by Don Winslow
“No.”
“Then why do you have a Calle 18 tattoo?”
“They made me.”
“Who made you?”
Brenda said, “If I may, Your Honor—”
“No, you may not,” the judge said. “I’m talking to Mr. Ramírez, and he’s capable of answering.”
“Pulga tattooed me.”
“Why did you let him?”
“He said he’d hurt my mother.”
“Why did you come to the United States?”
“So I wouldn’t have to join Calle 18,” Nico said.
“But aren’t you afraid they’ll hurt your mother because you left?” the judge asked.
“Yes.”
Nico watched the judge think for a few minutes. Then the judge said, “Agent Kincaid, what are ICE’s wishes in this matter?”
“We would prefer to see Mr. Ramírez sent to a secure care facility.”
Brenda said, “Your Honor, as per the Flores decision, UAC is supposed to be held in ‘the least restrictive facility possible.’ That would be a group home, not a secure care facility.”
“I don’t need you to educate me about Flores,” the judge said. “Nor do I remember asking you a question.”
“I apologize, Your Honor.”
The judge said, “Mr. Ramírez has expressed fear that a close family member is vulnerable to a criminal gang, and therefore he might be subject to extortion or blackmail by that organization here in the United States. As such, he does represent a threat and I am going to deny the request to transfer him to a group home. Mr. Ramírez will be housed in a secure care facility pending successful application of sponsorship, at which time his status will be reviewed.”
“Preserving right to file a BIA appeal, Your Honor.”
“Of course you are, Ms. Solowicz. Next case?”
Outside, Brenda said, “Shit, if Jesus Christ came in with a tat these days, they’d threat him.”
Nico had no idea what happened.
“Where are you going to place him?” Alma asked.
Donna had only two choices, a facility in Northern California or one in southern Virginia. “I’ll try to get him on the East Coast, a little closer to his people, anyway. Maybe they can drive down to see him.”
She had to get on the phone and tell Nico’s uncle and aunt that the government was sending him to a juvenile detention center. “Look, hopefully he won’t be there long. A month or two.”
“A month?!”
“These things take time, Mr. López,” Donna said. But it was time that worried her—the system is like quicksand: the longer you’re in, the deeper you get, the harder it is to get out. She knew kids who’d lingered in the system for years. “Would you like to talk to him? He’s just outside.”
“Yes, please.”
She stepped into the hallway where Nico waited on a bench. “I have your uncle on the phone.”
Nico followed the woman inside her office and she handed him the phone. “Hello?”
“Sobrino, how are you? Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“We’re trying to get hold of your mother.”
“Okay.”
“Be strong, Nico.”
“Okay.”
Nico handed her back the phone.
López had already hung up.
“Nico,” she said, “in a couple of days we’re going to take you to a new place to stay while we’re waiting to see if you can go live with your aunt and uncle, okay?”
“Okay.”
And that, Donna thought, is how you tell a ten-year-old that he’s going to jail.
She got overrefreshed at Garcia’s that night with Alma. Brenda was there too when Donna slammed her hand on the bar and said, “He’s a child, for Chrissakes!”
Brenda looked over her beer bottle at her.
“Oh, Donna,” she said, “there are no children here.”
Now Nico sits with his back against the wall of the dayroom at the Southern Virginia Youth Detention Facility and watches other kids play checkers at the tables bolted to the floor.
Good thing it is, Nico thinks, because as soon as Fermín loses—which he’s about to do—he’d tip that table over if he could.
Same with the stools, they’re bolted down.
Even the checkerboard is set into the table so it can’t be used as a weapon.
The table isn’t going anywhere, the stools aren’t going anywhere, the board isn’t going anywhere, and I’m not going anywhere, Nico thinks.
He’s been in here almost a year now.
At first it was fresh.
Started with his first ride on an airplane, which was amazing. He went with an escort from ORR, who let him have the window seat, and Nico looked out and saw the world from thirty thousand feet.
It was beautiful.
Except as soon as they left the airport, the escort put him in handcuffs.
Sorry, it was the rules.
But he gave Nico a “break” and cuffed his hands in front of him instead of behind and helped him get his seat belt on and they stopped at a McDonald’s “drive-through” so Nico could get a Big Mac and a Coke, which he held between his legs and sipped through a straw.
When they got to “the facility” it was pretty much the same as the last time. First they took him to a nurse, who weighed him, took his temperature and looked in his mouth and his ears, and then they took him to the shower, then gave him some more clothes and showed him to his room. On the way they walked him through the dayroom, where all the other kids shut up, stopped what they were doing, and stared at him.
Fresh meat.
He walked up the stairs to the tier where his room was, put the towel they gave him on the bed and sat down.
Now Nico waits for Fermín to erupt.
Fer doesn’t like to lose and he has a temper.
Takes nothing to set him off.
Nico has seen him blow up because they were out of apple juice, because someone changed the channel from Property Brothers (Fer loves Property Brothers) and because a kid called him a Sally because he’s from El Salvador.
That’s when Fer has a reason.
Sometimes he goes off for no reason at all except for what’s going on inside his head, which Nico doesn’t want to even know about.
At least Fer’s regular afternoon meltdown is some entertainment as the guards come in, tackle him, drag him out and give him his meds until he’s quiet. Sometimes they put a netted hood over his face so he can’t bite anyone. It’s something to look at and better than Property Brothers anyway, and kills some time before People’s Court, which they all like because the judge is so pretty and she’s a Latina and doesn’t take any shit from anybody. Fer started banging his head into the wall when Carlos told him the judge was Cuban, not Salvadoran.
Now the head banging is going to start again because Santiago is about to jump one of Fer’s pieces. Nico knows this because he sees the look in Santi’s eyes and the little smirk he gets just before he’s about to win at something.
Fer makes his move.
Santi jumps three of his pieces and says, “King me.”
Yeah, Nico thinks, that’s not going to happen.
What happens is what Nico thinks is going to happen—Fer sweeps all the pieces off the board, jumps up, walks over to the concrete wall and starts banging his head into it. Nobody tries to stop him because they’ve all learned that if you try to stop Fer from banging his head into the wall he’s just going to bang your head into the wall, and anyway, one of their games is to see how long it takes one of the guards to come in.
Eight bangs this time, then the guard they call “Gordo” runs in and says, “Jesus, Fermín, what did that wall ever do to you?!”
Fer is too busy chanting, “I’m so stupid”—bang—“I’m so stupid”—bang—to answer, and Gordo wraps him up in a bear hug, lifts him off his feet and backs him away from the wall when two of the other guards (Chapo and Feo) come in, grab Fer by his kicking feet and carry
him screaming out of the dayroom.
Santi smiles and says, “Fermín’s going to get good drugs.”
Then it’s time for People’s Court so they all sit and watch the television mounted high on the wall.
“I’m going to jerk off to her tonight,” Jupiter says.
“Don’t say that,” Nico says.
He loves Judge Marilyn.
He has a major crush on Judge Marilyn.
“I am,” Jupiter says, making a jerking motion with his hand. He’s seventeen and big and doesn’t give a shit what a midget like Nico says. “I’m going to jerk off thinking about fucking her mouth and her chocha.”
All of a sudden Nico hears himself yelling, “Don’t say that! No, you’re not!”
“Chúpala, watermelon.”
And everyone is shocked, really shocked, when quiet, shy, agreeable Nico launches himself at Jupiter, swinging his fists wildly, trying to reach up and connect. Jupiter doesn’t care how small this kid is, he hauls back and punches Nico in the nose.
It doesn’t stop him.
Blood flowing down his face, Nico keeps swinging until Jupiter grabs him, slams him to the floor and sits on top of him, punching him in the ribs and the face.
The guards run back in and pull Jupiter off him.
“Jesus,” Gordo says as he picks Nico up and carries him out, “what’s with you kids today?”
Nico hears himself yelling, “I’ll kill him! I’ll fucking kill him!”
“You’re not going to kill anybody. Settle down.”
Gordo takes him to one of the “recovery rooms,” a narrow rectangle with a bed and a door that locks.
The nurse comes in. Wiping the blood off Nico’s face, she says, “What’s going on with you? You’re usually such a nice boy.”
Nico doesn’t answer.
“Your nose isn’t broken. Are you hurt anywhere else, honey?”
“No.”
“Okay, you’ll have to talk with the counselor before you go back to gen pop,” the nurse says.
The counselor, a young guy named Chris, comes in a few minutes later and sits on the bed beside Nico. “Who hit you?”
Nico shrugs.
“You don’t know who hit you?”
“No.” Nico has learned a few things here. One of them is that snitches get stitches. The worst thing you can be is a dedo.
Chris laughs. “Nico, you know there are video cameras in the dayroom. You know we have everything on tape.”
“So look at it,” Nico says.
“I did,” Chris says. “You started the fight. Why?”
Nico is too embarrassed to repeat what Jupiter said about Judge Marilyn and too embarrassed to admit his feelings about her. So he goes the other way with it: “If you already know what happened, why are you asking me what happened?”
He knows the answer to his question—the staff has it in for Jupiter and would like a chance to write him up. Nico doesn’t like Jupiter either—he’s an asshole—but he also knows what side he’s on, so he’s not going to help them.
“I’m just giving you a chance to tell your side of the story,” Chris says.
Another shrug.
“Okay,” says Chris, “I think you’d better spend the night in here and let this cool off. And I’m going to consequence you with a week’s playground suspension. You’ll do the study room instead. If you want to challenge your consequence, you can take it up with Norma.”
“Fuck that.”
“Language,” Chris says. “You want another day?”
Chris stares him down, forcing an answer.
“No.”
“Okay,” Chris says. “Do you want to see the mental health counselor?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Chris gets up and leaves, locking the door behind him. Nico edges up to the wall and knocks on it. “Fer? You in there?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
His voice is dreamy. Santi was right, Fermín does get some good drugs.
“What did you do?” Fer asks.
“I punched Jup.”
“Why?”
Nico tells him.
“The prick,” Fer says.
“Right?”
“What did you get?” Fer asks.
“A week.”
“Not bad.”
It’s not. Chris could have written him up. Every report goes into your file, and if you get enough write-ups, it could keep you from being released. “Chris is an okay guy.”
“Canela might still write you up.”
“I hope not.”
“Me too.”
A little while later, Gordo comes in with a tray—macaroni and cheese, bread, apple juice and an oatmeal cookie. Mac and cheese is one of Nico’s favorites, but he likes the chocolate chip cookies better than the oatmeal. Anyway, it’s good food.
After he eats, Nico wraps up in his blanket, lies down, and thinks about fútbol.
They play fútbol on the basketball court.
When the bad white and bad black kids aren’t shooting hoops, the bad brown kids get the space to play soccer.
Nico’s good at fútbol.
Nico Rápido makes his reappearance on the court as he cuts and slashes, dribbles around and through the opposition, makes passes and gets into open space for a shot at the goal, a space against the chain-link fence defined by orange cones.
The fútbol games give Nico some respect.
The shrimp is just too good, making some of the kids think that he really isn’t eleven years old but maybe thirteen, fourteen, even fifteen. They all want Nico on their team, but usually the sides break down on national lines—the Central American kids versus the Mexican kids—which reflects the same situation in the dayroom. The Mexican boys look down on the Salvadorans, Hondurans and Guatemalans. Blame them for sneaking into Mexico and fucking things up on the border with El Norte.
But no one looks down on Nico when they’re playing fútbol, and now he plays a match in his head. In his mind he flicks the ball to Fer, moves around Jupiter like he’s standing still, takes the pass back from Fer, shoots and . . . scores.
The other boys throw their arms around him, pat him on the head, yell, “Nico is Messi!” as the Mexicans glower at him.
Then he thinks about Flor. Wonders where she is, if she’s okay. He has this fantasy that she made it across the border and met this nice woman who took her in and adopted her and now she lives in a big, clean house and has nice clothes and goes to school. And that the woman is helping her find Nico because she wants to adopt him, too.
They let him out in the morning for breakfast with the rest of the boys. Jupiter is there but ignores him, and Nico returns the favor.
Then he has to go in and see Norma in her office.
The supervisor is a squat, middle-aged woman with bright red hair. The boys call her “Canela.”
“Nico,” she says, “you know that we have a zero-tolerance policy on violence.”
Nico knows this.
They have a “zero-tolerance policy” on a lot of things—violence, bad language, “disrespect,” jerking yourself off, jerking someone else off . . . drugs, unless they’re the drugs they give you. Except for the drugs, there’s a zero-tolerance policy on things that happen all the time.
“We simply won’t tolerate it,” Norma says.
“Okay.”
“You’re starting to get yourself in trouble,” Norma says. “You’re developing an attitude, young man. I don’t want to see that.”
“Then don’t look,” Nico says.
“Are you asking me to write you up?” Norma asks.
“No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Go to class now,” Norma says. “Come back here at recess and we’ll see if we can get your aunt or uncle on the phone.”
Nico wants to talk with them, but he’s sick of just talking on the phone.
He’s been here for close to a year and they haven’t come down to see him. He knows it’s not really their fault—they don’t own a car and it’s too much money to fly. Nico thinks it’s something else, too—they’re afraid to come near authorities because they’re “illegals” and they’re afraid they’ll be arrested.
They put their address on the paperwork, though, at least the lady Alma told him they did. She’s still his CA, even long distance from Texas, and she says that Tío Javier and Tía Consuelo filed the application for sponsorship and “we’re all still waiting” for it to be approved.
No, Nico thinks as he’s walking to the classroom, I’m still waiting.
Like he’s waiting for an appeal to get through.
Alma told him that the other lady, the lawyer Brenda, has filed three unsuccessful appeals to change his “status” as a threat, which Nico didn’t really understand until Santi explained it to him.
“We’re all threats, güerito,” Santi told him, “that’s why we’re here.”
Thirty kids, all Hispanics, live in the unit, which is separate from the rest of the facility where the kids who did bad things in Virginia are held.
“If they think you’re in a gang,” Santi told him, “or you’re a sexual predator, or you’ve committed crimes—”
“I haven’t committed crimes,” Nico said.
“That tattoo on your ankle is your crime,” Santi said.
It’s a real problem, Nico has to admit. Not only because it landed him here, where he’s stuck, but also because there are kids in this place who really are gangstas, two of them who are Mara 13 and have flat out told Nico they’ll kill him if they can.
“Some night when the guards aren’t watching,” a Salvadoran named Rodrigo told him, “we’re going to come in your room, you 18 pisado, make you suck our cocks, then fuck you in the ass, then cut your throat.”
And I’m the “threat,” Nico thinks. At least there are no Calle 18’s here, because they would kill him for running away, like the 13’s tried to kill him on La Bestia.
“They’re just running their mouths,” Santi told him. “They’re not so tough—one of them cries every night, the other one wets his bed.”
Nico knows Rodrigo isn’t the only one who cries at night or wets the bed. Some of them wake up screaming, some can’t stop scratching themselves or banging their heads into the wall. There’s one kid who never talks.