José looked up at me. When you were on the border, he asked, did you ever find drugs? Sure, I told him. More than you can imagine. He nodded slowly, his eyes unblinking. Did you ever arrest a narco? Sure, I said. But not like El Chapo. José listened intently. We mostly arrested the little people—smugglers, scouts, mules, coyotes. I watched as a knowing look spread across his face. His eyes met mine and held them until I turned to look away. But mostly I arrested migrants, I confessed. People looking for a better life.
—
Around nine or ten in the morning, every day without fail, José brought his breakfast to the coffee bar and sat at the counter to eat. He ate the same thing each morning, a vegetarian breakfast burrito from the taco shop next door, and every morning he offered to share it with me. Vas a querer burro? he would ask, and most mornings I would accept. Grab a knife, he’d say, cut it in half, take however much you want. I made him coffee in exchange, always in a paper cup, flavored with a shot of vanilla and a splash of half-and-half. He often commented on the quality of the burrito: it’s good today, the beans are cold, there’s too much salt, there must be a new cook. He would comment on the salsa: it’s watery today, it’s not spicy enough. Sometimes he would even come to me before ordering: I could order black beans instead of pintos, I could add avocado, qué te parece?
Some days José would offer to split a dessert with me, donuts or yellow cake from the bakery next door. One morning, he brought in breakfast made by his wife, comida típica de Oaxaca, he told me. He offered me as much as I wanted—I eat like this all the time, he said, smiling. As I ate from his Tupperware, I told him I had once arrested two men from Oaxaca. José’s eyes grew wide. Oh, sí? he asked. They were good people, I told him, gente humilde. José smiled. Así somos en Oaxaca. They shared their food with me just like this, I told him. I described the beef jerky, the grasshoppers, the dried fish. José beamed, his eyes hungry and sparkling. Carne seca, he said, chapulines, charales. But the best part, I continued, was the mezcal they gave me, made by their father right there in their village. José sat back and opened his mouth. Ahhhh, he said, el mezcal es muy bueno.
José leaned on the counter and shook his head, looking down at the wood grain. Yo antes tomaba mucho mezcal. My cousin, he makes his own mezcal, he harvests the maguey from around our village. We used to drink it straight from the still. He gazed out the window and across the courtyard. Fui alcohólico, he admitted quietly. He straightened his back. Pero ya no, he told me, I’ve been sober for fifteen years, ever since my first son was born.
Day after day, month after month, every morning at the coffee shop was the same. José would complete his daily tasks and then come to the counter to talk and share his food. For nearly two years there wasn’t a single day he didn’t come, not a single day he didn’t sit down and offer to break bread with me.
—
One morning I asked José about his home in Oaxaca. His village was small, he told me, nestled in the jungled mountains south of the capital. It’s peaceful there, he said—so far the violence hasn’t come for us. Where I’m from the people are humble and hardworking. There’s little money to be had, he said, but in my village the people still haven’t turned to drugs and killing.
Later that morning, during a lull in business, he came to the counter with his smartphone. He opened Google Earth and spread his fingers across the screen, bringing close the state of Oaxaca, the green hills surrounding his village. He smiled longingly at the satellite image, pointing to neatly cultivated fields at the settlement’s edge. This is where my cousins make their mezcal, he told me with glinting eyes. In Street View he pointed at colored buildings and cracked roads. This is the church, he said, his voice far-off and trailing, this is the municipal plaza. I interrupted our conversation to refill coffee mugs, to take the order of a customer, but each time José remained at the counter, absorbed in his phone. Look, he called to me, it’s my mother’s house. I walked over and he pressed his finger at the screen. You can tell by the arches. He sat back in his chair, smiling.
—
The first time my mother took me to Mexico I was just a boy, still unable to grasp and file away memories. She took me by train through the state of Chihuahua to a place called Casas Grandes, site of the ancient Mogollon settlement of Paquimé. I wanted to go to Mexico with my little boy, she would later tell me, because I wanted him to grow up knowing the border, to see it as a place of power, a place of discovery.
My mother had just separated from my father and was seeking to prove to herself that she did not need protection, that she could travel as a single woman in a way that trusted people, in a way that imparted this trust to her son. When we arrived at the town near the ruins, my mother took me to a market next to the station and asked the man working there if he knew of a place where we could stay. My mother remembers how the man smiled at her without menace, how he referred to her—for the first time in her life—as señora instead of señorita. He wrote down the name and address of a woman with a guesthouse nearby. She doesn’t like to take in many people, he said, but she’ll take in a mother and her child.
Later that afternoon, after leaving our belongings at the guesthouse, my mother remembers going with me to a small plaza. She remembers that there were women and children there, that the women greeted her warmly, that one woman even gave her a hug before bending down to speak to me in Spanish. The woman introduced me to her little boy and we ran off together to play on the steps of the gazebo as my mother joined the other women. My mother tells me that never before had she felt so accepted by a group of women. She describes the moment as transcendent. It didn’t matter that her Spanish was poor, that she came as a tourist from another country. It didn’t matter, she says, because we were mothers.
The next day, the man from the market drove us to the ruins of Paquimé. When we arrived my mother found that the park was closed for archaeological work. But the men who worked there, seeing that she was a mother, seeing that she had come from so far away with a small child, welcomed us to walk through the ruins. As we walked I became fascinated by the men at work. Before long, I was improvising a game of cowboys and Indians. I would hide behind a rock near the workmen and then pop up with my arms outstretched and my fingers pointed at them. I would make the noise boom. My mother remembers how one man stopped what he was doing to clutch his chest and fall backward, feigning death. She remembers how I laughed with delight. She remembers how another man threw down his tools to jump behind an ancient mud wall. He popped up with his fingers aimed at me. Boom, he said, and I jumped back in surprise.
My mother still remembers how I ran laughing through the labyrinthine ruins that afternoon, chasing and hiding from the workers. She remembers losing sight of me but remaining calm. She remembers trusting me, trusting the place, trusting the people around us.
—
On a blazing summer day I noticed that José had not come to work. Late in the morning the owner of the mercado, a woman named Diane, came in for her daily latte. I asked her if she had heard from José. He called me last night, she said. His mother is dying, poor thing. He’s taking two weeks off to go to Oaxaca so he can see her before she passes. She took a sip of her latte and looked out the open door to the courtyard. I know what it’s like, she said. I was with my mother the night she died. She passed in her sleep, bless her heart. Diane gazed up at the ceiling. You know, she said, it was the saddest thing, but it was so important for me to be there. She looked back across the counter at me and I struggled to find something to say. Diane shook her head. I’m sorry, she said, I just feel so bad for José, he’s such a sweet man. She took another sip of her latte. And I’ll tell you what, he’s the best worker we’ve ever had. She held up a finger. In three years of working for me, this is the very first day he’s ever missed.
A couple of weeks later, as Diane sat at the bar drinking another latte, I asked her if there was news from José. She glanced at the customers seated on e
ither side of her. He’s still in Oaxaca, she told me, tending to his mother’s estate. Oh, I said. Later in the day, as I was restocking the supply closet, she called to me from the open door, asking me to come outside.
We walked to the dirt parking lot and I stood with Diane under the glaring summer sun. I didn’t want to say this in front of your customers, she began, but I think José is having problems getting back into the country. What kind of problems? I said. She looked into the distance. I don’t think he has papers, she told me—we never asked. I shook my head and looked down at the dirt. I wish I could have talked to him before he left. There’s nothing you could have said, she told me. Trust me, there was no stopping him. I looked back up at Diane. He doesn’t know, I said, getting back across isn’t what it used to be. I turned and stared out at the parked cars, squinting against the sun.
Is there any way to get ahold of him? I asked. I can give you his family’s number, Diane told me. The last I heard he was at the border, trying to get across. Oh no, I said. He can’t cross now. Not in the summer. Diane looked at me. I have to talk to him, I said. I closed my eyes and saw images of volcanic stone and swollen bodies, of hospital sheets and blackened skin. No, I whispered, not José.
—
When I called the house, a small boy answered. I introduced myself as a friend of José’s. Are you his son? I asked. The boy said nothing. I work with your dad, I continued. I heard he’s at the border, trying to get across. Is he okay? After a long silence the boy finally spoke. Do you want my mom to call you? he asked. Sure, I said, and then he hung up.
Half an hour later my phone rang. Soy Lupe, the woman on the other line said, esposa de José. I introduced myself again as a friend from work and told her I was wondering about José. Lupe was silent, as if considering what to say next, how much to tell me. I wanted to blurt out that it was too hot, that it wasn’t worth risking his life, that he must wait to cross. It’s funny you called, she finally said, because I just got off the phone with the Mexican consulate. They called to tell me José was arrested two days ago by Border Patrol. He has a court hearing later today, at two. They didn’t tell me where. I paced with the phone in my hand, pressing it hard against my ear. Lupe’s voice sounded thin, as if it were all she could do just to repeat what had been said to her. Today at two? I asked. Yes, she confirmed. I continued pacing in my home, old procedures and timelines rising up in my mind. I think I know where he’ll be, I told her. Can I call you back?
—
It had been months since I had seen or talked to Morales, but I called him anyway. Hey, vato, do you still work at the courthouse? I asked. Simon, he said, but not today. Por qué? I think I have a friend who’s getting Streamlined, I said. Shit, a few years out of the patrol and suddenly all your friends are mojados? I tried to think of a comeback. I’m just kidding, Morales said before I could reply—I know how it is. Of course you do, I shot back at him, did you think I forgot you’re from Douglas? Shit, you could be a mojado yourself and not even know it. You better not forget to wear your uniform when you show up to court, güey, they might deport your ass. Oh damn, Morales laughed, shots fired!
I asked Morales if Streamline proceedings were still open to the public. Yeah, he said, hippies and protesters come all the time. You never had to go to court? No, I said. Well, you know where the courthouse is, downtown? Go to the second floor, the main courtroom—and be there by one-thirty. I looked at my watch. Will I be able to see him? I asked. Sure, Morales said, if you can pick him out. There’ll probably be thirty or forty guys today, and everyone will be facing away from you, pendejo. Can his family come? I asked. Sure, he said. I don’t know if they’re documented, I told him. It shouldn’t matter, he assured me, no one will mess with them. Will they be able to talk to him? I asked. No, Morales answered matter-of-factly. But if you sit on the right-hand side of the courtroom, in the front two rows next to the wall, you should be able to catch his eye as the marshals walk him out.
—
Lupe and I met for the first time outside the courtroom. She came with the pastor from her church and her three boys—fifteen, ten, and eight years old, all of them called out from school in hopes of seeing their father in court. I held the door of the courtroom open for the family and gestured toward the benches against the right wall. The front rows, I whispered. The proceedings had begun just as we entered the courtroom, and I immediately noticed the smell—a smell I had not encountered in years, the sharp scent of dozens of unwashed bodies that had for days struggled through the desert, skin sweating and sunbaked. The courtroom was cathedral-like, with towering ceilings of brightly colored beams painted in turquoise and coral. From his bench the judge loomed over the room, a small white face emerging from black robes and seated beneath the massive seal of the United States of America, a giant eagle with its head turned as if to look away.
I sat next to Lupe, who held her youngest son close to her body with her oldest son seated beside him. Behind us the pastor sat with the middle son. The judge addressed the forty-some defendants seated before him, most of them male, all of them wearing black headsets, listening to the words of an interpreter. All of you have been charged with two crimes, the judge began. I understand that each of you intends to plead guilty to the petty offense of illegal entry at a place other than one designated for entry by U.S. Immigration. In exchange for your plea, the government has agreed to dismiss the felony offense of reentry after removal. Some of the men hunched over, holding the headsets close to their ears. It is important that you understand this, the judge continued. If you understand, please indicate so by standing. He paused. All the men stood, some rising up from their chairs with their shoulders back and their heads held high as if in defiance, while others seemed barely able to get up from their seats, their bodies slumped, their faces downcast.
The maximum penalty for this charge is six months in prison and a $5,000 fine, the judge went on, but the government has agreed to waive this fine in exchange for your plea today. I caught the eye of a Border Patrol agent, who glared at me as if I were somehow allied against him. I stared at his green uniform, at the badge on his chest, the gun on his belt, the iron-creased lines running down his sleeves. You must understand, the judge continued, that in the future this charge will always be used against you, that if you are arrested attempting to reenter the country, you could serve years in prison, not days or months.
I leaned over to Lupe. Do you see José? I asked. I don’t know, she said, I can’t see their faces. Next to her, her youngest son kicked his legs nervously against the bench in front of him. She placed her hand gently on his thigh. Tranquilo, she whispered into his hair. On the floor of the courtroom, the defendants began to file out of their chairs five at a time. Their ankles were chained to one another and their wrists were bound at the waist. They stood before the judge, flanked by court-appointed attorneys—dizzied men and women darting from one client to another in pale suits. The judge began with the person standing to his left. Mr. Amaya, he read, as if from a script: Are you a citizen of Mexico? Sí. On or about August 31, 2015, did you enter the United States near Lukeville, Arizona? Sí. Did you come through a designated port of entry? No. How do you plead in the charge of illegal entry? Culpable, señor.
After repeating this set of questions for each defendant, the judge issued his sentence—for most, thirty days of incarceration in the state detention center an hour north of the city, with credit for time served. One woman, after answering the judge’s questions, interrupted before he issued her sentence. I’m pregnant, señor, she said. The judge paused. He looked around, as if for guidance. I’ll put a note in your file, he said, for someone to see you at the facility.
Watching the defendants shuffle to the front of the room to stand before the bench, I realized that I had never before seen so many men and women in shackles, that I had never laid eyes on a group of people so diminished. I had apprehended and processed countless men and women for deportation,
many of whom I sent without thinking to pass through this very room—but there was something dreadfully altered in their presence here between towering and cavernous walls, lorded over by foreign men in colored suits and black robes, men with little notion of the dark desert nights or the hard glare of the sun, with little sense for the sweeping expanses of stone and shale, the foot-packed earthen trails, the bodies laid bare before the elements, the bones trembling from heat, from cold, from want of water. It dawned on me that in my countless encounters with migrants at the hard end of their road through the desert, there was always the closeness of the failed journey, the fading but still-hot spark from the last flame of the crossing. But here, in the stale and swirling air of the courthouse, it was clear that something vital had gone missing in the days since apprehension, some final essence of the spirit had been stamped out or lost in the slow crush of confinement.
The pastor leaned forward and pointed toward a gray-haired man who had just stood to walk to the front of the courtroom. It’s your dad, he whispered to the boys. They looked at the man and then at each other, wide-eyed. Es él, the pastor said, gesturing again and again, es él. The boys sat forward in their seats to get closer. No está, the boys confirmed with each other, no, no está. Yes, the pastor said emphatically, that’s your father. You don’t recognize him because he shaves his head, but his hair has grown out and he has stubble now, you can even see his bald spot. Se ve diferente. The boys looked at each other. Él es, Lupe said finally. It’s him. The boys sat on their hands, dumbstruck, their mouths agape. Beside me, Lupe slowly doubled over, placing her forearms on her thighs with her palms open at the knees, her head sinking into her hands as she gently rocked in place, cradling herself in her own embrace.
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