Out of the Frying Pan and into the Inferno

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Inferno

When the state dropped the charges, I felt something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in months: hope.

After so many nights of calls, paperwork, and that dull background panic that never goes away, there it was in black and white: case dismissed. His mother whooped in delight when she read it. I could hear her disbelief turning into laughter through the tears. For a few minutes, we both forgot the chaos. It felt like an ending. He’d be released, collect his things, and finally go home. Maybe this nightmare had a clean exit after all.

That night, we planned as if we could will normalcy back into being. She wanted to wire him a few hundred dollars, enough for an Airbnb near the beach. She said she wanted him to rest, to eat something that hadn’t come out of a plastic tray, to walk outside without counting the hours. I told her I’d help find the driver, confirm the pickup, make sure he had someone waiting at the gate. We talked logistics, but underneath it, what we really meant was: maybe we can breathe again.

It had been six long weeks since the charges were first read out: six weeks of confusion, mixed signals, and a man trapped inside a process designed to keep him guessing. The public defender had barely spoken to him; updates came in fragments. He was losing patience. He’d started begging his mother to post bond. “If you pay it, I can leave tonight,” he’d told her. The tone of those messages still sits somewhere in my gut — that blend of panic and calculation, of someone trying to sound in control when he was actually breaking.

She wanted to pay it. She told me she couldn’t sleep knowing he was there.
She’d already borrowed from family and promised to repay them once he was free. I had to be the one to stop her — to tell her the truth that nobody had told us before: if she paid the bond, ICE would be waiting at the door. He’d walk out one gate and into another, handcuffed before the relief even hit his face. He wouldn’t be free; he’d be swallowed whole.

It was the hardest conversation I’ve ever had.
I remember pacing in my kitchen, voice shaking, trying to explain to her what even seasoned lawyers said quietly: that at least in jail we knew where he was, that there were rules, some minimal standards. In ICE detention, there would be none - from everything I was reading, it would be anxiety and silence. 

She read the messages he’d sent her, going from excitement to confusion to anger - the notes desperate, begging, half-pleas and half-accusations. She told me she understood and wouldn't pay it, but that she couldn’t forgive me for convincing her not to.

When the charges were dropped, we thought maybe she’d been wrong to worry -  that waiting had worked, that patience had somehow protected him. But that “immigration flag” on his record was far more serious then we thought and the second his criminal case cleared, ICE had full authority to take him. And they did.

The next morning, when I checked the inmate locator, his name was gone. No release note, no destination  just “no longer in custody.” For anyone else, that might sound like a miracle. For us, it meant he’d been taken somewhere we couldn’t reach.

I called the facility. The woman on the line spoke with the kind of mechanical politeness that makes your blood boil. “Transferred,” she said.
Transferred where? “That information isn’t available, call ICE"

His mother spent the next two days calling anyone who might know something — the jail, the courthouse, even the public defender’s office. Every number led to another number. as she only spoke Spanish, didn't know how anything worked and would often just be reduced to emotional worry, both me and my assistant helped as well and it was maddening!

 Every answer contradicted the last. We refreshed the systems a few times. a day watching for any trace of movement. It felt like watching someone sink beneath dark water and not knowing if they’d surface.

By the fourth day, an update appeared: ICE Detention – Processing.
No location. No timeline. Just that word.

I started calling immigration attorneys. In total, 39 declined. Some were full; others admitted they couldn’t take a client they couldn’t locate as he hadn't been assigned yet. But to let them know once assigned. 

That afternoon, his record finally updated: Krome Processing Center – Processing. I told his Mom and we breathed a little relief, we had been done our research and we knew he wouldn't go to the torture camp, the one that didn't even have a name but people called it Alcatraz or Alligator Alcatraz - it wasn't even open and there were already hundreds of complaints against it. And of course, he wasn't even a criminal - his charges were completely dropped and he was simply on asylum. 

He would likely be in Broward or Krome, and while none of the centers were pleasant - Krome was the best of them. The next morning I woke up to check and I saw his Mom and sent me a screenshot with a bunch of question marks. He wasn't in the system anymore. It wasn't in process, it wasn't processing center. It said there was nobody in custody by that name. 

When I returned from that night - I saw there were 4 missed calls throughout the day of the tell-tale detention centers. As I was checking the website again, it rang in my hand and I saw the sane number. 

And at 10:47pm that night - I learned that everything we thought and hoped was for nothing and the worst possibility was now in our lap. He was in Alligator Alcatraz - and he made it clear he was actually in Hell and that he was going to be left to die there and hung up before I could respond.