My life was improving, but I was still in survival mode. I would not give up the battle to obtain legal status in France. With a student Carte de séjour, I would be able to apply for a job, something I desperately needed. I was scraping by on $240 per month—the interest from the blood money. Something I did not want to think about.

The only thing holding me back now was obtaining proof of domicile. Moving into Ronny’s apartment did not improve the situation. We were illegal tenants paying him in cash—there was no way he would give me a lease. Even the telephone bill was off-limits. I didn’t know where to turn.

“Just ask Jack,” Dan said one night. “I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”

“I’m too embarrassed,” I confessed. “I’m like a refugee.”

“It’s no big deal to this dude. He’s rich. He’ll just have his secretary take care of it.”

Dan was right. When I called Jack to explain my predicament, he simply said to stop by his apartment a few days later to pick up the papers.

Meanwhile, Bedis and Esra had acquired their own missing documents, so we planned a final group visit to Crimée. This time we would game the system and be the first to arrive—well before the first morning train that brought the crowds—by spending the night at the préfecture de police. That evening we shared a typical Turkish dinner with friends. The wine and conversation flowed, and, as was the custom, cigarettes were smoked between each course. After a midnight digestif, everyone thought it was hilarious as we packed our blankets and pillows into a bag and called a taxi.

The cab pulled up in front of the Crimée prefecture. To our surprise, there were already a dozen or so people camped out in front of the door. They welcomed us from their sleeping bags and offered us beer, chocolate, and cigarettes. We sat down at the end of the line on the sidewalk and made our beds for the sleepless night.

By 8:00 AM, when the prefecture opened, the line stretched seemingly for kilometers behind us. We waited for less than an hour to get to the entry window. This time I stepped forward with confidence. I was prepared with the stamps, envelopes, photos, bank account book, and an official-looking letter on Jack’s company letterhead attesting that I lived in the company apartment with him. And a phone bill in Jack’s name.

The policeman glanced over the documents, handed me a number and waved me into the building.

Inside the prefecture was a large room with many more windows, all with uniformed police behind them. I was passed back and forth to each one, handing them a different paper. I was told—or at least I may have understood—that at the end of the process I would receive a temporary Carte de séjour.

After what seemed like hours, at the final window, my number was called. I approached with trepidation, but there a man held out a small plastic card to me. I took it from him and stepped back to examine it.

Suddenly, there was a burst of excitement from the mostly African crowd waiting in line. I held up my card, and they clapped and cheered at my success.

When I stepped outside, it was already afternoon. Bedis and Esra were nowhere to be found. Later I learned that even though my Turkish friends had all the necessary documents just as I did, they were turned away.