Brother, I'm Dying - Edwidge Danticat [78]
My uncle’s initial medical screening involved a daylong examination of his vital signs, chest X-rays, and a physical and mental history interview. In the notes jotted down by the examining nurse, he is described as composed, friendly and “purposeful.” To the question “Does the detainee understand and recognize the significance and symptoms of the situation in which he finds himself?” the nurse answers, “Yes,” adding elsewhere, “Patient uses a traditional Haitian medicine for prostate & says if he doesn’t take it he pees blood & has pain.” Russ Knocke, a spokesman for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, would later derogatorily refer to my uncle’s traditional medicine as “a voodoolike potion.”
At the end of his first day at Krome, my uncle’s blood pressure was so high that he was assigned to the Short Stay Unit, a medical facility inside the prison. He and Maxo were separated.
I am acquainted with Ira Kurzban, author of Kurzban’s Immigration Law Sourcebook, one of the most widely used immigration manuals in the United States. Ira had represented Haitian immigrant clients for more than thirty years and had worked as general counsel to the governments of Panama, Nicaragua, Cuba and Haiti and as former president Aristide’s attorney. On the recommendation of a mutual friend, I called his office early Monday morning and asked for his help.
“I’m sending one of my best guys on this,” he said, after I explained the entire situation to him. “Because of his age and health condition, we’ll first try to get your uncle out as soon as possible.”
Soon after Ira hung up, John Pratt, a stern-sounding man with a slight southern drawl, called.
“I’m heading to Krome now,” he said. “I’ll need as much information as you have about the situation.”
I told him all I knew. I hadn’t been able to speak to my uncle since his arrival, so I couldn’t offer much insight into his state of mind or how he might come across at a credible fear hearing, an inquiry into his claims of persecution that would be held before an asylum officer at Krome.
“Are you willing to take him in if they release him?” Pratt asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Hang on tight then and stay by the phone,” he said.
Once there was only waiting to do, my husband left for work. I called some Brooklyn ambulette companies about transporting my father to Columbia Presbyterian the next day. My father had so little fat and muscle left on his body that it was agonizing for him to sit for any stretch of time, so I basically wanted to rent him a bed on wheels.
“The only way you get a bed is if you call 911,” a Russian dispatcher told me, so I booked a van with a recliner.
All morning, I hoped that John Pratt would call and tell me he was going to walk out of Krome with my uncle, news I would have loved to share with my father. However, when Pratt did call that afternoon the only good news was that my uncle’s credible fear hearing had been scheduled for nine o’clock the next morning.
“So he’s not coming home?” I said. Even as I said it, the word “home” felt inappropriate, unsuitable. My uncle no longer had a home.
“Can I visit him?” I asked.
“Only weekend visits are allowed at Krome,” he said, “and he’d have to put you on a list a couple of days before the fact, but there’s a good chance they’ll release him tomorrow.”
That night at around six o’clock, my uncle called me from Krome.
“Bon dye,” I shouted, so overjoyed to hear that motorized voice. “My God. It’s so good to hear you.”
“Oh, I can’t tell you how good it is to hear you,” he said.
Then I slipped into a repartee I had fallen into with my