The Real Garcia

My grandfather was a thief.

He stole my grandmother’s name and her identity. He used them to escape a poor, forgotten corner of the rural West, then ran off with another woman.

He became a law professor, standing at podiums and lecturing about justice.

She became a famous painter, giving interviews about integrity.

My grandmother spent her whole life trapped in that same dying farmland. Everyone called her an old maid.

She never stopped waiting for him. Not even on her deathbed.

Fifty years later, I clawed my way out of that godforsaken place on the strength of two generations, my grandmother and my mother. I made partner at a top law firm.

It was graduation season. I sat in the lead interviewer’s chair.

Across from me sat a girl. Polished. Confident. The most outstanding graduate from the best law school in the state.

I opened her résumé and flipped through it page by page.

Then I stopped at the family information section.

I stared at that name for a very long time.

I looked up at her and said quietly, “You didn’t get the job.”

The girl’s smile froze on her face.

“Excuse me?”

I closed her file and repeated, more loudly this time. “You didn’t get the job.”

The other interviewers exchanged glances. The partner on my left leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Ms. Smith, she’s only twenty two. National Mock Trial champion. Six published papers in top journals. She’s a star. Please reconsider.”

He whispered, but the room was too quiet. She heard.

She straightened up.

“I’ve made my decision,” I said, pushing the file aside. “Isabelle Harrington, you didn’t pass this interview. Please leave.”

Everyone stopped breathing.

Her composure finally cracked. She slammed both hands on the table and stood up.

“What do you mean?”

I didn’t answer. I just looked at her face. Her eyes, her nose, the line of her jaw. All painfully similar to an old photograph I had stared at for years.

My hands clenched.

Her brow furrowed in anger. “Do you know who I am?” she demanded. “My grandfather is Professor Emeritus of Law at State University. My grandmother is a renowned painter, a lifelong academician of the National Academy of Fine Arts. Both my parents were federal judges. Everyone in the legal world knows their names. I graduated first in my class from the best law school in the country.”

With every sentence, her confidence grew.

“Tell me,” she said, nearly looking down at me now, “what exactly am I missing?”

“Grades are only one factor,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “In this profession, I also care about character and a clean disciplinary record. As for your family, they don’t give you any extra credit here. Please leave.”

She stiffened. This was probably the first time anyone had ever rejected her so publicly. Her face flushed red.

“You’re maliciously targeting me!”

She snatched her papers and jabbed a finger at me. “Evelyn Smith, right? Just wait. One word from my grandfather, and you’ll never work in this industry again.”

She stormed out, shooting me a venomous look before slamming the door.

“Ms. Smith…” the other interviewers started.

I raised a hand. “Next candidate.”

The remaining three were excellent.

Back in my office, I had just set down their files when the senior partner, David Johnson, burst in.

“Evelyn, are you insane? Why did you cut Isabelle Harrington? Do you know who her family is? Her grandfather is Emeritus Professor of Law at State University and a longtime partner of this firm. Turning his granddaughter away has consequences.”

He spoke faster than usual. “Post the offer immediately. Now.”

“Too late.” I gave him a mocking look. “I’ve already returned her file.”

His face went blank. Then his phone rang. One glance at the caller ID changed his expression. He walked out without another word, throwing me a look that said, You have just started a war.

I wasn’t afraid. I had waited too long for this day.