My first mistake was dressing like an electrician. I know better. When I'm working publicly as an attorney, I need to look like an attorney: suit, tie, wingtips, brief case. Yesterday I was out of uniform--flannel shirt, jeans, ball cap, leather satchel. I was going for comfort. And, when I arrived at the prison in Monroe County, they thought I was there to check the electrical closet.
"No," I laughed. "I'm here to see my client."
The officer looked puzzled. "Have you been here before?"
"Sure," I responded. "I'm here to see Anamul."
"Oh," you're the guy who just called," the officer said.
"Yes, that's me." I responded.
He asked me who were the people with me. I said the eleven-year-old boy was my interpreter. And the mature man, dressed in traditional Bangladeshi garb, was his father. "My regular interpreter is not available. The boy doesn't have school (it was Election Day). The father doesn't speak a lot of English, but I need him, in case the boy has trouble with complicated words. They're friends of the prisoner." That was my second mistake: identifying the boy and his father as my client's friends.
"I don't know," said the officer. "I need to speak to my commander."
The officer disappeared. A few minutes later he returned and said that I could talk to my client, a Bangladeshi national who is awaiting his asylum hearing (in jail). The two interpreters, however, could not join me. In fact, they couldn't stay in the waiting room either. They needed to wait outside.
I was dumbfounded. "But you let me bring an interpreter the last time. This is outrageous." I was starting to get hot under the collar. My voice definitely was not friendly any more. I quickly telephoned an attorney colleague who also represented immigrants housed at the Monroe County prison. I asked her, "Can they do this?" She was surprised and suggested I speak to the commanding officer. She also suggested that I drop the name of the local head of ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) and ask whether ICE said that it was proper to deny my interpreters access to the prisoner. So I spoke again to the officer.
"I don't speak Bengali," I pleaded. "We drove all this way. I never expected this."
In a few minutes a new voice spoke to me on the intercom by the reception desk. I believed this voice belonged to the commander. She reaffirmed that the boy and his father couldn't stay in the waiting room. I protested and asked whether this was ICE policy. She responded, "I don't work for ICE. Our policies here are set by Monroe County, and we don't allow children and friends to act as interpreters. You need to bring an interpreter that works for your law firm."
"Well, that would be difficult," I snorted. "I don't employ any Bengali speakers at my office."
I needed to focus. We had trial prep to do, and I needed to make the best of this. I'm a pro bono attorney working with refugees--I don't have endless amounts of time to work on every case. Today was the only day I had before trial to meet with my client. But the standoff continued.
Eventually I was told my client and an interpreter were waiting for me in the adjacent conference room. I was told they found another prisoner who could interpret for me. I was dubious. The other prisoner I learned was a native Arabic speaker from Yemen. He didn't speak Bengali either. But he did speak passable English, and my client spoke passable Arabic. So we had to make it work.
When I continued protesting sending the boy and his father outside, the voice on the intercom said, "We don't have anybody watching the waiting room. You could open the door and the let the boy and the man into the conference room and we wouldn't know. We can't let friends have access to prisoners during the week, they might try to slip him something through the window." The conference room looks exactly like prisons you've seen on television. A chair on one side of a plexiglass window and a telephone. The prisoner sits on the one side of the wall and the visitor or attorney sits on the other side--and you talk over a phone--exactly like in Orange is the New Black or Law and Order.
I kept protesting. "I'm a licensed attorney. I'm an officer of the court. I promise I won't open the door when my client is in the conference room. I'm not going to lose my license to slip something to the prisoner. This is outrageous." And it's exactly what happened. The prison officials were unmoved and I had work to do. I gave the boy and his father the keys to my car and said they could sit in it and wait if they wanted. I expected it would take an hour or so. Fortunately the weather in Michigan on November 3 was sunny and warm. The boy and his father didn't seem to mind. But I minded.
The "policies" explained to me regarding interpreters were not in writing. But it was hard to argue with the intercom voice.
Appearances matter. I didn't look like an attorney when I walked in to the Monroe County prison, so I raised suspicion. But I must not have been that suspicious--I was never asked to show identification--I just gave them my name. I really could have been an electrician pretending to be a lawyer. But, because I am white, confident, and I speak unaccented English, I was believed to be the attorney, albeit an attorney in a flannel shirt and jeans. My guests, however, were looked at differently. They were brown skinned, and the father looked like an extra from an episode of Homeland. They were not considered trustworthy, even though the father is a legal U.S. resident and his son a U.S. citizen in the seventh grade, who likes the Pistons, pizza, and is getting all A's in school.
But we live in a dangerous world and you can't be too careful. So my guests, who love America, were told they couldn't sit in the public waiting room as I talked to the prisoner. They couldn't be trusted. They had to leave.
For the first time in my life I got a glimpse of an America I thought was long gone--a country where a white American felt comfortable telling a brown American he couldn't sit at the lunch counter because of the color of his skin. It was heartbreaking. And this is how it feels . . . .
"No," I laughed. "I'm here to see my client."
The officer looked puzzled. "Have you been here before?"
"Sure," I responded. "I'm here to see Anamul."
"Oh," you're the guy who just called," the officer said.
"Yes, that's me." I responded.
He asked me who were the people with me. I said the eleven-year-old boy was my interpreter. And the mature man, dressed in traditional Bangladeshi garb, was his father. "My regular interpreter is not available. The boy doesn't have school (it was Election Day). The father doesn't speak a lot of English, but I need him, in case the boy has trouble with complicated words. They're friends of the prisoner." That was my second mistake: identifying the boy and his father as my client's friends.
"I don't know," said the officer. "I need to speak to my commander."
The officer disappeared. A few minutes later he returned and said that I could talk to my client, a Bangladeshi national who is awaiting his asylum hearing (in jail). The two interpreters, however, could not join me. In fact, they couldn't stay in the waiting room either. They needed to wait outside.
I was dumbfounded. "But you let me bring an interpreter the last time. This is outrageous." I was starting to get hot under the collar. My voice definitely was not friendly any more. I quickly telephoned an attorney colleague who also represented immigrants housed at the Monroe County prison. I asked her, "Can they do this?" She was surprised and suggested I speak to the commanding officer. She also suggested that I drop the name of the local head of ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) and ask whether ICE said that it was proper to deny my interpreters access to the prisoner. So I spoke again to the officer.
"I don't speak Bengali," I pleaded. "We drove all this way. I never expected this."
In a few minutes a new voice spoke to me on the intercom by the reception desk. I believed this voice belonged to the commander. She reaffirmed that the boy and his father couldn't stay in the waiting room. I protested and asked whether this was ICE policy. She responded, "I don't work for ICE. Our policies here are set by Monroe County, and we don't allow children and friends to act as interpreters. You need to bring an interpreter that works for your law firm."
"Well, that would be difficult," I snorted. "I don't employ any Bengali speakers at my office."
I needed to focus. We had trial prep to do, and I needed to make the best of this. I'm a pro bono attorney working with refugees--I don't have endless amounts of time to work on every case. Today was the only day I had before trial to meet with my client. But the standoff continued.
Eventually I was told my client and an interpreter were waiting for me in the adjacent conference room. I was told they found another prisoner who could interpret for me. I was dubious. The other prisoner I learned was a native Arabic speaker from Yemen. He didn't speak Bengali either. But he did speak passable English, and my client spoke passable Arabic. So we had to make it work.
When I continued protesting sending the boy and his father outside, the voice on the intercom said, "We don't have anybody watching the waiting room. You could open the door and the let the boy and the man into the conference room and we wouldn't know. We can't let friends have access to prisoners during the week, they might try to slip him something through the window." The conference room looks exactly like prisons you've seen on television. A chair on one side of a plexiglass window and a telephone. The prisoner sits on the one side of the wall and the visitor or attorney sits on the other side--and you talk over a phone--exactly like in Orange is the New Black or Law and Order.
I kept protesting. "I'm a licensed attorney. I'm an officer of the court. I promise I won't open the door when my client is in the conference room. I'm not going to lose my license to slip something to the prisoner. This is outrageous." And it's exactly what happened. The prison officials were unmoved and I had work to do. I gave the boy and his father the keys to my car and said they could sit in it and wait if they wanted. I expected it would take an hour or so. Fortunately the weather in Michigan on November 3 was sunny and warm. The boy and his father didn't seem to mind. But I minded.
The "policies" explained to me regarding interpreters were not in writing. But it was hard to argue with the intercom voice.
Appearances matter. I didn't look like an attorney when I walked in to the Monroe County prison, so I raised suspicion. But I must not have been that suspicious--I was never asked to show identification--I just gave them my name. I really could have been an electrician pretending to be a lawyer. But, because I am white, confident, and I speak unaccented English, I was believed to be the attorney, albeit an attorney in a flannel shirt and jeans. My guests, however, were looked at differently. They were brown skinned, and the father looked like an extra from an episode of Homeland. They were not considered trustworthy, even though the father is a legal U.S. resident and his son a U.S. citizen in the seventh grade, who likes the Pistons, pizza, and is getting all A's in school.
But we live in a dangerous world and you can't be too careful. So my guests, who love America, were told they couldn't sit in the public waiting room as I talked to the prisoner. They couldn't be trusted. They had to leave.
For the first time in my life I got a glimpse of an America I thought was long gone--a country where a white American felt comfortable telling a brown American he couldn't sit at the lunch counter because of the color of his skin. It was heartbreaking. And this is how it feels . . . .
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