"We knew she would make it," Carmen says. "She's a good girl; she makes people love her."
"She made people like her," Aaron agrees bitterly. "They liked her so much at Ball that when they found out I was divorcing her, they fired me because I was ten days late on my corporate Visa payments. It's unbelievable what I've had to go through."
The divorce only made matters more tense--both parties claiming the other "got everything."
"I didn't talk to him. We didn't talk it over," Magali recalls. "He had left me alone and didn't care about me anymore. What was there to talk about? I knew it was not my fault. And at least it was over."
Not quite.
"The three years had gone by, and I went to my immigration hearing," Magali relates. "My lawyer has already sent them a letter about the divorce, and I have letters from my boss, saying I'm not taking anyone's job. From my landlord. From everyone I know. But the first thing they ask me is, 'Where's your husband?' After that, the interview is over. And they start the deportation."
Which, according to immigration law, the INS had every right to do.
Fraudulent marriages aren't exactly unknown in immigrant circles, and a quick divorce is usually a good indication of one. On the other hand, even the INS recognizes that real marriages can fail, so a conditional resident can apply for what's known as a "good faith waiver." If the immigrant can prove the marriage was genuine, he or she can sometimes convince the review court judge to continue the citizenship process.
"When I married this man, I don't work at all for two years. If the marriage isn't real, why would I do such a stupid thing?" Magali wonders. "He expected me to go back to Mexico: I-don't-love-you-anymore-now-go-away, you know? But no one is going to treat me that way. At least, if I can stay, I can learn more English, come back to Mexico with something besides three lost years."
But there's something else holding her here, as she readily admits: Her life has gotten unexpectedly good. Colorado feels like home now. Her job is "top of the line." Her friends, many once Aaron's friends, have all come through in a pinch. "Oh, and where I come from, you can get Mexican food anytime," she says. "But here, they have these wonderful hot wings. I just love them."
Although review court judge David Cordova has yet to enter the courtroom, the direction Magali's case will take is already clear. Dani Page, an INS attorney, is willing to give her sixty days to pull together any evidence of a non-fraudulent marriage. The burden rests on Magali and her lawyer, Berkley Rasband, to prove that the Brunson marriage was real--for as long as it lasted, at least.
Receipts for property the couple held jointly--for apartments rented, houses purchased, bank accounts, credit--will all be useful, the INS lawyer says. Wedding pictures, preferably with a long white dress and a religious leader in attendance, wouldn't hurt, either.
But Magali doesn't have any of this. As a couple the Brunsons rented one apartment, for only a few months. A Ball credit card covered all of their expenses. As for the wedding pictures--she says she sent them to immigration more than a year ago.
"You sent them by mail?" Page asks, incredulous. "Don't ever send anything to immigration by mail. We're a huge agency."
"We have affidavits..." Magali offers.
"That's not as helpful as you might think," Page says, not unkindly.
In the elevator on the way down, Magali's twenty friends and witnesses--none of whom were called upon to speak--begin brainstorming. How about going through Ball's corporate expense records? How about the Mexican relatives--did they take pictures? How about Aaron Brunson--couldn't he testify that once, for a short time, he was in love?
Maybe. "It was a real marriage," Aaron agrees. "It was real, but it fell apart. Two people fell in love and said let's change our lives, and it didn't work out. I'd call a judge and tell him, if I had to. That is, if she'd apologize to me."
Noted, says Magali.
"I won't call him," she says. "I'll do this alone.
