Page 23 of Counting Backwards

When the blocky concrete facade of Hydeford finally appeared up ahead, I had to force away my personal frustrations so I’d be able to focus. I cleared my throat and coughed intentionally, envisioning the negative energy that was festering inside me floating away like helium balloons released into the wind.

Cutting through the red tape to make this appointment had taken several days, so I wouldn’t squander the opportunity. I’d finally found information on the friend Isobel mentioned in our last meeting. After reviewing the files, I now knew the basic facts about Denise Agbar. A twenty-six-year-old woman from Cameroon who’d been in the US since age eleven, Denise had become known to immigration authorities nearly two years earlier when she made a 911 call during a domestic dispute. The situation between Denise and her boyfriend spun out of control, and when the police arrived, both Denise and her partner ended up getting arrested. The charges against Denise were ultimately dropped, but because of her status as undocumented, she was transferred to ICE custody and had been at Hydeford ever since. Currently, she was awaiting the outcome of her appeal to the Board of Immigration Appeals.

The process of admission for visitors to Hydeford was beginning to feel routine, and I was able to get quickly situated in the meeting room. When the male guard arrived with Inmate 541, ashe’d called her, I was struck by how young she looked. Maybe it was the woman’s wide, alert eyes as she entered the room. She was slender and tall with dark skin and glossy hair twisted into a low bun at the base of her neck.

“You’re Denise Agbar?” I asked, wanting to confirm before the guard left. I noted that she was also in the powder-blue uniform, indicating the lowest threat level.

Both she and the guard nodded.

“Ring when you’re finished,” the guard said as he walked out and closed the door.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” I began, taking my seat and motioning for Denise to do the same. As she settled into the chair opposite me, she leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I hope Isobel explained why I wanted to talk?” I asked.

“Yeah. She filled me in.” Denise’s words held barely a trace of her ancestral country, no French or Cameroonian undertones. Her voice was filled with oppositional notes, like she was preparing for a fight. “I mean, I think it’s great that you want to talk about it, try to help or whatever. But there won’t be anything you can do. Nobody’s gonna care about what’s going on up in here. So I’m not really sure it’s worth putting myself at risk.”

“At risk? I’m sorry—I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, everything has a cost, right? I speak up about what happened to me, next thing I know, my commissary account might get zeroed out. Most likely, I get booked on the next flight to Cameroon. I keep quiet about it, keep my head down, maybe things’ll go better for me. I got all my family here, both my parents, two sisters. I’m not looking to cause myself any trouble before I get myself back to them.”

Denise’s words stopped me short. Retaliation? Sudden deportation? Was she for real? I didn’t want to make things any more difficult for the women in this center.

Before I could formulate a response, she continued. “And anyway, it’s not like it can be undone. The procedure can’t be reversed.”

“If you don’t want to file a grievance, then why’d you agree to meet with me?” I asked.

She shrugged and glanced away, like she wasn’t so sure either. Or maybe she just didn’t want to say.

“Look,” I began, slowly parsing through my own thoughts as I spoke. “What if you just tell me what happened to you? We don’t have to do anything with the information unless or until you’re comfortable. But I can’t know for sure that Ican’thelp you unless you share your story with me.”

Denise’s eyes came back to rest on me, but she didn’t answer.

“I’m legally bound to keep everything you tell me in confidence unless you expressly allow me to share it. This would just be talking. Just between us. Nothing more.”

She pursed her lips like she was truly considering her options, making me think she actually did want to share her story but was scared of the consequences. That would explain why she had agreed to meet; she wanted to do something, but only if she was safe.

“Maybe we just start with the facts,” I offered, positioning my memo pad between us. “Then we can discuss how to handle things.”

“And you can’t tell anybody what I say?” she asked.

“Attorney-client privilege. I’m not allowed to reveal anything at all.”

After a few more moments of silence, she rolled her eyes and began talking.

“So, I was having some bleeding, right?”

I nodded.

“It was just spotting, but it started happening more and more, like at the wrong time of the month. So I told one of the nurses in the infirmary. I guess I was scared something was the matter withme, you know? They took me to that Dr. Choudry over there at Pinelands, the clinic they take us to. We went over in a transport van, in a group. We’re all cuffed and whatnot, waiting in the van.” She swallowed audibly and shifted in her seat.

“When it was my turn, they brought me to the room, took my cuffs off. The doctor didn’t even look at me or make eye contact. Just told me to undress from the waist down and get on the table. No robe or anything. And then without saying anything else, the doctor just went right in and did an internal exam. Nobody told me what was about to happen or nothing. All of a sudden, I just got someone sticking that wand all up in my business without lube on it or anything. So I start saying, ‘Stop, stop, stop,’ because, well, you know...” She trailed off, suddenly a little shy.

I nodded, thinking about how invasive those transvaginal wands could be even in the best of circumstances. Maybe she saw some level of understanding on my face, because she nodded slowly and then continued.

“I was about to start kicking to get myself out of there, but then the doctor showed me the screen and pointed at something. I don’t know. It all just looked like black-and-white clouds on that ultrasound monitor. But the doctor said, ‘There, that’s a cyst. That’s what’s causing your trouble.’ Said my uterus needed to be scraped, a D&C. I forget what it stands for, but I knew it was what they do for abortions sometimes. That freaked me out a little, so I wasn’t sure. But the doctor said if I did the procedure while I’m in custody, the government would pay for it. If I waited until I got out, I’d have to pay on my own. The nurse said I’d better make arrangements quick so the cyst didn’t get worse and cause me more trouble. I was scared, so I said, okay, fine. They could do what they needed to do.”

“And did they explain to you that they might do more than just remove the one cyst?”