Courtroom 4. Sixth floor of the immigration court in San Antonio, Texas. Nine eleven in the morning. The walls are an institutional beige. Above the judge's bench is the seal of the Department of Justice. To the right, the window looks out on the parking lot. The late-May sun comes in at an angle.

Mateo Ortiz López sits in a wooden chair with legs too high for him. His feet don't touch the ground. He is four years and two months old. He wears a yellow- and blue-striped T-shirt. On the table in front of him is a blank sheet of paper and a red wax crayon. He is drawing a circle. The circle is not closed.

Carla stands beside the defense table. The defense table is empty. Carla wears a light gray suit and a white blouse. She is a pro bono interpreter for the San Antonio Legal Aid association. Her badge is clipped to her pocket.

Judge Hernández clears his throat.

"Case number 26-IC-4471, Mateo Ortiz López, removal proceedings. Interpreter present, Spanish. Defense counsel: absent." The clerk types. The sound of the keys is dry.

The judge looks at Mateo. Mateo looks at the crayon.

"Mr. Ortiz López, you are present for the preliminary hearing. Are you accompanied by counsel?"

Carla translates. She says it quietly, to Mateo's right. Mateo doesn't answer. He draws a second circle inside the first.

"For the record, the interpreter will repeat in Spanish."

Carla repeats in Spanish. Mateo lifts his eyes for an instant toward Carla, then toward the judge, then toward the sheet. He draws a third circle.

"Mateo, do you want a big lawyer who speaks for you?"

Carla translates. She replaces *abogado* with *una persona grande que habla por ti*. The clerk types. Mateo nods. He says: "Mamá."

The clerk writes *no answer responsive*. The reflection of the monitor is visible on the glass that separates her from the judge's bench.

The judge rephrases. "Put it in a way he understands. It is important that the child express a response." His voice is low. He isn't impatient. He is efficient.

Carla bends down on her knees. The skirt of her suit pulls. Carla is 39, the daughter of Salvadoran parents regularized in '98, and she has been an interpreter for eleven years. She knows that the court's pro bono panel reviews the transcripts. She knows that every word she adds outside the judge's question is logged and then sent for review. She knows she has already been warned once, six months ago, for telling a fifteen-year-old Honduran *ahora di la verdad* while translating a neutral question. She knows that the next warning suspends her from the panel for twelve months.

She also knows that Judge Hernández is one of the three San Antonio judges who, until last January, before the accelerated reform, used to continue the hearings of unrepresented minors. Now the judge no longer continues: he advances, or he closes. Continuance is not an automatic option. To obtain it, something must happen in the courtroom.

Carla is bent in front of Mateo. Mateo has brown eyes. On his right cheek there is a wax-crayon smudge he put there himself, before the hearing, while he waited in the hallway. His fingers are red with crayon.

Carla can translate literally. She can say, in Spanish, once again, the judge's question: *El señor juez te pregunta si quieres representarte a ti mismo en este procedimiento*. She can repeat it. She can repeat it until Mateo either nods, or doesn't answer, or cries, or keeps asking for mamá. The pro bono panel will have nothing to say.

Or she can add a sentence the judge has not spoken. She can say it in Spanish, loud enough for the judge to hear, clear enough for the clerk to put it on the record, and in enough Spanish that the clerk won't know what she has said until another panel interpreter reviews the recording.

Carla bends again. The skirt of her suit creaks.

She says, loud enough for the judge to hear: "Mateo, *este es el momento de decir mamá otra vez, dilo fuerte, dilo bien fuerte*."

Mateo looks at her. He says: "Mamá."

Carla straightens. She smooths her skirt. She turns toward the judge.

The judge takes off his glasses. He cleans them with the edge of his tie. He puts them back on.

"Madam interpreter, was that an instruction?"

Carla answers, in English, quietly: "Your Honor, that was a clarification."

The judge is silent for three seconds. He writes a note in the margin. The note is brief. The clerk types. The judge says, to the clerk: "Note that the minor declined to respond. Continuance to the appointment of a guardian ad litem. Hearing reset to June 19." The clerk types. The sound of the keys is dry.

The wax crayon rolls on the sheet. It rolls slowly. It reaches the edge of the table. It falls.

Mateo leans forward in the chair. The chair doesn't move because it is bolted to the floor. He stretches out his arm. He doesn't reach. Carla bends a third time. She picks up the crayon. She puts it on the table, to Mateo's right, where he can take it.

Mateo takes it. He starts drawing the circle again.