We're surprised at how polite the immigrants are; smiling and thanking lawyers and U.S. Marshals. While shuffling in the shackles that clang against the floor.
I arrived in AZ last night. I have quickly become frustrated by the inability of my phone's camera to capture the vistas that keep taking my breath away. The landscape here
reminds me a little bit of Israel / Palestine, and southern Florida and California. I can see so far, and then... mountains. I want to imprint it on my brain.
Today was supposed to be acclimation day, when I'd make sure I knew how to get everywhere, relax a bit, do some reading and writing, etc. But my colleague, Randy, called me this morning and asked if I wanted to join him for lunch and a trip to Operation Streamline, the immigration court in Tucson.
This is one of the beautiful things I've already learned about sabbatical. In normal life, if someone calls with a last-minute invitation, invariably my answer has to be "no" because my schedule is booked or I am so behind or I have to be up early the next day. #SlothLife is supposed to mean taking things more slowly, but it also means my life has more room for just saying Yes! when opportunities present themselves. I can't tell you how freeing that is.
So today I joined other witnesses at Operation Streamline. In two hours the court moved through the cases of about 75 immigrants. The Evo A. DeConcini Courthouse is a new building, built in 2000. There wasn't the crowd and bustle I'm used to in a courthouse,
maybe because of government shutdown? There had been a rumor that Operation Streamline would halt earlier this week until the government reopens, but so far cases continue on Mon. and Wed.
Everything in the courtroom is very orderly; the judge and marshals are very professional and polite. It took me several minutes to figure out the source of a constant low rumble; it was the voice of the translator, turning the judge's English questions into Spanish that the immigrants heard through headsets.
Most of the immigrants were young men. They would shuffle in about eight at a time, shackled at wrist and waist and ankle. One set of eight would be standing before the judge while another set sat, waiting their turn.
Each immigrant had a lawyer provided by the U.S.; they'd met for about 30 minutes earlier in the day. The lawyers, in turn, had haggled with the young D.A. (I swear he was about 14) to make plea agreements. The court appearances were largely rubber stamps on those agreements. Again and again the judge repeated her speech to the immigrants while their lawyers stood behind them: You have all been charged with the misdemeanor of crossing the border (or the felony of crossing for a second time), you don't have to plead guilty today, if you want a trial you will be able to call witnesses and the government will have to prove their case, etc. Then each immigrant had to individually answer that they understood the info, confirm that they had been caught crossing the border, and plead guilty. Everybody pleads guilty because they don't want to wait in jail for a year until their case can be heard.
Once each set of immigrants had answered the questions, for people crossing the first time the judge announced that the court would accept "time served" and wave all fees and fines.. For those who had crossed more than once, they got more jail time: 30 days, 60, 90, 120. These folks will return to the private jails that are incredible moneymakers for their owners, at a taxpayer cost of about $120 per night per immigrant.
The first offense people will be brought over the border to Mexico tonight. For some reason it usually happens in the middle of the night. (Tomorrow I'll be visiting one of the volunteer programs that helps people when they are deposited on the other side of the border.) The whole system around first offenses is designed to discourage people from trying to cross the border again. And yet for so many, their situation at home is so desperate that they will, indeed, try again. And probably soon.
So this post is already too long, but there is so much more to say about these trials: the role of the attorneys, how different courts handle them in different ways, etc. But today I just kept thinking about all the individual stories the court didn't have time to hear, the fears and dreams shackled together and shuffling through the court room. I wish I could hear their stories.
While I'll probably never know more about these 75 children of God, I'm grateful to be here to witness their time in court, and I'm preparing my heart to hearing the stories of other folks in the days ahead.
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