When I was 21 years old, I was sitting in the basement of the Los Angeles federal court. I was being arrested – for the second time. I was a senior at UCLA and an undocumented immigrant. I had followed the advice of my immigration attorney and turned myself in.
I had arrived in the US from England when I was 12 years old, the daughter of a long line of strivers. My grandparents on both sides had left India for the British East African colonies. My parents left Kenya to live in the UK when I was 6 weeks old. The British race riots of the 80s convinced them to move again, this time to the US.
They invested in a small business and were able to acquire annually renewable business visas. We dutifully appeared at the local Immigration and Naturalization Service office each year and had our visas renewed. On one of these visits, our INS officer returned our visas with a smile and a handshake as others had done before him, but when we looked at the visas after we had left, we discovered he had cancelled them – no explanation, no disclosure that he had done so. Suddenly, we were undocumented immigrants.
We hired a lawyer. He was unable to get written assurance from the INS that our visas would be reinstated. He came up with another plan. We would turn ourselves in as undocumented immigrants, be arrested and have the right to a hearing. With the right judge and the right case, we might win and be able to stay and become permanent legal residents, the first step to becoming citizens.
My parents had a business, employed US citizens, contributed to the community, paid taxes and now had a second son, a US citizen. My family appeared to have a fair chance of winning. The glitch was that by this time I was 21 and, because of my age, had to have my case heard independently. My only chance was to have my case heard by the same judge on the same day so that the benefits of theirs could positively impact my own.
I felt that we could expect a fair trial in Los Angeles as long as we didn’t get Judge Roy J Daniels. Among other evidence of his bullying, in 1988 the Legal Aid Foundation of Los Angeles sought to have him barred from hearing any of their cases for having “demonstrated prejudice against [Legal Aid] staff which is virulent to the extreme”. He was only one of several judges. We would go ahead with the plan. My paperwork, however, was lost, which is why I was in basement of the Los Angeles federal court, being arrested a second time.
My arresting officer told me to button up my shirt all the way. Then he led me past men shackled to chairs; it turns out that the basement doubles as the jail. I was scared. I signed a paper promising I would return to court when called. Two years later, my parents and I received those summons. We also learned that our judge would be Roy J Daniels. We were distraught.
On the day of our hearing, about 30 friends filed in the courtroom to support us. As my father held the door open for them, the judge yelled at him: “Shut that door! This is my courtroom!” Then he announced that he did not believe my parents had the right to a hearing. The attorney for INS rose and spoke. He wanted to hear the case, the judge relented, and then announced his decision. My parents could stay! We assumed then that the merits of my parent’s case had swayed even this most difficult judge, just as we had hoped. Then Judge Daniels held up my thinner case: “Are you kidding me?”
The INS attorney interceded again. I was called to the stand. The INS lawyer asked what I did. I told him I was a recent UCLA graduate. He asked if I had ever worked illegally. I started to shake: “Yes, sir. I have.” In my senior year of college, I had applied to work at an office job. When my employer forgot to follow up on my paperwork, I had my first job and a way to pay for graduate school applications. I couldn’t look at my family, who I would have to leave.
There was silence as I looked out at the room and the crowd in front of me. Among them I saw George and Joanne, a retired school principal and a teacher, both inveterate Republicans and NRA members. They owned a business across the street from my parents. George was my dad’s best friend. The crowd was black and white and brown and educated and working class, Americans all. Judge Daniels was looking out at the crowd as well. He announced his verdict: “The order to deport is cancelled.”
When I think back to that day, I wonder what convinced Judge Daniels, a judge who denied cases with circumstances more dire than ours, to rule in our favor. We spoke English and had legal representation, but those weren’t sufficient reasons. I believe that being in the presence of ordinary Americans who had come together in support an ordinary family had made the most extraordinary difference.