Staying Brave is Hard for Immigrants and Attorneys Alike

This week, I met with a young Venezuelan couple (22 and 23 years old) who landed in Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) detention the day before following a routine traffic stop for speeding. It was the boyfriend’s first time on a highway. He was driving to a bigger city to get a required inspection for the car he recently purchased, rather than waiting a week for an appointment with the local mechanic. Instead of issuing a warning or a ticket, the police officer contacted ICE.

Both had pending asylum cases, work permits valid until 2029, and until recently — one of them had Temporary Protected Status (TPS). They were following the legal process and allowed to be in the U.S. while their cases were pending. Their employer contacted me the morning after the arrest, because the company wanted to help these hardworking, trusted, and well-liked employees. But it was already too late.

Once detained, ICE incorrectly told them they only had two options: 1) stay in ICE detention for 6 to 8 months and pursue their asylum cases before a judge in immigration court; or 2) agree to voluntarily departure from the U.S. and be out in 2 to 3 weeks — plus the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) would give them $1,000. Terrified at the prospect of spending 6 to 8 months in detention, and totally unaware they could seek release from custody, they signed paperwork to depart the U.S.

By the time I met with them less than 24 hours after their arrest, they had already signed the paperwork and been transferred to a second detention facility. In the weeks (and possibly months) ahead, they will likely be transferred more times, between detention centers across the country until ICE is actually able to effectuate their removal.

The people I met are not criminals. They are hardworking young adults contributing to their community who were legally allowed to live and work in the U.S. while their cases were being processed. If they had waited a week for the appointment with the local mechanic, life would have continued as normal.

Instead, they are detained. U.S. immigration detention is civil — not criminal — but it’s hard to tell the difference when you are living this nightmare. Immigrants are often detained alongside criminals in state and local jails. But these aren’t criminal proceedings, which means immigrants are NOT entitled to legal representation at government expense. Even though these cases may have life-altering repercussions, you are not entitled to a public defender. Many immigration attorneys work for nonprofits or donate hours of pro bono assistance, but the need is still ever greater.

The need for removal defense attorneys will only grow as DHS uses the money allocated in Trump’s massive budget bill to expand detention to 100,000 immigrants per day, up from approximately 41,500 immigrants per day in 2024. According to DHS, it costs approximately $152 per day to detain an immigrant, rather than the small fraction of the cost (less than $4.20 per day) for alternatives to detention like an ankle monitor. And detention is scary, throws your life and livelihood into turmoil like this couple’s situation. It’s no wonder they were scared enough to sign away their chance for protection and safety and agree to be removed.

I’ve visited many clients in ICE custody over the course of my career. It’s always surreal walking through entrances surrounded by razor wire and then one heavy metal door after another that slams loudly and locks automatically before another one can open. I’m there for a few hours in my professional capacity and then I get to walk back through the heavy loud doors and go on with my normal life. But I am always affected by direct interaction with a fellow human who usually does not know when they will be able to leave detention, or what their life will be like when they finally do.

I find myself thinking about my visit with the young Venezuelan couple repeatedly. They were alone and very scared. As I finished my consultation with the young woman, she hugged me and cried. I cried, too. It was a big hug from someone who desperately needed human connection and did not know when she might have the opportunity to experience it again. “Be brave,” I said to her, but it was also a reminder to myself.