In 2017, Colorado resident Kamyar Samimi died there after four decades in the United States. But the concrete walls that surround the prison, topped with concertina wire, reveal the reality of confinement. As far as the law is concerned, it’s just where the government keeps people who it doesn’t trust to show up to court or avoid trouble. Legally, this is allowed because the Aurora facility isn’t used to punish migrants. This is a high-stakes scene in which the government’s prosecutor lobs accusations against a person with no reason to understand the rules of courtroom battles and an immigration judge parses detailed legal codes. In Denver, like most cities, free or low-cost legal aid is in short supply for people trying to fend off deportation, especially if they are detained.Īt the Aurora private prison that holds people on behalf of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency, the federal government’s immigration law-enforcement unit, most migrants trying to fend off deportation are forced to stand alone in front of a judge. Three out of four of Aurora’s immigration prisoners don’t have a lawyer when their opportunity comes to ask an immigration judge for release. But except for a small number of people who are too mentally ill to defend themselves, people who can’t come up with the money are usually out of luck. People who can afford a lawyer can hire one. Unlike the criminal justice system, immigration courts in the United States don’t guarantee lawyers. Whether newcomers to the United States asking for asylum or green-card holders with decades in Colorado, most will not have a lawyer walk into court with them. But across from the self-storage and facing a row of battered warehouses, guards parade migrants into courtrooms where judges decide if they will be allowed to remain in the United States. Gritty North Oakland Street in Aurora doesn’t look like the kind of place where justice meets its match. Digital Replica Edition Home Page Close Menu
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