‘The Line’ Means a Long Wait for INS Clients

Jorge Custodio is sprawled on a blanket near the Hollywood Freeway, bundled up against the chill as daylight approaches. He is neither homeless nor unemployed, but a middle-class, Internet-savvy homeowner and naturalized U.S. citizen from El Salvador.

“I left my homeland a long time ago, but now I feel like I’m back in the Third World,” an exhausted Custodio says near the end of a 13-hour vigil waiting for the downtown Los Angeles Immigration and Naturalization Service headquarters to open.

At least 1,200 people like Custodio have gathered outside the INS offices by 6 a.m. in recent days, some of them beginning their camp-outs before sundown. They are executives and janitors, grandmothers and teenagers, all in need of working papers or citizenship or permission to bring loved ones to the United States, or some other service.

They seem resigned to one of Los Angeles’ worst breakdowns in governmental service, known simply as “The Line,” a doleful pageant that wraps around the block-square Federal Building like a serpent.

The Line has bulged even more recently as Monday’s deadline for certain legal-residency applications approached. That merely heightened its notoriety in the nation’s new-immigrant capital as a dreaded rite of passage and the worst of its kind in the United States.

For the INS, an agency long viewed as sloppy and heartless, The Line is a daily reminder of the consequence of emphasizing enforcement over service. As Congress has pumped more and more money into politically popular border-policing activities, other functions have suffered. Today, for example, half or more of the information booths at the agency’s L.A. headquarters are routinely unstaffed.

“Bottom line, it’s wrong,” admits Thomas J. Schiltgen, the 26-year agency veteran who heads the seven-county Los Angeles district of the INS, the nation’s busiest. “We have the worst possible conditions for our employees and the customers that we could possibly have.”

For the agency’s varied clientele, The Line is an inevitable gantlet--unless you can afford a lawyer to work the system for you. Users are obliged to brave the elements, be on the alert for line-jumpers and scam artists, lose a night’s sleep, and put up with the sheer humiliation of being herded like cattle.

At the end, they may come away with nothing more than a fistful of puzzling government forms or garbled advice in a language they don’t understand--or, as in many cases, they may be told to leave because they are so far back in line that they won’t get in that day.

“What choice do we have?” asks Usha Sukhija, a 56-year-old native of India, waiting to renew a work permit for her daughter-in-law, as she looks up from her blanket a block or so behind Jorge Custodio. “There is no choice.”

The Line became entrenched with the explosion of immigration in the 1970s that rapidly transformed Southern California. U.S. immigration law, one of the most intricate areas of jurisprudence, was made more complex as Congress and the White House grappled with the politically charged issue, making frequent changes in the law and necessitating frequent trips to the INS for many immigrants.

They came to Room 1001, the Information Room, on the ground floor of the vaguely modernist Federal Building, which houses the INS and other agencies. Beleaguered officers handed out forms, scheduled appointments, dispensed advice and generally filled a huge void. The Line became, for all its angst, one place where immigrants could get relatively accurate information without being ripped off by storefront consultants or high-priced attorneys.

Smaller lines form at other INS offices in Southern California, but none of those facilities offer the range of services available in downtown Los Angeles. The lines at this office are by far the longest in the county, officials said.

“There are people who, if they drove by INS and saw a line, they would stop and get in it,” Rosemary Melville, a former deputy INS district director here, once remarked.

These days, The Line begins to coalesce about 4 or 5 p.m., more than 12 hours before the offices open at 6 a.m. Most of the early denizens have previous Line experience, or they have been briefed by others about Rule No. 1: Arrive early.

Jorge Custodio is first in the queue this morning, having staked out his spot at 5 p.m. the previous day. The 38-year-old U.S. citizen is petitioning for his wife, whose application for resident status has dragged on for six years--a lamentable but not exceptional circumstance in an agency where the ex-commissioner once conceded that many applications were “lost in space.”

Lorena Custodio herself came here at 4 a.m. a few days ago, waited six hours and never got to speak with anyone, missing a day’s work as a hospital billing clerk.

The best-prepared bring blankets and food, chairs and water, maybe some reading material. They take care not to drink too much, because there are no bathrooms. Many arrive with spouses, other relatives or friends for company and moral support, though only applicants are generally allowed in Room 1001. With just 280 chairs, there’s simply not enough space for everyone.

The Lentins, a South African family living in Orange County, play it smart. The employer of Mark Lentin, a computer programmer, is sponsoring him for a green card, which allows U.S. residence and can lead to citizenship. His wife, Mariana, and two daughters--Megan, 5, and Misja, 2--are also eligible as “derivative” applicants.

The family arrives downtown about 10 p.m. While Mark stakes out a spot, his wife and the kids go to a nearby hotel and get a decent night’s sleep. Mariana arrives with a carriage holding the two kids just before dawn, somewhat refreshed.

“I really don’t understand why it’s necessary for everyone to come to L.A., but that’s the way they do it,” Mark Lentin shrugs. “This is for the rest of our lives. What’s one night?”

The mood in The Line is civil. Blue-uniformed federal police and private security guards patrol on and off during the day and night, especially on the lookout for that most contemptible of actions: cutting in.

A complaint surfaces. “They broke into the line! They broke into the line!” says an irate Juana Villegas before dawn has broken, pointing to several men in silk sport jackets, one of whom chain-smokes English cigarettes. “It is not fair! We are all half asleep. We are all in the same position.”

The pleas of this diminutive grandmother-turned-gendarme prompt a visit from George E. Santos, an imposing sergeant with the Federal Protective Service. Others in line agree with Villegas, and the men, despite their denials, are dispatched to the rear, where The Line has improbably doubled back on itself.

Scams abound. Some people come early only in the hope of selling their places to others for $40 or more. Others hawk free government forms for $10. Enterprising sorts take up crutches and borrow wheelchairs, hoping to get priority with the disabled. Others try the same tactic by bringing elderly or infirm relatives. Still others bear counterfeit appointment slips.

“Some of the folks have a tendency to try to get ahead of everyone else,” says Elbert F. “Al” Mills, the affable West Virginian who, as the district’s director of public services, is INS point man for The Line. “And as we look at the line, I don’t blame them. But I want to treat everyone fairly.”

Mills often declares, “I love my job.” But it is a job in which he daily confronts countless hopeful eyes and accented entreaties from those wondering: Is there some other way?

“You need to stay right where you are, ma’am,” Mills tells one imploring woman, who has no real hope of having her questions answered today. “This is the only line I’ve got right now.”

Mills, a classic car buff, will tell you The Line is as unpredictable as a 1957 Cadillac with its steering off. On occasion, rumors or misleading reports in the ethnic press may draw hundreds of green card applicants.

After those people with legitimate disabilities, priority in The Line is given to those with valid referral slips, usually obtained after spending a day or more waiting in line and getting no answers. Customers pass through metal detectors and then proceed to a “triage” area, a six-cubicle section where officers quickly assess their needs.

Most are sent on their way after receiving generic information or some of the 50 forms and packets, a few of which are several dozen pages long. Some are given proper forms and sent home. A limited number of those first in line are given tickets to see officers about their specific cases at counters inside Room 1001. This can involve several more hours of delay, which many pass by watching one of the room’s several big-screen televisions.

Many of those making inquiries are illegal immigrants subject to arrest and deportation. But the INS takes off its enforcement hat here: Only those with outstanding warrants are taken into custody, usually after being asked to step into another room. It is an uncommon occurrence. “I don’t want disturbances,” Mills says.

In recent days, the short-staffed Mills has frantically sought help from other departments, pleading on the telephone and offering to buy coffee for his colleagues. But only so many holes can be plugged. On each morning several days last week, the INS stopped issuing most tickets before 10 a.m., so heavy was the demand.

“This is an injustice!” declared Jose Hernandez, who had been in line since 4 a.m. on one of those days and had finally made it near the front. “How can they do this to us?” He, like others, remained in line, hoping for a break, though there was now little hope.

“They like to stay in line,” said Terry Mendez, a veteran INS information officer, “and we can’t stop them.”

Officers advise Hernandez and others that forms and other general information are available via the agency’s toll-free telephone number ([800] 375-5283) or at its Web site, https://www.ins.usdoj.gov.

Many INS clients, however, feel more at home with The Line, despite its many drawbacks.

“We’ve set a pretty low standard for ourselves,” says INS district director Schiltgen.

The agency plans to hire 20 information officers for its downtown L.A. offices, virtually doubling the staff by the fall. Plans are floating around for a redesign of shabby Room 1001, perhaps even a new and expanded facility. Officials would like to be more technologically efficient and delegate more tasks to satellite offices, easing the burden on downtown, as has already happened with many citizenship applications.

Jorge Custodio says he will believe it when he sees it.

After the marathon wait, his wife was able to obtain an appointment in a month to renew her work permit and, the couple hoped, to expedite her green card application.

“One has to wait,” Jorge Custodio says philosophically. “That is the system.”