Yolanda Aleman didn’t want to return to her native El Salvador. Fortunately for her, the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services department—the Y2K version of INS—would let her stay in Nashville if she filed a few forms on time. Unfortunately for Aleman, she hired Carmen Ceja, one of the best known notarios in Nashville, to file the government forms. In January 2004, her application was denied because Ceja inexplicably failed to respond to the government’s requests for further information, then wrote the department a letter in broken English asking for an extension. It was too little too late. The government revoked what status Aleman did have—an employment authorization—and considered her application to stay in the U.S. abandoned. These allegations are part of a complex class-action lawsuit filed against Carmen Ceja and her company, Ceja Enterprises, by Nashville attorney Sean Lewis. The suit, filed in Chancery Court on behalf of a number of clients, seeks over $2 million in damages, charging that Ceja, like many Nashville notarios, misrepresents herself to the Latino community. She and others like her essentially claim that they are qualified to handle legal and financial matters that, in fact, they are not licensed to touch. Many of those who trust her are left broke, far from home and on the wrong side of the law, the suit claims. And the lawsuit isn’t the only bad news for Ceja Enterprises. Last year, the IRS Criminal Investigation Unit raided the company and removed boxes of files. Although IRS spokeswoman Jennifer Pollard won’t comment on the raid specifically, she does say that the CIU is responsible for investigating violations of internal revenue laws, including tax evasion and assisting in the preparation of false tax returns. The U.S. Department of Justice sent Ceja a certified letter the following month ordering her to immediately stop marketing her company as authorized to handle immigration work. The Tennessee Bar Association has also turned up the heat by pushing legislation that would put greater restrictions on notarios, such as banning the use of the term notario publico in advertisements or signage without a disclaimer explaining that they’re not licensed attorneys. They are also looking to increase penalties for those who practice law without a license. The problem—aside from strong evidence that immigrants are preying on other immigrants—is that there’s no English translation for the phrase notario publico. Nor is there a job in the U.S. that is at all comparable to this Latin American profession. In Mexico, for example, a notario publico must be licensed as what is known as an “attorney at law” for at least three years before becoming a notario. According to the Mexican Ley Del Notariado, or Law of Notarios, notarios are empowered to issue judicial opinions, mediate disputes, make binding judgments and perform legal marriages. In a metropolis the size of Mexico City, there might only be two dozen notarios. In essence, they’re not just lawyers; they’re a kind of super lawyer. Carmen Ceja, some of those who work for her—she has 23 employees at two locations—and her competitors are Tennessee Notary Publics. That entitles them to administer oaths and swear that a person is who he or she claims to be for official document signing purposes. That’s it. They are not lawyers, and the stamp that a Tennessee Notary uses to do this can be purchased without ID at most stationery stores. To someone from a country with a powerful notario publico position who’s just landed in the U.S., this linguistic sleight of hand is the key to creating the perception that Carmen Ceja—or any of the half-dozen businesses on Nolensville Road calling themselves notarios—is licensed and capable enough to handle just about any legal or financial problem. The notarios’ ads in Spanish-language newspapers and telephone books, placed side by side with ads for actual licensed attorneys, make that misconception all the easier to swallow. Ceja’s website advertises legal assistance and help with taxes and immigration forms. The services are all the more enticing because they are being offered in Spanish. Like many notario customers, none of the plaintiffs in the Ceja case speaks or reads English. What’s more, Ceja is highly visible in the community. In 2003, the Tennessee Hispanic Chamber of Commerce named her Hispanic Businesswoman of the Year. And then there’s the misconception that notarios are much cheaper than an actual licensed immigration attorney. Ceja charges about $120 for an immigration consultation, which is about what most immigration attorneys charge for basic document filings like the one the lawsuit claims Ceja botched for Yolanda Aleman. Immigration attorney Elliot Ozment says that some of his clients are surprised at how affordable attorneys can be when compared to their local notario. “I’ve had people come in to see me after their cases have been messed up by a notario, and sometimes the [notario] price is as much or more than I would have charged.” The idea of disparate pricing is so widespread that even Yuri Cunza, president of the Nashville Area Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, says that many immigrants don’t consider going to a real lawyer because “the cost is too much.” In fact, the cost of visiting one of Nashville’s notarios for legal or financial advice can be demonstrably more than some immigrants ever could have imagined. Octavio Vasquez went to Ceja Enterprises to get help filing his 1999 tax return, according to Lewis’ lawsuit. The company prepared his paperwork for $100. In the suit, Vasquez claims that “although Carmen Ceja prepared said IRS tax return, Carmen Ceja did not sign as the preparer.” Vasquez also claims that although Ceja was supposed to be acting as a translator for him, she didn’t read him the IRS forms in their entirety. According to the suit, the IRS returned the 1099 form because two Social Security numbers for independent contractors that Vasquez had employed that year didn’t match up. He gave Ceja another $100 to refile and claims that she fabricated Social Security numbers on the form. Shortly thereafter, the IRS audited him because of the made-up numbers. He asked Ceja to represent him at the July 2001 audit and she agreed—at a cost of $1,500. But it only got worse from there. After the audit, where Vasquez claims Ceja didn’t translate word-for-word what the auditor was saying, the IRS froze his bank account and fined him $15,000. Vasquez also claims that he brought several IRS notices to Ceja for translation but that she never translated them word for word, telling him only that they “weren’t important” or were “only announcements.” She would then put the letters through a shredder. Because of this financial disaster, Vasquez was unable to buy his family a new home. Perhaps most surprising is that, even after all of his IRS troubles—which the suit blames entirely on Ceja—Vasquez returned to her to file his 2000, 2001 and 2002 tax returns. Though attorney Lewis won’t comment specifically on any part of the case, he makes it clear that non-English-speaking Latino immigrants are hesitant to venture outside of their community for advice about legal or financial issues. It’s also clear that the concept of a powerful notario publico still holds sway even in a country where there is no such thing. “They go to a notario thinking that they’re getting some kind of super lawyer like back home,” says immigration lawyer Ozment. “Really, all their seeing is someone who paid 50 bucks or whatever to the county clerk’s office.” Notarios put Nashville’s Latino business community in a quandary. On the one hand, they are self-started community business owners who serve their own. On the other, they can take advantage of the fact that their clientele is mostly uneducated and has no recourse if the notario makes a mistake. “What they do is service the needs of a population that doesn’t know who to go to or is unfamiliar with how to make an appointment with a legal expert,” says Cunza, who adds that immigration lawyers don’t like notarios because they steal business from them. But in the very next breath, Cunza does a 180, saying, “The law needs to be in the hands of the people who practice it,” and “any immigration paperwork should be handled by a real lawyer.” There are non-notario alternatives for immigrants who need help in a language that they can understand. Catholic Charities of Tennessee, on South Sixth Street, is accredited by the Federal Board of Immigration Appeals and has been helping immigrants with selecting, completing and filing immigration paperwork for 18 years. It charges minimal fees and offers Spanish-language services, according to Donna Gann, who works for Catholic Charities and has little faith in the ability of most notarios. A recent visit to the Ceja Enterprises office makes it clear that all of this controversy hasn’t hurt business much. The line at the counter stretched five deep—nearly to the door—and in the adjacent waiting room another half-dozen people sat, paperwork in hand watching a Spanish-language talk show. Beautiful little girls with long black hair and dark eyes peered out timidly from behind their mothers’ legs while the boys climbed on chairs and clamored for candy from the machine. In her office in the back, Carmen Ceja says little, except to deny all of the charges against her. “We’re preparing a response to the complaint,” she says, referring to Lewis’ class-action lawsuit. She speaks softly and smiles with perfect, white-capped teeth. “All the charges are false,” she says.