Last week I found myself overcome with emotion and getting teary as I read a court order in a case I filed. That was a first for me.
Previously in my career, I have been a part of important decisions. I won cases before the Colorado Supreme Court. Once I won a criminal case, and on several occasions I forced governments to open their records. I had a former president removed from Colorado’s ballot, at least until the U.S. Supreme Court overturned that victory. I have been excited and disappointed, overjoyed and frustrated.
But until Thursday, I had never wept.
The minute order — a few paragraphs entered directly into the docket rather than written out in a full, separate ruling — freed a 20-year-old kid who had been in the Aurora ICE Detention Center for the past 18 months. A sweet, young man, barely more than a boy, walked free in America for the first time a few hours later.
For the past year, I have volunteered as a pro bono attorney for several ICE detainees. I could not watch and do nothing as I saw the Trump administration sweeping up otherwise law-abiding members of the community simply because they came to our country in search of a better life. I had no history or experience in immigration law, but I had a law license and a willingness to learn.
Through the Rocky Mountain Immigrant Advocacy Network, I received a crash course in basic immigration law. RMIAN also assigned me my first client. I still remember the first time I walked up to the Aurora Detention Center, passed by an employee car bearing the Punisher logo.
Like any jail or prison, it is dour and depressing inside. All cinderblock walls and heavy metal doors that click open only by remote request. I have spent hours meeting with clients in small, windowless rooms sitting on hard plastic chairs. The WiFi signal is atrocious, which makes using remote interpreters difficult. Depending on the day, it can take anything from 10 minutes to an hour to get through security and meet with my clients.
I first met my client — M for anonymity — in one of those rooms. Even several days of stubble did not cover his youthful cheeks or distract from his soft, warm eyes. The worry and uncertainty in his expression would not be unfamiliar to parents of young children.
M fled a north African nation nearly two years ago. The specifics of torture he survived are nauseating. That it occurred at the hands of government officials against a teenager compounds the horror. He had little choice but to leave his country and seek refuge. With family in the United States, he tried to come here.
Caught upon entry and in the midst of a presidential campaign where immigration played a central role, he did not make it to his family. He hardly set foot in America before being detained.
Speaking little English, on the other side of the world from his home, and with only the possessions he could carry with him, M was soon transferred by ICE to Aurora. There he waited for the byzantine immigration system to process his case. Eventually, with help from his family, he received legal help during the merits argument to determine whether he would be deported.
Early last summer, an immigration judge granted him “withholding from removal” and protection under the Convention Against Torture. Effectively, the judge said he was deportable, but not to his home country. For ICE, that means looking for a third country.
There are statutory and case law guidelines for ICE to either identify a third country or release detainees. Specifically, they have three months; six if a second three-month extension is applied. ICE must both take affirmative steps to contact other countries and conduct a “post-order custody review,” or POCR, with the detainee for each period.
In practice, little of that happens. Instead, detainees with little recourse or access to legal counsel are left to languish. Case in point, M received one POCR that occurred a month late and did not provide proper notice. His second did not happen. The explanations could be anything from indifference or maliciousness to overworked ICE employees trying to deal with significantly more cases.
What ICE is not doing is letting detainees go. Not voluntarily.
That’s where I stepped in. Another detainee referred me to M, and as soon as I met him I knew I wanted to help. He’s an obvious gentle soul who has spent nearly a year and half in detention — closing in on 10% of his life.
I could nearly see hope physically fading from him. He had no criminal record and no timeline for release, but he did have family and a sponsor ready to help him. I reached out to my immigration mentor and got the go-ahead to take his case.
After a couple of months meeting with M, I had a solid petition for habeas corpus ready to file. Habeas actions effectively require the government to explain its reasons for holding a prisoner.
Unlike immigration hearings, which are conducted by judges who work for the Department of Homeland Security, habeas corpus cases go to federal courts. The former are a part of the executive branch, answerable to the current administration; the latter fall under the judiciary, charged as a democratic check and balance.
While the government did file an answer, their actions — or inaction — did not sway the magistrate overseeing the case. Without delay, she acted quickly and ordered M to be released.
I tried to call to give him the good news, but the facility was in one of the two detainee “counts” they conduct each day and I could not reach him. Before I reached him, a guard had told him to collect his things, but did not tell him whether it was for a facility transfer or to be released. He later told me he was terrified at that moment.
I drove to the Aurora Detention Facility in hopes of meeting him upon his release. Unfortunately, processing and release can happen anytime during a window of multiple hours. While I stood at the ICE window in front, unsuccessfully waiting more than 20 minutes for any ICE employee to even talk to me, much less give me an update, they apparently released him out the back.
Thankfully folks working with Casa de Paz were waiting by the door where M was released. They provided him a ride to a safe location, helped him contact family, had food and clothes ready and called me to tell me he was there. Eventually they helped arrange transportation back to his family.
A little before 7 p.m., I walked M to his bus. We took a selfie, hugged and I saw him board. As I walked away, more tears came. Tears of relief, tears of joy, tears for justice done and tears for a young man finally getting to begin his new life in America.
Mario Nicolais is an attorney and columnist who writes on law enforcement, the legal system, health care and public policy. Follow him on BlueSky: @MarioNicolais.bsky.social.
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