
‘Railroad kids through the system': Immigration court's youngest left to their own devices
'They don't know what is an attorney, they don't know what is a judge, they are very little,' said Flores, managing paralegal for the children's program at Amica Center for Immigrant Rights. 'We try our best to explain, but it's so difficult.'
Now, these teachable moments may become even more critical if children are forced to face the courtroom alone, without a lawyer.
Amid public outrage over due process afforded to immigrants, or the lack thereof, it's some of the youngest in the immigration court system who may be among those hit the hardest by the Trump administration crackdown and funding cutbacks.
The administration decided in March to terminate a federal contract with Acacia Center for Justice, which manages a network of legal service organizations representing around 26,000 unaccompanied children – some who are infants and too young to speak – in the United States.
'This decision was made without any plan in place to address the 26,000 children with open cases that the government encouraged our network to take on. As a result, these children are now unable to meaningfully participate in their cases and are left in the lurch,' said Shaina Aber, executive director of Acacia Center for Justice.
In just the span of a few weeks, the move has resulted in sweeping staff layoffs and a disruption in legal services that could lead to attorneys withdrawing from cases.
'The federal support is everything,' said Wendy Young, president of Kids in Need of Defense. 'We would probably see more like 90 percent of these kids going through proceedings without counsel.'
At the same time, migrant children are being placed on expedited court dockets as part of efforts to speed up deportations, significantly cutting the time they have to collect evidence and present their case before an immigration judge.
'This is a process that will just railroad kids through the system,' Young said. 'They'll receive an order to be deported from the United States without any access to due process or fundamental fairness.'
Under US law, immigrants don't have a right to counsel at the government's expense, not even children, leaving them to depend on volunteer lawyers or nongovernmental organizations. The Trafficking Victims Protection Reauthorization Act of 2008 created special protections for migrant children, including ensuring 'to the greatest extent practicable' that they have counsel to represent them.
The Trump administration has argued in court filings that the federal government has discretion in how it distributes federal funds. 'Although, the money was authorized by Congress, Congress never mandated its spending,' it wrote.
A federal judge has since ordered the administration to temporarily restore funding, but to date, that hasn't happened, according to recipients of those funds.
The Trump administration has said thousands of migrant children who are seeking asylum or other legal status are unaccounted for and is trying to track them down.
'President Trump's committed to doing everything he can to find these kids, but I'm going to admit to you right now that's the toughest job of the three things he wants me to do. That's the toughest part of it,' White House border czar Tom Homan told a special joint session of the Arizona legislature this month.
Experts argue that cutting federal funds for key services runs counter to that effort, taking away the people who are helping them through the immigration system, and that includes reporting to the government.
Flores tells the story of the cartoon cat, known as Fulanito to children 12 years old and under. Fulanito, in Flores' story time, crosses into the United States and eventually goes before an immigration judge, and his attorney helps him secure immigration relief. For teenagers, the group describes the immigration court process through a soccer analogy.
Organizations who work with migrant children often have to be creative to get them to open up. Staffers use coloring books, fidget toys and stress balls.
'We'll often color with children. We'll pull out a page for ourselves and color while we speak with them. It's hard to talk about heavy things while you're just staring at each other in the face,' said Scott Bassett, managing attorney of the children's program at Amica Center for Immigrant Rights.
Young likened her offices to a nursery school. The lesson: how to fight your deportation proceeding.
'We'll have toddlers running all over the place, and my staff is explaining to them, using toys, crayons, chalkboards, what their rights are in the immigration system. And it's both something that's both very poignant, it's very joyful, but there's also a tremendous sense of gravity to it,' Young said.
Michigan Immigrant Rights Center, which also works with unaccompanied children, uses handmade toy sets representing a courtroom for one-on-one legal screenings with kids. Kids in Need of Defense puts on puppet shows.
Ages range, but the importance of immigration proceedings remain the same for all who go before an immigration judge – who ultimately decides if someone stays in the United States or is removed.
'I was in a court last summer where a three-year-old was in proceedings. He played with his toy car in the aisle of the courtroom until he was called, and then a young woman picked him up and brought him to the front of the courtroom,' Young said.
'I can tell you, I knew that child knew something dramatic was about to happen. He started crying. He was inconsolable at that point,' she added.
In a recent court filing submitted as part of the ongoing lawsuit over terminating of funds, the Young Center's child advocates cited 'children as young as five years old sitting at tables by themselves in front of judges.'
'During the days immediately following the termination of funding, Child Advocates observed immigration judges learning for the first time at court hearings that funding for legal representation and friend of court services for unaccompanied children had been terminated,' the filings read.
'Upon arriving at court, children also learned for the first time that they would not have an attorney to represent them. In one court, Young Center Child Advocates observed a 14-year-old girl break down in tears in the court's lobby when she was told that she would not have a lawyer and would need to stand up in court all alone,' it continued.
The Health and Human Services Department's Office of Refugee Resettlement is charged with the care of unaccompanied migrant children until they are released to a sponsor in the United States, such as a relative or family friend.
The agency recently rolled out multiple new policies regarding the release of children to sponsors that make it more difficult for kids to be reunited with their guardians.
Trump officials have argued the additional vetting of sponsors is necessary to ensure the child's safety. But experts describe it as a dramatic shift that is likely to keep children in custody longer.
'ORR has recently imposed a series of draconian sponsor vetting requirements, including restrictive ID requirements, universal fingerprinting and DNA testing,' said Neha Desai, managing director of children's human rights and dignity at the National Center for Youth Law.
'This has made it nearly impossible for children in ORR custody to be released if their sponsor is undocumented or if the sponsor lives with people who are undocumented – even if the child is seeking release to their parent,' she added.
Meanwhile, in some courtrooms, cases are being sped up to be resolved in a matter of weeks.
In a New York courtroom on Monday, an immigration judge presided over a group of seven to 10 unaccompanied minors – ranging from ages 6 to 17 and most without legal representation. They appeared virtually from government custody.
The judge guided the children through the basics of the immigration court process.
'Just because you can be removed doesn't mean you need to be,' Judge Jennifer Durkin told them, emphasizing that their individual stories mattered. She acknowledged the intimidating nature of the proceedings, adding: 'My job is to listen to why you came to the United States.'
The minors, who currently reside in a government-run shelter in Brooklyn, appeared attentive. At moments, the seriousness of the hearing gave way to childhood – one boy let out a few playful giggles during the judge's questioning.
Two children were in the process of reunification with family members. One, a young girl with cerebral palsy who is currently hospitalized, was represented by counsel. Her attorney informed the judge that she was being reunited with her mother.
The six-year-old, the youngest in attendance, was also represented by counsel. His attorney said he was in the process of being reunited with his maternal grandmother.
All the children were scheduled for a second hearing in June or July, giving those without counsel roughly two months to find legal representation.
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Boston Globe
8 minutes ago
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CNN
10 minutes ago
- CNN
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Yahoo
10 minutes ago
- Yahoo
Self-deportations. Factory layoffs. Military zones. How Trump is transforming the U.S.-Mexico border.
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Some shelters and nonprofit groups providing legal or humanitarian assistance to migrants may have to close, he said, because many were indirectly funded by the U.S. Agency for International Development, which Trump shuttered. Read more: Trump promised vast deportations to Mexico. Why are the numbers so low? He tells the migrants gathered at his shelter to rethink their goals now that their "plan A" — a life in the U.S. — is out of reach. "Look for a plan B," he says. "Stay awhile, start to work. God will help you." But other Trump policies are hurting the economy in the region, limiting opportunities from migrants. Juárez has long drawn Mexicans from poorer parts of the country who come to work in its factories, which boomed under the North American Free Trade Agreement, churning out auto parts and other goods destined for the U.S. But Trump's on-again, off-again threats of tariffs on goods from Mexico have stunned industry in the Juárez area, with factories laying off thousands of workers. "We're in the middle of tremendous uncertainty," said María Teresa Delgado Zarate, vice president of INDEX Juárez, a trade group. About 308,000 workers are employed in factories today, she said, down from 340,000 a few years ago. Mexican Juan Bustos, 52, recently lost his assembly line job making auto parts. Most days, he lines up at 6 a.m. outside factories that say they are hiring to try to get new work. "It's not easy like it was before," he said. So much of life in Juárez depends on decisions made in Washington, he said. "He changes his mind minute to minute," Bustos said of Trump. "We're at his mercy." On the U.S. side, industry is also reeling from the tariff uncertainty. Jerry Pacheco, who operates an industrial park in Santa Teresa, N.M., a few miles west of El Paso, said several companies that planned new projects there have pulled out since Trump took office. His park abuts a new militarized zone that stretches 200 miles across a vast expanse of New Mexico. Another 63-mile-long zone has been established along the border nearby in Texas. The Pentagon, which made the designations, has deployed some 9,000 active-duty troops to the border as part of Trump's directive to expand the military's role in reducing migrant crossings. Migrants who enter the new "national defense" zones while crossing the border are being detained by U.S. troops, charged with trespassing and turned over to immigration authorities. It's part of a broader militarization of immigration enforcement in this stretch of border. U-2 spy planes have been flying missions in the skies. At the nearby Army base of Ft. Bliss, the U.S. is constructing a new 5,000-bed immigrant detention camp. The U.S. has also pushed Mexico to keep migrants from reaching Juárez and other border cities, and Mexican troops have ramped up enforcement in recent years. Migrant advocates blame those policies on a deadly fire at a detention center in Juárez in 2023 that killed 40 migrants and injured 27. Ortíz, the activist, used to traverse the part of the border that has been turned into a national defense zone, leaving water for the migrants who crossed. But on a recent afternoon, while heading out to check on a water tank, he was stopped by Border Patrol agents who warned him he was trespassing on military land. The buildup of troops at the border and Trump's changes to the asylum system have made it nearly impossible for migrants to cross, Ortíz said. In June, there were fewer Border Patrol encounters with migrants than in any month on record, according to the White House. On the day with fewest encounters, border agents apprehended just 137 people across the entire 2,000-mile long border. But Ortíz is convinced that migration levels can't stay this low forever. There are too many jobs that need filling north of the border, he said, and too much poverty and strife south of it. This region has been a site of migration since pre-colonial times, he said. El Paso, which means "the pass," got its name from Spanish explorers who arrived in the late 16th century and established a trade route here leading from Mexico City to Santa Fe. Movement, he said, is part of our nature. "You will never be able to fully stop human migration," Ortíz said. "You never have and you never will.' Those most desperate to cross will find a way, he says. And that will probably mean paying smugglers even larger sums and taking riskier routes. Sign up for Essential California for news, features and recommendations from the L.A. Times and beyond in your inbox six days a week. This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.