“So then you went to the Master Calendar Hearing. Did you bring a lawyer with you?”
“Only my parents went,” I tell him. “And they didn’t bring a lawyer.” My mom and I talked about it a lot before the appointment. Should we hire a lawyer we couldn’t really afford, or wait to see what happened at the hearing? We’d read online that you didn’t really need a lawyer for the first appointment. At that point my father was still insisting that everything would miraculously work itself out. I don’t know. Maybe we wanted to believe that was true.
Attorney Fitzgerald shakes his head and jots something down on his legal pad. “So at the hearing, the judge tells them they can accept Voluntary Removal or file for Cancellation of Removal.” He looks down at my forms. “Your younger brother is a U.S. citizen?”
“Yes,” I say, watching as he notes that down too. Peter was born almost exactly nine months after we moved here. My parents were still happy with each other then.
My father didn’t accept the Voluntary Removal at that hearing. That night, my mom and I researched Cancellation of Removal. In order to qualify, my dad needed to have lived in the United States for at least ten years, have shown good moral character, and be able to prove that being deported would cause an extreme hardship on a spouse, parent, or child who was a U.S. citizen. We thought Peter’s citizenship was going to be our saving grace. We hired the cheapest lawyer we could find and went to the Merits Hearing armed with this new strategy. But as it turns out, it’s very difficult to prove “extreme hardship.” Going back to Jamaica will not put Peter’s life in danger, and no one cares about the psychological danger of uprooting a child from his home, not even Peter himself.
“And at the Merits Hearing the judge denies your case and your father accepts the Voluntary Removal.” Attorney Fitzgerald says it flatly, like the outcome was inevitable.
I nod instead of answering out loud. I’m not sure I’ll be able to talk without crying. Any hope I had is slipping away.
I’d argued that we should appeal the judge’s decision, but our lawyer advised against it. She said we had no case and that we were out of options. She suggested we leave voluntarily so we wouldn’t have a deportation on our records. That way we’d have a hope of returning one day.
Fitzgerald puts his pen down and leans back in his chair. “Why did you go to USCIS today? It’s not even their jurisdiction.”
I have to clear the tears pooling in my throat before I can answer. “I didn’t know what else to do.” The truth is, despite the fact that I don’t believe in miracles, I was hoping for one.
He’s silent for a long time.
Finally I can’t take any more. “It’s okay,” I say. “I know I’m out of options. I don’t even know why I came here.”
I make a move to get up, but he waves me back down. He steeples his fingers again and looks around the office. I follow his eyes to the unpacked boxes lining the wall just to his right. Behind him, a folding ladder rests against an empty bookshelf.
“We’re just moving in,” he says. “The construction guys were supposed to be done weeks ago, but you know what they say about plans.” He smiles and touches the bandage on his forehead.
“Are you okay, Mr. Fitz—”
“I’m fine,” he says, rubbing at the bandage.
He picks up a framed picture from his desk and looks at it. “This is the only thing I’ve unpacked so far.” He turns the picture so I can see it. It’s him with his wife and two children. They seem happy.
I smile politely.
He puts it back down and looks at me. “You’re never out of options, Ms. Kingsley.”
It takes me a second to realize that he’s back to talking about my case. I lean forward in my seat. “Are you saying you can fix this?”
“I’m one of the best immigration lawyers in this city,” he says.
“But how?” I ask. I lay my hands on his desk, press my fingers against the wood.
“Let me go see a judge friend of mine. He’ll be able to get the Voluntary Removal reversed so at least you don’t have to leave tonight. After that we can file an appeal with the BIA—the Board of Immigration Appeals.”
He checks his watch. “Just give me a couple of hours.”
I open my mouth to ask for more facts and specifics. I find them reassuring. The poem comes back to me. “Hope” is the thing with feathers. I close my mouth. For the second time today I’m letting go of the details. Maybe I don’t need them. It would be so nice to let someone else take over this burden for a little while.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers. I feel it fluttering in my heart.
MY DAD LOOKS AT ME from head to toe, and I feel like the second-rate slacker he’s always taken me for. I will always be Second Son to him, no matter what Charlie does. I must look even worse than when I first came in. The top button of my shirt is missing from where Charlie grabbed me. There’s even a bloodstain on it from my busted lip. I’m sweaty, and my hair is sticking to the side of my face. Premium Yale material right here.
He gives me an order. “Get some ice for your lip and come back out here.”
Charlie’s next. “You hit your little brother? That what you learn from America? To hit your family?”
I almost want to stay and hear where this goes, but my fat lip is getting fatter. I go into the back room and grab a can of Coke and press it against my lip.
I’ve never liked this room. It’s too small and always clogged with half-opened boxes of product. There are no chairs, so I sit on the floor with my back against the door so no one can get in. I need five minutes before dealing with my life again.