the summer, up to New England or west to California. Why would he? Why would anyone? he wondered. He went home. What could possibly be better than Roswell? When he graduated, Harry went north to the Law School of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. He told his mother he needed a law degree from an Ivy League school. She was so proud. More than the education, the contacts he made and the imprimatur on his resume proved very helpful in the diplomatic corps. At twenty-five, Harry Levine took his
In the hot summer of 1991 Harryâs mother was retained to represent two Mexican men, both undocumented, each charged with rape and murder. It was a death penalty case, high profile considering the nature of the crime and the defendants. The victim was a white woman, a cute blonde in her twenties. Family photos showed her glowing good looks and beaming personality. They were plastered all over local TV and in the newspapers. The time-honored, southern tradition of demonizing the dark-skinned perpetrator prepared to roll like a roaring train, full-steam at these . . . Mexicans. Elana mounted a spirited defense. In so doing she became the darling of the Atlanta media. An attractive woman, in her early forties, she was a natural for local television. That, like the defendants, she was herself a Latino was the icing on the cake.
The judge failed to put a gag order on the lawyers and Elana trumpeted her clientâs innocence. Television ate it up. The camera loved her: long hair, dark eyes, tan skin and ruby red lips. Both men were, in fact, completely innocent, falsely accused, indistinguishable by the local cops from any of a million Mexican men. They had absolutely nothing to do with the crime. There was no evidence and, after Elanaâs closing argument, no doubt about the verdict. Both of them were found not guilty. Their rejoicing was short-lived. No sooner had the judge declared the men âfree to go,â than agents of the federal government, INS, approached, arrested and carried them off. They were illegals, wet-backs, undocumentedâcall them what you willâthey were ripe for deportation.
The young, impressionable Harry was so taken by the circumstances of the case, by the job his mother had done, and by what he saw as the gross injustice of a callous, unfeeling federal government, he made up his mind right then what he would do for his lifeâs work. He wanted to be a Foreign Service Officer. He wanted to represent his government with compassion and dignity, so people like his mother and her clients would no longer toil and suffer under the weight of a perfidious state. Of course, he was only seventeen years old.
After high school, Harry attended Tulane University in New Orleans, where he studied International Relations. He loved New Orleans yet always looked forward to coming home, to Roswell, for summer vacations, Thanksgiving and Christmas. He never went to Panama City or Ft. Lauderdale for Spring Break. He never drove across country for the summer, up to New England or west to California. Why would he? Why would anyone? he wondered. He went home. What could possibly be better than Roswell? When he graduated, Harry went north to the Law School of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. He told his mother he needed a law degree from an Ivy League school. She was so proud. More than the education, the contacts he made and the imprimatur on his resume proved very helpful in the diplomatic corps. At twenty-five, Harry Levine took his
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