The Line Becomes a River

by Francisco Cantú

  Elizabeth leaned on the table. Given what you knew, she said to Diane, there’s legally nothing wrong with what you did. But I want you to know that even in the best-case scenario, José has no chance of being granted legal status. I want to be clear here, to you, but most of all to Lupe, that what we are asking for in this case is not legalization. Under existing law, José doesn’t really have a path to legal status until his oldest son turns eighteen and can sponsor his mother and father for citizenship. And because José has a prior deportation on his record from 1996, we don’t have a lot of options.

  Elizabeth turned to Lupe. I want to ask you a few questions to start off, she said. She glanced at me and I began to translate. First of all, besides his past deportation, has José ever been in trouble with the law? Lupe shook her head. No, she said, never. She looked over at the pastor. José used to drink, she admitted quietly. The pastor bowed his head. But he never got into any trouble, Lupe said, gracias a Dios. Ever since our first son was born he hasn’t had a single drink. Good, Elizabeth said. This next question might be hard for you to answer, she continued, but it’s an important one. Have you, José, or the boys ever been the victims of a violent crime here in the U.S.? Lupe looked down at her hands still clasped in her lap. No, she said. La verdad es que no.

  So, Elizabeth concluded, that leaves us with two options. The first is for José to claim fear of returning to Mexico. In that case he would be held for a screening interview to see if he is eligible for something like asylum. He would remain in immigration custody for at least six months prior to being released on bond.

  I’m sorry, Lupe said, what does that mean exactly? She looked at Elizabeth. Fear of returning to Mexico? Of course he has fear. La violencia, she said, la delincuencia, la corrupción. Elizabeth began to tap a pencil against her legal pad. Of course, she said, I’m sorry. What I mean by fear is something more specific. If José has received death threats, for example, from a drug cartel or some other group. If he’s part of an ethnic or political minority that is being targeted somewhere. Land disputes, blood feuds between or among families, things like this.

  Lupe clutched her hands in her lap and looked down, shaking her head. No, she said, nothing like that. Elizabeth rested her pencil at the top of her pad. Well, she said, I’ll visit José in the detention center and talk with him just to be sure. But to be clear, the ultimate goal of an asylum application wouldn’t really be to win. Almost no one wins asylum from Mexico, only about one percent of Mexican cases are actually granted asylum. But the process buys time, and the application would bolster a request for a stay of removal. As I translated Elizabeth’s words Lupe stared at me, expressionless.

  So, Elizabeth went on, that brings us to our second option, which is to ask for a deferred deportation under the executive actions that, for the time being, protect certain undocumented immigrants such as noncriminal parents of U.S. citizens. The problem, of course, is that José has a prior deportation from 1996, and on top of that, his most recent exit and illegal reentry into the country. That means he’s now considered a “recent entrant,” and recent entrants are a priority for deportation even under these executive actions. So what we need to do is try to make a great case for prosecutorial discretion. Basically, that means we would present to a judge all the compelling reasons that José should still be granted a stay of removal despite his recent entry. The goal here is to get José out of detention and, essentially, to buy time with the appeals process and hope for better policy and eventual immigration reform down the line. José would still have no work permit, he’d still be living in the shadows, but he’d be protected, he could remain there safely, if that makes any sense.

  Elizabeth shifted her gaze around the room, looking in turn at Diane, Lupe, the pastor, and me. So, she began again, here’s what I will need from all of you: From you, Lupe, any and all documentation that establishes how long José has lived and worked in the States. Pay stubs and any tax information that proves employment, rental or lease agreements, utility contracts, anything else that establishes proof of continual residence. How long has José been in the U.S.? Lupe thought for a moment. More than thirty years, she answered.

  Elizabeth seemed surprised. Well, she said, if you can produce documents that establish a continual presence here for more than thirty years, that will be very good for his application. Also, she continued, we’ll need any legal documents you can produce regarding your children: birth certificates, report cards, health records. Health records are important. Do your boys have any health issues? Lupe looked toward her pastor and then over at me. My youngest son Vicente has a problem with his brain. He has problems speaking. She looked down at the floor. José Junior has asthma. He was hit by a car, too, she said, a year and a half ago. He still has a limp. And Diego, my oldest, has meningitis. I’m sorry to hear that, Elizabeth told her. Documentation of all of this will be very important for the application—any evidence you can give of their medical conditions will help the case.

  Elizabeth turned toward me, Diane, and the pastor. Another thing that will help José’s case are testimonies to his good character, she said. Letters from current and past employers, landlords, neighbors, churchgoers, and family members, particularly those with legal status. The more the better. Any evidence of community service he’s taken part in as a church member or in any other capacity would also help. The author should be sure to state how many years they’ve known José, in what capacity they’ve known him, and why they support him—moral character, work ethic, et cetera. Examples are good, and the author should list specific things José has done that have impressed them or demonstrated that José is someone special or unique. If the author is familiar with the hardships his removal would place upon the family, that should be included in the letter as well. As Elizabeth spoke I gazed out the window to the mountains, wondering how such hardships could be put into words.

  There’s one last thing I’ll need to get started, Elizabeth stated, and that’s half the money to pay for our legal fees. Two thousand dollars of the four thousand total. We’ll pay for half, Diane said, my husband and I have already decided. Lupe’s eyes widened, catching the glare from the sunlight filtering in through the windows. The pastor leaned forward in his chair and placed his arms on the table. The church will help Lupe to pay the other half, he said. Elizabeth smiled. Fantastic, she said. Lupe looked around the room, unsure of what to say or how to react.

  Are there any questions? Elizabeth asked us. Diane held her hand up near her face. Maybe it’s a bad time to ask, she said, but what happens if José’s case is denied? Well, Elizabeth said, he’ll be sent back to Mexico, of course, and that will happen quickly, right after the deportation order is issued. Sometimes we don’t find out until after the decision has been made, after the person has already been deported. Immigration decisions don’t happen in a courtroom, so we won’t be arguing our case before a judge. We submit the documents and the decision is made behind closed doors.

  If José is deported, the charge will appear on his record, of course, and that will make it harder for him when and if he tries to legalize down the line. With this deportation he’ll receive a five-year ban on reentry. Diane sighed. And if he tries to cross again? she asked. Elizabeth picked up her pencil. He’ll serve more jail time each time he’s picked up, she said. Instead of thirty days, next time it will probably be sixty, then ninety. And he’ll be banned from reentry for ten years, then twenty, and so on.

  Elizabeth looked at Lupe and then eyed me to make sure I was ready to translate again. I want to be sure that you know where your husband is, she said. He’ll be at the state detention center for the duration of the thirty-day sentence he was issued at the criminal hearing. Lupe nodded at me and then at Elizabeth. After that, Elizabeth said, if José’s case is still under consideration, which it probably will be, he’ll be placed in the nearby immigration detention center. Elizabeth scrawled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Lupe. This is hi
s inmate number, she said, you’ll need it if you have any dealings with the prison. Elizabeth tapped the pencil against her legal pad. Do you have questions? she asked. Just one, Lupe said. Can the boys see their father? Elizabeth sat back in her chair. Well, she said, yes—the detention center allows visitation. She rested her pencil back on the table. But they check papers there, so it wouldn’t be safe for you to go. You’d have to find someone else to take the boys.

  —

  I drove through the trailer park in the early morning, before the sun was up, looking for José’s home. I finally found it—a doublewide with two doors in a dirt lot next to a dumpster. The lights were off and I knocked at each of the doors. After several minutes of waiting I knocked louder until I finally heard rustling inside and saw a light come on. Lupe opened the door and smiled weakly, her face heavy with sleep. Diego’s getting ready, she said, he’ll be out in a few minutes. Is it just him? I asked. Yes, she said, the little ones should rest.

  In the car Diego was silent. Did you already eat? I asked. Not really, he said. We stopped at a McDonald’s and I ordered a sausage McMuffin and Diego ordered two sausage breakfast burritos. As we waited to pull up to the window, he handed me money. It’s okay, I told him, I’ll pay. No, he said, my mom gave me this money. She’d be mad if you paid. Okay, I told him, okay. I smiled. Thanks for breakfast.

  You know, I said as he unwrapped his first burrito, your dad used to eat a breakfast burrito every morning at work. He would always give me half. I stared out at the road and took a bite of my sandwich. I asked Diego about school, about what he did for fun. I like soccer, he said. Oh, yeah? I asked. What’s your favorite club? I don’t really have one, he said, I just like to play. I play in the park with my brothers. My dad used to take us. I’m on a team from church too. He took another bite from his burrito. What position do you play? I asked. I’m a striker, he said, I’m the one that makes the goals.

  After nearly an hour of driving, the sun finally rose above the horizon and cast its first rays upon the desert flatlands and fields dormant with crops. We slowed as we began to pass buildings and houses and we soon made out the prison complexes towering in the distance. We drove through quiet streets past a high school, a trading post, an Italian restaurant, until we finally arrived at the massive detention center at the opposite edge of town. Outside, a guard in a white truck was checking vehicles at the entrance to the parking lot. I rolled down my window. We’re here for visitation, I told him. What cell block? I read him the information I had taken down. That block doesn’t have visitation until nine, he said. Really? I asked. But online it said— The guard cut me off. Nine a.m., he repeated. I looked at Diego and then back at the guard. Is there somewhere we can wait? I asked. I could feel him glaring at me through his sunglasses. There’s a diner in town, he said. You can wait there.

  It was nearly seven when we pulled into the diner parking lot. Diego and I sat in a booth by the window and stared out in silence as the amber light of the sun spilled across the asphalt. A waitress sauntered over with two menus and a pitcher of water. Good morning, she said, I’ll bet you boys are hungry. I looked up at her and smiled. To tell you the truth, I said, we already ate. We’re waiting for visitation at the prison. You must get that a lot. Sometimes, she said. Well, I continued, is it all right if we nurse some coffee and order something small? She smiled and nodded toward the only other customer, a stout man in a cowboy hat bantering at the counter with another waitress. Any business is good business, she said.

  The waitress took our menus and left and we stared again out the window. Do your parents let you drink coffee? I asked Diego. Yeah, he said, but I don’t really like how it tastes. Your dad drinks it with vanilla and cream, I told him. I turned my head and looked across the table at him, small and slumped against the back of the booth. Oh, he said. I didn’t know. I never saw my dad in the mornings.

  Two hours later, back at the entrance to the prison, the guard in the white truck stuck his hand out the window as we approached. I rolled down the window. Visitation is closed. It’s nine a.m., I said, what do you mean? There’s a riot in cell block E. Visitation is closed. I looked at Diego and then back at the guard. For how long? I asked. The man shrugged. How am I supposed to know? Until they stop rioting.

  —

  I arranged to meet Lupe in the mercado at the end of my shift. I had offered to help her sort through documents and deliver them to Elizabeth’s law firm. She was seated at a small table with her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She smiled as I approached, standing to greet me with timid familiarity. As we sat down, she slung a large woven bag into her lap and pulled out a thick stack of papers loosely gathered in a manila folder. I briefly scanned through them. There were documents from 1981, from 1990, from 1993, 1994, 1997, 2002, 2003, 2005, 2009, 2012, 2015, there were José’s old ID cards, pay stubs and W-2s, insurance forms, rental agreements, utility bills, medical records, statements of payment and credit history—everything stacked together in no particular order, a bulging dossier on a life lived at the workaday margins of a country now set in motion against him.

  I left the documents with Lupe and asked her to excuse me for a minute. I walked across the courtyard and knocked on the open door to Diane’s office. Come in, I heard her say. Lupe’s here, I said, and she’s got a lot of documents. Good, Diane replied. Actually, I said, they’re kind of a mess. Is there a big table somewhere where we can lay them out and organize things? Of course. Diane led me down the hall to a conference room. It’s free until later this afternoon, she told me. Do you need anything else? Maybe some markers and a set of folders, I said. There’s office supplies in the next room, she offered. Take whatever you need.

  For the next two hours, Lupe and I stood at the conference table sorting through piles of papers, some of them faded and yellowing: documents providing evidence of José’s entry into the United States at age eleven and the work he had been engaged in every year thereafter, earning minimum wage as a dishwasher, a busboy, a custodian, an auto repairman, a maintenance man, a farmworker, a fruit picker, an agricultural equipment operator, a carpet mill factory worker, a truck driver, a construction hand; documents providing certification of his marriage, certification of the birth of each of his three sons, certification of his mother’s death; documents providing evidence of the growing lives of his children, children who visited the school nurse and the local health clinic, children who received brain scans, behavioral health reports, cognitive speech and language therapy, children who received report cards and teacher’s notes, children who were being shaped by the twin identities of immigrant and citizen.

  As Lupe and I sorted through the documents, I labeled distinct folders and placed each document in its corresponding place. WORK, I scrawled on one folder, RESIDENCE on another. I labeled one folder DEPENDENTS and placed a folder for each child inside it, and within each of these, separate folders labeled SCHOOL, MEDICAL, and PROOF OF CITIZENSHIP. I saw ID photos of José as a young man with feathered black hair, his skin dark and glaring with the light from the flashbulb. I saw ID photos of his sons, their faces round with baby fat, and I saw the prints of their newborn hands and feet inked on the hospital documents that certified their birth. I saw his and Lupe’s signatures, over and over again, printed simply in block letters on form after form, year after year.

  When we finally finished, I walked with Lupe back across the courtyard. As we said our goodbyes, a woman named Ana, a worker at the Mexican bakery, stepped into the courtyard to greet Lupe. She asked about José, about the boys, about the stack of documents in my hands. They’re for José’s case, Lupe said, he’s taking them to the lawyer. Ana smiled at me. It’s so nice of you to help the family, she said. She touched me on the shoulder and looked at Lupe, lowering her voice. It’s hard to imagine that he was la migra, isn’t it? Oh really? Lupe asked, her eyes widening in surprise. José didn’t tell you? No, she said, elongating the word. That’s right, continued Ana—he saw what
we go through at the border, and look, now he’s helping. I smiled and nodded, wondering if that’s what this really was, if I was merely being driven to make good for the lives I had sent back across the line, if I was seeking to dole out some paltry reparation. If I was seeking redemption, I wondered, what would redemption look like?

  —

  Lupe came to the door after my first knock. Good morning. She smiled. It’s not so early this time, she said. She disappeared into the house and I could hear her calling after Diego. She came back to the door with papers in her hand. Disculpa, she said, but would you mind if José Junior came too? Last time he was so sad not to go. Cómo no, I said. I gestured at the documents in her hand. Are those his papers? Yes, she said, handing them over. Diego walked up behind his mother and stood beside her in the doorway. You’re almost as tall as your mom, I said. He stood up straight and smiled. Actually, he said, I’m taller. His mother swiped at him playfully. I’m almost as tall as my dad, he said proudly.

  As we drove north toward the detention center, Diego looked at his phone and José Junior played a game of soccer on an iPod Touch in the backseat, pumping his hand in the air each time he scored a goal and then passing the device up to his brother, insisting he watch each computer-generated replay. After about ten minutes, Diego became bored with his phone and turned around in his seat. Let me play, he said to José Junior. But you have your phone, his brother whined. I know, Diego replied, but it doesn’t have soccer.