DEPORTATION ORDER HAUNTS LA. MAN, 70

New Orleans- When Jose Leocadio Silva walks the halls of the local
immigration office, the agents greet him like an old friend.

He's a regular, a cheerful retiree with a heavy Spanish accent and goofy
fishing hat. One of the agents, Bob Smith, squeezes Silva by the elbow and,
with his other hand, gives him an affectionate clap on the shoulder.

"So how's the family? . . . Something's gotta happen with this case. . . .
We've been working on this for a while, huh, Jose?"

In fact, many different immigration agents have handled Silva's case over
the years - decades, actually - but none has been able to change the sad
fact that, on paper, Silva is considered an enemy of the state, a deportee
who could be shipped back to his native Cuba on a moment's notice. He has
lived with that threat for 42 years.

Silva, 70, has been under an "order of deportation" since August 1961
because of a minor marijuana bust in which he claims innocence, a blemish of
cosmic proportions on an other wise trouble-free life. The deportation order
came just as President Kennedy launched the embargo and ended diplomatic
relations with Cuba, leaving Silva in a state of bureaucratic limbo that
exists to this day. He can't be sent back, but his efforts to get the
deportation order lifted and apply for U.S. citizenship repeatedly have been
balked.

There are others in Silva's situation, but immigration officials said his
case is easily one of the longest-running of its kind.

"I'd use the word 'predicament,'" said Jack Bennett, interim district
director of the New Orleans bureau. "Since we don't remove people to Cuba,
it's like he's in a limbo state."

It doesn't matter that Silva came to the United States at 18, worked his
entire adult life, paid every penny of his taxes, married an American woman,
adopted an American son. His 90-year-old father, Lutgardo, has been a
citizen since 1945 after serving in the Merchant Marine in World War II. His
89-year-old mother, Teresa, gained citizenship in 1998. But none of that
matters, not the annual Fourth of July celebrations, not the American flags
and Uncle Sam lawn ornament he displays at his suburban home in Metairie.

"They keep telling me they've never seen a case like mine, but nobody has
showed me a way to solve my problem," Silva said.

Silva's life has been more of a half-life. He followed in his father's
footsteps and trained to be a seaman, but he never spent time at sea because
his deportation status doesn't allow him to leave the country. He has never
been allowed to vote or run for office or serve on a jury. He is required to
tell immigration officials whenever he moves to a new address and he must
get permission to leave the state, even for a short vacation. Once, he
petitioned to become a truck driver, but was denied because of the
out-of-state travel. A few years ago, he was forced to miss a family wedding
in Canada.

He is a naturally gregarious man, using his pet phrase, "Sounds like a
winner!" at every opportunity, even when it doesn't make sense. But when he
talks about his problem, it's with the deflated air of a man literally
without a country. "I've been under a shadow my whole life," Silva said. "I
have never known freedom, not real freedom. Now most of my life is gone."

Dozens of recent Cuban refugees are passing time in federal prisons across
the country because they committed deportable crimes on American soil.
Dozens more are in Silva's situation, a loose form of house arrest. But in
the odd case of United States of America v. Jose Silva, there is an added
twist: The crime isn't even on the books anymore.

Silva was convicted of "failing to pay tax on marihuana," according to his
immigration records. The federal statute - Title 26, Section 4744(a)(1) &
(2) - no longer exists, but Silva's appeal rights are limited because he
pleaded guilty.

"I told them I had nothing to do with this, but they were telling me I could
spend 10, 15, 20 years in prison," Silva said. "My lawyer told me to plead
guilty and I would be out of prison in about a year. Nobody said any thing
about deportation. I didn't understand what was going on because I could
barely under stand English."

Silva, sentenced to two years, was sent to a federal prison in Seagoville,
Texas. He was there only a month when, on Aug. 24, 1961, he was given the
hearing that resulted in the deportation order. But upon his release after
18 months in prison, the United States was no longer deporting felons to
Cuba.

Silva returned to New Orleans and gave up his dream of becoming a ship hand.
Instead he found jobs that didn't require travel: hairdresser, carpenter,
welder, refrigeration mechanic, delivery truck driver. He got divorced from
his Cuban-born wife in 1969 and, in 1972, married a New Orleans woman, Ann
Maria Pirtle. The same year, he adopted his wife's only child, John.

Silva's situation is not a big topic of family discussion. He periodically
grapples with the red tape of lifting the deportation order. Over the past
few years, he has talked to attorneys. He has talked to immigration
counselors. He has talked to agents with the immigration service.

Nobody has been able to lift Silva from limbo.