José Junior surrendered the iPod and looked around the inside of the vehicle. I hope we get back before school’s out, he said. I turned and looked at him. He was clutching the shoulder strap of his seat belt. Why? I thought most kids loved to skip school. Not me, he said. I like school. Yesterday my teacher said she was going to give us treats at the end of the day today. We even voted on what kind of cupcakes we like. Diego thrust his arm up in the seat next to me. GOL! he shouted. He turned to his brother. Look, Diego said, showing his brother the replay—I’m going to score a goal just like this on Saturday.
After several minutes, José Junior leaned toward Diego from the backseat and touched him on the shoulder. Look, he said, it’s floating. Diego put down the iPod. What are you talking about? That thing on the side of the road, José Junior said, if you stare at it, it looks like it’s floating. Diego looked out his window at the passing road. I don’t get it, he said, what do you mean? The bar, José Junior said. I turned and looked out the window at the guardrail running along the shoulder of the highway. When I stared at it straight on, the wooden posts holding it up blurred together as they sped past, giving the illusion of a steel barrier hovering above the ground. You mean the guardrail? I asked. José Junior smiled at me. Yeah, he said. It’s floating.
At the detention center I reminded the boys to leave everything in the car. Phones, iPods, wallets, even your belts, I said. We followed another visitor across the lot toward a gate in the towering two-tiered fence topped with coils of concertina wire. After five of us had gathered in front of the gate, it slowly wheeled open by remote and we passed through into the sally port, waiting patiently for it to close again behind us. Above me, I heard the call of a mourning dove lilting up from somewhere on the roof of the prison. The wind blew gently against the wires, jostling the arms of a bumpy and bare-skinned cactus beside the walkway. José Junior nudged Diego. It sounds like our mom is talking to us. I looked at the chain-link fence trembling with the gusts of cool air. You mean the wind, I asked him, or the birds? José Junior thought for a second. All of it, he said.
José Junior held his hand up to his face to block the sun and looked toward the door of the prison. I feel like I’ve been here before, he said to me. Really? I asked. Yeah, like maybe in a dream. He walked to the cactus at the end of the walkway and I noticed, for the first time, a slight limp in his gait. He looked up at the fence, and his baggy T-shirt, a hand-me-down from one of his brothers, rippled in the wind.
The gate finally closed behind us with a metallic crash and a guard opened the door to the prison. I watched the two women in front of us make their way through the line. Following their example, I took a sheet of paper from a countertop and filled out José’s name, inmate number, and cell block. When it was my turn at the window I handed the paper to the guard. He typed at his computer and chewed at a bushy white mustache. Martínez-Cruz? he finally asked. Yes sir, I said. What’s your relation? I’m a friend, I replied, and these are his boys. Are you their guardian? For the day, I said. I handed him a notarized letter from Lupe. Do you have their papers? he asked. Yes sir, I said, handing him the boys’ birth certificates. The man typed some more and then instructed us to empty our pockets and pass through the metal detector into the waiting room.
The boys sat next to one another in hard plastic seats. Diego fidgeted with his hands and José Junior swung his legs back and forth. The two women who came in before us sat across from each other in facing chairs. I like your shoes, one woman said to the other, are they Vans? Coach, she answered. Oh. The woman looked down at her legs and wiggled her feet. I just got these at Dollar General. That works too, the other woman said. They’re kind of cute. After a few more minutes, the woman with Coach shoes asked the other if she had visited the prison before. One other time, the woman answered, on a Sunday. It was busy, she said, shaking her head. I think weekdays are the way to go. I looked back at the boys. José Junior sat holding his face in his hands.
To pass the time I began to walk around the room, gazing at the posters on the wall from the Corrections Corporation of America. “Zero Tolerance Suicide Prevention,” said one, “Be a hero, keep it at zero.” “Opportunity is knocking,” said another, “CCA is currently accepting applications.” Another poster depicted a smiling black man: “I believe everybody needs a little fun in their life. I am Terry Williams Jr., a Senior Corrections Officer in Tennessee. I am CCA.” Next to it, another showed an older white woman beaming with pride: “My name is Mary Bowermaster. I am a shift supervisor in Florida and I believe you should never stop learning. I am CCA.” And another: “I get to teach people how to live better lives. I am Jason Russel, a nurse and a woodworker in Mississippi. I am CCA.” I stood before the photographed faces and thought about the kinship I shared with them—the badge, the gun, the wrangling of human beings, the slow severing of spirit. In the distance, jangling keys began to echo through the room and I turned my head to hear the calling of the guards.
We were given sheets of paper and instructed to walk back to our cars and drive around the building to another entrance. I’m confused, I said to a guard, I thought this was visitation. This is check-in, the guard said, visitation is on the other side. Back in the car, I followed the woman with Coach shoes as she drove around the building to make sure I arrived at the right entrance. I ushered the boys out of the car once again and joined the two women in front of another entrance, where we waited for another gate to open. Diego shuffled his feet and José Junior stood looking again at the top of the fence. I really don’t know why I have the feeling I’ve been here before, he said. He looked down at the ground. I can’t handle the pressure, José Junior mumbled to himself. What do you mean? I asked. I don’t know if I can handle talking to my dad. I looked to Diego and then back at his brother. Why not? José Junior sighed. Because he’s in jail.
We were finally let in through the prison doors by the same mustachioed guard who had taken our documents at check-in. He took the sheets of paper we had been given and instructed us to pass once again through a metal detector. We were led down a hallway and made to wait for several minutes while the guard chatted with a coworker who had just finished his shift. I’ll catch you in D block tomorrow, the guard said. Hell no you won’t, his coworker replied, I’ve got the day off. I’m taking the wife and kids to the ballpark. Well, the guard scoffed, look at you.
The guard led us to a doorway and stopped to give us instructions before letting us through. You’ll have forty-five minutes to visit, he said, and I’ll give a ten-minute warning before time is up. You’ll be using the phones mounted on the wall next to the window, he continued, each prisoner has a code to dial out. Wait until the phone rings before you pick it up or else you won’t have a connection. Plastic chairs are stacked against the back wall to the right, grab one as you enter the room and stack them back where you got them on your way out. As the guard spoke, I noticed that he looked only at the women and me, that he never lowered his gaze to regard the boys.
When he opened the door I stood behind the boys and ushered them forward. The inside of the visitation room was brightly lit with cinderblock walls painted in pale tan. The two women were first through the door and walked directly to the stack of plastic chairs. The guard closed the door behind us and then walked to a desk in the corner of the room and took a seat behind a computer monitor. The boys stood unmoving just a few feet beyond the entrance, staring at their father as he waved from behind a reinforced glass window. He smiled widely at them, standing on his feet, swaying from side to side. I kneeled down to speak to the boys. Go ahead, I told them, I’ll bring the chairs.
When I walked up to the window, José Junior had already taken up the receiver and was speaking with his father. José’s head and face were shaved and he looked strong again, like he had regained the weight he’d lost in the desert. José Junior remained standing at the window even after I placed a chair behind him. He spoke eagerly with his father about school, about his f
riends at church. He told his father that he missed him, that it was sad at the house without him.
Behind us, the guard stood up from his computer and placed something in a microwave on a countertop next to the desk. The beeping of the keypad rang out through the room and I watched the man chew at his mustache as he stood waiting for his meal. On either side of me, I observed the women speaking to men clad in orange, their faces held close against the glass. This is love, one woman said into the receiver. Things are the same out here, the other woman said softly. Everything is the same.
I looked back at José and watched the way he tilted his head as he gazed through the glass, the way he smiled as he listened to his son. I watched the motion of his mouth, the way he spoke and laughed. It was like watching a man on mute, I thought, a man who, despite his proximity, would not be heard even if he was crying out on the other side of the glass, even if he was screaming.
After ten minutes or so, José Junior handed the phone to Diego. José smiled warmly as his oldest son told him about soccer, about playing with his brothers in the park. His face grew more serious as Diego spoke with him about his grades, about his youngest brother’s health, about what he was doing to help Lupe around the house. At times José stared down at the ground, closing his eyes and rubbing his brow. Mom is working a lot more, Diego told him, she gets annoyed with us sometimes. But she’s fine, he said, she’s just tired.
Diego set the phone down on the ledge beneath the window. My dad wants to talk to you, he told me. Oh, I said. Sure. I stood and grabbed my chair, moving it closer to the window. I picked up the handset. Paco, José said to me, smiling. His voice sounded tinny and distant in the receiver. I smiled back. José. Brother.
—
Lupe came by the coffee shop in the morning on her way back from dropping the boys at school and delivered a packet of letters she had collected from family, friends, neighbors, former employers, and fellow church members. I had arranged to deliver them to the law firm as soon as my shift was over. She handed me the envelope and smiled timidly. I noticed a tinge of apprehension in her gaze, as if she was still trying to comprehend the image of me as a lawman, trying to discern in me an old shadow of darkness. It’s been so good of you to help us, she said. I shook my head. It’s nothing. José is a friend. I looked away. Lupe glanced toward the door. I’ve got to get ready for work, she told me, I’m picking up shifts at the restaurant where José used to work. Qué bien, I said. Estamos en contacto. She waved goodbye and walked across the courtyard to her car.
At the end of my shift, I drove to Elizabeth’s office and sat with my engine running in the parking lot. I opened the envelope that contained José’s letters and began to flip through them. Some were typed, but most were handwritten, many of them in Spanish. They all began with some variation of “To Whom It May Concern.” They referred to José as a brother in Christ, a family man, a good father, a responsible husband, a reliable person, always working hard, always giving his best, always offering to help with a smile on his face, always laughing.
To whom this may concern, began one letter: My name is Brenda Collar, I have lived in the United States of America for over twenty-five years, and am now a proud US citizen. I have known my fellow friend and brother José for over three years approximately. We congregate at the same church and we both serve in the ushers department. José Martínez has always been such a joy to be around. He is a responsible and caring father which is projected from his three young sons. José Martínez is a hardworking man who has never left a task uncompleted. It would be a mistake to let such a hard worker, responsible father, and awesome friend go. Please consider my testimony and if there are further questions feel free to contact me.
Another man from José’s church wrote: José is a good father, a good husband and a good employee. He is a good example of a good citizen. He always helps people instead of looking for help.
Many friends and family members made an effort to write their letters in a way that echoed the language of official documents: I, Leticia Martínez, declare under penalty of perjury that the following statement is true and correct to the best of my knowledge and recollection. To Whom It May Concern, I’m Leticia Martínez I’m José’s niece he has been living in this country for many years, he is a very nice person he does not drink or smoke or use any drugs. He is a very responsible and hardworking person I wish that he had a chance to let him stay with his children in this country. Thanks for taking the time to read this letter.
To whom it may concern, wrote another man: In the matter of allowing José Martínez to stay in the United States of America. I Pablo G. Martínez believe José M. should be allowed to stay in the country for the following reasons. He is a hardworking man that holds down two jobs. He is the head of household, without him his family would struggle very much both financially and emotionally. He has three little boys who need their father in their lives. He is one of the most respectable people I know and should definitely be allowed to stay in this great country.
Lupe wrote in Spanish on lined school paper borrowed from her children: I Lupe Balderas declare that José Martínez-Cruz is my husband since the year 1999. We have 3 boys age 15, 10, and 8. We were always a very exemplary family we would go out when my husband was off work. He was the only one who worked. He had two jobs and his free time was dedicated to us. My husband is an exemplary father and a caring spouse. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t use drugs he only dedicates himself to making his family happy but now we miss him very much because I Lupe cannot take my boys to the park because lately I have been unwell. My husband took my boys to play soccer every Wednesday and on weekends he dedicated his time to us to eat and go out and now we miss him. My husband has given sixteen years of happiness and love to my sons and me but we won’t return to Mexico because my boys don’t know anyone there and they speak very little Spanish and it’s very difficult to adapt to another country when their whole life has been here they were born here and they are growing here. For us as parents we want the best for our sons Diego, José Junior, and Vicente. We miss my husband because he was responsible at home. I am his wife and I love him very much and I miss him. Diego, José Junior, and Vicente miss him. We love you very much we give hope to God that very soon we will be together because God does not like to see his children separated.
Vicente Martínez, José’s youngest boy, wrote his own name at the top of a letter scrawled in pencil on ruled school paper. There were no spaces between his words, and his writing was riddled with misspellings and backward letters. Hi Daddy I love you because you take us to the park and to play soccer I miss you because you take us to the stores and you take us to go to work and to get money to feed us. The final two lines of Vicente’s letter were incomprehensible, a jumble of letters that sometimes approximated words and sounds in Spanish. The Spanish word for God, Dios, could be discerned and, perhaps, the word for church, iglesia. I miss you very much, Vicente wrote clearly at the end, te extraño mucho.
José Junior had written on two half sheets of paper. On one of them he wrote a brief letter addressed to his father, much like that of his younger brother. At the bottom of the message he taped a wallet-sized picture of himself with tattered edges. On the second sheet of paper José Junior drew his family on a soccer field with frowning faces, the stick figures labeled MOM, BROTHER, BIG BROTHER. Below it was another drawing, almost identical, except this time the stick figures had smiles on their faces and an extra figure drawn next to them, labeled DAD.
Diego wrote a letter that continued across several sheets of paper. At two and a half pages, it was the longest of any in the packet. In its opening paragraphs, Diego seemed to realize that his father would likely not see or read his words, and he did his best to maintain a formal tone. Dear to who it may concern, the letter began, Hi I’m Diego Martínez I’m the son of José Martínez I’m his oldest son I am 15 years old. I have two younger brothers. One is 10 and the other is 8
. I’m working to keep my brothers happy to buy them what they want to keep them happy. Well my dad José is the nicest guy I know my dad is like my best friend and my father. I treat my dad with so much respect he’s the father any kid would want to have. My mom and my whole family broke down when we saw him at court on the first court he had everyone started crying. And the second court when his friend to work took me and my brothers. I broke down so much when I heard his voice it got me into so much tears. I miss my dad he knew how to cheer us up when we were down. He took us to the park on Monday and Wednesday to play soccer with our church friend he got along with everyone at church my dad was the coolest person most nicest, most religious, most caring person always made my mom happy, always putting a smile in our faces every single day he’s also very smart and very funny. My dad always has a smile on his face trying to always help people who are in need. How I feel right now about my dad being in jail and seeing him like this makes me really sad depressed my father isn’t here with us everyone that asks me about my dad makes me sad to say he’s in jail. My heart kinda stops pauses and breaks down on every letter they send him he was a man with three children and one woman. Each one of my friends I’ve had for many years loved my dad because he took us to places like to any place appropriate, to mountains in the west to parks to many places in the city. My dad did anything to make us happy now my life is depressing hollow my dad’s not here. A missing place for him here waits. My dad’s a very responsible man. When I was little my dad was always by my side and always will still be by my side. I pray to God that my dad is always okay. I miss my dad so much it’s really hard to express and write. I miss you so much dad. You always told us to never look back and always look forward thanks for always being there for us and never letting us go dad. We miss you so much. Just remember God is always by our side never letting us go. We all want them to set you free here. Everyone at church and his two works misses him a lot. Everyone misses my dad nobody wants him to get sent back to Mexico. Everyone’s praying for you to let you out safely and still the same José we know. Dad we have a tournament for soccer for church on the twenty six of this month. I’ll be making goals for you, the goals will be for you. You taught me how to play soccer and told me never to give up dad I’m a win that trophy for us. I’m training with everything I got to get better each day. Thank you to whoever got the time to read this I’m sorry it’s so long it’s because I really love my dad we all do and we’re all sad to know he’s in jail. Sincerely, his oldest son Diego Martínez.
The Line Becomes a River Page 17
