Illegal

by Francisco X. Stork

  “When the police don’t ask if you’re illegal.” We had newspapers and televisions in Juárez. We discussed the United States immigration policies in school. We were not ignorant.

  “You’re smarter than me. I had to read up on it. Naperville’s not a sanctuary city like I hear Chicago is, but these cops aren’t going to bother you unless you’re doing something bad or … done something bad.” The taxi driver gave me a meaningful look.

  “I haven’t done anything bad,” I answered, maybe too defensively. Being illegal was not the same as bad, was it?

  “Then, I wouldn’t worry about the cops around here. As long as you’re moving, they don’t care where you come from. But it would help if you didn’t smell.”

  Every time I spoke to someone, it was like I was carrying a neon sign on my forehead flashing the word illegal. What was it? My accent? The brown skin and black hair? The fact that I looked lost? All of those things? What did the burrito man say to me? You gotta look like you’re going someplace and you know how to get there. Except, how was I going to find out how to get there without asking for directions?

  “I’m moving.”

  “Mind if I give you some advice?”

  “No. I don’t mind.”

  “Get rid of that sweatshirt. PU! Man. The hoodie doesn’t help either.”

  I nodded. I lifted the front of the sweatshirt to my nose. The ever-present smell of Bob’s cologne was faint, but still there. Sunlight broke through the gray morning, and the taxi driver pulled down the sun visor. When we got to the station, I tried to give the taxi driver one of my five-dollar bills, but he waved it off. “Hell, I was coming down here anyway.”

  I stopped at the entrance to the station and looked around carefully. But this station, unlike the one in Aurora, had no surprises waiting for me. I bought a one-way ticket to Union Station, Chicago, the last stop on the line. In a newsstand, I picked up a map of the City of Chicago that included train routes and listed the city’s greatest attractions, including St. Hyacinth Basilica on Wolfram Street. I continued studying the map after I got on the train. I could take the blue line train from Union Station to a station called Logan Square. From there it was only a few blocks to St. Hyacinth Basilica. I folded the map and stuck it in my back pocket. After the conductor took my ticket, I took off the sweatshirt, folded it, and used it as a pillow. I could feel Hinojosa’s cell phone against my cheek. I was asleep a few moments after I closed my eyes.

  * * *

  It was almost 6:00 p.m. when I finally found my way to the Basilica of St. Hyacinth. I made a few wrong turns, but I got there solely by following the map I purchased at the Naperville station. It was like being back in the cathedral of Ciudad Juárez. The smell of candles and lilies, the pictures and statues of saints. There was even a small altar dedicated to the Virgen de Guadalupe.

  I sat in one of the pews close to the confessionals and counted fourteen people scattered throughout the church. An old woman in the pew in front of me prayed the Rosary in a language I did not understand. In front of the church, I had seen a sign that listed the times for Masses in English and in Polish. There was a redbrick building next to the church, where the priests probably lived and where I could ask where I could find Stan Kaluza.

  Seeing Mrs. C’s shaky handwriting brought a lump to my throat. Or maybe it was the old lady saying the Rosary that reminded me of my mother. Or maybe it was the Virgen de Guadalupe—I don’t know the reason why, but tears filled my eyes. From past experience, I knew I could say, “No, you’re not coming out,” and most of the time tears would obey. But right there, in that quiet place, I wanted to open the door to them. What had I done? Did I make things worse for Sara? I did not do what Big Shot wanted and now Sara would pay for it? My sister was in a damn prison and in danger and my father …

  What about Bob?

  What about him?

  Don’t you want to cry about that?

  I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of the PU sweatshirt. I had to get up and find someone who might know Stan Kaluza, but the comfort and familiarity of the church made it hard for me to move. Confessions started at 6:45. I could wait until then and ask the priest about Stan Kaluza. Just then, the burner phone in my right pocket rang and vibrated. The old lady saying the Rosary turned and shushed me with a finger on her lips. I stood and walked out.

  “Emiliano, this is Sandy Morgan. Do you know who I am?”

  It took me a moment but then I knew. “Sara’s friend. The park ranger that found her.”

  “Yes. My father was Sara’s lawyer. He … my father … passed away last week.”

  I didn’t tell her that I knew. “I’m sorry.”

  “I got your phone number from your message to my dad.”

  “Is Sara all right?”

  Her voice told me Sandy was worried about something. I wanted her to tell me what it was.

  “That’s why I’m calling. I just got a message that Sara was going to be moved out of the Fort Stockton Detention Center.”

  “Move where? When?”

  “The man didn’t say where. I think it was a guard who called, but he didn’t leave his name. He sounded as if this move would not be a good thing. He said the move would be soon. Two or three days at the most. They would move her after it got dark. Why would he say that? And why do they have to move her at night?”

  All that I could think was that the move was the result of me not giving Abe Gropper the phone. It meant that Sara had two or three days to live.

  “Emiliano?”

  “We have to get Sara out of there! Is there anything you can do?”

  “I went to see her yesterday, but they wouldn’t let me in. I’ll go again today. It’s not a visiting day, but maybe I’ll take one of my father’s lawyer friends. These detention centers—the law can’t reach into them since the people they hold don’t have any rights. It burns me up! I’ll keep trying, Emiliano. I better go and see what I can do. I thought you should know.”

  I don’t know how long I sat on those church steps. Two or three days. I counted the hours until Thursday night. Assuming it got dark around 9:00 p.m. in Fort Stockton, I had forty-eight, maybe seventy-two hours to save Sara’s life.

  I had to find Big Shot and put him out of commission before then.

  La Treinta Y Cuatro took me out of the isolation room and escorted me to a small fenced area outside. It was after supper and everyone was inside but there was still light. La Treinta Y Cuatro walked silently and seemed worried about something. I wondered if she had a family. Maybe one of her kids was sick at home and still she had to come to work. Was she a good mother, a good wife? What was she like deep inside—basically good or basically bad?

  I covered my eyes when I stepped outside. The rolls of razor-sharp wire on top of the fence reflected the sun in a thousand shards of light. The sun was still blazing even though it was beginning to set. Unlike the outside yard for the general population, the outside area for detainees in isolation was like a cage. But it was outside, and outside, at least for fifteen minutes, is better than inside.

  “What day is it? Do you happen to know?”

  “It’s gonna be Monday all day.” La Treinta Y Cuatro took out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and offered me one. I declined. She lit one and turned her head to blow the smoke away from me.

  Maybe she’s good deep down. Just had a tough life, I thought, assessing La Treinta Y Cuatro’s character. She sold out her goodness for a brand-new freezer and a box of frozen steaks.

  “You from around here?” I asked, maybe pushing my luck.

  “Shut up.”

  Maybe deep-down nasty.

  La Treinta Y Cuatro finished her cigarette and flicked it out of the fenced area. Then she stepped out, locked the door behind me, and left. I went to one end of the fenced area and grabbed on to the chain links. I looked at the white roof of the cafeteria and saw smoke rising from black pipes. I heard a noise behind me and when I turned, I saw Mello. He was wearing the usual white shirt but
had loosened the knot on an ugly brown tie. He reminded me of the tired office workers who I used to fight for bus seats on my way to work. Mello never wore a uniform. He was an employee of the private company that was hired to run the detention facility. Someday, I thought, I’m going to write an article about the moneymaking business of detaining immigrants. I smiled. Was it a good sign that I was thinking of articles to write?

  He spoke from the other side of the chain-link fence, holding a blue folder in his hand. “Looks like you might be going home, Sara.”

  I did not understand.

  “Back to Ciudad Juárez. The asylum officer did not find that you had a credible fear of persecution.”

  Mello opened the folder and took out a piece of paper. He placed it against the fence so I could come and read it. I stepped forward. It was two paragraphs long. It had my name, my alien registration number, and the date and time of the interview. It described my fear of “an unnamed Mexican cartel” as not one of the classes of persecution protected by law. Then I read the signature.

  “This is signed by a Cynthia Teller. My asylum officer was Norma Galindez. What is this? You invented this piece of paper just like you invented affidavits from Guatemalan women wanting to hurt me. You’re making all this up.”

  “It’s an official finding that will not be questioned,” Mello responded calmly. “All I have to do now is process this Voluntary Departure form that you signed early this morning.” He held the paper and again I stepped up to read.

  “I didn’t sign that!”

  “Sure you did! This is your signature, isn’t it? It’s easy to understand why you did it. Once you found that your credible fear interview had gone south, you decided you would be better off going back to Mexico.” Mello opened the folder and took out another form. “Here’s your signature again. This one is on a Request for Administrative Segregation form. You asked us to put you in solitary confinement because you were afraid for your life. As you know, there were two detainees from Guatemala who did not like you. We have signed witness statements for that as well.”

  “They are all lies—”

  “Everything that we have done in here has been pursuant to ICE regulations. If that reporter your brother mentioned ever shows up, we’ll be ready.”

  There was a slight, sarcastic grin on Mello’s face. He was making fun of Emiliano.

  “You can’t do this, Mello.”

  “Usually, in a voluntary departure situation, the detainee pays his or her own transportation back to Mexico or wherever they come from. But we’re going to give you a ride to the border free of charge.”

  I glared at Mello. “You know that once I get to Mexico, the first thing I will do is write a long article about what you are doing here. I have friends at the El Paso Times who will publish it for me, gladly.”

  I was bluffing. I knew that I would be killed the minute I stepped onto Mexican soil. Or, more likely, on the way there.

  “Sara.” Mello placed the paper he was holding back in the folder. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t count. Right now, you are nothing but a number, a piece of paper that needs to be processed along with thousands of similar pieces of paper. Credible fear findings, appeals, deportation orders—all of them pieces of paper that no one reads. Mountains of paper that go from one person to another until one poor soul finally sticks it in a big blue envelope and seals the envelope.”

  “I get it, all right. I get that you have been bought.”

  “Oh, Sara,” Mello said mournfully. “I wish your brother had cooperated.”

  I smiled. My Emiliano had received my message. He did not return the phone, and by the looks of it, they did not know where he was.

  “This is a mess. I honestly wish we had just given you that bond you asked for. I don’t know what’s so important about that phone your brother is carrying, and I don’t want to know. All I know is that my job is on the line if I don’t do what people are asking me to do, and I worked too hard to get here to lose it all now.”

  “Just let me go.” I shook the chain-link fence. “Open that door and let me out. You can say I escaped.”

  “I wish I could do that, Sara. I really do.”

  I took a few steps back and slumped against the fence. Then, I immediately stood up as straight as I could. I felt powerless. What could I do against these people who could create life and death by inventing an official-looking document?

  “When? When are you sending me back to Mexico?”

  “You’ll be with us a couple more days. It takes a while for the paperwork to get the right sign-offs. And who knows, maybe your brother will come to his senses. Why is he doing this? What could be in that phone that is worth bringing all this on him and you?”

  I thought of telling Mello about all the lives that the information in that phone would save. Would it make a difference if I did? Was he basically good but just weak? I decided not to tell him. Maybe I was doing him a favor by letting him be a mindless instrument of evil.

  Instead, I said, “The only question worth asking is how you can live with yourself and do what you are doing?”

  Mello nodded quietly. I had the impression that it was a question he had considered before and somehow found an answer that allowed him to live with himself. Then he looked up and clenched his jaws. He was leaving the human being behind and putting on the official who had to do what he had to do. “Your brother will be sent a message. Let’s hope he gets it and considers what is best for you … and for him.”

  “How? How will you send him messages? Do you know where he is?”

  “I don’t, Sara. I only know what I need to know.” He busied himself tying a string around the blue folder. He tucked the folder under his arm and said, “I need to process your Voluntary Departure form.” Then, looking at his watch, “Why don’t you stay out here another half hour. Enjoy the cool air.”

  I saw Mello turn around and walk back into the building. I sat on the ground with my back against the fence. I knew what was happening and that made not being able to do anything even worse. They were moving me so I wouldn’t be found, so I could not talk. But what worried me the most was the “message” that they planned to send my brother.

  Emiliano, I don’t know where you are. I hope you are not alone. I hope that you have found at least one friend who will fight with you.

  But fight you must.

  “You waiting for someone?” A man with a black robe was speaking to me.

  I stood and cleared my throat. “I am looking for Stan Kaluza. They told me someone at the church would know where I could find him.”

  The priest moved a step closer to me. “Stanislaw Kaluza. And who is looking for him?”

  “An old friend of his told me to ask for him here.”

  The priest was an imposing man, tall and gaunt, dark eyes sunk deep in their sockets. He was studying me as if trying to look into my soul. He must have found something in there he could trust, because he said, pointing with his index finger, “Take that street and then the next right. Walk until you get to the park. Stanislaw lives on the street in front of the park—North Springfield Avenue. Look for the house with the flag. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  It occurred to me that I was calling a perfect stranger “father.”

  “Tell Stanislaw that he’s overdue for the sacrament of reconciliation.” Something like a smile crossed the priest’s stern face. “Oh, and don’t call him Stan. He doesn’t like Stan.”

  “Stanislaw,” I repeated.

  “Right.”

  It wasn’t hard to find the park. The sound of an aluminum bat hitting a baseball and the shouts of people cheering could be heard a block away. A kite in the shape of a butterfly floated above the green field. Groups of people gathered around small, portable grills and the smell of hamburger and sausage reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since those two burritos a hundred years ago.

  I saw the flagpole with the United States flag as soon I turned onto N
orth Springfield Avenue. Stanislaw Kaluza’s house was the smallest on the street. A two-story wooden structure with a concrete porch. In front, there was a small yard behind a waist-high picket fence. The flagpole was in the middle, rising from a circle of white stones and red and white tulips. I took a deep breath and opened the gate. I climbed up the steps of the porch and turned to the snap of the fluttering flag before knocking on the door. I waited a few moments before knocking again.

  “Coming, coming. Hold your damn horses.” It was a man’s voice and he sounded annoyed. When the door opened, I found myself looking into the fiery blue eyes of Stanislaw Kaluza. He looked exactly like the kind of person that Mrs. C would call “rough around the edges.” He was tall and solid-looking despite his age, with a crew cut that made him look military and mean.

  “What?” Stanislaw Kaluza asked. His grip on the door suggested that he was about to slam it shut.

  My mind went suddenly blank. I couldn’t find a single word either in English or in Spanish.

  “Are you all right, boy? You look like you’ve just went caca in your pants.”

  For some reason the word caca caused me to break into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. It was as if those tears I held back in the church decided to come out a different route. Stanislaw Kaluza stepped outside, his chest almost bumping into my nose. He was wearing a Hawaiian-looking shirt that most definitely did not go with his rugged, bristled face.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry,” I said, gasping, wiping my eyes. I started to laugh again and then forced myself to stop. “It’s just … I don’t know what came over me.”

  Stanislaw Kaluza’s expression had gone from angry to something like curiosity. “What is it? Speak up.”

  I tried to speak, but the words were still having trouble finding their way from my head to my mouth. I reached for my wallet and took out the sticky note with Mrs. C’s handwriting.