The ICE Interview

by Clint Rauscher

Description

“The Interview” follows Leonardo “Leo” Perez, a recent military veteran on a quest to find a career with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Back in Texas, he aims to uphold the values he believes in while navigating the challenges of being a new father. The story unfolds during Leo’s job interview, where he passionately discusses his views about immigration, family values, and the law.

The emotional weight of his convictions and the impactful climax resonate with themes of identity and belonging, highlighting the struggles individuals face when their beliefs collide with complex realities. The narrative effectively captures Leo’s determination and the underlying tensions that come with his life’s choices.

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The ICE Interview

The waiting room at the Immigration and Customs Enforcement building was exactly what you'd expect from a government facility - sterile, functional, and utterly devoid of personality. Gray linoleum floors. Pale blue walls with nothing but a framed American flag and a portrait of President Trump. A stack of outdated, untouched magazines sat on a side table. Even the air felt institutional, like it had been filtered of anything resembling comfort.

Get it together, man. You've faced worse than this.

But had I? In the Marines, I knew exactly what was expected. Here, trying to start a civilian career with ICE, I felt uncertain. My stomach twisted as I thought about Gabby's face when I'd told her I was applying. It was a mix of disappointment and resignation. She hadn't argued against it, but I knew she disapproved.

"You sure about this, Leo?" she'd asked, bouncing little Miguel on her hip. "Your dad desperately wants you to help run the business. He's worked so hard to build something to pass down to you."

Dad's business, not mine.

I checked my watch again. Fifteen minutes past my scheduled interview time. Not a good sign. Maybe they'd found someone better. Maybe my military record wasn't impressive enough. Maybe—

The door swung open and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair entered. His presence immediately commanded the room, even though he moved with a slight limp. His eyes scanned the waiting area before settling on me.

"Mr. Perez? I'm Agent Aarón Ortega. My apologies for keeping you waiting." His voice carried authority but remained surprisingly warm. He extended a hand.

I jumped to my feet, straightening my tie. "No problem, sir. I appreciate the opportunity."

We shook hands, his grip firm and professional. Up close, I noticed a jagged scar running along his jawline. The mark of someone who'd seen real action, not just trained for it like I had.

"Por favor, sígueme a mi oficina," Agent Ortega said smoothly, gesturing toward a hallway.

I froze for a split second. Shit. My first test, and I was already failing.

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't speak Spanish," I admitted, feeling heat rise to my face.

Agent Ortega's eyebrows raised slightly, though his expression remained neutral. "Is that so? Interesting. Please, follow me to my office."

I followed him down a narrow hallway, past cubicles where agents worked at computers or spoke on phones in hushed tones. Some glanced up as we passed. I straightened my shoulders, hoping I looked like I belonged.

Agent Ortega led me into a small interview room. No windows. Just a metal table with two chairs facing each other. A camera mounted in the corner. A lone folder sat in the center of the table.

"Have a seat, Mr. Perez." He gestured to the chair facing the door.

I sat down, resting my hands on my knees to keep them from fidgeting. The chair was even more uncomfortable than the one in the waiting room.

Agent Ortega settled across from me, opening the folder. "So, you don't speak Spanish? Given your background, I assumed you would."

"No, sir. My father was... particular about that. He wanted me to be seen as a perfect American boy. He worried that if I spoke Spanish, people might think I wasn't from here."

"Your father sounds like a proud man."

"Yes, sir. Very proud to be an American."

He nodded, studying me. "Tell me, Mr. Perez, what made you apply to ICE? Your military experience would open doors in many law enforcement agencies."

I sat up straighter. This was my moment.

"I believe in our borders, sir. My parents came here legally, worked hard, built a business. They did it the right way. I believe everyone should follow the rules like they did." I paused, choosing my next words carefully. "I want to protect what makes America special. That means upholding our immigration laws."

Agent Ortega's expression remained unreadable, but he made a small note in the folder.

"And your family? How do they feel about your career choice?"

I swallowed hard. "They have... different views, sir. My wife, my parents, even my priest—they all think I should be more... welcoming… less rigid. But I believe in doing what's right, not what's easy or popular."

"Even when it puts you at odds with those you love?"

"Yes, sir. Especially then."

Agent Ortega leaned forward slightly, his gaze intensifying. "And do you support our President on other things or just immigration?"

I didn't hesitate. "I support him in all things, sir. If you want to walk out into the parking lot right now, you'd see how much I support him. Got Trump bumper stickers all over my truck and a big American flag taking up the whole rear window."

A hint of a smile crossed Agent Ortega's mouth. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Perez. What type of truck do you drive?"

"Ford F-150, sir. 2019 model. Patriot edition with the extended cab." Pride swelled in my chest as I thought about my truck. "Had to save for a down payment for nearly two years while I was in the Marines, but worth every penny. It's what a man should drive."

Agent Ortega nodded appreciatively. "Good choice. I've got a Sierra Denali myself. Been loyal to GMC for twenty years now."

"The Denali's a beast, sir. My father-in-law has one, though his is a few years old now. How's yours handle off-road?" I was surprised at how easily the conversation flowed now, the stiffness in my shoulders loosening just a bit.

"Like it was born for it." Agent Ortega leaned back in his chair. "Took it down to Big Bend last hunting season. Those mountain trails didn't stand a chance."

"You hunt, sir?"

"When time permits. Harder to get away these days." He tapped his fingers on the folder. "You hunt, Mr. Perez?"

"Started with my dad when I was twelve. Deer mostly. Got my first ten-pointer two seasons back. It's mounted above our fireplace—drives my wife crazy. She says it stares at her while she's watching TV."

Agent Ortega chuckled, a genuine sound that softened his professional demeanor momentarily. "My wife didn't like mine either. Now we have a dedicated 'trophy room' where all the animals can stare at each other instead."

"That's the dream, sir." I gestured with my hands, mapping out an imaginary space. "I've been telling Gabby—that's my wife—that once Miguel is older, we need a proper man cave. Place for hunting trophies, gun safe, maybe a pool table."

"Miguel is your son?"

The question brought me back to the interview setting. "Yes, sir. Eight months old now."

"Congratulations. Children change everything." Something flickered across Agent Ortega's face—pride, maybe, or nostalgia. "You'll want that F-150 for hauling all the baby gear. Those little ones come with a lot of equipment."

I laughed. "You're not kidding. It's like my truck's a glorified baby carriage."

He smiled briefly before glancing back down at the folder, seeming to remember we were in an interview. "You mentioned your truck has Trump stickers. Any backlash for that in your neighborhood?"

The shift back to politics was abrupt, but I was fine with it. "Some. Our neighborhood's mixed. Got some liberals who give me looks, but this is Texas. Most folks appreciate seeing someone proud of their President."

"And at church? How does that go over?"

I shifted in my seat. "That's more complicated. Our priest, Father Vasquez, he's big on what he calls 'welcoming the stranger.' Quotes a lot of Bible verses about helping immigrants and such."

I shifted in my chair, clearing my throat. "He often quotes Leviticus 19:33-34: 'When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt.'"

Agent Ortega nodded slowly at my mention of Father Vasquez. "Ah yes, I'm familiar with that piece of scripture, and how they try to connect it to modern immigration policy. What else does he say?"

I leaned forward, feeling more confident, finally being able to discuss the topic with someone who agreed with me. "He also loves to quote Matthew 25, about welcoming strangers and all that. Father Vasquez says Jesus himself commanded us to welcome immigrants."

"And what do you say in response?" Agent Ortega's pen hovered over his notepad.

This is it. This is where I show him I've thought this through.

"I tell him context matters, sir. Those verses were talking about legal foreigners, people who followed the proper channels. I bet they had borders and laws too, and they expected foreigners to respect 'em." I tapped my finger on the table for emphasis. "And in Matthew, when Jesus talks about welcoming strangers, he was talking about personal charity, not government policy."

Agent Ortega's expression remained neutral, but he made another note. "And Father Vasquez's response?"

I sighed, remembering our last heated discussion after Sunday Mass. "He thinks I'm twisting scripture to fit my politics. He says the Bible doesn't distinguish between legal humans and illegal humans, and that all people deserve empathy and compassion."

"And you disagree?"

"I believe in compassion, sir. But rules exist for a reason." I straightened my tie, feeling the weight of my conviction. "My parents came here legally. They respected America enough to follow its laws. Why should some people get to just walk over and enjoy the same privileges we do?"

Agent Ortega leaned back slightly. "So in your view, these Biblical commandments about the treatment of foreigners..."

"Apply to legal immigrants only, sir. People who respect our sovereignty. Illegal entry is a slap in the face to people like my parents and my wife, who did it right." My voice had gained intensity, and I forced myself to dial it back. "Sorry, sir. I just feel strongly about this."

"No need to apologize, Mr. Perez. Passion for the law is a quality we value." Agent Ortega smiled, writing something else in his notes. "An interesting theological debate, Mr. Perez. I've had similar conversations with my own priest."

His phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced at it briefly. A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"Good news, sir?" I ventured.

Agent Ortega nodded. "Very good news. We just completed a successful operation at a local business. Twenty-three illegals detained for processing and deportation."

My eyes widened. Twenty-three illegals caught in one operation. That's what America needed more of—enforcement, consequences, order. The kind of work that would make this country stronger. "That's awesome, sir! That's exactly the kind of work I want to be part of."

"Is it?" He studied me carefully. "Even knowing that those twenty-three people likely have families? Even children who might be citizens?"

I didn't hesitate. "The law is the law, sir. Those people made choices knowing the risks. If they have American-born children, that's unfortunate, but it doesn't change the fact they broke the law to come here."

He closed the folder and looked up at me. "Let's return to your background. Your father's landscaping business—pretty successful from what I understand?"

"Yes, sir. Started from nothing and now has contracts all over San Antonio."

"And does Perez Landscaping verify the legal status of all its employees?"

"Absolutely, sir." I sat up straighter, pride evident in my voice. "My wife handles all the hiring paperwork. She knows how strongly I feel about this. We only hire legal residents or citizens. No exceptions."

"And your wife, Gabby. How did you two meet?"

"Actually, we met in Mexico," I replied, smoothing my tie against my chest. "My grandfather passed away when I was eighteen, just after high school graduation. My parents took me to Juárez for the funeral—first time I'd ever been to Mexico."

I couldn't help but smile at the memory. "Gabby was helping serve food after the funeral. There was something about her... I don't know how to explain it. We just clicked."

"Love at first sight?"

"Something like that," I admitted. "We stayed in touch after I came back to the States. I visited her a few times, then proposed right before I joined the Marines. We got married during my first leave. Young, I know, but when you know, you know."

Agent Ortega nodded, making another note in his folder. "And her immigration status? That must have been complicated."

"Not really," I said confidently. "She has a green card. We did everything by the book. Filed all the right paperwork, waited for approval before she moved here. We've already submitted her application for citizenship based on our marriage." I sat up straighter. "She's totally legal. I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Of course not," Agent Ortega agreed. "And she's a good Christian woman?"

"Absolutely. Gabby's actually more devout than I am sometimes," I said, feeling a surge of pride. "She was raised in the church. Never misses Sunday Mass, even when Miguel's fussy. She lives in Christ, as I do."

Agent Ortega tapped his pen against the table thoughtfully. "But she doesn't share your views on our President or our immigration laws, does she?"

The question caught me off guard. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

"I wouldn't put it like that," I said carefully. "She's just... more liberal on social issues. She follows more of the Pope's views on immigration."

Why are we talking about Gabby so much? This is my interview.

"Shouldn't she support her husband's views over those of the Pope?" Agent Ortega's tone remained conversational, but his eyes were watchful.

A prickle of discomfort ran down my spine. I didn't want to drag Gabby into this. This job was my dream, not hers. She'd supported my application but made it clear she had reservations.

"With all due respect, sir," I said, trying to keep my voice even, "as a Catholic, it's hard to convince someone to go against the Pope. When the Holy Father speaks on moral issues, many Catholics take that very seriously. Even when he's wrong."

Agent Ortega laughed, breaking the tension. "I suppose so," he conceded. "The Church has always held that influence. I understand—my own wife has her disagreements with me on certain policies as well."

I relaxed slightly, grateful for his understanding. "Marriage is about compromise, right, sir?"

"Indeed it is, Mr. Perez." Agent Ortega's smile seemed genuine. "Though I find in my experience, the most successful marriages are those where the fundamental values align." He closed his folder and leaned back in his chair. "You sound like a dedicated family man. That's something we value here at ICE—people who understand what they're protecting."

I nodded eagerly. "Family is everything to me, sir. My parents, my wife, my son—they're why I want to do this job. To make America safer for them."

"One more thing," Agent Ortega said, his tone casual. "You mentioned your wife handles the hiring paperwork for your father's business. How exactly does she verify legal status? E-Verify? Document checks?"

"Oh, I don't really know," I replied promptly. "I work in the field, but Gabby's careful. She works with my mother to check all the documentation."

Agent Ortega nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "That's good to hear, Mr. Perez. Very good to hear."

He appeared satisfied with what he'd learned. A flutter of hope rose in my chest as I realized the interview might be wrapping up. This felt different from other job interviews I'd had—more intense, but also more promising. I'd been honest, showed my convictions, and Agent Ortega seemed to respond positively.

"Sir, if I may," I ventured, leaning slightly forward, "could I ask a question of my own?"

"Of course, Mr. Perez." Agent Ortega folded his hands on top of the closed folder and notebook. "What would you like to know?"

I cleared my throat, trying not to sound too eager. "If I were to be hired, how quickly could I start? I know these government positions sometimes have lengthy onboarding processes, but I'm ready to jump in as soon as possible."

Please don't say months. Please don't say months.

Agent Ortega's lips curved into a small smile. "Actually, we have a position for you to fill, right now, if you like."

My heart rate kicked up a notch. "That would be great, sir. Really great. I'm anxious to get started." I tried to keep my voice level, professional, but couldn't completely mask my enthusiasm.

A surge of adrenaline shot through my body. Today? This was happening now? I couldn't believe my luck. I couldn't wait to call Gabby with the news.

I did it. I actually did it.

My face flushed with excitement as I stood up, extending my hand across the table. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much for this opportunity."

I gripped his hand and shook it vigorously, perhaps too enthusiastically, but I couldn't contain myself. This was better than I could have possibly imagined. My mind was already racing ahead to what this would mean for my family, for my future.

"I won't let you down, sir," I promised, still pumping his hand. "I'm ready to serve my country."

As I stood shaking his hand, basking in what felt like the pinnacle of my career aspirations, the door swung open. Two men in uniform entered the room, their faces obscured by black face masks. They positioned themselves on either side of the doorway, hands resting on their holstered weapons.

The triumphant smile froze on my face. I looked back at Agent Ortega questioningly, still holding his hand in mid-shake.

"If you would, Mr. Perez," Agent Ortega said calmly, withdrawing his hand from mine, "turn around and place your hands against the wall. You are under arrest, for being in the United States in violation of immigration law. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you…"

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What? Sir, there must be some mistake—"

"No mistake," he interrupted, his voice now cool and professional. "Leonardo Miguel Perez, born October 8, 2000, at Hospital General de Ciudad Juárez. Your mother gave birth to you in Mexico a month before they crossed illegally into the United States, where they obtained forged documentation for you."

I stood frozen, unable to process what he was saying. My mind reeled, searching desperately for an explanation.

"That's impossible," I stammered. "My birth certificate... I've seen it. I was born in San Antonio."

"A forgery," Agent Ortega replied flatly. "A good one, but a forgery nonetheless. You've been living your entire life as an undocumented immigrant, Mr. Perez."

"You have me confused with someone else born that day," I insisted, my voice rising. "Check again! This is crazy!"

Agent Ortega shook his head. "We've researched this thoroughly, Mr. Perez. And this is not the only crime your family has committed."

My mouth went dry. "What are you talking about?"

"We raided Perez Landscaping just thirty minutes ago," he said, gesturing to his phone. "That was the message I received during our interview. Many of the employees had false working papers. Similar to yours, actually. And thanks to you, we now know that your wife and mother were in charge of hiring, so they're being added to the arrest warrants as we speak."

The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I reached out to steady myself against the table.

"This is all a misunderstanding," I managed to say through numbing lips. "I need to speak to my father. He can explain everything."

"Your father's already in custody," Agent Ortega informed me. "You'll probably be in the same holding facility, so you can speak with him there. You'll both be transported back to Mexico within the next day or two."

The reality of what was happening crashed over me in waves. Deported. To Mexico. A country I'd never really known. A country whose language I couldn't even speak.

"I don't even speak Spanish," I whispered, more to myself than to them.

Agent Ortega said something in rapid Spanish, then laughed. He switched back to English. "I just said that I hope you're a fast learner."

My knees threatened to buckle. I had to lean against the table to remain standing. The masked agents moved closer, ready to restrain me if necessary.

This can't be happening. This can't be real.

But it was real. Everything I thought I knew about myself, about my family, was crumbling.

And then another thought hit me like a sledgehammer: I had done this. In my eagerness to impress Agent Ortega, I had given him information about my family's business, about Gabby's role in hiring. I had practically handed them over on a silver platter.

Hot tears spilled down my cheeks as the full weight of what I'd done crashed down on me. I hadn't just ruined my own life—I'd destroyed my entire family's. My parents. Gabby. What would happen to Miguel?

"I thought you would be happy," Agent Ortega said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "We had a very productive day and got some very bad people off the streets of the US. Thanks to you, America is much safer now."

The words cut through me like a knife. My own words, thrown back at me. The same sentiments I had expressed so proudly just minutes earlier about the twenty-three "illegals" they'd detained. Except now, I was one of them.

The End