Epilogue
Eighteen months later
I hurried across Lexington Avenue, half jogging in my patent leather pumps as I pushed the stroller toward Gram’s apartment building.
Nearing the door, I saw my grandmother was already outside waiting for us, along with her college-aged neighbor, Vanessa.
“I couldn’t pass one more second without my beautiful great-granddaughter,”
Gram said, walking toward us and smiling down at the baby. “Come to Grammy,”
she cooed, reaching down to unfasten Vivian’s seat belt straps.
As Gram lifted my little girl out of the stroller and held her high for a loud smooch, I marveled again that one-year-old Vivi looked so much like Gram and, unfortunately, not at all like either of my parents.
“Isn’t she a sight?”
Gram said to Vanessa, making a silly face at the baby.
As much as I wanted to linger, I had to get going to make my train.
“Don’t forget, the daycare opens at noon,”
I said, lifting the diaper bag from my shoulder and attaching it to the back of the stroller.
“I know, I know.”
Gram pulled the stroller closer. “And Vanessa has graciously agreed to hang out with us because she doesn’t have class until the afternoon.”
It was fortunate that Vanessa was still living with her parents next door to Gram and could help out with any heavy lifting. “Don’t miss your hearing,”
Gram told me. “Not after all this.”
It had been a year and a half since we filed the complaint in the Hydeford case. During that time, more than fifty women had joined the class action, but little else had been achieved in federal court. Small motions had been decided, like whether certain pieces of evidence would be discoverable. Luckily, the court had decided most of those motions favorably to the plaintiffs. But the case was still ongoing, and nothing of any substance had yet been declared.
At least the complaint we’d filed with the government had yielded more results. In the time since we’d first requested the congressional investigation, the Department of Homeland Security had closed the Hydeford Detention Center, transferring all its inmates to another facility, and a lucky few had even been released. DeMarke and ICE were no longer engaging the services of Pinelands, and Dr. Choudry had been let go. I couldn’t say what else had become of Dr. Choudry, except that she had denied all claims of wrongdoing and consistently refused to comment on inquiries from the press.
But now, at last, the Department of Homeland Security’s Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations was holding a hearing on the medical treatment of women who had been detained at Hydeford. I knew the committee had questioned dozens of witnesses, scoured records, and consulted with experts, and that maybe, maybe, some positive ruling would be made.
I hailed a cab and asked the driver to hurry to Penn Station, where I would be meeting Lydia, Sean, and Will Carbone to board an Amtrak train to Washington DC.
As I clicked my seat belt into place, my phone chimed with a text. I glanced at the screen and smiled.
“Good luck today. Don’t worry about Vivi. I’ll take her back to my place after daycare, and I reminded my mom already about watching her tomorrow, so you don’t have to.”
It had taken some time, but Vance and I were finally on good terms again, coparenting like champs, if I did say so myself. He’d offered to find a new place to stay so I could keep our apartment, but I was much happier finding a new apartment where Vivi and I could live. I’d set us up in a place on Ninth Street in the West Village, the area of the city I’d always loved best.
As far as I knew, Vance hadn’t started dating anyone seriously yet, and neither had I. But we both probably would. And that would be okay. For now, I was happy to spend my time focused on my daughter, my grandmother, and my work. I’d taken a position as a professor at NYU Law School, where I was teaching 1Ls about administrative law. I loved being surrounded by the students and was hoping to add additional courses to my load when Vivi got a little older.
As the cab sped down Fifth Avenue, I scrolled through my other text messages. Dustin had written, wishing us luck just like Vance had. Except looking at his message, I got a tingly sensation in my chest. Maybe soon I would allow myself to explore that. But not yet. For now, I had other things on my mind. I was nervous about how things would go in DC and whether progress would be made for our clients.
I reached into my tote and pulled out the letter again. Four months earlier we’d finally won Isobel’s immigration case. The removal order had been canceled, and she’d since received her green card. She and I had hugged so hard that day at the courthouse as we alternated between tears and laughter. Then Isobel had climbed in the car with her grandmother, ready to reunite with her daughter, Sia.
A few weeks later, I found a letter in my mail.
Dear Jessa,
I got my old job back at the nail salon (and I’m still the best manicurist in the neighborhood!). Some days, after work, I’ll watch Sia hanging out with her friends, almost teenagers now, and I think about what I’d want someone to do for her if she ever ended up in a situation like mine. I think a lot about how to protect her. I pray the world will change and we’ll come to a place where the people in charge can no longer use women’s bodies to get what they want—not for money, power, anything.
The only hope we have is knowing there are people out there like you. You showed up at that detention facility to do just one small thing (though not small to me!), but you left there dead set on doing another. You took one look at us and you saw us. So many of us in there were feeling helpless, lonely, hopeless, destroyed. But you marched yourself into our lives and didn’t let us give up. You, with your pushy attitude and your fancy pens, you challenged us to see the other parts of ourselves, the best parts. We know you’re still out there doing everything you can for us, trying to finally get some justice, make someone acknowledge what they took from us.
We see you too, Jessa, and we will always be grateful for you. Whatever happens with our case, you’ve already done more for us than you can know. You helped us find strength in ourselves again, and no words could sufficiently thank you for that. You better make sure you remember our gratitude every single day. Now, go win that case!
The letter was signed by each of the women who had joined the class action. Somehow, between Fern and Isobel, they’d managed to get signatures from all the women who were now part of the suit, all fifty-three of them. I hoped that after today, I would have news they’d be relieved to hear.
I folded the letter and placed it gingerly back in its envelope. Closing my eyes for a moment in the back seat of the cab, I counted backwards in my head, centering myself and getting ready. It was showtime.
Washington DC
Special Subcommittee of Investigations Hearing
Senator Marshall Lowell Presiding
It is the bipartisan finding of the subcommittee that female detainees at the Hydeford Detention Center in New Jersey were subjected by a DHS-contracted doctor to excessive, invasive, and often unnecessary gynecological procedures with repeated failures to obtain informed medical consent.
This is an extraordinarily disturbing finding. It is, in our view, a catastrophic failure by the federal government to respect basic human rights.
Among the serious abuses this committee has investigated since its inception, subjecting female detainees to nonconsensual and unnecessary gynecological surgeries is one of the most nightmarish and disgraceful.
Those involved must be held accountable . . .