“Have you heard about the recent killings we’ve been investigating?” Jessie asked her. “They’ve been on the news.”
“I’m afraid not,” Claire said. “I’ve been running around the last few days, focused on finding housing for a few women who managed to get clear of a gang that had been running a massage parlor in name only. It’s been pretty all-consuming. Tell me about these killings.”
Sam proceeded to explain the basics of what they knew, focusing on the ethnicity of the women, on their wealthy husbands, and on the green cards found on the plates in their dining rooms.
“That’s terrible,” Claire said, her eyes welling up slightly. “How can I help?”
Jessie took that one. “Sam here thought that you might be able to suss out some connection between the victims based on the hate group database you created. Obviously, if you know of a group that has particular animosity to both Colombian and Japanese women, that would be a home run. But we’ll take anything we can get.”
Claire sat down at her desk and motioned for them to take seats in the metal folding chairs opposite her. As Jessie settled in, she appreciated that the woman didn’t waste money on fancy furniture. She got the impression that it all went toward the cause.
“Unfortunately, I don’t know of any group that targets those specific ethnicities,” Claire admitted, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t have options. Most of my work deals with indigent immigrant women who were snuck into the country illegally. They’re easy victims because they tend to fall through the cracks. But of course, rich folks aren’t immune from hate either. You said that both these women were married to very wealthy men, right?”
“Correct,” Sam said.
"Well, there are definitely groups out there that resent women like that too. Some don't think that rich American men, especially white ones, should be marrying outside their race. Those charmers think it dilutes the gene pool. That might make sense with this Cain guy but maybe less so with the Japanese couple. A lot of these groups would hate him just as much as her. Of course, it could be as simple as just not wanting to see an immigrant woman do well, whether through marriage or any other means. If these couples were high-profile enough, or if their weddings made it into the press, that might be enough to capture the attention of the more rabid anti-immigrant groups. I can go through my files to refresh my memory and see if anyone jumps out.”
“We’d appreciate it,” Sam said.
Claire nodded, giving him an extra twinkly smile. He shifted gawkily, unsure what to say in response. As Claire punched up a screen on her desktop, Jessie tried to fill the awkward silence.
“Can I ask you a rude question, Claire?”
“Those are my favorite kind, Jessie,” the woman responded. “I’m famous for asking them myself. Go for it.”
“You look Caucasian but your last name is Vallejo. Is that your married name?”
“I’m not married—yet,” Claire said, clearly happy to get that fact out to anyone who might be paying attention. “And Iamwhite, but my parents died when I was young. I was adopted by a wonderful couple, Henry and Lupita Vallejo, who couldn’t have kids of their own. They both worked two jobs to support our family and managed to help put me through college. When I graduated, they said I would be the ‘first in the family but not the last.’”
She quickly wiped away a tear before continuing.
“But because I was white, I had a unique perspective on what they went through. I saw them called all kinds of names, yelled at, spat on, told to go back home, even though both of them were born in California. No one noticed the little blonde girl nearby. No one assumed I was with them. So I got to see the vitriol without facing it myself. In fact, my parents told me that in those moments I should pretend I didn’t know them so I wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire. I was a witness to relentless racism without suffering through it myself. It was a powerful perspective. But I always felt guilty that they suffered those indignities and—even though they insisted that I not do so—that I never spoke up. So eventually, when I got older, I started to. First at protests, and eventually through this organization. I couldn’t prevent my parents’ pain, but I could try to help others through IVA. And when I felt like that wasn’t enough, I startedto build the database of the most consistent perpetrators of organized hate against these women.”
She stopped talking to catch her breath and fixed her eyes on the computer screen. While she scanned her database, Jessie glanced over at Sam, who looked thoroughly smitten. She was tempted to text him to just ask the girl out, but under the circumstances, it felt inappropriate. She’d put the pressure on him later.
“I think I found something,” Claire said suddenly.
Jessie turned back to her and could tell from the gleam in her eye that she was excited. Claire turned her monitor to face them.
“This entry is for a group called ‘Traditional Citizenry.’ The name may sound innocuous but trust me, the group is virulently anti-immigrant. They’re big on keeping naturalized citizenship limited to people from traditionally Western countries. We’re talking the United Kingdom, Scandinavian countries, places like that. You know, where the people are mostly white. They even consider immigrants from France and Italy undesirable. That’s par for the course with a lot of these groups. But what sets these guys apart is their opposition to what they call ‘citizenship fraud through marriage.’”
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
“Based on the language on their website, it sounds very much like the situation with your victims. They view green card marriages as illegitimate and a way to work the system. And they especially don’t like it when dark-skinned women marry successful, white American men who should be, in their view, looking for white wives.”
“That absolutely sounds like a group we’d be interested in checking out,” Jessie said, leaning forward to study the screen.
“They’d probably be overjoyed to communicate their views,” Claire said. “After all, they post screeds—excuse me—‘essays’ on their site decrying the practice. They’ve put recruiting ads onother, higher-profile anti-immigrant sites. And their founder, Thomas Bradford, has appeared on countless podcasts and in interviews, spreading their message. I don’t know if they’re involved in this, but at the very least, they might know who is. And from everything I know about this Bradford guy, I bet he’d be more than happy to share his bile with you.”
Jessie turned to Sam. “I think we need to have Jamil find this guy so we can talk to him.”
“I’m sure Jamil is great, but there’s no need for him,” Claire said, pointing at the screen. “I have all of Bradford’s contact information right here.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jessie found it mildly ironic.
As they pulled onto Thomas Bradford’s street, she couldn’t help but note that they were in Boyle Heights, a working-class neighborhood just west of downtown that had a significant Latino community. Apparently when it came to lodging, Bradford cared more about the cost of rent than racial purity.
