My father’s rough patch had continued. He was becoming agitated, panicked at times over his decreasing ability to speak for extended periods. His anxiety sent us on a renewed search. During his monthly visit with Dr. Padman, Bob asked if he could be considered for any experimental treatment programs and procured a referral to a pulmonologist at Columbia Presbyterian in upper Manhattan.
Suddenly my father had a place and time on which to pin his hopes. He was so looking forward to his appointment that he would end each of our brief conversations by saying, “We’ll see what they tell me at Columbia.”
On Saturday morning, as my father struggled for breath and dreamed of Columbia, I had to tell him that his brother was at Krome, a place that he, like all Haitians, knew meant nothing less than humiliation and suffering and more often than not a long period of detention before deportation.
“So it’s true,” he said. Uncle Franck had called the night before to tell him that Uncle Joseph might be going there.
“I hate to put this on you,” my father said. “You’re pregnant, but you’re the only family he has down there. It’s in your hands.”
I told him that Fedo and I had already called a few immigration lawyers and they’d all advised us that there was nothing we could do before Monday morning.
“You mean,” my father said, “Uncle has to spend the whole weekend in jail?”
When he arrived at Krome, my uncle was lined up with a dozen or so other detainees and his briefcase inventoried and taken away from him. A Krome property inventory form lists one softcover religious book, his Bible, one thousand U.S. dollars-he was allowed to keep the nine dollars to buy phone cards-one airline ticket, one tube of Fixodent for his dentures, and two nine-volt batteries for his two voice boxes. Again there’s no mention of the herbal medicine or the pills he was taking for his blood pressure and inflamed prostate.
My uncle’s initial medical screening involved a daylong examination of his vital signs, chest X-rays, and a physical and mental history interview. In the notes jotted down by the examining nurse, he is described as composed, friendly and “purposeful.” To the question “Does the detainee understand and recognize the significance and symptoms of the situation in which he finds himself?” the nurse answers, “Yes,” adding elsewhere, “Patient uses a traditional Haitian medicine for prostate & says if he doesn’t take it he pees blood & has pain.” Russ Knocke, a spokesman for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, would later derogatorily refer to my uncle’s traditional medicine as “a voodoolike potion.”
At the end of his first day at Krome, my uncle’s blood pressure was so high that he was assigned to the Short Stay Unit, a medical facility inside the prison. He and Maxo were separated.
I am acquainted with Ira Kurzban, author of
“I’m sending one of my best guys on this,” he said, after I explained the entire situation to him. “Because of his age and health condition, we’ll first try to get your uncle out as soon as possible.”
Soon after Ira hung up, John Pratt, a stern-sounding man with a slight southern drawl, called.
“I’m heading to Krome now,” he said. “I’ll need as much information as you have about the situation.”
I told him all I knew. I hadn’t been able to speak to my uncle since his arrival, so I couldn’t offer much insight into his state of mind or how he might come across at a credible fear hearing, an inquiry into his claims of persecution that would be held before an asylum officer at Krome.
“Are you willing to take him in if they release him?” Pratt asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Hang on tight then and stay by the phone,” he said.
Once there was only waiting to do, my husband left for work. I called some Brooklyn ambulette companies about transporting my father to Columbia Presbyterian the next day. My father had so little fat and muscle left on his body that it was agonizing for him to sit for any stretch of time, so I basically wanted to rent him a bed on wheels.
“The only way you get a bed is if you call 911,” a Russian dispatcher told me, so I booked a van with a recliner.
All morning, I hoped that John Pratt would call and tell me he was going to walk out of Krome with my uncle, news I would have loved to share with my father. However, when Pratt did call that afternoon the only good news was that my uncle’s credible fear hearing had been scheduled for nine o’clock the next morning.
“So he’s not coming home?” I said. Even as I said it, the word “home” felt inappropriate, unsuitable. My uncle no longer had a home.
“Can I visit him?” I asked.
“Only weekend visits are allowed at Krome,” he said, “and he’d have to put you on a list a couple of days before the fact, but there’s a good chance they’ll release him tomorrow.”
That night at around six o’clock, my uncle called me from Krome.
“Bon dye,” I shouted, so overjoyed to hear that motorized voice. “My God. It’s so good to hear you.”
“Oh, I can’t tell you how good it is to hear you,” he said.
Then I slipped into a repartee I had fallen into with my father in the last weeks or so as he’d grown sicker. I called him cher, amour, mon coeur, darling, my love, my heart.
“How are you, my heart?”
“M nan prizon,” he said. I’m in jail.
“Oh I know,” I said, now missing his real voice, the one that didn’t always sound the same, the one I could no longer fully remember. “I know and I am so sad. I’m so sad and sorry for everything that’s happened both in Haiti and here. But you met with the lawyer?”
“Yes,” he said. “Maxo and I both did.”
“He’s going to get you out,” I said. “He’s a very good lawyer. He’s going to get you out.”
“Okay,” he said. He’d had so many horrible surprises in the last few days, why should he believe that things would start going well now?
“Neg nan prizon,” he said. “Fo w mache pou we.” If you live long enough you’ll see everything.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll get you out.”
“They took my medicine.” The machine produced some static as if his finger had slipped off the button that he pressed to keep the voice going. “I also had something for your father, some liquid vitamins. They took that too. And my papers, my notepads, they’re gone. Burned.”
“Don’t worry about all that,” I said. “Just concentrate on getting out tomorrow.”
“Does he know?” he asked. “Does Mira know I’m in here? I didn’t want him to know. He’s so sick. I don’t want him to have this on his mind.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “He knows you’re getting out tomorrow.”
“Do people in Haiti know?” he asked. He was most concerned about his sisters, Tante Zi and Tante Tina.
“I think they know,” I said.
Now even the motorized voice betrayed a hint of shame, the kind of
