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Detained for questioning
Passing through immigration is one of the pet hates of most travellers to the USA. We all know the process is necessary, but with so many booths why are there never enough officers on hand to deal with the hundreds of passengers arriving practically every hour.
However, arriving at Baltimore-Washington International airport, BWI, last week, this was not the case, as the immigration queue moved quickly. This situation amazed many of us, passengers from London, that there were many discussions and comparisons to other US airports.
Sadly, my passage through immigration was not quick, and led to comments from the other passengers that were probably not as complimentary, since for once I was responsible for holding up the queue.
Marching orders
"Place the first four fingers of your left hand on the sensor," the BWI airport immigration officer commanded. Clearly this was not going to be one of those times when my witty banter would defrost the stern demeanour of a USA immigration official.
"Your left thumb,” and so on until both my hands had been done.
Satisfied I had been finger printed correctly, he gathered my passport and completed immigration form, and stepping out of his booth, commanded me to follow him. Perplexed I followed. Leaving the remaining passengers from London, wondering if they had been on a plane with an illegal immigrant or a drug dealer. I dread to think what the three very loud Yoruba women, in Baltimore for a wedding, were saying to each other, especially as I had sat in front of them on the flight. I was sure they had condemned as a drug dealer convinced the next time they would see me would be in the local newspaper, awaiting a life sentence.
Not guilty your honour?
I did as I was told, and tried to keep up with his military pace. As I walked I wondered what my fingers prints had revealed. Had I done something wrong? Had someone committed a crime using my fingerprints?' "Don’t be silly”, I told myself, “You watch enough CSI and Law and Order to know that can’t happen.” “Uhm!, but that’s TV.”
Although I didn’t turn around to see the reaction of the remaining travellers, I could feel their accusations burning through my Angora cardigan. I racked my brain to recover any memories of any guilty acts punishable by deportation.
Everything about this official told me, he expected resigned silence and total obedience, so of course, while trying to keep up with his quick step, I asked, "Where are we going?"
Without breaking stride or looking at me, he replied, “For an interview." "An interview!”, I shrieked, “Why?"
Of course, he ignored me.
We continued for a few minutes in silence, he had achieved his aim I was a wreck. But then my thoughts turned to my defence. Would I attract the caliber of defence lawyers featured in The Good Wife, or would a good-looking Assistant District Attorneys (ADA) as in the five Law and Order shows ‘plead me out.’
As I rated the looks of each ADA from the Law and Order shows, we entered a long dirty grey room. My jailer walked to a long desk that took up most of the left-side of the room, threw down my passport and form, gave me a look of distain and marched out.
Room for questions
As I took my seat on a long brown peeling faux-leather bench, panic took over. Yes, I know I haven’t done anything wrong, but I wasn’t 100% sure. Again I racked my brain for any act, no matter how trivial, of possible anti-USA behaviour. Nothing!
To distract myself, I looked around, there were two others waiting to be ‘questioned’, I wondered what their stories were.
There was a man, I learnt from the loud conversation one of the immigration officials was having with him, who had come to the USA from Egypt on a working visa. The other was a tall, slim, very black young man; he was speaking French in a raised voice into a mobile phone, no doubt as worried as I was.
He said, she said
I sat worrying and fuming for 20 minutes. Why the hell was I here and why wasn't there anyone to deal with 'my case'? In the middle of sending a friend a text, letting her know I might not see her that night, a dishevelled immigration officer appeared.
After a long, unnecessary, greeting to his colleagues, he languidly picked up my passport, took a quick look then put it down. He turned back to his colleague and talked football for a few minutes. I glared daggers. This seemed to work, as he picked up my passport again, moved over to a computer, and then motioned me over.
Standing I asked with fake confidence, "Why am I here?"
"I need to ask you a few questions," he replied.
This is how it went …
Q1: “how long are you here for?'
Me: I have a ticket for January, but it's flexible so I can go back any time. Of course that's assuming you allow me to stay till then.
Q2: How come you can take so much time off?
Me: I'm self-employed. I travel between contracts, if you check your records you will see I'm here every year.
Q3: What do you do for a living?
Me: I'm a marketing consultant, (better than saying I'm an out of work customer insight consultant).
Q4: What does that involve?
Me: Helping companies better understand and respond to their customer wants.
Q5: Did you go to school for that?
Me: Of course!
Q6: Where:
Me: I got a Masters in International Business from a London university.
I know the plan should be to keep on his good side but seriously what was he going to do with this information at this time of night US and UK time? I don’t know if it was my haughty tone or my answer that made him look up and stare at me. I couldn’t read the stare, but the feeling of panic, that I’d be sent home, returned.
Q7: When was the last time you were here?
Me: (Is this a trick question - he has my passport in his hands?) I came last August and left last September.
Flicking through my newish passport, got it last year, he asked …
Q8: What did you do when you were here?
Me: Travelled to Canada, and visited friends and family.
Q9: Who are you staying with here?
Me: Chi, a very good friend from university. Known her over 20 years.
Sounding bored, he asked …
Q10: So what you planning to do this trip?
Me: Chill out with friends and family.
Q11: How much currency do you have on you?
Me: $40, and two credit cards.
He wrote each of my responses on to a torn piece of paper. As he reviewed my answers my heart sank. Will I have to stay here until the morning? It's going on to 2am in the UK, how will he verify all that information. Even I am not paranoid enough to think the US government have a dossier on little ol’ me.
As my thoughts wandered to images of being escorted, by burly security officers, to the departure lounge and dumped on to the first plane back to the UK, my inquisitor moved to a nearby computer.
In my head alarm bells went off , what if he Googles me? I didn’t mention Diverse Traveller, or that until last month I was a part-time lecturer. Plus the last post on my Diverse Consultancy page mentions that business has been crap, so I’m escaping from it all for a few months.
Verification my ar**
Gripping the table, I watched him as he sat in front of the computer. He just sat there, no typing, just stared intently at the scrap of paper containing the information that would determine if I stayed or went. As the tension built, he looked at me and got up from the unused computer. For the first time, he smiled at me, as he stamped my passport, giving me 90 days. He handed it to me, then had the nerve to say, "Enjoy your stay!"
Passport safely in my handbag, I asked him, with all the sarcasm I can muster …
"Excuse me, why did you ask me all those questions?”
“Random Verification”, he replied, now looking very tired, and probably wishing I’d get lost.
I was tempted to ask him how he had made the verifications; he did not call my friend, or ask to see my credit cards, but exhaustion took over. I had been on a nearly eight hour flight and spent over half an hour being questioned. It was time to get out of there and take his advice, start enjoying my 90 day stay.
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