What happens to our justice system when no one is watching?
The public was barred from this immigration court; here is what happened behind closed doors.
As an immigration attorney with over 13 years of experience, walking into court is routine. I arrive at the courthouse, wait in line, go through security, meet with my clients, and appear before the judge. My clients’ stories are often traumatic and heartbreaking, and they deserve to be heard and treated with respect.
Throughout my career, I’ve weathered changing administrations, shifting rhetoric, and I’ve watched as rules that permit members of our community to remain lawfully in the country have been granted and then ripped away at the whim of the incoming president’s new cabinet. I thought I was desensitized to some degree.
Nothing prepared me for what I witnessed in court last week on Friday, June 13th.
One day prior, I saw an elderly man willingly go with ICE agents after his hearing. He lacked the resources to return overseas on his own, and had no desire to fight against his forced removal from the country. Despite his willingness to cooperate in his own deportation, following his hearing, four ICE officers surrounded him with the intensity of a lion pack. The excessive approach made me angry, but I didn’t lose sleep. After all, this elderly man had agency and made his decision, and it seemed his desires were somewhat in line with those of ICE.
The next day, I returned to court with Acacia’s Executive Director, Shaina Aber—an attorney and leader I greatly admire. I was proud to show her around our home court. We showed up, we waited in line, and we went through security the same way I had done countless times before. But the guard told us we couldn’t enter.
I explained I had called ahead, that I was part of the court’s own pro bono committee and the Attorney of the Day program that had operated in the court since 2019. None of it mattered. The guard said the Federal Protective Service had barred public access due to protests the day before. “The protesters ruined it for everyone,” he said.
That phrase struck me: “ruined it for everyone” is what you say when someone breaks glass in a pool. Barring attorneys, media, and members of the public from a public courthouse—where hearings are supposed to be public—shifts the power dynamic in a dangerous way. According to the guard, only judges, court staff, DHS employees (including ICE agents), and people with hearings were allowed inside. Neutral observers were shut out.
After some time and lots of back-and-forth, another attorney and I were finally allowed in under the Attorney of the Day program. My organization’s Executive Director, the media, and other public observers were never permitted to enter the building. I believe the other attorney and I were let in because the court knew us. They knew we weren’t “agitators.”
Inside, the atmosphere was surreal. Eight plainclothes ICE officers in masks were strategically positioned throughout the hallways to block every exit. I spoke with several people before and after their hearings. They were scared. They had heard about courthouse arrests. I collected their family contact information in case they were taken. It can be very difficult for the family of those detained to actually locate their loved ones. At a time when people are forcibly deported to places like Guantanamo Bay and CECOT, El Salvador’s notoriously dangerous prison, helping family members locate their loved ones is an important service in and of itself.
One woman I spoke with had an asylum application pending. She was visibly afraid. I offered to walk her out after her hearing. As we exited, ICE officers swarmed us in an effort to apprehend a young man exiting at the same time. The woman gripped my arm tightly and collapsed, sobbing and hyperventilating. ICE ushered the man to an adjacent hallway, leaving the two of us on the floor. I held her as she shook with panic. When she was able to find relief, recognizing that she was spared, she sobbed, “They took that kid, they took that kid.” Not one ICE officer acknowledged her distress. Their focus was apprehension and arrest only.
I witnessed two more people apprehended that day, inside a public courthouse that had barred the public from entering. I believe there was one other arrest that I didn’t witness. Each person arrested had an application for asylum pending. They all had expressed fear of returning to their home countries. They had all worked hard to prepare their cases for the court. In the words of today’s immigration rhetoric, they were doing things “the right way.”
That other attorney I was with leads the “Attorney of the Day” program. Though she was similarly shaken by the events of the day, following the hearings, she went to the Enforcement and Removal Operations office on another floor of the building to try to advocate for the men who were apprehended. Minutes later, she called me to say they had already been moved to another city, allegedly due to protesters outside. There were no protesters, there were only members of the public and media who had been denied entry into the building.
I’m a private person. I never seek media attention, and I often try to avoid it at all costs. But I was one of only two people allowed in that courthouse. If we had not been there, no one outside of the system would have witnessed what had happened.
I’ve worked with asylum seekers for over a decade. I recognize these government tactics from the stories of my clients. They are authoritarian. They are pulled straight from the playbooks of regimes the United States once condemned. This is happening across the country every single day, likely in your own neighborhood.
So where do we go from here?
Start by showing up. Go to your local immigration court. Sit quietly. Observe. Don’t intervene, but bear witness and tell the story. Especially those of you with a public platform. Because no one should disappear by plainclothed, masked agents without an ally present.