Latest news with #Diaz
Winnipeg Free Press
7 hours ago
- Politics
- Winnipeg Free Press
Family, supporters urge release of Spanish-language journalist in ICE custody
ATLANTA (AP) — A Spanish-language journalist who was arrested while covering a protest just outside Atlanta last month and is being held in a federal immigration jail felt a duty to help those whose voices often go unheard, his children said Tuesday. Police in DeKalb County arrested Mario Guevara while he was covering a protest on June 14, and he was turned over to U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement a few days later. An immigration judge set a $7,500 bond for him earlier this month, but that ruling has been put on hold while the government appeals it. For now, Guevara is being held in an immigration detention center in Folkston, in southeast Georgia, near the Florida border and a five-hour drive from his family in suburban Atlanta. Katherine Guevara, 27, said that for more than 20 years she has watched her father's 'unwavering dedication and selfless commitment to serving the Hispanic community.' 'He chased stories that mattered, stories that told the truth about immigration, injustice, about people who usually go ignored,' she said during a news conference at the Georgia state Capitol. Guevara, 47, fled El Salvador two decades ago and drew a big audience as a journalist in the Atlanta area. He worked for Mundo Hispanico, a Spanish-language newspaper, for years before starting a digital news outlet called MG News a year ago. He was livestreaming video on social media from a 'No Kings' rally protesting President Donald Trump's administration when local police arrested him in DeKalb County. Guevara frequently arrives on the scene where ICE or other law enforcement agencies are active, often after getting tips from community members. He regularly livestreams what he's seeing on social media. 'Growing up, I didn't always understand why my dad was so obsessed with his work, why he'd jump up and leave dinner to chase down a story. But now I do,' said Oscar Guevara, 21, who now works as a photojournalist for MG News. Guevara's children were joined at the news conference by members of civil rights and press freedom groups, as well as state lawmakers. 'Mario Guevara is journalist and so his detention raises even bigger questions, about civil rights, constitutional rights, the freedom of speech, the freedom of the press,' state Sen. Josh McLaurin said. Giovanni Diaz, one of Guevara's lawyers, said he and the family have been speaking to Guevara regularly. He said Guevara is doing well but has 'been shaken to his core' because he believes he's being unfairly punished by a country he loves so much. 'He is still smiling. He's in good spirits. And he's in it for the fight, and so are we,' Diaz said. Guevara is 'essentially in isolation,' Diaz said, adding that ICE has said that it's for his own safety since he's a public figure and his reporting style was sometimes controversial. But being kept alone, 'that wears on you,' Diaz said. An immigration judge agreed with Guevara's lawyers that the journalist is not a danger to the community, but ICE is arguing he's such a threat that he shouldn't be released, Diaz said. The lawyer said he's optimistic that the Board of Immigration Appeals will decide in Guevara's favor and he will be able to post bond, allowing him to be free while he fights the government's efforts to deport him. Guevara has been authorized to work and remain in the country, Diaz said. A previous immigration case against him was administratively closed more than a decade ago, and he has a pending green card application. Video from his arrest shows Guevara wearing a bright red shirt under a protective vest with 'PRESS' printed across his chest. He could be heard telling a police officer, 'I'm a member of the media, officer.' He was standing on a sidewalk with other journalists, with no sign of big crowds or confrontations around him, moments before he was taken away. Police charged Guevara with unlawful assembly, obstruction of police and being a pedestrian on or along the roadway. His lawyers worked to get him released and he was granted bond in DeKalb, but ICE had put a hold on him and he was held until they came to pick him up. DeKalb County Solicitor-General Donna Coleman-Stribling on June 25 dismissed the charges, saying that video showed that Guevara was 'generally in compliance and does not demonstrate the intent to disregard law enforcement directives.' The sheriff's office in neighboring Gwinnett County announced on June 20, once Guevara was already in ICE custody, that it had secured warrants against him on charges of distracted driving, failure to obey a traffic control device and reckless driving. Gwinnett County Solicitor-General Lisamarie Bristol announced July 10 that she would not pursue those charges.
Yahoo
13 hours ago
- Yahoo
Deaf, mute and terrified: ICE arrests DACA recipient and ships him to Texas
He was on his way to wash a car when he glanced up and saw co-workers sprinting off. A woman frantically motioned for him to flee. His heart raced as he tried to find the source of their alarm. Confused and frightened, Javier Diaz Santana jumped over the wall behind the car wash in the San Gabriel Valley. Years earlier, a vehicle had run over Diaz's foot while he worked there, and it was a struggle for him to run. He made it about a block. His foot throbbed with pain. He saw two white SUVs on the street and realized what was unfolding. His workplace was being raided by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents, like so many other businesses and neighborhoods in Los Angeles over the past week. Breathless, Diaz stopped. One of the vehicles pulled over, blocking his way. Masked, armed men exited, yelling. He tried to understand. He couldn't see a badge. One had a vest with the letters "HSI" — Homeland Security Investigations, an arm within ICE. One seemed to be demanding something. Diaz gestured at his ears. He could not hear. And he couldn't speak. Diaz, 32, is deaf and mute. He thought that presenting his Real ID driver's license would keep him safe. He has legal permission to be here. He came to the U.S. from Mexico when he was about 5 years old and had been granted permission to work more than a decade ago under the Obama-era Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program. He has no criminal history. He took his wallet from his pocket. An agent grabbed it and wouldn't give it back. Diaz took out his phone so he could type a message about his disability. They took that too. Then they cuffed his hands and shoved him into the SUV. He had no way to communicate. "I was shocked at what was happening to me," Diaz said through an American Sign Language interpreter. "I'm Mexican, I know you can tell I'm Mexican, but I don't know what you're catching me for. I was scared. I felt fear. What does that mean? I'm Mexican and you're going to throw me out of the country? "They just drove off, and I'm gone. There's no communication," he said. "I didn't understand why." And so began a surreal near month Diaz never could have imagined taking place in the United States. He was sent to an immigration detention center in El Paso, where he spent weeks unable to communicate with his attorney or his family. At times, Diaz received paperwork in Spanish — a language he cannot read. His experience raises serious questions, beyond whether people who are in this country with legal protection should be seized and detained by immigration agents. If ICE is going to apprehend people with disabilities, shouldn't agents follow federal law and make the required accommodations available? In a statement, an unidentified senior Department of Homeland Security official said medical staff provided Diaz "with a communications board and an American Sign Language interpreter." The statement ignored the fact that Diaz has DACA protection provided by the government. After the Times followed up again about that protection, a senior DHS official said in an email, 'Deferred action does not confer any form of legal status in this country.' "The facts are this individual is an illegal alien. This Administration is not going to ignore the rule of law," the original statement read. "The United States is offering illegal aliens $1,000 and a free flight to self-deport now," DHS continued. "We encourage every person here illegally to take advantage of this offer and reserve the chance to come back to the U.S. the right legal way to live American dream. If not, you will be arrested and deported without a chance to return.' In another case this month, a federal judge ruled that the government had to provide a Mongolian Sign Language interpreter to a deaf immigrant who has been detained in San Diego County since February. U.S. District Judge Dana Sabraw, a George W. Bush appointee, reportedly called it "common sense that a person has a right to communicate." Diaz was released July 8. He is one of an unknown number of immigrants with permission to live and work in the U.S. who have been caught in the dragnet of President Trump's deportation campaign. Diaz's attorney, Roxana V. Muro, said she has another client who remains detained after being picked up outside a Home Depot despite showing his work permit. "They really just don't care if they have a work permit, if they have DACA, if they have [Temporary Protected Status] — they detain," Muro said. 'They're just engaging in racial profiling. It's nothing but that. They don't care whether you stand and produce documents or run.' Diaz, she said, "was working lawfully, doing everything right, everything he was supposed to be doing." Diaz arrived in the U.S. as a child. His parents had struggled to get him the services he needed in Mexico, they hoped he would have a better life here. The family moved to South L.A., where Diaz, an older brother and his parents squeezed into a two-bedroom apartment with three relatives. They were fixtures in the complex. Neighbors became close friends, at times celebrating the New Year, birthdays and other holidays together. Diaz thrived. He attended Marlton School, which specialized in teaching students from kindergarten through 12th grade who are deaf and hard of hearing. He ran track and was a right winger on the soccer team. He graduated in 2011. His brother Miguel, who is nine years younger, attended the same school to learn ASL so the siblings could communicate. Diaz cannot read or write in Spanish and relies on Miguel, 23, to be his voice. Their mother knows some sign language; their father speaks in Spanish into Google Translate and then shows Diaz the English translation. Diaz came to the attention of immigration officials in 2013, when an asylum application was filed on his behalf. The application triggered removal proceedings. But under the Obama administration, the federal government used a procedure called administrative closure to help clear immigration court backlog by temporarily removing some cases from the docket so resources could be focused on higher-priority cases. Diaz's case was administratively closed. At about the same time, he received DACA protection. He was hired at the car wash in Temple City in 2020. He worked six days a week, hosing down cars, soaping them up and vacuuming inside. He loved that it was fast paced. His co-workers knew him as "el mudo," the mute. He built a community there. Sometimes he'd pack an extra ham sandwich to bring to his good friend and co-worker Bryan, who asked to only be identified by his first name because of his immigration case. Bryan did not use sign language, but the two formed their own method of communication. At the end of each shift, Bryan would twirl his fingers, his way of signaling to Diaz that he'd see him tomorrow. Diaz was normally off Fridays. But on June 12, a Thursday, he'd gotten two flat tires and hadn't been able to work his regular shift. His boss asked him if he could work the next day. So he went in. That morning, everyone at the car wash was on high alert. They had heard ICE was in the area. News of raids had been circulating for a week. Diaz noticed that fewer people had shown up to work when he started his shift about 8 a.m. His boss wrote a message asking if he was documented. Diaz wrote back that he had DACA protection. A co-worker pointed out the white SUVs nearby. They told Diaz the vehicles belonged to ICE. Diaz had just finished his 30-minute lunch break and was walking over to wash a car. Grainy surveillance footage reviewed by The Times captured what happened next. Five people in blue work shirts bearing the car wash's logo made a beeline for the wall and appeared to use a bench to jump over. Someone gestured for Diaz to run. He couldn't hear the shouts of "migra." He walked a few steps, put a hand on his head, appearing confused. He jogged to the wall and pulled himself over, dropping out of sight. After he landed, Diaz felt pain shoot through his foot. He scaled a few more walls in backyards before running out onto Sultana Avenue. Agents spotted him and blocked his path. Diaz motioned that he couldn't hear. The agents took his phone and cuffed his hands in front of him, tight enough to bruise. They did not explain why he was under arrest or say why he was being taken. "I signal to them I can't hear, and they just go ahead and cuff me. They're very forceful," he said. "They don't care. They don't care if you understand. They just cuffed me. There's no explanation as to what's going on, no one told me anything.' He sat in the SUV. An officer showed Diaz his phone, where he had typed a question: What country are you from? Diaz couldn't answer. "I can't sign with my hands cuffed," Diaz said. "They took my power." When he was eventually transported to downtown L.A., he saw protesters and the National Guard. He was shackled around the waist and held in what he likened to a jail. Diaz struggled to quantify how many others were waiting with him, saying "it was a lot more than I can think." There were three big groups of people, he recalled. Bryan was there, too. His friend gestured with his hands, trying to calm Diaz, who feared he wouldn't hear his name called. Bryan gestured at his own ears, telling him that he was listening for him. But then Bryan's name was called, and he was moved into another room. He flagged down an officer and explained he was trying to help his friend, who cannot hear or speak. "That has nothing to do with you," he said the officer responded. He didn't see Diaz again. An agent with a badge around his neck approached Diaz, who motioned that he couldn't hear. The agent wrote on a piece of paper in Spanish. He removed the cuffs and Diaz wrote back that he only knew English. Another agent asked Diaz when he entered the country. "I don't remember, I was a baby, I don't know that story exactly," he said. "I couldn't give them those details." They asked if he had a green card. Diaz wrote no. "I thought they were going to ask me, 'Do you have DACA,'" he said. They never did. He thought they would check his wallet. His mother had taken his current work authorization card, which expires in October, so she could help him renew his permit. But his license was there. Diaz was finger printed and photographed, still in his work uniform. Inside the detention center, there was a bathroom, but no shower and no space to sleep. Despite so many people around him, Diaz said, he felt alone. Diaz's family was desperate to find him. His mother, Maria, had gotten a call from a relative telling her the car wash had been hit by ICE. The family shared their locations on their phones, and Miguel zoomed in on his brother's, the detention center in downtown L.A. Miguel grabbed Diaz's work permit and headed there. But he was turned away with no information. The family couldn't find Diaz on the ICE locator. Maria feared her middle son, a slight 5-foot-5, would be deported to Mexico, where he wouldn't be able to read signs. Life was already hard there; what would it be like for Diaz, she wondered. He doesn't know Mexican Sign Language. "I'm never going to see him again," Maria thought. The family called Muro's office that day and spoke with an assistant. The immigration firm was booked out with appointments two months in advance. But when the raids began, Muro instructed her staff to screen those detained to see if they could help or refer them out. That evening, she learned of Diaz's case. She called the family. After learning Miguel had had no luck finding his brother downtown, Muro drove to an ICE office in San Bernardino. An officer in the parking lot gave her the phone number and email address for a supervisor at the B-18 detention center where Diaz was being held. She called. It was around 7:30 p.m. No one answered. So she sent an email. "Help DEAF MUTE CLIENT DETAINED WITH DACA," the subject line read. She attached Diaz's current work permit, which had been issued by U.S. Citizenship & Immigration Services. 'Since he had DACA, under any other period of time in my time practicing, this would have been somewhat easy," Muro said. "You show up with the DACA approval notices and talk to a supervisor and I'm almost certain he would have been released." The supervisor responded, saying he would look into it. By June 15, Diaz was on a plane to Texas. It was his first time flying. He spent the trip in handcuffs. When Diaz arrived at a detention center in El Paso, he changed out of his work uniform and into a blue shirt and pants. Officers kept him in a cell by himself. Diaz said he received pen and paper, on which he would ask to go to the bathroom. He had never felt more isolated. At times he cried and wondered if his family was crying too. He spent most of the time sleeping, tossing and turning on the hard bunk bed. Sometimes he joined other detainees watching TV. There were no subtitles. 'Day would come and it was the same thing," he recalled. "Morning, afternoon, evening, I was isolated.' Diaz saw people who were scared. Like many, he prayed. "For God to help me and to save me," he said. "I just wanted to be safe." Although the ICE locator showed Diaz in El Paso, Muro struggled to find him, even when she provided the facility with his 'alien registration number,' assigned to noncitizens. It wasn't until she provided a variation of his name that they were able to track him down. She sent proof of Diaz's DACA protection, but he remained detained. Muro learned that the government in May had filed a motion to revive Diaz's administratively closed case. In recent months, Muro said she's received 40 motions from the government that involved reopening administratively closed cases. At least one involved someone who was already granted lawful permanent residency. Diaz's case, she said, had yet to be put back on the court calendar. Muro tried to find a way to connect with Diaz as he was detained in Texas. The supervisor told her the facility did not have text telephone devices, used by people with hearing or speech disabilities to send and receive text messages. Muro saw her client for the first time on Webex at his bond hearing on July 2. During the hearing in El Paso, Diaz, hunched over, hair disheveled, turned toward the camera to watch an interpreter explain the proceedings. He said it was the first time in weeks someone communicated with him using sign language. Other than acknowledging when the judge asked questions, Diaz kept his hands clasped in his lap. Muro told the judge that Diaz's removal case had been administratively closed in 2013. She said he has DACA protection, that it was just renewed and would not expire until 2027. A Department of Homeland Security lawyer who sat at a table near Diaz said that an addendum in Diaz's arrest record in Texas acknowledged that he had DACA. She added that Diaz's case remained administratively closed, which appeared to puzzle the judge. "I never have had that before, where I have a bond request on an admin closed case," the judge said. "This is the first time." The government lawyer explained that Diaz had been picked up during "an at-large operation by ERO and HSI," both arms of ICE. The judge questioned whether he even had jurisdiction to grant bond. "You do have jurisdiction. He should not even be detained," Muro said. "He was lawfully working at the Temple City Car Wash when ICE raided the car wash. I can discuss the illegal arrest later." The judge asked if Diaz had any criminal history. The government lawyer said no. "There's no evidence in the record that would suggest that you are a danger," the judge told Diaz. Muro told the judge her client was not a flight risk and had maintained his DACA over the years. The judge set bond at the minimum — $1,500. He gave Homeland Security the discretion to monitor Diaz but said the agency was not required to do so. "Good luck," the judge told Diaz. "I hope that everything works out for you." The following day, Diaz was finally able to talk to Muro and his family. His mother cried. He felt like crying too. His brother told him he would soon be released. Diaz asked if his brother had retrieved his car. Miguel assured him he had. Someone had even scrawled a plea to traffic enforcement officers on the burgundy 2005 Toyota Camry: "The owner of this car was detained by ICE this morning. A hard working man working everyday at the carwash. I hope he is released or his family picks up his vehicle. Please don't issue a ticket." On July 8, a Tuesday, an agent signaled Diaz to get up from his bed. He wrote to Diaz that his bond had been paid and he could leave. Twenty-five days had passed since his arrest. It was his mother's birthday. "Finally, I'm free," he thought. But before he left, the officers put a black monitor on his left ankle. Diaz didn't know what the monitor was or why it had been attached to his ankle. The officers handed him a sheet of paper with instructions on the device. It was in Spanish. Miguel and a cousin bought flights to El Paso. Diaz waited in a shelter. When they came to pick him up, Miguel was given his brother's belongings, including his wallet. The Real ID was no longer inside. Expenses kept stacking up. They rented a hotel. Because they couldn't fly without Diaz's ID, Miguel scrambled to rent a car. Miguel noticed a change in his brother, who often smiled and laughed, but now seemed reserved. Diaz would ask permission to eat. To use the restroom. To shower. "I knew he had a fear,' Miguel said. 'I think he felt he had to be a certain type of way.' Diaz's cousin and brother took turns driving the more than 11 hours back to L.A. Diaz anxiously checked the ankle monitor. They passed through New Mexico. Then Arizona. Diaz, who had never before left the state of California, marveled at the $2 gas. But he also realized that people noticed the ankle monitor. His heart raced. "They didn't call the police or anything, but I know they were looking at me," he said. He did not start to calm down until they reached California. As night fell, Diaz's father, Miguel Sr., clutched his phone outside the apartment, watching his son's location draw nearer with each minute. "Vienen en San Pedro," Miguel Sr. announced. They were on a nearby street. And he still called his son to make sure they were almost home. "Ya mero llegas verdad?" "Ya estoy en la esquina," Miguel Jr. said. They were around the corner. As Diaz shuffled toward the stairs leading to his apartment, his father bounded down. He held a blue poster the neighbors had made. It read: "Welcome Home Javier." Another poster delivered the same message, this time in sign language. Diaz's eyes were blank, his arms heavy at his sides. Miguel Sr. embraced his son. Neighbors cried as they hugged the man they had known since he was a boy. They patted his hair, which had grown long in detention. He hiked up his pants leg to display the ankle monitor. His mother was waiting in the hallway of their small apartment. He reached for her, hugged her tight. As he wiped away her tears, his own threatened to spill over. Finally, he was home. 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.
Morocco World
14 hours ago
- Business
- Morocco World
Forbes Lists Achraf Hakimi, Brahim Diaz Among Most Valuable Arab Footballers
Rabat – Forbes has listed Moroccan football stars Achraf Hakimi and Brahim Diaz, two players who have been lighting up Europe's elite competitions. Hakimi, who has been making national and international headlines for his stunning performances with PSG, ranks first on the list with a market value of $93.6 million. Fobres also briefed its audiences on the Atlas Lion, who has been contributing to PSG's success since 2021. 'He became the second African player to win the UEFA Champions League with two different clubs in 2025,' Forbes wrote, noting that he also secured his fourth consecutive Ligue 1 title with PSG in the 2024-2025 season. Forbes also listed a series of allocations Hakimi received throughout his journey, including the 2025 Prix Marc-Vivien Foe award, which he received in May of this year. Hakimi earned respect as the best right back in the world, and many international stars and legends are backing his bid for Ballon d'Or this year. In addition to Hakimi, Forbes ranked Diaz fourth on the list with a market value of $46.8 million. The Atlas Lion, who plays for Real Madrid, scored six goals and made six assists from 55 appearances in all competitions with Real Madrid. Alongside Hakimi and Diaz, Forbes's ranking included Egyptian player Omar Marmoush second on the list, with a market value of $87.8 million, followed by Mohamed Salah with a market value of $58.5 million. The fifth name on the list is Rayan Ait Nouri, an Algerian-French player, who plays for Manchester City. His market value stands at $41 million, according to Forbes. Tags: Achraf HakimiAchraf Hakimi and Kylian Mbappe
Yahoo
14 hours ago
- Business
- Yahoo
Liverpool CONFIDENT they'll agree massive new €75m deal
Liverpool are closing in on a massive agreement as they seek a new €75m deal. This one will be huge. Liverpool are striking massive deal after massive deal this summer. Florian Wirtz is the headliner, having joined for a club-record fee from Bayer Leverkusen. Jeremie Frimpong became the new record signing at full-back before Milos Kerkez quickly broke it again. Now Hugo Ekitike is set to arrive from Eintracht Frankfurt for a potential €91m. Liverpool are busy spending all the money they've saved over the years, essentially. The lack of arrivals ahead of the Premier League victory last summer frees up an enormous amount of space for transfers - and here's the result of that. But that's not to say that Liverpool don't need to sell players. For one, they can't actually play all these stars - something's got to give. There will be sales, some massive ones, which in turn could fund more incomings. One of those massive sales looks ever-closer, too. Luis Diaz to Bayern Munich Bild reports that Luis Diaz to Bayern Munich appears to be on. This is despite Liverpool's constant stance of not wanting to sell the player and having rejected two offers from Bavaria. But the claim here is that both Liverpool and Bayern are now optimistic over a deal. Diaz wants to leave the Reds to join the Bundesliga champions and a new offer of around €75m could get the transfer done. It would be one of the biggest sales in Liverpool's history and on the back of Diaz's best season yet at Anfield. But there's a sense that the club would actually like to move on from the Colombian as he enters the final two years of his contract.
Los Angeles Times
15 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
Deaf, mute and terrified: ICE arrests DACA recipient and ships him to Texas
He was on his way to wash a car when he glanced up and saw co-workers sprinting off. A woman frantically motioned for him to flee. His heart raced as he tried to find the source of their alarm. Confused and frightened, Javier Diaz Santana jumped over the wall behind the car wash in the San Gabriel Valley. Years earlier, a vehicle had run over Diaz's foot while he worked there, and it was a struggle for him to run. He made it about a block. His foot throbbed with pain. He saw two white SUVs on the street and realized what was unfolding. His workplace was being raided by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents, like so many other businesses and neighborhoods in Los Angeles over the past week. Breathless, Diaz stopped. One of the vehicles pulled over, blocking his way. Masked, armed men exited, yelling. He tried to understand. He couldn't see a badge. One had a vest with the letters 'HSI' — Homeland Security Investigations, an arm within ICE. One seemed to be demanding something. Diaz gestured at his ears. He could not hear. And he couldn't speak. Diaz, 32, is deaf and mute. He thought that presenting his Real ID driver's license would keep him safe. He has legal permission to be here. He came to the U.S. from Mexico when he was about 5 years old and had been granted permission to work more than a decade ago under the Obama-era Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program. He has no criminal history. He took his wallet from his pocket. An agent grabbed it and wouldn't give it back. Diaz took out his phone so he could type a message about his disability. They took that too. Then they cuffed his hands and shoved him into the SUV. He had no way to communicate. 'I was shocked at what was happening to me,' Diaz said through an American Sign Language interpreter. 'I'm Mexican, I know you can tell I'm Mexican, but I don't know what you're catching me for. I was scared. I felt fear. What does that mean? I'm Mexican and you're going to throw me out of the country? 'They just drove off, and I'm gone. There's no communication,' he said. 'I didn't understand why.' And so began a surreal near month Diaz never could have imagined taking place in the United States. He was sent to an immigration detention center in El Paso, where he spent weeks unable to communicate with his attorney or his family. At times, Diaz received paperwork in Spanish — a language he cannot read. His experience raises serious questions, beyond whether people who are in this country with legal protection should be seized and detained by immigration agents. If ICE is going to apprehend people with disabilities, shouldn't agents follow federal law and make the required accommodations available? In a statement, an unidentified senior Department of Homeland Security official said medical staff provided Diaz 'with a communications board and an American Sign Language interpreter.' The statement ignored the fact that Diaz has DACA protection provided by the government. After the Times followed up again about that protection, a senior DHS official said in an email, 'Deferred action does not confer any form of legal status in this country.' 'The facts are this individual is an illegal alien. This Administration is not going to ignore the rule of law,' the original statement read. 'The United States is offering illegal aliens $1,000 and a free flight to self-deport now,' DHS continued. 'We encourage every person here illegally to take advantage of this offer and reserve the chance to come back to the U.S. the right legal way to live American dream. If not, you will be arrested and deported without a chance to return.' In another case this month, a federal judge ruled that the government had to provide a Mongolian Sign Language interpreter to a deaf immigrant who has been detained in San Diego County since February. U.S. District Judge Dana Sabraw, a George W. Bush appointee, reportedly called it 'common sense that a person has a right to communicate.' Diaz was released July 8. He is one of an unknown number of immigrants with permission to live and work in the U.S. who have been caught in the dragnet of President Trump's deportation campaign. Diaz's attorney, Roxana V. Muro, said she has another client who remains detained after being picked up outside a Home Depot despite showing his work permit. 'They really just don't care if they have a work permit, if they have DACA, if they have [Temporary Protected Status] — they detain,' Muro said. 'They're just engaging in racial profiling. It's nothing but that. They don't care whether you stand and produce documents or run.' Diaz, she said, 'was working lawfully, doing everything right, everything he was supposed to be doing.' Diaz arrived in the U.S. as a child. His parents had struggled to get him the services he needed in Mexico, they hoped he would have a better life here. The family moved to South L.A., where Diaz, an older brother and his parents squeezed into a two-bedroom apartment with three relatives. They were fixtures in the complex. Neighbors became close friends, at times celebrating the New Year, birthdays and other holidays together. Diaz thrived. He attended Marlton School, which specialized in teaching students from kindergarten through 12th grade who are deaf and hard of hearing. He ran track and was a right winger on the soccer team. He graduated in 2011. His brother Miguel, who is nine years younger, attended the same school to learn ASL so the siblings could communicate. Diaz cannot read or write in Spanish and relies on Miguel, 23, to be his voice. Their mother knows some sign language; their father speaks in Spanish into Google Translate and then shows Diaz the English translation. Diaz came to the attention of immigration officials in 2013, when an asylum application was filed on his behalf. The application triggered removal proceedings. But under the Obama administration, the federal government used a procedure called administrative closure to help clear immigration court backlog by temporarily removing some cases from the docket so resources could be focused on higher-priority cases. Diaz's case was administratively closed. At about the same time, he received DACA protection. He was hired at the car wash in Temple City in 2020. He worked six days a week, hosing down cars, soaping them up and vacuuming inside. He loved that it was fast paced. His co-workers knew him as 'el mudo,' the mute. He built a community there. Sometimes he'd pack an extra ham sandwich to bring to his good friend and co-worker Bryan, who asked to only be identified by his first name because of his immigration case. Bryan did not use sign language, but the two formed their own method of communication. At the end of each shift, Bryan would twirl his fingers, his way of signaling to Diaz that he'd see him tomorrow. Diaz was normally off Fridays. But on June 12, a Thursday, he'd gotten two flat tires and hadn't been able to work his regular shift. His boss asked him if he could work the next day. So he went in. That morning, everyone at the car wash was on high alert. They had heard ICE was in the area. News of raids had been circulating for a week. Diaz noticed that fewer people had shown up to work when he started his shift about 8 a.m. His boss wrote a message asking if he was documented. Diaz wrote back that he had DACA protection. A co-worker pointed out the white SUVs nearby. They told Diaz the vehicles belonged to ICE. Diaz had just finished his 30-minute lunch break and was walking over to wash a car. Grainy surveillance footage reviewed by The Times captured what happened next. Five people in blue work shirts bearing the car wash's logo made a beeline for the wall and appeared to use a bench to jump over. Someone gestured for Diaz to run. He couldn't hear the shouts of 'migra.' He walked a few steps, put a hand on his head, appearing confused. He jogged to the wall and pulled himself over, dropping out of sight. After he landed, Diaz felt pain shoot through his foot. He scaled a few more walls in backyards before running out onto Sultana Avenue. Agents spotted him and blocked his path. Diaz motioned that he couldn't hear. The agents took his phone and cuffed his hands in front of him, tight enough to bruise. They did not explain why he was under arrest or say why he was being taken. 'I signal to them I can't hear, and they just go ahead and cuff me. They're very forceful,' he said. 'They don't care. They don't care if you understand. They just cuffed me. There's no explanation as to what's going on, no one told me anything.' He sat in the SUV. An officer showed Diaz his phone, where he had typed a question: What country are you from? Diaz couldn't answer. 'I can't sign with my hands cuffed,' Diaz said. 'They took my power.' When he was eventually transported to downtown L.A., he saw protesters and the National Guard. He was shackled around the waist and held in what he likened to a jail. Diaz struggled to quantify how many others were waiting with him, saying 'it was a lot more than I can think.' There were three big groups of people, he recalled. Bryan was there, too. His friend gestured with his hands, trying to calm Diaz, who feared he wouldn't hear his name called. Bryan gestured at his own ears, telling him that he was listening for him. But then Bryan's name was called, and he was moved into another room. He flagged down an officer and explained he was trying to help his friend, who cannot hear or speak. 'That has nothing to do with you,' he said the officer responded. He didn't see Diaz again. An agent with a badge around his neck approached Diaz, who motioned that he couldn't hear. The agent wrote on a piece of paper in Spanish. He removed the cuffs and Diaz wrote back that he only knew English. Another agent asked Diaz when he entered the country. 'I don't remember, I was a baby, I don't know that story exactly,' he said. 'I couldn't give them those details.' They asked if he had a green card. Diaz wrote no. 'I thought they were going to ask me, 'Do you have DACA,'' he said. They never did. He thought they would check his wallet. His mother had taken his current work authorization card, which expires in October, so she could help him renew his permit. But his license was there. Diaz was finger printed and photographed, still in his work uniform. Inside the detention center, there was a bathroom, but no shower and no space to sleep. Despite so many people around him, Diaz said, he felt alone. Diaz's family was desperate to find him. His mother, Maria, had gotten a call from a relative telling her the car wash had been hit by ICE. The family shared their locations on their phones, and Miguel zoomed in on his brother's, the detention center in downtown L.A. Miguel grabbed Diaz's work permit and headed there. But he was turned away with no information. The family couldn't find Diaz on the ICE locator. Maria feared her middle son, a slight 5-foot-5, would be deported to Mexico, where he wouldn't be able to read signs. Life was already hard there; what would it be like for Diaz, she wondered. He doesn't know Mexican Sign Language. 'I'm never going to see him again,' Maria thought. The family called Muro's office that day and spoke with an assistant. The immigration firm was booked out with appointments two months in advance. But when the raids began, Muro instructed her staff to screen those detained to see if they could help or refer them out. That evening, she learned of Diaz's case. She called the family. After learning Miguel had had no luck finding his brother downtown, Muro drove to an ICE office in San Bernardino. An officer in the parking lot gave her the phone number and email address for a supervisor at the B-18 detention center where Diaz was being held. She called. It was around 7:30 p.m. No one answered. So she sent an email. 'Help DEAF MUTE CLIENT DETAINED WITH DACA,' the subject line read. She attached Diaz's current work permit, which had been issued by U.S. Citizenship & Immigration Services. 'Since he had DACA, under any other period of time in my time practicing, this would have been somewhat easy,' Muro said. 'You show up with the DACA approval notices and talk to a supervisor and I'm almost certain he would have been released.' The supervisor responded, saying he would look into it. By June 15, Diaz was on a plane to Texas. It was his first time flying. He spent the trip in handcuffs. When Diaz arrived at a detention center in El Paso, he changed out of his work uniform and into a blue shirt and pants. Officers kept him in a cell by himself. Diaz said he received pen and paper, on which he would ask to go to the bathroom. He had never felt more isolated. At times he cried and wondered if his family was crying too. He spent most of the time sleeping, tossing and turning on the hard bunk bed. Sometimes he joined other detainees watching TV. There were no subtitles. 'Day would come and it was the same thing,' he recalled. 'Morning, afternoon, evening, I was isolated.' Diaz saw people who were scared. Like many, he prayed. 'For God to help me and to save me,' he said. 'I just wanted to be safe.' Although the ICE locator showed Diaz in El Paso, Muro struggled to find him, even when she provided the facility with his 'alien registration number,' assigned to noncitizens. It wasn't until she provided a variation of his name that they were able to track him down. She sent proof of Diaz's DACA protection, but he remained detained. Muro learned that the government in May had filed a motion to revive Diaz's administratively closed case. In recent months, Muro said she's received 40 motions from the government that involved reopening administratively closed cases. At least one involved someone who was already granted lawful permanent residency. Diaz's case, she said, had yet to be put back on the court calendar. Muro tried to find a way to connect with Diaz as he was detained in Texas. The supervisor told her the facility did not have text telephone devices, used by people with hearing or speech disabilities to send and receive text messages. Muro saw her client for the first time on Webex at his bond hearing on July 2. During the hearing in El Paso, Diaz, hunched over, hair disheveled, turned toward the camera to watch an interpreter explain the proceedings. He said it was the first time in weeks someone communicated with him using sign language. Other than acknowledging when the judge asked questions, Diaz kept his hands clasped in his lap. Muro told the judge that Diaz's removal case had been administratively closed in 2013. She said he has DACA protection, that it was just renewed and would not expire until 2027. A Department of Homeland Security lawyer who sat at a table near Diaz said that an addendum in Diaz's arrest record in Texas acknowledged that he had DACA. She added that Diaz's case remained administratively closed, which appeared to puzzle the judge. 'I never have had that before, where I have a bond request on an admin closed case,' the judge said. 'This is the first time.' The government lawyer explained that Diaz had been picked up during 'an at-large operation by ERO and HSI,' both arms of ICE. The judge questioned whether he even had jurisdiction to grant bond. 'You do have jurisdiction. He should not even be detained,' Muro said. 'He was lawfully working at the Temple City Car Wash when ICE raided the car wash. I can discuss the illegal arrest later.' The judge asked if Diaz had any criminal history. The government lawyer said no. 'There's no evidence in the record that would suggest that you are a danger,' the judge told Diaz. Muro told the judge her client was not a flight risk and had maintained his DACA over the years. The judge set bond at the minimum — $1,500. He gave Homeland Security the discretion to monitor Diaz but said the agency was not required to do so. 'Good luck,' the judge told Diaz. 'I hope that everything works out for you.' The following day, Diaz was finally able to talk to Muro and his family. His mother cried. He felt like crying too. His brother told him he would soon be released. Diaz asked if his brother had retrieved his car. Miguel assured him he had. Someone had even scrawled a plea to traffic enforcement officers on the burgundy 2005 Toyota Camry: 'The owner of this car was detained by ICE this morning. A hard working man working everyday at the carwash. I hope he is released or his family picks up his vehicle. Please don't issue a ticket.' On July 8, a Tuesday, an agent signaled Diaz to get up from his bed. He wrote to Diaz that his bond had been paid and he could leave. Twenty-five days had passed since his arrest. It was his mother's birthday. 'Finally, I'm free,' he thought. But before he left, the officers put a black monitor on his left ankle. Diaz didn't know what the monitor was or why it had been attached to his ankle. The officers handed him a sheet of paper with instructions on the device. It was in Spanish. Miguel and a cousin bought flights to El Paso. Diaz waited in a shelter. When they came to pick him up, Miguel was given his brother's belongings, including his wallet. The Real ID was no longer inside. Expenses kept stacking up. They rented a hotel. Because they couldn't fly without Diaz's ID, Miguel scrambled to rent a car. Miguel noticed a change in his brother, who often smiled and laughed, but now seemed reserved. Diaz would ask permission to eat. To use the restroom. To shower. 'I knew he had a fear,' Miguel said. 'I think he felt he had to be a certain type of way.' Diaz's cousin and brother took turns driving the more than 11 hours back to L.A. Diaz anxiously checked the ankle monitor. They passed through New Mexico. Then Arizona. Diaz, who had never before left the state of California, marveled at the $2 gas. But he also realized that people noticed the ankle monitor. His heart raced. 'They didn't call the police or anything, but I know they were looking at me,' he said. He did not start to calm down until they reached California. As night fell, Diaz's father, Miguel Sr., clutched his phone outside the apartment, watching his son's location draw nearer with each minute. 'Vienen en San Pedro,' Miguel Sr. announced. They were on a nearby street. And he still called his son to make sure they were almost home. 'Ya mero llegas verdad?' 'Ya estoy en la esquina,' Miguel Jr. said. They were around the corner. As Diaz shuffled toward the stairs leading to his apartment, his father bounded down. He held a blue poster the neighbors had made. It read: 'Welcome Home Javier.' Another poster delivered the same message, this time in sign language. Diaz's eyes were blank, his arms heavy at his sides. Miguel Sr. embraced his son. Neighbors cried as they hugged the man they had known since he was a boy. They patted his hair, which had grown long in detention. He hiked up his pants leg to display the ankle monitor. His mother was waiting in the hallway of their small apartment. He reached for her, hugged her tight. As he wiped away her tears, his own threatened to spill over. Finally, he was home.
