I drove north to Morrell’s place in Evanston. In the theme of Spy–Counterspy, I wrote out a note explaining my visit to Coolis yesterday and how imperative it was that I talk to Señora Mercedes. Morrell frowned over my message, then finally decided—whether because of my dogged determination, my impeccable logic, or my nice–looking legs—to take me to see Nicola Aguinaldo’s mother. We rode the L, since that was the easiest way to check for tails, first in and out of the Loop and then over to Pilsen on the city’s near southwest side.

When I met Abuelita Mercedes I realized I’d been carrying the unconscious stereotype of her title of “granny”—I’d been expecting an old woman in a kerchief, with round red cheeks. Of course, a woman whose daughter was only twenty–seven was still young herself, in fact only a few years older than I. She was short, stocky, with black hair curling softly around her ears and forehead and a permanent worry crease worked between her brows.

Tagalog was her first language, but she could get by in Spanish, which Morrell spoke fluently—although his was the Central American version, not always in sync with Filipino Spanish, he explained. Abuelita Mercedes’s English was limited to a few social phrases, which she used upon his introducing us: Señora Mercedes, le presento a la Señora Victoria. He assured her that I was a friend worried about Nicola’s death, as well as a lawyer committed to justice for the poor.

Sherree, Nicola’s surviving child, greeted Morrell with an eager cry of “Tío!” but she chattered away in English to him. After a formal reception, with strong black coffee and little fried donuts, we began to broach the subject of Nicola’s death.

With Morrell translating Señora Mercedes’s Spanish and Sherree reluctantly assisting with a Tagalog phrase or two, Nicola’s mother made her halting way through Nicola’s story. She explained that she knew very little of what had happened to her daughter in prison. Señora Mercedes couldn’t afford a phone, so it wasn’t possible for her to talk to her daughter except at very wide intervals: she would get permission from a neighbor, often Señora Attar, to use her phone, so that Nicola could call collect on a prearranged day. But then it depended on whether she was able to get a letter in to Nicola or whether Nicola could get phone privileges on that day.