Miguel's Gift

by Bruce Kading

  “Believe me, this gladiator syndrome is unsustainable. Reality will eventually intervene and knock him off his pedestal. He will take risks on the job that are foolish, and outside of work he’ll push people away so that he becomes more and more isolated. A bunker mentality takes over.

  “But it doesn’t have to reach that point. When you see the warning signs, you need to pull back and put some emotional distance between yourself and the job. You can choose to be a philosopher instead of a gladiator. You won’t see things in such black-and-white terms. A more mature, thoughtful attitude will emerge, so you won’t take your job or yourself so seriously. And that’s a good thing.”

  McCloud paused a moment before continuing. “You may even develop a vague sort of kinship with the wets because they’re caught up in the same mess you are.”

  * * *

  Seven months into his first year, Nick Hayden caught a break. An extra car became available, and Willis, due to his seniority, was allowed to ride alone. Hayden was more than a little relieved, as dealing with his partner’s mood swings and autocratic style was emotionally draining, and though Hayden had performed well, Willis still hadn’t fully accepted him.

  Nick realized it wasn’t personal—that Willis had difficulty getting along with everyone, particularly trainees who hadn’t been in the Border Patrol. Though eccentric, Joe was a competent, dedicated agent whose world had become defined by the job’s physical and emotional demands—a kind of low-level warfare he’d grown to cherish. Chicago, a city of gruff characters, patiently tolerated him, as did his professional colleagues.

  As they drove toward the office on their last day together, Hayden made a final peace offering: “Thanks for putting up with me, Joe. I learned a lot from you.”

  This caught Willis off guard, and he seemed at a loss for how to respond. Finally, he said, “Well, buttering me up ain’t going to do you no good. You’ve still got plenty to learn.”

  Hayden smiled. What else could he have expected from Willis?

  Hayden’s next partner was Vince Kozlowski. Born and raised on the southwest side of Chicago, Kozlowski had a lopsided nose, a wry smile, and a calm manner that instantly put others at ease. Though tough and capable, Kozlowski didn’t have a nasty bone in his body, nor did he lust for higher office.

  Kozlowski hadn’t been in the Patrol and was far more accepting of Hayden than most of the other journeymen agents. He was in many ways Joe Willis’s opposite—free of ego, not taking anything personally, and wanting only to get the job done so he could go home to the domestic bliss he shared with his wife and three young children. Having grown up amid the corruption and inefficiencies that were a normal part of life in Chicago, Vince was patient with government policies, no matter how incoherent or perverse. Resistance to these forces was, in his mind, both futile and self-destructive. Whenever Hayden voiced frustrations over the disarray of immigration policy, Vince would gently chide him.

  “Look at it this way,” Kozlowski would say with a knowing smile. “It’s great job security. There will never be a shortage of wets. If the government wanted to stop illegal immigration, they’d make employers check the phony documents the wets use to get work. But they don’t wanna do that because it would work. Obviously, if the wets don’t think they can get jobs, they won’t come—and we’d be out of a job. Just go along with it, take your paycheck, and try to enjoy life.” Earlier than most of his colleagues, Kozlowski had embraced the “philosopher” mindset. Hayden thought he was one of the most uncomplicated and emotionally healthy people he’d ever met.

  Meanwhile, it was a wild time out in the field. Under pressure from headquarters, Moretti ordered agents to keep hitting businesses until they’d corralled at least a hundred illegals every day. “Don’t bother coming into the office until your cars are fully loaded,” he warned.

  Setting out before dawn in caravans of up to twenty vehicles and a detention van or two following along, they invaded one factory after another, many of them housed in crumbling warehouses that violated every city code imaginable. Agents grew accustomed to working around physical hazards: asbestos hanging from warehouse pipes, open vats of foul-smelling toxic waste, and assembly lines choked with smoke and deafening noise.

  The agents’ arrival typically led to pandemonium—large segments of the workforce scattering in every direction. Fights and altercations of one kind or another became daily occurrences. Among the notable injuries sustained by agents that spring, Al Winfield was struck in the back of the head by a Nicaraguan, who came out of a tool shed wielding a long piece of metal tubing as if it were a samurai sword. At the office it was discovered that the Nicaraguan had been deported three times before, had assaulted an INS agent in Newark, and was wanted for armed robbery.

  Jack Hibbert got into a brawl with a Mexican on the roof of a factory. The Mexican slashed Hibbert in the arm with a switchblade but was captured when he jumped off the roof and broke his ankle.

  Coming to the aid of a fellow agent outside a scrap yard, Judy Svoboda was attacked by a snarling Doberman and had to shoot it down. The same day a group of El Salvadorans fled a factory and ran onto a nearby freeway, dodging high-speed traffic. A car skidded into one young man, sending him flying onto an embankment, breaking both of his legs.

  If apprehensions were running low, agents would pretend to have information on whatever business they happened to be passing. Those were often the most productive operations. Agents were very adept at implying that owners had no choice but to allow them to take over their properties and interrogate the entire workforce. Confronted with a team of ten or more federal officers glaring at them with righteous indignation, few had the temerity to turn them away.

  The more daring illegals would resist the flight instinct during raids, hiding in plain sight, but their poses of casual indifference were often dead giveaways. When questioned, some would claim to have been born in Texas or California, but they had difficulty explaining why they could speak no English. Others, insisting they were born in Puerto Rico, had no idea where the island was or knew nothing about its history or customs. Nevertheless, agents were keenly aware that arresting someone who turned out to be a citizen would lead to lawsuits and depositions, so they proceeded with caution.

  The mere presence of the INS caravans in ethnic neighborhoods aroused fear and panic, as immigrants of all nationalities had become familiar with the INS fleet, most of them clunky, tan Plymouth Furies with antennas poking from their roofs. Fleeing illegals scurried in front of traffic and down side streets, and the Furies would roar off in pursuit. The chases often led to enclaves of illegals in stores or apartment buildings, and the backseats of the Furies steadily filled up.

  Agents made so many arrests every day that pat-downs got sloppy, and sometimes weapons weren’t found until illegals were admitted into lockup. Moretti would dump a boxful of undetected knives and switchblades on a table in the middle of the squad room. “This is what you guys are missing,” he’d bellow. “I won’t tolerate an agent being killed on my watch because of negligence. When you throw your borders open, some bad people are going to come in with the average wet who is just looking for work to support his family. Do I have to remind you of the agents we’ve already lost around the country?”

  Amid the stress of field operations, personal animosities between agents sometimes came to a boil. Once that summer, Hayden entered a parking lot outside a factory to find two men grappling on the oily ground. He jumped in to assist in the anticipated arrest, only to find they were both journeymen agents, pummeling each other over some perceived slight.

  As illegals often concealed themselves in the dirtiest and most remote sections of warehouses, agents frequently ended the day covered with layers of soot and grime. Yet the dress code required a jacket and tie, so each agent had a collection that was frayed and soiled.

  McGinty’s Tavern, just around the corner from the office, became a decompression chamber at the conclusion of the day’s field operations. Agents, espe
cially the older ones, would pause to fortify themselves with beers and shots of Irish. Then they would grab a sandwich and head up to the office for the hectic drudgery of writing up illegals for deportation, which often took all afternoon and well into the evening.

  Hayden found that he thrived on the excitement, challenges, and unpredictability of field work. While some agents would lose their composure amid the chaos, he would often arrive at a state of inner calm, particularly when things were spinning most out of control. Eventually his coolness under pressure drew quiet compliments from senior agents.

  Meanwhile, twelve-hour workdays left little time for outside activities. Hayden usually returned exhausted to his spare studio apartment near DePaul University. He sometimes forced himself to go for a short run before wolfing down a dinner of pizza or canned soup. If he had any energy left, he would study immigration law manuals in preparation for the written exams he would have to pass. Then he would sleep hard and get up early. It was a demanding schedule, but he didn’t mind because it was more interesting than anything he’d ever done in his life, and he was convinced it was important work.

  Still, knowing he could be fired without cause during the first year, Hayden was apprehensive about his upcoming appearance before the probationary review panel. Despite having earned a reputation as a hard worker and doing well academically, he felt like an outsider—tolerated, perhaps, but not embraced by his colleagues. He wondered whether the incident with Tom Kane and the Jamaican had something to do with it. But the issue that caused the greatest concern was his reason for taking the job in the first place. If it were discovered, he would certainly be fired. He’d asked senior agents a lot of questions about the shooting, and that may have raised suspicions. McCloud had been curious about his name, and though they’d since developed a good relationship, he could have referred the matter to the regional office for further investigation. Anything seemed possible.

  When Hayden found out that the head of investigations at the Minneapolis field office would be part of the panel, he had a sinking feeling. Victor Bolton, a hardliner with an enormous ego, didn’t like agents hired “off the street.” A number of probationers at the Minneapolis office who hadn’t been in the Border Patrol had been fired in recent years for no legitimate reason, and Bolton had purportedly enjoyed letting the guillotine fall.

  Then there was Jack Connelly, director of investigations at the Chicago office. With his carefully combed white hair, pencil mustache, frequent scowl, and horn-rimmed glasses, Connelly was a distant figure, not one to engage personally with the younger agents, and he tended to shift with the wind, which could be dangerous. Connelly would be in charge of the panel, and his opinion would be crucial. It would be Connelly, Bolton, and somebody from the regional office to render final judgment.

  On the morning of the hearing, Hayden sat at his desk in the empty squad room and tried to remain calm as he waited to be called into Connelly’s office. He was wearing the only suit he had that hadn’t been torn or otherwise damaged during a field operation—a gray pinstripe, crisply pressed, accompanied by a white shirt and a red silk tie. He hadn’t slept well the night before and noticed in the office lavatory that he had dark circles under his eyes. The suit at least made him look respectable, he told himself.

  Moretti had earlier informed him that Earl Fasco, a regional investigator, had been selected as the third person on the panel, and that Fasco had spent most of his career doing internal investigations, cases in which agents had taken bribes or engaged in other improper conduct. Nick suddenly felt they had to know something.

  He had been told to be ready at nine o’clock. It was already ten, and still they hadn’t sent for him. Feeling edgy, he took a stroll down the hall past Connelly’s office to the drinking fountain. Through the frosted glass windows, he could see three blurry figures sitting behind Connelly’s desk and a fourth in a chair in the middle of the room facing them. That had to be Lou Moretti. It was normal for them to talk to his supervisors, but why for so long? A few moments later, Moretti emerged from Connelly’s office and approached Hayden.

  “They want you in there now,” said Moretti. Hayden studied Moretti’s face, but his eyes were flat and expressionless. Hayden buttoned the jacket of his coat, took a deep breath, and walked into Connelly’s office.

  All three of the men were sitting rigidly behind Connelly’s large desk, glaring suspiciously at Hayden. Connelly was in the middle. Without standing, he introduced Fasco and Bolton. Hayden stepped forward to shake their hands. Bolton shook his hand with exaggerated firmness and offered an icy smile. Fasco, a swarthy man of about fifty, leaned forward, allowed a weak shake, and sank back into his chair, looking down at the file materials in front of him. Hayden glanced at the papers and could make out what looked like his original application for employment, which sent his mind racing. Why would Fasco be studying a document that had nothing to do with his performance during the past year?

  Hayden sat in the chair vacated by Moretti. The room felt stuffy and warm. All three of the men were now silently looking down at the papers in front of them and occasionally glanced up at Hayden as if to reconcile what they had read with the person sitting before them. This went on for what seemed like several minutes, while Hayden’s temperature rose around his shirt collar.

  Then Bolton, a square-jawed, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a deadly serious manner, plunged forward before Connelly had a chance to say anything—a clear breach of protocol.

  “Hayden, we’ve reviewed your evaluations and your academic record. Is there anything you want to tell us that you think is important to this proceeding?” said Bolton in a deep, sonorous voice.

  Though now certain they knew something, Hayden decided there was no point in admitting anything. He wasn’t going to break, not without being confronted with specific evidence.

  “No. I’m willing to let the record speak for itself.” He was pleased that his voice sounded calm and steady.

  Bolton was sitting with his large hands folded in front of him on the desk, looking at Hayden intently, as though he could look through his eyes and into his soul. He examined Hayden silently for several moments in an apparent effort to unsettle him. Nick noted an impish grin on the face of Jack Connelly, apparently amused by Bolton and the situation. He didn’t know what to make of that, but took minor comfort from the fact that Earl Fasco looked utterly bored.

  “I see you weren’t in the Patrol,” said Bolton, who made it sound like an accusation.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” Bolton paused before continuing. “You know, a number of years ago an agent from this office was killed—shot dead by an illegal alien. Were you aware of that?”

  Though growing increasingly nervous, Hayden maintained his surface composure. “Yes, I’ve heard about it.”

  “It was found that an officer, a trainee like you, didn’t have what it took to shoot a man before that man killed his partner,” said Bolton, who let the statement hang in the air. Hayden said nothing, and Bolton continued. “It ended up costing the life of a good agent. I knew the agent who was killed, Frank Kelso. He was a fine man. So I’m going to ask you an important question.”

  Hayden noticed that Fasco and Connelly were now fully engaged in the exchange, staring at him as though they knew what was coming.

  Bolton continued: “If you had to pull that trigger to save yourself or your partner, would you hesitate?”

  “No, of course not,” said Nick, as Bolton studied him doubtfully.

  Hayden was still girding himself for an extended interrogation when, to his surprise, Jack Connelly stepped in. “Well, Hayden, you have done quite well in your first year. All your supervisors say so. I don’t see any reason to prolong this line of questioning. Everything indicates that you have a bright future here.”

  Hayden was shocked. He had a sense that Connelly was being more kind than normal as a counterpoint to Bolton, who had clumsily taken over Connelly’s preem
inent position on the panel. That’s what the grin was about. He’d allowed Bolton to continue and then taken delight in pulling the rug out from under him.

  Bolton was sitting back in his chair looking deflated. Apparently he’d been trying to rattle Nick and plant some seeds of doubt about an agent who hadn’t come from the Patrol. They knew nothing after all.

  Fasco followed up with a couple of innocuous questions about what types of investigations Hayden most enjoyed. Then Connelly resumed control and, without asking the others if they had further questions, congratulated Hayden on successfully completing probation and dismissed him from the room. Bolton, his face flushed, shot a baleful glance at Connelly.

  As Hayden closed the door behind him, an enormous sense of relief swept over him. He felt he was gliding inches off the floor as he walked back to area control.

  * * *

  The day after his probation hearing, Hayden, curious about what he’d accomplished in his first year, leafed through the leather-bound logbook that recorded all of the unit’s arrests and deportations. He counted over five hundred illegal immigrants arrested during the past year with his name next to theirs, which meant that he’d done the paperwork on them and, in many cases, personally arrested them. In all, the Chicago office had been responsible for removing or placing in deportation proceedings some ten thousand illegal aliens during that year. Considering the logistics of moving around that many people, it was a remarkably efficient operation. Yet politicians, activists, and pundits regularly pillaged INS, in no small part because of its efficiency. Agents were accused of insensitivity, brutality, and racism, even though cases of outright cruelty or abuse were extremely rare. Hayden had been struck by how meticulous agents were in making certain that the children of illegals were not left unattended when one or both of the parents were arrested. While agents from the FBI or any number of other federal agencies were routinely glorified and thought of as heroic, INS agents fought a lonely and unheralded battle, more often objects of derision than praise.