Gorilla and the Bird

by Zack McDermott

  The ICE hold meant that even if the judge was willing to release him, the Department of Corrections would still detain him until ICE picked him up. Chico’s only prayer was for me to get his case dismissed outright. NY DOC won’t hold you—even with an ICE hold—if your case is closed.

  That was Chico’s first problem but not nearly the most critical. Underneath the ICE stamp, I’d scribbled 730 issues, see inside flap. When I’d met Chico in jail a few days earlier, his first words to me were “Mister, you have to get me out of here. I’m bipolar. I haven’t had my medicine. I need my medicine.” Breaking the news to a client that he’s not going home is routine, but there was such fear in his eyes. He was shaking, and he was clearly confused. “Why, why can’t I go home, mister?”

  “You see this stamp?” I told him. “That means that no matter what the judge decides, he can’t let you go. It’s not even up to him. This is Immigration, la migra.”

  He was in the soup and he was in the soup good. We had a Spanish translator in the cell with us, but Chico’s English was more than adequate. I asked the translator to leave. Even though I was Chico’s advocate, I still needed to gain his trust. Having two people on the other side of the bars means two people the client must trust.

  “They won’t let you go because, technically, you’re illegal.”

  “But I need my medicine! I didn’t do nothing!”

  “Right. But they are accusing you of doing something, so they can hold you. It’s not even about if you’re guilty or not at this point.”

  “But ask my boyfriend. He attacked me. I had a bat because I was scared. He’s big. He was drunk.”

  “How big?”

  “Like this much taller.” He moved his hands apart six inches. “And he heavy. He strong.”

  Chico was probably five foot four and 160 pounds. I jotted down his version of the story; we still had to begin preparing his defense, but I feared the ICE hold rendered a lot of what he was saying irrelevant. Still, I needed him to know I cared and that he could trust me. Telling him Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter, you’re fucked anyway probably wouldn’t work.

  “I need my medicine, mister.”

  “What do you take?”

  “Risperdal, Depakote, Seroquel, some other stuff. I don’t know; a lady helps me.”

  “I’ll tell the judge you need medical attention. They’ll give you meds in jail.”

  “Please, I can’t go to the jail. I have to go home!”

  Chico started crying. I could only partially imagine the hell that awaited him—BP1, off his meds for several days, probably getting deported, headed to the loudest, scariest place in the entire country, and desperately needing sleep to stay sane. And that was only Chico’s second problem.

  “I have the virus.”

  “HIV?”

  “AIDS.”

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  “Are you on meds for that?”

  “Yes.” He rattled off his cocktail, and I noted it in his file, right under UNDOCUMENTED, HONDURAS.

  “I’ll tell the judge, but I am going to ask to go to the bench so I don’t have to announce it in open court, okay?”

  “Please. Please. I have to get out of here. I need medicine.”

  “I can’t get you out of here.”

  He put his head in his hands and continued to cry.

  “Don’t cry. You don’t want to cry in here. I’m going to do everything I can for you; I just can’t solve this right now. It’s going to take time.”

  “Please.” He kept crying.

  “It’s not a matter of please. If I could do anything right now, I would. I just can’t. Stop crying, all right?”

  I waited until he wiped his eyes before leaving the interview booth.

  “If you’re going to cry more, stay in the booth until you’re sure you’re done, okay?”

  He nodded, head still in hands. “I can’t go back to Honduras.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m gay! They’ll kill me!”

  That actually might help him in an immigration proceeding. We could argue political asylum.

  The next day, I went to see Chico again at Brooklyn House of Detention as soon as I had an opening in my schedule. It was appalling to see this sweet, scared man in a jailhouse beige jumpsuit. His stories of past abuse rang true. I believed that he was terrified of his boyfriend, that he had no intention of hurting him, that he just didn’t want to get killed himself. How could a supposedly civilized nation expose him to a potential death sentence in his homeland as the result of a domestic dispute that he most likely didn’t instigate and wanted no part of? Because that’s what we were doing. I Googled “gay+human+rights+violations+Honduras.” He wasn’t exaggerating the threat to homosexuals in Honduras. I found plenty of research documenting hate crimes and murders against gay and transgendered Hondurans. In the U.S., he had a care team and access to medical treatment at a local clinic. No way he’d have the same back home.

  Chico looked better, somehow—more lucid, less panicked—when I visited him. He was getting meds and he seemed psychologically stable. I told him I had an immigration lawyer on his case, and we were assembling the best case we could to keep him in the country. I touched base with his social worker and encouraged her to get letters together from anyone who’d be willing to vouch for Chico. We went through his family history and connections to the U.S. In a deportation hearing, it helps if the defendant has been in the country a long time or has American-born children or family.

  With as many clients as I had, it could be difficult to put a face to a name in between court appearances. They became a charge and a docket number until I saw them again in court. That wasn’t a problem with Chico—the abject terror in his eyes was stuck in my mind like a splinter as I thumbed through his file. I may have managed, barely, to avoid going through the system in the middle of a mental health crisis, but Chico and I weren’t that different. The fear consuming him on his way to the detention center was no less severe than what I would have felt in the same situation. Incarceration was not part of his life’s routine—this was his first brush with the absurdity and indifference of the system. AIDS, bipolar, abused, persecuted for your sexuality? You are not special. Against the wall, spread your butt cheeks.

  My devotion to Chico’s case was wearing me out. I’d been going at it for a week nonstop; I was so tired that I wanted to collapse and yet so full of anxious energy that I wanted to drop down for fifty push-ups at least ten times a day. I spoke to every immigration lawyer in my office and tried to educate myself on the deportation process. I wanted to know his odds, even if those odds were: fucked. The answers I got from Immigration were complex and varied, but all led to the same conclusion: fucked.

  Immigration policy is, in some ways, more draconian than the criminal justice system. I’d already done “enough” to address the immigration issue, meaning my ass was covered as far as due diligence was concerned. I’d prepared a far more detailed dossier to kick upstairs to the immigration unit than was required, but how much was really enough when Chico might die? Was the sleep deprivation worth the risk of a psychotic break of my own? What if I could only nominally increase his chances of release? And what about my other clients, whose files were stacked up on the floor? Abayomi Osu wanted to be the first member of her first-generation Nigerian family to go to college. If we didn’t get her case dismissed, financial aid was out. And sometimes it’s better to fold ’em in ICE cases like Chico’s: plead guilty and let ICE do their worst. Honduras might not be where Chico wanted to end up, but it’s a better destination than an immigration detention center and then Honduras. I feared we were delaying the inevitable.

  No matter what, Chico had no hope of getting out any time soon. And I certainly couldn’t do anything for him if I ended up in the hospital. Panic at nighttime is one thing, but it was 10:20 a.m. and I was on day two of no sleep when I wrapped up my latest jail conference with Chico. Anxiety was starting to devour me. I couldn’t endure this for ano
ther twelve hours. I needed to shift my concern for Chico to concern for myself. Walk away. For everyone’s sake, I thought, you need to walk away. Then I braced for the next wave of internal chatter: You can save Chico’s life. How can you possibly even think about leaving? Fight or flight was battering me around. Leaving the office that night, I finally settled on flight, silently promising Chico that I wouldn’t take a minute longer than necessary to get my own mental state back in order before returning. The plan was to go home, take a Risperdal, and pass out by 8 p.m.

  Just then my phone buzzed with a text from my roommate: We’ve got bedbugs. What time can you be home?

  Panic. New Yorkers lose their apartments to these things. Exterminators cost thousands of dollars and many landlords try to dick tenants into paying for it. Instead of popping a Risperdal and falling asleep, now I had to deal with these little fuckers.

  The mood was somber when I got home: devastation coupled with suspicion. One of us had brought the bedbugs into the apartment, and instinctually, all three of us were wondering who to pin the blame on. Ryan, who traveled frequently and stayed in a different—though no doubt fancy—hotel every weekend? Preston, who ate beef stew from a can every night? For some reason, that little tidbit seemed highly indicative of guilt. Or what about me, the public defender who hugged a homeless guy every other day?

  “So what’s the move?” I said, forcing a can-do tone, trying to ignore the fear of what would almost certainly happen if I didn’t get to sleep within the next few hours.

  Beef Stew explained that we had to bag our shit, dry-clean it all, vacuum every corner of the apartment, and cook all of our shoes along with anything else the bugs could possibly hide in.

  “What can they hide in?”

  “Everything.”

  I threw away every nonessential piece of clothing I owned. I couldn’t afford to dry-clean all that shit. My rule was, if I hadn’t worn something in the last month, it was gone. My panic fed on itself as twenty minutes turned into three hours. Fifteen more minutes. Another half hour. Fuck, it’s almost midnight. We aren’t close to done. Every minute that passed felt like a minute closer to the psych ward.

  When you have bedbugs, you are supposed to sleep with as little skin exposed as possible. I put on an old pair of track sweatpants and tucked them into a pair of soccer socks. I tucked a long-sleeve T-shirt into my underwear. I even put socks on my hands for a minute before determining it to be utterly ridiculous. By that point I didn’t care if the bedbugs ate me alive and left only my bones; I just needed sleep before it was too late. I knew I needed to take Risperdal, but it had gotten so late that I worried it would knock me out too hard and I wouldn’t wake up for work in the morning. Maybe I’m tired enough I don’t need it. I held the tiny orange pill in my hand and went back and forth for ten minutes.

  I didn’t take it. Big mistake.

  Chapter 22

  Insomniac energy surged through me all night. Each glance at the clock spawned a new wave of anxiety. The anxiety led to anxiety over the fact that my anxiety was going to prevent me from falling asleep. I never quit deliberating whether or not to take the Risperdal, but as sleepless minutes turned into sleepless hours, the risk of taking it and then not being able to wake up increased. When I did sleep, I dreamed that the bugs were crawling on me.

  The next morning, once I finally convinced myself to leave my apartment, I could feel my grasp on reality loosening as I walked to the F train. I focused on my normal routine: walk the five blocks down Rivington to Essex, stop at the Essex market to get a $2 coffee from Porto Rico, wait for the train while I listen to the elderly Chinese man play the erhu, wish that the elderly Chinese man would quit playing the erhu. The routine was comfortable. One foot in front of the other, and soon I’d accomplished steps one through three of getting through my day—leave, coffee, train. If you just stay slow and steady, deliberate and calm, you can make it through the day.

  As the F made its way under the East River into Brooklyn, the concept of sleep began to feel like a theoretical need more than a natural human function. Cognitively, I knew I needed it, but it felt as if my body had forgotten how to shut down. We pulled into the York Street station in Brooklyn; only one more stop until I’d have to get off the train and go play lawyer. I shut my eyes and tried to take deep breaths. You’ve done this a thousand times. You can do it again. My eyes felt like they’d retreated into the back of my skull and were floating around inside my head.

  I clutched my backpack to my chest—hugging it for comfort, really—and fantasized about the moment when I would be able to try and sleep again. I should just let myself conk out and ride this train to Coney Island and back. I knew I’d be okay if I could just do that—give myself two hours of sleep.

  “Jay Street Metrotech. Next stop Bergen Street. Stand clear of the closing doors!”

  Here we go. Focus on the familiar.

  I took the stairs up the platform two at a time. I was an object in motion and I needed to stay in motion. I passed the homeless guy who sits on a milk crate at the top of the F platform at Jay Street every day. He had a Duane Reade bag full of Duane Reade bags. Whether it was August or February, he always wore the same heavy winter coat and smoked Newports.

  Focus on the familiar.

  The first thing I saw when I entered my office was a note on my chair: See me when you get in.

  Godfuckingdammit.

  It was from Barry. I started thinking of reasons I couldn’t cover whatever case it was he needed me to cover. My desk was in complete squalor. What the fuck is wrong with me? The stacks of files, piles of missing discovery, discarded depositions, unfiled recordings of 911 calls, and mosaics of sticky notes plastered to my phone, keyboard, and computer monitor weren’t a reflection of a young devoted go-getter who’d just been working too darn hard. I couldn’t even remember what message corresponded to what case on more than half the stickies. *Call back 718-212-8217. Did the star mean it was important? Important enough to not write down whether it was a client, a witness, a social worker, a DA, a detective, or an investigator?

  Public defenders always have ten or twenty balls in the air. Organization is a virtue, but files get left open when the phone rings and you’re forced to switch gears to talk to a DA about a different case than the three you already have open. Or a client stops in, unannounced and with no appointment. Sometimes the only thing you can do is toss everything on the floor and pull the most important case you’re working on in the moment, trusting that you’ll get to the rest when they become the most important. Triage.

  And who’s this darkening my doorway now? Mr. See Me When You Get In.

  “Calendar says you’re going to courtroom TP-5; can you cover a case for Alinari? She’s out sick.” He had no idea that this routine favor he was asking from me would be the last little nudge that sent me over the edge.

  “Barry, I need a minute. I don’t think I can.”

  “But you’re going, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You have…”

  “Tamir Gray.”

  “Right, Tamir Gray. Is it not on?”

  “No, it’s on. I just…”

  Barry clearly thought I was just being lazy. I scanned for the right words—calm, collected words that would explain my current state of mind—but I came up empty.

  “Barry, I can’t do this! I’m so fucked! I’m fucked! Fucked!” I started crying, then bawling, then hyperventilating. What a fucking fraud. You can’t do shit for anyone! “Shut the door. Please, shut the fucking door, Barry.”

  Barry sighed. He hates putting out fires, and as supervisor of our unit, putting out fires was 90 percent of his job.

  “First, calm down.”

  “I can’t calm down! I’m going to have to take a leave of absence! I can’t do this! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I couldn’t stop crying.

  “Let’s take this one step at a time. What do you have on today besides the TP-5
?”

  “I don’t know. Two domestic violence cases and then a bunch of other cases everywhere else.”

  “Okay, can you write coverage notes?”

  “I can’t do shit. I can’t think. I’m so tired I’m seeing colors.”

  “Okay, I’ll write the notes.”

  “That’s not the problem. This guy right here”—I held up Chico’s file—“AIDS, gay, bipolar, illegal. He’s going to get deported, and he’s innocent.”

  Barry fidgeted with his wedding ring. “Hand me the file.” He skimmed through my notes and the discovery material. Within about a minute, he seemed to have absorbed everything he needed to know about the case. “I had a supervisor back in the old days who used to say to me ‘This building won’t burn down if you’re not here. It was here before you and it will be here after you.’ We have a hundred twenty-five other capable lawyers here. You aren’t the first person to come undone in this place and you definitely won’t be the last either. I got Mr. Borja. Go.”

  Barry shut the door behind him and I picked up my phone and scrolled to DR. SINGH 911—his emergency line. Just seventy-two hours earlier I had thought I could literally, maybe, save a goddamn life. As things stood, I felt more like a helpless accomplice to murder.

  “Hello, this is Dr. Singh.”

  I wasn’t prepared for him to answer; I’d planned on leaving a message and collecting myself before he called me back.

  “This is Zack McDermott.” I was already crying again before I got “McDerm” out of my mouth.

  “You don’t sound good.”

  “I’m not good!” I grabbed my hoodie off my chair and buried my face in it to keep the other lawyers from hearing me sob. It probably didn’t work.

  “No, you don’t sound good…not good at all.” His voice was the very embodiment of serenity. Just as a man in a cell explaining to me why he’d been forced to “lay hands on her” had become entirely mundane to me, Dr. Singh was surely desensitized to the vast majority of calls he received from the panicked, deranged, and suicidal. News of this little incident wouldn’t even make it to his dinner table. “You sound like you might need to go to the hospital.”