Chapter 7: Just Desserts

Thankfully, the name 'Remington Steele' held some sway in Los Angeles, which is how Laura and Remington found themselves sitting in the office of Noah Streatfeild at eleven-forty five that morning, presenting the issue at hand.

"Admittedly, when I arrived here in February of '81," Remington explained, in accordance with the script designed by Laura's hand, "I'd only intended a brief visit. But, then I met Laura, who was already a licensed investigator and the idea of opening an Agency held an undeniable appeal. It never occurred to me I was here without a visa, that I should apply, even, for permission to be here. I haven't, after all, lived in obscurity these last years, as one might do knowing they were here illegally."

"Sounds fairly straightforward to me," Streatfeild commented, as he picked up the receiver on his phone and depressed a button. "Linae, bring me a I-140 packet, please." Dropping the receiver back into the base, he returned his attention to the couple before him. "I assume you haven't been convicted of any crimes since you've been in the US?" Remington's eyes flitted to Laura, who, with a lift of her brows undetectable to anyone but him, indicated he should answer honestly.

"Convicted, no, although I've twice been considered a suspect, once back in '83 for a murder and then this past year in a theft and murder," Remington supplied. "I was cleared of any involvement in both instances."

"One of the unfortunate side effects of our profession is that we tend to draw the unwanted attention of people we've helped put behind bars," Laura expounded, then added, "Or other criminal elements, which was the case in each of these incidences."

"Have you filed taxes for the years you've been here?"

"Faithfully," Remington confirmed.

"We'll want copies of all those returns. Charitable donations?"

"The Agency contributes to the PBF and makes a quarterly donation to the Lost Souls Mission," Laura provided.

"Civic engagement?"

"I've served on the board of any number of worthy endeavors," Remington answered.

"Good, good All goes to your standing and involvement in your community," Streatfeild commended. "We'll want any documentation you might have on those contributions and engagements."

Conversation paused when the door to Streatfeild's office swung open and, presumably, Linae entered the room. Handing Streatfeild a file, she left the room without a word. Standing, he walked around the desk and, leaning his backside against it, handed Remington the file.

"How familiar are you with Immigration laws, Mr. Steele?" Remington gave him a sheepish grin.

"Given my current circumstance, I'd say woefully undereducated." Streatfeild chuckled.

"Good point," he conceded. "There is any number of ways an individual deemed illegal by the INS can petition to remain in the country. In your case, we'll apply for an adjustment of status on the grounds that you're company provides invaluable services to the public."

"Adjustment of status?" Laura inquired.

"Essentially we'll be asking the INS for forgiveness and relief," Streatfeild provide, "Forgiveness for failing to apply for a Visa prior to Mr. Steele's arrival in the United States, then his failure to apply for a green card, neither of which is uncommon these days."

"And the relief?"

"A green card permitting him to remain." Streatfeild indicate the file with a nod of his head. "Assuming you wish me to represent you, Mr. Steele, I'll need the I-140 completed and in my hands as quickly as possible so we can file it with the INS. The I-485, also in the file, can be completed and returned in the next couple of days, so we have it ready to file should your application be approved."

"Should…" This from Remington.

"As I said, this is a fairly straightforward case. Frankly, I'd be shocked if the INS denied your application given your status in the community and your contributions to it." Remington and Laura exchanged glances. On his nod, she took lead.

"Ms. Becker informed us this… anonymous tipster… is putting a great deal of pressure on the INS to deport," she informed the attorney. "In fact, he or she has even threatened to go to the media questioning the disparity of the average illegal immigrant's plight and the ease which with the more… public figure resolves their immigration issues." Streatfeild waved off her concerns with a dismissive flick of her hand.

"A story I wouldn't see anyone in the media taking hold of," he told her, as he rounded his desk and took a seat again. "It's not exactly a secret that the INS is besieged with problems ranging from the average individual's understanding of immigration law to how that law is applied and to whom. So let's not waste energy on this tipster and focus on what we can do proactively."

"Alright," she agreed, as Remington nodded his assent.

"Again, assuming you wish to retain my services, I'll need that I-140 back by morning and we'll have it filed with the INS within an hour or two of receipt. I'll also inform the INS I am now your attorney-of-record, and, as such, will be present during all interviews and any hearings held. In the meantime," he leaned across the desk and handed Remington his card, "If the INS shows up at your home, makes any further contact with you of any kind, call me before you say a word. My home, office, car and mobile phone numbers are all listed. Day or night. Call." Remington nodded his head, nervously, in answer. "If you'd like some time to think things through that is fully understandable given the deluge of information you've faced this morning." Another exchange of glances between the pair of detectives.

"That won't be necessary," Remington replied, standing and offering his hand. "I'll have these back to you by morning, along with the documentation you've requested." Handshakes were exchanged all around.

"I know it's easier said than done, but try to relax," Streatfeild advised. "And remember, no further conversation with the INS without my authorization."


"How's it going kids?" Mildred questioned as she bustled into Remington's office, a large, brown paper bag in hand.

Laura and Remington looked up from where they sat on the sofa in his office, hips touching as they leaned over the paperwork. At Laura's suggestion, they'd enjoyed a quick lunch at Chasen's then had surprised Jarvis by showing up at his office more than four hours early. It had only taken a quick glance at the file given them by Streatfeild to know they had a long night ahead and another reshuffling of their schedules was in order.

When they'd finally traipsed through the Agency doors at four-fifty, Roberts from Legal Aid was patiently awaiting their return. They'd taken the promised meeting then had agreed to render the Agency's services at no charge, as neither of them had been immune to the story of a woman with three small children being left with no financial resources by a bully who'd closed their joint account after clearing them out and had canceled all their credit cards to prevent his soon-to-be-prior ex-wife from gaining custody of their children.

The moment Roberts departed, Mildred had slipped Remington's tax return and a check from his personal account beneath his nose to sign before making a mad dash out the door to post his return and pick up dinner at Madame Wu's for all.

"it's going," Laura answered, drily.

Completing the I-140 had gone smoothly enough, but the I-485 was proving more challenging. The running list Laura was keeping of items they'd need Streatfeild's guidance on was getting lengthy. 'Passport Number Used at Last Arrival'. Which last arrival? When they'd returned from London last fall? Or when he'd first landed on these hallowed shores and took up residence? If the former, easily enough done as they had Remington's passport at hand. If the latter, well, per the story they'd supplied Becker surrounding the mistaken U.S. Passport, it would be the number for the passport he'd lost. The passport that had never existed in the first place… not that they intended to share that with Streatfeild.

"What can I do?" Mildred asked, eagerly, as she passed out the food while Laura shuffled the papers together and, returning them to the file, set them aside for now. Remington's tension had been building steadily and, without him saying a word, she understood he needed to take a step back from all of this and to simply enjoy his meal.

"How's Bernard doing Mildred?" she asked, pointedly. Mildred looked at Laura, confused, then her eyes widened as she got it.

"Graduating next month with high honors," she bragged. "I've gotta tell you, he makes his old aunt proud…"

The small talk was exactly what Remington needed. The comforting familiarity of the casual conversation soon had him rolling a single shoulder, seemingly shrugging off the tension he'd been holding in his shoulders and neck. Soon, he relaxed against the back of the couch, and rested his crossed legs on the coffee table. The easy camaraderie did much for her own tension as well. Thus when he'd finished his meal and reached for her hand, giving it a gentle tug, she went willingly, lounging across his lap, her head pillowed by his arm. The goofy look upon Mildred's face at watching the young the couple left Laura rolling her eyes.

"What is wrong with people?" she continued along the rant she'd been having. "Cynthia Davison has spent the entirety of her adult life as a housewife. And what happens? Her husband empties their bank accounts, cancels all the credit cards, and walks out for no other reason than he wants to be with his bimbo secretary—"

All three heads turned when a foul odor permeated the room and a cackling laugh bounced off the walls.

"From where I'm standing, Holt, you don't have much room talk," Norman Keyes commented with a smarmy grin, as he waved his stogie about. Laura's eyes narrowed on the man, as she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the couch.

"Speaking of slime balls," Mildred observed, glaring at the man, as Laura strode across the room and snatched the cigar out of his hand. Marching back to the coffee table, she dropped the burning cigar in a glass of water.

"Nice thought, Laura, but I don't think the cigar is the source of the stench," Remington noted with a hard edge to his voice as he took to his feet.

"Still cracking jokes, huh, Steele?" Keyes retorted. "Well, lemme tell you somethin'." He hitched a thumb towards his chest. "I'm in the last laugh business, and I'm gonna have it on all of you!"

"In case you hadn't noticed, Keyes," Remington ground out, as he approached the man. "It's after hours and we're closed. If you've business to discuss, call tomorrow and make an appointment." He held out an arm towards his open office door. "If you don't mind…" Keyes stepped further into the room to inspect the open cartons on the coffee table. Picking up Laura's discarded mu shu pork, he helped himself to a bite.

"I have it on good word you had a surprise visitor this morning, Steele." The man spoke and laughed around the food in his mouth. Laura snatched the carton from his hand and slapped it back down on the coffee table.

"You're the anonymous tipster!" she exclaimed, angrily. At Laura's correctly drawn conclusion, Mildred launched to her feet, incited.

"You low down—" She sputtered. "What has the Boss ever done to you!?"

Keyes ignored both women and continued taunting Remington.

"That's right," he bragged. "You think I'm gonna answer to you? Nothing doing! Kiss your little Agency goodbye, Steele! I got you right where I want you and I'm gonna love givin' you the boot!" Remington grabbed Keyes by the arm and shoved him towards the door.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you Keyes?" Keyes yanked his arm away from Remington and walked towards Laura, looking her up and down slowly with a leer on his smarmy face.

"Y'know, she ain't a bad lookin' broad in the right light." Laura's face lit up with indignation, as her skin pinked when the man's eyes lingered on her breasts. "I always wondered if you were gettin' a little on the side. If I didn't have anything better to do, I wouldn't mind havin' a go at her myself. Whadya say to you and me hav—"

A whirlwind of motion broke out in the room. Laura jumped when Keyes hand landed on her bottom, while Mildred plopped her fists on her hips, gasping with affront.

"Why you—" she sputtered.

Keyes never saw Remington coming. In an instant, he was spun around and a right hook landed square in his nose, taking him off his feet. He crashed into the coffee table, sending food flying. Incited, Mildred grabbed the only carton remaining on the table.

"Have a little chow mein while you're at it," she recommended, coldly, turning the carton upside down and dumping its contents over the man's head. Keyes howled in fury, lurching to his feet, clutching at his nose.

"That's assault, Steele!" he shouted.

"Technically, its battery," Laura corrected, far too calmly. "As is this." Before he could register her intent, she ground the heel of her shoe into his foot. He howled again, grabbing at it, revealing a stream of blood running from his nose.

"Get out," Remington seethed, grabbing the man's arm and hauling him through the reception area and to the doors. Yanking the door open, he shoved Keyes, hard. The man stumbled and hit the wall in the hallway. Remington was on him again in an instant, spinning him around, slamming his back against the wall. With one hand keeping Keyes pinned to the wall, he grabbed the man by the chin. "If you ever so much as look at Laura again…" he threatened, eyes wild with rage, breath puffing.

"You'll what?" Keyes demanded, defiantly. "You're gonna have a hard time playin' her hero once you're deported, Steele, while I'll be here working with her day-in-and-day-out. I wonder how long it is until she gives it up the goods to—" Remington reared back his fist again.

"Mr. Steele!" Laura shouted at him from the doorway. His fist paused before contact, and he turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. "He's not worth it," she advised, quietly. Swiveling his head back around to face Keyes, Remington bared his teeth at the man, his rage evident. For good measure, he bounced Keyes's head off the wall again as he released him.

"Little woman's got you by the balls, does she Steele? I always suspected she wore the pants in this two-bit operation!"

"Get out of here!" Remington shouted, pointing down the hall towards the elevator.

"I'm goin'," Keyes sneered. "But I'll be back with the LAPD. You can bet your ass, I'm pressin' charges!" With those final words, Keyes stumbled away, as Remington fought the temptation to help him along with a foot to his backside. He jerked, violently, when Laura lay a hand on his arm.

"Come on," she coaxed, quietly. He stayed put, rubbing at the back of his neck, until Keyes turned the corner, then stepped back into the reception area. "Let's clean up and get out of here. I'd prefer not to deal with the LAPD tonight if we don't have to."

He hummed his agreement, already regretting his actions and wondering what the cost might be.