The young woman weeps openly in the second row of the courtroom. Dressed in the telltale dirty tangerine jumpsuit with dirty tangerine sandals and pink socks, her feet shackled by chains and her hands bound in cuffs, tears are streaming down her brown face, drops are falling from her nose, and she's staring, gulping, breathing hard, trying to stifle the sobs. She knows, as do the 11 members of the immigrant chain gang around her, that in the eyes of the court, in the eyes of this country, she's a criminal. She's crossed into a country that doesn't belong to her, that she doesn't belong to. She's about to learn her punishment.
It's a misdemeanor to enter and remain in this country without the proper documents, but from the chains binding these men and women, all of whom look young, in their 20s, you'd think they'd committed crimes far more serious.
"Crossing the street outside of a sidewalk is also a misdemeanor, but these 'illegals' are treated like the scum of the earth," says Malena Burnett. "And it isn't their fault that they are here, it's our fault they're here. We haven't taken care of a good immigration system, a good system that allows people to be here legally."
Burnett is an activist for immigration change and also the owner of Amigo Services Scribes, a paralegal service that works with immigration attorneys to serve their clients' needs. She estimates that there are 300,000 undocumented immigrants in Las Vegas, people who work hard, contribute to our economy, have families and are an integral part of our community. They're here illegally, she says, because of a backlogged governmental system full of red tape. Right now, it takes seven years for a legal U.S. resident from Mexico to get approval to bring his family here. Coming from the Philippines takes 13. Why wait for approval when you can find your own way in?
"You can't blame people," Burnett says. "The migrations have existed throughout the history of mankind. People go to where there are sources of food and sources of survival. And this is a source of survival for many people."
The following snapshots show the ways that we confront immigrants who come here searching for a better life.
Alien nation
Get those bags out from under your eyes next time you go to the airport. Better be clean, wearing freshly ironed clothing, have combed, tangle-free hair and no—absolutely no—sticks on your clothing. Otherwise, you'll fit the profile of an "alien," says Andy Adame, spokesman for the Tucson sector of the Border Patrol. He's describing the process used last month to apprehend 93 undocumented immigrants at McCarran during "Operation Transguard."
"We saw vans pull up to the front of the airport with 15 people in them," Adame says. "We were looking at wrinkled clothing, clothing that have been worn for more than one day. A lot of these people we found had twigs in their hair and their clothing, they were disheveled—you know like when you sleep and you don't comb yourself in the morning type of deal. Those are some of the things that we were looking at. Las Vegas is a big tourist area. So the tourists, you know, they all tend to look the same, so if you look across everybody, people tend to stand out."
This was the first big operation launched by Border Patrol since it and the Immigration and Naturalization Service fell under the Department of Homeland Security in March. Adame insists they weren't targeting Hispanics; they were looking for any aliens they could find. Twenty were OTM—other than Mexican—and 73 were just plain M. "What we wanted to do was to disrupt the ability of smuggling organizations to move aliens from the border to transportation hubs like Las Vegas or Phoenix," he says.
The apprehension of almost 100 people received next to no press. It's an easy topic to ignore in our white-walled suburbia.
Detained
That young woman in the second row is still battling the sobs trying to commandeer her body. It's December 12, in the U.S. Department of Justice Immigration Court, behind the INS building (which should actually have a new sign, now that it's run by the Department of Homeland Security, but it hasn't gotten one yet) near Pecos and Russell roads. She's joined by detainees from China, Brazil, Mexico, Romania and South Korea. Some may have stolen items or falsely claimed to be citizens, but mostly they were picked up for coming into our country without permission.
A few are lucky enough to have lawyers. Those who can't afford representation will rely on Jeremiah Wolf Stuchiner, who does the bulk of the work pro bono for immigration court every Friday, handling 30 to 40 cases at a time. "Somebody has to do it," he shrugs, modestly.
Eight women sit on one side of the courtroom. The one who's weeping sits on the aisle. The others glance around, some listening to Stuchiner, others not sure what to do. Four men are on the other side of the room. They stare straight ahead, or at the floor, more stoic and less fidgety than the women.
Stuchiner speaks with each client for less than a minute. There's no privacy—anyone who can understand the language knows what's going on. He talks with a young Romanian woman in English. "They claim you made a false claim, that you said you're an American. Are you afraid to return to Romania?" "Yes," she responds. "I'll get you a political asylum application," he says. He tries to communicate with a woman from China, but she speaks Mandarin and he knows Cantonese. He has similar trouble with a young woman from South Korea but quickly discovers that both have their own representation. He speaks in Spanish to the others.
In about 10 minutes, the consultations are over, and they're waiting for Wayne Price, assistant district counsel. The room is silent, but for the jingle of chains. One Mexican man is nervously tapping his foot, and the tapping makes a rattling. It comes from across the room, too, as the women shift, or try to cross their legs, or wipe their tears. The chains come in different sizes, and each makes a different noise. Some sound more like dog collars, others like jingling loose chains. One is tinny, another almost melodic.
When Price arrives and Judge Irene Weiss enters, Stuchiner runs down the list referring to the detainees by number. "Six and seven, voluntary departure; eight, reset; nine, reset; 10, bonded out; 11 has an attorney; 12, reset; 13, bonded out; 14 is my client."
The judge does some paperwork, and while she's doing so a large blond man wearing all tan clothes and work boots enters. The woman who's been crying turns and smiles. She waves, mouths "Hi," and then turns back around—this is too much. She's stifling sobs, grimacing. Her breathing deepens, and a guard brings her a tissue. Then her case is up. She and another man have agreed to return to Mexico. They must board a bus back to their native country before December 31. The crying woman has tears streaming down her face, and the guard offers more tissues. The Mexican man is shaking his head, bewildered. His eyes are wet.
They zoom through the other cases. The case for the Romanian is closed since she may qualify for asylum. The woman who speaks Mandarin communicates with her California attorney over the phone, and a trial date is set. The attorney for the woman from South Korea has also arrived, and whatever he says to her brings a huge smile. "Today? Tomorrow?" she says, beaming. She communicates with the woman next to her using simple hand gestures until the guard tells her to stop.
Forty-five minutes after the 12 entered the courtroom, they're done. They file back out, chains jangling. A few will be released since they met bond. The rest will remain in the North Las Vegas Detention Center until their trial date in January. They're criminals.
Backbone
An estimated 8 to 12 million undocumented immigrants live in the United States, and it's difficult to imagine Las Vegas without their presence. Burnett interacts daily with immigrants working in fields that many Americans make it their life's goal to avoid: slaughterhouses, janitorial services, nursing homes.
"I don't see American workers ready and willing to go through those jobs or pick a harvest and go field to field to put food on our tables," Burnett says. "If we were doing that, I agree, yes, let's put serious controls. But we don't have that. We don't have that luxury."
Visualize the construction industry, landscaping, restaurant kitchens, housekeeping, handbillers. If our immigration policies and restrictions were actually as tight as they aim to be, who would fill the jobs that are readily available to people who speak little to no English?
"I think that immigrants, legal and illegal, have gotten a bad rap," says Xavier Gonzales, a local immigration attorney. "It seems to me that a lot of them are doing the kind of work that a lot of other people don't like to do. Cleaning homes, doing porter-type work in hotels, kind of unsavory-type things that American workers probably shun. We're lucky that we have a good public education system, a lot of us at least graduate from high school and we go on to do more technical things. But an immigrant coming to the United States for the first time, they're looking for work and coming from Third World countries where they made $5 a day, if that, and they eke out a living."
It's not difficult for an undocumented worker to make money. Some will simply accept under-the-table jobs, joining the ranks of an underground society that thrives solely on cash. Others will simply spend somewhere between $50 and $200 to get false documents they can purchase around town. An attorney directs me to Bonanza Indoor Swap Meet.
Documents
The Bonanza Indoor Swap Meet is at Eastern and Bonanza, and shares a parking lot with Mariana's Tortillaria, a shipping place called Pack and Mail, a check-cashing store, a 99-cent party super mart, a Mexican restaurant, video and jewelry store with bars in the windows and Friendship Thai food restaurant. Two sloppy-looking security officers are squeezed into a golf cart, circulating the premises. In some kind of irony, they wear patches that say Custom, the name of the company they work for. The parking lot reeks from a pickup that just pulled in, emitting some kind of foul-smelling pollution that catches in your throat. No English is spoken. A little girl who's holding a Kit Kat vomits or spits or does something in-between. There are more than a dozen Hispanic men hanging out, leaning against the building, waiting by pay phones.
Inside, there are pregnant mannequins sporting bulging T-shirts with pithy slogans, things like "Hottie" or maybe "Baby on Board." There are Statue of Liberty towels, vaquero-style clothing, cowboy boots, scorpion charms and other typical swap-meet fare. There's a booth that sells IDs starting at $20, right next to the booth with the sign that says "Servicios de Immigracion" and offers a free consultation in a booth full of files, computers and forms.
A little over a year ago, 12 people were indicted for falsifying documents sold to undocumented immigrants. They sold them from here and from another swap meet at Eastern and Owens. Stephen Usiak, the interim resident agent in charge of the Las Vegas branch of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, says that in the past, they've sold phony drivers licenses from California, green cards, Social Security cards and sheriff's work cards. "The ones that were working out there with phony documents were the ones that were just standing outside, and you knew who to go up to, and they'd tell you how much they want and take your money," Usiak says. "You'd have to go get photographed, and they'd tell you to come back this afternoon or whenever and then they'd have their documents ready for you."
Deportation
A couple in their mid-30s sits in the first courtroom bench, looks anxious, eyes roaming the room, around the blue and white walls and the red carpet, digesting the American flag and the emblem "Executive Office for Immigration Review." This is their preliminary hearing for Cancellation of Removal—i.e. they're petitioning to stay in the U.S. Since it's only a preliminary hearing, not much will happen, outside of turning in some forms and setting a future trial date. But from their attorney's perspective, it looks like the couple is approaching a massive upheaval and may ultimately be split apart.
The man is staring at a table, looking concerned. He came here from El Salvador, his wife is from Mexico. Both have been here more than 10 years. They have children, jobs, a life, but all of that is about to change. The husband has an issue of "moral character"—he was once convicted of a sexual crime with a minor. "It's a slam-dunk he's going to be denied," says Erick Barillas, his California-based attorney. So even if his wife is able to prove what's necessary to remain in the country (that she's been here 10 years, is of good moral character and her removal would mean hardship for her children), the family will likely be split.
It's been happening more and more since 1996, when Congress changed the law regarding immigrants. Before 1996, undocumented immigrants could remain here by proving that they'd been in the United States seven years and could incur extreme hardship should they be deported. Now, the law's more rigid. They must have lived here 10 years and must prove hardship to a U.S. citizen or lawful permanent resident (instead of hardship to themselves) were they to be deported. The laws also changed in regards to crimes. Before 1996, aggravated felonies resulting in five years of prison would mean deportation for a legal resident. After 1996, it became any felony, and it's retroactive. Meaning a felony committed in 1980 that didn't warrant deportation at the time could be punished with deportation now.
"These are people that have solid roots here," says Barillas. "For them, it's really hard to be in front of a judge for something that's happened 10 or 15 years ago." Even harder to have their family living landmasses away from one another.
Asylum
Last Thursday afternoon, Immigration Court 3 was a different picture from Wednesday's Cancellation of Removal hearing and from the chain-gang detainee hearings. This was an asylum hearing for Habtomu Wasie, an Ethiopian seeking protection from torture in his native country.
Wasie was able to afford an attorney and an interpreter, and it's clear that he's a bright, educated man. The trial is emotional, dredging up stories of pain and suffering, and, as one jaded prosecuting attorney phrases it, "touchy-feely." Assuming his lawyer can prove his identity and a reasonable threat should he return to his country, his chance of becoming a resident is high.
Wasie, a man with Hershey Kiss skin and a round baby face encircled by curly black hair, has been here for a year, having fled his native Ethiopia, fearing for his life. As a member of the All Amhara People's Organization (AAPO), a group that opposes government abuse and strives for democracy in Ethiopia, Wasie fears torture and death upon his return to Africa. "[Members of the AAPO] believe in equality and they also fight for freedom and the rights of the Amhara people that are being killed and tortured by the government at this moment."
Well-dressed, in an oceanic blue button-up shirt, silver tie and black pants, his hands are crossed over his stomach and his face is open, willing to talk about anything. He's soft-spoken, and through a translator answers questions calmly and thoroughly. While the judge talks and he awaits a translation, his eyes shift around the room, registering each person, each object, digesting the situation. His attorney, Marci Ancel, asks whether he'd sustained any abuse at the hands of the government.
"They tied my hands backwards and they were hitting … with things in the room, like keychains and they used their fists. … They blindfolded me and took me to another room. They started beating me and throwing me at the wall. They were using sticks to beat me, kicking me, since they couldn't find the information. From that beating I passed out. When I woke up I was in another room with prisoners."
His sister, who's been in America for 11 years, cries as he relives the abuse. She looks away from him, toward the back of the room, wiping her tears, perhaps recalling that she made his escape possible. Every month, the sister, a blackjack dealer, would send her brother money. When he saved enough, he made the journey, knowing that if he returns, he doesn't stand a chance. "I know they will torture me or kill me. They are doing it at this moment. I want peace. I don't want to be scared. The peace that I have seen within the time I've lived here I have never experienced anything like it in my 30 years."
The emotions are running high. Then comes Wayne Price, assistant district counsel, with his cross-examination. Price is a hardass. He barks questions at Wasie, rarely making eye contact. While talking, he looks at the American flag hanging from the wall, or a door, or a calendar, but rarely at Wasie and his translator. His questioning is done in a way that begins with a "sir" and ends with a shout.
"Sir, were you ever treated for you injuries by a doctor in Ethiopia?"
"Yes."
"What injuries did you have?"
"The swelling has gone down. But there was infection all over my body. I used to get injections for the infection."
"Did you have any broken bones?"
"I have a scar behind my left ear and the left side of my face was swollen."
"Sir, did you have any broken bones?"
"Only in my hand."
"Sir, the bones were broken in your hand?"
"It was swollen."
"So the answer, I think, is no."
Price is trying to shake this guy up enough so that something in his story doesn't jibe. He's not convinced that this man is who he says he is, so he fires questions every step of the way, looking as bored as possible, picking things from his nails or playing with his beard. If someone on the stand's a good liar and keeps all their facts in check, asylum will be granted. Price is trying to break him. Wasie isn't shaken.
When the grilling ends, the Judge Harry Gastley is satisfied. He says he's convinced by their looks and language that Wasie and his sister are from Ethiopia. He acknowledges that the government of Ethiopia functions like a police state that operates on the basis of fear. He says that the beating in the jail cell didn't amount to a case of severe past persecution as determined by the 9th Circuit. However, the six months of harrassment that followed qualify as psychological persecution, and if he were to return to the country he would presumably be subject to the same. Asylum is granted. Wasie turns to his sister, his face morphed into one big grin. She's crying, waiting anxiously to hug him.