AFTER BEING DETAINED, Evelyn was interviewed by a female immigration officer in a small cubicle. The woman found herself confronted by a timid, trembling young girl who refused to look up and had not touched the fruit juice or crackers she had put on the table to win her trust. She tried to reassure her by briefly stroking her head, but this only frightened the girl further. She had been told that the detainee had mental problems and so she had asked for extra time to conduct the interview. Many of the minors who passed through there were traumatized, but without an official order it was impossible to carry out a psychological evaluation. She had to trust her intuition and experience.
Faced with the girl’s stubborn refusal to speak, the official at first thought perhaps she spoke only Mayan and wasted several precious minutes until she realized Evelyn understood without a problem but had a speech impediment. She gave her paper and a pencil to write down her replies, praying she knew how to write; most of the children who arrived at the detention center had never been to school.
“What is your name? Where do you come from? Do you have any family here?”
In clear handwriting, Evelyn wrote her name, those of her village and country, her mother’s name, and a telephone number. The officer gave a sigh of relief.
“This makes things much easier. We’ll call your mother so that she can come and get you. You’ll be allowed to go with her temporarily until a judge decides on your case.”
Evelyn spent three days in the detention center, without speaking to anyone, despite being surrounded by women and children from Mexico and Central America, including many from Guatemala. They were given two meals a day, milk and diapers for the youngest children, camp beds, and military blankets. These were essential because the air-conditioning kept the building at a frigid temperature that led to a constant epidemic of coughs and colds. It was a transit facility: no one stayed there very long and the detainees were transferred as quickly as possible to other facilities. Those minors who had relatives in the United States were handed over without any serious investigation, as there was not enough time or staff to examine every case.
It was not Miriam who came to look for Evelyn but a man called Galileo Leon, who said he was her stepfather. She had never heard of him and resolutely refused to go with him, because she knew about pimps and traffickers who lay in wait for juveniles like her. Sometimes children were claimed by perfect strangers, who took them away after simply signing a form. An official had to call Miriam on the phone to clarify the situation, and this was how Evelyn learned that her mother had a husband. She was soon to discover that as well as a stepfather she had two half brothers, aged four and three.
“Why didn’t the girl’s mother come to fetch her?” the duty officer asked Galileo Leon.
“Because she would lose her job. And don’t think this is easy for me either. I’m losing four days of earnings thanks to this kid. I’m a painter and my clients won’t wait,” the man replied, in a humble tone that contrasted with his words.
“We’re going to hand over the girl to you under presumption of credible fear. Do you understand what that means?”
“More or less.”
“The judge will have to decide if the reasons why the girl left her country are valid. Evelyn will need to prove a specific, concrete danger, for example that she was attacked or had been threatened. You can take her with you on parole.”
“Does that mean I have to pay?” the man asked in alarm.
“No. It’s a nominal amount that gets written in the book but that the migrant is not charged. She will be told by mail at her mother’s house when she has to appear in front of an immigration court. Before the hearing Evelyn will have a meeting with an asylum counselor.”
“A lawyer? We don’t have the money for one . . . ,” said Leon.
“The system is rather slow because there are so many children seeking asylum. The reality is that not even half of them get to see a counselor, but if they do, it is free.”
“Outside I was told they could find me one for three thousand dollars.”
“Don’t believe them, they’re traffickers and swindlers. All you need to do for now is wait for the notification from the court,” said the duty officer, considering the matter closed.
He took a copy of Galileo Leon’s driver’s license to add to Evelyn’s file, even though this was next to useless because the center did not have the capacity to follow the trail of every child. Then he said a rapid goodbye to Evelyn; he had several more cases to deal with that day.
GALILEO LEON HAD BEEN BORN in Nicaragua. At eighteen he had immigrated illegally to the United States, but had obtained residency thanks to the 1997 amnesty law. He was a small man of few words and rough manners. At first glance he did not inspire confidence or affection.
Their first stop was at a Walmart to buy Evelyn clothes and toiletries. She thought she was dreaming when she saw the size of the store and the infinite variety of goods on offer, each in different colors and sizes, a labyrinth of aisles crammed full to overflowing. Fearing she might get lost forever, she clung to her stepfather’s arm. He found his way around like an experienced explorer and led her directly to each section, telling her to choose underwear, T-shirts, three blouses, two pairs of jeans, a skirt, a dress, and proper shoes. Even though she was not far from her sixteenth birthday, her size corresponded to that of a ten-or twelve-year-old American girl. Bewildered, Evelyn always wanted to choose the cheapest item, but since she was unfamiliar with the currency she took far too long.
“Don’t look at the prices. Everything here is cheap, and your mom gave me money for clothes,” explained Galileo.
From there he took her to a McDonald’s to eat hamburgers with French fries and a huge sundae topped with a cherry. In Guatemala it would have been enough for an entire family.
“Did no one ever teach you to say thank you?” asked her stepfather, more out of curiosity than as a reproach.
Without daring to look at him, Evelyn nodded, licking the last spoonful of ice cream.
“Are you scared of me or something? I’m no ogre.”
“Than . . . thank . . . I’m . . . ,” she stuttered.
“Are you stupid or do you have a stammer?”
“Stam . . . stamm—”