Chapter 50
title: "The Interview Room" wordCount: 2536
The USCIS officer's first question isn't "How did you meet?"—it's "Can you explain why someone would send us these?" and she slides a manila envelope across the table.
I stared at the envelope. Brown. Standard. The kind you could buy at any office supply store. My grandmother's jade bracelet felt cold against my wrist.
Daniel's hand found mine under the table. His palm was damp.
Officer Mendez—her nameplate said MENDEZ, L., and she had the kind of face that had seen every lie in the book—tapped the envelope with one manicured nail. "Go ahead. Open it."
Daniel reached for it. His fingers left moisture marks on the manila.
Inside: photographs. Dozens of them.
Me, leaving Daniel's building at 6 AM three weeks before our supposed "first date." Daniel, getting into my car outside a coffee shop in February—two months before we claimed to have met. A printed timeline with dates circled in red ink. Bank statements showing no joint accounts until after our engagement announcement.
"Let's just—" I started, but my throat closed.
"These were submitted yesterday," Officer Mendez said, her voice flat and professional in a way that made my stomach drop. "Along with a very detailed anonymous tip suggesting your marriage is fraudulent."
The fluorescent lights hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang.
"That's not—" Daniel began.
"I'm going to stop you right there." Officer Mendez held up one hand. "Before either of you says anything else, I need to inform you that making false statements to a federal officer is a crime. Penalties include fines and imprisonment. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Daniel said.
"Ms. Chen?"
My mouth was dry. "Yes."
"Good." She gathered the photos back into the envelope with efficient movements, each one a small condemnation. "Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to interview you separately. Standard procedure when there are credibility concerns."
Credibility concerns. The words sat in the air like smoke.
"You can't—" I said.
"I absolutely can." Officer Mendez stood. "Mr. Park, you'll stay here. Ms. Chen, come with me."
Daniel's hand tightened on mine. For a second, I thought he might refuse. Might stand up and tell her we were leaving, that we'd get a lawyer, that she couldn't treat us like criminals.
Instead, he let go.
The second interview room was smaller. No windows. Just a table, two chairs, and a camera mounted in the corner with a red light that blinked every few seconds.
Officer Mendez sat across from me. She had a legal pad now, and a pen that clicked when she pressed the top.
"Let's start simple," she said, not looking up from her notes. "When did you and Mr. Park first meet?"
"April seventh." The lie came out smooth. We'd practiced this. "At a mutual friend's dinner party."
"Which friend?"
"Sarah Chen. My cousin."
Click. Click. The pen. "And Sarah can verify this?"
"Yes."
"Good. We'll contact her." Officer Mendez made a note. "What did you talk about that night?"
"Food, mostly. He asked about my catering business."
"Romantic."
I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic. "It was nice. Comfortable."
"When did you start dating?"
"Two weeks later. April twenty-first."
"Who asked whom?"
"He asked me."
"Where?"
"A restaurant. Momofuku."
"Which location?"
My mind went blank. There were multiple locations. We'd never specified which one. "The—the one in—"
"Take your time."
But taking time made it worse. Made it obvious I was trying to remember a script instead of a memory.
"Columbus Circle," I said, and prayed Daniel would say the same thing.
Click. Click.
"What did you order?"
"I don't—" I caught myself. "It was months ago."
"Most people remember their first date." Officer Mendez looked up. Her eyes were brown and completely unreadable. "Especially when it leads to marriage."
"I had the pork buns," I said. "And he had—okay so, he had the ramen. The spicy one."
"The spicy one."
"Yes."
She wrote something down. The scratch of pen on paper felt like nails on a chalkboard.
"Ms. Chen, these photos show you entering and leaving Mr. Park's apartment building in February. Two months before you claim to have met."
"Those could be anyone."
"The timestamp is visible. February fourteenth. Valentine's Day." She slid one photo across the table, and there I was, clear as day, wearing my green coat and carrying my work bag. "That's you, right?"
My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs. "I don't remember."
"You don't remember Valentine's Day?"
"I work a lot. Catering—it's busy."
"So you might have been there for work?"
It was a trap. If I said yes, she'd ask for invoices, contracts, proof. If I said no, I was admitting the photo was wrong, which meant I was lying about something.
"I might have been delivering food," I said carefully.
"To Mr. Park specifically?"
"I'd have to check my records."
"Please do." Officer Mendez made another note. "We'll need those records. All of them. Every job you did in February and March."
The room was getting smaller. The walls were the color of old teeth.
"Let's talk about your living situation," Officer Mendez said, and I wanted to scream because we'd prepared for this, we had answers, but my brain was static and white noise. "You moved into Mr. Park's apartment on May first, correct?"
"Yes."
"That's less than a month after your first date."
"We—it felt right."
"Fast, though."
"When you know, you know." The phrase sounded hollow. Borrowed from a romantic comedy.
"Did you give up your previous apartment?"
"Yes."
"What was the address?"
I told her. She wrote it down.
"And you were living there alone?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Two years."
"Must have been hard to give up. Two years of independence."
"I was ready for the next step."
"With someone you'd known for three weeks."
"Yes."
Click. Click. Click.
"Ms. Chen, I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest." Officer Mendez set down her pen, and the sudden silence was worse than the clicking. "Is this marriage real?"
My heart was a fist in my chest. "Yes."
"Because if it's not—if this is an arrangement to circumvent immigration law—the consequences are severe. For both of you."
"It's real."
"Then you should have no problem providing evidence. Joint bank accounts. Shared bills. Photos together before April. Witnesses who can testify to your relationship."
"We have those things."
"Do you?"
The question hung there. Because we didn't. Not really. We had a few staged photos. A joint account we'd opened last month. Bills in Daniel's name that I'd never touched.
"We can get them," I said.
"You have seventy-two hours."
The number hit like a slap. "What?"
"Seventy-two hours to provide corroborating evidence of your relationship. If you can't, I'll be recommending denial of Mr. Park's adjustment of status and initiating removal proceedings."
Removal proceedings. Deportation.
"You can't—"
"I can, and I will." Officer Mendez stood, gathering her legal pad and pen with the same efficient movements she'd used for the photos. "This interview is over. You can wait in the lobby while I speak with Mr. Park."
"Wait—"
But she was already opening the door.
The hallway was too bright. Too long. I walked it anyway, my legs moving on autopilot while my brain tried to process what had just happened.
Seventy-two hours.
We didn't have seventy-two hours' worth of evidence. We barely had seventy-two minutes' worth.
The lobby was empty except for an older couple sitting in the corner, holding hands and whispering in Spanish. They looked happy. Real.
I sat down in a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor and stared at my hands. The burn scar on my forearm—the comma-shaped one from culinary school—looked darker than usual. Or maybe that was just the lighting.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I almost didn't open it. Almost deleted it right there.
But I knew. Somehow, I knew.
The text was short: "How's the interview going?"
No signature. No name. But I could hear James's voice in every word.
My hands were shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone.
Another text: "I can make this go away. You know I can."
I wanted to throw the phone across the room. Wanted to scream. Wanted to run back down that hallway and tell Officer Mendez everything—about Richard, about the blackmail, about the fake marriage and the real feelings that had somehow grown in the cracks between the lies.
Instead, I sat there. Frozen.
The door at the end of the hallway opened. Daniel walked out, Officer Mendez behind him. His face was pale, and he wouldn't look at me.
That's when I knew his interview had gone worse than mine.
Officer Mendez called us both back into the first interview room. She didn't sit down this time. Just stood at the head of the table with her arms crossed, and I thought about how much power a person could have when they controlled whether you got to stay in the country you'd built your entire life in.
"Your stories don't match," she said flatly.
Daniel's mouth went flat. "What do you mean?"
"You said you met at a dinner party. He said you met at a coffee shop." She looked at me. "You said he asked you out. He said you asked him." Back to Daniel. "You said you moved in together on May first. He said May fifteenth."
"We're nervous," I said, and my voice came out too high, too desperate. "We're just—we're mixing up details because we're nervous."
"Or you're mixing up details because you're lying."
"We're not—"
"Ms. Chen, you said you had the pork buns on your first date. Mr. Park said you had the ramen." Officer Mendez's voice was sharp now, cutting. "You said the restaurant was in Columbus Circle. He said it was in the East Village."
The room tilted. I grabbed the edge of the table.
"These aren't small details," Officer Mendez continued, and each word was a nail in a coffin. "These are fundamental memories that any real couple would remember the same way."
"Let's just—" I started, but I couldn't finish. Couldn't think of anything that would fix this.
Daniel stood up. "This is my fault."
"Daniel—"
"I'm the one who asked her to do this." His voice was steady, but his hands were fists at his sides. "She didn't want to. I convinced her."
"Don't," I said.
"It's true."
"Mr. Park, sit down." Officer Mendez's tone left no room for argument.
He sat.
"Here's what's going to happen," she said, and I wanted to cover my ears, wanted to run, wanted to be anywhere but in this room with its fluorescent lights and its camera with the blinking red eye. "You have seventy-two hours to provide evidence that this marriage is legitimate. Joint financial records going back at least six months. Witness statements from friends and family who can testify to your relationship. Proof of cohabitation—utility bills, lease agreements, mail addressed to both of you at the same address."
"We can get that," Daniel said.
"Can you?" Officer Mendez looked at him. "Because right now, all I have is an anonymous tip with photographic evidence, two people who can't keep their story straight, and a very strong suspicion that this marriage is fraudulent."
The word hung in the air. Fraudulent.
"If you can't provide adequate evidence within seventy-two hours, I will recommend denial of your adjustment of status application and refer your case to ICE for removal proceedings. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Daniel said.
"Ms. Chen?"
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. The panic was rising in my chest like water, filling my lungs, and I was drowning in this room with its terrible lights and its camera and its officer who held our entire future in her hands.
"Ms. Chen, do you understand?"
"I—" The word came out as a gasp. "I can't—"
"Nora." Daniel's hand found mine under the table again, but this time it didn't help. This time it made everything worse because his hand was shaking too, and we were both drowning, and there was no one to save us.
"I need a verbal confirmation," Officer Mendez said.
"Yes." The word scraped out of my throat. "I understand."
"Good. You're free to go."
We stood. Walked to the door. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
"One more thing," Officer Mendez said, and we both froze. "Whoever sent that tip? They're watching you. So I'd be very careful about what you do in the next seventy-two hours."
The parking lot was bright and hot, the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer. Daniel walked three steps ahead of me, his shoulders rigid, and I wanted to reach for him but didn't know how.
"Daniel—"
"Not here."
We made it to his car—a black sedan that was too expensive for someone who claimed to be struggling with visa issues, but that was just one more inconsistency in a pile of them—and he unlocked it with shaking hands.
I got in the passenger seat. Closed the door. The silence was suffocating.
"I'm sorry," he said finally.
"For what?"
"For getting the details wrong. For—" He pressed his palms against the steering wheel. "I should have been more careful."
"We both should have."
"No." He turned to look at me, and his eyes were red-rimmed. "This is my fault. All of it. Richard, the blackmail, the fake marriage—"
"It's not fake anymore."
The words came out before I could stop them. Hung in the air between us like a confession.
Daniel stared at me. "Nora—"
A knock on the window made us both jump.
James Park stood outside the car, one hand in his pocket, the other raised in a small wave. He was wearing a suit that probably cost more than my entire month's rent, and he was smiling.
Daniel's hand moved to the door lock, but James was already tapping on the glass.
"We should go," I said.
"He'll just follow us."
"Then we call the police."
"And tell them what?" Daniel's voice was hollow. "That my cousin is harassing us? They'll ask why. We'll have to explain. And then—"
He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
James knocked again. Pointed at the window. Mouthed: "Just talk to me."
Daniel's hand hovered over the lock button. For a second—one terrible, endless second—I thought he might actually unlock it.
"Don't," I said.
"He can make this go away."
"At what cost?"
"Does it matter?" Daniel looked at me, and his expression was so tired, so defeated, that my chest ached. "We have seventy-two hours, Nora. We don't have the evidence. We don't have witnesses. We don't have anything."
"We have each other."
"That's not enough."
James knocked a third time. Harder.
Daniel's finger moved toward the unlock button.
"Daniel, please—"
The window rolled down instead, and James's smile widened.
"I can make this go away by tomorrow morning," James said, his voice smooth and reasonable, like he was offering to help us move furniture instead of blackmailing us into God knows what. "The question is—what's your answer to my offer?"
Daniel's hand moved toward the door handle.