“But Daniel has done nothing wrong,” I said. “Why would he be in trouble?”
“He’s putting a target on his back by putting himself out there,” Gus said. “The government will have all of his information after today. And even if the judge rules in Hector’s favor, I know how this works, I’ve had my guys in the system before. The government will have eyes on Daniel going forward, especially if the judge does give Hector a pass on what sounds to me like a bullshit arrest. Trust me on this: the boys from ICE don’t like being made to look bad.”
I thought, This was why Daniel had been so fearful of being deported himself.
“Does Mom know?” I said to Gus.
“No,” he said.
“You told me but not her,” I said.
“Think of it as a reality check,” Gus said.
The Florida Immigration Building was at Riverview Square. Gus parked the van in a lot about a block away.
“You must have a handicapped permit,” I said.
Without thinking.
“Those are for handicapped people,” he said.
I’d never seen him out of jeans and T-shirts and the Bennett Farm vest he wore on particularly cool mornings. Today he was wearing a blazer and gray pants and a white shirt.
The hearing had been scheduled for noon. But we found out once we were through security that it had been moved up to eleven o’clock. It was ten fifty when we walked into the hearing room. Daniel sat behind Hector and a man I assumed was Mr. Connors, the immigration lawyer Daniel had mentioned. At a small table about twenty feet to Mr. Connors’s right, sat the man I assumed was the government prosecutor. Behind him were two men in dark suits who Gus whispered had to be ICE.
Judge Alexandra Ross reminded me of the actress who played Mrs. Maisel on TV. The prosecutor addressed her directly, acting as if Hector were some kind of terrorist for defending himself in a bar fight. He turned and nodded at the two men in the suits, identified them as Agent Dolan and Agent Josephs, and said they had no choice but to arrest Hector.
“No American, no matter where they’re born, gets to decide which laws they want to follow,” the prosecutor said. “Our legal system isn’t a buffet table. Mr. Suarez originally broke the law with assault, and then broke it again by ignoring his court date.”
Mr. Connors first presented some letters of support for Hector, then slowly laid out the case that if Hector hadn’t been a scared kid without legal representation who would have gotten him to his court date the charges against him would likely have been dropped.
“Maybe the government sees Hector Suarez as a criminal,” Mr. Connors said, shooting a glance at the ICE agents. “No other reasonable person should.”
It was Daniel’s turn to speak. There was no formal witness stand. He could have spoken to the judge from his seat. He chose to walk to the front of the room and stand in front of her, stating his name, age, address, occupation, employer.
When the judge asked for his immigration status, Daniel said, “DACA.”
“For the record, Mr. Ortega is referring to Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals,” the judge said to the stenographer seated to her right.
I had never seen Daniel this nervous. About anything. He was wearing a gray suit, white shirt, tie. I didn’t even know he owned a suit. One more thing, then, that I didn’t know about Daniel Ortega. He answered a few questions from Mr. Connors about his friendship with Hector, before Mr. Connors asked him to explain to the judge, in his own words, why she should accept what the lawyer called Hector Suarez’s “petition for cancellation of removal.”
“Hector is as American as anybody I know, in all the right ways,” is the way Daniel began.
He stood tall, hands clasped behind his back.
“They call people like us Dreamers,” he said to the judge. “Do you want to know what my friend’s dream is? To move out of the house where his wife watched him be arrested and own one of his own someday and start a family here and live the life he imagined for himself when he came to this country with his parents.”
Gus reached over and squeezed my shoulder.
Daniel cleared his throat.
“Hector Suarez doesn’t just conduct himself like he is a citizen of this country already,” he said. “He is a model citizen. One who works hard. And pays his taxes. Who loves his wife and his friends and his job and horses. You don’t ask someone like this to leave America. You beg him to stay.”
Suddenly Daniel didn’t sound nervous at all. His voice was sure and confident and had the complete attention of everyone in the room.