Crossing with the Virgin: Stories from the Migrant Trail

Story Eight - Kathryn

Story Eight ~ Kathryn T wirling headsets in her hand, the woman in a gray suit walked over to two U.S. marshals sitting on a bench on the other side of the polished wood rail. “I forgot to tell you what he said after that,” she whispered. “What?” the marshal asked. “That this is America and you’re not guilty until proven guilty.” “But he broke the law,” the marshal laughed. “It’s black and white.” Behind me, two lawyers entered the courtroom, patted each other on the back. “I’m surprised to see you here, too.” “Yah, our office agreed to represent some of the defendants.” “How’s your daughter?” “A teenager—explanation enough?” Two young women in green uniforms sat down on the bench across the row from me, exchanged chewing gum, laughed and talked. The government lawyer in a brown box skirt and jacket, representing Border Patrol, dropped papers as she strode to her table on the other side of the railing. One of the two women chewing gum rushed to gather the papers for her. Everyone seemed to know everyone. Smiles flew around the room along with greetings of good cheer. Papers rustled, people bustled.Wood gates swung back and forth, letting lawyers and bailiffs pass from the visitors’ gallery to the courtroom proper. On the other side of the room, it was complete silence. The only movement was the shaking thigh of a twenty-year-old dark-skinned man with Indian features, long black hair to midback tied away from his face. The other seated fifty-one people either looked at the floor, or looked forward into a place the rest of us were not invited. “All rise,” a voice commanded. The judge entered the court to a symphony of metal ringing against metal as the migrants rose, shifting shackled ankles in order to keep balance as they stood. All were handcuffed. The cuffs were attached to chains that were connected to the ankle shackles. Since all belts were taken by the Border Patrol, one man’s loose jeans kept slipping down. He couldn’t pull them up because his handcuffs were tautly connected to a chain around his waist. In black flowing robes, the blonde judge walked to the bench. As she sat, we all took our seats. The stage was set. Operation Streamline, a Border Patrol policy, selects one hundred migrants a day to prosecute as criminals. From the hundreds detained daily, these are mysteriously chosen to be tried, convicted, and receive up to 180 days in prison as a misdemeanor for illegal entry into the United States. Then they are deported. If they return and are caught again, they can receive two to twenty years as a felony conviction. “Good afternoon,” said the judge. There was a small pause as the migrants listened to the translation through their headsets. The translator told them to speak in unison. “Buenas tardes,” the chorus called back to the judge. “Stand and answer ‘present’ when your name is called,” the judge said. The translator called out “Number 341, Jose Luis Perez Moreno.” “Presente.” The translator translated “present.” “Number 342, Mariaelena Ruiz Blanco.” “Presente.” After twenty more names, the judge called “Juan Alberto Martinez Ramos.” A fifty-five-year-old man rose. Like all the migrants, he wore the same clothes he had been wearing in the desert four days earlier, the left shoulder torn open. “Wheel,” he said, “no Juan.” “What is he saying?” the judge asked. “Mi nombre es Wheel,” he quietly replied, pronouncing a soft “w” followed by a breath. Impatiently the judge demanded the translator explain. “He said his name is Wheel.” “What is that?” she asked. As his only remaining dignity lay in his name, the man wished to clarify it.“Wheel,” he said again softly. The migrant’s lawyer intervened. Story Eight 49 50 stories from the migrant trail He walked over to speak with the man. After a short discussion, the lawyer called out “Will. His name is Will Alberto Martinez Ramos.” Mr. Martinez said “gracias” and sat down. The judge noted the correction and finished the roll call. She said, “You have all been charged with illegally entering the United States. You have a right to a trial, which will be in thirty days. You have all waived the right to a trial. Do you understand?” “Sí,” the room replied. “How do you plead?” Culpable, culpable, culpable...