Chancers

by Susan Stellin

  I knew I was getting pulled back into that vortex—not of Graham’s addiction, but a whole other drama. Maybe Graham had detoxed, but it was hard to tell if he had changed, and that uncertainty made me feel very conflicted.

  A week later, I got the letter he started writing me from York County Prison that night, just after we talked. It came in an envelope stamped with a warning: THIS CORRESPONDENCE ORIGINATES FROM AN INMATE INSTITUTION. As I tore open the envelope, I wondered if the mailman thought I’d taken up with a prison pen pal.

  Dear Susan,

  Firstly thank you so much for doing everything + anything you have + will be doing for me. I’m really touched + sort of humbled mixed with a wee bit of shame that you’ve had to put yourself to this effort on my behalf—but trust me I’m glad you are + I was so happy to talk to you on the phone tonight. Everything just sort of seems fucked up here—it’s really frustrating, no one tells you anything, nothing gets done in a timely or organized manner, it seems so easy to fall through the cracks. One minute I’m on Rikers Island the next ICE picks me up + I’m in Jersey, don’t see a judge, then 3 days later brought here to York PA + being told all the time that I’ll be going to TX or LA in a few days…I’ve got a funny (well not funny given the situation) idea I’ll be packed up tonight/tomorrow morning. They always do that stuff between 2 AM & 4 AM for some reason or other. I think it’s so that you get even more fucked up when you wake up in the morning to find the guy you’d just made friends with has gone—psychological torture.

  Anyway, this place here is a nightmare. A second seems like a minute, a minute seems like an hour, an hour like a day and a day seems like a week. Rikers Island seems like a dream compared to this. In fact the last 2½ months there was probably the happiest I’ve been in a long time. I was with some good people. I had a job in the kitchen, I was on the card playing team, I read lots of books, I was in a good dorm. The Bloods liked me, the Crips liked me, the Mexicans cooked for me most nights ’coz I brought up lots of food from the kitchen every night. My section in the dorm was really good—I had some great laughs—not to say jail is good ’coz it’s not. It’s just that you can make the best of it—I could move around all over the building. But here there’s no movement, no books or mags, everyone is from South America or Mexico. I’m just the lonesome white boy.

  Well, I went to bed now it’s Friday + obviously I didn’t get packed up last night. But I woke up this morning at 6 am by the TV at volume 20—now 6 am is unacceptable. TV’s not meant to go on ’til after breakfast at 8 am. So I put up with it blaring the early news + ads in English when I decide to get up + see if it was the CO and lo + behold there’s this little Mexican guy sitting on a table watching the TV. He looks at me and asks if I speak Spanish or English—I tell him English and he looks at me and says “No hablo English!” My question at that point (though I didn’t ask) was why are you watching TV so loud when you don’t understand?

  I know I need to make a decision about fighting this case and I know that you’ve picked the best law firm and I appreciate that very much. Part of me wants to call it quits + just go back to Scotland or London, start up my career there—new clients, new jobs, fresh start. Sounds appealing doesn’t it? But also I would like to have the freedom to be able to go wherever I want + I know I can hunker down and get through another 3-6 months—as painful as it may be. But I’d hate to spend the time & money to find that I’m gonna get deported anyway.

  I’m trying my best to get access to my checkbooks so I can send you a check for the lawyer but I understand if you can’t get the cash and you don’t want to front it for me—don’t feel bad. I got me in this situation—no one else—so I’ve got to take the rough with the smooth and at least that will leave me no choice but to ask for final deportation order. Things will work out for the best either way. I can’t let the word worse be in my vocabulary. I am sorry I didn’t keep in touch with you—I was selfish, I suppose + a little lost + out of control (not in a crazy way but not in control of simple things that I should have been in control of—you know what I mean!) I keep singing the Frank Sinatra song—My Way in my head and U2 Beautiful Day + knowing one day I’ll be on the outside walking down a street—somewhere—with a spring in my step and a smile on my face.

  Oh yes—I’ve started playing chess! I’m not great but have won a few games.

  Susan, all I can say is thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom (+ top) of my heart.

  Much love Graham xxx

  P.S. I’ll write more in a bit

  The letter included a drawing of the dorm—little rectangles for all the bunks along the walls, round circles for the tables and chairs, and an open area with showers and toilets. There was a television, a desk where the CO sat, and an enclosed area where the inmates could work out. Graham had marked his locker and bunk and noted the drawing was “not to scale.”

  It was simultaneously depressing and comforting to be able to visualize the place where he was locked up. I had a flashback to my claustrophobia at Rikers Island when I bailed him out. But as I finished reading Graham’s letter—for the second time—the main thing I was thinking about was that he was already using the word love.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It did occur to me that Graham was just using me because I was the only person who could really help him. And to be honest, I don’t think he understood why I had tracked him down. But one of the reasons I was willing to get involved in his case was that I thought I had the upper hand. If I found out Graham was lying to me, or dealing with him got to be too chaotic, I was willing to walk away this time.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  September 2010

  Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

  Three days after I first talked to Graham at York County Prison, I met Tracy at a park in Brooklyn to get the two thousand dollars she owed him. I hadn’t exactly warmed up to her in the days I’d been dealing with her, so I was irritated even before she was late.

  Despite Graham’s assurances that she was living in a halfway house, off drugs, she still acted erratically: ignoring my messages, not calling when she said she would, and threatening to use the money to hire a lawyer she’d found—someone with minimal experience fighting deportation. Somehow Graham talked her into bringing me the cash instead, but as I sat there on a park bench watching parents play with their kids, I wasn’t convinced that she’d actually show up.

  By that point, I had spoken with Graham a couple more times—and Anna, and the British consulate, and several lawyers—so I was already stressed about the mess he was in, wondering if it was too late for anyone to help.

  Michael, the attorney I’d settled on, had told me that Graham was eligible for “relief from removal,” but that his odds of winning depended on which judge heard his case. The firm had a good track record with the judges in Pennsylvania; in Texas or Louisiana, not so much. But our phone call was on Friday and now it was Labor Day weekend, so I couldn’t meet with Michael until Tuesday. Since Graham had already been packed up once to be transferred—then inexplicably pulled out of line—he could be gone even before I signed the retainer.

  So I was checking my watch and worrying that he was already heading south, when Tracy finally appeared. “Susan?” she said, extending her hand. She looked like all the middle-aged moms in the park—not at all Graham’s type, but healthy enough that it was plausible that she really was clean.

  I made an effort to be friendly, explaining what Michael had told me, and why I thought his firm was the right choice. “There are a lot of attorneys who take advantage of immigrants in desperate situations—or just haven’t dealt with deportation. Graham needs someone who specializes in these types of cases.”

  “Well, he’s really lucky that three women who love him are helping him out,” Tracy said. “He’s just so helpless right now.”

  I assumed she was referring to the fact that she and Anna and I were all pitching in to cover the deposit until Graham could access his money—except in Tracy’s case, it
was actually a debt she owed him.

  “I’ll do what I can to help,” I said, unable to resist adding, “He really should’ve spoken with an immigration lawyer while he was at Rikers, but hopefully it’s not too late.”

  After she handed me an envelope full of cash—like some sort of drug deal—I hoped to be done with her. But Tracy had no intention of going away.

  “Thank you for doing this for us,” she said.

  For us? I didn’t ask what she meant because by then it was clear: Tracy thought she and Graham were getting back together. Even though I didn’t totally trust him at that point, I was pretty sure that wasn’t his intention.

  Still, her comment bothered me long after I walked away. I was already wary about getting too involved in Graham’s case—and so was Anna, whom I’d been in touch with almost every day. We were both freaked out by what was happening to Graham, but neither of us wanted to pressure him about what he should do: agree to leave the U.S. forever, or fight to stay.

  “I don’t think he should feel it’s giving up if he decides to go,” Anna had told me, worried about the psychological toll of spending more time locked up. “It can be a more positive thing than being worn down.”

  Since I was the one talking to Graham, I made sure to pass along her message. But I encouraged him not to rush into any decision, writing him a letter explaining why.

  Mostly, I worry about how you’d handle it if you go from prison to an airport in Europe with just the “small bag” they’ll allow us to bring you. That’s a harsh transition, and if it comes to that, having more time to adjust to what that’s going to feel like emotionally—and figure out where you’ll go and who you’ll stay with—could make the difference between you being ok vs. being completely overwhelmed, depressed and adrift.

  I also think you should speak with Liam, or write him and find out how he feels. Anna told me she’d talked to him and that he’d understand either way, but this just feels like a big decision to make without really working things out with your son.

  But if you decide not to fight this, or if you start to feel like you really are cracking up, you shouldn’t feel like you’re letting anyone down.

  I genuinely meant that—Anna was right, I didn’t know what prison was like. She had been in touch with Graham while he was at Rikers and I hadn’t, so she had a better sense of his state of mind. But the truth is, I would’ve been disappointed if Graham had signed out. Because I finally understood something about him that I’d missed or hadn’t wanted to see when we were together: If he was going to make it, he had to choose to fight for his life.

  Maybe his mind had been clouded by chemicals, or he was too stubborn, or success had come too easily and he’d lost that scrappy work ethic, but for whatever reason he’d never been willing to put in the effort to save himself. (“I wanted the same from recovery that I got from drugs—I wanted it all instantly,” he’d tell me, years later.)

  It’s not that I thought my help or anyone else’s didn’t matter; it was a crucial part of a complex mix. But nothing was going to make a difference unless Graham jammed a spike into the side of the cliff he was slipping down and put all his energy into stopping his fall. He had to find that desire.

  That was something David and I had discussed years earlier, during one of our many email exchanges. I had asked him why he thought some people changed and others didn’t. He wrote back: “I think my short answer would be—suffering, desire, the sense that something is wrong, a capacity for close relationships, the willingness to say things that are difficult to say, and finding good allies. If any of those are missing, in my experience, it ain’t gonna work.”

  When I asked him what he meant by desire, he answered, “I mean wanting something very intensely and with longing—having something that you want to get and that you don’t want to live without, so that you become willing to alter existing habits and conditions, so that they become less important than getting what you want.”

  That’s what Graham had been missing, and that’s why I thought he should stay and fight. Because if he got exiled from the U.S., the emotional trauma would’ve been too much for him. I knew there was a good chance he’d relapse and end up alone on the streets—and deep down, so did he.

  —

  ONE OF THE most maddening things about Graham’s situation was his limited ability to communicate with the outside world. Once I’d racked up a hundred dollars in collect calls from prison, Verizon wouldn’t let me accept any more. (“That’s our policy,” a representative curtly explained.) So I had to set up two accounts with the York County Prison phone service provider: one for my home number and one for my cell. Each account required a deposit (using separate credit cards), and I had to constantly monitor both balances, paying a service fee every time I added money—and every time he called. But I never wanted to add too much money because if Graham got transferred, I would’ve had to start over with a different provider.

  That’s partly why I ended up being Graham’s main link to the outside world: I had the obsessive, detail-oriented gene necessary to navigate these hurdles, and as a reporter, I already spent most of the day close to a phone.

  So on the Monday of Labor Day weekend, before I headed out to a barbecue, I filled Graham in when he called—that I’d gotten the money from Tracy, that Anna and I would cover the rest of the deposit for the lawyer, that she’d told Liam and his family what was going on. Even though I’d covered some of this in my letter, I had no idea when (or if) he’d actually get it.

  “What did Liam say?” Graham asked.

  I felt awkward being the go-between for such a sensitive topic, but Graham was desperate for news about Liam, so I shared what little I knew. “Anna said he was okay about it, but I don’t think she told him all the details. He’s back in school now, so she doesn’t want him to get caught up in everything that’s going on. Even Michael said these cases are always stressful.”

  Graham was silent for a second, letting that sink in before asking, “So what are my odds of winning? Please be honest with me because I really don’t want to spend money and time fighting this if I’m just gonna get deported anyway.”

  “Basically, Michael said you’re eligible for ‘relief from removal,’ but you still have to persuade a judge that you deserve a second chance. On the plus side: You’ve only been convicted of a misdemeanor, you’re a legal permanent resident, and you’ve got a son who lives here. The main negative is that you’ve been arrested for drug possession multiple times so it’s clear you’ve got a drug problem, and it’ll be tough to prove you were rehabilitated washing dishes at Rikers.”

  “What the fuck was I supposed to do? They didn’t offer me shit up there. There wasn’t any fucking rehab.”

  Ignoring that outburst, I plowed on. “The thing is, I know I said before that you should take time to decide, but we really need to get the ball rolling—before you get transferred again. I made an appointment to meet with Michael tomorrow morning and pay the deposit, if that’s what you want—”

  Graham interrupted: “Did you ask how long it’s gonna take?”

  I hesitated, knowing this would be hard to hear. “You should see a judge soon, but it could take three to six months before you get a final hearing.”

  “Fucking hell. Are you serious?”

  “Maybe longer. Michael said it’s hard to predict.”

  “There’s no way I can deal with that. I’d go out of my fucking mind. I actually dream about being back at Rikers. I’m not kidding—that’s how bad this place is.”

  “Well, that’s the worst-case scenario. It may only take three months, and if you decide to sign out, Michael said they’d prorate their fee.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  I didn’t want to make the decision for Graham, but the strange thing about these conversations was how much more direct we both were—without drugs or denial clouding what either of us said.

  “You’re the one who has to live with the consequences, Graha
m. But if you want my honest opinion, I think you should fight it. I think you have a better shot at rebuilding your relationship with Liam if you’re here. I know you can call and email and he can visit, but it’s not the same. And as miserable as you are now, it’s not going to be that easy if you’re sent back to Britain. All you’re allowed to take is a small bag of clothes—no laptop, no phone, no cameras, nothing electronic. I don’t even know how you’d get access to your money. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but you can’t idealize flying off into the sunset and starting over. They literally put you on a plane, and once you land you’re on your own.”

  I paused, waiting for Graham to say something. When he didn’t, I asked, “Do you have any idea where you’d go?”

  “I don’t know.” He sounded so defeated I felt bad about pressing on.

  “I mean, Scotland or London? Or could you stay with your brother or sister in Dublin?”

  “I have no fucking idea what I’d do,” Graham snapped—like I’d just poked an animal trapped in a cage.

  “Then I guess it can’t hurt to sit tight until you see a judge. If nothing else it’ll give you time to come up with a plan. All it’s really costing you is money, and you’ve wasted so much on drugs I can’t believe it’s not worth it to spend—”

  “Alright.”

  At first I thought Graham cut me off because he didn’t want to be reminded of how much money he’d blown, but when I asked what he meant he said, “Hire the lawyer.”

  Which is what I did the following day. After Michael escorted me into his office, past all the framed legal certificates and plaques hanging on the walls, I pulled out my notebook and a pen—so I could summarize our conversation for Graham later.

  “Graham wanted me to ask about bail,” I said, reading from the list of questions I’d jotted down.