Chapter 7
Welcome To America! One of the most memorable events of my childhood was being taken to New York City for the first time by my parents. I guess I must have been about seven years old, and the trip to the big city was a real treat for me. I was in
total awe
of those
huge
skyscrapers, which seemed to touch the sky. From the observation deck of the Empire State Building, I remember looking out into New York harbor and seeing a big green statue of a woman in a robe holding something upwards in her arm. My father told me that it was the Statue of Liberty and when he told me that you could actually climb inside the huge figure to the top of her arm, I insisted we go there. The “thing” she was holding in her arm turned out to be a torch, and according to my dad, she was holding it high so that all the people of the world could see her guiding light and find their way to America. I was truly impressed, and for years believed that was true – until I went to work for the U.S. Immigration & Naturalization Service.
That visit to the Statue of Liberty would be the highlight of our summer vacation, and I remember reading the proud words at the monument…”Give me your weak, tired, and homeless.
My mother explained the history of the
magnificent Statue to me as well as the significance of Ellis Island, the place where my own family’s American heritage began when my grandfather arrived in the late 1800s. Later in my high school years I would recall that visit to Lady 90
Liberty and would feel proud to be part of the “great melting pot” called America. The concept of anyone being welcome in our country was an ideal I believed to be righteous. But as the years passed I soon came to learn that American ideals and traditions had badly eroded and no longer jived with the cruel realities of American society where racism and prejudices were found everywhere, and even cleverly hidden within U.S. immigration policies.
Marjorie was more than a human resource specialist for the U.S. Justice Department, she was a damn good salesperson.
In fact it took her less than
15 minutes on the phone to sell me on moving to Miami permanently and working for a division of the U.S. Justice Department in Miami.
On the
phone, she described it only as an entry-level law enforcement position but promised to elaborate more at our interview. resume
She must have noted on my
that my hobbies were scuba diving, sailing, and other watersports
because she used the reefs and shipwrecks of South Florida to lure me to the interview.
Apparently a copy of my SF-171 (government form number for an employment application) had somehow cross paths with her and little did I know she had the formidable job of finding intelligent, and honest people willing to work more than a few months in her division, which I rudely discovered was
the
U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) an agency which is notorious for having the highest turn-over rate of personnel in the U.S. government.
I never dreamed of, nor desired to work for INS which I always felt was a necessary evil of a free country.
I mean after all, somebody has to pay
attention and decide who we’d allow to come live in America or every nation on Earth would send us the outcasts, mentally-ill, and criminal elements, of their society, as did Cuba with the Mariel exodus in 1980. The U.S. has been warehousing those immigrants in federal prisons for the last 20 plus years and the tab has grown to more than $500 million of tax dollars.
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But like I said, Marjorie was good at her job and she knew how to handle my reluctance quite well. “This isn’t a desirable job to most people - I know, but quite a few smart people have taken positions with us just to get hiring preference within the Justice Dept. and to continue their seniority ranking” she explained. When I still didn’t bite, she went on “Look Bruce, you’re a pretty sharp fellow with a college education. How long do you think it would be before the FBI snapped you up if you were already employed by DOJ?” I shrugged, still not quite sold. “This INS post is a temporary stepping stone to the FBI for you and those guys make the real money you know” (FBI Agents start with salaries at about $75,000 per annum). “You’re fluently Bi- lingual and to the FBI you’d be a real asset. In fact, I’d bet they’ll be interviewing you within a year”.
At this point in my life, I have yet to have any personal dealings with the FBI and still held them in very high regard.
The thought of working with the elite
investigators of the world appealed to me, (as did the healthy salary) and Marjorie caught herself another fish to fry. I believe this was the Spring or Summer of 1981, and I was hired on as an Immigration Detention Officer or “IDO” which when translated into plain English, means I would be a jail guard at the Krome Detention Center in Miami, which at the time housed about a thousand immigrants, mostly Latino refugees from South and Central America. I would soon learn that “Detention Center” was really a nice way to say “Prison”.
She signed me up and told me where to get uniforms and a badge, then gave me directions to this Krome place which I never even heard of. her directions heading West down Kendall Drive (now called S.W. 88
I followed th
Street)
past the condos and shopping malls and into the countryside. After about five miles of nothing but strawberry and tomato fields, I arrived at the edge of swamplands, which were bordered on the East side by Krome Avenue.
The
entrance to Everglades National Park was only a few miles North up this two lane road.
For sure I thought Marjorie had given me the wrong directions
or I somehow made a mistake.
Nothing but alligators and mosquitoes (lots
of both) lived out here in the boonies. But since there was no place to ask for 92
directions, I explored my way down Krome Avenue for about a mile when indeed I found an entrance drive with a small sign out front that read “Krome Detention Center – NO TRESPASSING”.
I turned off and headed down the half-mile long driveway before arriving at the large double gated entrance. The entrance gate greeted me with 12 foot high chain link fence topped by spiraling rows of razor wire for as far as my eye could see. There were five or six people picketing out front with signs that read “We came here for freedom not jail”,
“Human Rights Violated Here”, and
“Reagan speaks with a forked tongue”. Obviously there was something controversial going on within this fortress. This compound was big, maybe about 10 acres and it gave no doubt to visitors, that this was indeed a prison, by any standards. Two armed guards greeted me at the front gate and told me that “Protesters must park down the road away from the front gate”.
When I
announced who I was, I was asked for I.D. while one of the guards made a call. Only a minute or two later I was let in and told where to park and who to see.
His name was Joe (I believe his last name was Garcia or Diaz), an older diminutive man in his late forties with gray hair and he was quite cordial. He introduced himself as the camp supervisor and after a bit of small talk about Florida fishing he gave me the grand tour of the compound which took about thirty minutes. I could tell he’s been through this routine hundreds of times before like a Disney tour guide who knows his spiel by heart. He probably wondered how long I’d last here after he learned I had a college degree and applied for a FBI position.
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As we walked through the compound he showed me the separate housing buildings and tents for the immigrants which were strolling about everywhere in
small
exclusively
groups
talking
in
Spanish.
almost The
accommodations were clean yet very very Spartan. They reminded me a bit of barren military barracks with bunk beds separated by the dozens in neat rows, and every bed had a number sign on it. I would soon learn that these numbers
corresponded
with
the
residents here, who were seldom, if ever called by their name. The only recreation facilities I saw were a few basketball hoops and a soccer field but Joe told me that a big screen TV was coming “soon”. There was a soccer game in progress as there would be every day. I think it was the only diversion for the men whose faces could not hide the frustration, anger, and indignity of being jailed. Joe went on to explain the purpose of this place as a “temporary intake and holding center” for immigrants while their paperwork was being sorted out.” “How temporary?” I asked. Joe hesitated but finally replied “anywhere from a month to a few years” “A few years?” I asked incredulously.
Joe grew a bit
defensive on me and went on to explain “Look we have no idea who these people are when they wash up in a boat. For all we know they could be rapists and murderers. We can’t be too careful you know. There are some really dangerous people here”.
Initially I took Joe at his word about this, especially after
seeing all the barbed wire and closed circuit cameras all over the compound.
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But I grew skeptical when I noticed that only the guards at the front gate had protection of any sort and the other guards in the compound showed no signs of fear as they milled about even into large groups of “dangerous immigrants”. So, I asked Joe, “Do the guards ever get hurt out here?” “Not since we beat the tar out of one them about a year ago. They know better now and won’t even touch or speak to one of us unless we ask them something”. “Don’t they try to escape from this awful place?” I asked. “Actually, two went over the fence about three months ago, but one of them came back when he met his first alligator and apologized for leaving without permission” “And the other?” Joe just chuckled and said “They may get by the fence but they won’t get by the gators”. He had a point. Unless someone had the balls to go out the front gate, the rest of the camp was surround by dense, mucky, swampland infested with alligators, water moccasins, and mosquitoes by the millions – make that billions. Compounded by the hot Florida sun and 80% humidity levels, this place was a very uncomfortable place to visit, let alone live 24/7 as the immigrants do for months or even years at a time.
As we walked into the administration building to be introduced to other staff members, I noticed a handful of real jail cells complete with steel bars and they all had occupants. I held my questions for later as Joe walked me into a group of other IDOs who apparently were recently hired as well. There was Carol, a young and pretty black girl of Haitian descent, John Morales, a young Cuban, Albert Caporale, a jovial black guy named Lindsey, Ramirez, Gonzalez, and a handful of others whose names I can’t recall. One who I do recall was a frail white girl named Brenda, who just seemed so out of place to me. How could she expose herself to such a bleak and depressing environment? When I asked her how she got into this job, she merely replied “I needed work and this job has
good
benefits”.
Surely Marjorie must have emphasized the “great job 95
security” of working for Uncle Sam where you’d almost have to kill someone to get fired. Indeed I learned that Brenda was later transferred to a more civil and pleasant airport detail and I felt happy for her.
Joe then took me into one of the offices where he introduced me to a big guy in his thirties with shiny well-groomed black hair and a matching Zorro mustache. My guess is he was about 6’ tall and about 220 lbs in fairly good shape. “This is my right hand man – Cecilio Ruiz, and he pretty much runs things around here” I went to shake Mr. Ruiz’s hand but he remained seated behind his desk and said only one thing to me “Joe is a busy guy, so don’t bother him with anything. You got a problem, you come to me. do you understand?” “Sure” I replied, a bit put off by his terse manner. Later I would hear rumors that Cecilio was formerly a Border Patrol Agent but had some “problems”
and
was
demoted to his current supervisory post at Krome. But I had little interest or time for gossip as I was kept quite busy – mostly transporting “detainees” (we were not supposed to call them prisoners) to and from airports and court houses.
Even though these immigrants weren’t charged with any crimes, they were in every respect, treated like they were indeed criminals. We always had to transport them in shackles, and they were ordered about with commands that one would give to a dog.
I could never bring myself to be so cruel to these
people who came to America only to seek a better life for their family, just like my own grandparents did a century ago. I truly felt they were getting a raw deal here, but my views weren’t popular amongst the staff so I kept them to myself.
God forbid should any immigrant voice disagreement with a guard at Krome lest he find himself behind one of the buildings getting a whooping out of camera view. It was a very cold, brutal, and depressing environment, a conclusion I arrived at after only one week on the job. I kept reminding myself that this was merely a “temporary stepping stone” to a more meaningful government career.
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The training we received was mostly OJT but groups were regularly sent up to Glynco training center in Georgia for self-defense, firearms qualifications,
and
other
standard
law
enforcement
basics.
The
qualifications
for
becoming an IDO was a high school diploma and being bi-lingual was a major asset. I must have heard over twenty languages spoke at Krome ranging from
Creole to Greek.
There was/is no psychological screening
required to become an IDO. One thing that always astounded me about IDO’s and other immigration officers is that they had an awful lot of authority to disrupt an entire family, for they had the power to arrest or as they say “detain” anyone they suspect might be an illegal alien or in violation of any of the hundreds of statues that comprise the U.S. Immigration Act. Indeed, without a court order or warrant, they could snatch anyone up off the street "pending investigation”. I always thought this was quite a bit of power to give to a high school graduate with no legal background or schooling. But in retrospect, it was a thankless, lowpaying job that only reminds me of Marjorie’s outstanding salesmanship. She probably now owns a car dealership somewhere and must be doing quite well. Immigration “detainees” are in fact prisoners no matter what lable you want to put on them. They are dressed like prisoners, led around in handcuffs, and kept separated from their families for months and even years. Actually, prisoners have a right to speedy trials, immigration detainees do not. In reality prisoners who commit crimes i n America have more rights than some immigrant who may have risked his/her life coming to seek the “America Dream”. Ask any immigration lawy if you doubt this for even a second. The average immigration detainee spends an average of 13 months behind bars which is the equivalent of a five year prison sentence. I never realized that one day, I would also become an immigration detainee
and
experience
of
the
injustices
I
would
see
at
Krome.
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We did get quite a bit of unofficial training however, usually by Ruiz who would call us into small groups every so often and especially on Fridays, when we learned that various protest groups would be outside our front gates over the weekend including Rev. Jesse Jackson and his Rainbow Coalition.
Yes, we were carefully trained not to talk with anyone
outside the compound, especially reporters. At times I was made to feel that there must be some top secret missile launchers hidden somewhere at Krome.
I
recalled my first entry into the front gates where I encountered the handful of picketers, and now, I was convinced they were hiding something here. But when I discovered that asking about the protests only irked the management staff, I refrained from pursuing my questions further.
Sure enough, Jesse Jackson arrived with hundreds of supporters outside the front gates followed with reporters and cameramen from the local Miami TV stations. I was glad to know that even if nobody at work wanted to fill me in, I could at least watch the news and figure things out for myself. Apparently some of the “detainees” had been kept at Krome for more than a year even though they had family members in the U.S. willing to sponsor and be responsible for them. Another issue raised on the news by the protesters was that there was a highly disproportionate number of black immigrants being detained and white immigrants being released. Jackson was publicly accusing the U.S. of having a discriminatory immigration policy and he was right. But this was no accident.
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Since the early 1960’s, following the Castro revolution, Cuban exiles flowed by the thousands into Miami where they quickly organized, produced their own political candidates, and became a very influential force in Florida’s political arena. Piss off the Cubans, and you could easily lose a half million votes come election day.
Many politicians learned this lesson the hard way while the smart ones
catered to the Cuban community and climbed up the political ladder to even more powerful positions in Congress. (Miami has had Latino mayors for the past two decades, two of which had done admirable jobs). Thus a Cuban refugee’s stay at Krome was very short, a mere matter of days or perhaps a month. Whereas a Haitian, Mexican or Dominican refugee was destined for a long stay. Certainly not fair, but this was the reality at Krome, and I’m sure that in Texas and Southern California, Mexican immigrants get similar preferential treatment. The power of politics works in both small and big ways at every level of the U.S. government, and often in ways that are never visible to the public.
After only three weeks on the job, I dreaded going to work.
The atmosphere
was so depressing at Krome that I started to absorb that depression personally every time I would stop and actually talk with an immigrant refugee and hear their stories of hardship and struggle just to get to America, and the families they could not afford to bring with them.
The more is spoke with the refugees, the
more I understood the weekly protests outside the gates. These people actually believed the political rhetoric President Reagan spewed on TV and spent their life savings coming to a nation where they thought they’d be welcomed with open arms. Instead, they were arrested and jailed, er I mean “detained”.
It was
painfully ironic that they were jailed for pursuing freedom. I sincerely empathized with these immigrants and soon found myself helping them translate and explain immigration forms, helping them find immigration lawyers, and trying to keep
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their hopes alive.
The American dream was just beyond there reach and
separation from their families just compounded their anger and frustration.
It wasn’t long before Cecilio called me into his office and chastised me for talking with the refugees. “You’re not a fucking social worker Gorcyca, so unless it’s some official business that needs to be resolved, I don’t want you having any contact with the detainees and that is a direct order!” I dutifully acknowledged him, signed out for the day, and went home to conduct my daily ritual of checking my mailbox. Still no letter from the FBI.
It was after this little episode that I began wondering how much longer I could endure working amidst so much human suffering without being able to do anything about it. I never realized just how many people were locked up simply for coming to seek a better life in America. Yes, perhaps 10% were criminals, but you don’t punish or penalize the majority for the sins of the minority. As my heart and mind endlessly debated the issue, I finally vowed to myself that if the FBI didn’t contact me within a month, I would go work elsewhere.
The horrors of Krome followed me home from work every night and 100
often kept me awake at night wondering if my grandparents had to go through such human indignity. If they did they never mentioned to me.
I have to
think America was more civilized and humane back then. But in all fairness to the INS, the stream of refugees has more than quadrupled over the last three decades, and with such a high turn-over rate of personnel, they are overloaded with tedious work. But this will never excuse the deplorable way we treat our prospective new citizens at INS facilities across America, where at any given time there are over 300,000 “detainees” – real people that have real spouses and real children. I didn’t want to be part of the mean green Immigration machine any more, and I started marking off those thirty days.
Three events influenced my abrupt departure from the employ of the INS and only one of them was fortunate.
One morning, I was assigned to go to the
airport with another IDO to arrest an illegal immigrant who was traveling under an alias name from Central America. The information was apparently received from an informant who was supposed to pick the man up at the airport.
He was
about to have the surprise of his life compliments of Uncle Sam. We were given an old family photo of the man in his mid twenties, but for all we knew, he could now have longer or shorter hair as well as a mustache and/or beard. But he did have a tattoo of a crucifix on his shoulder and that would be of some help. Having no criminal record in the U.S. we had no fingerprints to go by either. We’d just have to give it our best shot. According to Interpol, the man was wanted for murder in Panama.
As I was going to retrieve a van we’d use to pick up the suspect, I passed by the female scetion of the compound, and noticed a young girl clutching the chain link fence and sobbing uncontrollably. warning I got from Ruiz.
I could not ignore her despite the stern
“Que te pasa Senorita? Estas bien?” (What’s wrong 101
with you miss? Are you okay?). She just shook her head but was too upset to talk. I assured her that she could talk with me and I would help her if I could. She continued to weep and replied that nobody could help her now, and nobody could change what happened. With some gentle prodding, I got her to stop crying and tell me her name. She was Maria and she was from Nicaragua. She was quite pretty actually, even without the luxury of make-up and nice clothes. My guess is that she was about 18 or 19 years old. I assumed she was just homesick and as I tried to reassure her that eventually she'd be released and have a good life in America, she just blurted out "He raped me!” “What? Who
raped you?”
I asked in amazement since there
were
cameras
everywhere on the compound. She must have assumed that I would not believe what she was saying because her very next words were “I’m not lying and I’m not the only one” she replied without telling me who had violated her. Suddenly a look of fear filled her eyes and she bolted away from the fence and back into one of the buildings. As I turned around, I saw Ruiz walking towards me with a mean frown on his face. “What did I tell you about talking with the prisoners Gorcyca!?” he exclaimed. Caught off guard, I quickly groped for a reply “It was official business Mr. Ruiz – the girl asked me for the mailing address for the Red Cross so she can try and find a family member”. It was a lie but it worked. He threw me the keys to the van, and after picking up another IDO we were off to Miami International Airport to complete our assignment for the day. All the way to the airport though, I was puzzled as to how Maria could have been raped, since all the male and female refugees were kept segregated by fencing that allowed them to talk with one another, but prevented physical contact
Our plan was to arrive before the flight and drive out onto the tarmac and arrest the man as he deplaned. But luck was not with us today since the plane actually arrived twenty minutes early and the passengers had already entered the 102
terminal and were being processed by Customs. In our collective brilliance we did not have the foresight to notify Customs of the illegal entry in advance because we had assumed we’d make the arrest as planned without their assistance. Quickly we tried to call inside to Customs but their lines were either busy or had automated recordings. So we ran like the wind over to Customs which was a good 500 yards away where half the Customs.
passengers
had
already
cleared
Frantically we scanned faces for our man (I think his name was
Garces) but no luck. We concluded he had already cleared Customs and was no free on the streets of Miami.
Dejected, we walked through the airport
terminal discussing how badly Ruiz would chew us out in front of the other IDOs when we arrived back at Krome empty handed in failure.
Suddenly it dawned upon me that this guy was expecting to be picked up by the informant at the airport and was probably searching for him now. I had an idea, and ran over to one of the airport information phones. I had nothing to lose so I gave it a shot. I asked the airport operator to page our missing suspect with an announcement that his ride was waiting for him at the Eastern information counter. Minutes later the announcement echoed throughout every concourse and terminal of Miami International Airport “Paging passenger Garces, paging passenger Garces – your party is waiting for you at the Eastern information counter”. The message was then repeated in Spanish as my partner and I staked out the Eastern information counter from a hidden position behind a wall. I then removed my INS uniform shirt and hid my badge in the palm of my hand as I slowly walked over to the information counter myself, pretending to ask about local hotels in the area.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw
another man approaching the counter so I stalled for time, asking even more dumb questions about car rental companies. When the man was behind me, I thanked the lady for her indulgence and slowly turned away, just as I heard the 103
man stand up and say “I’m Mr. Garces, did you page me?” Before she could answer I did, and he immediately took off running – right into the arms of my partner who quickly overpowered him and had him in cuffs in less than a minute. We both breathed a sigh of relief as Garces cursed in Spanish all the way back to Krome with our prize.
The following day was my day off but I had left a brand new pair of Ray Ban sunglasses in the van from the Garces run, and I went back to Krome to grab them before someone else did. I saw the glasses where I left them on the dash, but the van was locked.
So I went inside the office to get the keys. It was
there that I saw IDO Albert Caporale with a pair of scissors in his hand taunting an immigrant from the United Kingdom named Kevin Hill who was in one of those inside jail cells.
“What’s going on Al?” I asked. “This asshole
won’t get a haircut so I’m going to help him!” was his reply. Kevin did have long hair, but there were no regulations at Krome that required short hair so I knew the haircut idea was strictly Caporale’s idea. I tried to distract Caporale but he was intent on giving this man a haircut and eve had Hill handcuffed and thrown into this jail cell. I decided, I’d just get the keys, garb my glasses, and head out to Miami Beach where I’d rent me a Hobie Cat for the day and go sailing.
But after I retrieved my glasses I returned to the office to drop of the van keys only to hear loud screams and muffled thud noises. It was Kevin Hill doing the shouting as Caporale and another IDO John Morales were giving him a severe beating. “What the fuck is going on?” I shouted. “Nothing that concerns you!” was Caporale’s reply as he proceeded to grab Hill by his long hair and smash his head against the cell wall while Morales kicked and punched the man who was still in handcuffs, trying to cover his face. I managed to pull Morales out of the cell but Caporale wouldn’t let up. “Stop right now Al, or I’ll have the 104
cops here in fifteen minutes!’’ I threatened. Caporale was breathing as heavy as a racehorse after the Kentucky Derby. He glared at me with flared nostrils and a beet red face. “This mother fucker needs to learn some manners so butt out Gorcyca”. I stood my ground and headed into the office to grab the phone.
I
wasn’t going to call the cops but I was going to call Joe. Caporale must have assumed I was calling the cops, so he let lose of Hill and shouted, “alright, alright, it’s over – put that phone down”. I slammed the phone down and went off on Caporale “Who the hell are you to decide who gets a haircut around here anyway?”
“Mind your own fucking business Gorcyca or you’ll get the same as
Hill!” was his only answer.
I went over to Hill who was slumped against the wall, his face a bloody swollen mess. But blood always makes things look worse than what they are and my first aid training told me that at worse he might have a broken nose. I started helping Hill to his feet to take him over to the infirmary to be check by the staff nurse but was stopped by Caporale. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, still trying to catch his breath. “I’m going to get this man some medical attention”. I replied. “Like hell you are!” Caporale retorted. “If you take him over there, the nurse will log it in her records and then there’ll be evidence of this incident”. “You should have thought about that before you decided to beat on him Al”. Somehow Morales had slipped away leaving me and Caporale about to jump on each other, when two other IDOs happened to come in from lunch break. Their sudden appearance sort of quelled the argument, as Hill insisted he was okay-probably just to avoid further torment from Caporale and Morales. Caporale went back to work, and I went home wishing I had never come for my sunglasses in the first place.
I was determined not to let Caporale get away
with his onerous bullshit, and spent the rest of the day thinking how to put a stop to it.
According to INS protocol at Krome, I should report the incident 105
through the chain of command, and that meant I should go to Ruiz with the matter. I decided to do exactly that.
When I returned to work two days later, I sought out Cecilio on the compound where he was talking with another IDO.
Excusing myself, I interrupted him
telling Ruiz I had to speak with him privately. He told me to go sit I his office and wait for him, which I did. A few minutes later he came in, closed the door behind him, and sat down with an expression on his face that suggested I was really inconveniencing him. “Well?” he asked. I really didn’t know how to breach this subject since Ruiz had always been somewhat chummy with both Caporale and Morales and I never once joined them after work for beers at the local Bar-B-Q joint down the road. So I just told him that I wanted to report staff misconduct that took place in my presence. But before I could get any further he stopped me and asked “Is this about that hippie Kevin Hill?”
As soon as I replied that it
did indeed involve Kevin Hill, Ruiz stood up, walked to the door and told me he was already aware of the matter, and was “ on top of it”. It was not my place to ask him how, so I just excused myself and went back to work thinking that the only way he could have known about the beef was if Morales, Caporale, or Hill himself told him.
After talking to Hill, who now sported a pair of black eyes, I ruled him out. When I approached Morales he gave me the cold shoulder and so I decided it really didn’t matter what was told to Ruiz and by whom. My days at Krome were growing fewer whether that letter arrived from the FBI or not.
But just to
satisfy my own curiosity, I wanted to see if any mention of the beating was logged in the administrative logs of Krome. Just as I suspected – not a single word.
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A few days later I crossed paths with Joe in the parking lot and casually asked him about “the Kevin Hill incident”. His puzzled face required no reply.
He
was never told of the matter. So when he asked me what I was talking about, I told him the whole story. “Did you take this to Cecilio?” he asked. I nodded. “Good, I’m sure he’ll follow-up on it” Joe assured me with a grin and a pat on my shoulder. Inside, I think we both knew better.
I went home angry and depressed again. The immigrants at Krome were being treated like animals and were totally at the mercy of people like Caporale and Morales.
As if being jailed and separated from loved ones for months
wasn’t enough trauma for them, they were subjected to abuse at the random whims of IDOs with short fuses. But arriving home my day took a very positive turn. My daily trip to the mailbox finally bore fruit – but not what I was expecting. Amongst the normal bills and junk mail was not a letter from he FBI but a notice that the Federal Aviation Administration was recruiting candidates for the position of Air Traffic Controllers and testing would be held for the position in less than two weeks in Miami. This wasn’t the FBI letter I was waiting for but it certainly could be my ticket out of that hell hole at Krome. The next day I called the number to sign up for the testing during one of my breaks and was given all the pertinent details.
It was then I learned that Air Traffic
Controllers were paid even more than FBI agents. I never failed a test in my life so now I was able to stomach the abuses at Krome a bit more knowing there was now light at the end of my government career tunnel.
But my secret glee was short-lived as I ran into Maria, the girl from Nicaragua again on the compound.
She was walking around aimlessly like a zombie
with virtually no expression on her face. I couldn’t forget what she told me less than two weeks ago about being raped, and I no longer cared if I was seen talking 107
with the detainees. I was determined to find out what had really happened to this girl. I called out her name as I approached her and she turned to face me. “it’s alright Maria” I assured her “I will help you if you tell me exactly what happened to you”. There was only silence as she just stared down at the ground and then suddenly kicked a stone. “I told you.” she mumbled. “Yes, I know Maria, and I believe that something bad happened to you, but I can’t help you if won’t tell me what happened”.
Silence yet again.
you
She looked up at me with
tears welling up in her eyes, and I could almost feel the pain she was trying so hard to hide. So I tried to make it easier for her by asking her about her family. She explained how her family was being persecuted by the government of Nicaragua for helping the contras and that her brother was missing after he was taken away by Nicaraguan soldiers and her mother and father fled to Mexico after putting her on a plane to Puerto Rico where she would meet a cousin and come to Miami. Their plan went awry when she was too nervous to correctly answer questions of an Immigration officer at Miami’s airport. Her cousin luckily escaped detection, but Maria, officially and undocumented and illegal alien, was now stuck in limbo at Krome. After a little more chit chat, I asked her if she wanted to tell me what happened. She nervously looked over her shoulder and all around her before nodding her head. “Let’s go sit down” I suggested and led her to a picnic table that was located in a somewhat quiet area out of view of the administration offices but directly underneath one of the many closed circuit cameras on the compound.
I waited patiently for her to begin. Having worked a
few years as a Red Cross crisis counselor dealing with the survivors of natural disasters in Puerto Rico, I knew better than to try and pressure her.
“He said he was going to give me a green card and let me go to my cousin’s house” she started. “Who did?” I asked. “Sr. Ruiz”. I was stunned at what she was implying so I wanted to make sure we were both talking about the same Sr. 108
Ruiz so I had to ask her, “Which Sr. Ruiz are you talking about Maria?” know – the boss here – Cecilio Ruiz.”
“You
Still somewhat skeptical, I asked her
to describe Cecilio and she did so in much detail. I was now sure there was no doubt as to who she was talking about, so I took a deep breath and asked her to explain about the green card. “Well he took me into his office one night about a month ago, and told me he might have some good news for me.” She stopped to wipe away a few tears and then continued. “He said he could get me a green card and
get me released if I could make him happy”.
“How were you
supposed to make him happy” I asked suspecting the worst. “He wanted me to put his thing in my mouth”. “I see” I replied not knowing what to say. “I told him that I was not that kind of girl and that I would not do such a thing.” She began weeping again and I did my best to calm her. After a few more minutes of silence she went on with her horror story. “He gave me some Coca Cola with Tequila and explained to me that since I did not have any family members in America that could sponsor me, I could be stuck here for a few years.
I
don’t want to stay here any more – I hate this place. I want to go stay with my cousin in Hialeah.” “I know Maria. So what happened next?” I prodded. “We sat and talked in his office for about an hour and he gave me three more drinks of Coca Cola and Tequila. I told him I wasn’t feeling well and wanted to back to my unit to go to sleep. He then pulled me on top of his lap and began to rub my breasts”. Again she stopped and I asked her “Did you have sex with Mr. Ruiz?” “I didn’t want to – but he held me down and forced himself inside of me”. I was speechless and growing angry – very angry. I really didn’t know what to say so silence filled the air yet again until she spoke. “I am not the only one. He made promises to some of the other girls too. And since one of them was released, we believed him.”
“Do you want me to call the police or your
cousin?” I asked. “No – no! You must not or I will never go free!” she exclaimed.
I did my best to convince her that she should report what happened 109
but she was genuinely afraid of what the consequences might be for her.
I
told her to think about it as I bought her a soda from the vending machine and walked away in shock to go back to work. I never liked Ruiz from the day we met, but I never suspected he was a rapist.
Women prisoners were not afforded any special privileges at Krome, even if they were pregnant. They ot their monthly medical exam like everyone else w hich was a 15 minute affair that weighed them, took their temperature and blood pressure, and a body check for any infection or insect infestation. Women complained that they had no sanitary pads and guards would often throw them a roll of toilet paper. One mean-spirited guard even told one woman to use “yestreday’s Miami Herald”. When she got angry and cursed him in Spanish he took out in to the 80 degree sun and hand-cuffed her to a chain link fence in for almost three hours. Sometimes detainees who were being transported would be left in the back of a van with no windows for over an hour while guards stopped to grab lunch at a Burger King of KFC. I once got chewed out for giving bottled water to those stuck in the sauna-like van and had to replace the water meant for the guards with my own cash..
One day I came across a woman in her thirties who was throwing up. She apparently was pregnant and suffering from morning sickness. This what she told me and I had no reason to disbelieve her especially since her tummy was bulging. I am not a doctor but estimated she was 5 months pregnant. When I took her to medical, I was told they were processing a new batch of intakes (newly arrived detainees) I offered to tale here to Jackson Memorial Hospital but the sta ff just glared at me. They did not want their secrets to leave the premises. They told me they would take care of her but she would have to wait. They handcuffed her to a bench and I trusted they would attend to her. This was about 10:00 am. Just 110
before leaving that evening about 6pm, I realized that I left my keys in the medical unit. They were closing up the med unit just as I arrived and I went over and found my keys on the same desk where I had left them. I then noticed the pregnant woman exactly where I saw her last - still handcuffed to the bench – asleep. I woke her and asked if anyone had helped and she shook her head. I then smelled urine and realized the woman had peed on herself. I was furious but there was only an assistant there that was locking up. I took the woman back to her unit and apologized to her and felt so guilty I gave her a chocolate bar. The next day I called the head nurse and asked how the hell they could leave a pregnant woman chained up like that all day and not even give her lunch? “We were really busy yesterday” was her reply and she hung up. That was it. Not one bit of shame or guilt for neglecting this pregnant woman. I saw the nurse later in the day and asked her if she was a Christian, since most Latinos were. “Of course” she said. “Then why don’t you act like one?!” I retorted. She blasted right back with an answer I will never forget “A lot of women here pretend to be pregnant just to get some extra attention.” I was almost speechless. “Well when do you plan to take a blood sample and check – when her water breaks!?!” I fired back. “Look Tony – you do your job and I’ll do mine, the way I choose to do it.” I had no chance to engage her
in a further argument
because a group of fellow IDOs were approaching me and the nurse seized the opportunity to escape a certain argument with me.
There was a very beautiful Chinese girl also detained at Krome who used to run and hide every time Cecilio was in sight. She could not speak English and we had no Chinese translator. But the fear that filled her face when she saw Cecilio told me that she must have been another of his victims. Twice I saw her deliberately 111
rub dirt and mud on her face and her hair when she was asked to report to Ruiz’s office. She also deliberately wore a jumpsuit that that was larger than her size probably to conceal any attractive shape she may have had. I don’t really know her story other than she came from South China and was perhaps 23 years old at the time. It must have been one never-ending nightmare for her since she was not even allowed to contact the Chinese embassy and had no lawyer assigned to her on file. The day that I asked for her file I was rebuffed and then later interrogated by Ruiz who demanded that I explain my interest in the girl. I wasn’t about to tell him that I thought he was raping her so I lied and told him I was trying to find her a lawyer that could speak Chinese. Cecilio freaked out when he heard this and made it clear “You will do no such thing!
That is not your job, and for your
information, Ying is being transferred to another facility next Monday.” Well at least I found her name was Ming. Later that day when I saw her, I handed her a piece of paper after I called the Chinese consulate. On the paper I gave her my name, my telephone number
and the telephone number to the Chinese consulate.
Sooner or later she would get access to a phone, or so I assumed. The following Monday I heard a rumor that Cecilio had been taking Ying home on weekends. It was just gossip and I had no way to do anything about it. She would be leaving in a few days anyway.
But as luck would have it, that Friday afternoon, my motorcycle would not start for some reason and as I tinkered with fuel line filter, all my colleagues had left to go have a beer together at Bennigans.
As I was growing frustrated with my
motorcycle, I saw Cecilio pulling Ying across the parking lot towards his SUV. She clearly did not want to go. As soon as he realized I was there and watching him, he placed her in handcuffs, and then made a point to tell me “I’m taking this feisty bitch to the airport.” But he had already told me she was leaving on Monday, and I grew angry. I said nothing, but my plan was to follow him to whatever hotel he was 112
taking her and then call the police. At least that was my plan. But as Ruiz drove off with Ying in cuffs, I could not get my motorcycle to start for another 10 minutes and by then he could be anywhere.
I felt badly that entire weekend wondering
what was happening to Ming. I was also worried that Ruiz might find the piece of paper I gave her with my name and telephone number on it. Wherever Yimg may be today I hope she is okay and I apologize to her that I could not do more to help her at the time.
Aside from the rapes, Krome was full of racism and human indignity. While Cuban immigrants were getting preferential treatment like new bedding, soccer games, playing cards, and processed much faster, all the other immigrants were subjected to what I call “passive indignity”. The y were treated as if they were not even there. Unless they had some real medical emergency they were treated much like stray cats – ignored, day by day. Blacks from any country were treated the worst and I recall one day that due to overcrowding, the showers were full and Caporale decided a group of maybe six or seven Haitian men could shower 113
outside, behind a building. He made them disrobe and then grabbed the nearest hose and hosed them down with cold water for about five minutes.
Another IDO whose name was also in my notes made fun of a immigrant who was infested with ticks and lice by calling him “The Bug Man” and jokingly sprayed his naked body and crotch area with a can of “RAID” Roach killer spray, which obviously burned the man who hopped around in pain. “Look! He can even dance! Now learn some fucking English, suck my dick, and we might even let you stay here a few more months!” the guard joked as I looked for the nearest hose.
There was little if any privacy at Krome although some of the decent IDOs working here like Carol and Brenda had their own personal ethics and disciplined themselves to be humane and offer a little dignity to America’s forgotten prisoners. But they were the exception and not the rule. There was a young black IDO whose name was lost in one of the confiscations. Like me I could see that it pained him to work at Krome and when I tried to talk with him one day about our mutual distaste for this job, I saw tears well up in his eyes, and he quietly put me off saying, “Let’s not go there today okay.” He had worked at Krome for over a year and surely his eyes saw more abuse than mine. Yet silence is an easy path to choose for some – it is after all, the path of least resistance. I now fear it is this
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passive indifference that has now engulfed our nation. Eventually indifference transforms into apathy, and apathy always suffocates goodwill in some and hope in the souls of the victims.
Some immigrants did not want to cooperate and give their names and place of birth since they would probably be deported there if they had no family or employer in America to sponsor them. The silent treatment infuriated Cecilio and his way of breaking their silence is the same identical way America once claimed China was “torturing” prisoners. He would take them to a holding cell and shackle their ankles and hands like in this diagram, and then just leave them for hours until they caved. didn’t.
Some did and some
Others would give phoney names and
claim to be from Panama or Venezuela. 115
Jesse Jackson’s people were protesting at the front gate again the following weekend and this time I paid attention to the sign they held and what they were saying. The immigrants inside were in fact being treated like criminals and I truly wanted to rip off my uniform pick up a sign of my own and join them. It gnawed at me that I was a part of this. I decided I would write an anonymous letter to Bob Graham the Governor of Florida and the local Congressman Dante Fascell. Just writing the letter was nauseating for me and deep inside I take Cecilio’s photo and give it the the next group of protesters I saw at the gate with my letter. I really felt trapped in a dire situation and I recall wondering if Hitler’s troops at Dachau’s extermination camp shared my feelings. Today I wonder if there are American troops at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba that are wearing my old shoes, wanting to scream out to the world. Even if my letter was thrown in the trash, at least I would not have a guilty conscience. That letter is at the end of this chapter if you care to read it.
Ironically, long after I left Krome a Congressional delegation did visit Krome Detention Center, and after writing a scathing report citing overcrowding, lack of proper medical facilities, and “almost inhumane” conditions recommended that the American Gulag be shut down, and it was, but a newer and much improved version was opened not far away within two years. Although the new one is air conditioned with Cable TV, it is still 116
essentially a prison. But I am grateful for the progress as it is a big improvement. The Congressional report can be read here: That weekend, I went to take the FAA Air Traffic Controller qualification exam. Before the tests were handed out however, some 200 of us received a rather interesting speech that was seemingly designed to prepare us for the worst. The man in charge of the testing told us that over 80% of would fail the written test we were taking today which was heavily laden with mathematical problems requiring a great memory of high school algebra, geometry, and calculus. He then went on to tell us that of the twenty percent who actually passed the test (80% was the passing grade) half of them would be eliminated by the psychological screening process. As if that wasn’t enough discouragement, he added insult to injury by saying those last ten percent who made it through the process would then be admitted to the FAA Academy in Oklahoma City where they had an over an 80% wash out rate. If I recall correctly, he told us we had about a 2% chance of becoming an Air Traffic Controller. After hearing this, about six guys and girl got right up and walked out of the auditorium. The rest of us were left questioning our own abilities and confidence. I struggled through the tedious test like everyone else. It was by far the most difficult exam I have ever taken in my life and I seriously wondered if I even came close to passing it. It exhausted me mentally, and I spent the rest of the weekend with my girlfriend Debbie who was in the Air Force Reserve at nearby Homestead Air Force Base. We went to a big flea market on Bird Road for a little fun. I was madly in love with this girl but didn’t get to spend much time with her because of our conflicting work schedules and the fact that she lived with her mom about an hour’s drive away from me.
After taking that grueling test and listening to the wonderfully demoralizing speech, I was beginning to think that I might be stuck at Krome a bit longer than I 117
expected, so working at Krome became even more depressing.
But lo and
behold, about two weeks later I got a notice in the mail that I actually passed the exam with a score of 92% and I was absolutely elated. I could say good-bye to all the misery kept locked up behind the fences of Krome forever. But protocol required that I give 30 days notice unless I wanted some nasty written somewhere in my personnel file.
comments
I gave Marjorie and Joe the “bad news”
that I would not be going to Glynco the following week as scheduled since I’d be leaving for the Mike Monroney Aeronautical Institute in just over a month. They’d both seen so many IDOs walk that neither were phased a bit.
But I
still had one last matter to attend to at Krome - Maria.
I went to share the news of my upcoming departure with her and to persuade her to at least let me tell the INS management about what Ruiz had done to her and the other girls.
Apparently, she had too many sleepless nights to do nothing
and she had come to trust me enough to let me report the incident. I assured her that it would be handled professionally and in strict confidence so that none of the other detainees would find out about the crime committed against her. Her reputation would be ruined by the embarrassing disclosure.
My first call was to Marjorie but as soon as I mentioned that “some girls at Krome had some serious allegations against Cecilio Ruiz” she cut me right off and said “I don’t think I want to hear about this - take it to Joe”, and she ostensibly had to take another call. I was taken by surprise until it dawned on me that this might have happened before and she didn’t want to be in the loop on a potential scandal. I thought for sure a woman in the personnel office would be the appropriate person to handle this. But I honored her wishes and went to see Joe.
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Joe was sitting back in his chair reading through some immigration documents when I walked in unannounced “Joe, I’ve got some news to share with you and you probably ain’t going to like what I have to way”. He tossed the papers down on his desk and got up to close the door.
At a feeble attempt to be a little
humorous Joe replied “Don’t tell me you decided to stay on here?!” “No Joe, I’m history but you have a problem here with Cecilio”. problem are you talking about son?”
“Problem?, what kind of
I searched for some delicate words but
there were none to be found so I just spit it right out. “He’s been raping some of the girls on the compound – inducing them to meet with him privately to get green cards and their release”.
Surprisingly, Joe just frowned and then turned to stare out the window. With his back to me, he asked “How do you know about this?”
“Maria the
young Nicaraguan girl told me the her and two of her friends were raped here in the office.” Still with his back to me Joe continued “And you believe this girl Maria?” “Yes I do Joe, and so will you if you just talk with her.” tuned to ask me his last question “Who else knows about this?”
Joe finally
“Nobody yet”.
“Good, let’s keep it that way and I’ll take care of this personally. Now go get me this girl Maria and bring her to my office”.
I finally felt some degree of
satisfaction for the three months I spent at Krome. At least I did something to alleviate some of the suffering. I took Maria in to see Joe assuring her that Joe was a good man who could be trusted. At least I trusted him to do the right thing. Maria came out two hours later from Joe’s office with a smile on her face and she waved to me as she passed by. I then heard Cecilio’s name being paged to report to Joe’s office, where I fully expected him to be suspended and later prosecuted. But now it was quitting time, and I had less than two weeks remaining at Krome. Free at last, I thought to myself driving home that day. At least tonight Maria and I would both be able to sleep. 119
The following day when I arrived at Krome, I was surprise to see Cecilio standing inside front gate doing gate duty.
He just glared at me as I drove through. I
chuckled to myself since gate duty was the least desirable for and IDO, and to see Ruiz a supervisor there, really made my day. But not for long. So sooner that I parked my car, I checked the assignment sheets for the day and I saw that I was assigned to relieve Cecilio at the gate! would be on post at that front gate. that girl.
In fact, my remaining days at Krome It was the last time I would ever see
Apparently, to solve the problem, they decided to transfer her and her
two friends to other immigration facilities in Texas and Southern California. Out of sight – out of mind I suppose.
During my lunch break I confronted Joe about it, but he bluntly told me “Look, there’s an investigation going on and surely you can understand that I can’t talk about this”. For some reason I believed Joe was telling me the truth. I want so badly to believe him. On my second last day at Krome, rumors were circulating that Ruiz just got orders to be transferred himself, to where I don’t recall. But I do knowhe was very angry that day because he came to drive out of the gate that night, he stopped to tell me
“You’re damn lucky
you’re leaving the INS Gorcyca, because if you stayed, I have enough seniority in the system to make your life hell on earth!”
I
couldn’t help but smile as I replied “You have a nice day too Cecilio”. Fortunately, it would be the last time our paths ever crossed.
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Quite some time later, perhaps a year or so.
I ran into Brenda at Miami
International Airport and we reminisced a bit about our days together at Krome and she gave me updates on Carol and Lindsay, who both got sweet office jobs at Miami’s INS regional headquarters. Caporale supposedly got fired and went to work for Southern Air Transport, a Miami air freight company that does a lot of work for the CIA. Joe was about to retire after 20 plus years at INS, and it seems old Cecilio Ruiz was actually promoted not prosecuted, to a management position out west somewhere. Only God knows how many more innocent immigrant girls he’s been victimizing all these years. Maybe it all caught up with him elsewhere, but if he’s still within the government, I doubt it. Like a big family, the government tends to protects it’s own - right or wrong.
Looking back on the whole affair, I was most disappointed with Joe, an INS veteran who had both the opportunity and the authority to right a horrible wrong. The “old boy” network inside the government is one powerful force that you don’t want to fool with, especially as one nears retirement. Joe did what he had to do for Joe. Now the matter is in God’s hands. 121
I urge my fellow Americans to pick up and read a great book about American Immigration policies and abuses written by MarkDow entitled “American Gulag” which details even more abuses than I witnessed.
The true character of man is not measured by his words, but by his acts – Jesus of Nazareth
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