Just another day at the office when Homeboy walks up and
hands me his passport, green card and Customs Declaration. In one motion I
compare him to the pictures on his documents, swipe the machine-readable
strip in his passport, annotate his Dec and ask “How long were you out of
the United States?”
”A few months,” he replies.
”How many months?” I ask, examining his green card’s
security features (it’s legit).
”I don’t know,” he replies. Sigh.
The computer says he’s not known evildoer and his
documents are real (or really good fakes). All he has to do is answer a
couple simple questions correctly and I’ll let him walk away. I look him
in the eyes with my “just spit it out, will ya?” look.
”When did you leave the U.S.?” I get the feeling he
doesn’t want to tell me and I’m getting annoyed. This happens when someone
makes me ask the same question three times. I don’t mind when they don’t
understand, but when they’re trying to hide the answer it urkes me.
He looks down. The answer inaudible.
”When!” He looks up suprised, maybe shocked.
”October,” he says quietly. He knows I’m annoyed. I
was smiling, now I’m as stern as every other Inspector.
“That’s four months.” Just the facts maam’. “You were gone for four
months. That’s a long time. Why were you gone for four months?”
He hesitates. “I was sick.” He looks like a healthy
32 year old. When someone is sick they tell you what they had. I don’t
why, but they do.
I open his passport and see half a page of stamps.
“How long were you out of the United States last time?”
“I don’t remember.” Grrr. I look back at the stamp and recognize the only
American admission number.
”What’s the problem?” he asks.
You’re making this harder than it needs to be, I
think, as I flip through the pages of his passport. “You left the U.S. to
$country on July Nth and returned on October Nth. That’s four months. You
left the U.S. again on October Nth and are re-entering today. That’s four
months. In the last nine months you’ve been gone eight.”
”What do I have to do if I want to be gone for that
long?” He asks.
”You’re supposed to get a travel document from the
INS,” I say. I wouldn’t normally care but you made me look for the truth.
He’s broken. He’d answer anything. “I lost my job,”
he says. I know you lost your job, that’s why you moved back to $country.
It wasn’t you that got sick, it was the economy. I could grill him more,
but there’s no way we’re going to send him back. I know everything I want
to, but I’m not about to let him walk away without a lesson.
”We gave you the green card so you could live and
work here. If you’re not going to use it we can give it to someone else. I
want you to go to secondary.”
”I don’t understand,” he says as he turns away. “It
wasn’t a big deal last time.”
”That’s because you answered my questions last
time,” I reply. He looks back alarmed. I think he understood.
”Next!”