Illegal

by Francisco X. Stork

  “No.” I let that sink in and then, “I’m writing a book.”

  I saw Mello and La Treinta Y Cuatro exchange glances. I told you she was dangerous, La Treinta Y Cuatro seemed to be silently saying.

  I realized at that moment that these people were not playing games. They had the power to stop me from writing a book by the simple act of killing me and then shredding all the paperwork that spoke of my existence. I felt powerless. All I could do was pretend to be brave. Try to threaten them with something … but with what?

  Mello folded his hands together as if he was about to pray. He cleared his throat and smiled. He had the whitest, straightest teeth I had ever seen. I looked to the side and focused on the pictures of the children on the credenza next to his desk. How bad can the father of those beautiful children be? I thought.

  “Your attorney filed a complaint with Field Office Director Harris in El Paso.” He picked up the same piece of paper from which he had read my registration number and put it down again. “Wes Morgan. That’s your lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “The same man who shouted at me about your bond?”

  “He was just doing his job. There was no reason not to let me out on bond.”

  La Treinta Y Cuatro shifted in her chair. I glanced sideways and caught her hateful stare. She was clearly not in favor of detainees arguing with authority.

  Mello cleared his throat a few times before speaking again. “Please tell your attorney that we apologize for not letting him see you. We thought a detainee was missing and we had to secure the facility.”

  I wanted to say that other attorneys were allowed to see their clients while this detainee had gone missing, but Mello handed me a piece of paper. “Please, if you could just sign this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just a form we need. That you were informed of the reasons why your attorney was not allowed to see you.”

  “But those reasons are not the truth.”

  Mello grinned, the way someone who is very experienced in the ways of the world grins at someone who is very naive. I had seen that grin on countless government officials in Juárez when inquiring about a missing girl and they told me she had probably run away with her boyfriend. “Please,” Mello said. “It’s just a formality. All it means is that you were given a reason for your attorney being denied access, and our apology.”

  “No, thank you,” I said very politely. It was a stupid form and it probably didn’t mean anything, but I did not want to be complicit in a lie.

  Mello nodded as if he understood and shrugged. He closed my file and leaned back in his chair, his hands crossed on top of his stomach. “I’m curious. How did you enter into this country?”

  I was stunned. Mello saw the shock on my face and smiled. His question had had the desired effect. Wes Morgan and I had been very careful in leaving Emiliano completely out of everything we said and wrote on paper. As far as everyone was concerned, I came across the Rio Grande by myself and turned myself over to Park Ranger Sandy Morgan when I ran into her at Big Bend National Park. I even insisted that we leave out of any part of my asylum petition the fact that I was attacked in the desert.

  “I came to you petitioning asylum. You didn’t catch me trying to enter the country illegally. It doesn’t really matter how I entered.”

  “But why Fort Stockton? Out here in the middle of nowhere? Why not El Paso? All you had to do was cross the International Bridge and say to a Border Patrol officer: ‘I want asylum.’ ”

  “There were people in Juárez who were trying to kill me. I was running away from them and where I crossed was the safest place.”

  “Ahh!” Mello said with mock admiration. Then, looking at La Treinta Y Cuatro: “She has all the right answers, doesn’t she?”

  “She’s special, all right,” La Treinta Y Cuatro said sarcastically.

  “Okay,” Mello said, “why don’t we continue with this some other time.” He started to get up and so did I. “Oh, one more question,” Mello said when he was up. “Was there anyone with you when you crossed?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “Just me.”

  “No family member?”

  “No.” I looked straight into Mello’s eyes because I had learned as a reporter that people who are lying look away from the person they are lying to. Of all the questions that Mello asked, this one scared me the most. Emiliano had to remain invisible.

  But the smirk on Mello’s face told me that he did not believe me.

  La Treinta Y Cuatro took me out of the administration side of the center and let me walk back to the gym by myself. Just before she left, she grabbed me by the arm and said, “This isn’t over yet.”

  I couldn’t shake off the dreadful feeling that there was something threatening and ominous about Mello’s questioning. Today he had just probed to see if I had any weak spots. But what was he after? Why so much interest in how I got into this country and whether a family member had been with me? I did not want to let myself think the worst—that he was out to find Emiliano so he could deport him. And what did La Treinta Y Cuatro mean when she said that this wasn’t over? I felt so alone and so afraid. So weak and powerless.

  When I got to the gym, I saw Lucila sitting with a group of women who were saying the Rosary. Lucila moved to the side of the metal chair so I could sit beside her. She grabbed my hands to keep them from trembling and then she hugged me when the sobs came.

  I wasn’t crying just for me. I was crying for Emiliano. I was crying for all of us.

  I woke up not sure whether I had slept for three minutes or three days. Only the light coming from the small window told me that the day had not moved fast enough. I had not meant to fall asleep. All I wanted to do was close my eyes for a few minutes before I called Yoya. I needed to know whether anyone was after Sara. If I was going to fight these animals (I didn’t want to call them pigs anymore—Gustaf had two pigs and I liked them), then I needed to know what they were thinking. I needed to put myself in their place and ask myself what I would do to find me and the phone I was carrying if I were them. And what I came up with is that if I were them, I would try to find where I was by threatening Sara.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed my face. I had to get ahold of myself. I was in Aurora now and I had come to Aurora in part because Yoya said that she had more resources to help me in a big city. I grabbed my backpack and dug out the burner phone. The phone had cost me $24.99 plus ten dollars for a SIM card with thirty minutes of talk, text, or web. The card could be used for international calls, so I could even call my mother. I could have bought more minutes for it, but I remembered Yoya’s advice to use it only for a few calls. The phone reminded me of the old-fashioned flip phone that Mami used. Sara and I once bought her a newer model for Mother’s Day and she was happy and grateful and then the next day she made us return it and get our money back.

  I found Yoya’s number in the phone and hit REDIAL. Yoya answered on the third ring.

  “Hello, Emiliano. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Aurora. Am I calling you too much?”

  “No. But after this call, I want you to hold off calling me. I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s safer for you and for me that way.”

  “I understand.”

  I actually didn’t understand. Was Yoya under some kind of surveillance? I knew that a lot of what she did, hacking into the government’s computers, for example, was illegal.

  “I found some information,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not good.”

  I took a deep breath. I think I knew what she was going to say before she said it.

  “Tell me.”

  “I was able to get into the e-mails of one Walter Mello. He’s in charge of the Fort Stockton Detention Center. Last night at around seven, he received an e-mail from the sheriff in Alpine. The e-mail had an attachment containing that incident report that we talked about already and a copy of Lester�
��s confession.”

  “Confession.”

  “Yes. He’s pleading guilty to first-degree assault. He spells out how he attacked you and Sara.”

  “He mentions me?”

  “He says good things about you. Says you saved his life.”

  I was trying to understand the implications of people at the detention center knowing about me. They still did not know where I was.

  “I don’t get why that’s bad news.”

  “The heading of the e-mail from the sheriff in Alpine said: ‘Per your request.’ Why would Mello be interested in the incident report and in the confession?”

  “He wants to catch me and deport me.”

  “Mmm. I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think Mello is interested in the Lester file so he could find you and deport you. ICE has bigger fish to catch.”

  “Then …”

  “There must be something else behind his request. That’s the bad news. That’s what me and my team are going to figure out. Why is Mello interested in the incident report and Lester’s confession? Mello’s pretty good about deleting his e-mails and emptying his trash file at the end of the day. That in itself is also suspicious behavior. We’re going to dig a little further into him. Don’t worry. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”

  “If Mello is a bad guy, then he could hurt Sara to get to me.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Stick to the facts.”

  “Why can’t I call you? Is something wrong?”

  There was a pause, then, “Not sure. Just a precaution. Your burner phone is safe but only up to a point. Someone with sophisticated tracking expertise could pinpoint the general area where you’re calling from. We’ll need to keep our conversations short. I have to go now, Emiliano. Hold tight for a few days. I’ll call you soon.”

  I heard footsteps upstairs, so I hurriedly grabbed the metallic bag with Hinojosa’s phone and looked around for a place to hide it. I looked and looked and finally slid the metallic bag under the dryer and pushed it in the length of my hand. It was a temporary hiding place.

  I went back to the bed, my head full of questions. Who was this Mello and why was he interested in Lester’s confession? I had a bad feeling. Something was not right. But then I remembered Yoya’s words: That’s what me and my team are going to figure out. There was a team of dedicated fighters out there watching out for Sara, and that gave me comfort. I had to stay calm and not imagine the worst. Stick to the facts.

  I began to put on the same hiking boots that I had brought from Mexico. My boots and my Swiss Army knife were my two constant sources of comfort. The boots were lightweight and strong and expensive—a gift from my fellow Jiparis for my seventeenth birthday, although I knew the funds for the boots had come from Brother Patricio. The Swiss Army knife was from Linda, who had a knack for perfect gifts. I put the opening of the boot over my face and inhaled. I had tried to kill the smell by dumping in the athlete’s-foot powder that I found in Gustaf’s bathroom, but it was clear I hadn’t succeeded. I remembered how Mami and Sara would wrinkle their noses and say “puchi” whenever I took off my boots in front of them.

  The smile that came to me from that memory disappeared when I noticed the boy standing quietly just outside the open door. He was studying me carefully, as if he were looking for a resemblance to Bob Gropper. I studied him back. Trevor looked like a miniature adult, with his round glasses and his blond hair neatly combed and parted on the right side. He stood very still, arms by his sides, and I got the impression he could stay that way for a couple of hours. It was going to be up to me to make the first move if a move was to be made.

  “Hey there,” I said.

  No answer.

  “What does your shirt say?” I said, pointing.

  Trevor looked at his chest and then at me. “E equals MC squared.”

  “Energy equals matter times the speed of light squared.” I had forgotten most of what I learned in my physics class, but somehow that formula stuck.

  “Actually, it means energy equals mass times the speed of light squared.” The voice was a child’s, but the tone was of an old man.

  “Isn’t mass and matter the same thing?”

  Trevor’s eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. Then, “Actually, mass is a quality of matter. It is matter after it’s been weighed.”

  I began to feel lightheaded. I stood slowly and held on to one of the aluminum bedposts. I had yet to see a smile on Trevor’s face and yet the boy’s look was not unfriendly. “That makes sense,” I said, although it didn’t.

  “I wanted to call you Emi, but Mommy said I should ask you first.”

  “I prefer Emiliano.” I was not about to start down the Bob Gropper route. No one had ever thought of calling me Emi before. Even when I was a child, everyone went ahead and said my full name. “Can you pronounce it? E-mee-lee-a-no.”

  Trevor repeated, “E-mee-lee-a-no.”

  “My last name is Za-pa-ta.”

  There was a look of momentary confusion on Trevor’s face. Something didn’t add up, but he didn’t know exactly what it was. I waited for the confusion on his face to clear up. When it didn’t, I asked, “What do people call you?”

  “Trevor. It’s hard to make a nickname from that because it is already a short name.” Then, after a pause, “Sometimes at school, people call me gopher, but I don’t like that.”

  A gopher was an animal of some kind. A rodent. I tried but couldn’t come up with the Spanish name for it. Was there something rodent-like about Trevor’s face? His thick glasses made his eyes appear small and bright; was that it?

  Then Trevor explained, “It’s because they think gopher sounds like Gropper.”

  “Ahh!”

  “I prefer Trevor.”

  “Okay. I prefer Emiliano.”

  I turned my head toward the footsteps upstairs. “Your mother?”

  “She told me not to wake you if you were sleeping.”

  I let go of the bedpost and took a few steps forward. I stopped by the rowing machine. “Who exercises?”

  “My daddy … sometimes.”

  My daddy. The words a sharp prick in my chest.

  “Hardly ever,” Trevor added. And there for the first time his lips stretched into a thin line that could have been a smile.

  We walked up the stairs together, Trevor taking two steps at a time. There was a small tuft of hair sticking out vulnerably from the back of Trevor’s head. I followed him into the kitchen and stopped when I saw the back of a woman who was opening the refrigerator door.

  The first thought that popped in my mind when Nancy Gropper turned around was: You left us for this? She was so different from the image I had created up to then. I had imagined a woman not necessarily beautiful but at least attractive. Nancy Gropper had a tired-looking face with blondish hair in a disheveled braid that came halfway down her back.

  “Ahh,” she said, putting down a carton of milk on the counter. She tightened the belt on a green bathrobe and walked slowly toward me with hand extended. “I hope Trevor didn’t wake you. I told him not to.”

  “I didn’t, Mommy! He was wide awake.”

  “Good. I am Nancy, Bob’s wife.”

  “Emiliano.” The thought of saying “Bob’s son” came to me, but I did not act on it.

  Her handshake was quick and soft—the opposite of welcoming.

  “Well,” she said—and paused as if looking for words—“are you hungry? Trevor was going to have two cookies, weren’t you, Trevor?” She opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator and took out a package of cookies.

  “I’ll have a cookie,” I said, trying to get a smile out of Nancy. But she didn’t hear me. Her eyes were moving all over the kitchen, looking for something.

  “Looking for this, Mommy?” Trevor handed her a glass of water.

  “Yes, thank you.” She took the glass and then, still not looking at me, said, “Excuse me, I have a very bad migraine. I have to close my eyes for a moment.” Then she walked out of
the kitchen.

  I watched her shuffle to the stairs in her green robe and flapping slippers and didn’t know what to think. Maybe she was in pain. Or maybe she just plain was not happy that I was in her house.

  I turned to Trevor. He looked less tense with his mother out of the room. Trevor took out glasses and plates from a cabinet and then reached for the package and took out two cookies. He looked at me, and I understood that I was being asked to sit down.

  We ate side by side in silence. Now and then I thought of a question to ask but decided against it. I grabbed another cookie and Trevor did as well. There were four stools on either side of the island where we sat. This must be the place where the family ate all their meals. The wooden table by the room’s only window was covered with folders and notepads, an open laptop. Next to the table was a round wicker basket filled with torn envelopes and discarded pieces of paper. That section of the kitchen was the only disorder I had seen in the house. The rest of the kitchen was so clean and bright, it looked almost unused. There were no smells anywhere. I looked at the cookie in my hand and noticed for the first time that it tasted like coconut. Trevor was examining the milk carton.

  “You know how to read,” I remarked.

  Trevor raised his eyes and blinked as if to say, Of course, why wouldn’t I? Or maybe he was trying to determine if there had been a question mark at the end of my words. Then, as if he had suddenly remembered the rules of polite conversation, Trevor asked, “Do you like to read?”

  I thought about this for a few moments. There was no need to pretend in front of this six-year-old. Besides, he seemed like the kind of kid that liked straight talk. “No. I had to read a lot in school, but I can’t say I liked it.”

  “Most kids in my school don’t like to read. Probably because they don’t know how.”

  “How did you learn?”

  There was a look of terror on Trevor’s face, as if this was precisely the type of question he feared the most. “I don’t know,” Trevor said with a high, whiny voice that finally made him seem like a child. “I started reading when I was little.”