Mercedalia Diaz was tired of being an illegal immigrant, living in fear of arrest and separation from her young son. So she filed an application to work legally in the United States -- in effect, turning herself in.
After a permit was denied, Diaz landed here, in U.S. Immigration Court in Los Angeles, nervously fielding questions from a federal judge: If you don't get permanent residency, would you agree to leave the U.S. voluntarily? Do you promise not to return without a visa? What would you do with your son?
\f7Fidgeting with her hands, Diaz responded in Spanish, through an interpreter.
"My son was born here," the 29-year-old mother said. "I want the best for him. I don't want him to go through what I went through."
Then Diaz told her story to Judge Bruce J. Einhorn, beginning with her decision, 15 years ago, to illegally cross the border into the United States with her brother because her parents couldn't afford to send them to school.
It is Einhorn's job to hear tales of desperation from the immigrants who fill the wooden benches of his courtroom. Many have broken the law by covertly crossing into the United States or staying here after their visas expire. Some are seeking asylum, saying they face death or torture in their homelands.
Once here, most have the same goal: to avoid deportation. The odds of success are slim -- last year, in nearly 85% of cases nationwide, judges ordered immigrants to leave.
Many, like Diaz, plead less for justice than for mercy.
She was among dozens to appear in Einhorn's downtown courtroom over two weeks this summer. Her case and others in the Los Angeles immigration court system -- one of the busiest in the U.S., with 17,000 new cases filed last year -- offer a glimpse into the motivations and frustrations of those who seek to legalize their presence here.
As judges go, Einhorn, 51, is informal. He teases attorneys, talks baseball and occasionally sprinkles his speech with Spanish phrases. A 16-year veteran of the court, Einhorn is bound by immigration case law. But he has some discretion.
In that narrow opening, Diaz and others place their hopes. To win legal residency, Diaz has to prove to Einhorn that she has lived here at least 10 years, that she has "good moral character" and that her deportation would cause her son "exceptional and extremely unusual" hardship.
She told the judge that she had never committed a serious crime and had worked steadily -- earning about $20,000 a year as a house and office cleaner. She recently bought a house in Santa Ana, and every month sends about $200 home to her parents in Mexico, she said. But Diaz hadn't brought proof that she was a homeowner or taxpayer.
"You know I don't make house calls?" Einhorn said.
"Yes, I know," she responded, looking down.
Diaz wavered when asked what she would do with her son Edwin, 4, if she were deported. First she said she had arranged for a niece to raise him, then that she would take him with her, then that she didn't know what she would do.
In Mexico, Diaz said, they would have to live with her parents, without running water.
"You don't think you could clean houses in Mexico?" Einhorn asked.
"No, there is not enough money," she said.
Diaz left dejected. She was sure the judge's questions pointed to deportation, although the formal decision isn't likely to come until a November hearing. Outside the courtroom, she hugged Edwin, mentally questioning her decision to come forward.
"You have illusions that you are going to be able to get your papers," she said. "When you get to court, it's different.... It's not that easy."
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Ask Filadelphia Sanchez why she most wants to stay in the United States, and she doesn't hesitate: It is for her two children, 12-year-old Christian and 4-year-old Emily Salas.
Just over a year ago, Christian saw his 8-year-old brother struck and killed by a car as the two were walking home from school. Since then, to cope with his sadness, he has been seeing a therapist -- a service the family fears would be hard to find in Mexico.
But Sanchez didn't get a chance to talk to the judge about that. As a matter of law, the only thing that mattered was her prior criminal conviction.
In 1998, eight years after Sanchez illegally crossed the border at San Ysidro, police responded to a neighbor's call about a fight between Sanchez and her husband, Ruben Salas. She was arrested and later pleaded guilty to hitting Salas, landing her in Orange County jail for three days.
"The marriage was young," said Salas, who owns a seafood restaurant in Ontario. "We weren't at all as we are now."
Later, Sanchez's father, a green-card holder, applied for permanent residency on her behalf. It was denied. She was in court on this day as a last resort, hoping the judge would allow her to stay with her family.
As Christian sat in the front row, Einhorn made clear he could not help her. According to an appellate court decision, an illegal immigrant convicted of domestic violence cannot not stay in the U.S. legally.
