LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Can I wash, change, shit, shave, and shampoo?’

      ‘No, they want you now.’

      The crooner and his buddy led me out into the blinding sun, across several yards of squelching swamp, and into a building labelled INS. I sat down. The handcuffs were removed.

      I heard a voice in the background say, ‘Well, he was extradited, so is he going to be excluded, deported, repatriated, expelled, or permitted to depart voluntarily?’

      Since at least 1982, I have been prohibited from entering the United States. I did not have a visa, and in order to gain entry when I was extradited in October 1989 I was paroled (a strange use of the word) by the United States Attorney General to satisfy the public’s interest in prosecuting, convicting, sentencing, and incarcerating me. Paroling is not entering, and I was not to be considered as having entered the United States despite having been conspicuously present here for well over five years. Legally, I was to be treated as still just outside the border, and no decision regarding my deportability or excludability could be made until the reason for my being paroled into the United States no longer applied, i.e., until my release from incarceration. Given I was a felonious, criminal alien, I could not in any circumstances be allowed to walk the streets of the Land of the Free. Given I had not applied for entry, I could not be excluded. Given I had not entered in the way the law understood the meaning of the word, I could not be deported. Given I was soon to finish my sentence, I could not thereafter be held in prison.

      I had read all the relevant law in the law library of United States Penitentiary, Terre Haute. As a consequence of the Sixth Amendment to the US Constitution, freedom of access to the courts had to be available to all prisoners. This was achieved by putting law books and typewriters in every prison and allowing prisoners to litigate to their hearts’ content. For years, articulating other prisoners’ legal presentations to the US courts had been my ‘hustle’. I had achieved a few successes and was quite a respected jailhouse lawyer, but I had no idea what on earth the Immigration authorities could or would do. I didn’t know of anyone else in the same position. I was very scared of law enforcement bureaucrats. Anything could happen. I could become a Cuban illegal.

      ‘Come in, Marks. Can you get a passport and pay for your own ticket? If so, you can avoid all court proceedings and leave the United States as soon as you finish your sentence on March 25th.’

      What a very nice man.

      ‘Sign this, Marks.’

      I had never signed anything so quickly. I read it later. I had waived all court proceedings provided I got my passport and ticket within thirty days. I knew Bob Gordon of the Chicago British Consulate had already sent an emergency passport, and there were plenty of family and friends prepared to pay for my ticket.

      ‘Get yourself an open, one-way, full-fare ticket from Houston to London on Continental 4.’

      ‘I’m in the hole and not allowed to make telephone calls,’ I said, ‘and I can’t get any stamps.’

      ‘Don’t worry. I’ll speak to the lieutenant of the hole. Your phone calls will save the United States Government several thousand dollars. He’ll agree. Ask for him when you get back.’

      Since when were these people into saving money?

      Will you please take some passport photos?’ I asked. Maybe the ones I’d sent Bob Gordon wouldn’t be suitable. Spares would always be handy.

      Armed with photographs and a signed waiver form and feeling happier than I had for a good few days, I was handcuffed and marched back to the hole. I was greeted by the lieutenant.

      ‘Listen up, British. I don’t give a motherfucking fuck what those motherfuckers at Immigration said. I run this motherfucking place, not them. This is my motherfucking hole. You get one motherfucking call a week, and your first will be next Sunday. On Monday, you can ask the counsellor to give you some stamps. I’m not authorised to. Now fuck off.’

      Angry and frustrated, but not really surprised, I returned to my cell. The orderly gave me a couple of stamps. I wrote to the consul.

      After another two days of yoga, meditation, and callisthenics, I again heard from the other side of the door, ‘Put your hands behind your back and through the slit.’

      ‘Where am I going?’

      ‘Oakdale Two.’

      ‘Where am I now?’

      ‘Oakdale One.’

      ‘What’s the difference?’

      ‘Oakdale Two is run by Immigration. That’s where you’ll be deported from.’

      This news made me feel on top of the world. There were still two weeks of my sentence to go. Were they trying to get me out of the country as soon as possible?

      I was halfway through being handcuffed when the foul-mouthed lieutenant came tearing along, yelling. ‘Put that motherfucker back in his motherfucking cell. The Warden’s Executive Assistant wants him.’

      After a few minutes I spotted a human eye at the door’s spyhole.

      ‘Some journalists from an English newspaper want to interview you. Yes or no?’ barked the Warden’s Executive Assistant.

      ‘Oh! No!’

      How did they know I was here? Did they know I was about to be released? If they knew, who else knew? Would there be an international storm of protest from the DEA, Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise, Scotland Yard, and all the other law enforcement agencies that had struggled so hard to get me locked up for the rest of my life? The Warden’s Executive Assistant pushed a piece of paper under the door.

      ‘Sign this. It states you refuse to be interviewed.’

      I signed. I had to keep a low profile, but I felt bad about it. On the whole, journalists had written sympathetically about my incarceration in America. Their sympathy, however, might galvanise the authorities into preventing my release. I couldn’t risk it. I slid the paper back under the door. Footsteps receded.

      Two sets of footsteps returned.

      ‘Put your hands behind your back and through the slit.’

      Handcuffed and chained, I was dumped in a holding cell for six hours, taken to a van, and driven by two hacks sporting automatic rifles to another prison a hundred yards away. There I was dumped in another holding cell for a further four hours, but this time I shared it with eight other dumpees: an Egyptian, a Ghanaian, four Mexicans, and two Hondurans. The Ghanaian and the Hondurans were ecstatic. Never again would they have to endure the brutality of the United States Justice system. The Egyptian and the Mexicans were subdued, as each had been deported from the United States at least once before and had re-entered illegally. It was a way of life. Cross the border, get an illegal job, get busted, spend a few weeks, months or years getting fit and fed while incarcerated at the American taxpayer’s expense, get deported, and start the cycle all over again. I’d forgotten. Most people don’t want to leave America.

      ‘What’s it like here?’ I asked my fellow criminal aliens.

      ‘Just like any other federal joint,’ replied one of the Mexicans.

      ‘I thought this was run by Immigration,’ I protested.

      ‘No, it’s run by the Bureau of Prisons. You’re lucky if you see an Immigration Officer. It’s just another joint, man.’

      Handcuffs were removed, dozens of forms filled in, photographs and fingerprints taken, medical examination given, body and orifices searched, prison clothes issued, and cell assigned. My roommate was a Pakistani, fighting deportation by seeking political asylum. There were almost a thousand inmates of all nationalities: Nigerians, Jamaicans, Nepalese, Pakistanis, Chinese, Indians, Sri Lankans, Vietnamese, Filipinos, Laotians, Spaniards, Italians, Israelis, Palestinians, Egyptians, Canadians, Central and South Americans. Most were convicted dope offenders and spent all their free

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