| |
Angry looking men in combat gear stormed the school. They surrounded the first adult they encountered and demanded directions to the school office. The terrified hall monitor pointed them to the office. In a scene reminiscent of a Star Wars episode, ten ‘storm troopers’ strutted over to the school office and barged inside. Stunned administrators and clerical workers dove for cover, contemplating how they might protect children currently in classrooms, terrified this was some type of school shooting or hostage-taking event.
“Who’s in charge here?” One of the storm troopers demanded.
George Curley bravely emerged from his office and confronted the men.
“I am Principal Curley. Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? What is the meaning of this? You are scaring my staff, which, I presume, is your intent. Can we please turn down the temperature?” Curley stood, eye-to-eye, toe-to-toe, with the man.
The commander looked down at a piece of paper and read from it. “We are looking for Emma and Emilio Gonzalez.”
“For God’s sake! They are elementary school children. What do you want with them?”
“That’s none of your business, sir. By authority of the United States government, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, I demand you take me to them.”
“I will do no such thing.” Curley turned, walked into his office, and picked up the phone to call Marshall Mann.
The commander trained an assault rifle on Curley. “Put down the phone, sir.”
Curley ignored him and began pushing telephone buttons. “I’m calling our lawyer. We have a right to discuss this with counsel, do we not?”
“Later, perhaps. Right now, I am commanding you to put down the phone and take us to Emma and Emilio Gonzalez. If you do not obey this lawful command, I will have no choice but to place you into custody.”
Curley completed dialing and waited for the phone to connect.
“Law Offices of Zachary Blake, may I help you?” Before Curley could respond, the commander rushed over to him, grabbed the receiver, and slammed it down in disgust.
“Jensen!” He addressed a young subordinate.
“Sir, yes sir?”
“Arrest this man!”
“Sir?” Jensen was stunned.
“Did I stutter, Jensen? Arrest this man.”
“Yes sir.” Jensen walked over to Curley and fumbled with a pair of handcuffs.
“Seriously?” Curley exclaimed. “Is this really necessary? I demand to see a warrant or any other paperwork that identifies you as ICE or authorizes you to storm into this peaceful place of learning and treat United States citizens in this manner!”
“We are authorized to conduct raids and arrest any, and all, foreign illegals. We may also arrest anyone who obstructs our efforts to do so. You, sir, are obstructing those efforts,” the commander blustered.
“I’m not questioning your authority; I am questioning your methods and your intent. You did not need to storm in here and scare the living daylights out of everyone. You only needed to walk in and make a legal request. For your information, sir, the Gonzalez children are not ‘foreign illegals,’ as you call them. They are American citizens. Now, for everyone’s sake, especially the Gonzalez children, please let me call our lawyer. I’m sure he can straighten this out.”
Nine officers turned to the commander, thinking this suggestion made perfect sense. However, they weren’t in charge.
“I’m going to give you one more chance, Mr. . . .” He glanced at the principal’s desk and nameplate . . . “Curley. Either show me to the classrooms of Emma and Emilio Gonzalez, or I will place you under arrest and have one of these other fine people show me the way.” He turned to Curley’s administrative staff. “I’m sure you do not wish to be arrested, correct?”
One of the senior staff members nodded. The others stayed completely still.
“What’s it going to be, Curley? You can call the lawyer after we leave.”
“You can count on that, sir. And I will also be talking with your boss.”
“Have at it. We are here on his orders. Now take me to these children. I am losing my patience.”
“This way.” Curley pointed out the door. As the ten men turned to leave, Curley motioned to an assistant, put two fingers to his ear as if they were a telephone, and mouthed ‘Call Blake.’
The men followed Curley down the hallway toward the classrooms. Curley stopped at Mr. Haskel’s room and ventured in. The young elementary students were excited. One cried. “It’s Mr. Curley! Mr. Curley came to visit!”
When the other kids turned toward the door, they were stunned at the sight of ten armed men tailing behind Curley.
“What the . . .” Haskel began.
“Emma or Emilio Gonzalez!” The commander roared, frightening the children. No one spoke. No one moved.
“Emma or Emilio Gonzalez!” The commander repeated.
“What is the meaning of this?” Haskel demanded. Tall and extremely thin, Haskel towered over the commander but was outweighed by at least fifty pounds of muscle.
The commander ignored him. “Emma or Emilio . . .”
“Here, sir,” Emma stood.
“Come with me, young lady.”
“Don’t move, Emma,” Haskel ordered. Emma stopped in her tracks.
“Now, see here, officer . . .” Curley began.
“Silence!” The commander snapped. “Emma Gonzalez, come with me now.”
Emma began to cry. The commander walked over to her and lifted her up, intending to carry her out of the room. Emma screamed and began to punch the officer with her fists. The commander shifted Emma and wrapped his arms around hers, completely restraining the child. She continued to scream and cry hysterically. The commander walked out into the hall, followed by Curley, Haskel, and the other officers. Haskel was yelling at the top of his voice as Emma continued to scream. Classroom doors opened. Teachers entered the hallway to investigate the source of the commotion.
“Emilio Gonzalez!” the commander roared.
“Emma!” A child came running out of a neighboring room and up to the commander. “Let go of my sister!” he screamed, pounding his fists on the commander’s legs.
“Will someone please secure this child?” the commander requested, exasperated, facing his soldiers.
“Sir, yes sir,” replied an officer, coming forward and scooping up Emilio, much the same way his commander scooped up Emma.
“Let’s go, men,” the commander ordered.
“Where are you taking these children?” Emilio’s teacher demanded. “You have no right . . .”
“We have the full weight and authority of the United States Government, ma’am. Take it up with your elected officials. To answer your question, we are taking them to the Detroit Detention Center. Inquiries may be made there.”
“Where is that?” Curley demanded.
“Downtown Detroit, on East Jefferson. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Thank you for your cooperation,” he sneered.
Ten men and two screaming children scurried down the hall, past the school office, stunned teachers and administrators, and exited the building. They entered official-looking SUVs and drove off. Curley wrote down each license plate and ran back to his office to call Blake and Mann.
“Law Offices of Zachary Blake, how may I direct your call?” Kristin had been the office receptionist for years.
“Emergency call for Zachary Blake or Marshall Mann! This is George Curley speaking.”
“May I reference a client, Mr. Curley?” Kristin remained calm. “Mr. Mann is in; Mr. Blake is not. Will that be okay?”
“Yes, please hurry. This is an emergency. The clients are Emma and Emilio Gonzalez.”
Kristin was not familiar with these names and would ordinarily have pushed back. Curley sounded so distraught, though, she decided to alert Marshall Mann.
“Marshall? I have a Mr. Curley on the line. He says it’s an emergency. He referenced Emma and Emilio Gonzalez.”
“Patch him through, Kristin. Thank you,” Mann replied.
“Marshall Mann here. George? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Mr. Mann! ICE agents just stormed into our school and walked off with the Gonzalez children! Help us, please!” He implored.
“Calm down, George. Tell me what happened. Where are the children?”
“They took them, Marshall! The guy in charge said something about the Detroit Detention Center on East Jefferson.”
“Okay, George, that’s very helpful. Did they say anything else?”
“Not really. They said that they were here by authority of the United States Government. They behaved like Nazi storm troopers. Scared the living daylights out of everyone at the school.”
“I’ll get on this right away, George. Thank you for calling. By the way, Mary Carmen and Miguel were released today. I will let them know what has happened. Perhaps we can get Senator Stabler or your district’s Congressman involved. Do you know who it is?”
“Deidre Drummond.”
“I will try to get her involved, too. You might want to call her yourself.”
“You’ve got it, Marshall. Please, sir, help these poor people! They’ve done nothing wrong!”
“I’m on it, George. Thanks for the alert.”
“Wait! Marshall? Are you still there?”
“Still here, George. What is it?”
“I copied the license plates of every vehicle they were driving.”
“Excellent. I’m going to hire you as an investigator. Let’s have the license plate numbers.”
George read them off the sticky note in his hand.
“Thanks, George. We’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you, Marshall.”
Marshall Mann hung up and immediately called Zachary Blake’s cell phone.
“What’s up, Marsh?” Zack answered.
“We’ve got a big problem, Zack. Where are you?”
“Just leaving the City-County Building, why? What’s wrong?”
“ICE just picked up the Gonzalez children.”
“Wha . . .what do you mean, ‘picked up’? Can they do that?”
“These kids are American citizens, Zack. Of course they can’t do that. I am guessing this is a case of ICE assuming these kids are undocumented because their parents are. I’m sure this is just a bureaucratic snafu. According to the school principal, the kids were taken to the Detroit Detention Center over on Jefferson, about a mile east of where you are. Do you have time to run over and straighten these creeps out? I’ll get ahold of Mary Carmen or Miguel and get the kids’ birth certificates. ICE can’t detain or deport American citizens for crying out loud.”
“If they have cell phones with a camera, any camera, have them take photos of the birth certificates and text them to me so I can show them to the detention center people.”
“Will do. Good luck. Keep me posted.”
“No problem, Marsh.”
***
One half-hour later, Zachary Blake parked his car in a pothole-filled parking lot of the Detroit Detention Center. The place looked like an abandoned building, the kind the media displays in documentaries tracking Detroit’s demise and decay. While there is absolutely urban blight in Blake’s favorite city, he despised the focus of these documentaries.
There were less than ten cars in the parking lot and one large black van with no official markings. Zack approached the van, cupped his hand, and pressed his hand and face against the side window, hoping to see inside. Tinted glass prevented him from seeing anything.
“Excuse me, sir,” a gruff male voice caused him to jump backward. “Please step away from the vehicle.”
“Is this the Detroit Detention Center?” Zack questioned the middle-aged mustachioed man with a potbelly and a non-descript uniform.
“Who’s asking?” The man grumbled.
“My name is Blake, Zachary Blake. Yours?” Zack challenged.
“Billings, Captain Gordon Billings. State your business, Blake, or get the hell out of here. You’re trespassing.”
“I’m a citizen, Billings. This is a government facility, is it not?”
“It is, but it is not open to the general public, by order of the president himself,” Billings blustered. “Now, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, or do I have to have you escorted off these premises?” Without taking an eye off Zack, Billings unhooked a walkie-talkie from a shoulder strap and pressed the device to his mouth.
“Okay, Billings. Let’s lower the temperature a bit. I’m an attorney, and I have been advised that my clients were taken to this facility. They are small children, probably frightened to death. I’m sure you’ll agree this is no place for a child.”
“Well, Blake, we do agree on something, but you have been misinformed. There are no children here.”
“I have it on good information there are,” Zack insisted.
“Your information is inaccurate, sir,” Billings softened. “There are no children here. I’m not supposed to do this, but I will let you see for yourself if you promise to behave.”
Zack raised two fingers in the air and smirked. “Scouts honor, chief.”
“I’m Captain Billings, not chief.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Zack saluted.
“I’m changing my mind . . .” Billings turned away and pressed the button on his walkie-talkie. Someone on the other end responded, “Yes, Captain?”
Zack capitulated. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
They walked into the building. Much like the center in Riverview, the sights and smells were astonishing. It was hot, humid, and smelled of human feces. Zack gagged and pulled out a handkerchief to cover his nose. His eyes watered. This center was larger than Riverview, and hundreds, if not thousands of Latino adults were crowded into makeshift cages, crying, coughing, and screaming in Spanish. Snack food wrappings and empty water bottles were scattered all over the floor. There were no temperature controls or windows.
“See, Blake, no kids.” Billings scanned the room in a casual manner. The sights and smells of the place did not seem to bother him.
“What is it with you people, Billings? These are human beings! This is just like the center I visited in Riverview. You jam people into cages without showers, sanitation, or change of clothing. What did these folks do to deserve this deplorable treatment in the United States of America?” Zack ranted.
“They’re illegal. They have no civil rights,” Billings argued.
“Bullshit, Billings. Flores mandates safe and sanitary . . . God Dammit! That’s the national standard!” Zack roared.
Billings ignored him and placed his hand on Zachary’s back, gently pushing him toward the door. “Not my pay grade, counselor. Take it up with Homeland. No kids here.”
“Take your hand off my back. I know the way. I’ll be back with a court order shutting this place down, you son-of-a-bitch.”
Billings removed his hand as Zack headed for the door. Zack’s cellphone buzzed. Marshall Mann was texting the children’s birth certificates.
“Knock yourself out, counselor. We’ll be here when you get back,” Billings blustered. “This shit has been tested before and these centers are still here. They serve a vital purpose.”
“What purpose is that?” Zack cackled over his shoulder. “Total dehumanization of Latinos?”
“Undocumented Latinos; non-citizens with no civil rights in our country,” Billings corrected.
“We’ll see about that, asshole.”
“One more word of disrespect out of you and I’ll have you arrested and detained for disorderly conduct and disobeying a federal officer.”
Zack stopped in his tracks and turned back to study Billings. “Go for it, Captain. You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Zack threatened.
“One more arrogant lawyer is the way I see it. You have two choices, Blake. Turn your ass around and get the hell out of here, or I will have my men arrest and detain you.” He retrieved his walkie-talkie and held it to his mouth.
Part of Zachary Blake wanted to be arrested and detained. It would make a terrific news story and focus attention on the deplorable conditions he witnessed at two separate INS detention facilities. He wanted to file a massive and very public wrongful arrest and imprisonment lawsuit against the INS and Homeland Security. Prominent attorney Zachary Blake illegally detained at INS detention center—files multi-million dollar lawsuit against the Feds for civil rights violations—details at eleven. However, the practical side of Blake overrode his emotions. I can’t do my clients any good locked up in these filthy and disgusting cages.
With great restraint and without another word, Zachary Blake turned and walked toward the exit. When he reached the door, without turning back, he raised his right hand, extended his middle finger, and offered Captain Gordon Billings the respect the man deserved.
