Fallen Through The Cracks
By Pol Brennan
When some random blow out of
the dark crushes the pillars round which our life has
been entwined as recklessly as a boy sweeps away a
cobweb, which at a single step we plunge through the
flimsy crust of happiness into the deep gulfs beneath,
we are tempted to turn to pessimism. Who shall decide
and how? Of all the questions that can be asked, the
most important is surely this: Is the tangled web of
this world composed chiefly of happiness or misery? --
Leslie Stephens, 1812-1904
* * *
We had a good trip down to
South Padre Island in South Texas driving our new
Sportsmobile that Joanna had painstakingly researched
and chosen after many months of preparation and decision
making on what she wanted in this large customized van
conversion. The week before we had driven down from
the Bay Area to Fresno in Central California (where
the Sportsmobile van conversion factory facility was
located) and, after an all-afternoon run through of the
systems, we took possession of the vehicle for an
overnight trial and test drive. We went back the next
day to go over what we didn't understand or why it
wasn't doing what we were told it would do. Another
afternoon of revision and a quick lesson in operating
the multi-choice 4-wheel drive systems and we were on
our way back to the Bay Area where we would park
the behemoth outside our home for a week before
we headed for Texas.
We spent that whole Saturday
loading the van and a U-Haul trailer rented to load
Joanna's books and other personal effects she was taking
with her to go down and care for family in Texas. The
plan was for me to stayed in the Bay Area and keep our
house in Oakland going until Joanna could come back,
however long that would be. We anticipated taking
trips up and down, there and back, as needed to see
each other.
The drive down was also a
chance to put the new supervan through its paces,
which Joanna did at the first chance in Arizona taking
it up and down through narrow dirt roads in almost
impassable locations. Somehow we made it through and got
a good idea of how this baby could drive. The purpose of
the vehicle was two-fold. First, it was to be an
escape vehicle for Joanna and family members in the
event of a hurricane. South Texas recently just missed
two major hurricanes when at the last moment they
veered off and slammed into Mexico and parts of Central
America causing massive damage (mostly under-reported in
American media), yet only a few hundred miles southwest
of where she'd be staying.
Second, it was to be a
recreational vehicle for Joanna so she could explore
that part of the country including off-road adventuring
. This van had what's called a pop top and could sleep
four people. It was perfect for weekend trips with
cooking, toilet and shower amenities on-board. People go
on transcontinental trips in these things. She was
all set. Joanna was also torn about leaving Marley,
our 12 year old whippet, one of two we owned; he was her
dog and he had a deep attachment to her. Joanna was
heartbroken at the thought of not having him with her
while she was away. Marley is a strikingly handsome
specimen of the whippet breed, similar to greyhounds,
but smaller. His past five generations and beyond
had all been champions in the ring and he has all
the attributes of a winning male. He's positively regal
in stature and has beautiful brindle saddle markings on
his otherwise all white coat. Marley hasw high
prey drive with the scars to prove it. One of these
(arakish slash under his right eye resembling a dueling
scar) he wearslike a Prussian aristocrat. In the end we
decided that he should go with her because he does not
do well when boarded as we had to do with our other
whippet, Phoolan. He'd always lost a lot of weight
whenever we picked him up after a spell of being boarded
whenever we were away and couldn't bring the dogs.
We left Oakland on Saturday,
January 18, and arrived in South Padre Island on the
following Friday at around 5pm, good time considering
the route we took. Our one big detour was to the
plains of San Augustin in New Mexico to see the massive
radio dishes of the Very Large Array which
featured prominently in the movie "Contact" with
Jodie Foster (based on the Carl Sagan novel of the same
name). This was to assuage my love of astronomy and all
things astronomical in nature. We took a lot
of photographs of the area (a kind of desolate beauty)
with a lot of wild animals about the place. The day
after we arrived in South Padre was given over to
unloading the U-Haul trailer actually was over quicker
than we expected. We had everything moved in by noon. I
took the U-Haul trailer back to some place in Port
Isabel just across the main (and only) bridge to the
island and Joanna began the task of unpacking and
arranging her belongings.
We had decided that we would
travel the next day (Sunday) up to Austin to see an old
friends of ours and drop off the Sportsmobile for
some adjustments and a few repairs at a sister factory
to the one in Fresno. Joanna had quit her job as a legal
clerk with the Public Defender's Office of the City and
County of San Francisco. She had recently taken a test
for a higher position with the Superior Court and had
just received word before we left for Texas that she
would actually have to come back to San Francisco for a
second level test the next week. So after our visit with
our friends we were to fly back together and she would
return after taking the test to Austin, pick up
the Sportsmobile and drive back to South Padre, picking
up Marley on the way as we had to board him after all
because she had to return to the Bay Area with me. The
reason Joanna was taking these tests was that she
could apply anywhere in the county for those higher
paying Court Clerk jobs. The China buffet in
Harlengen was our last stop after dropping Marley off at
the boarding kennels before heading up the 77 Expressway
northbound. We ate our fill of the various offerings and
pulled out of there around 2pm. I decided to drive this
leg of the journey, a fateful decision as it turned
out. About 100 miles inland on on the 77 Expressway
running north/south is the Sarita Border
Patrol/Department of Homeland Security checkpoint.We had
gone through it heading south but, like everyone else,
were waved through so we paid little attention to it.
Joanna had been napping so I awoke her to tell her of
the checkpoint. It was certain that we'd be stopped this
time driving such a large unusual vehicle with no plates
yet. (We planned to register the van in Austin when we
got there.) They waved the two cars ahead of us on by
but motioned for me to stop. When asked if I was a US
Citizen I answered "No," as I always had. I was asked
for my papers. I gave them my driver's license and
yearly work permit without even thinking anything was
amiss. But then they said my work permit was out of
date, expired. I was asked to repark the vehicle and was
then ordered out of the van and escorted over to the
station building at the side of the road. Inside I was
allowed to wait in the secure waiting area in front of a
row of interview counters that ran around the waiting
room on two sides. I explained to them that I had
another application pending and arranged for my lawyer,
Jim Byrnes of San Francisco whom I contacted on my
cellphone and luckily caught him at home, to fax down
proof of the pending work permit, green card and
political asylum applications as well. But when they ran
my name on their computers and my past history came up I
knew it wasn't good -- even when I explained that that
had all been settled in Federal courts in San Francisco
15 years ago. They started acting as if they'd caught
the terrorist Al Zarqawi as they huddled around their
computer screens and getting downloads of the 1988 Maze
Prison breakout escape and H. Block history. Their
little eyes were jiggling in their heads with
excitement.
Soon they came and started to question me about my
arrest in Northern Ireland 32 years ago. I told them I
was under strict legal advice from my lawyers not to
answer any questions without my lawyers present and they
quickly backed off. Still, I knew then that Joanna would
be traveling to Austin alone that night. After a teary
good-bye she was allowed to leave at around 10pm. We had
been there for a total of six hours since they stopped
us.
I was fingerprinted then photographed and placed in a
holding cell along with another fellow who was laying
on the concrete bench when I went in.If you have never
been in a holding tank, it's the most uncomfortable of
places -- all concrete and unusually cold. I spent the
night there sleeping on the floor (or trying to) with my
jacket over my eyes to shade them from the overhead
flourescents that are always on, day and night. If I
don't cover my eyes I eventually get a headache. Just
before I tried to get to sleep a guard came around with
some bologna sandwiches that were dry and inedible.
They held me there until about 2pm the next day by
which time I was thoroughly stiff and sore from lying on
the concrete for 14 hours. I was brought into the
hallway with a dozen or so others, male and female, who
also had been detained the day before. We were cuffed
and eventually put on a bus with "Wackenhut" stenciled
large on the side of it. We headed south on 77 back down
to Harlengen to the Border Patrol headquarters and
holding center where again we were put into a very large
holding tank after we had been "processed" into the
detention system and fitted with an identity bracelet
with your pic ture and essential information on it. The
holding tank was in a reception area with the holding
rooms radiating out from an office/deck area hub. These
places have a strange similarity in construction and
design -- mostly cinder block walls painted either
two-toned or the ubiquitous heavy cream colors
institutions seem to love. The tank held about 25-30
others gathered in little groups or lying/sleeping on
the benches and ground that ran down each side of the
tank ending in a partitioned toilet area at the back of
the room. This one had two stainless steel lavatory
commode combos now found in almost all recently built
prisons, jails, detention centers and such places. I've
seen the same units back in California while I was in
Bay Area jails fighting my extradition case in the early
1990s.
Most of these guys looked as if they'd been there all
day. I believe I was the only white person in the room
and I soon sensed some of them wereeyeing me, and I saw
one youngster in the back corner (where the small
cinderblock wall blocked the toilet area for a modicum
of privacy). He was surrounded by a small group of
like-aged others. I caught out of the side of my eye
that he was talking about me and nodding in my direction
and when I met his gaze he quickly asked me where I was
from in a semi-arrogant manner like he had a right to
know. I'd been through this routine before and knew the
best response was to go right up to him, look him
straight in the eye and answer, "Ireland," and just as
arrogantly ask him where he was from. The kid, who was
shirtless, was a light-skinned, good-looking black from
Brazil named Roger and when he heard my accent and where
I was from he completely changed his tune and came over
and sat beside where I'd been sitting and we had a
pleasant introductory conversation about being in the
same predicament.
Another while later this other hard-bitten looking
fellow came over and we went through the same "Where are
you from?" routine. It's important not to appear
frightened or submissive lest you be tagged as such and
targeted by any predatory types that you will surely
find in such places. This one turned out to be from
Central America, I forget where, but his name was
Jonathan. What's with these English names?, I thought to
myself. But he had a very sad story. He'd lived in
Chicago with his girlfriend (who was an American, US
citizen) and their two children. He had been living in
the US for over ten years, had a decent job, and was
never in trouble. He was picked up in an ICE sweep and
deported back to his country of origin. He made it back
to Mexico where he paid a coyote $5,000 to take him
over, back to the US. He had tapped every source of
money he and his girlfriend could muster to pay the
coyote only to be captured by the Border Patrol a few
hundred yards inside the US. The coyote somehow got away
during the confusion of the round-up. About a dozen
others were also arrested, some along with the coyote
escaped back over the border. Needless to say he was
shattered by the whole experience and his story was
typical of many more I would hear over the coming weeks.
Most of those in the room were from Central and South
America and were tired of being there and they were
getting restless. Roger, the good looking Brazilian kid,
organized an impromptu soccer game by making an
improvised ball out of whatever was available rolled up
in a volunteered sock. And there ensued a side match
that lasted almost an hour with sides changing every two
or three goals. This provided the most light-hearted
entertainment. Everyone in that room was taken out of
their sorry existence for a short while and transported
back to many a remembered soccer match. We enjoyed the
gamesmanship exhibited by those who played. As I looked
around the room every last man was cheering and laughing
for one side or the other, or just for a friend who was
playing at that moment. It was the most fun I ever had
in a holding tank where usually there's tension in the
air. It was the only time I ever experienced this
happening. But it was too good to last as the guards
soon put the kibosh on it and took the ball out and
everyone went back to their little groups or tried again
to rest or sleep to escape their present reality for at
least a while.
Later, after more bad bologna sandwiches were handed
out, a bunch of us were called out and put into another
smaller holding tank. It felt late by this time and my
watch (which I still had on) confirmed this -- 11pm.
This time, though, they gave us blankets to sleep on.
Even if they were the coarse emergency matted variety
they were more than welcomed by us who had rested on
cold concrete for the past 24 hours or more. Very soon
everyone of us was asleep.
At about 5am we were awakened and myself and a
Mexican fellow who had come down from the Sarita
checkpoint with me were called out. After they cuffed us
we were led to a waiting minivan and put in the secured
back of it and driven in the dark for a half-hour or so
until we arrived just before dawn to the Port Isabel
Detention Center in Los Fresnos, actually an adjacent
town to Port Isabel itself. Twenty minutes later,
Gustavo, the Mexican, and I were introduced to yet
another holding tank (this one empty) and we quickly
resumed trying to catch up on our interrupted sleep,
this time again with no blankets on cold concrete. Just
as in Harlengen the processing area had a long counter
where the officials sat behind computer consoles facing
a long row of adjacent holding tanks where they could
observe the occupants and vice-versa. We were fed around
noon and taken and "processed" thereafter. We were given
a cold shower, stripped of our own clothes which were
put into marked bins and given red tunics and pants,
soft slippers and shower shoes.
At 2pm that afternoon Gustavo and I were escorted to
one of the main housing units. There were four of these
warehouse-size units each with four large dorms in them.
Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Delta. Delta was for the red
blue, orange and red. Red was the highest security
level, orange the next, and navy blue the lowest. Red
and orange could mix, and orange and blue could mix, but
red and blue had to be kept separate at all times. We
were taken to Delta 4 dorm and led up to the tall desk
just inside the glass wall of the dorm. All eyes were on
us as the current residents looked our way. A few of
them were around the desk as the guards gathered Gustavo
and myself for a quick "orientation." I was standing
astride one of the yellow lines on the floor where
detainees are supposed to stand behind when at or near
the desk. One of the inmates motioned that I should
stand on "that" side of the line. "What are you, a cop?"
I asked, loud enough for others to hear in the most
accusatory tone of voice I could muster. He quickly
retreated and I had immediately established the fact
that I wasn't new to this game. A quick five minutes of
jabber from the guards and we were led to our bunks.
I was led over to where a bunch of black fellows,
who from their accents sounded Jamaican, were lounging
about and around their bunks and assigned a top bunk,
above a burly guy who didn't look too pleased about the
fact that I was to be his new bunkie. There was some
argument with the guard about my placement but the guard
said this is where I was assigned, then quickly
left."Where you from, man?" and the ritual started
again. Just then a very large Trinidadian black guy with
heavy dreads rolled into a bun on top of his head
appeared as if to investigate the commotion and again
asked, "Where he from?" When I answered, "Ireland," he
looked thoughtful for a moment, then declared, "Ah --
he's fine!" and waved his arms in a dismissive gesture
and departed as quickly as he'd appeared. This seemed to
dispel the tension of the moment and I spent the next
hour or so getting to know my new neighbors and they
went back to whatever it was they did before I showed
up.
I got to know my bunkie a little better over the
next day or so. A well built Jamaican with a prominent
chin, he cut quite a figure. He hailed from New York's
Brooklyn borough and he was well respected (I could
tell) by the other colored inmates. He spoke his mind
and was outspoken when he saw the need. The Jamaicans
and other Caribbeans in the dorm were a very loud bunch
and constantly teased the guards incessantly while they
did their thrice daily "counts" when we were confined to
our bunks and no movement was
The dorm room was a very large cavernous area where
about 35 to 40 double bunks were arranged around a
cleared space that was used for deploying the
collapsible tables and benches used during meal times,
but otherwise were stored up against the wall under the
solitary TV above. The cleared area was also used to
watch the TV which was encased in a steel and plexiglas
housing (about eight feet above the tables) on the wall.
Only guards were supposed to change the channels but
this rule was casually flaunted by inmates when it was
time to change from Spanish speaking TV to English
speaking shows. As you can imagine having only one TV
for almost 70 locked, up, pent up, multi-racial young
guys was a recipe for trouble -- andtrouble there was.
It took me a few days to realize my bunkie's first
name wasn't Clark as he had called himself when we
introduced ourselves. Finally he told me his Christian
name was Dave, "Dave Clarke!" I said, "like the British
pop group of the 60s and early 70s -- the Dave Clarke
Five." "Yeah," he answered, "I've heard that before."
This sparked a conversation about Britain, especially
England and he mentioned the fact that he had relatives
there. My reason for bringing up England was a memory
of a scene in the movie "In The Name Of The Father" with
Daniel Day Lewis portraying Gerry Conlon, a young
Belfast kid (I knew from growing up there) who found
himself (and later his father also) railroaded by
corrupt promotion-seeking British police officers and
special branch members into making false confessions
and/or misrepresenting evidence against them. In court
they were sentenced to life imprisonment for something
they were completely innocent of. The specific memory
that occurred to me while talking to Dave in the yard
was while Conlon was in Brixton Prison, his Jamaican
fellow inmates got him stoned on acid once they learned
the truth of his and his father's story. It was a funny
episode in an otherwise depressing saga. Later the
father actually dies in prison, one of the saddest
stories to come out of the
Dave had been ruminating about his misspent past
while in New York and bemoaned the fact that he'd been
hanging with the wrong crowd. He was contemplating a
change of course that his present circumstances afforded
him and was asking me about Ireland and England. I had
lived in London in the early 1970s and observed many
Caribbean's there, a very colorful lot indeed. Dave was
seriously thinking of perhaps giving England a visit
again (he had been there as a young boy visiting some
relatives) and settling down and putting the US behind
him in light of all the new immigration hassles people
such as ourselves were now experiencing. ее
Life in the dorm is boring. They don't provide any
reading materials, papers, magazines, books or even
comics. I saw a few Bibles, but that was it. There are
the usual board games and one ping pong table which is
always in use. The noise level is always high but even
then is regularly punctuated by screaming and yelling
from different groups and individuals. I keep to myself
mostly but make sure to affect personal friendly
relations with as many people from the different ethnic
and national groups as I can. This way I can be seen as
not favoring or hanging with any one color, creed or
clique within the dorm.
After two days in the dorm I was assigned a
bottom bunk that had become vacant. This was because of
my age; anyone over 50 was eligible for a lower bunk if
they so desired. Lower bunks are more useful when like
me you write a lot and tend to acquire a lot of mail. I
knew this from my last spell in Bay Area jails in the
early to mid-90s. Luckily enough it was close to the
bank of four phones attached to the nearby wall and I
could easily get to the phones after the counts when
there was a rush for them, especially in
the evenings. One thing I got almost immediately upon
entering the dorm was a homemade improvised wallet made
from Dorito Chip packaging. A small Guatemalan Indian
guy two bunks over was making and selling them for $2.50
each. These were very useful for carrying my small phone
book, phone cards and cash money. Yes, cash. This is the
one confinement facility I've been in where they allow
the inmates to have cash. I was also allowed to keep my
gold wedding ring. I was starting to sense that the
place was run
differently than others I had experienced before.
On my third day there I was called to Medical for a
check-up. The Medical Unit was in the same one-story
building that "process" was. It had a red brick facade
as all the buildings had but it wasn't as tall as the
dorm structures, which has ceilings 18 feet high. These
admin istrative buildings were around ten feet tall and
felt more claustrophobic perhaps due to the dull reddish
brown color palate that they used. The medical holding
tank was different in a couple of ways from the others
I'd observed here in that it had a TV, it had a curtain
around the toilet area (similar to what you'd see in a
medical ward) and it was the same red rusty brown color
as the rest of
There were a half dozen others waiting there when I
arrived. One was a black guy who shared a bunk beside
me. The day before he had come out the worse from a
fight with another black detainee who had bloodied him
up pretty good. He still had the swollen eye and fat lip
with bandaids over them and was in the process of making
a scene over the fact that the medics had been tardy
about some medications he was supposed to have received
because of his injures. After about 15-20 of his
protestations becoming increasingly louder and more
threatening, he was eventually called out into the
corridor by a senior guard and some regular guards. He
continued his rants against them until they brought him
into the clinic area and we hadsome quiet again in the
holding tank. Being from another continent and growing
up on British television, I was quite good at picking
out non-Americans when I came across them in here. I
noticed a slight baldingman with close cropped hair
whose accent was Middle-Eastern, though he didn't
particularly look so. I asked him where he was from and
he told me "Palestine." He had been here five months and
had been slated for deportation back to the West Bank,
"But Israel will not accept anyPalestinians back from
other countries. I am a man without a country and after
six months should be released, so I only have one month
left before they let me go." I thought almost
immediately of like situated Cubans in Florida detention
centers who have been held there on an indefinite basis
because the Cubans won't take them back; and I wondered
if this fellow would share the same fate. Still, he felt
convinced of his upcoming release and I thought better
of bursting his bubble. Besides, I wasn't sure if his
case came under any of the different clauses within the
increasingly byzantine post-9/11 US immigration laws.
On my return to the holding tank after being seen
for my initial check up, I overhead a Greek fellow
telling another detainee that there was only one judge
presently hearing deportation cases. Here, even though
there are five courtrooms, only this one judge was
sitting and that was the reason for such long waiting
times before cases were being resolved, one way or
another. This I was to find out for myself soon enough
upon my first appearance before him. But more on that
later.
The fight I referred to earlier had flared up the
day before in the mid-afternoon while the two black
fellows had been playing cards together along with some
others. I was lying on my bunk when I heard the
commotion and looked up to see a young well-built black
man jump up from the table and either slap or punch my
immediate neighbor to my right, another black in his
mid-30s or so. When he jumped up they squared off only
to be held back by other card players. But the younger
black suddenly lunged at the older one
and landed two or three well-placed punches which downed
the guy quickly. When he arose again from the floor he
was bleeding from above his eye and his lips. He had a
look of stunned surprise on his face. They both were
quickly escorted by the guards out of the dorm, but an
air of tension remained the rest of the evening.
In the bunk behind me lay an old Jamaican possibly
the oldest man in the dorm. He spoke in a fast staccato
that was almost impossible for me to understand. He was
often teased by some of the other younger Jamaicans and
this had been going on for an hour or so after lights
out at 10pm. He had a Mexican bunkie above him who
somehow took umbrage at the old guy being
constantly teased or at least having to listen to it.
Soon a lot of shouting started between the Mexican and
those Jamaicans. Before I knew it other Latinos were
coming over and started to gather around their bunks.
Similarly, more blacks were doing the same as the noise
level grew. Accusations started to fly over other
grievances between these groups unrelated to what
brought them over in the first place. The TV for one and
who was hogging the time allotted for Spanish or English
speaking shows.
There were other personalities involved and other issues
I didn't quite understand since I'd been there only a
couple of days. But I'd been there long enough to
recognize the underlying racial tension in the air from
Day One. The noise and bluster soon brought the
attention of the guards who quickly called for backup.
Eight or nine guards showed up with a senior guard among
them and tried unsuccessfully to quell the situation
regardless of a variety of threats made to those
concerned. Moments later a large black
Trinidadian (with the dreads in a bun) began to appeal
for calm in a loud voice, arguing for sanity and,
somehow, after some back and forth between him and the
guards they withdrew and allowed him to continue
berating those who began the squabbling to put their
differences aside because we all had to live in this
place together. In the end, everyone went back to their
bunks and a melee was averted -- this time.
On the fourth day after my arrival after dinner an
Immigration & Customs Enforcement officer came in and
asked me to step into the corridor outside so he could
take photos of me. He took front and side profile shots
of my face and upper body, front and back shots with me
stripped to the waist. Icouldn't figure out why and he
said he didn't know the reason either. He'd just been
told to come over and take the shots. About an hour or
so later while I was sitting on my bunk when two other
ICE agents showed up and approached me only to tell me
to gather my stuff because I was moving to where, they
did not say. Once I'd gathered my possessions and said a
coupleof quick good-byes to those who'd gotten to know
me, I was taken out of Delta Pod and marched about 300
yards toward a large red brick and concrete building
facing the main entrance. But this was not my
destination. They walked me past that place to a single
story grayish-looking structure and up a wooden stairway
to what turned out to be the special housing unit. This
is where they send anyone who's been disruptive,
fighting, confrontational with the guards or just
someone they thought better not be in general
population. But I was confused about why I'd been
brought here since I'd been in no trouble with guards or
other detainees. They took me and put me in the end cell
after moving the current tenant into another cell with
another detainee. Shortly thereafter I was called over
to the rec room directly across from my new cell and an
ICE Captain called "Gomez" introduced himself to me.
"You're probably wondering why you've been moved here,"
he said. "Exactly what I was thinking since I haven't
done anything to warrant
being put in solitary," I said. "You're a very unusual
case here and we have put you here for your own
protection." "But I don't have any beef with anyone and
no one has any with me," I replied. "Yes, we know that,
but there are a lot of gangs here who when they discover
who you are and that you have a good case might see you
as a target of opportunity to enhance their status
within the facility."
I thought this seemed odd because how did he know I
had a good case? That wasn't for him to know or decide.
But at this point there wasn't much I could do. He
assured me that I'd be given every privilege afforded
dorm residents and that I'd be in a cell of my own, on
my own. I was again led back to the facing cell which
was empty and waiting for me.
The cream colored walls gave the cell a cleaner look
than it actually was. Upon closer inspection I noticed
what looked like snot smeared in placed on the walls and
the ceiling heating vent was caked with toilet paper
blots in an attempt to stem the airflow, whether hot or
cold, by previous occupants. It consisted of steel walls
and floors. Two bunk beds were welded to one wall with a
small table and seats welded to the facing wall. Another
stainless steel sink and toilet combo unit completed the
floor plan and a stainless steel mirror was attached to
the wall above the sink. Above that was what I initially
thought was a light of some sort. This turned out to be
a closed circuit television camera. The pictures are
monitored by the guards on a partitioned computer screen
on their desk area. All seven cells and the rec room
have these cameras in them. We're under surveillance
every second we are in here. Kind of creepy.
The morning after my arrival things changed.
Contrary to what ICE Captain Gomez had conveyed to me
about my presence here, I was refused every amenity
that I asked for. Pen and paper, use of phone (even
though I used the same phone the night before after
talking to Gomez) and even soap in my cell to wash my
hands after ablutions. I wasn't even permitted to keep a
styrofoam cup in my cell to drink out of. Clearly
decisions had been made about my stay here.
But as I mentioned earlier this place does things
differently. This after all is Texas. While this is an
INS facility, the day to day operation
is done by a private security outfit called "Asset
Protection and Security Services." They are not
government employees. A second tier of Immigration and
Customs Enforcement agents are here also. They are
INS/Department of Homeland Security government
employees. They wear dark Navy blue uniforms and are
armed (though they don't wear their sidearms within the
campgrounds), just empty holsters. These guys are more
like a paramilitary police force and are responsible for
overall security at the facility. Because there is this
two-tier system, often the right hand doesn't know what
the left hand is doing. I suspect communication between
the two groups
is either poor or strained. In any case I had to start
navigating my status here through a labyrinth of
different seniors and chiefs of both services to find
out what was going on. Possibly I believe they just
didn't know what to do with me. My case was not
something they were used to. The private guards who are
the day to day operators had obviously been told to give
me nothing until they got further instructions and were
over-reacting to what was not in their repertoire.
Making as much fuss and complaints of what was going on
I was eventually able to see some senior officials who
seemed as confused as the current day shift.
But over the next few days I was at last above to
get pen and paper to write letters and got use of the
phone again which put me in contact withthe outside
world. For about two weeks I wasn't allowed out of my
cell except for showers. But I was only allowed out if
escorted by two ICE officers who had to be called over
from another part of the complex. If they didn't show up
I got no shower or anything else that required me
leaving my cell. I would continuously put requests in
for barber shop, but was never taken so I just
grew my hair and beard to where they had to retake my
photo because of the change in appearance. I still
wasn't allowed exercise or rec until one day an ICE
detail showed up and I was permitted to go to the rec
room after they'd escorted me down the hall from the
shower room. This nonsense lasted for about a month with
the ICE escorts within the SHU unit. But since it was so
obviously cumbersome and unnecessary it was finally
discontinued within the SHU. But when I did venture out
of the unit I was shackled hand and foot. The only one I
ever saw with foot shackles was myself. On my first
visit with my wife Joanna they wouldn't even take my
cuffs off to use the phone in the visiting booth. They
were completely paranoid about moving me from the SHU to
anywhere else.
With the use of the phone I was eventually able to
get word out to friends and others and related my status
and conditions of confinement. I
still didn't have any reading material whatsoever. Only
when some mail finally filtered though did I have
something to occupy my time. I asked for
books from people and when they arrived here they were
held for two weeks before they arrived at my cell door,
and even then I was only allowed to keep two of the four
that were sent to me.
Life in the SHU is a mixture of pettiness and
frustrations. The days are long and boring, interrupted
by moments of drama usually in the form of
other inmates acting out their own frustrations and the
guards' responses to these incidents. Often many other
guards and ICE agents are called for back up and there
ensues standoffs outside the cell in question. Mostly
they end with whoever is causing the commotion backing
down when he sees ten burly guards and ICE agents
standing outside his door ready to come in if he doesn't
comply with their instructions. "Either calm down or be
restrained by handcuffs," after which they're usually
led away somewhere for a period of time to settle down
and talk to some senior or such. Kicking of the doors is
the most prevalent form of disruptive behavior from
disgruntled detainees. Sometimes this can go on for
hours at a time and, as this is an almost all-metal
building, the whole place reverberates from the noise
and concussions of the repeated violent slamming of the
metal doors against
One evening around 9pm a sheaf of papers was slid
under my door. They were "notice to appear" papers
informing me that I had a court date before the one
judge the next morning at 9am, just 12 hours away. I was
lucky enough to get a phone call in to my lawyer in San
Francisco who already knew as he'd checked the schedule
that afternoon. But of course he wasn't able to make it
down here in time for the hearing the very next morning.
In the end I myself asked the judge for a continuance,
thinking he'd put it over until the next week. Instead
he put it back five weeks. It was now obvious that this
was going to take much longer than I first thought. As
the days grew into weeks my situation stabilized within
the SHU,
especially after one morning the three top officials
showed up at my cell door and spent a good 45 minutes
with me listening to my litany of
complaints and even allowing me the use of their own
personal cellphones (Icouldn't get through on the SHU
phone) to call the Irish consulate in
Chicago. I guess it pays to have the press and others
calling up to ask questions about one's conditions here.
The food they serve is extremely bland and
unappetizing, having only slightly improved in the last
week or so after a shake up in the kitchens. Apparently
from speaking with some of the ICE agents who have to
escort me when I leave the SHU unit (to other parts of
the complex) the food here used to be pretty good, even
the guards would buy it on a daily basis. But as with so
much of government contracts these days, it was
outsourced contractor for cost savings and the quality
of what they served plummeted. They screwed it up so bad
one day that we didn't get lunch (which usually arrives
around noon) until 3:30pm. Now in places like this where
the days are long, meal times are the highlights of the
day -- I call it my daily disappointment-- so when
there's such an obvious breakdown in the system it can
lead to trouble when locked and confined people don't
get fed on time (even if the fare is so unpalatable).
After that day a few weeks back the menu changed a bit
and I noticed that they actually used salt to season it
a bit and the portions were slightly larger than before.
You take what you can get sometimes. Still even now the
quality and portions are often inconsistent. Who knows
what's going on there in the kitchen?
While my time throughout these last lot of weeks has
been difficult, they have been no less so on my wife
Joanna whose whole world was thrown into chaos by all of
this. Any time a spouse is left to cope on their own the
stress on them is tremendous -- apart from the loss of a
loved one there are the added financial and emotional
burdens which such forced separations bring. This,
coupled with the awful news that "Marley" (her beloved
whippet of these last twelve years) succumbed to a
deadly liver disease and had to be euthanized, has left
her devastated and emotionally exhausted, especially as
Marley was brought down there as her primary companion.
I still can't believe I'll never see that beautiful face
of his again. Thankfully, he died a peaceful death while
on Joanna's lap in familiar surroundings, his suffering
over. In a teary phone call later that day Joanna
related his last moments to me and she wasn't the only
one crying. Marley, it should be noted, was named after
Larry Marley and not (as many imagined) Bob Marley.
Larry Marley was an old cellmate of mine from the H
block of the Maze Prison decades ago. He was the
mastermind behind the 1983 Maze Prison escape when 38
Irish Republican prisoners, myself included ,broke out
of the then considered "inescapable" prison camp complex
a half-hour west of Belfast. The date of the escape was
September 25th, 1983,Marley's (my dog's) birthday. Hence
his name. Sadly, Larry Marley was assassinated by
loyalist gunmen at his home in Belfast's Ardoyne area
shortly after his release from the Maze Prison. All of
this made Marley very special to both Joanna
myself. Six weeks after my detention at the Texas
Sarita checkpoint I have just had my first bond hearing
and master hearing to determine if I'll get out on bail
and to discuss some of the merits of the case. Both were
put back to later dates to allow the judge to review the
mountain of paperwork that my case has accumulated. The
outcome of these remain very uncertain. Wile there are
five courts in this facility, there is still only one
judge available who is hearing the vast number of cases
that come through here.
Immigration in this election year is a hot topic.
Regretfully, current policy has been shaped by post-9/11
paranoia and to some extent xenophobia that we can see
in such actions as the Patriot Act and the hundreds of
miles of border fencing and walls now under construction
along the US-Mexico border. Now while the US has every
right to control the flow of immigration across its
borders, the ways it chooses to do so and the methods
used to enforce the present ill-conceived regulations
need to be radically overhauled.
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