The Girl in the Glass Box

by James Grippando

  “That’s all we ask,” said Jack.

  “See you tomorrow at noon.”

  “Thank you,” said Jack, pleased enough to give his client a little thumbs-up as they left the courtroom.

  Chapter 34

  “Are you sure this is real?” asked Andie.

  Jack had called home to get a Righley fix and to let Andie know that he’d be spending another night in Orlando. Judge Greely’s warning about doctors and their flaky “syndromes” had been playing over in his mind since the hearing. Andie was his reality check whenever he thought he might be getting too far out there on the zealous advocacy spectrum, so he decided to run “resignation syndrome” past her.

  “You sound skeptical,” said Jack.

  “I am skeptical. ‘Oh, my kid is sick unless I get asylum.’ How do you know these families haven’t just found a doctor who’s so eager to attach his name to a new syndrome that he’s willing to look past the fact that it’s all a game the family is playing to win asylum?”

  Jack didn’t know. That was the truthful answer. Judge Greely would preside over Julia’s final hearing, so it was important not to lose all credibility right out of the gate at a preliminary hearing. It was Dr. Moore, the psychiatrist who’d hypnotized Beatriz, who’d put Jack in touch with Dr. Johansson. Jack said good-bye to Andie, recited Olivia Saves the Circus from memory to Righley—he’d read it to her a hundred times—and then called Dr. Moore. She had an idea.

  “I want you to meet one of the apetika,” she said. The apathetic.

  “I’m not going to Sweden. Salvadoran gangs I can handle. Ten below zero? Forget it.”

  “No worries. There’s a rehab center in Uppsala where some of these children have been sent to recover. Dr. Johansson and other doctors on his team participate in patient evaluations by video from Stockholm or wherever they’re located. I’ve done it myself. I’ll ask him if you can join tomorrow morning’s rounds.”

  “He’ll need the parents’ consent.”

  “He’ll get it. This would give his research added validity if you could get a U.S. Immigration Court to recognize the syndrome.”

  “Or we can all crash and burn together.”

  “It’s your call. My advice is that you take a look at these children with your own eyes. Then decide if you want to go forward in court.”

  Jack saw little downside to the proposal. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Good. Set your alarm, Counselor. Nine a.m. in Stockholm is three a.m. in Florida.”

  “No problem,” said Jack, but that was before the Matchbox Twenty song about that certain hour started playing over and over again in his head, keeping him awake till three a.m. And he was feeling lonely.

  “God morgon from Sveeden,” said Dr. Johansson.

  Jack was alone in his Orlando hotel in front of his laptop. He could hear the doctor’s voice, but the real-time transmitted image on his screen was an examination room more than two hundred miles away from Dr. Johansson’s office. A physician from Doctors of the World and a nurse stood beside an examination table, but there was no patient in the room.

  “Jack, the child we have selected is a nine-year-old girl who, for purposes of this call and to protect her privacy, we will call Sophie. She is from the former USSR. Four years ago, Sophie and her parents were stopped in their home country by men in police uniforms. They turned out to be local mafia. Sophie was in the car, so she saw her mother attacked. Sophie and her mother escaped, but her father did not.”

  “She’s been like this since then?” asked Jack.

  “No. Her mother brought her to Sweden, seeking asylum. They lived here for three years. Sophie went to school here and was very active. Loved ballet. She became fluent in Swedish. Her mother doesn’t speak the language, so Sophie translated for her when the letter came from the Migration Board denying their request for asylum. That is when her condition began to deteriorate.

  “Can you bring her in, Dr. Lunsford?”

  The camera followed Dr. Lunsford as he went to the door and opened it. Sophie’s mother, a woman with dark eyes and a sad but serious expression, wheeled her into the room. Dr. Lunsford lifted the girl from the wheelchair and laid her on the table. Sophie appeared lifeless in many ways, her eyes closed and limbs just dangling from her body. But as the doctor positioned her on the table, she looked anything but dead. Her hair was thick and beautiful. Her skin was perfect and with good color. There was a sweetness in her expression that punctuated what a pretty little girl she was. She seemed to be sound asleep. A Sleeping Beauty.

  “How long has she been like this?” asked Jack.

  “Eleven months,” said Johansson. “She’s nourished through a feeding tube in her nose, but we remove it when we can. She doesn’t open her mouth, so there’s a risk of choking.”

  Jack watched as the doctor and nurse ran through the basic examination. Pulse: normal. Blood pressure: normal. Reflexes: normal. Everything was normal, except that nothing was normal.

  “What does Sophie feel when she’s in this state?” asked Jack.

  “It’s a complex answer,” said Dr. Johansson, “but it’s probably best to show you. Dr. Lunsford, could you do the honors, please?”

  Dr. Lunsford disappeared from view on Jack’s screen and returned a minute later holding a plastic bag filled with ice cubes. The nurse rolled up Sophie’s sweatshirt to expose her belly. The doctor placed the bag of ice on her bare skin.

  Sophie didn’t move.

  “Could you check her heart rate, please?” asked Dr. Johansson.

  The nurse did. “Sixty-two again,” she said. “No change.”

  Jack could hardly believe his eyes, recalling his own reaction the time he’d fallen asleep by the pool and Righley had decided to see how long it would take for a cherry Popsicle to melt on his chest. The world would never know.

  “What is Sophie thinking during all of this? Or is she thinking?”

  “We hope she will tell us one day,” said Johansson. “The best anecdotal description I’ve heard is from a boy from Russia named Georgi. He spent eight months in bed until his family was granted asylum, and only then did he recover. He said it was like he was underwater, but he wasn’t drowning. He was in some kind of capsule made of very thin glass, and if he moved or spoke, it could cause the glass to shatter. He was in constant fear that the water would pour in and drown him.”

  “The glass box,” Jack said softly, like a reflex.

  “I’m sorry?” said Dr. Johansson. “Did you say something?”

  Jack was staring at the screen, saddened to think of Beatriz in such a state for months. “I was just going to say that I’m looking forward to your testimony later today, Dr. Johansson.”

  “It will be my pleasure. I hope it helps.”

  “So do I,” said Jack.

  Chapter 35

  “The respondent calls Dr. Eric V. Johansson,” said Jack.

  The hearing started promptly at noon. Dr. Johansson appeared on the monitor while seated behind a desk in his Stockholm apartment. He was a broad-shouldered man of full face made even fuller by a heavy salt-and-pepper beard. His leather-top desk was clear of clutter, save for an elaborately carved wood pipe that lay beside a tin of tobacco. The window behind him was as black as the cold Nordic winter night.

  The witness was sworn, and Jack questioned him from counsel’s table, seated beside Julia, starting with Dr. Johansson’s professional qualifications.

  “I am a fellow in the Department of Women’s and Children’s Health, Division of Neonatology, at Stockholm University,” he said in precise English, albeit with a Scandinavian accent. “For the past five years, I have also overseen clinical studies in conjunction with the Centre for Research Ethics and Bioethics at Uppsala University in Sweden.”

  “What type of clinical studies have you conducted?”

  “They relate to resignation syndrome.”

  “Can you please explain to the court what resignation syndrome is?”

  “Sure. It is a rela
tively recent diagnosis that has been recognized by the Swedish National Board of Health and Welfare since 2014. It affects certain children. There is global and severe loss of function, which progresses in stages, beginning with anxiousness and depressive symptoms, in particular lethargy. Stage two is stupor, and, finally, the child exhibits a complete lack of any responsive behavior, even when presented with painful stimulus. At this late stage, patients are seemingly unconscious with eyes closed, incontinent, mute, and sustained by a tube feeding.”

  “Are these children in a coma?”

  “No, that would not be an entirely accurate statement. There are similarities, but the brain is not injured.”

  “How many cases of resignation syndrome have you seen in your research?”

  “There are hundreds that I’m aware of. More than one hundred fifty last year alone.”

  “You said it affects ‘certain children.’ What children?”

  “Resignation syndrome affects children and adolescents seeking asylum or undergoing the migration process.”

  “What is it about the migration process that triggers the syndrome?”

  “The most severe cases arise from deportation orders directed at the child or a parent. In simple terms, the child responds to the emotional trauma by disconnecting from the conscious part of his or her brain. Most vulnerable of all are children who have witnessed extreme violence, often against their parents, or whose families have fled a deeply insecure environment.”

  Jerrell rose. “Judge, I object to this entire line of questioning.”

  “On what grounds?” the judge asked.

  “First of all, no qualified physician or psychiatrist has diagnosed Beatriz Rodriguez with resignation syndrome, and there is no evidence in the record that the child—as opposed to her mother—has suffered any kind of physical or emotional trauma to trigger the syndrome.”

  Jack didn’t want to get into Beatriz’s suppressed memories elicited by hypnosis. “Judge, we are offering into evidence the complete hospital record for Beatriz. While there is no formal diagnosis, the court can easily see that she exhibits many of the symptoms that Dr. Johansson just described.”

  “That may or may not be the case,” said Jerrell. “But more to the point, I did some research last night. This syndrome has never been diagnosed in any child outside of the country of Sweden.”

  The judge addressed the monitor. “Is that true, Doctor?”

  “Technically speaking, yes. But I believe that this is because Sweden has such a long and well-known history of welcoming asylum seekers. The drastic change in government policy and increased deportation of refugees in recent years has created social incoherence in the minds of migrant children. They flee persecution or violence in their home country with the expectation of staying in Sweden; they assimilate to Swedish culture; and then they are faced with an order of deportation. We have found that when the child’s family is granted permanent residence, this eases the trauma and kick-starts recovery.”

  “My question,” Judge Greely said, “is whether this so-called syndrome has been recognized outside of Sweden.”

  “Every culture recognizes some range of physical symptoms available to the unconscious mind when a life veers off course and produces psychological conflict. Your country is no exception. In the 1980s, doctors in California documented dozens of cases involving Cambodian refugees who had lost their ability to see for no apparent reason other than the fact that they saw family members tortured during the Pol Pot regime. The refugee children diagnosed with resignation syndrome exhibit similar psychic wounds. They feel totally helpless, so they become totally helpless.”

  “I’ll take your response as a no,” the judge said. “Mr. Swyteck. I’ve heard enough. No more junk science in my courtroom, please.”

  “Excuse me?” the doctor said indignantly. He looked about ready to throw his pipe and tobacco tin halfway across the globe and squarely at the judge’s head.

  Jack interceded before things got worse. “There are certainly critics, Your Honor. But Dr. Johansson has been documenting this syndrome in peer-reviewed scientific journals for over fifteen years.”

  “It’s junk,” said Jerrell. “Thank you for calling it by the right name, Judge.”

  “Don’t be so quick to thank me,” he said. “Ms. Rodriguez, it’s your lucky day. I happen to know from the nine other women who appeared before me yesterday afternoon, and from three more this morning, that Baker County Facility is at full capacity, with a waiting list for female detainees as long as my arm.”

  “But—” said Jerrell, at a loss for what to say next.

  “Don’t push it, Ms. Jerrell. Even if we had a place to put her, it is this court’s opinion that the department has not shown that Ms. Rodriguez is a danger to the community. I understand that she’s technically a convicted felon under Salvadoran law, but she terminated a pregnancy after she was sexually assaulted.”

  “According to Mr. Swyteck.”

  “Does the department have evidence to the contrary?” the judge asked.

  “I can provide a sworn affidavit to that effect,” said Jerrell. “I spoke to the Salvadoran prosecutor. Ms. Rodriguez told the hospital emergency room physician that her husband was the father.”

  The judge turned a suspicious glare toward Jack. “Mr. Swyteck, does your client deny making that statement?”

  “No. But it doesn’t change anything.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Jack had hoped to hold his evidence of domestic abuse until the final hearing, not only because it was good strategy, but also to avoid putting Julia through it twice in a public courtroom. But Jerrell had forced his hand.

  “Ms. Rodriguez was sexually assaulted by her husband, who then forced her to have an abortion at an unlicensed, back-office clinic that nearly killed her,” said Jack.

  “That’s not even grounds for asylum,” said Jerrell. “I don’t condone domestic violence, but asylum is for a victim of persecution by her government, not for a woman abused by her husband.”

  It was a serious issue, but Jack had researched it. “A victim of domestic violence can be granted asylum if two circumstances are met. One, she is unable to leave the relationship and, two, her government either condoned the private actions or demonstrated an inability to protect the victim. We can satisfy both conditions.”

  “Mr. Swyteck is grossly overstating the law,” said Jerrell. “In the history of immigration jurisprudence in this country, the Board of Immigration Appeals has issued one opinion—one—in which a Salvadoran woman was granted asylum based on domestic violence, and it was vetoed by the attorney general because it didn’t apply a strict enough standard.”

  Judge Greely held up his hands, parting the lawyers like a boxing referee. “Counsel, we have now moved way beyond the question of whether Ms. Rodriguez should be detained until her final hearing on asylum. The department’s motion to return the respondent to detention is denied. Ms. Jerrell, if you don’t like my ruling, tell ICE to find someplace to put all the undocumented immigrants you want detained. Especially women.

  “But, Mr. Swyteck, I intend to fast-track your client’s request for asylum. Frankly, I’m dubious. You had best be prepared to address the question that Ms. Jerrell just raised about persecution by the government of El Salvador. This is a U.S. court of immigration, not an international court of family law and marital disagreements.”

  An interesting word choice: “disagreements.” Talk about dubious.

  “Understood,” said Jack.

  “Next case,” the judge said with a bang of his gavel.

  Jack gathered his papers and led his client to the court exit as quickly as possible, before Jerrell could request an alternative form of “detention,” such as house arrest. They exited through the rear double doors, and Julia stopped him at the first reasonably private place they came to, away from the crowd outside the courtroom, just beyond a long wooden bench in the hallway.

  “Did the doctor from
Sweden say ‘feeding tube’?” she asked.

  Jack had expected the usual self-centered litany of “me-me-me” worries that he heard from most clients, but it was suddenly obvious to him that a mother would have a different set of priorities.

  “A feeding tube is in extreme cases,” said Jack.

  “What if we lose the asylum argument? What if the judge deports me? Wouldn’t that be an extreme case?”

  “A legal worst case doesn’t have to mean a medical worst case.”

  The words didn’t have the intended effect. Julia’s concern only heightened, and Jack assumed it was for both herself and her daughter.

  “The judge said he was ‘dubious’ about asylum,” she said. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  If his years of death penalty work had taught Jack anything, it was never to lie to a client, never to promise the moon when your whole case could crater.

  “It means we have work to do,” said Jack.

  Chapter 36

  Jack switched his phone out of “airplane mode” as the short flight from Orlando touched down in Miami. His e-mail in-box populated before his eyes, one message after another. It was the usual late-afternoon Friday onslaught, as lawyers launched the electronic court filings that they’d been holding on to all week, timing their release just right, assuming the principal objective was to ruin your adversary’s weekend. One message caught Jack’s eye. It was from the public prosecutor in El Salvador. After weeks of stone silence and no reply to Jack’s repeated requests, the prosecutor was willing to meet with Jack and discuss Julia’s case.

  “Why do you think he changed his mind?” asked Julia. She was in the seat next to him as the plane taxied across the runway. Jack had a theory, but he didn’t share it. Ruining someone else’s weekend was not his style.

  Andie wasn’t thrilled about a second trip to El Salvador, but Jack promised to bring his “bodyguard.” On Tuesday morning, he and Theo were on their way to San Salvador. Jack’s assistant had snagged a couple of last-minute cheap tickets on a discount Internet site. Jack was stuck in the middle seat in the last row, mouth breathing for three hours to deal with the bathroom stench. Theo fared better.