After Anna emailed telling me that Graham was at Rikers, I looked up his release date on the Department of Correction website, kicking myself because I hadn’t thought to check it the whole time I’d wondered if he was dead.
My relief turned to fear once I read what the inmate locator said. Graham was supposed to have been released from Rikers that morning, but instead he’d been handed over to Immigration and Customs Enforcement—the Homeland Security agency rounding up and deporting four hundred thousand people every year.
Now I debated whether I wanted to be the bearer of bad news, but I sent Anna another email, letting her know that Graham had been picked up by immigration and explaining how she could find out where he was.
He’s not showing up yet in the ICE system, but here’s a link to a database where you can check the status of anyone detained by immigration. Maybe he’ll get lucky and they’ll just release him, but if you hear from him and he wants help finding a lawyer I can probably track down some names. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.
A friend who worked for Human Rights Watch had told me about ICE’s online detainee locator, which had just launched earlier that summer. Before that, families had a tough time finding out where their loved ones had been taken—often, after agents showed up at their homes with guns.
But there was still something disturbing about tracking a human being like a missing package or lost luggage. I didn’t just want to know where Graham was; I wanted to talk to him and find out what was going on.
Anna’s response was not particularly reassuring.
I remember the lawyer saying Graham would most likely be picked up by immigration and Graham mentioned immigration had been in touch with him at some point, so maybe this is all a part of that process. He seemed pretty convinced he wouldn’t be deported based on what he was arrested for. Let me know if you find anything else out and I’m sure he or a lawyer will be in touch when he’s ready or allowed to.
Based on what I had read about ICE, I wasn’t so sure that Graham would be allowed to call a lawyer—or anyone else, since Anna didn’t hear from him over the next few days. She worked in an office where it was tough to make calls about her incarcerated ex-husband, whereas I could work at home and was used to pestering people for information, so I offered to keep trying the ICE phone numbers we found.
By that point, the online detainee tracker indicated that Graham had been taken to the Hudson County Correctional Facility in New Jersey. When I finally got through to a curt employee at the jail, she told me he was allowed to have visitors, but he first had to put my name on his approved visitors list. The only way to ask him to do that was to send him a letter—which I promptly did.
“I have no idea whether this letter will get to you, or if someone else might read it, so I won’t go on and on,” I wrote, already feeling guarded about our monitored communications. “But I hope you’ll call me—collect, whatever. I know it’s a lousy situation in there, but it will get sorted out. And since I thought you might be dead, I was happy to hear you’re alive.”
A few days later, that envelope came back marked “RTS”—return to sender—“No longer on A3W,” the wing where Graham had temporarily been housed. By the time my letter arrived, he had already been transferred.
I also left voicemail messages for the deportation officer and the social worker I was told had been assigned to Graham’s case. Neither of them called me back.
Anna didn’t have much better luck on her end.
“Not looking good,” she wrote me, a week after we had first been in touch. “Graham has been moved to York County, PA, which is a prison, not a detention center. I’m now wondering if he still has access to a commissary account, if I can send him some money, as maybe he can’t get a phone card. I think ICE beats to its own drum on what anyone in their custody can do—really kinda scary how under the radar they operate.”
I didn’t want to worry Anna by telling her how awful some of those prisons and detention centers were; I’d read reports about immigrants getting mistreated and abused, or even dying because they were denied medical care. But the more time that passed, the more I started to panic. I had spoken with a lawyer who told me that ICE usually transferred people to remote prisons far from their home states—far from their families and the advocates who could help them. It was essentially a domestic form of rendition, sending detainees to states like Alabama and Texas, where the judges were much less sympathetic to immigrants.
As one New York lawyer I’d spoken with put it, “They don’t think like us down there.” He made it clear that Graham needed to hire an attorney soon—before he got moved again.
Finally, on September 1, I got through to a woman at York County Prison who had somehow maintained her humanity in the dehumanizing place where she worked: She didn’t cut me off or transfer me to a voicemail black hole, and she wasn’t immediately dismissive when I asked if she’d pass Graham a message.
“We don’t usually give messages to inmates,” she told me, sounding a bit apologetic.
Sensing a lack of commitment to that policy, I pressed my case. “I’m sure he hasn’t called because he doesn’t remember any phone numbers. They’re all stored on his cellphone, and that was taken away. All I’m asking is for you to give him a slip of paper with my name and number.”
“And you are…?”
“His girlfriend.” I thought it might complicate things if I said I was Graham’s ex.
“Well, we aren’t supposed to give out information to anyone who isn’t a family member.”
“I understand that,” I said, already prepared for this objection. “But I’m not actually asking you to give me any information—I’m just asking you to give him my phone number. His parents are in Scotland so he can’t call them collect, and his son is at school so he can’t answer his phone in class. I’m sure you can imagine how worried he is about his dad.”
My appeal to family ties worked: She agreed to pass Graham a note with my number. I just wasn’t sure if he’d actually call. We hadn’t talked in so long I had no idea if he’d even want my help. Then again, his present situation was so dire I figured he’d grab any lifeline that floated his way.
So why was I bothering to throw Graham that line, after all the times he’d pushed me away? Obviously I still cared about what happened to him, and it was shocking that he could just disappear into this shadowy system—with none of the rights even mass murderers get if they’re U.S. citizens. Even though I’d warned Graham about this possibility and knew theoretically it might happen, it was chilling to actually experience that fear: knowing someone who had gotten picked up by government agents and taken away.
But there was another motivation that didn’t really sink in until later that night, when I couldn’t sleep wondering if Graham had gotten my message. If he did call, I was finally going to get something I’d been wanting for years: the chance to have a conversation with him totally clean. In some sense, that anticipation overshadowed the fact that he was in prison.
I worked from home the next day, trying to distract myself while I waited for the phone to ring. When it finally did, at around four in the afternoon, a recording asked if I’d accept a collect call from “Graham”—his Scottish accent rolling the r in his name.
Suddenly nervous, I didn’t know what to say.
“I got your message,” Graham said, sounding a bit defensive. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Anna told me—well, actually, she told me you were at Rikers, so I looked up your release date, but by then ICE had picked you up and taken you to New Jersey. There’s a website where you can track detainees. I sent you a letter, but you’d already been moved to Pennsylvania. I finally managed to get through to a woman who I guess did give you my number.”
I felt like I was rambling, so I stopped talking—leaving an opening for Graham to launch into one of his rants.
“This whole thing is a fucking nightmare. The day I’m supposed to get out of jail they tell me immigration has got a hold on me so I’m not getting released. Then these ICE officers come get me and put me in shackles—my hands chained to my waist, my feet chained together, like I’m a fucking serial killer or something. All the guys in outtake were looking at me like I was Charles Manson.”
Shackles? It sounded even more barbaric than I’d imagined. “What did they tell you when they picked you up?” I asked. “Have you seen a judge?”
“Are you kidding? They don’t tell you a fucking thing. I haven’t seen a judge. I don’t get a lawyer. They just come at four A.M. and take you away. Hundreds of people come and go every day in this place, mostly Mexicans—I’m the only white guy. And these ICE officers are so fucking racist. While everyone’s lining up one guy says, ‘See this line? Don’t cross it. Wait till you get back to Mexico and you can try jumping the border again.’ It’s unbelievable how nasty they are.”
“Are you okay? I mean, obviously you’re not okay, but are they treating you decently?” I didn’t know how to ask, Is anyone beating the shit out of you?
“I’m alright—it’s not violent or anything, but this place makes Rikers Island look like the Hilton hotel. It’s fucking freezing in here, I’ve not got any commissary so I can’t buy a long-sleeved shirt, or anything half-decent to eat. The food is shite, and there’s no outside time. You’re stuck in this dorm with nothing to do, nothing to read. Just Jerry Springer on the telly all fucking day. How often is that show on?”
At least Graham hadn’t lost his sense of humor, but being in jail had clearly amplified his swearing. In some sense, he didn’t sound all that different off drugs.
“I’m trying to find you a lawyer,” I said, shifting the conversation to practicalities. “I’ve got some names of firms that specialize in deportation cases. The thing is…” I hesitated, thinking it was a bit crass to bring up money.
“What?”
“Do you have any money left? I know you sold your house, but I don’t know how much these lawyers charge, or if you even want to fight this. Maybe you’d rather just go back to Scotland.”
“I’ve got money—I can pay for a lawyer. But I can’t spend a long time in this situation. I’ve met people who’ve been in here for years fighting their cases. That would do my state of mind serious damage. I’d rather sign out if I’m gonna get stuck in this place.”
“I don’t think it takes years to see a judge. You’re supposed to get an initial hearing within a couple of weeks, but if you agree to leave, you’re exiled forever. You can’t ever come back to the U.S.—not to see Liam, not for work. You don’t even get to pack up your stuff. They basically just put you on a plane.”
Graham was silent; I wondered if I was being too blunt. Hoping to soften the blow, I added, “I really think you should talk to a lawyer before you decide what to do, just to find out your options. Or I guess I should talk to a lawyer—you can only make collect calls, right?”
“You should call Tracy.”
Tracy? The mention of her name totally threw me. “Why would I call Tracy? I thought you finally got rid of her.”
“I did, but she came to see me when I was in Rikers. She’s living in a recovery house—she’s been clean for a while now. I talked to her and she was going to call a lawyer.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret this news. From everything Graham had told me about Tracy, I didn’t want anything to do with her—and I wasn’t sure I wanted anything to do with Graham if she was back in his life. After they broke up, she had even called me at one point, leaving crazy messages demanding I call her.
“I can’t believe you’ve been in touch with her,” I said, more bothered by this revelation than I was letting on. “Please tell me you’re not back together….”
“She’d like to be with me, but no—that’s not happening. Please, just call her. She owes me two thousand dollars so you can get some of the money for the lawyer from her. I can’t access my bank account—they took my checkbook, my wallet, everything.”
This was not at all how I pictured our conversation going. The fact that Graham had called Tracy made me wonder if he really was free of that life. Why would he have called her, instead of Anna or me?
“Why didn’t you tell me you were at Rikers?” I asked—it sounded more like an accusation than a question. “I didn’t know what had happened to you. I actually thought you were dead, and it turns out you were talking to the most dysfunctional person you’ve ever been involved with.”
“I didn’t call her. She found out where I was and came to visit. I didn’t call you because…I don’t know. I was ashamed, I didn’t want anybody to see me there. But I asked Anna to tell you where I was—I thought she had. I’m sorry, I should’ve written to you. I didn’t even write to Liam, or my family. It’s hard to explain, but I was coming out of a really fucking dark place and I didn’t know how to deal with that.”
Just as I was mulling over that explanation, a recording interrupted us, saying our time was almost up. There was a twenty-minute limit on prison phone calls—which wasn’t entirely a bad thing, since it cost about a dollar a minute to talk.
“I’ve got to go,” Graham said, adding “thank you”—almost as an afterthought, I noticed. I was starting to remember what it felt like to get sucked into his chaos, a gravitational pull I wondered if I should try to resist. But there was no time to deliberate over what I should do: I couldn’t call him back or email him later, after I’d thought about it. I had to decide in that instant.
“I’ll call a couple of lawyers,” I told him, brushing aside my reservations. “Call me tomorrow.”
Before he could answer, our call got cut off. I sat there for a while longer, just holding the phone. The sensation I always got after talking to Graham was back: that buzz, that hum—like the electricity had just come back on after the power went out, making you notice how quiet it had been when everything was off.
I lay back on my bed, staring at one of the pictures Graham gave me when we were together, which was still on my wall. It was a black-and-white photo of a skinny guy with his hands in his pockets, by the street photographer Leon Levinstein. With just his torso and legs visible, he looked a lot like Graham.
“I’m not the only person who keeps their pants up with a too big belt and their hands,” he’d written on the cardboard backing. “Think of me every time you look at it. With love, Graham XXX.”
I knew I was getting pulled back into that vortex—not of Graham’s addiction, but a whole other drama. Maybe Graham had detoxed, but it was hard to tell if he had changed, and that uncertainty made me feel very conflicted.
A week later, I got the letter he started writing me from York County Prison that night, just after we talked. It came in an envelope stamped with a warning: THIS CORRESPONDENCE ORIGINATES FROM AN INMATE INSTITUTION. As I tore open the envelope, I wondered if the mailman thought I’d taken up with a prison pen pal.
Dear Susan,
Firstly thank you so much for doing everything + anything you have + will be doing for me. I’m really touched + sort of humbled mixed with a wee bit of shame that you’ve had to put yourself to this effort on my behalf—but trust me I’m glad you are + I was so happy to talk to you on the phone tonight. Everything just sort of seems fucked up here—it’s really frustrating, no one tells you anything, nothing gets done in a timely or organized manner, it seems so easy to fall through the cracks. One minute I’m on Rikers Island the next ICE picks me up + I’m in Jersey, don’t see a judge, then 3 days later brought here to York PA + being told all the time that I’ll be going to TX or LA in a few days…I’ve got a funny (well not funny given the situation) idea I’ll be packed up tonight/tomorrow morning. They always do that stuff between 2 AM & 4 AM for some reason or other. I think it’s so that you get even more fucked up when you wake up in the morning to find the guy you’d just made friends with has gone—psychological torture.
Anyway, this place here is a nightmare. A second seems like a minute, a minute seems like an hour, an hour like a day and a day seems like a week. Rikers Island seems like a dream compared to this. In fact the last 2½ months there was probably the happiest I’ve been in a long time. I was with some good people. I had a job in the kitchen, I was on the card playing team, I read lots of books, I was in a good dorm. The Bloods liked me, the Crips liked me, the Mexicans cooked for me most nights ’coz I brought up lots of food from the kitchen every night. My section in the dorm was really good—I had some great laughs—not to say jail is good ’coz it’s not. It’s just that you can make the best of it—I could move around all over the building. But here there’s no movement, no books or mags, everyone is from South America or Mexico. I’m just the lonesome white boy.
Well, I went to bed now it’s Friday + obviously I didn’t get packed up last night. But I woke up this morning at 6 am by the TV at volume 20—now 6 am is unacceptable. TV’s not meant to go on ’til after breakfast at 8 am. So I put up with it blaring the early news + ads in English when I decide to get up + see if it was the CO and lo + behold there’s this little Mexican guy sitting on a table watching the TV. He looks at me and asks if I speak Spanish or English—I tell him English and he looks at me and says “No hablo English!” My question at that point (though I didn’t ask) was why are you watching TV so loud when you don’t understand?
I know I need to make a decision about fighting this case and I know that you’ve picked the best law firm and I appreciate that very much. Part of me wants to call it quits + just go back to Scotland or London, start up my career there—new clients, new jobs, fresh start. Sounds appealing doesn’t it? But also I would like to have the freedom to be able to go wherever I want + I know I can hunker down and get through another 3-6 months—as painful as it may be. But I’d hate to spend the time & money to find that I’m gonna get deported anyway.
I’m trying my best to get access to my checkbooks so I can send you a check for the lawyer but I understand if you can’t get the cash and you don’t want to front it for me—don’t feel bad. I got me in this situation—no one else—so I’ve got to take the rough with the smooth and at least that will leave me no choice but to ask for final deportation order. Things will work out for the best either way. I can’t let the word worse be in my vocabulary. I am sorry I didn’t keep in touch with you—I was selfish, I suppose + a little lost + out of control (not in a crazy way but not in control of simple things that I should have been in control of—you know what I mean!) I keep singing the Frank Sinatra song—My Way in my head and U2 Beautiful Day + knowing one day I’ll be on the outside walking down a street—somewhere—with a spring in my step and a smile on my face.
Oh yes—I’ve started playing chess! I’m not great but have won a few games.
Susan, all I can say is thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom (+ top) of my heart.
Much love Graham xxx
P.S. I’ll write more in a bit
The letter included a drawing of the dorm—little rectangles for all the bunks along the walls, round circles for the tables and chairs, and an open area with showers and toilets. There was a television, a desk where the CO sat, and an enclosed area where the inmates could work out. Graham had marked his locker and bunk and noted the drawing was “not to scale.”
It was simultaneously depressing and comforting to be able to visualize the place where he was locked up. I had a flashback to my claustrophobia at Rikers Island when I bailed him out. But as I finished reading Graham’s letter—for the second time—the main thing I was thinking about was that he was already using the word love.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It did occur to me that Graham was just using me because I was the only person who could really help him. And to be honest, I don’t think he understood why I had tracked him down. But one of the reasons I was willing to get involved in his case was that I thought I had the upper hand. If I found out Graham was lying to me, or dealing with him got to be too chaotic, I was willing to walk away this time.