They take you to a room in the downtown station. They ask you questions. You decide you do not want to answer them. They ask you if you want a lawyer, and you tell them you do not want a lawyer—but you do not want to answer questions, either. They play the game. You know what role you have been assigned. Finally, you get tired of them. You say only, “Do what you have to do.” And so they say they have enough to charge you with. You nod. They are angry because you will not sign anything. You will not say anything. It will be better if you sign a confession—that is what they say. But you know it is not your job to sign anything, no, not your job to help them.
They lead you to a small room and search you. They pat you down, look in your shoes, make you take off your belt. They put handcuffs on you. An officer walks you outside, his hand on your shoulder. Another officer accompanies him—he has your file with him.
They run into a fellow officer, and you are there on the sidewalk, in handcuffs, and you hang your head, and you tell yourself that no one is looking at you. You tell yourself you are invisible, and you keep your head bowed. You do not look up, not for any reason. You think they will talk forever—they are laughing and joking and making small talk—and finally, they haul you into the jail. You are relieved you are no longer on public display. And again, you are searched. They make you take off your belt and your shoes, again. It does not matter that they have done this already. They do it again. And then they put you in a holding cell. It is not too busy, so you do not have to wait in the holding cell for hours, and you are glad you do not have to wait there for very long because there is a drunk man in the cell and he is shouting out his life story, shouting it out to anyone who will listen My father was the biggest bastard since Hitler.…And they call your name and lead you out of the holding cell and they photograph you, and the photograph goes directly into a computer. And then they fingerprint you on a new machine. Like your picture, your fingerprints go directly into the computer. So, now everything about you is in the computer. And you will be in that computer until the day you die.
And then, like magic, a bracelet with your photograph appears out of a printer hooked up to the computer, and the officer puts it on your wrist, and they lead you to a counter where they will classify you. They ask you questions—they want to know if you are violent or gay or if you have a disease or if you are crazy. You say you are not gay and that you have no diseases and that you are not crazy—but you also tell them that you feel like hurting them. And then you smile. But they do not smile back. And then they take you to a woman dressed in dark blue who gives you a TB test. You do not have to wait in line for a long time. She smiles at you, and you wonder why. And you smile back at her—and you wonder why.
And after that, they take you to another counter. A large young black man with a smile as large as his hands gives you a basket full of things for your new life: an orange jumper, a blanket, a towel, cheap canvas tennis shoes, a cheap toothbrush, a bar of soap, toilet paper. As he turns the basket over to you, he points to a place—a special cell—and you are forced to take a shower. And you feel dirty as you shower, and you shiver as you dry yourself because you are cold and you feel more naked than you have ever felt—and then you put on your new clothes. And they take away everything you walked in with—your wallet, your watch, your belt, your jeans, your shirt, your shoes, the receipt and the quarters you had in your pockets.
And you belong to them.
“I’ll get you out of here as soon as you’re arraigned.”
“I did it, Dave.”
“It’s not that simple. You didn’t mean it.”
“How do you know?”
It was strange that Dave was more concerned than he was. Maybe he’d care tomorrow. Maybe he’d never care about anything again. He was glad he didn’t have a cellmate. Tomorrow, they would move him in with other men—but not tonight. Tonight he was alone, and he was glad. Maybe, when he got to prison, he’d beat on someone, anyone who needed beating, anyone. And they’d put him in solitary. And he’d work to stay there. So he wouldn’t ever have to see another human being.
He looked around his cell. It was odd, that the room was so familiar. Dark and not really dirty. But not clean. How could a place like this be clean when it was filled with men like him? He thought of Mando. This is what he’d seen. Maybe this was even the same cell. So here he was, following in his brother’s footsteps. This was their fate. This is where they belonged. Here—in an exile they had more than earned.
He thought of the courtyard in Juárez, and that house they’d lived in. It wasn’t so very different than this place. He whispered the word emancipation. He knew the word from somewhere in his past, but he was too tired and too numb to search his memory. And, anyway, it was a word that had no meaning.
In the morning, there wouldn’t be any sun in this room. I’ll get you out, I promise. I promise, Andrés.
“It’s all right, Dave. Some people prefer the dark. Don’t you know that by now?”