The Rooster Bar

10

The Bardtown Federal Detention Facility was in a secluded valley three miles off Interstate 99 and twenty miles south of Altoona. If there was a town nearby, it wasn’t visible. The entrance was a wide asphalt drive that appeared new and ran downhill, giving them a panoramic view of the place as they arrived. Spread before them was a complex of flat-roofed, boxlike buildings, very similar to classroom trailers used at overcrowded schools. A double line of tall chain-link fencing surrounded the rows of buildings in a neat square. Thick rolls of razor wire glistened from atop the fencing and gave the entire facility a foreboding sense of being nothing more than a prison.

As Todd slowed the car, he said, “It looks like one of those old black-and-whites of Auschwitz.”

“Thanks, Todd,” Zola said.

It was a demoralizing sight, and Zola could not control her emotions. She was crying when Todd pulled in to the gravel lot. They sat for a few moments and stared at a two-story building at the front, obviously the place where they would check in. It, too, was flat-roofed and appeared to be made of wallboard. So far, the entire facility gave the impression of having been constructed overnight.

Zola finally said, “Let’s go,” and they walked to the front door. A temporary sign beside it read, “Bardtown Federal Detention Facility. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Office of Detention and Removal Operations. Department of Homeland Security. DHS, DRO, ICE. Administration Building.”

They stared at the sign and Todd mumbled, “Alphabet soup.”

To which Mark replied, “Let’s hope they’ve met the ACLU.”

They walked through the doors and entered a reception area. There were no signs to guide them, so Mark stopped a thick young man in a uniform. “Excuse me, sir, but where is the visiting area?”

“What kind of visitors?”

“Well, we would like to see one of your inmates.”

“They’re called detainees.”

“Okay, we would like to see one of your detainees.”

Reluctantly, he pointed down the hall and said, “Try down there.”

“Thank you so much.” They drifted down the wide hallway, looking for a sign that would indicate anything to do with visitation. Because it was a federal facility, there were employees everywhere, all in uniforms that varied. Beefy young men swaggering around with guns on their belts and “ICE” in bold letters on the backs of their parkas. Clerks with white shirts and ties and gold badges over their pockets. Cops who appeared to be nothing more than county deputies.

They walked to a counter where three young ladies were camped out. One was shuffling papers while the other two were enjoying their afternoon snacks. Zola said, “Excuse me, but I’m here to see my parents.”

“And who are your parents?” asked the gal with the paperwork.

“Maal. My father is Abdou, my mother is Fanta. Maal. M-A-A-L.”

“Where are they from?”

“Well, they’re from New Jersey, but Senegal originally. They were picked up yesterday.”

“Oh, they’re detainees?”

Mark bit his tongue to keep from blurting, “Of course they’re detainees. Why else would we be here?” But he stared at Todd and said nothing.

“Yes, they are,” Zola said politely.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, no, but we’ve driven two hours to see them.”

The officer shook her head while another put down her brownie and pecked on a keyboard. The second one, an older white lady, said, “They have not been processed yet.” This, obviously, was a deal killer.

“Okay, well, then process them,” Zola said.

The first one said, “We’ll take care of that, okay? But I’m afraid you can’t see them until they’ve been processed.”

“You must be kidding,” Zola said.

“Sorry,” she said without the slightest trace of sympathy.

“How can you hold them if they haven’t been processed?” Zola demanded.

Number one, a middle-aged black woman, sneered at her as if she would enjoy putting Zola in her place. “We have our rules,” she said firmly.

Mark and Todd took a step toward the counter. Todd was wearing jeans, sneakers, and an old leather jacket. At that moment, Mark was slightly better dressed in khakis, hiking shoes, and an insulated vest. Todd nodded to Mark, who leaned forward and said in a loud voice, “Look, I’m her attorney, okay? She is an American citizen and she has the right to see her family. We’ve driven two hours for this visit and you will not deny her. Her parents and brother were picked up yesterday and are about to be sent back to Africa. She may never see them again.”

The third one stopped eating. The second one stopped pecking. The first one drew back and managed to say, “I’m afraid you’ll have to see the supervisor.”

“Great!” Mark yelled. “Get him out here!”

The disturbance attracted some attention and two ICE boys came over. One of them, Gibson, said, “Got a problem here?”

“Damned right we got a problem!” Mark growled at him. “My client here just drove from Washington, D.C., to see her family one last time before they are deported back to Senegal. Now we’re told she can’t see them because of paperwork.”

The ICE boys looked at the three clerks. The first one said, “You know the rules. No visitors until they have been processed.”

Gibson looked back at Mark and said, “Well, there you have it. Rules are rules.”

“Can I see the supervisor?” Mark demanded.

“You can stop yelling, that’s what you can do.” He took a step closer, eager for a physical confrontation. Two more agents ventured over to back up their buddies.

“Just let me talk to the supervisor,” Mark said.

“I don’t like your attitude,” Gibson said.

“And I don’t like yours. Why is attitude important here? What’s wrong with allowing my client to see her family? Hell, they’re being deported. She may never see them again.”

“If they’re being deported it’s because a judge said so. You don’t like it, go see the judge.”

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned a judge, you’re playing my game. I’m gonna sue you first thing in the morning in federal court. What’s the first name, Gibson?” Mark took a step closer and eyed his nameplate. “M. Gibson. May I ask what the M stands for?”

“Morris.”

“Okay, Morris Gibson. Write it down, Todd.” Todd pulled out a pen and grabbed a sheet of paper off the counter. Mark looked at the next ICE agent and said, “And what’s your name?”

“Why do you want to know?” he replied with a smirk.

“For the lawsuit, sir, I can’t sue you if I don’t know your name.”

“Jerry Dunlap.”

Mark whirled and zeroed in on the three clerks, all of whom looked petrified. “What’s your name?” he growled at the first one.

She glanced down at the nameplate pinned above her left pocket, as if to verify things, and said, “Phyllis Brown.” Todd scribbled away.

“And you?” Mark said to the second one.

“Debbie Ackenburg.”

Todd asked, “Would you spell it, please?”

She did. Mark looked at the third and said, “And you?”

With great trepidation, she softly said, “Carol Mott.”

Mark turned again and noticed four other ICE agents watching the dispute. “Any of you guys want some of the action? It’s a lawsuit in federal court, filed first thing in the morning. You’ll be forced to hire lawyers, at least one each, and I’ll make it drag on for the next two years. Anybody?” The four stepped back in unison.

A man in a suit rounded the corner and asked angrily, “What the hell is going on here?”

Mark took a step toward him and said loudly, “I’m collecting names for a federal lawsuit. Are you the supervisor?”

“I am,” he said proudly.

“Great, and what’s your name?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Mark Frazier, with the Washington law firm of Ness Skelton. I’m the attorney for Zola Maal, this lady right here. We’ve driven from D.C. so she can see her family. She’s an American citizen and she has the right to see her family before they are deported. Your name please.”

“George McIlwaine.”

“Thank you. And you’re the head guy around this place?”

“I am.”

Todd was still scribbling names. Mark yanked out his cell phone, tapped it, called no one. Glaring at McIlwaine, he said to his phone, “Hello, Kelly, it’s Mark. Get me Kinsey in litigation, right now. Tell him it’s an emergency.” Pause. “I don’t care if he’s in a meeting. Get him now!” A longer pause as Mark stepped closer to a third ICE agent who was standing a bit too close. Over his shoulder he barked at Todd, “Add T. Watson to the list. What does the T stand for?”

Watson glanced around and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Come on, Mr. Watson, you don’t know your first name?”

“Travis.”

“Attaboy. Add Travis Watson to the lawsuit.”

Todd scribbled away. Zola took a step back, a little distance between her and this wild man. Back on the phone, Mark said, “Yeah, Kinsey, look, I’m at the Bardtown Detention Facility and they are denying our client the right to see her family. I want you to prepare a quick lawsuit and file it as soon as possible. I’ll text over the names of the defendants.” A pause as he listened to no one. “That’s right. Start with Homeland Security and ICE, then add the names of, hang on.” He pointed at the three ladies, the three ICE agents, and McIlwaine. “Seven of them, individually.” Mark looked at the other agents and said, “Any of you guys want a piece of this?” They backed away even farther. “Guess not. Do it quick, Kinsey.” Another pause. Gibson and Watson shot fearful glances at McIlwaine. The three ladies were wide-eyed and afraid to move. Back to the phone, Mark said, “Great! File it this afternoon online. Eastern District of Pennsylvania, federal court. See if you can get Judge Baxter. He’ll throw the book at them. Call me in ten minutes.”

Mark tapped his phone and put it in his pocket. He glared at McIlwaine and said, “I’m suing all of you individually for monetary damages and when I get them I’ll enroll the judgment, then I can garnish your paychecks and put liens on your homes.” He turned around and barked at Todd, “Give me those names.” Zola and Todd followed him to a row of chairs against a wall. They sat down and Mark pulled out his phone again. Holding Todd’s list, he appeared to be texting the seven names.

McIlwaine finally moved. He took a deep breath and stepped toward them. With a fake smile he said, “Look, we might be able to work out something here.”

Twenty minutes later, Agent Gibson led them to a small room at the back of the administration building and told them to wait. When they were alone, Todd said, “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“It worked,” Mark said with a smug grin.

Zola managed to laugh and say, “I wouldn’t want you to sue me.”

“Who needs a law license?” Mark asked.

“Well, practicing without one can get you in trouble,” Todd said.

“And you think these clowns are going to call the D.C. Bar Council and dig for information?”

Zola opened her bulky purse and pulled out a black hijab. As they watched, she draped it over her head and shoulders, tugging here and there until it was in place. “I’m supposed to wear this when in the presence of men who are not in my family,” she said properly.

“What a good little Muslim,” Todd said. “And you chose a long dress instead of those tight jeans we’ve been admiring for years.”

“What jeans? It’s the least I can do for my parents since I may not see them for a long time.”

“I think you’re cute,” Mark said.

“I am cute, just don’t say anything, okay? My father is suspicious enough.”

“You look rather virginal,” Todd said.

“Knock it off,” she said.

The door opened. Her parents and brother Bo spilled into the room. Her mother, Fanta, grabbed her and they embraced, both in tears. She hugged her father, Abdou, and Bo, and finally looked at Todd and Mark. She introduced them, described them as friends from law school, and explained they had driven her up from D.C. Mark and Todd shook hands with Bo and Abdou, but not her mother. Her father thanked them again and again, and when the moment became awkward, Mark said, “We’ll be in the hallway.”

When he and Todd left the room, the entire family was crying.