Asylum

By Betsy Adams

Adela is an immigration judge from one of San Diego's wealthiest Mexican-American families. She was raised to believe she has nothing in common with the asylum seekers in her courtroom. Paul left behind his life as a Manhattan lawyer to volunteer at the border. He has lost faith in the system, but not those who still turn to it for justice. Adela and Paul come to the Tijuana/San Diego border searching, but neither one knowing exactly what for—until they find each other. Against the backdrop of the "Remain in Mexico" policy and restrictions on asylum, Adela and Paul fight for love in a system that seems determined to destroy it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Americans in Love
• Release date: Nov 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393587248

Betsy Adams

Betsy Adams has worked with animals and their people for over 30 years.  She has been communicating with animals since infancy and utilizes her intuitive abilities in her consulting practice.  Her background is in the biological sciences, evolutionary ecology, as well as creative writing.  She has worked with animals in many different settings:  the wilds, kennels, sanctuaries, veterinary clinics, shelters, laboratories, in home settings, and more.  She has taught biological sciences at the university level, and creative writing grades K-12, university students and for the elderly.  Her home is in Michigan.

Book preview

1

Judge Adela Fernandez was curious about the new lawyer in her courtroom. It wasn’t what he said, or the high school Spanish she overheard from the bench. No, that didn’t impress her.

It was what he didn’t say. The way he listened to his client, the young man at his side with caramel skin several shades lighter than her own. How he leaned in and his client didn’t back away. There was trust between them, that rarest of resources at the border these days.

Adela had never seen this kind of trust in the eyes of an asylum seeker. More common were the blank, numb stares, or terrified eyes searching for answers. Those were the eyes she saw every day in her courtroom, and every night as she closed her eyes and tried to fall sleep.

It took time to build trust, time that the Remain in Mexico policy did not allow. This policy effectively ended legal representation for asylum seekers by forcing them to wait in Mexican border towns as their cases crawled through the U.S. legal system. Tens of thousands of migrants from all over the world were stuck in makeshift refugee camps, preyed upon by local cartels. Lawyers stayed away. Except this one, apparently.

DHS Docket Number 19-24231. The clerk’s announcement drew Adela out of her thoughts.

Thank you, Gabe, Adela said, glancing at the case file.

The lawyer’s name was Paul Carter, and he was the attorney of record for Adela’s first asylum case that afternoon. His client was Jorge Sanchez, a twenty-six year old asylum seeker from El Salvador. His collared shirt was way too loose and clearly borrowed for the occasion. Adela’s eyes lingered on the backpack at his feet. It held everything Jorge would carry with him into his new life, if she granted his asylum claim.

Adela felt a wave of relief that Jorge was not alone. It made her job much easier when both sides had lawyers—Jorge had Paul, and the U.S. government had Harold, the ICE attorney sitting to Paul’s left, picking his fingernails.

Most days Harold’s job was easy. About a quarter of the asylum seekers on Adela’s docket didn’t make it to court; the rest came without a lawyer. It was child’s play for Harold to go up against an unrepresented asylum seeker. Few of them knew the law or the language and many were still suffering from the trauma that led them to leave everything behind in the first place. All it took was a single inconsistent detail or missing document for Harold to claim victory and send them back to the place of their persecution.

Today, Harold would have to work. Jorge had a lawyer, and as Adela was about to learn, not just any lawyer.

Your Honor, may I approach the bench? Paul asked.

Adela found his voice confident yet kind, like her father’s. It wasn’t the false confidence too common in the halls of the San Diego courthouse where she worked.

You may, Adela said.

Paul rose and walked towards her, a stack of documents in his hand.

Adela felt a rush as she saw the rest of him. Tall and lean, his body would have fit in well with the surfer crowd a few miles away. Overdue for a haircut, his sandy hair curled up at the edges. His skin was sun-kissed but still reddish in spots. The sunburn cast a boyish charm over his otherwise professional demeanor.

Adela could not recall seeing him before today. She would have remembered. The sunburn suggested he was not a local. Where was he from? What was he doing here? As Paul handed her a set of papers, Adela noticed there was no ring. Was it wrong for her to look? A betrayal of judicial propriety?

Oh please, she thought. She was still a woman under the robe, after all.

Your Honor, I’d like to enter these documents into the record, Paul said. We had them authenticated at the Salvadoran Consulate, and just received them back yesterday.

Adela saw Harold shift in his seat. Authenticated documents could not be discredited. It was a form of verification used abroad, similar to notarization in the U.S. Whatever documents Paul had authenticated would carry much more weight now, and help Jorge’s case.

Paul handed Harold an extra copy of the stack. He was comfortable in the courtroom, and wasn’t going to waste her time. Adela liked that.

I’m going to need time to look these over, Harold said with a grunt.

Adela raised her eyebrows at him, and he cowered.

Ten minutes? Harold asked.

You have five, Adela said. These aren’t new documents. They’ve just been authenticated. We can’t fall behind today, not with the current backlog. Adela delighted in using Harold’s favorite line against him. For Harold, the infamous immigration court backlog had become an excuse to deny asylum seekers extra time, or shut down Adela’s attempts to explain the process to the unrepresented.

The hint of a smile crossed Paul’s lips. Adela tried to ignore the flicker this set off inside her. She lowered her eyes to study Jorge’s file. His case began seven months ago at the San Ysidro Port of Entry on the San Diego and Tijuana border. San Ysidro was the busiest land port in the Western Hemisphere, and where most of Adela’s cases began.

Jorge was in court for his Merit Hearing, the final stage in the asylum process. His file was thick from rescheduled hearings, affidavits, declarations and evidence. Adela braced herself for what was to come. She had only been on the bench for six months, but that was long enough to know Jorge’s story would haunt her like the others.

Asylum cases are unique in immigration law. Asylum seekers do not come for economic opportunity or reunification with family members in the U.S. They come for safety. In order to win asylum, petitioners must prove they fled persecution either committed or permitted by their home government. This type of persecution has no solution other than to flee. Asylum seekers are among the most vulnerable and desperate people alive. They are armed with little else than their internationally recognized right of asylum, the same right that landed them in Adela’s courtroom.

Adela often questioned if she was the best one for the job, given the way she was raised. Her parents knew she was a judge, but not an immigration judge. Judge was a title they could brag about to their wealthy Mexican-American friends. An immigration judge would be a disgrace.

Harold grimaced and said, I’m ready.

Same here, Paul was quick to reply.

As he said it, Paul stared into Adela’s eyes, deep into all of her hidden places. The flicker was now growing into a flame. Adela knew it would be more than Jorge’s story burned into her memory this time. It would be his lawyer’s eyes, and this feeling she had to get under control, and fast.

Very well, Adela said, finding her breath and swallowing hard. Counsel for the petitioner, you may begin.

2

Please explain why you left El Salvador, Paul asked his client.

The interpreter repeated the question in Spanish.

"Mi sexualidad," Jorge said softly. He took a deep breath and recounted years of abuse that forced him out of his school, home and finally his country. His father beat him, his teacher raped him. After a gang leader spread rumors that Jorge was HIV positive, the police buried him alive.

I was in the hospital for a month, Jorge said through the interpreter.

The medical records are included, Paul said. Exhibit four.

Adela nodded but did not look down.

What happened then? Paul asked.

Jorge said the rumors stuck, and nobody would hire him. The only way to make money was sex work in the slums of the capital, San Salvador. He spoke with warm, soft eyes that contrasted sharply with his words.

Do you have family in the United States? Paul asked.

An uncle in Arizona, Jorge replied. But I want to make my own life here. Go to school, get a real job.

Thank you for sharing your story with the court, Jorge, Paul said as he returned to his chair.

Now it was Harold’s turn. Adela’s stomach tightened.

Mr. Sanchez, are you saying you fled El Salvador because your life was in danger, or because you could not find work?

If I stayed I would be dead, Jorge said gravely.

Paul had prepared his client. Any other answer would feed the administration’s line that asylum was a loophole, a back door entry into the U.S. that had nothing to do with persecution.

How do you know? Harold asked.

Death threats, Jorge said. And others were killed. Others…like me.

Adela wondered if these others had been Jorge's lovers. The pained expression on his face suggested they were. Before she was an immigration judge Adela’s reality had been the California reality—being gay was no big deal. Even her Catholic parents had come around to this position. She hadn’t realized that in much of the world, being gay was a very big deal, even punishable by death.

And just for clarification, Harold said, you are in fact HIV negative, correct?

Objection, Paul called out.

Adela glared at Harold. Keep your questioning relevant to the claim, she ordered.

Paul nodded to Jorge like a coach from the sidelines during the last crucial minutes of a game.

When did you know you were gay? Harold asked.

Adela expected another objection, but Jorge was ready for this one.

Jorge pointed to the file on Adela’s desk and said, "La carta."

Exhibit nine, Your Honor, Paul said. The letter.

Adela turned to the letter, handwritten and in Spanish. On the next page was the typed translation of Jorge’s father disowning him for disgracing the family.

Jorge wiped away a tear. He hadn’t cried once during his testimony, until now. Even Harold backed off.

Would you like a break? Adela asked.

Jorge shook his head forcefully. No.

Adela looked at Harold and told him to proceed.

I see the medical records, pictures, affidavits, but no police reports. Is it correct to believe that you never brought this abuse to the police?

The police did this to me. Jorge pulled up his sleeve. Maricon was tattooed into his forearm, a derogatory term for gays in Spanish.

They work with the gangs, Jorge said. They are the same.

Harold read from a printout announcing the adoption of new LGBT protections by the El Salvadoran government. Adela suspected the administration distributed this information to ICE lawyers. She doubted Harold was diligent enough to do his own research.

Perhaps things will improve now, Harold said, holding up the paper.

Your Honor, Paul interrupted. I’d like to direct you to the Human Rights Watch country report for El Salvador. It’s our last exhibit, and a more realistic account of the situation in El Salvador.

Thank you, Adela said.

Adela was impressed that Paul knew to include a country report, and one from the highly respected Human Rights Watch. Factual reports were essential to pushing back against Harold’s wishful thinking. Paul knew what he was doing, and Adela enjoyed watching him work. Who wouldn’t? Finally, a lawyer was commanding the courtroom for asylum seekers, not against them. With this new lawyer in town, they had a fair shot at justice. It was exciting, and that’s why Paul Carter was having this effect on her. A perfectly plausible reason.

The only reason, Adela told herself.

And let’s not forget the case of Tatiana Martinez, Paul said, the transgender woman deported to El Salvador only to be killed by the same gang that persecuted my client. She didn’t even make it out of the airport.

Adela knew the case. It was a reminder of the stakes involved, not that she needed one.

Each side made its closing statements. Paul hit all the right notes, legally and emotionally. The case was solid, leaving Harold with little to say in response. The outcome was clear.

Asylum is granted, Adela said.

Paul pulled Jorge into a hug, holding him while he sobbed. When he could stand, Jorge walked to the bench to shake Adela’s hand.

"Gracias, he said, and then, Thank you, thank you."

Adela’s heart filled with happiness for Jorge as she leaned forward to take his hand. It was rough, but also smooth in parts.

She kept her eyes on Jorge as he returned to Paul, who was packing up and getting ready to leave.

The urge to speak nearly overwhelmed her. He had done an excellent job under circumstances stacked against him. He should be commended for it. Nothing wrong with that.

Counsel, she said, careful to keep her voice steady, may I have a word?

Paul gestured for Jorge to go on without him. He was a free man now.

Is there a problem? Paul asked as he approached the bench.

This time she noticed his silk tie, white collared shirt and leather messenger bag. His shirt was a bit tight, revealing a hint of his physique. She found this trick intolerable on other men; on Paul she didn’t mind. His wardrobe brought Adela back to her law firm days. He pulled off the look, but didn’t seem sold on it.

There’s no problem, Adela said, tucking a stray hair into her bun. You did an excellent job preparing your client.

Thank you.

I know the new policy is making your job difficult.

True, Paul said with a shrug, but not impossible.

I don’t hear about many lawyers going to Mexico to meet with clients.

Well, that’s where the clients are, Paul said. He looked over his shoulder towards the door. I’m sorry, but is there anything else?

No, Adela said, suddenly feeling foolish. I look forward to seeing you in this courtroom again.

Paul smiled. Likewise.

3

Jorge was gone. Paul could not find his client anywhere as he weaved through the crowded courthouse lobby. He was only with the judge a few minutes. What could have happened to Jorge in that time?

Paul! Paul!

It was Jorge’s voice calling him from the courthouse exit. Paul followed the voice across the lobby to the exit, where a uniformed officer held Jorge by the arm.

What the hell is going on? Paul demanded from the officer. Dread hit him as he saw the badge on the officer’s shoulder—Customs and Border Control, CBP for short. They ran the show at the border, only taking orders from the Department of Homeland Security, which took orders from the Attorney General, who took orders from the President.

Watch your language, the officer said, tugging at Jorge.

I will if you get your hands off my client. Paul waited as the officer slowly released his grasp. Jorge shook him off and stepped closer to Paul.

Now tell me what is going on, Paul said.

Give him the paper, the officer told Jorge.

Jorge handed Paul a crumpled document.

Under consideration for appeal? Paul asked as he scanned the court order. That’s news to me.

Jorge’s case wasn’t over, not according to the paper in Paul’s hand. It ordered Jorge back to court in thirty days, after the Board of Immigration Appeals (BIA) concluded whether or not to appeal Jorge’s asylum grant. A signature was scribbled at the bottom, but Paul couldn’t make out the name.

I need to see the judge, Paul said.

I’ve got my orders to escort your client to the San Ysidro bus, the officer said, hands now on his hip holster, fingers inches from his gun. Paul did not consider this a coincidence.

So excuse me while I do my job, the officer said, reaching for Jorge.

Wait. Paul blocked his way. It’s a mistake. I just need to talk to the judge.

The bus is leaving, the officer said.

Can’t he take the next one?

I got my orders.

Paul saw fear and confusion in Jorge’s eyes.

We lost? Jorge asked.

No, we won, Paul said, placing his hand on Jorge’s shoulder. I’ll fix this, I promise. Wait at San Ysidro. I’ll get you tonight.

Jorge reluctantly pulled away and followed the officer.

Paul ran back to Judge Fernandez's courtroom with the court order in his hand. He was at the door when a security guard stopped him.

Not so fast, the guard said.

The busy lobby went