Chapter 7

Welcome To America!
One of the most memorable events of
my childhood was being taken to New
York City for the first time by my
parents. I guess I must have been
about seven years old, and the trip to
the big city was a real treat for me. I
was in

total awe

of those

huge

skyscrapers, which seemed to touch

the sky. From the observation deck of
the Empire State Building, I remember
looking out into New York harbor and
seeing a big green statue of a woman
in a robe holding something upwards in
her arm. My father told me that it was
the Statue of Liberty and when he told me that you could actually climb inside the
huge figure to the top of her arm, I insisted we go there. The thing she was
holding in her arm turned out to be a torch, and according to my dad, she was
holding it high so that all the people of the world could see her guiding light and
find their way to America. I was truly impressed, and for years believed that was
true until I went to work for the U.S. Immigration & Naturalization Service.

That visit to the Statue of Liberty would be the highlight of our summer
vacation, and I remember reading the proud words at the monumentGive me
your weak, tired, and homeless.

My mother explained the history of the

magnificent Statue to me as well as the significance of Ellis Island, the place

where my own familys American heritage began when my grandfather arrived in
the late 1800s. Later in my high school years I would recall that visit to Lady
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Liberty and would feel proud to be part of the great melting pot called America.
The concept of anyone being welcome in our country was an ideal I believed to
be righteous. But as the years passed I soon came to learn that American
ideals and traditions had badly eroded and no longer jived with the cruel realities
of American society where racism and prejudices were found everywhere, and
even cleverly hidden within U.S. immigration policies.

Marjorie was more than a human resource specialist for the U.S. Justice
Department, she was a damn good salesperson.

In fact it took her less than

15 minutes on the phone to sell me on moving to Miami permanently and

working for a division of the U.S. Justice Department in Miami.

On the

phone, she described it only as an entry-level law enforcement position but

promised to elaborate more at our interview.
resume

She must have noted on my

that my hobbies were scuba diving, sailing, and other watersports

because she used the reefs and shipwrecks of South Florida to lure me to the
interview.

Apparently a copy of my SF-171 (government form number for an employment

application) had somehow cross paths with her and little did I know she had
the formidable job of finding intelligent, and honest people willing to work
more than a few months in her division, which I rudely discovered was

the

U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) an agency which is notorious

for having the highest turn-over rate of personnel in the U.S. government.

I never dreamed of, nor desired to work for INS which I always felt was a
necessary evil of a free country.

I mean after all, somebody has to pay

attention and decide who wed allow to come live in America or every nation on
Earth would send us the outcasts, mentally-ill, and criminal elements, of their
society, as did Cuba with the Mariel exodus in 1980. The U.S. has been
warehousing those immigrants in federal prisons for the last 20 plus years and
the tab has grown to more than $500 million of tax dollars.

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But like I said, Marjorie was good at her job and she knew how to handle my
reluctance quite well. This isnt a desirable job to most people - I know, but quite
a few smart people have taken positions with us just to get hiring preference
within the Justice Dept. and to continue their seniority ranking she explained.
When I still didnt bite, she went on Look Bruce, youre a pretty sharp fellow with
a college education. How long do you think it would be before the FBI snapped
you up if you were already employed by DOJ? I shrugged, still not quite sold.
This INS post is a temporary stepping stone to the FBI for you and those guys
make the real money you know (FBI Agents start with salaries at about
$75,000 per annum). Youre fluently Bi- lingual and to the FBI youd be a real
asset. In fact, Id bet theyll be interviewing you within a year.

At this point in my life, I have yet to have any personal dealings with the FBI and
still held them in very high regard.

The thought of working with the elite

investigators of the world appealed to me, (as did the healthy salary) and
Marjorie caught herself another fish to fry. I believe this was the Spring or
Summer of 1981, and I was hired on as an Immigration Detention Officer or
IDO which when translated into plain English, means I would be a jail guard at
the Krome Detention Center in Miami, which at the time housed about a
thousand immigrants, mostly Latino refugees from South and Central America. I
would soon learn that Detention Center was really a nice way to say Prison.

She signed me up and told me where to get uniforms and a badge, then gave
me directions to this Krome place which I never even heard of.
her directions heading West down Kendall Drive (now called S.W. 88

I followed
th

Street)

past the condos and shopping malls and into the countryside. After about five
miles of nothing but strawberry and tomato fields, I arrived at the edge of
swamplands, which were bordered on the East side by Krome Avenue.

The

entrance to Everglades National Park was only a few miles North up this two
lane road.

For sure I thought Marjorie had given me the wrong directions

or I somehow made a mistake.

Nothing but alligators and mosquitoes (lots

of both) lived out here in the boonies. But since there was no place to ask for
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directions, I explored my way down Krome Avenue for about a mile when
indeed I found an entrance drive with a small sign out front that read Krome
Detention Center NO TRESPASSING.

I turned off and headed down the half-mile long driveway before arriving at the
large double gated entrance. The entrance gate greeted me with 12 foot high
chain link fence topped by spiraling rows of razor wire for as far as my eye could
see. There were five or six people picketing out front with signs that read We
came here for freedom not jail,

Human Rights Violated Here, and

Reagan speaks with a forked tongue. Obviously there was something

controversial going on within this fortress. This compound was big, maybe about
10 acres and it gave no doubt to visitors, that this was indeed a prison, by any
standards. Two armed guards greeted me at the front gate and told me that
Protesters must park down the road away from the front gate.

When I

announced who I was, I was asked for I.D. while one of the guards made a call.
Only a minute or two later I was let in and told where to park and who to see.

His name was Joe (I believe his last name was Garcia or Diaz), an older
diminutive man in his late forties with gray hair and he was quite cordial. He
introduced himself as the camp supervisor and after a bit of small talk about
Florida fishing he gave me the grand tour of the compound which took about
thirty minutes. I could tell hes been through this routine hundreds of times before
like a Disney tour guide who knows his spiel by heart. He probably wondered
how long Id last here after he learned I had a college degree and applied for a
FBI position.

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As we walked through the compound

he showed me the separate housing
buildings and tents for the immigrants
which were strolling about everywhere
in

small

exclusively

groups

talking

in

Spanish.

almost
The

accommodations were clean yet very

very Spartan. They reminded me a bit
of barren military barracks with bunk
beds separated by the dozens in neat
rows, and every bed had a number sign
on it. I would soon learn that these
numbers

corresponded

with

the

residents here, who were seldom, if

ever called by their name. The only
recreation facilities I saw were a few basketball hoops and a soccer field but Joe
told me that a big screen TV was coming soon. There was a soccer game in
progress as there would be every day. I think it was the only diversion for the
men whose faces could not hide the frustration, anger, and indignity of being
jailed.
Joe went on to explain the purpose of this place as a temporary intake and
holding center for immigrants while their paperwork was being sorted out. How
temporary? I asked. Joe hesitated but finally replied anywhere from a month
to a few years A few years? I asked incredulously.

Joe grew a bit

defensive on me and went on to explain Look we have no idea who these people
are when they wash up in a boat. For all we know they could be rapists and
murderers. We cant be too careful you know. There are some really dangerous
people here.

Initially I took Joe at his word about this, especially after

seeing all the barbed wire and closed circuit cameras all over the compound.

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But I grew skeptical when I noticed

that only the guards at the front gate
had protection of any sort and the
other guards in the compound showed
no signs of fear as they milled about
even into large groups of dangerous
immigrants. So, I asked Joe, Do the
guards ever get hurt out here? Not
since we beat the tar out of one them about a year ago. They know better now
and wont even touch or speak to one of us unless we ask them something.
Dont they try to escape from this awful place? I asked. Actually, two went over
the fence about three months ago, but one of them came back when he met his
first alligator and apologized for leaving without permission And the other? Joe
just chuckled and said They may get by the fence but they wont get by the
gators. He had a point. Unless someone had the balls to go out the front gate,
the rest of the camp was surround by dense, mucky, swampland infested with
alligators, water moccasins, and mosquitoes by the millions make that billions.
Compounded by the hot Florida sun and 80% humidity levels, this place was a
very uncomfortable place to visit, let alone live 24/7 as the immigrants do for
months or even years at a time.

As we walked into the administration building to be introduced to other staff

members, I noticed a handful of real jail cells complete with steel bars and they all
had occupants. I held my questions for later as Joe walked me into a group of
other IDOs who apparently were recently hired as well. There was Carol, a
young and pretty black girl of Haitian descent, John Morales, a young Cuban,
Albert Caporale, a jovial black guy named Lindsey, Ramirez, Gonzalez, and a
handful of others whose names I cant recall. One who I do recall was a frail
white girl named Brenda, who just seemed so out of place to me. How could
she expose herself to such a bleak and depressing environment? When I asked
her how she got into this job, she merely replied I needed work and this job
has

good

benefits.

Surely Marjorie must have emphasized the great job

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security of working for Uncle Sam where youd almost have to kill someone to
get fired. Indeed I learned that Brenda was later transferred to a more civil and
pleasant airport detail and I felt happy for her.

Joe then took me into one of the offices where he introduced me to a big guy in
his thirties with shiny well-groomed black hair and a matching Zorro mustache.
My guess is he was about 6 tall and about 220 lbs in fairly good shape. This
is my right hand man Cecilio Ruiz, and he pretty much runs things around
here I went to shake Mr. Ruizs hand but he remained seated behind his
desk and said only one thing to me Joe is a busy guy, so dont bother him with
anything. You got a problem, you come to me. do you understand? Sure I
replied, a bit put off by his terse manner. Later I would hear rumors that Cecilio
was formerly a Border Patrol Agent but had some problems

and

was

demoted to his current supervisory post at Krome. But I had little interest or
time for gossip as I was kept quite busy mostly transporting detainees (we
were not supposed to call them prisoners) to and from airports and court houses.

Even though these immigrants werent charged with any crimes, they were in
every respect, treated like they were indeed criminals. We always had to
transport them in shackles, and they were ordered about with commands that
one would give to a dog.

I could never bring myself to be so cruel to these

people who came to America only to seek a better life for their family, just like my
own grandparents did a century ago. I truly felt they were getting a raw deal
here, but my views werent popular amongst the staff so I kept them to myself.

God forbid should any immigrant voice disagreement with a guard at Krome lest
he find himself behind one of the buildings getting a whooping out of camera view.
It was a very cold, brutal, and depressing environment, a conclusion I arrived at
after only one week on the job. I kept reminding myself that this was merely a
temporary stepping stone to a more meaningful government career.

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The training we received was mostly OJT but

groups were regularly sent up to Glynco training
center in Georgia for self-defense, firearms
qualifications,

and

other

standard

law

enforcement

basics.

The

qualifications

for

becoming an IDO was a high school diploma and

being bi-lingual was a major asset. I must have
heard over twenty languages spoke at Krome
ranging from

Creole to Greek.

There was/is no psychological screening

required to become an IDO. One thing that always astounded me about IDOs
and other immigration officers is that they had an awful lot of authority to disrupt
an entire family, for they had the power to arrest or as they say detain anyone
they suspect might be an illegal alien or in violation of any of the hundreds of
statues that comprise the U.S. Immigration Act. Indeed, without a court order or
warrant, they could snatch anyone up off the street "pending investigation. I
always thought this was quite a bit of power to give to a high school graduate with
no legal background or schooling. But in retrospect, it was a thankless, lowpaying job that only reminds me of Marjories outstanding salesmanship. She
probably now owns a car dealership somewhere and must be doing quite well.
Immigration detainees are in fact prisoners no matter what lable you want to put
on them. They are dressed like prisoners, led around in handcuffs, and kept
separated from their families for months and even years. Actually, prisoners have
a right to speedy trials, immigration detainees do not. In reality prisoners who
commit crimes i n America have more rights than some immigrant who may have
risked his/her life coming to seek the America Dream. Ask any immigration lawy
if you doubt this for even a second. The average immigration detainee spends an
average of 13 months behind bars which is the equivalent of a five year prison
sentence. I never realized that one day, I would also become an immigration
detainee

and

experience

of

the

injustices

would

see

at

Krome.

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We did get quite a bit of unofficial training

however, usually by Ruiz who would call
us into small groups every so often and
especially on Fridays, when we learned
that various protest groups would be
outside our front gates over the weekend including Rev. Jesse Jackson and
his Rainbow Coalition.

Yes, we were carefully trained not to talk with anyone

outside the compound, especially reporters. At times I was made to feel that there
must be some top secret missile launchers hidden somewhere at Krome.

recalled my first entry into the front gates where I encountered the handful of
picketers, and now, I was convinced they were hiding something here. But when
I discovered that asking about the protests only irked the management staff, I
refrained from pursuing my questions further.

Sure enough, Jesse Jackson arrived with hundreds of supporters outside the
front gates followed with reporters and cameramen from the local Miami TV
stations. I was glad to know that even if nobody at work wanted to fill me in, I
could at least watch the news and figure things out for myself. Apparently some
of the detainees had been kept at Krome for more than a year even though they
had family members in the U.S. willing to sponsor and be responsible for them.
Another issue raised on the news by the protesters was that there was a
highly disproportionate number of black immigrants being detained and white
immigrants being released. Jackson was publicly accusing the U.S. of having a
discriminatory immigration policy and he was right. But this was no accident.

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Since the early 1960s, following the Castro revolution, Cuban exiles flowed by
the thousands into Miami where they quickly organized, produced their own
political candidates, and became a very influential force in Floridas political arena.
Piss off the Cubans, and you could easily lose a half million votes come election
day.

Many politicians learned this lesson the hard way while the smart ones

catered to the Cuban community and climbed up the political ladder to even more
powerful positions in Congress. (Miami has had Latino mayors for the past two
decades, two of which had done admirable jobs). Thus a Cuban refugees stay at
Krome was very short, a mere matter of days or perhaps a month. Whereas a
Haitian, Mexican or Dominican refugee was destined for a long stay. Certainly not
fair, but this was the reality at Krome, and Im sure that in Texas and Southern
California, Mexican immigrants get similar preferential treatment. The power of
politics works in both small and big ways at every level of the U.S. government,
and often in ways that are never visible to the public.

After only three weeks on the job, I dreaded going to work.

The atmosphere

was so depressing at Krome that I started to absorb that depression personally

every time I would stop and actually talk with an immigrant refugee and hear
their stories of hardship and struggle just to get to America, and the families they
could not afford to bring with them.

The more is spoke with the refugees, the

more I understood the weekly protests outside the gates. These people actually
believed the political rhetoric President Reagan spewed on TV and spent their
life savings coming to a nation where they thought theyd be welcomed with open
arms. Instead, they were arrested and jailed, er I mean detained.

It was

painfully ironic that they were jailed for pursuing freedom. I sincerely empathized
with these immigrants and soon found myself helping them translate and explain
immigration forms, helping them find immigration lawyers, and trying to keep

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their hopes alive.

The American dream was just beyond there reach and

separation from their families just compounded their anger and frustration.

It wasnt long before Cecilio called me into his office and chastised me for
talking with the refugees. Youre not a fucking social worker Gorcyca, so unless
its some official business that needs to be resolved, I dont want you having any
contact with the detainees and that is a direct order! I dutifully acknowledged
him, signed out for the day, and went home to conduct my daily ritual of
checking my mailbox. Still no letter from the FBI.

It was after this little episode that I began wondering how much longer I
could endure working amidst so much human suffering without being able to
do anything about it. I never realized just how many people were locked up
simply for coming to seek a better life in America. Yes, perhaps 10% were
criminals, but you dont punish or penalize the majority for the sins of the
minority. As my heart and mind endlessly debated the issue, I finally vowed to
myself that if the FBI didnt contact me within a month, I would go work
elsewhere.

The horrors of Krome followed me home from work every night and
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often kept me awake at night wondering if my grandparents had to go through

such human indignity. If they did they never mentioned to me.

I have to

think America was more civilized and humane back then. But in all fairness to
the INS, the stream of refugees has more than quadrupled over the last three
decades, and with such a high turn-over rate of personnel, they are overloaded
with tedious work. But this will never excuse the deplorable way we treat our
prospective new citizens at INS facilities across America, where at any given time
there are over 300,000 detainees real people that have real spouses and real
children. I didnt want to be part of the mean green Immigration machine any
more, and I started marking off those thirty days.

Three events influenced my abrupt departure from the employ of the INS and
only one of them was fortunate.

One morning, I was assigned to go to the

airport with another IDO to arrest an illegal immigrant who was traveling under an
alias name from Central America. The information was apparently received from
an informant who was supposed to pick the man up at the airport.

He was

about to have the surprise of his life compliments of Uncle Sam. We were given
an old family photo of the man in his mid twenties, but for all we knew, he could
now have longer or shorter hair as well as a mustache and/or beard. But
he did have a tattoo of a crucifix on his shoulder and that would be of some help.
Having no criminal record in the U.S. we had no fingerprints to go by either.
Wed just have to give it our best shot. According to Interpol, the man was wanted
for murder in Panama.

As I was going to retrieve a van wed use to pick up the suspect, I passed by the
female scetion of the compound, and noticed a young girl clutching the chain link
fence and sobbing uncontrollably.
warning I got from Ruiz.

I could not ignore her despite the stern

Que te pasa Senorita? Estas bien? (Whats wrong

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with you miss? Are you okay?). She just shook her head but was too upset to
talk. I assured her that she could talk with me and I would help her if I could.
She continued to weep and replied that nobody could help her now, and nobody
could change what happened. With some gentle prodding, I got her to stop crying
and tell me her name. She was Maria and she was from Nicaragua. She was
quite pretty actually, even without the luxury of make-up and nice clothes. My
guess is that she was about 18 or 19 years old. I assumed she was just
homesick and as I tried to reassure her that eventually she'd be released and
have a good life in America, she just blurted out "He raped me! What?
Who

raped you?

I asked in amazement since there

were

cameras

everywhere on the compound. She must have assumed that I would not believe
what she was saying because her very next words were Im not lying and Im not
the only one she replied without telling me who had violated her. Suddenly a
look of fear filled her eyes and she bolted away from the fence and back into one
of the buildings. As I turned around, I saw Ruiz walking towards me with a
mean frown on his face. What did I tell you about talking with the prisoners
Gorcyca!? he exclaimed. Caught off guard, I quickly groped for a reply It was
official business Mr. Ruiz the girl asked me for the mailing address for the Red
Cross so she can try and find a family member. It was a lie but it worked. He
threw me the keys to the van, and after picking up another IDO we were off to
Miami International Airport to complete our assignment for the day. All the way to
the airport though, I was puzzled as to how Maria could have been raped, since
all the male and female refugees were kept segregated by fencing that allowed
them to talk with one another, but prevented physical contact

Our plan was to arrive before the flight and drive out onto the tarmac and arrest
the man as he deplaned. But luck was not with us today since the plane actually
arrived twenty minutes early and the passengers had already entered the
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terminal and were being processed by Customs. In our collective brilliance we did
not have the foresight to notify Customs of the illegal entry in advance because
we had assumed wed make the arrest as planned without their assistance.
Quickly we tried to call inside to Customs but their lines were either busy or had
automated recordings. So we ran like the wind over to Customs which was a
good 500 yards away where half the
Customs.

passengers

had

already

cleared

Frantically we scanned faces for our man (I think his name was

Garces) but no luck. We concluded he had already cleared Customs and was no
free on the streets of Miami.

Dejected, we walked through the airport

terminal discussing how badly Ruiz would chew us out in front of the other IDOs
when we arrived back at Krome empty handed in failure.

Suddenly it dawned upon me that this guy was expecting to be picked up by the
informant at the airport and was probably searching for him now. I had an idea,
and ran over to one of the airport information phones. I had nothing to lose so I
gave it a shot. I asked the airport operator to page our missing suspect with an
announcement that his ride was waiting for him at the Eastern information
counter. Minutes later the announcement echoed throughout every concourse
and terminal of Miami International Airport Paging passenger Garces, paging
passenger Garces your party is waiting for you at the Eastern information
counter. The message was then repeated in Spanish as my partner and I
staked out the Eastern information counter from a hidden position behind a
wall. I then removed my INS uniform shirt and hid my badge in the palm of my
hand as I slowly walked over to the information counter myself, pretending
to ask about local hotels in the area.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw

another man approaching the counter so I stalled for time, asking even more
dumb questions about car rental companies. When the man was behind me, I
thanked the lady for her indulgence and slowly turned away, just as I heard the
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man stand up and say Im Mr. Garces, did you page me? Before she could
answer I did, and he immediately took off running right into the arms of my
partner who quickly overpowered him and had him in cuffs in less than a minute.
We both breathed a sigh of relief as Garces cursed in Spanish all the way back to
Krome with our prize.

The following day was my day off but I had left a brand new pair of Ray Ban
sunglasses in the van from the Garces run, and I went back to Krome to grab
them before someone else did. I saw the glasses where I left them on the dash,
but the van was locked.

So I went inside the office to get the keys. It was

there that I saw IDO Albert Caporale with a pair of scissors in his hand
taunting an immigrant from the United Kingdom named Kevin Hill who was in
one of those inside jail cells.

Whats going on Al? I asked. This asshole

wont get a haircut so Im going to help him! was his reply. Kevin did have long
hair, but there were no regulations at Krome that required short hair so I knew the
haircut idea was strictly Caporales idea. I tried to distract Caporale but he was
intent on giving this man a haircut and eve had Hill handcuffed and thrown into
this jail cell. I decided, Id just get the keys, garb my glasses, and head out to
Miami Beach where Id rent me a Hobie Cat for the day and go sailing.

But after I retrieved my glasses I returned to the office to drop of the van keys
only to hear loud screams and muffled thud noises. It was Kevin Hill doing the
shouting as Caporale and another IDO John Morales were giving him a severe
beating. What the fuck is going on? I shouted. Nothing that concerns you!
was Caporales reply as he proceeded to grab Hill by his long hair and
smash his head against the cell wall while Morales kicked and punched the man
who was still in handcuffs, trying to cover his face. I managed to pull Morales out
of the cell but Caporale wouldnt let up. Stop right now Al, or Ill have the
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cops here in fifteen minutes! I threatened. Caporale was breathing as heavy

as a racehorse after the Kentucky Derby. He glared at me with flared nostrils and
a beet red face. This mother fucker needs to learn some manners so butt out
Gorcyca. I stood my ground and headed into the office to grab the phone.

wasnt going to call the cops but I was going to call Joe. Caporale must have
assumed I was calling the cops, so he let lose of Hill and shouted, alright, alright,
its over put that phone down. I slammed the phone down and went off on
Caporale Who the hell are you to decide who gets a haircut around here
anyway?

Mind your own fucking business Gorcyca or youll get the same as

Hill! was his only answer.

I went over to Hill who was slumped against the wall, his face a bloody
swollen mess. But blood always makes things look worse than what they are and
my first aid training told me that at worse he might have a broken nose. I started
helping Hill to his feet to take him over to the infirmary to be check by the staff
nurse but was stopped by Caporale. What do you think youre doing? he asked,
still trying to catch his breath. Im going to get this man some medical attention. I
replied. Like hell you are! Caporale retorted. If you take him over there, the
nurse will log it in her records and then therell be evidence of this incident. You
should have thought about that before you decided to beat on him Al.
Somehow Morales had slipped away leaving me and Caporale about to jump
on each other, when two other IDOs happened to come in from lunch break.
Their sudden appearance sort of quelled the argument, as Hill insisted he
was okay-probably just to avoid further torment from Caporale and Morales.
Caporale went back to work, and I went home wishing I had never come for my
sunglasses in the first place.

I was determined not to let Caporale get away

with his onerous bullshit, and spent the rest of the day thinking how to put a
stop to it.

According to INS protocol at Krome, I should report the incident

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through the chain of command, and that meant I should go to Ruiz with the
matter. I decided to do exactly that.

When I returned to work two days later, I sought out Cecilio on the compound
where he was talking with another IDO.

Excusing myself, I interrupted him

telling Ruiz I had to speak with him privately. He told me to go sit I his office and
wait for him, which I did. A few minutes later he came in, closed the door behind
him, and sat down with an expression on his face that suggested I was really
inconveniencing him. Well? he asked. I really didnt know how to breach this
subject since Ruiz had always been somewhat chummy with both Caporale and
Morales and I never once joined them after work for beers at the local Bar-B-Q
joint down the road. So I just told him that I wanted to report staff misconduct
that took place in my presence. But before I could get any further he stopped me
and asked Is this about that hippie Kevin Hill?

As soon as I replied that it

did indeed involve Kevin Hill, Ruiz stood up, walked to the door and told me he
was already aware of the matter, and was on top of it. It was not my place to
ask him how, so I just excused myself and went back to work thinking that the
only way he could have known about the beef was if Morales, Caporale, or Hill
himself told him.

After talking to Hill, who now sported a pair of black eyes, I ruled him out. When I
approached Morales he gave me the cold shoulder and so I decided it really
didnt matter what was told to Ruiz and by whom. My days at Krome were
growing fewer whether that letter arrived from the FBI or not.

But just to

satisfy my own curiosity, I wanted to see if any mention of the beating was
logged in the administrative logs of Krome. Just as I suspected not a single
word.

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A few days later I crossed paths with Joe in the parking lot and casually asked
him about the Kevin Hill incident. His puzzled face required no reply.

He

was never told of the matter. So when he asked me what I was talking
about, I told him the whole story. Did you take this to Cecilio? he asked. I
nodded. Good, Im sure hell follow-up on it Joe assured me with a grin and a
pat on my shoulder. Inside, I think we both knew better.

I went home angry and depressed again. The immigrants at Krome were being
treated like animals and were totally at the mercy of people like Caporale
and Morales.

As if being jailed and separated from loved ones for months

wasnt enough trauma for them, they were subjected to abuse at the
random whims of IDOs with short fuses. But arriving home my day took a
very positive turn. My daily trip to the mailbox finally bore fruit but not what I
was expecting. Amongst the normal bills and junk mail was not a letter from he
FBI but a notice that the Federal Aviation Administration was recruiting
candidates for the position of Air Traffic Controllers and testing would be held for
the position in less than two weeks in Miami. This wasnt the FBI letter I was
waiting for but it certainly could be my ticket out of that hell hole at Krome. The
next day I called the number to sign up for the testing during one of my breaks
and was given all the pertinent details.

It was then I learned that Air Traffic

Controllers were paid even more than FBI agents. I never failed a test in my life
so now I was able to stomach the abuses at Krome a bit more knowing there was
now light at the end of my government career tunnel.

But my secret glee was short-lived as I ran into Maria, the girl from Nicaragua
again on the compound.

She was walking around aimlessly like a zombie

with virtually no expression on her face. I couldnt forget what she told me less
than two weeks ago about being raped, and I no longer cared if I was seen talking
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with the detainees. I was determined to find out what had really happened to this
girl. I called out her name as I approached her and she turned to face me. its
alright Maria I assured her I will help you if you tell me exactly what happened to
you. There was only silence as she just stared down at the ground and then
suddenly kicked a stone. I told you. she mumbled. Yes, I know Maria, and I
believe that something bad happened to you, but I cant help you if
wont tell me what happened.

Silence yet again.

you

She looked up at me with

tears welling up in her eyes, and I could almost feel the pain she was trying so
hard to hide. So I tried to make it easier for her by asking her about her
family. She explained how her family was being persecuted by the government of
Nicaragua for helping the contras and that her brother was missing after he was
taken away by Nicaraguan soldiers and her mother and father fled to Mexico
after putting her on a plane to Puerto Rico where she would meet a cousin and
come to Miami. Their plan went awry when she was too nervous to correctly
answer questions of an Immigration officer at Miamis airport. Her cousin luckily
escaped detection, but Maria, officially and undocumented and illegal alien, was
now stuck in limbo at Krome. After a little more chit chat, I asked her if she
wanted to tell me what happened. She nervously looked over her shoulder and
all around her before nodding her head. Lets go sit down I suggested and led
her to a picnic table that was located in a somewhat quiet area out of view of the
administration offices but directly underneath one of the many closed circuit
cameras on the compound.

I waited patiently for her to begin. Having worked a

few years as a Red Cross crisis counselor dealing with the survivors of natural
disasters in Puerto Rico, I knew better than to try and pressure her.

He said he was going to give me a green card and let me go to my cousins

house she started. Who did? I asked. Sr. Ruiz. I was stunned at what she
was implying so I wanted to make sure we were both talking about the same Sr.
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Ruiz so I had to ask her, Which Sr. Ruiz are you talking about Maria?
know the boss here Cecilio Ruiz.

You

Still somewhat skeptical, I asked her

to describe Cecilio and she did so in much detail. I was now sure there was no
doubt as to who she was talking about, so I took a deep breath and asked her to
explain about the green card. Well he took me into his office one night about a
month ago, and told me he might have some good news for me. She stopped to
wipe away a few tears and then continued. He said he could get me a green
card and

get me released if I could make him happy.

How were you

supposed to make him happy I asked suspecting the worst. He wanted me to

put his thing in my mouth. I see I replied not knowing what to say. I told him
that I was not that kind of girl and that I would not do such a thing. She began
weeping again and I did my best to calm her. After a few more minutes of silence
she went on with her horror story. He gave me some Coca Cola with Tequila
and explained to me that since I did not have any family members in
America that could sponsor me, I could be stuck here for a few years.

dont want to stay here any more I hate this place. I want to go stay with
my cousin in Hialeah. I know Maria. So what happened next? I prodded. We
sat and talked in his office for about an hour and he gave me three more drinks of
Coca Cola and Tequila. I told him I wasnt feeling well and wanted to back to my
unit to go to sleep. He then pulled me on top of his lap and began to rub my
breasts. Again she stopped and I asked her Did you have sex with Mr. Ruiz?
I didnt want to but he held me down and forced himself inside of me. I
was speechless and growing angry very angry. I really didnt know what to say
so silence filled the air yet again until she spoke. I am not the only one. He
made promises to some of the other girls too. And since one of them was
released, we believed him.

Do you want me to call the police or your

cousin? I asked. No no! You must not or I will never go free! she
exclaimed.

I did my best to convince her that she should report what happened
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but she was genuinely afraid of what the consequences might be for her.

told her to think about it as I bought her a soda from the vending machine and
walked away in shock to go back to work. I never liked Ruiz from the day we met,
but I never suspected he was a rapist.

Women prisoners were not afforded any special privileges at Krome, even if they
were pregnant. They ot their monthly medical exam like everyone else w hich was
a 15 minute affair that weighed them, took their temperature and blood pressure,
and a body check for any infection or insect infestation. Women complained that
they had no sanitary pads and guards would often throw them a roll of toilet paper.
One mean-spirited guard even told one woman to use yestredays Miami Herald.
When she got angry and cursed him in Spanish he took out in to the 80 degree
sun and hand-cuffed her to a chain link fence in for almost three hours.
Sometimes detainees who were being transported would be left in the back of a
van with no windows for over an hour while guards stopped to grab lunch at a
Burger King of KFC. I once got chewed out for giving bottled water to those stuck
in the sauna-like van and had to replace the water meant for the guards with my
own cash..

One day I came across a woman in her thirties who was throwing up. She
apparently was pregnant and suffering from morning sickness. This what she told
me and I had no reason to disbelieve her especially since her tummy was bulging.
I am not a doctor but estimated she was 5 months pregnant. When I took her to
medical, I was told they were processing a new batch of intakes (newly arrived
detainees) I offered to tale here to Jackson Memorial Hospital but the sta ff just
glared at me. They did not want their secrets to leave the premises. They told me
they would take care of her but she would have to wait. They handcuffed her to a
bench and I trusted they would attend to her. This was about 10:00 am. Just
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before leaving that evening about 6pm, I realized that I left my keys in the medical
unit. They were closing up the med unit just as I arrived and I went over and found
my keys on the same desk where I had left them. I then noticed the pregnant
woman exactly where I saw her last - still handcuffed to the bench asleep. I
woke her and asked if anyone had helped and she shook her head. I then smelled
urine and realized the woman had peed on herself. I was furious but there was
only an assistant there that was locking up. I took the woman back to her unit and
apologized to her and felt so guilty I gave her a chocolate bar. The next day I
called the head nurse and asked how the hell they could leave a pregnant woman
chained up like that all day and not even give her lunch? We were really busy
yesterday was her reply and she hung up. That was it. Not one bit of shame or
guilt for neglecting this pregnant woman. I saw the nurse later in the day and
asked her if she was a Christian, since most Latinos were. Of course she said.
Then why dont you act like one?! I retorted. She blasted right back with an
answer I will never forget A lot of women here pretend to be pregnant just to get
some extra attention. I was almost speechless. Well when do you plan to take a
blood sample and check when her water breaks!?! I fired back. Look Tony
you do your job and Ill do mine, the way I choose to do it. I had no chance to
engage her

in a further argument

because a group of fellow IDOs were

approaching me and the nurse seized
the opportunity to escape a certain
argument with me.

There was a very beautiful Chinese girl also detained at Krome who used to run
and hide every time Cecilio was in sight. She could not speak English and we had
no Chinese translator. But the fear that filled her face when she saw Cecilio told
me that she must have been another of his victims. Twice I saw her deliberately
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rub dirt and mud on her face and her hair when she was asked to report to Ruizs
office. She also deliberately wore a jumpsuit that that was larger than her size
probably to conceal any attractive shape she may have had. I dont really know
her story other than she came from South China and was perhaps 23 years old at
the time. It must have been one never-ending nightmare for her since she was not
even allowed to contact the Chinese embassy and had no lawyer assigned to her
on file. The day that I asked for her file I was rebuffed and then later interrogated
by Ruiz who demanded that I explain my interest in the girl. I wasnt about to tell
him that I thought he was raping her so I lied and told him I was trying to find her a
lawyer that could speak Chinese. Cecilio freaked out when he heard this and
made it clear You will do no such thing!

That is not your job, and for your

information, Ying is being transferred to another facility next Monday. Well at least
I found her name was Ming. Later that day when I saw her, I handed her a piece
of paper after I called the Chinese consulate. On the paper I gave her my name,
my telephone number

and the telephone number to the Chinese consulate.

Sooner or later she would get access to a phone, or so I assumed. The following
Monday I heard a rumor that Cecilio had been taking Ying home on weekends. It
was just gossip and I had no way to do anything about it. She would be leaving in
a few days anyway.

But as luck would have it, that Friday afternoon, my motorcycle would not start for
some reason and as I tinkered with fuel line filter, all my colleagues had left to go
have a beer together at Bennigans.

As I was growing frustrated with my

motorcycle, I saw Cecilio pulling Ying across the parking lot towards his SUV. She
clearly did not want to go. As soon as he realized I was there and watching him,
he placed her in handcuffs, and then made a point to tell me Im taking this feisty
bitch to the airport. But he had already told me she was leaving on Monday, and I
grew angry. I said nothing, but my plan was to follow him to whatever hotel he was
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taking her and then call the police. At least that was my plan. But as Ruiz drove
off with Ying in cuffs, I could not get my motorcycle to start for another 10 minutes
and by then he could be anywhere.

I felt badly that entire weekend wondering

what was happening to Ming. I was also worried that Ruiz might find the piece of
paper I gave her with my name and telephone number on it. Wherever Yimg may
be today I hope she is okay and I apologize to her that I could not do more to help
her at the time.

Aside from the rapes, Krome was full of racism and human indignity. While Cuban
immigrants were getting preferential treatment like new bedding, soccer games,
playing cards, and processed much faster, all the other immigrants were
subjected to what I call passive indignity. The y were treated as if they were not
even there. Unless they had some real medical emergency they were treated
much like stray cats ignored, day by day. Blacks from any country were treated
the worst and I recall one day that due to overcrowding, the showers were full and
Caporale decided a group of maybe six or seven Haitian men could shower
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outside, behind a building. He made them disrobe and then grabbed the nearest
hose and hosed them down with cold water for about five minutes.

Another IDO whose name was also in my notes made fun of a immigrant who
was infested with ticks and lice by calling him The Bug Man and jokingly
sprayed his naked body and crotch area with a can of RAID Roach killer spray,
which obviously burned the man who hopped around in pain. Look! He can even
dance! Now learn some fucking English, suck my dick, and we might even let you
stay here a few more months! the guard joked as I looked for the nearest hose.

There was little if any privacy at Krome although some of the decent IDOs
working here like Carol and Brenda had their own personal ethics and disciplined
themselves to be humane and offer a little dignity to Americas forgotten prisoners.
But they were the exception and not the rule. There was a young black IDO
whose name was lost in one of the confiscations. Like me I could see that it
pained him to work at Krome and when I tried to talk with him one day about our
mutual distaste for this job, I saw tears well up in his eyes, and he quietly put me
off saying, Lets not go there today okay. He had worked at Krome for over a
year and surely his eyes saw more abuse than mine. Yet silence is an easy path
to choose for some it is after all, the path of least resistance. I now fear it is this

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passive indifference that has now engulfed our nation. Eventually indifference
transforms into apathy, and apathy always suffocates goodwill in some and hope
in the souls of the victims.

Some immigrants did not want to cooperate and give their names and place of
birth since they would probably be deported there if they had no family or
employer in America to sponsor them. The silent treatment infuriated Cecilio and
his way of breaking their silence is the same
identical way America once claimed China was
torturing prisoners. He would take them to a
holding cell and shackle their ankles and hands
like in this diagram, and then just leave them for
hours until they caved.
didnt.

Some did and some

Others would give phoney names and

claim to be from Panama or Venezuela.

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Jesse Jacksons people were protesting at

the front gate again the following weekend
and this time I paid attention to the sign
they held and what they were saying. The
immigrants inside were in fact being
treated like criminals and I truly wanted to
rip off my uniform pick up a sign of my own
and join them. It gnawed at me that I was a part of this. I decided I would write an
anonymous letter to Bob Graham the Governor of Florida and the local
Congressman Dante Fascell. Just writing the letter was nauseating for me and
deep inside I take Cecilios photo and give it the the next group of protesters I
saw at the gate with my letter. I really felt trapped in a dire situation and I recall
wondering if Hitlers troops at Dachaus extermination camp shared my feelings.
Today I wonder if there are American troops at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba that are
wearing my old shoes, wanting to scream out to the world. Even if my letter was
thrown in the trash, at least I would not have a guilty conscience. That letter is at
the end of this chapter if you care to read it.

Ironically, long after I left Krome a Congressional

delegation did visit Krome Detention Center, and
after writing a scathing report citing overcrowding,
lack of proper medical facilities, and almost
inhumane conditions recommended that the
American Gulag be shut down, and it was, but a
newer and much improved version was opened
not far away within two years. Although the new
one is air conditioned with Cable TV, it is still
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essentially a prison. But I am grateful for the progress as it is a big improvement.

The Congressional report can be read here:
That weekend, I went to take the FAA Air Traffic Controller qualification exam.
Before the tests were handed out however, some 200 of us received a rather
interesting speech that was seemingly designed to prepare us for the worst.
The man in charge of the testing told us that over 80% of would fail the written
test we were taking today which was heavily laden with mathematical problems
requiring a great memory of high school algebra, geometry, and calculus. He
then went on to tell us that of the twenty percent who actually passed the test
(80% was the passing grade) half of them would be eliminated by the
psychological screening process. As if that wasnt enough discouragement,
he added insult to injury by saying those last ten percent who made it through
the process would then be admitted to the FAA Academy in Oklahoma City
where they had an over an 80% wash out rate. If I recall correctly, he told us we
had about a 2% chance of becoming an Air Traffic Controller. After hearing this,
about six guys and girl got right up and walked out of the auditorium. The rest of
us were left questioning our own abilities and confidence. I struggled through the
tedious test like everyone else. It was by far the most difficult exam I have ever
taken in my life and I seriously wondered if I even came close to passing it. It
exhausted me mentally, and I spent the rest of the weekend with my girlfriend
Debbie who was in the Air Force Reserve at nearby Homestead Air Force Base.
We went to a big flea market on Bird Road for a little fun. I was madly in love
with this girl but didnt get to spend much time with her because of our
conflicting work schedules and the fact that she lived with her mom about an
hours drive away from me.

After taking that grueling test and listening to the wonderfully demoralizing speech,
I was beginning to think that I might be stuck at Krome a bit longer than I
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expected, so working at Krome became even more depressing.

But lo and

behold, about two weeks later I got a notice in the mail that I actually passed the
exam with a score of 92% and I was absolutely elated. I could say good-bye to all
the misery kept locked up behind the fences of Krome forever. But protocol
required that I give 30 days notice unless I wanted some nasty
written somewhere in my personnel file.

comments

I gave Marjorie and Joe the bad news

that I would not be going to Glynco the following week as scheduled since Id be
leaving for the Mike Monroney Aeronautical Institute in just over a month.
Theyd both seen so many IDOs walk that neither were phased a bit.

But I

still had one last matter to attend to at Krome - Maria.

I went to share the news of my upcoming departure with her and to persuade her
to at least let me tell the INS management about what Ruiz had done to her and
the other girls.

Apparently, she had too many sleepless nights to do nothing

and she had come to trust me enough to let me report the incident. I assured her
that it would be handled professionally and in strict confidence so that none of the
other detainees would find out about the crime committed against her. Her
reputation would be ruined by the embarrassing disclosure.

My first call was to Marjorie but as soon as I mentioned that some girls at Krome
had some serious allegations against Cecilio Ruiz she cut me right off and said I
dont think I want to hear about this - take it to Joe, and she ostensibly had to
take another call. I was taken by surprise until it dawned on me that this might
have happened before and she didnt want to be in the loop on a potential scandal.
I thought for sure a woman in the personnel office would be the appropriate person
to handle this. But I honored her wishes and went to see Joe.

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Joe was sitting back in his chair reading through some immigration documents
when I walked in unannounced Joe, Ive got some news to share with you and
you probably aint going to like what I have to way. He tossed the papers down
on his desk and got up to close the door.

At a feeble attempt to be a little

humorous Joe replied Dont tell me you decided to stay on here?! No Joe, Im
history but you have a problem here with Cecilio.
problem are you talking about son?

Problem?, what kind of

I searched for some delicate words but

there were none to be found so I just spit it right out. Hes been raping some of
the girls on the compound inducing them to meet with him privately to get
green cards and their release.

Surprisingly, Joe just frowned and then turned to stare out the window.
With his back to me, he asked How do you know about this?

Maria the

young Nicaraguan girl told me the her and two of her friends were raped here
in the office. Still with his back to me Joe continued And you believe this girl
Maria? Yes I do Joe, and so will you if you just talk with her.
tuned to ask me his last question Who else knows about this?

Joe finally

Nobody yet.

Good, lets keep it that way and Ill take care of this personally. Now go get me
this girl Maria and bring her to my office.

I finally felt some degree of

satisfaction for the three months I spent at Krome. At least I did something to
alleviate some of the suffering. I took Maria in to see Joe assuring her that Joe
was a good man who could be trusted. At least I trusted him to do the right thing.
Maria came out two hours later from Joes office with a smile on her face and she
waved to me as she passed by. I then heard Cecilios name being paged to report
to Joes office, where I fully expected him to be suspended and later prosecuted.
But now it was quitting time, and I had less than two weeks remaining at Krome.
Free at last, I thought to myself driving home that day. At least tonight Maria and
I would both be able to sleep.
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The following day when I arrived at Krome, I was surprise to see Cecilio standing
inside front gate doing gate duty.

He just glared at me as I drove through. I

chuckled to myself since gate duty was the least desirable for and IDO, and to see
Ruiz a supervisor there, really made my day. But not for long. So sooner that I
parked my car, I checked the assignment sheets for the day and I saw that I was
assigned to relieve Cecilio at the gate!
would be on post at that front gate.
that girl.

In fact, my remaining days at Krome

It was the last time I would ever see

Apparently, to solve the problem, they decided to transfer her and her

two friends to other immigration facilities in Texas and Southern California. Out of
sight out of mind I suppose.

During my lunch break I confronted Joe about it, but he bluntly told me Look,
theres an investigation going on and surely you can understand that I cant talk
about this. For some reason I believed Joe was telling me the truth. I want so
badly to believe him. On my second last day at Krome, rumors were circulating
that Ruiz just got orders to be transferred
himself, to where I dont recall. But I do
knowhe was very angry that day because he
came to drive out of the gate that night, he
stopped to tell me

Youre damn lucky

youre leaving the INS Gorcyca, because if

you stayed, I have enough seniority in the
system to make your life hell on earth!

couldnt help but smile as I replied You have

a nice day too Cecilio. Fortunately, it would
be the last time our paths ever crossed.

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Quite some time later, perhaps a year or so.

I ran into Brenda at Miami

International Airport and we reminisced a bit about our days together at Krome
and she gave me updates on Carol and Lindsay, who both got sweet office jobs at
Miamis INS regional headquarters. Caporale supposedly got fired and went to
work for Southern Air Transport, a Miami air freight company that does a lot of
work for the CIA. Joe was about to retire after 20 plus years at INS, and it seems
old Cecilio Ruiz was actually promoted not prosecuted, to a management position
out west somewhere. Only God knows how many more innocent immigrant girls
hes been victimizing all these years. Maybe it all caught up with him elsewhere,
but if hes still within the government, I doubt it. Like a big family, the government
tends to protects its own - right or wrong.

Looking back on the whole affair, I was most disappointed with Joe, an INS
veteran who had both the opportunity and the authority to right a horrible
wrong. The old boy network inside the government is one powerful force that
you dont want to fool with, especially as one nears retirement. Joe did what he
had to do for Joe. Now the matter is in Gods hands.
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I urge my fellow Americans to pick up and read a great book about American
Immigration policies and abuses written by MarkDow entitled American Gulag
which details even more abuses than I witnessed.

The true character of man is not measured by his words, but by his acts
Jesus of Nazareth

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