Mentally ill, detained and alone. Trump budget cuts forces immigrants to fight in solitude
Mentally ill detainees facing deportation are by law afforded a fair hearing, but a national program to provide attorneys has been gutted.
The message came over a jail video call between an attorney and her client locked away in immigration detention. In an echoey windowless room she said: "I'm sorry, I can't be your lawyer anymore."
Sophie Woodruff had to tell him twice. Her client could hear the words she was saying, but he didn't understand them.
Grevil Paz Cartagena is mentally ill and legally incompetent. He has been in detention for nearly 600 days. Woodruff was the only person the 31-year-old Honduran immigrant could talk to. That was aside from the voices in his head.
She had promised not to abandon him, but the Trump administration quietly canceled a $12 million annual contract on April 25. Since 2013, it had paid private attorneys to represent detainees deemed mentally or cognitively incompetent and unable to represent themselves.
Those attorneys filed a federal lawsuit in May challenging the abrupt change. In an April memo reviewed by USA TODAY, DOJ contractors crossed out any reference to 'nationwide' protections for detained noncitizens with serious mental disorders.
By law, detainees with severe disabilities are still supposed to be given a fair hearing where they can present evidence and cross-examine witnesses. But now they're caught up in the administration's zest to ramp up removals under the auspices of saving taxpayers.
That means 289 immigrants like Paz Cartagena facing removal around the country are suddenly adrift. Any newly detained immigrants deemed incompetent will not be afforded attorneys.
In a legal twist, hundreds of other mentally incompetent detainees in three states − Arizona, California, and Washington − are still offered attorneys due to a previous court ruling. The rest are left to fend for themselves.
'So, are you still going to be there in court?' a still-confused Paz Cartagena asked Woodruff before hanging up the video call.
Now formally withdrawn from the case, Woodruff says she's struggling to fully detach.
'Personally, it's devastating,' Woodruff said. 'I can't put this any clearer. If they deport him, he will die. And that's on my spirit.'
Immigration attorneys told USA TODAY they face an impossible choice: continue working for free or cut ties with their most vulnerable clients they pledged to defend.
Six attorneys enrolled in the program spoke about the sudden end to the funding. They facilitated interviews behind the detention center doors with detainees with a variety of mental health challenges.
With the help of intermediaries and advocates, all but one of the detainees decided to remain anonymous for fear of impacting their cases. Only Paz Cartagena is identified by name.
The Department of Justice, which administers the program, declined to answer questions about its past or future, citing pending litigation challenging the cut.
National and local staff for the immigration court in Paz Cartagena's case said immigration judges are barred from speaking about it.
Depression inside detention
While in detention, Paz Cartagena's anxiety waxes and wanes. Sleepless nights torment him. If it's bad, he'll bang his head against the cinderblock wall until a concussion sets in. The pain numbs him.
"The voices try to convince me to hurt myself,' he said in Spanish.
He lies awake until the 9 a.m. morning headcount at his facility. He says he feels lost and only relies on the voice who talks to him.
That was until Woodruff flew into town April 8.
When his now-former attorney arrived from New Orleans to the Aurora, Colorado detention center to meet Paz Cartagena, 'he was really truly alone, and struggling.'
The pair bonded over their mutual love of tattoos and reggaeton music. They listen to the same top artists: Wisin & Yandel, Daddy Yankee and of course, Bad Bunny.
After an hour, the two hugged and parted.
'Thank you for coming. I trust you, and I can tell you're going to help,' Paz Cartagena told her.
Woodruff helped him compile an asylum claim. Paz Cartagena identifies as bisexual. He said he was raped by a police officer back home before crossing into the United States.
Going back to Honduras as a member of the LGBTQ community would mean ostracization, violence or death. The U.S. Department of State warns that the Honduran police and government there 'incite, perpetrate, condone or tolerate' such violence against LGBTQ individuals.
His mother and siblings are back in Honduras. He has some relatives in the United States, but they are not in touch.
In a recent phone interview with USA TODAY, Paz Cartagena spoke in circles, confused about the timeline of his life and what would happen next.
'Someone is here with me, in my head,' Paz Cartagena said. 'The voice writes and helps me write music.'
Days later, in another interview, Paz Cartagena was lucid and understood his quandary.
He recalled the run-in with local police in Colorado. He had been self-medicating with recreational drugs, and was confused when plainclothes officers approached him. That set off the cascade of events leading to his detention.
Records show he has not been convicted of a crime in the United States. But immigration officials said he is in the country illegally and subject to deportation.
Mental health and Djibouti
The mental health of detainees often goes unnoticed throughout immigration proceedings. It's usually up to an immigration judge or attorney to raise concerns and order an evaluation.
But given the rapid-fire deportation regime, those timelines can be compressed or sometimes nonexistent.
That was the case for Nyo Myint, one of the eight men sent on a disputed flight to South Sudan that was recently upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court.
Court records obtained by USA TODAY show instead of being housed in jail pending trial on sexual assault charges, Myint lived at the Lincoln Regional Center, a psychiatric hospital. Psychologists there evaluated him and ruled him mentally incompetent on four separate occasions until November 2019. He entered a no contest plea in 2020 and was sentenced to 12 years in prison. He served a fraction of his time before being paroled in 2023 and taken into ICE custody and eventually removed.
'I did not learn about his previous competency issues,' Jonathan Ryan, Myint's Texas immigration attorney, recently told USA TODAY. 'I wish I had.'
DOJ defend actions in court
While hundreds of detainees face uncertainty, the organizations that were representing them are suing in federal court to have their funding restored.
DOJ attorneys, however, argue that that suit isn't about ending a program, but rather cutting a contract, which is within the scope of the government's rights. They have not signaled they will revamp the funding with other attorneys.
Representatives from the Executive Office of Immigration Review cited the pending case and declined to answer questions about changes to the arrangement, known as the National Qualified Representative Program.
Despite the alarm over an ethical bind, the DOJ points out that many attorneys in the program have said they'll continue offering their services after scrounging up other funding.
That's the case for Yarima González Crespo, an attorney with the Pennsylvania Immigration Resource Center, who will continue aiding a 63-year-old with mental health challenges facing removal.
'I tried this alone,' the Mexican grandmother client said on a video interview from detention. 'It was very hard, and the judge told me I couldn't do this by myself.'
The woman said she was a green card holder and lived in the country since 1979. Then a misdemeanor assault charge in 2020 upended her life. It wasn't until she landed on an ICE transfer flight in 2024 that she realized the gravity of the situation.
'I couldn't breathe, I was numb, petrified,' she said. 'I told them: 'No, I can't stay here, I've got my legal papers, I just got out of jail, I did my time.' I knew I would get sick again.'
After eight months of detention, a judge recognized the woman's rapidly deteriorating mental state and assigned representation. Now on steady medication, the woman says she's busy sweeping and scrubbing the detention center for $10 a week. She uses it exclusively to call her family - $2.50 for a three-minute call, $4 for video.
The grandmother of 10 has been keeping her cooking skills sharp in detention, making due with limited ingredients for tamales and birria tacos. Being the eldest detainee with her black-framed glasses and graying hair, she said others call her Mamá.
'You have to make them with love, it's not any special seasoning, it's love,' she said.
Immigration judges question changes
News of the changes to the attorney program trickled from the administration in a confusing mix of messages.
No changes planned as of Jan. 24, then an email signaled a cut April 3, then a rapid reversal: disregard the cut. And finally, the official notice from EOIR Acting Director Sirce Owen: As of April 25, the funding was cut 'for convenience.'
No other justification for the changes has been delivered.
Paul Schmidt, former immigration judge and chair of the Board of Immigration Appeals, called it another battle in the 'administration's all-out war on due process.'
'It's disheartening when we took a system that was created to implement best practices and now we're back to the worst way to do this,' Schmidt said.
Despite the administration's aim to streamline and accelerate immigration judgments, the funding cut could backfire, said Dana Leigh Marks, a retired immigration judge.
'It's a travesty,' Marks said. 'It's cutting off your nose to spite your face. These are difficult cases that immigration judges know move faster with a qualified representative.'
Marks said judges will be left to wade through immigrant stories for relevant legal elements and the lack of attorneys will create more opportunities for error. That could in turn lead to more appeals and slower judgments.
Another day in court
For Paz Cartagena, the young Honduran facing removal, he's back on his own, writing songs and sketching art while he awaits his court date.
His favorite song, "November Rain" by Guns N' Roses plays in his head while he battles his depression and suicidal ideation.
Woodruff, his former attorney, still keeps in touch via phone despite officially withdrawing from the case. She worries his mental health has only worsened as he faces a judge who signaled Paz Cartagena should be able to represent himself.
'I don't know what to tell the judge,' he said. 'I don't know what I am supposed to do.'
On June 30, he'll plead his case alone in front of Immigration Judge Elizabeth McGrail.
It could be the confused, quiet Paz Cartagena speaking, or the sharp version he feels on good days.
Nick Penzenstadler is a reporter on USA TODAY's investigative team working on national projects. Tips or questions? You can contact him via e-mail npenz@usatoday.com or on Signal at 720-507-5273.
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Those attorneys filed a federal lawsuit in May challenging the abrupt change. In an April memo reviewed by USA TODAY, DOJ contractors crossed out any reference to 'nationwide' protections for detained noncitizens with serious mental disorders. By law, detainees with severe disabilities are still supposed to be given a fair hearing where they can present evidence and cross-examine witnesses. But now they're caught up in the administration's zest to ramp up removals under the auspices of saving taxpayers. That means 289 immigrants like Paz Cartagena facing removal around the country are suddenly adrift. Any newly detained immigrants deemed incompetent will not be afforded attorneys. In a legal twist, hundreds of other mentally incompetent detainees in three states − Arizona, California, and Washington − are still offered attorneys due to a previous court ruling. The rest are left to fend for themselves. 'So, are you still going to be there in court?' a still-confused Paz Cartagena asked Woodruff before hanging up the video call. Now formally withdrawn from the case, Woodruff says she's struggling to fully detach. 'Personally, it's devastating,' Woodruff said. 'I can't put this any clearer. If they deport him, he will die. And that's on my spirit.' Immigration attorneys told USA TODAY they face an impossible choice: continue working for free or cut ties with their most vulnerable clients they pledged to defend. Six attorneys enrolled in the program spoke about the sudden end to the funding. They facilitated interviews behind the detention center doors with detainees with a variety of mental health challenges. With the help of intermediaries and advocates, all but one of the detainees decided to remain anonymous for fear of impacting their cases. Only Paz Cartagena is identified by name. The Department of Justice, which administers the program, declined to answer questions about its past or future, citing pending litigation challenging the cut. National and local staff for the immigration court in Paz Cartagena's case said immigration judges are barred from speaking about it. Depression inside detention While in detention, Paz Cartagena's anxiety waxes and wanes. Sleepless nights torment him. If it's bad, he'll bang his head against the cinderblock wall until a concussion sets in. The pain numbs him. "The voices try to convince me to hurt myself,' he said in Spanish. He lies awake until the 9 a.m. morning headcount at his facility. He says he feels lost and only relies on the voice who talks to him. That was until Woodruff flew into town April 8. When his now-former attorney arrived from New Orleans to the Aurora, Colorado detention center to meet Paz Cartagena, 'he was really truly alone, and struggling.' The pair bonded over their mutual love of tattoos and reggaeton music. They listen to the same top artists: Wisin & Yandel, Daddy Yankee and of course, Bad Bunny. After an hour, the two hugged and parted. 'Thank you for coming. I trust you, and I can tell you're going to help,' Paz Cartagena told her. Woodruff helped him compile an asylum claim. Paz Cartagena identifies as bisexual. He said he was raped by a police officer back home before crossing into the United States. Going back to Honduras as a member of the LGBTQ community would mean ostracization, violence or death. The U.S. Department of State warns that the Honduran police and government there 'incite, perpetrate, condone or tolerate' such violence against LGBTQ individuals. His mother and siblings are back in Honduras. He has some relatives in the United States, but they are not in touch. In a recent phone interview with USA TODAY, Paz Cartagena spoke in circles, confused about the timeline of his life and what would happen next. 'Someone is here with me, in my head,' Paz Cartagena said. 'The voice writes and helps me write music.' Days later, in another interview, Paz Cartagena was lucid and understood his quandary. He recalled the run-in with local police in Colorado. He had been self-medicating with recreational drugs, and was confused when plainclothes officers approached him. That set off the cascade of events leading to his detention. Records show he has not been convicted of a crime in the United States. But immigration officials said he is in the country illegally and subject to deportation. Mental health and Djibouti The mental health of detainees often goes unnoticed throughout immigration proceedings. It's usually up to an immigration judge or attorney to raise concerns and order an evaluation. But given the rapid-fire deportation regime, those timelines can be compressed or sometimes nonexistent. That was the case for Nyo Myint, one of the eight men sent on a disputed flight to South Sudan that was recently upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court. Court records obtained by USA TODAY show instead of being housed in jail pending trial on sexual assault charges, Myint lived at the Lincoln Regional Center, a psychiatric hospital. Psychologists there evaluated him and ruled him mentally incompetent on four separate occasions until November 2019. He entered a no contest plea in 2020 and was sentenced to 12 years in prison. He served a fraction of his time before being paroled in 2023 and taken into ICE custody and eventually removed. 'I did not learn about his previous competency issues,' Jonathan Ryan, Myint's Texas immigration attorney, recently told USA TODAY. 'I wish I had.' DOJ defend actions in court While hundreds of detainees face uncertainty, the organizations that were representing them are suing in federal court to have their funding restored. DOJ attorneys, however, argue that that suit isn't about ending a program, but rather cutting a contract, which is within the scope of the government's rights. They have not signaled they will revamp the funding with other attorneys. Representatives from the Executive Office of Immigration Review cited the pending case and declined to answer questions about changes to the arrangement, known as the National Qualified Representative Program. Despite the alarm over an ethical bind, the DOJ points out that many attorneys in the program have said they'll continue offering their services after scrounging up other funding. That's the case for Yarima González Crespo, an attorney with the Pennsylvania Immigration Resource Center, who will continue aiding a 63-year-old with mental health challenges facing removal. 'I tried this alone,' the Mexican grandmother client said on a video interview from detention. 'It was very hard, and the judge told me I couldn't do this by myself.' The woman said she was a green card holder and lived in the country since 1979. Then a misdemeanor assault charge in 2020 upended her life. It wasn't until she landed on an ICE transfer flight in 2024 that she realized the gravity of the situation. 'I couldn't breathe, I was numb, petrified,' she said. 'I told them: 'No, I can't stay here, I've got my legal papers, I just got out of jail, I did my time.' I knew I would get sick again.' After eight months of detention, a judge recognized the woman's rapidly deteriorating mental state and assigned representation. Now on steady medication, the woman says she's busy sweeping and scrubbing the detention center for $10 a week. She uses it exclusively to call her family - $2.50 for a three-minute call, $4 for video. The grandmother of 10 has been keeping her cooking skills sharp in detention, making due with limited ingredients for tamales and birria tacos. Being the eldest detainee with her black-framed glasses and graying hair, she said others call her Mamá. 'You have to make them with love, it's not any special seasoning, it's love,' she said. Immigration judges question changes News of the changes to the attorney program trickled from the administration in a confusing mix of messages. No changes planned as of Jan. 24, then an email signaled a cut April 3, then a rapid reversal: disregard the cut. And finally, the official notice from EOIR Acting Director Sirce Owen: As of April 25, the funding was cut 'for convenience.' No other justification for the changes has been delivered. Paul Schmidt, former immigration judge and chair of the Board of Immigration Appeals, called it another battle in the 'administration's all-out war on due process.' 'It's disheartening when we took a system that was created to implement best practices and now we're back to the worst way to do this,' Schmidt said. Despite the administration's aim to streamline and accelerate immigration judgments, the funding cut could backfire, said Dana Leigh Marks, a retired immigration judge. 'It's a travesty,' Marks said. 'It's cutting off your nose to spite your face. These are difficult cases that immigration judges know move faster with a qualified representative.' Marks said judges will be left to wade through immigrant stories for relevant legal elements and the lack of attorneys will create more opportunities for error. That could in turn lead to more appeals and slower judgments. Another day in court For Paz Cartagena, the young Honduran facing removal, he's back on his own, writing songs and sketching art while he awaits his court date. His favorite song, "November Rain" by Guns N' Roses plays in his head while he battles his depression and suicidal ideation. Woodruff, his former attorney, still keeps in touch via phone despite officially withdrawing from the case. She worries his mental health has only worsened as he faces a judge who signaled Paz Cartagena should be able to represent himself. 'I don't know what to tell the judge,' he said. 'I don't know what I am supposed to do.' On June 30, he'll plead his case alone in front of Immigration Judge Elizabeth McGrail. It could be the confused, quiet Paz Cartagena speaking, or the sharp version he feels on good days. Nick Penzenstadler is a reporter on USA TODAY's investigative team working on national projects. Tips or questions? You can contact him via e-mail npenz@ or on Signal at 720-507-5273.
