I pictured the table downstairs, set with silver flatware (two forks), linen napkins, and the good china. I couldn’t think of anything to say that would make being in prison on Christmas less miserable, so I rattled on about what we’d been doing, trying to avoid any more holiday references.
“Well, we’re having a pretty low-key day here. I took my niece and nephew sledding yesterday. He’s eleven now, so he’s started rolling his eyes at me, but I think I’ve got another year left of him thinking I’m cool. His sister is already on to me—she’s only six but she’s going through a phase where everything is either fashionable or unfashionable. All my bulky winter sweaters are definitely unfashionable.”
“She’s probably right about that….How’s your sister?”
“Pretty good. Her son finally slept through the night last night—he’s had a hard time adjusting to the time change, so they moved the Pack ’n Play into the closet.”
Graham said he was glad he never had to fly across time zones when Liam was a baby—he was almost two when they moved to New York—and was telling me about the time the government accused him of harboring an “illegal alien,” because of a problem with Liam’s visa, when I heard my dad shouting my name.
“Sorry,” I interrupted him. “My dad is calling me—dinner is ready.”
“You should go eat….I’m not gonna ask what you’re having.”
“Roast beef,” I lied. “You wouldn’t like it.”
I hung up and went downstairs, feeling the dissonance between my furtive relationship with Graham and the picture-perfect holiday table. Then again, even Martha Stewart spent one Christmas in the clink.
My mom didn’t look up from the platter of turkey she was serving, but before we ate she said a prayer, mentioning “everyone who couldn’t be with us.” I thought of Graham in his prison bunk, marking off December 25 on his calendar, no doubt glad that tomorrow was just a regular day.
—
ON DECEMBER 29, the day before I flew back to New York, I got an email from Armen: “The judge wants to do this case on Jan. 5th. This caught us off guard but my boss thinks we should go full steam ahead. CALL ME when you get this message.”
“What does this mean?” I asked as soon as Armen picked up.
“I think it’s a good sign. The judge probably had an opening on his calendar and this looks like an easy, grantable case so he moved it forward.”
“But we haven’t submitted everything yet.”
“He said to send whatever we have, so Maria is going to FedEx a package overnight.”
“But Graham hasn’t finished the rehab program—you said that was important.”
“Look, I have a good feeling about this. I want to get it over and done with. All the factors are in place.”
What I really wanted to say was “But I’m not ready!” I thought I had two more months before Graham showed up at my door—not seven days.
Of course I couldn’t call Graham to tell him the news, which I did share with my mom, who I’m sure didn’t know what to think. Ever since their visit to New York, my parents had asked about Graham’s case, but we hadn’t really talked about where this was all going. I thought I had more time for that, too.
After a sleepless night, and a long trip back to New York, Graham finally called late the next day.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I said. “I’ve got another New Year’s Eve surprise for you—well, a few hours early this time: Your hearing got moved up to next Wednesday!”
“What do you mean, ‘it got moved up’?” Graham asked.
“The judge scheduled it for January fifth. You might be free in six days.”
—
IT TOOK A few days for me to wrap my head around what that meant for me.
“Maybe it’s better to have less time to think about it and get nervous about what might happen,” I wrote in my notebook. “But now it’s hitting me—what if the judge doesn’t grant the waiver, or for some reason Graham doesn’t get released on Wednesday? And then there’s the big question—what’s going to happen if he does walk out a free man? What’s that going to be like, to suddenly be living together after not seeing him for a year and a half?”
Fortunately, I didn’t have much time to worry. I channeled most of my anxiety into making plans to drive down for Graham’s hearing. I booked a hotel in York and a rental car to get there; I printed maps, directions, and confirmation receipts. Every few hours, I checked the weather forecast obsessively, tracking all the storms heading our way. New York was still digging out from an infamous Christmas Day blizzard, so I hoped another one wouldn’t close the roads again.
The day before I left, Maria gave me a rundown about visiting the prison—and advice about what not to wear. “No revealing clothes,” she said. “These guys won’t have seen a girl in a while.”
“It’s a bit too cold for a miniskirt and a tank top,” I joked, although I was trying to come up with an outfit that wasn’t too dowdy, my niece’s sweater judgments still on my mind.
Armen explained that I wouldn’t be allowed into the courtroom during Graham’s testimony, but I’d get called in afterward as a witness. Then he prepped me about what the ICE lawyers might ask.
“They won’t be aggressive,” he promised. “It’ll just be easy questions like: How do you feel about Mr. MacIndoe?…What are your plans for the future?…What makes you think he’s going to be reformed?”
“Those are easy questions?”
“Of course they are—you love him, you hope to spend the rest of your life together, and you’re confident he’s going to come out of this experience a changed man.”
“Well, at least two of those answers are true. I’d like to see how it goes before making a lifelong commitment.”
He seemed much less concerned about how Graham would handle the lawyers’ scrutiny.
“He’s going to be contrite and eloquent,” Armen assured me. “He’ll be fine.”
Thankfully, the drive down to York was uneventful: clear roads, no traffic, and sunny skies most of the way. I hadn’t had time to make a CD of the songs Graham sent me, so I listened to an acoustic mix he made for me in 2006. As each song came on—“You’ll Think of Me,” by Keith Urban; “You,” by Evanescence; “Always on My Mind” by Johnny Cash—I felt the swelling emotions music always sparks on a road trip, thinking about how much had happened since then.
At that moment, I wasn’t too worried about what was going to happen next.
Sure, it crossed my mind that Graham might lose his case—and even if he won, ICE could decide to appeal. If that happened, there was a good chance Graham might give up and agree to leave. And even if he did get released, we still faced plenty of hurdles. Graham might have a difficult reentry, we might not adjust well to living together, or we might decide we couldn’t be a couple again.
But I didn’t want to dwell on any of those worst-case scenarios—I’d spent too much time not taking chances because things might not work out. As I’d written to Graham at one point:
Somewhere along the way I realized that I’d be a much happier person if I could embrace all the uncertainty in my life. I had to embrace it, or else set up my life so it’s more predictable. But I guess deep down I must not want that. I like thinking that anything could happen next week or next month or next year.
Then I quoted a few lines from Letters to a Young Poet, by Rainer Maria Rilke, about having patience with “everything unresolved in your heart.”
“Don’t search for answers,” Rilke wrote, “which could not be given you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without ever realizing it, live your way into the answer.”
Graham and I were about to get an answer to the main question we’d been living with: Was he going to be allowed to stay here? The answers to all of our other questions hinged on whatever the judge decided.
—
After months of writing Graham’s “alien number” on the letters I sent him, now I felt like a visitor from another planet, blinking at all the brightly lit stores blaring holiday songs. I took an escalator up to the food court, ate a Sbarro pizza while watching teenagers flirt, then wandered into the Gap and bought Graham a couple of T-shirts and some boxers. When I’d gone through his clothes, I realized I hadn’t rescued any decent underwear from Joe’s place, so I wanted him to have something new to wear home. Yes, home. Buying Graham underwear felt oddly domestic—in a good way.
I was back in my hotel room flipping through TV channels when he called.
“It’s so weird being here,” I told him. “It’s all really suburban—you’d never know there was a prison just down the road.”
“Yeah, it’s sort of bizarre to think that you’re so close by after all this time. I can’t believe we’ll see each other tomorrow.”
We both let that sink in for a second. I wondered how Graham would look—and what he’d think of me. In some of his letters, he’d joked about putting on weight and his hairline receding, even drawing a caricature of himself “fat and bald.”
“How are you feeling about the hearing?” I asked, pushing that image aside.
“Pretty fucking nervous. I haven’t been able to sleep the last couple of nights.”
“Armen is really confident you’re going to win. He told me to remind you to be totally honest with the judge and the ICE lawyers. The most important thing is convincing them you’ve changed.”
“I have changed. I don’t know if I’m a different person, but I think I’m a better person than I was when I got here.”
Graham thanked me again for everything I’d done for him, and I told him how much I admired him for sticking it out.
“There aren’t many people who could’ve gone through what you did in the last year and actually come out of it in a better place,” I said, pausing slightly before blurting out, “I love you.”
It was the first time I’d said it since we reconnected in September, but I wasn’t sure if Graham heard me—we got disconnected as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
I sat there holding my phone for a minute, wanting to laugh at this final absurdity: The most important thing I’d said to him might’ve gotten lost in the ether—unless it got recorded as part of our last prison call.
—
THE NEXT MORNING, I ran into Armen in the hallway at the hotel.
“I’m ready,” he assured me.
“Really? Because it looks like you’re still in your pajamas.” He was wearing a T-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers—and looked like he’d just woken up.
“Relax. I’m going to get some breakfast, then I’ll change into my suit and meet you in the prison parking lot at eight fifteen. You know how to get there?”
“I have directions I printed out, a Garmin, a local map, and my cellphone—I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine.”
An hour later, we walked into the visitors’ waiting area at the back of the prison, which looked like a cross between a garage and a middle school gym. It had a concrete floor, cinder-block walls, and a few rows of plastic chairs facing the guard’s desk. About ten other people were already waiting—to visit inmates, I guessed. At 8:35, Armen got buzzed into the prison, so I put my purse in a locker and sat down to wait for my turn. It was unnerving that the courtroom was located behind bars.
Just before nine, everyone else stood up and got in line on the right side of the room. One by one, they dropped their keys on the guard’s desk, walked through a metal detector, picked up a spray bottle, and squirted it at a paper towel. I saw the first woman wipe the phone in the booth where she sat down on a stool.
From where I was sitting, I could see a couple of inmates on the other side of the glass, but I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. Mostly I just watched the clock on the wall. A stream of visitors came and went, many of them crying as they hurried toward the doors behind me. A cold wind blew in whenever anyone arrived or left.
After an hour, I went to my locker and got my notebook and a magazine out of my purse—I needed to do something to try to distract myself. “9:35,” I wrote. “Trying to read a magazine. Can’t concentrate on the words. 10:06 This is taking longer than I expected. 10:15 Still no sign of Armen. Just thought of that poem I wrote when I was little, ‘I hate waiting…’ Wonder if I still have that somewhere.”
By ten thirty I felt like I was going to throw up. My mouth was dry, my head was spinning, my hands were shaking—I couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t been called into the courtroom yet. Every time the door to the prison buzzed, my head snapped in that direction, but it was always someone in a uniform coming or going.
When Armen finally appeared, a few minutes later, he wasn’t smiling and he didn’t give me the thumbs-up sign. He just held up his hand with his palm stretched out toward me—as if to say, “Hold on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
January 2011
York County Prison, Pennsylvania
The morning of my hearing I get called down to court hours early—as usual—but this time I almost don’t mind the wait because they bring us Rice Krispies and real milk for breakfast. I’ve been eating corn flakes and rice milk every single day for four months so I’m savoring each spoonful, hoping it helps settle my stomach.
I’m a nervous wreck. I’ve hardly slept since Susan called to tell me my hearing got moved up. All I’ve been able to think about is getting out of here—wearing my own clothes, breathing fresh air, and eating whatever I want. But bringing the case forward meant rushing to get everything ready at the last minute, which means Liam won’t be here. Armen finally got through to him, but he’s away with his girlfriend for the holidays and couldn’t get to York in time. Maybe it’s better that he isn’t going to see me in prison. I’m not sure that would’ve been good for either of us, especially if I don’t win.
When I spoke to Armen the other day, he was confident that the judge was going to grant me relief. Susan said the same thing, but she sounded a bit more cautious—maybe because she’s got more at stake. If I don’t win, I know it’s going to be devastating for her, but right now I’m trying to keep my mind focused on the best-case scenario: I’m walking out of here today.
By the time I finally get escorted into court, my palms are sweaty and my heart is pounding. I look around for Susan, but it’s just Armen, the judge, and the two guys from ICE. The courtroom is small and dark—with the seal of the Department of Homeland Security above the judge’s bench, next to the American flag. There’s no public gallery, so it’s deadly quiet. That just adds to the feeling that this is all happening in secret, inside a prison, totally out of sight. I sit down at a table next to Armen, who leans over and tells me to relax. Before I get a chance to ask him where Susan is, the judge jumps right in and starts reading my file.
He rattles off everything I’ve ever been arrested for—minor drug possession charges, but they still sound pretty bad when you hear them out loud. They know all this already, I tell myself. The only thing that matters is what I was convicted for—and they were just misdemeanors. It’s a relief when Armen finally gets a chance to talk. He does a great job of describing my relationship with Liam, my career as a photographer, and everything I’ve been doing to turn my life around.
“Your Honor, Mr. MacIndoe has been in a very strict rehabilitation program here at York County for the past three months. He has really demonstrated his commitment to his recovery and becoming a productive member of society again.”
He mentions all the letters of support I got from friends, family, and clients and tells t
he judge I’m in a stable relationship and will be living with my girlfriend once I’m released. I wonder what Susan would think if she heard that—I still can’t figure out why she’s not here. One of the guys in the holding pen said his whole family came for his hearing, so I wish I had at least one person to show I’ve got some support.
At one point the judge starts talking about my website and asks the ICE lawyers if they’ve seen it. He tells them there’s a great picture of Peyton Manning—I took it for an ESPN ad—and says they should check it out. For a second he sounds more like an agent trying to talk a client into hiring me, not a judge deciding my fate.
Just when I think I might not get a chance to say much, the ICE guys start hitting me with questions: Why did I use heroin?…Where did I get it?…How often did I buy it?…How much did I spend? Armen told me to be totally honest, and that’s been drilled into us in the program—don’t justify or make excuses, take responsibility for what you’ve done—so I answer everything they ask, straight up.
I wish they’d call Susan in as a witness—she’ll tell them how much I’ve changed and how hard I’ve been working. But the ICE lawyers and the judge just keep grilling me, asking how I became an addict, if I ever hung out with drug dealers, and how I planned to stay away from them if I go back to Brooklyn. I have no idea how much time passes—it feels like I’ve been answering questions for hours.
I glance at Armen, but he warned me that once he’d had his turn he wasn’t allowed to speak, so he just nods as if to say, “Carry on.” Finally, when I think there can’t possibly be anything left they haven’t asked about, the judge flicks through papers like he’s ready to wrap this up. I’m sitting there totally exhausted as the judge types at his computer and occasionally looks up at me. The ICE guys are doing the same.
After what seems like the longest few minutes of my whole time in prison, the judge says my name and case number along with some legal jargon. I’m practically shaking—Armen puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a little smile. Then the judge announces he’s recommending cancellation of removal and asks if the ICE lawyers have any objections.
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