Chancers

by Susan Stellin

  Once the CO comes over and says, “Time’s up!” I give Tracy a quick hug and thank her for coming to see me.

  “I’ll try and come again,” she says. “Hang in there, you’re gonna be fine. Call me later, okay? I’ll write you!”

  After our visit, I have to strip for another cavity search, which is even more thorough this time. Since I missed dinner, I get a sandwich instead, but I just pick at it. I’m too caught up thinking about the wreckage of the last few years to eat.

  —

  BY MID-JULY, THE summer heat has turned this place into a pressure cooker—it’s got to be nearly a hundred degrees some days. The smallest thing seems to set people off. If it’s not the phones, it’s the TV, and if it’s not the TV then it’s the fucking fan. With all the fights breaking out, the whole jail seems to be ringing with alarms all day.

  Today they brought in a kid who’s a Blood—fuck knows how that happened ’cause usually the gang unit checks everyone out, so they can keep people from rival gangs separated in different dorms. All afternoon this kid’s been swaggering around, throwing gang signs at all the young Crips, winding everyone up. I was sure all hell was going to break loose, but some of the older guys were able to keep things under control.

  Then around nine thirty, just as I’m asking Jimmy if I can borrow his reading glasses—he managed to work through the bureaucracy and get a pair—I hear shouts coming from the bathroom. Everyone runs toward the wall separating the showers from the rest of the dorm, watching through the windows. There are about half a dozen guys going at it, pummeling each other and shouting insults. Two COs are in the middle of it, trying to get some order, but they’re all slipping and sliding on the wet floor. I’m waiting for the pin to get pulled or security to burst in, but before that happens they manage to break it up. All we get is a lecture about keeping tempers in check so they don’t have to come down hard on us, like in some of the rowdier dorms.

  But the next morning, we’re woken up by the sound of a dozen guards marching in.

  “Okay, fellas—get dressed, sit on the end of your bed, face the window, NO SHOES,” one of them orders.

  The search guys lead us into the dayroom, where we have to stand with our hands on our heads while they bring us out one by one and rifle through our stuff. Pulling off bedsheets, looking under mattresses, leafing through books and magazines, tossing things everywhere, then they take us each into the bathroom to frisk us for contraband or weapons. The whole time, other guards are looking under and around everything with flashlights and little mirrors on sticks—behind the TV, on top of window ledges, under the beds. I’m used to getting treated like dirt, but today I’m not in the mood to deal with this shit, lying on my bed facedown with my hands behind my back while everyone else goes through the same routine.

  After the search, sanitation comes in and sweeps whatever got tossed on the floor into garbage containers—magazines, family photos, food we bought from commissary, books. They don’t give a fuck, it’s all gone. Once they leave, the atmosphere in the dorm is even more toxic.

  “This is just gonna set people off again,” Jimmy says. “Let’s get out of here—they’re gonna call yard soon.”

  Once we get outside, Jimmy and I walk around in circles for a bit, but it’s hot and sticky so we end up lying on the grass looking up at the sky, trying to pretend we’re anywhere else.

  “I’m fed up being surrounded by the lowest common denominator mentality in here,” I tell him. “Inmates who are too fucking stupid to stay under the radar, asshole guards who overact just ’cause they can, medical staff that don’t give a shit about us—this whole place is totally dysfunctional.”

  “Don’t let it get to you. One more month and you’re done.”

  “Yeah, and then what? You’re not getting out until six weeks after me and I really don’t know how I’m gonna deal with everything on my own.”

  “Listen, you’re a smart guy, you’ve got a little cash put aside, you just have to get out there and hustle. Most of these nitwits only know how to make money in the criminal world—you’ve done well in the real world. You just need to stay away from anyone who’s going to drag you back down.”

  I know Jimmy’s right, especially about who I need to avoid. Some of my stuff is still at Joe’s place—if it hasn’t been stolen by now—so I’m worried about going back to the projects to pick it up.

  “The thing is, I’m not sure how much I trust myself to stay on the right side of the tracks,” I admit.

  “If you can keep your shit together in here, Graham, you can hold on a few more weeks till I’m out.”

  Jimmy’s not an addict, so he doesn’t quite get that a lot can happen in a few weeks—or days. But what really scares me is the idea that I might be vulnerable for the rest of my life. The thought of having to deal with being in recovery every day, forever, is totally fucking with my head right now.

  —

  ONE MORNING I wake up from a drug dream that’s so realistic it takes me a few minutes to realize where I am. I’ve had a few of these nightmares since I’ve been here, but this one lasted all night long. Every time I woke up I’d fall back into the same scene—smoking crack and shooting up in some random apartment with a bunch of junkies I didn’t know.

  The feeling that I’ve actually done drugs lingers with me as I lie in bed. I let it pass, but it felt so fucking real it scares me. The memories coming flooding back, my hands are shaking, and there’s sweat running down my neck. For a while I just lie there, wondering what it would be like to get high right now.

  To be honest, it’s been a struggle to stay clean in here. There always seem to be a few people who are fucked up or coming down. Some hide it well, but others are so out of it, nodding off or stuck looking out a window, it can set me off. The cravings come roaring back and I’m salivating just thinking about a hit. Then I’ve got to drag myself back from those thoughts before they overwhelm me.

  At first I couldn’t work out how anyone was getting drugs in Rikers, but it didn’t take long to catch on. Someone offered me methadone—they call it “keep” in here—which he got from one of the guys on the program. After a while it was pretty obvious who’s got what: cigarettes, lighters, weed, pills, dope. Rumor has it most of the contraband comes in through workers or guards, but inmates usually end up selling it. A guy I know told me he had a bunch of Percocet so well hidden he’d beaten two searches, but then he got moved so he needed to find some way to get his stash to his new dorm.

  Buying drugs in Rikers is a lot more complicated than it is on the street, especially if you’re trying to maintain a habit. You’ve got to make all sorts of deals, like finding someone to put money on the seller’s commissary account or getting a friend to pay a dealer on the outside, which gets you credit in here. I don’t know who I’d get to do that even if I wanted to get high—which I don’t. I’ve been clean for almost three months now, and I’m feeling pretty good about that. I’m starting to get that clarity of mind people talk about—which isn’t always a good thing, but just being able to get through the day without that tedious routine of buying and using drugs is pretty fucking brilliant.

  —

  IN MID-AUGUST, ABOUT a week before I’m due to be released, I get a letter from my brother. It’s the first I’ve heard from any of my family since I’ve been in Rikers. Anna sent me their addresses and phone numbers, but it’s almost impossible to make international calls from here, and every time I tried to write, I just couldn’t do it. I kept imagining my mum and dad in shock after getting a letter telling them I was in jail, and I had no idea how to explain how everything spiraled out of control. So I’m nervous about opening my brother’s letter and reading what he wrote.

  Hope you are doing okay, things are going as well as expected, and that you are getting healthy and stronger. I would have gotten in touch sooner but I had a lot going on. Me and R. have split up, I’m out of the house, and I did not really know what to write.

  We all saw Liam a few wee
ks ago, he was in Dublin for five days with his girlfriend. He’s doing very well and really enjoying college.

  Anyway Graham, what we need to know is what’s happening on your release i.e. deportation or not. If you do go back to Scotland please do not turn up on Mum and Dad’s doorstep. I know that sounds very hard, but I think it would be too much for them. This whole episode has taken a terrible toll on them, and I think the shock would totally destroy them. It was for this reason that we decided not to tell them you were in jail. But if you do go back to Scotland, you could get in touch with them and make up some story as to why you are back (without the jail-deported part).

  I know this is a short note but we can catch up much better very soon. All the very best, and all my love.

  Reading it tears a hole in me—the familiar handwriting and the sort of unemotional distance. I fold up the small piece of paper and just sit on the edge of my bed for a while, trying to let the words sink in.

  I used to be so close to my brother. We ran together, shared apartments in Scotland, and had a lot of the same friends growing up, but the last time I saw him was in 2008, when he came to New York to visit me. It was a few months after I’d met Tracy, and things were really going off the rails. I tried so hard to keep it together while he was here, using just enough to keep myself level, but I’m sure he knew something was up. We didn’t talk about it—I don’t think either of us wanted to go there—but it wasn’t like how we usually are together. Once he left for the airport I just felt this emptiness, like it wasn’t ever going to be the same between us. I went straight out and got completely fucked up.

  After that we just drifted apart. I can’t even remember the last time we talked. I had no idea he and his wife were breaking up, or that Liam was going over to visit everyone in Dublin. It makes me realize how much I’ve isolated myself, totally shutting out my whole family. Still, it’s a bit harsh that my brother’s telling me not to show up at Mum and Dad’s.

  Actually, I’m surprised he thinks I’m getting deported. I know Homeland Security put a detainer on me, so I’ll probably have to meet with immigration before I get released, but everyone in here seems to think I’ll be fine. I’ve got a green card, and I was only convicted of a misdemeanor, but now that the whole thing is looming up on me, I’m starting to worry that the jailhouse rumor mill might be wrong.

  The day I’m supposed to be getting released, I’m in outtake, already back in street clothes, thinking I’m minutes from freedom, when two guys from immigration show up and pull me out of line. They shackle my hands, my feet, and my waist and exchange some paperwork with the guards. I’m in shock. I thought I might have to meet with immigration when I got released, but I never expected anything like this.

  All the other guys are shouting at me, asking if I’m being extradited, or if I’m a terrorist, while the two agents in black uniforms are going through my bag. They’re pulling out clothes and magazines and books, saying, “You can’t take this…you can’t take this,” throwing everything except my wallet, checkbook, and letters into the garbage.

  “But that’s my stuff,” I protest. “I need it.”

  “You won’t need any of this where you’re going,” one of them says, then they haul me through outtake and out the door.

  Part Three

  US

  “With liberty and justice for all.”

  —Francis Bellamy

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  August 2010

  Varick Street Processing Center, Manhattan

  In the Homeland Security van on the way from Rikers Island to the processing center on Varick Street, my ankles are still shackled and my handcuffs are attached to a chain around my waist. All I know is that we’re heading for lower Manhattan on the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway, a road I’ve taken home from LaGuardia Airport many times.

  We pass Greenpoint, then Williamsburg, and I can see the Brooklyn Bridge up ahead. The neighborhood where I’ve lived for twenty years is so close I could walk there. But the van flips a right onto the Manhattan Bridge, and just like that we cross the East River, leaving Brooklyn behind. My stomach is churning and my back is dripping with sweat.

  There’s another guy in the back of the van who looks Mexican, probably in his twenties, but he doesn’t speak English so I can’t talk to him. We’re separated from the two agents by a metal screen—it’s like we’re in a cell on wheels. They don’t say much except that they’re with Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and that I should sign the paperwork they’ve got with them, saying I agree to leave the United States.

  “It’ll be a lot easier for you if you sign,” one of the ICE guys says. “If you don’t, it can take a long time to see a judge.”

  “Can I talk to a lawyer?” I ask.

  “You don’t get a lawyer—you’re not a citizen.”

  “Well, can I call someone?”

  “Once you sign the paperwork, we’ll give you a five-minute call.”

  “What about bail?”

  “You’ve got a drug conviction so that’s not an option.”

  I can’t fucking believe this. No right to a lawyer, no phone call, no bail? After four months at Rikers, I’m used to being treated with total indifference, but these guys are so cold you’d think I killed somebody—not got caught with a couple of dime bags of dope.

  “I don’t understand what’s going on. Am I getting deported?”

  He doesn’t give me a straight answer, just repeats what he already said: that if I sign the papers, this will all be easier—whatever that means.

  “Well, I’m not signing anything in a van crossing the East River. Who can I talk to when we get there?”

  “You’ll be processed at Varick Street,” he says. “I’m just trying to make it quicker for you.”

  None of this makes sense so I stop talking and look out the darkened window. For some reason they haven’t been pressuring the other guy to sign anything, probably because they don’t speak Spanish—or maybe he already signed.

  Driving through Chinatown, we pass a bunch of stores I’ve shopped at, buying lighting gear for photo shoots, or cheap produce and Chinese buns. Then the van turns right, heading toward Soho. I used to work at a photography gallery near here, after I first moved to New York, but now it feels like all those years have fast-forwarded to this instant.

  When we pull up to Varick Street, the van backs into a loading dock. Once the heavy garage door closes, the driver tells us to get out. Another white van is unloading half a dozen other immigrants, all shackled and chained. A different agent in a black military-style uniform yells at us to line up and face the wall.

  Once the freight elevator arrives, he orders us to get in and turn toward the back. “Don’t look at me, don’t look at each other, don’t talk!”

  As the elevator rumbles upstairs, my nose bumps against the metal. I can sense everyone else’s fear. When the doors open, we’re led down what looks like any office corridor, except we’re shuffling with shackles around our ankles and the only sound is chains. Then a guard directs us into a huge, brightly lit room—ICE’s processing center. I can’t believe how many people are bustling around.

  ICE agents in black uniforms are taking fingerprints and photographs, officers in white shirts are rifling through paperwork at rows of desks, and dozens of detainees are moving from one place to another, looking completely dazed. The whole thing feels like some kind of industrial production line, and we’re on the conveyor belt.

  Along one wall, there’s a row of cells with signs on the doors that seem to list what everyone inside is being held for or where they’re going—court appearances in Manhattan or different detention centers in New Jersey. A guard tells me to kneel on a chair—so he doesn’t have to bend down to remove my chains—then I’m put into a large holding cell with a mix of other immigrants: Mexicans, Russians, South Americans, Africans, and a few other Europeans like me. Some people have come straight from Rikers, others were picked up from construction sites or workplace stings. Mos
tly men, but I spotted a couple of Asian women on the way in here, crying as they got led around.

  The cells don’t have bars—we’re locked behind heavy metal doors with small windows that face the processing room. People take turns pressing their faces against the reinforced glass, trying to figure out what’s going on. We must be a few floors up—I can see Houston Street through a window on the opposite side of the cell, and a park about a block away. I used to walk by that park on the way to visit a friend.

  There are a few metal benches, mostly occupied by other detainees, and a toilet in the corner of the cell. I’m starving, but we must’ve missed lunch—probably not that edible anyway, based on all the foil packets and bits of food on the floor.

  Most of us have no idea what’s going on or where we’re headed, but anyone who’s been in the system for a while offers up an opinion about my case: You’ve got a drug charge? You’re getting deported….It’s a misdemeanor? You can beat it….Heroin possession? ICE will make it an aggravated felony, even if it isn’t….You should sign out….You should fight it….If you spent less than a year in jail, you’ll be fine.

  People are talking about good judges and bad judges and who knows the best immigration lawyer and how long it can take to fight a deportation order—nine months, eighteen months, six months, two years. My head is spinning, trying to take it all in.

  After a couple of hours, the door opens and my name is called. I’m led to a desk where a middle-aged guy in a white shirt and khaki pants is sorting through papers, barely looking up when I sit down. He starts reading me the notes written in my file.

  “You came here from the United Kingdom in 1992….You got your green card in 1999. You were arrested in 2006.” He glances at me, as if to drive home the point. “Then arrested again a few more times…You were convicted of drug possession in May and served four months at Rikers Island.”