She could have said no. The call came at the last minute. The court’s interpreter went home sick, and they needed a replacement. Immigrant hearings are rare. The court sticks to its own certified interpreters, and the agency mostly handles depositions that pay much higher fees. Even the voice sounded reluctant when it left the assignment on her machine. But the minute Suzy heard “26 Federal Plaza,” she grabbed the phone. It seemed unthinkable not to take the job.
26 Federal Plaza.
The largest civilian federal building in the country.
The home of the Immigration and Naturalization Service.
Returning to the scene of the crime.
Passing the metal detector, Suzy wonders if her parents were summoned here regularly, if they were led through some secret corridor, if they sold off their fellow Koreans in this very corner. Suzy imagines little Grace next to them, her face lowered, her eyes filled with tears. She surveys the crowd in the sprawling lobby, searching for the INS employee who might have lured her parents, who might have given the final order, who might have turned his face away when they got shot. But nothing. Not a trace. The INS is never clumsy in its tracks.
There are thirty-two courtrooms spread over three floors. Courtroom 30 is located on the twelfth floor. By the door is a young woman in a navy suit pacing the floor and whispering into a cell phone, “No, it’s not gonna take long. Just a formality, really. Williams never grants relief.” She takes no notice of Suzy, who is now entering the room marked “Judge Jack Williams.” There are three wooden pews on either side, with two booths and desks in front. Hanging behind the judge’s bench is a circular bronze plaque that reads “Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur,” with an eagle perched in its center. It is a plain room, clean and deeply worn. Yet enough to set one’s nerves on edge.
Squatting in the right booth is a gray-suited man with his nose buried in a pile of papers on the desk. All Suzy can see is the wrinkled forehead and the drooping chin. But all too familiar. One thing she has noticed through the months of interpreting is how lawyers resemble their clients. They begin wearing the same look. The same optimism, the same despondency. A quick glance, and she can usually surmise the situation. Whatever today’s case is, there’s not much hope.
Next to him is the defendant. Either she’s been crying up until the point when she was summoned here, or her eyes are naturally swollen with dark circles. Her gauntness is alarming, the brown cardigan falling shapelessly over her bony shoulders. Her wizened face carries the yellowish hue of someone who hasn’t breathed fresh air for a long time. It is hard to guess her age. Somewhere in her late fifties, although with immigrant workers one can never tell. She looks vaguely familiar, though, and Suzy leans for a better look. But unlike most witnesses, whose faces light up at the entrance of the interpreter, the woman does not even stir when Suzy slides into the seat next to her.
“Hi, I’m the interpreter assigned to the case,” Suzy attempts. The woman seems not to hear her, muttering instead a few indistinguishable sounds under her breath. The lawyer barely acknowledges her. Occasionally Suzy has run into lawyers who don’t address interpreters or stenographers directly. Some even snicker when she stumbles on a word and turns to a dictionary. They might sigh noisily or make a point of shaking their heads. Oddly enough, Korean lawyers are the worst. It might come from the country’s long history of class hierarchy. Once, an attorney turned to her during a break and asked her to bring him a cup of coffee. Suzy collected her things instead and walked out. Sometimes bullying is a legal tactic to prevent a witness from being questioned: get the interpreter mad and bust the deposition. A cheap trick, but it works. Most depositions never get rescheduled. They cost too much. Before the second try, the case gets settled.
But no such play at an immigration court. No cocky lawyer, no tempestuous interpreter. There is a grimness here she cannot shake off Silence infused with doom. Like the end of a civilization, she thinks, peering at the woman, who still won’t raise her face.
Then, almost simultaneously, the young woman with a cell phone strides in, and a lanky man in a black robe with bifocals precariously perched on his nose emerges from the side entrance by the bench. The new presence does nothing to lift the ominous air. The defendant recoils slightly.
“Let the record reflect that we are now commencing the removal hearing of Jung Soon Choi,” the man with bifocals, who turns out to be Judge Jack Williams, says, turning on the tape recorder. At immigrant hearings, stenographers are rarely used. The court does not have the budget. Facing both lawyers, Judge Williams asks, “Do you, Counsels, wish to present your exhibits?”
Right away, the young woman and the morose lawyer strut to the bench. While the three are poring over the documents, Suzy studies the defendant more closely. A creeping sense of familiarity; what is it? Why does her heart give at every frail motion of this woman?
When both return to their seats, Suzy rises and takes the oath, as does the woman. As if on cue, Judge Williams pounds and says, “For the record, please state your name.” Suzy translates in a louder voice than usual, for fear that the woman might not hear.
In a surprisingly clear and coherent tone, the woman answers, “Choi Jung Soon.”
“Is that your lawyer sitting next to you?”
Mrs. Choi nods, at which Judge Williams orders her to answer verbally.
“Although I believe that the respondent is not even entitled to a hearing, upon the request of the respondent’s counsel, I am willing to hear her side before making a decision. You may begin, Counsel.”
Suzy translates, leaving out the part about her not being entitled to a hearing. Why drain the woman of her last hope?
“When were you born, madam?” Her lawyer wastes no time.
“Nineteen forty-two. January 7.”
Nineteen forty-two. The year her mother was born. The year of the horse. Mom once said that no one wanted a girl born in the year of the horse, because she was fated to die far from home. The stars never lie, she whispered, as though imparting an ancient wisdom. Suzy thought she was making it up.
“So you are fifty-eight years old.”
If her mother had lived, she would have been fifty-eight. Still a good age. Still young. The ripe age for a parent. It is not right for a parent to disappear before.
“Where were you born?”
“Korea.”
“When did you come to the United States?”
“Nineteen seventy-two.”
“Do you speak or read English?”
“Little.”
“What is the highest level of education you completed?”
“Objection!” the INS attorney lashes. “The counsel’s wasting everyone’s time, Your Honor. His attempt to establish her background at this point serves no purpose.”
“Sustained,” Judge Williams rules. Get to the point, he means. This is just a formality, the woman’s as good as gone.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Choi replies anyway. “Graduate school,” she says. “I received an M.A. in music from Ehwa Women’s University.”
Not unusual. Many Korean immigrants are college graduates. It is a country with a nearly 100 percent literacy rate. Koreans pride themselves on education. A man who owns a dry cleaner’s might have once been an architect, or a pedicurist at a local nail salon might be a trained pharmacist. Their Confucian tradition dictates that learning is the basis of self-worth. But it also backfires. The difference between professionals and merchants is sharp. Most of them never get over the shame of being relegated to the working class. Thus a woman who’s been a cashier at a deli for over twenty years will still hold on to her former life as a music scholar.