REMOVABLE: WHICH HUMAN BEINGS DO OUR IMMIGRATION COURTS DEEM DISPOSABLE? ONE VOLUNTEER'S EXPERIENCE OF ACCOMPANYING AN ASYLUM SEEKER TO IMMIGRATION COURT

Essay and photos by Melissa Hardin, Project Libertad Board Member

At the end of a workday late last summer, the executive director of Project Libertad called for a volunteer to accompany a stranger who was scheduled to appear at a hearing in Immigration Court in Philadelphia the following morning – I use the word stranger to denote someone unknown to me and recalling its meanings in other languages: alien, foreigner, outsider. I immediately raised my hand. The goal was simply to lend moral support to a person who had no legal representation and would otherwise appear before a judge alone. The extent of my knowledge of immigration law and procedures was quite limited. By observing a hearing in court, I also hoped to learn more about how immigration processes worked, what the various roles of different groups and individuals involved entailed, and for what purpose. 

I was aware that hearings generally follow a particular order on a docket, are often brief, and can be unpredictable, and the only information I had about the person I would meet was his first name, gender, country of origin, and native language (one I did not speak). I arrived early to try to identify him and figure out where I needed to go. Unfamiliar with the area of downtown Philadelphia, I spent some time walking around the block to take stock of my surroundings. Everywhere I looked, I saw messages about freedom, knowledge, wisdom, and justice.

At the front entrance of the Immigration Court building, I saw a dozen or more people standing around, including many young men, several security guards, a court employee, and a few attorneys. Concerned that I hadn’t yet identified the person I was to meet, I messaged the individuals who had been in direct contact with him, asking them to tell him to look for a woman wearing red flat shoes. They sent me a blurry photo of a 6-foot-tall man in a black jacket and black t-shirt. As the scheduled hearing time drew near, everyone entered the building, but none who met that description, so I got in line to go through the metal detector, pausing to ask a security guard to confirm which floor I should go to. As I entered the elevator, I was struck by how friendly the security and building staff were and what a broad spectrum of cultures they represented.

The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor to a long line of people – young and old, individuals and families with small children – waiting to speak with a woman who stood at the end of the hall checking IDs and writing on a clipboard. She directed everyone to a waiting room behind her. I felt my heart begin to race even though I was under no threat. When my turn came, I explained why I was there, and the woman checked my driver’s license and let me pass. Several other security guards lingered nearby; one sat, head down, at a desk near the elevator; another paced up and down the hallway just beyond the woman at her podium.
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The waiting area was a narrow room, not unlike other government facilities, with linoleum flooring, fluorescent lighting, and molded plastic chairs. At one end was an information desk with a staff member sitting behind a glass window. Covering the walls were posters and brochures in multiple languages that described legal requirements, including one colorful flyer that urged unauthorized immigrants to self-deport and proclaimed the benefits of doing so, such as receiving free one-way travel back to their native country and retaining the money they had earned in the U.S. The sound of voices in both familiar and unfamiliar tongues filled the room, but the din quieted quickly when, periodically, a voice boomed over the loudspeaker announcing instructions to turn off all cell phones or to report to court.

A tall, young, slender man in a plaid buttoned shirt approached me and uttered words I did not understand. He spoke again and I realized he was the person I was there to meet. I made my best effort to speak to him in the few words I knew of one of his country’s languages, and we both laughed. For several minutes we conversed haltingly until he told me he spoke another language that I happened to know well, and we laughed again. All the while, toddlers and small children chattered, played, and occasionally cried nearby as their families huddled together. 

A while later, another security guard, whose appearance could have been Mediterranean but whose nametag sounded eastern European, called everyone scheduled to appear before a judge to follow him. Everyone arose and followed, me included. We formed a crooked line in the crowded hallway, and the guard told us to get against the wall to leave room for others to pass. I detected a foreign accent but couldn’t pinpoint his native country or language. Starting with the first person in line, he confirmed which courtroom would conduct each person’s hearing. He told the wife and children standing beside a man ahead of us in line to go back to the waiting room until his hearing was over. As we approached, the security guard asked me if I was the attorney of record for my companion, the respondent. I said I was an observer, not a lawyer. “It’s too crowded,” he said and gestured behind me, “Look at the line.” He told me to go back to the waiting room and said he would call me if my companion “needed help.” I smiled at my companion and wished him luck.

I sat in the waiting room for several hours and watched as one after another person came from the long hallway, reunited with their loved ones who had been waiting anxiously, and headed toward the elevators to exit the building. At one point, I got up and walked down the long hallway toward the restrooms, located near the door to access the courtrooms. I peeked around the corner and saw the security guard sitting there. I approached him to ask if I could enter the courtroom now. He asked me to show him my mobile phone and demonstrate that it was turned off. Once satisfied, he said, “Follow me,” and turned on his heels and walked very briskly down the hallway. I hurried to catch up. 

I entered the courtroom and saw 8 or 10 individuals seated in front of me, facing the judge’s bench, but my companion was not among them. Where could he be? Had his hearing already ended? Could I have missed him among those who had exited earlier? I noticed a large monitor on the right of the judge’s bench where respondents, attorneys, and interpreters would soon participate in procedures. The court assistant approached to take note of those who were present. She told me that the judge might need to question me and enter my name into the record (which did not happen after all). At one point, several more individuals, including my companion, entered the room, and took a seat in the front row. He did not see me, and I did not speak.

The judge then looked out at the audience from behind her large computer monitor to greet everyone and explain what would happen next. She spoke slowly, with kindness in her voice, and paused frequently to ensure that everyone had heard. She interacted with the language interpreters (for Creole, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, and Spanish, among others) who appeared on the large screen to ensure that the virtual video conferencing tools were working properly. Attempts were made to improve the poor volume and sound quality of some of those participating online with only marginal success.

The judge addressed the individuals seated in the courtroom and said, “My job today is to answer two questions: (1) Is the respondent eligible for some form of relief? and (2) if not, is the respondent removable?” It was the first time I had heard that term. Other terms flashed in my mind involuntarily: disposable, deportable, deplorable.  ​

It was the first time I had heard that term: removable.

​Other terms flashed in my mind involuntarily: disposable, deportable, deplorable."  

The judge then called the proceedings to order and turned her attention to the monitor. She heard several cases in succession. She asked each respondent the same questions: “What is your current address? Do you have an attorney? Do you want more time to find an attorney?” She explained their options to find legal representation, among other matters. The benefit of witnessing several other hearings conducted first was seeing the implications of others’ answers to such questions. For example, the great majority of respondents did not request an opportunity to seek legal counsel. The judge scheduled all of them to reappear in court in less than two weeks – sometimes in less than a week. For the few respondents who answered affirmatively that they wanted more time to find an attorney, the judge scheduled their next hearing months later. Although the judge made an effort to explain next steps and outline options to respondents, it was unclear if they grasped fully the implications of their answers for their cases. 

A few respondents asked the judge for permission to speak, which the judge granted in every instance. One respondent explained that she had a lawyer whom she had asked to submit an asylum application on her behalf. The judge told her that there was no record of an application. The respondent insisted, “but I paid my lawyer, and he said he submitted it,” going on to explain the reasons she believed she qualified for relief and asylum. The judge reiterated that there was no such filing on record. Furthermore, she said that the deadline to do so had long passed and, therefore, the respondent was now removable. The judge then ended the hearing and scheduled the woman to reappear in court six days later for the next phase of the process.

Finally, the judge called my companion and two of his compatriots to approach. She repeated her introduction for their interpreter. She asked the respondents to state their current addresses. I had already observed that many of the previous respondents’ current addresses were different than those that appeared on their NTAs (Notice to Appear). I gathered that unauthorized immigrants move frequently from one place of residence to another. The judge directed them to submit a Change of Address Form EOIR-33/IC before they could leave court. 

When the judge asked my companion if he had an attorney, he answered no. When she asked him if he needed time to find one, he answered yes. She then scheduled him to reappear months later, all the way into the new year. It was the most positive outcome possible for his case. The judge then moved on to hear cases virtually, leaving the three compatriots to complete their forms. I noticed that my companion sat motionless. He was not filling out his form. Had he not understood the judge’s instructions? Did he not know how to write? Then it dawned on me: he did not have a pen handy! I waited several minutes. He began to look around the room, and then he saw me. I held up a pen and looked at him quizzically. He smiled broadly and approached to take the pen from my hand. He handed his completed form to the court assistant, and we exited the courtroom together. 

In the hallway, I congratulated him on the outcome. We chatted quietly on our way down the elevator, out the front doors of the mammoth building, and into the city street. I walked next to him for two blocks until we arrived at an unsightly parking lot made more attractive by the giant colorful murals that looked down on it. We said a brief goodbye, he turned into the lot where his ride awaited him, and I continued on my way. I glimpsed the city in my rear-view mirror and, in less than an hour, I was back home in my suburban development, aware that half of my neighbors had been born and raised within a 10-mile radius and the other half had come from some of the same foreign countries I had seen represented in Immigration Court.