[Background:
Operation Streamline is a federal initiative to expedite mass deportations of thousands of Mexican and Central American citizens from the U.S. It’s a form of “zero-tolerance” enforcement that processes undocumented people through federal criminal court and penal system (as opposed to detention or offering them civil voluntary departure [which involves signing a form admitting to one’s illegal entry, being cited, and being driven to the border, without going through the criminal system]). The goal of Streamline is 100% prosecution of undocumented peoples through the federal system.
Those who are charged with crossing the border for the 1st time receive a misdemeanor and up to 6 months in prison. Those who cross again, “illegal re-entry,” are charged with a felony and can receive a 2-year max prison sentence. If someone charged with illegal re-entry has a criminal record (for example, if they’ve already been convicted of the illegal-reentry felony) they can be sentenced for up to 20 years in prison.
Streamline operates on daily en masse hearings. 70 to 100 people are tried on the same day, at the same time, in the same room. In Yuma AZ and Del Rio TX, one attourney may represent up to 40 defendants per day. (The Tucson sector refused this ratio and one public defendant represents no more than 6 people per day).
The whole process – the client’s meeting with their attourney (which lasts max 20 min here in Tucson), their initial appearance, the arraignment, the plea, and the sentencing all occur in less than 12 hours.]
After the desert, we went to witness the trial of 60-70 people through Streamline at the U.S. District Court of Arizona, Tucson.
The courthouse is sterile – white and beige, flat, high ceilinged, glass and metal and linoleum. A 5-foot tall U.S. seal is illuminated in the front of the courtroom.
Before I even see the defendants, I hear the shackles. No, not handcuffs. Shackles. Their cuffed hands are tethered to a chain cinched around their waist, and their ankles are in manacles. The slightest movement causes their chains to chirp and jangle and clatter. Their hands are pulled towards their navels, as if they’d broken their wrists. They hobble when they walk. Several are injured – one man’s hand is in a cast, another can hardly walk on blistered feet. Last week, a man was refused treatment for a broken femur until he was processed by the court.
The accused are packed into the audience and the jury box. They are wearing stethoscope-shaped ear buds that translate the proceedings into Spanish. They are wearing the clothes they were arrested in. They have not been allowed to shower. Their belts have been removed, and they are unable to pull up their pants because of their bonds. They are stripped and denied their dignity; they are publicly humiliated and shushed.
The first five are brought to the front. They don't speak Spanish or English, rather they speak indigenous languages. There are no translators for their languages, thus they wouldn’t be able to understand the proceedings. They are dismissed and their charges are dropped “without prejudice.” An attorney pats his client gently on the shoulder as he leaves, offers “bueno suerte.” The only woman of today’s sixty-plus defendants shuffles out of this group, crying, her ankle-chains clanking, and I feel like everything inside my chest has dropped six inches.
The rest of the defendants are tried with two charges: 1) illegal re-entry after deportation (a felony). 2) evading examination or inspection of U.S. immigration (a misdemeanor). In these cases, a “plea bargain” is offered: in exchange for pleading guilty to the misdemeanor, the court will drop the felony charge, and the individual is sentenced to a maximum of 180 days in prison.
The prosecutor is sifting through a stack of manilas nearly two feet tall. The U.S. Court Marshall is slouching behind his desk near the exit, texting. As the officials speak in English, a woman murmurs the translation into a microphone. The Spanish echo-whispers in a constant stream around the sound-proof walls.
Mid-sentence, the judge turns away from the defendants to pour his coffee while the legal terms casually pour from his mustached lips. He has said these words hundreds of times and he will say them thousands of times more. His speech is memorized.
“…You agree not to appeal that sentence to a higher court…”
“…what you have done wrong…”
“…If any of you feel like you are being forced, obligated, or intimidated in any way, please let me know by standing…”
The judge calls seven men to the front at a time. He asks them each the same rapid thread of questions down the line:
Are you a citizen of Mexico?
Si.
Were you found in ____[place] on _____[date]?
Si.
Were you previously denied admission, excluded, deported, and removed from ____[place] on ____[date]?
Si.
Did you make Application 2 and receive permission from U.S. government immigration officials in order to be here?
No.
"Si – Si – Si – No."
"Si – Si – Si – No."
"Si – Si – Si – No."
Then the bucket-brigade of pleas:
“Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.” “Culpable.”
Meanwhile, the waterfall of chains, the murmur of Spanish breathing from the microphone like a secret.
One man breaks the standard pattern of responses:
[Judge]: Were you told by your attorney upon your last deportation what would happen should you re-enter the U.S.?
[Defendant]: My attorney said if I came I came back I would have 3 months in jail.
The man is sentenced with 165 days, twice the sentence he was told to expect.
Another man protests; he did apply through Application 2, but he didn’t qualify. He was told his request for political asylum was “invalid.” He may well be killed upon return to Mexico, but he didn’t qualify for asylum on the proper form. Perhaps he didn’t pass his Credible Fear exam.
Another starts to plea, “But I was here 5 years –,” and is interrupted:
“____ is a very competent attorney. I have no doubt he would tell you what would happen if you re-entered. What do you think would happen to you if you try to enter again? Do you think it would be a misdemeanor or a felony?” the judge pelts. The judge chastises him aggressively, like a schoolmaster to a sullen student. My hackles rise at the tone of his voice.
The clamor of chains quiets in units of seven men as the accused are tried and the room empties. They are led out the door like cattle. Someone likens the procession to a slave-market.
When an individual broke from the script of silence/si/no during the proceedings, I wanted to hear them speak. I wanted them to be given the space to explain why they crossed and to share what they may have suffered. I wanted to them to be allowed to tell the well-known traumas: my family is hungry; I can’t find work; my child/mother/sister/wife needs surgery; I’m afraid for my life; my wife and kids are U.S. citizens; I was brought to the U.S. when I was two, Mexico has never been my home. I wanted them to be granted the right to be treated as fellow human beings with their own complicated stories and motives. The judge neglected tell the accused of their right to allocute, neglected to ask them if they had something to say to the court. He neglected to allow them their voice. The court, the process, the federal system neglects to recognize the accused as human beings. The court, the process, the federal system tears their dignity from their skin and sends them hungry, hurt, and vulnerable to a border-town that may be more hell than home.
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