Chapter 1: Please Don''t Come Here 1 Please Don''t Come Here On What Happens When a Black Woman Must Aid in a Deportation Arrest Prosecuting a car thief is light work for a federal prosecutor, particularly when the thief is eventually captured after a high-speed chase. Which is what happened in a case with a relatively young defendant, Shawn, who was already notorious in the police department. To describe Shawn as a menace would be like calling bubonic plague a cold. His total disregard for the law was heightened by the fact that he had consistently evaded conviction on technicalities. An uncontrollable, unearned ego had replaced his common sense. This time, the office wanted to ensure there would be no technicality. It all began when Manuel, a middle-aged Latino man, went out to get his car, only to discover it had been stolen. He was cooperative with the police and with the prior assigned prosecutor during pretrial discussions in spite of his reluctance to participate in the process.

I had only just inherited this case right before trial, and expected for the victim''s testimony to be short and sweet. He wasn''t in the car when it was stolen. He hadn''t seen the defendant. All that was required was that he testify that he was the lawful owner of the vehicle and hadn''t authorized the defendant to use the vehicle for any purpose. That was it. As is customary, I ran a criminal background check on all witnesses I intended to call at trial, and on the victim. When I ran Manuel''s, I was surprised to see a warrant for immediate deportation appear in the results. He had been captured illegally crossing the southern border and ordered to report to a detention facility.

That was twenty years ago, when he was sixteen years old. The previous assigned prosecutor apparently never bothered to check. Since then, he had been law-abiding and had led a quiet life in the United States. He was gainfully employed and had a driver''s license--something you can obtain without having citizenship. While his immigration status was irrelevant in a criminal prosecution, I was required to alert the federal marshals before he could take the stand if the warrant was active. I nervously checked to see whether the warrant was indeed active. It was. I repeated the word "no" in my head and stared at the screen, my eyes darting back and forth as I figured out what to do next.

This man could get deported after twenty years because his car was stolen by some young jerk? With the trial two days away, I sought advice from my supervisors. Surely there was a precedent for immigration issues in an international community like Washington, D.C.? There wasn''t. The nature of the warrant was irrelevant; we were required to turn the person in to the appropriate authority regardless. Could I warn him first? Sure, if I wanted to lose my law license. I reached out to the victim liaison, who told me to call and tell him not to show up to trial and not to report his whereabouts to the marshals. If anyone asked, she said she''d take the heat, in the hopes I wouldn''t be disbarred.

But did I really intend to go down for a woman who had just introduced herself during that same phone call? Instead, I asked my supervisors to consider dismissing the charge. They declined. Another technicality was unacceptable for this defendant. I ran it up the chain and tried to get a meeting with the powers that be. At the very least, I hoped to appeal to the fear of a public relations debacle. I refreshed my email neurotically waiting for a response. Sleep was not even a thought. It was just before 5:00 on the morning of trial before I got my final directive, a phone call from a high-level supervisor who had the final say: "You are not to dismiss the case.

You know the location of a twenty-year fugitive. Report his location immediately to ICE." "Do we have a liaison with ICE? Is there a lawyer or someone we could talk to so I am not just reporting him to an arrest-hungry ICE agent? There''s gotta be some way--" I pushed back. "Is there something you didn''t understand? I''m happy to have someone else handle this for you if you are incapable of fulfilling your professional obligation." The threat was hardly veiled. "No, sir, I''ll handle it myself." I was at the office by 5:30 a.m.

, researching case law and victims'' rights. I had already tried consulting with ethics personnel, searching for any way to avoid the inevitable. I knew it was in vain. The second I saw him in the courthouse, I would have to alert the marshals about his warrant. Not only would they arrest him before he was able to take the stand, it would all but guarantee an acquittal. The thought of the defendant''s freedom in exchange for the victim''s detention was hard to bear. I waited outside the U.S.

Attorney''s office, hoping that I could get a meeting. No one was in yet, and no one answered my calls. I didn''t bother to pray that he wouldn''t show up. If that happened, I would be required to request a material witness warrant for the arrest of a subpoenaed victim who failed to appear at trial. Just in case I had any idea of turning a blind eye to the absence, the managing supervisor had specifically instructed me to request the warrant in our early call. It was quickly approaching 8:00 a.m. and we were due to be in court in less than two hours when I was notified that the victim was waiting for me downstairs in the lobby.

He had misread the subpoena and thought he was supposed to come to my office rather than go straight to the courthouse. His mistake had bought me more time and him a chance. I begged for the words to come to me as I rode the elevator down. I thought about what my colleagues had advised. One closed the door behind him before he told me, "Tell him to run, Coates. You''re a Black woman. Fuck the office. I couldn''t have that on my conscience.

" Another had told me not even to bother to meet him. "Let immigration deal with him. It''s not like he''s coming with clean hands in this. He shouldn''t have called the police when he knew he had an immigration problem." Still another said, "Turn him in. It will make you look good to the office." And finally: "I would''ve kept my mouth shut. It''s not your job to help execute warrants.

We''ve got too much on our plate already." None of the response felt right. I regretted soliciting their opinions, knowing each ear I bent could become a loose lip. As I walked out to greet the man, I realized that the only picture I had ever seen of him was the one taken in connection with his detention twenty years ago. I searched the lobby and, spotting a man who resembled Manuel''s younger self, held out my hand. He was professionally dressed, wearing a suit. His shoes had just been shined. He smiled and nervously shook my hand.

"How are you?" he asked. "I''m fine, sir. I''m trying to figure out something. I wasn''t expecting to see you here. Do you mind waiting for me for a second? If I just had some more time. Well, can you wait?" "Yes, no problem." And with that, he took a seat. The head of security stopped the elevator with his hand as it started to close behind me.

"Ms. Coates, right?" he said. "Yes." "I understand that there is an individual here today with an active warrant. Is that right?" "Yes," I said, as my shoulders dropped. "I''ll take care of it. You don''t have to be involved." "Wait.

" My voice cracked. "What does that mean? What do you mean you''ll take care of it? Don''t just cart him away. He has rights, doesn''t he? Did you already call ICE?" "I intend to contact them now. Don''t worry, this doesn''t need to concern you." "But I just shook that man''s hand. He''s waiting for me. He''ll think it''s a trap. I just need to make sure there''s no other way.

I have until the courthouse, don''t I?" "No," he said kindly. "Look, this isn''t going to be easy for you." "I''m not exactly worried about myself. He''s wearing a wedding ring. Who will tell his wife? Look, I''ll call ICE. But I''m assuming you''re going to watch me do that, huh?" He smiled and followed me upstairs to my office to prevent a scene in the main lobby of the building. He already knew the way. I called ICE and asked them a transparent hypothetical.

I explained that I had a victim in a criminal case who might have a deportation warrant. Was there any exception for this instance? No. The warrant was active and they were en route. Already? How much time did I have? Twenty-five minutes. I frantically called my supervisors again. Nothing more could be done. I was told to go to the courthouse. Someone else would handle the transfer of the suspect.

The head of security remained in my office and assured me that he would let me speak to the ICE agents before they arrested the victim. It would prevent a scene if I could walk him to a private area, the guard explained. He didn''t want to spook already reluctant people waiting in the lobby by having someone inexplicably arrested in their presence. We sat in silence in my office while he waited for notification that the agents had arrived. When the call came, he ushered me down the hallway, stopping one last time to say, "Last chance. You really don''t have to do this. Security can escort him to the guards for you." "No," I replied, as we walked into the elevator.

"It''s my fault this is happening. I''ll tell him personally. I don''t know what he has in front of him. Hey, did he, are you sure he''s still here? Maybe he left on his own?" The guard didn''t bother to answer. We both knew he.