ALEC & SUSAN

Behind the Glass

Alec slammed the heavy glass door of his office, the sound echoing the sudden fractures in his life. His hand, slightly trembling, punched Anthony Gills’ number into his phone before he’d even taken a seat.

"Anthony," Alec began, his voice dropping to a hurried whisper as soon as the lawyer answered. "They took her. ICE. Just a few minutes ago." He paced the length of his desk, the taste of bile rising in his throat. "It’s my mother—I know it. She finally did it."

He stopped pacing, gripping the edge of the mahogany desk until his knuckles turned white, staring at a picture of his wife that suddenly felt painfully fragile. "Tread lightly, Anthony, for now. Just… get everything ready. I need you to pull every lever you have to get her out of there." He paused, his breath hitching, the desperation becoming absolute. "And I need a visit. I have to see her."

Alec’s fingers trembled as he pressed the phone to his ear, the dial tone a rhythmic thud against his racing heart. When John finally picked up, the words tumbled out of his mouth in a fractured rush, painting a grim picture of the empty space where Susan should have been.

"Have you called your lawyer?" John’s voice was uncharacteristically tight.

"I did," Alec managed, pacing the narrow length of the hallway. "He said he’d call the second he had news. Any news."

"I am so sorry, man. I can’t believe this is happening."

Alec stopped, his gaze fixing on a framed photo of Susan laughing. The air felt heavy, curdled by a suspicion he couldn't shake. "John... my mother did this."

There was a sharp silence on the other end. "Are you sure? Alec, that’s a hell of a thing to say. How do you know?"

"She threatened her," Alec whispered, his voice cracking. "She told Susan to stay away from me—threatened to have her deported if she didn't disappear."

"What? Why would she go that far?"

"Because Susan isn't part of the plan," Alec said bitterly, thinking of the cold, calculated world his mother inhabited. "She’s the kindest soul I’ve ever known, but my mother sees a target, not a person. She wants me tethered to some Upper East Side heiress. When I refused, she must have put a shadow on us. She found out we eloped, and then... Susan was gone."

"Anthony’s a pro," he said, his voice a steady anchor. "He’ll have her back in your arms before you know it."

"God, I hope you're right," I muttered, pacing through the room, the image of her pain tearing at my chest. "I just love this girl so much to watch her go through this. As for my mother? She’s dead to me after this. I’m done."

"Where did they take her?" he asked, his voice low.

"That's the thing—I don't know," I said, running a hand through my hair. "Anthony's working on arranging a visit. I'm praying it's today."

"Listen, don't be alone. Come crash at my place tonight."

"Thanks, man. I will. I’ll call you later."

"Keep me updated. Whatever you hear, call me."

An hour later, the phone jolted Alec from his tense silence. Anthony’s voice was clipped, professional, but hurried.

"I got you a slot today, but it’s tight—only thirty minutes," Anthony said, shuffling papers in the background. I will meet you outside the detention center. 26 Federal Plaza. We need signatures on the I-130 petition and the I-485 adjustment of status. Then, the I-610A waiver for unlawful presence, and I’m pushing an I-246 directly to the ICE Field Office to halt the deportation process."

Alec rubbed his temples, trying to catch his breath. "What... what exactly does all this mean?"

"It means we're fighting, Alec," Anthony said, his voice softening slightly. "She’ll have a bond hearing before a judge, and as soon as that amount is paid in full, we should have her out within 24 to 48 hours." He paused, allowing the weight of it to settle. "It’s going to be okay, Alec. I promise."

Anthony's voice dropped, turning raspy and quiet, the kind of quiet that meant bad news. "Alec, there’s something you need to understand about the visit," he said, the silence growing heavy. "No contact. There’s going to be a glass partition between you, and you’ll have to use a telephone to talk. You won’t be able to touch her."

I yanked my hand through my hair, clutching at the strands as the air left the room. Behind Glass? A telephone? My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe, couldn't believe this nightmare was actually happening.

"Alec," I interrupted, my voice shaking, "I'm filing those papers first thing in the morning. I know people—I’ll pull every string I have to move this process along."

The cab pulled away, leaving me alone with the silence of the massive building. I let my shoulders slump against the cold concrete, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, waiting for Anthony. Minutes passed until his familiar jog broke the monotony, a brief moment of comfort as his hand fell heavily on my shoulder.

"How are you holding up?" he asked, his voice low.

I offered a weak shake of my head, looking everywhere but at him. "Not good," I murmured, the truth tasting like ash.

"Let’s go in." He gestured toward the entrance. "Susan needs to sign these papers, and you can sign your portion afterward."

Security was a brick wall. A fluorescent-lit check-in area felt instantly oppressive. The guard, uniformed and emotionless, didn't even look up as he signaled toward a set of lockers. "No phones allowed beyond this point," he stated, bringing his hand down on the metal counter. "Leave them in a locker or take them back to your car."

The elevator doors slid open on the tenth floor, revealing a sterile, brightly lit hallway that smelled faintly of industrial cleaner. I followed Anthony to the front desk, my stomach churning as I listened to him inquire about Susan. After signing a visitor’s log, we were directed down a narrow corridor, stopping at a heavy, locked door—another security checkpoint. I forced my breath to stay steady, watching the bored expression of the guard as I handed over my ID for the second time, my hands shaking just enough to ruin the photo scan. I shut my mouth, swallowing back a sharp comment, letting Anthony handle the cold, bureaucratic indifference.

Finally, we entered a small, stark room that felt instantly suffocating. A full-length glass partition divided the space, dividing us from where Susan would be. On either side of the Plexiglas, two plastic chairs were bolted to the floor, flanked by black, heavy-duty phones hooked to the walls. It was a scene straight out of a television prison drama, but the cold glare of the lights on the glass made it all too real. I gasped, the sound loud in the dead-silent room, forced to confront the horrifying reality that my wife was being held in a place designed to make people disappear.

I sank into the rigid, unforgiving metal chair, the harsh fluorescent lights of the visiting room doing nothing to warm the sterile space. Every nerve ending felt raw, waiting for the heavy steel door to open. When she finally appeared, my breath caught, and the world tilted.

Susan—my Susan—was in handcuffs.

The sight smashed through me, leaving my vision clouded by a hot, stinging blur. She looked haunted, her hair tangled, her skin dulled, and the unmistakable, jagged tracks of dried tears tracing down her cheeks. I must have slumped, because I felt Anthony’s hand clamp onto my shoulder, giving a firm, grounding squeeze that was the only thing holding me upright.

He walked over to a guartwenty-five-hundred-dollarat made the man nod. I watched Anthony speak to the officer bringing Susan in, and with a begrudging motion, the cuffs were removed. My eyes never broke contact with her. She took the seat across from me, and the space between us felt impossibly vast. Trembling, I placed my hand against the cold, scarred glass. She pressed her palm against mine, a desperate attempt to feel the softness of my skin through the barrier that kept her away.

I locked eyes with her and nodded toward the receiver. As she lifted it, her breath hitched, then broke into a wet, ragged sob that seemed to tear right through the glass. The sound of her shattering forced me to close my own eyes, fighting back the urge to scream. I wanted nothing more than to smash through the barrier, wrap my arms around her, and promise her the world would stop hurting. "Susan," I choked out, watching her chest heave against the receiver, "Are you okay?"

She couldn’t speak, answering only with a helpless, shuddering gasp. My hands pressed flat against the cold, cold glass. "It’s going to work out," I said, reciting it like a prayer, my voice shaking. "Anthony is here. He’s taking over—getting you out of here. You’re coming home soon."

Anthony stepped back, giving us a fraction of privacy, though I was still sandwiched tightly between two guards. Minutes later, he returned with a stern look, informing me he’d arranged a five-minute private room for Susan to sign the paperwork. "Alec," Anthony cautioned, pausing to make sure I heard him. "Keep your hands in your pockets. Tell her now—she cannot touch you."

When we got to the private room and I finally saw Susan face to face, all I wanted was to scoop her up into my arms. I managed a small smile, though it didn’t reach my eyes.

“I love you so much,” I told her.

“I love you too,” she replied.

“You’ll be home soon.”

It’s only a few more days, I said, but every second feels like a year. I’m holding on for you, clinging to the promise of you holding me again, of being together soon. But Lord, the anxiety is cruel—those butterflies in my stomach have turned into a raging fire, making my throat tight and bringing a cold, sickening wave of nausea that threatens to drown me.

Susan blinked slowly, as if the words had to travel a long distance before they made sense.

“A bond hearing?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. Her hands trembled as she reached for the papers.

Anthony nodded, keeping his tone even. “It’s not guaranteed, but it’s a good sign. Once the bond is set, Alec will pay for it, and then you get to go home.

At the mention of Alec, something in her expression shifted—hope, fragile and uncertain, flickered behind the exhaustion in her eyes.

"Really!"

“Yes,” Anthony replied. You just need to hold on a little longer.”

The guard shifted his weight near the door, his gaze still fixed on me, impatient but silent. Susan noticed, then quickly looked back down at the papers.

“Where do I sign?” she asked, more focused now, clinging to the task like it was something solid.

“Right here,” Anthony said, pointing to the marked lines. “And here.”

She signed carefully, each stroke deliberate, as if the act itself carried weight beyond ink and paper. When she finished, she hesitated, her pen hovering for a second longer before she set it down.

“Anthony…” she began, then stopped.

“What is it?”

“If this doesn’t work…” Her voice cracked slightly. “If something goes wrong—”

“It won’t,” he interrupted gently, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.

Susan nodded, but the doubt lingered. Still, she drew in a steady breath, straightened her shoulders, and pushed the papers back toward him.

Looking at Alec, she said quietly, "Going back to my country will not be the end of the world, I will miss you very much."

The guard stepped forward then. “Time’s up.”

Anthony gathered the documents, giving her one last reassuring look. “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

As Susan was led away, she didn’t look back—but for the first time since she’d been brought in, her steps seemed just a little less heavy.

The heavy glass door clicked shut behind me, severing the connection, and a sharp, cold knot instantly tightened in my stomach—the kind that comes when you know you’re leaving something precious behind. Susan was safe, but the distance felt permanent.

Anthony tapped my shoulder, nodding toward the café across the street. "Almost done," he said.

Inside, the smell of stale coffee and cinnamon filled the air. I slumped into a chair and grabbed a pen, my hand moving in a rhythmic, mindless dance across the documents. Anthony slid before me,

"Initial, sign, date." He started talking, outlining the steps for when Susan came home. Something about leasing agents and merging bank accounts, words that floated in and out of my focus.

"You need to get her name on the lease, and set up a joint bank account," Anthony said, tapping the paper.

"Anthony," I whispered, stopping mid-signature. I couldn't look him in the eye. "She doesn't know who I really am."

The sound of his chair scraping against the floor cut through the café noise. "What? Why did you keep this from her?"

I finally looked up, finding his shocked face. "I wanted someone to love me," I said, my voice barely holding together. "Not the name. Not the inheritance. Just me."

Anthony sighed, leaning back and shaking his head. "You know you can't live in this dream forever. You have to tell her, soon."

Alec gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white as Anthony’s words sank in.

"

Bring her a change of clothing on the day of the bond hearing."

"Can’t I just drop off a bag tomorrow?" Alec asked, his voice tighter than he intended.

Anthony didn't look up from his paperwork, shaking his head. "No. That's not how the system works, Alec."

"So, what? She’s stuck in the same filthy clothes until the hearing?"

Anthony finally met his eyes, a look of weary apology. "Sad to say... yes."

Alec let out a sharp, incredulous breath, shaking his head as he backed away from the table. "That is absolute bull-shit."

I lingered on the sidewalk outside the café, staring up at the cold glass of the building until my head throbbed, shaking it slowly as reality settled in. A passing yellow cab caught my eye, and I flagged it down, eager to escape the spot. I needed to tell John.

At his place, I broke the news, watching the color drain from his face as I recounted the details; he sat silent, clutching his stomach as if I’d hit him. That night was a blur of caffeine and pacing—sleep never stood a chance, and the thought of eating felt physically repulsive.

Two days later, the phone buzzed, Anthony’s voice sharp and efficient.

“Bond's hearing is set,” he said. “Tomorrow. Ten sharp. Don't be late.” He gave me the address: 26 Federal Plaza, twelfth floor, Room 1237.

The morning air was crisp at nine o'clock, but I hardly felt the chill as I paced the pavement outside the building. My pulse hammered a frantic, rhythmic beat against my ribs—part nerves, part intoxicating hope. Today wasn't just a visit; today was the day I might finally lead her back through our front door.

When Anthony finally rounded the corner, his easy stride felt agonizingly slow. He stopped, glancing at his watch and then back at me.

"Have you been waiting long?"

"A lifetime," I said, the words catching slightly in my throat.

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes dropped to the neatly folded bag tucked under my arm.

"Are you ready to see her? I see you brought her something to wear. Let’s head up now—give her plenty of time to get changed."

"I damn well am," I said, shoving the plastic bag—perfume and deodorant rattling inside—toward him.

Anthony stopped dead, refusing to look back, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely carried over the sterile hum of the hallway.

"That's not allowed."

I froze. "What? Are you kidding me? They’ve had my wife in the same filthy clothes for three days, and they won't let me bring her the bare necessities?" The words felt jagged as I spat them out.

"Alec, I don't make the rules," he murmured, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. "Keep your voice down. Don't make a scene, or they won't let you up."

Entering the lobby, I yanked the locker door open, jamming my phone, keys, and the forbidden toiletries inside, forcing the locker shut with a harsh metallic clang. The security check felt suffocating. When the elevator doors finally closed, a wave of sickness hit me; my hands trembled uncontrollably against my thighs, my stomach a knotted mess.

Then Anthony spoke, breaking the silence. "I forgot to mention it. They don't take personal checks, credit, or debit. Only money orders or cashier’s checks."

I exhaled slowly, watching the floor numbers change. "That's fine. There's a bank branch around the corner. No big deal."

I’d tolerate any indignity, any endless stretch of red tape, as long as it ended with her in my arms today.

"Give me the bag," Anthony said, reaching out. "I’ll drop this off on the tenth floor to make sure she’s set. Go ahead to the twelfth floor; I'll find you there."

"Okay," I managed, the word clipping off my tongue before he could change his mind.

The elevator ride was a slow crawl that made my skin prickle. A strange, frantic heat bloomed in my chest, and my stomach performed a slow, sickening roll with every passing floor. When the doors finally slid open at twelve, I sought out Room 1237 and sank into a rigid plastic chair, my knee bouncing in a rhythm of pure nerves.

A moment later, Anthony appeared in the doorway.

"They’re on schedule," he whispered. "One more case, then she’s up."

My heart began to hammer against my ribs, a dull, thudding pulse that drowned out the hum of the air conditioning. Then, at five to ten, the door swung wide. There she was. Our eyes locked, and a small, hesitant smile tugged at her lips. A single tear escaped, hot against my cheek, and I swiped it away with a shaky hand, fighting to keep the rest of the swell from breaking.

Anthony rose, smoothing his suit jacket with an air of quiet confidence that instantly calmed the frantic beating of my heart. As he passed, he offered a knowing smile and a firm, reassuring squeeze on the shoulder—a silent promise that this was his moment to shine. Stepping forward to stand beside Susan, he took his place at the table, ready to turn the tide of our case.

I watched him, every agonizing doubt fading as he spoke, realizing that every penny spent on him was worth it. I hung on his every word, witnessing a masterclass in preparation as he laid out our story. Before us lay an undeniable history: a thick folder filled with letters from Susan’s friends, John, and Katie, and John's parents, meticulously detailing our months of courtship. Beside them, a collection of photos served as a visual timeline—starting from that first nervous trip to the pub, through the laughter at John’s engagement, and finally, the heartfelt moment at his wedding, painting a vivid picture of a love that had grown, not hurried.

The judge barely glanced at the papers before sliding them across the bench, the tap of his pen announcing the twenty-five hundred dollar bail as if it were a triviality. Anthony caught the receipt the bailiff shoved towards him, his hands steady despite the circumstances. He crumpled the paper slightly, forcing it into my palm with a nod toward the elevator banks.

"Room 9–110. Ninth floor," he murmured, his voice tight. "I’ll see you up there."

I locked eyes with Susan, mouthing a silent "I love you" and a promise to return before vanishing into the elevator. Dropping to the lobby, I broke into a jog toward the bank, my pulse racing against the clock. The concierge greeted me with a polished smile, but my only thought was the urgent need for a cashier’s check.

"I need a banker, please," I said, trying to keep the frantic edge out of my voice.

"Certainly, name please? Have a seat, someone will be with you shortly," she replied smoothly.

I took a chair, but I couldn't sit still, checking my watch every few seconds as the minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly. I didn't have all day. When my name was finally called, I moved with efficient speed, securing the paperwork and racing back toward the Federal Plaza.

By the time I reached the ninth floor, my patience had evaporated. I stood trapped in a stagnant line, tapping my foot against the linoleum and checking my watch every thirty seconds, the minutes stretching into a painful eternity. Finally, at the front, I traded Anthony’s receipt and the cashier’s check for a final document, my hands slightly shaking.

I turned to find Anthony locked in an intense, low-voiced conversation with a stranger. Not wanting to sabotage whatever he was doing, I held back. Then, abruptly, he abandoned the discussion and began walking away. He didn't look back until he was almost at the elevator, where he offered a slow, deliberate wink before turning the corner. A cold knot of confusion twisted in my stomach—what on earth was he acting so strange about?

Minutes later, Anthony returned, breaking into a grin that felt entirely too big for his face. Then, I saw her. Susan. My heart hit my ribs, and my legs moved on their own, crossing the distance in three long strides. I pulled her into a crushing hug, burying my face in her neck, ignoring the fact that she clearly hadn't showered in days. It didn't matter. She was back.

As I pulled away, I shook Anthony’s hand, the words of gratitude catching in my throat. He met my grip with a firm, solid handshake.

“We still have a long road ahead of us,” Anthony said, his smile softening, “but for now, take your wife home.”