Sheriff’s deputies in Laramie County, Wyo., briefly detained a man from Venezuela after a traffic stop last month. The sheriff’s department in the county has an agreement with the federal government to perform immigration arrests.Todd Heisler for The New York Times
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ByAllison McCann
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The reporter joined a traffic enforcement operation conducted by Wyoming sheriff’s deputies who have been certified as immigration officers.
Early on a Tuesday morning last month, the sky still black, a group of deputies from the Laramie County sheriff’s office set out to patrol two major interstates that cross their corner of southeast Wyoming. Over the course of five hours, they made 41 traffic stops, issued 12 citations, made two criminal arrests and — through a new partnership with Immigration and Customs Enforcement — detained seven immigrants.
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One person was asleep in the backseat of a silver pickup truck stopped for a too-dim rear license plate light. Two passengers in a minivan that had been going 12 miles per hour over the limit were also taken into custody. Four others were detained after their pickup, too, was stopped for speeding.
All were booked into the county jail to await transfer to an ICE detention facility. The deputies working the immigration operation earned a combined $1,325 in overtime courtesy of the federal government.
The Trump administration has enlisted hundreds of state and local law enforcement agencies in its mass deportation campaign by deputizing their officers as immigration agents, extending ICE’s reach far beyond where the agency typically operates.
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Living in the United States without authorization is a civil violation, not a criminal offense, and local police officers have no responsibility to enforce federal immigration law. But after completing a 40-hour virtual training, certified officers can inquire about the immigration status of people they encounter in the course of routine police work; call ICE if they suspect a person is undocumented; and, if given the go-ahead, take immigrants into custody.
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Where state and local law enforcement work for ICE
Agencies that have signed agreements to participate in the federal 287(g) task force program.
Before President Trump returned to office, the program — named 287(g) for a section of federal immigration law — had largely consisted of agreements with local agencies to identify and process immigrants already held in jails. The Trump administration expanded the cooperation, and for the first time offered cash incentives to agencies to sign up and make arrests.
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Participation has exploded, and de facto ICE officers are now on the ground in hundreds of cities and counties across 31 states. Several thousand officers have been credentialed — state troopers, sheriff’s deputies, police officers, constables — on top of the 12,000 new officers and agents that ICE hired last year. The rush to sign up and cash in has included some unusual agencies, too, like Louisiana’s State Fire Marshal and Florida’s Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.
Perhaps most significantly, the program has the potential to turn highways and roads into sites of immigration enforcement.
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“ICE does not have that generalized patrol authority, so it’s really great for ICE that they can use state and local police in this way,” said Naureen Shah, the director of immigration policy at the American Civil Liberties Union, whose Wyoming office is suing Laramie County over its agreement with ICE.
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Hundreds of law enforcement agencies have joined ICE’s task force
287(g) partnerships by type of agreement. Agencies may sign more than one agreement with ICE.
Notes: Data reflects new active agreements signed and does not account for expired or canceled agreements. Data is as of June 7.Source: Andrew Thrasher.
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Brian Kozak, the Laramie County sheriff, said the program allows his office to be more efficient and move detainees through his jail more quickly.
“If someone is undocumented, it’s faster for our deputies to book them on an ICE hold and not even do the local charges. Then they don’t have to sit in my jail waiting for those local charges to be adjudicated,” he said, though he added that more serious felony offenses would still be charged.
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Deputies in Laramie County, Wyo., detained seven immigrants on a single day last month. Sheriff Brian Kozak was elected in 2022 and supports the partnership with immigration officials.Todd Heisler for The New York Times
‘A tremendous asset’
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Even though 1,200 local task force partners have signed on, the program is still ramping up. Fewer than 300 participating agencies had both credentialed at least one officer and received a payment for immigration enforcement work as of March, according to a payout ledger obtained by Ken Klippenstein, an independent journalist.
Researchers estimate that the share of people detained through any type of 287(g) program rose to about 10 percent in January, up from about 3 percent a year before. The Department of Homeland Security declined to answer detailed questions about the program or share more recent arrest or payment figures.
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“The 287(g) program can be a tremendous asset to you and to the country,” Markwayne Mullin, the Homeland Security secretary, said this week at the National Sheriffs’ Association conference. “If we had the participation of all the county sheriffs that are in this building right now, think how much faster those arrests would move up.”
Over the course of a week in April, Laramie County was among the top arresting agencies in the country, alongside larger state authorities like the Florida Highway Patrol and the Oklahoma Department of Public Safety, according to snapshots of internal ICE data obtained by The New York Times. Together, the top five local partners made 162 immigration arrests that week; over a week in May, the top agencies made around 300 arrests.
Those are modest figures, considering ICE recorded about 7,000 arrests each week nationwide in recent months. The larger goal may be the perception of an ever more widespread immigration enforcement apparatus.
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“The arrest numbers sometimes don’t matter to them if the message and rhetoric is strong enough — that any kind of day-to-day activity for an immigrant could lead to deportation,” said Nayna Gupta, the policy director for the American Immigration Council, a legal advocacy group that supports immigrants.
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Immigrants were booked in the Laramie County Jail to await transfer to an ICE facility.Todd Heisler for The New York Times
Financial incentives
For the local partners, the program comes with an enticing offer: a one-time payment of $100,000 for new vehicles and $7,500 in equipment funds per certified task force officer. ICE says it will pay the salary and benefits for officers who do immigration work full time, and overtime for up to 25 percent of an officer’s salary.
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Agreements are most common in states where Republican leaders back the president’s immigration agenda. Last year, Florida became the first state to require local agencies’ participation in the 287(g) program, followed by Texas this year. Elsewhere, participation is more scattered — and Democratic lawmakers seeking to reign in ICE have succeeded in banning the agreements altogether in 11 states, most recently in New York.
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Local partnerships with ICE are most common in the South
287(g) task force agreements by state.
Laramie County now has 30 credentialed task force officers. Since October, they have made 412 immigration arrests and the sheriff’s office has received about $300,000 for its participation.
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Larger statewide agencies stand to be paid millions. Then there are the hundreds of smaller agencies with only a few task force officers, like the police department in Colebrook, N.H., which has three.
“It’s a huge thing for a small department like us to get that stipend,” said Chief Paul Rella, who said his department has made two ICE arrests since January and has received around $100,000. “But even if there wasn’t a stipend, we would’ve done it anyway. To be able to have the authority to detain someone that may be here illegally, it all comes down to community safety.”
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Immigrant rights groups and critics of the program say it has the opposite effect: As more police officers work for ICE, immigrants may be discouraged from reporting crimes or avoid contact with local law enforcement for fear of deportation.
“It’s a balancing act,” acknowledged Benjamin Cox, the police chief in Duncan, S.C., a town of about 5,000 with two task force officers. “I need the people in our town, no matter their immigration status, to feel comfortable calling me. That’s the most challenging part of 287(g).”
Opponents of the program also say that it can lead to racial profiling. In 2011 and 2012, the Justice Department found that participating agencies in Arizona and North Carolina had engaged in patterns of discriminatory policing, leading the Obama administration to discontinue the task force program.
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Immigrants detained under 287(g) agreements are often found during routine traffic stops.Todd Heisler for The New York Times
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Sheriff Kozak is familiar with those risks. He worked as a police officer for 20 years in Mesa, Ariz., when Sheriff Joe Arpaio set up random checkpoints and neighborhood sweeps that targeted Latinos, and he said he saw firsthand that the sheriff was “crossing the line.”
“Our policy requires lawful contact following a violation of state law,” he said. “We’re focused on traffic enforcement and traffic safety, and then a side thing is the immigration.”
A D.H.S. spokesperson said accusations that 287(g) agreements encourage racial profiling are false and that ICE’s local partners fairly enforce immigration law.
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From commute to detention
By late morning, the Laramie County deputies were preparing to head back to the jail when they stopped the speeding minivan. Four workers with a drywall company headed to a job site were inside. The driver and front-seat passenger had valid identification but told the deputies that the other passengers did not.
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“We don’t typically ask other passengers unless there’s a reason, but nothing says you can’t ask” for identification, Chance Walkama, a chief deputy, explained. “That’s how things happen all the time.” Passengers who have not broken a law may decline to speak with the police, but many immigrants are unaware of this right.
Mr. Walkama texted the passengers’ information to his contact at the local ICE field office in Cheyenne. The ICE agent wrote back that one of their names matched someone with a criminal history and the same date of birth. After a few more questions, Mr. Walkama handcuffed the man, Christian Rodriguez, and loaded him into the deputies’ car.
He is now being held at an ICE detention facility in Aurora, Colo. “I don’t understand. I wasn’t driving, I had my seatbelt on,” Mr. Rodriguez said by phone from detention. “It’s not fair.”
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Mr. Rodriguez, 29, arrived with his parents from Mexico as a minor and was about two years into the years-long process of applying for a green card. He is married to a U.S. citizen and has six children and step-children who are all U.S. citizens. He has no criminal convictions, records show; charges stemming from a domestic dispute with his ex-wife in 2020 were dropped.
Asked whether Mr. Rodriguez’s arrest reflected the purpose of Laramie County’s partnership with ICE, another chief deputy, Aaron Veldheer, said, “It weighs on me” — that a person who was riding in a car on his way to work is now separated from his family.
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“Not that I wish somebody got hurt or there was a crime committed, but, yeah, it’s collateral,” Mr. Veldheer said. “But it’s part of the job. We can’t look the other way, either.”
Mexico has begun filing criminal complaints with state prosecutors in the United States over the deaths of its citizens in U.S. immigration custody and during enforcement operations, the foreign mini
Aida Pelaez Fernandez and Natalia Siniawski | Reuters
Maine ICE shooting caught on security camera
Surveillance footage from two local businesses shows a white car driving in circles at a street intersection.
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MEXICO CITY, July 13 (Reuters) – Mexico has begun filing criminal complaints with state prosecutors in the United States over the deaths of its citizens in U.S. immigration custody and during enforcement operations, the foreign ministry said on Tuesday.
More: Maine voices outrage after deadly immigration enforcement shooting
Mexico’s government has also sent cease-and-desist letters to U.S. detention centers where Mexican nationals have died, the ministry added in a statement.
More: ICE fatally shoots Mexican immigrant in Houston
The filings follow the deaths of at least 14 Mexican nationals in ICE custody and several others during arrest operations, including the recent fatal shooting of a Mexican citizen by an ICE agent in Houston.
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President Claudia Sheinbaum announced Mexico’s intention to escalate its response to the deaths last Friday, as she claimed that the government “cannot turn a blind eye to the Mexicans who have died.”
In addition to the measures in the U.S., Mexico’s foreign minister also contacted the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights regarding the deaths of Mexican nationals in ICE custody.
Mexico expects the U.N. office to gather information from U.S. authorities, analyze the events and “refer the case to the relevant special procedures of the Human Rights Council,” the statement added.
This much is undisputed: On Nov. 2, 2023, a guard and a prisoner at a federal penitentiary in California got into it over a straw sunhat that the officer had confiscated. The man — identified in court records by his initials, J.M. — walked out of the office, as Officer Sandra Munagay followed him. When he stopped and turned around, Munagay “cocked back … and punched me in my face,” he said in an interview. That is on camera. Munagay admitted to the assault and pleaded guilty this January to falsifying records about it.
But the more severe harm came after, J.M. said, in a hallway without security cameras. As Munagay kicked and hit him, she shouted to other officers that J.M.had attacked her. According to a lawsuit, at least three other guards then rushed in, forced him into a blind spot, and pinned him face-first to a wall. With J.M.’s hands cuffed, he says an officer then sexually assaulted him with an unknown object.
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That night, J.M. was transferred to another prison, where a nurse noted bleeding and tenderness in his rectum, medical records show. That gave J.M. more proof than most people behind bars in his situation.
But guards still had near-total control over whether he could file a complaint, or someday sue over what happened to him. J.M. knew they could destroy his paperwork, claim it got lost, or simply deny him the forms he needed. And like he had experienced in other federal prisons, he says, they might punish him for even trying to speak out.
It’s the same dilemma presented to anyone who faces violence in federal prison: Try to file an administrative grievance and risk opening yourself up to retaliation — or stay quiet, endure the abuse, and forgo your chance to someday bring your case to court.
Under federal law, people in prison must go through the facility’s own grievance process before they can attempt to sue. That gives prison staff a “chokehold over access to the courts,” said Colin Prince, a civil rights attorney and former federal defender who is representing J.M. in his lawsuit.
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“The guards functionally have power over whether a prisoner can sue them for their own misconduct,” he said. “The entire system is layer upon layer of bureaucratic insulation against accountability. It simply prevents prisoners from getting access to the courts.”
An attorney for Munagay said he and his client declined to comment. A spokesperson for the Bureau of Prisons, Randilee Giamusso, said she could not discuss individual cases or ongoing litigation.
An investigation by The Marshall Project and NPR found that less than 2% of grievances filed in federal prison in 2023 were granted. A majority were rejected for procedural errors or “administratively closed” for other reasons. The findings were based on a federal database, published by the Data Liberation Project, containing nearly 1 million federal prison grievance cases dating back to 2000.
But that data only includes instances where incarcerated people were able to file a complaint at all. An unknown number of cases, especially those involving physical and sexual violence, go unreported, as the same officers accused of abuse can silence those trying to seek help, according to court records, lawsuits, and interviews with attorneys, incarcerated people, advocates and former bureau officials. A recent report by the Government Accountability Office found that fear of retaliation was a major impediment to reducing and reporting sexual abuse in federal prisons.
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Prison officials said bureau policy prohibits retaliation of any kind, and that they review and investigate allegations of abuse. In an email, Giamusso wrote that the remedy system is “a safeguard intended to foster resolution within the system, not a barrier to court access.” She noted that remedies related to sexual abuse can be submitted in other ways, such as “third-party reporting and [Prison Rape Elimination Act]-specific channels.”
But many prisoners disagree. “The grievance system is a joke,” said Jimmy Hodge, who was released from federal prison in early 2025. Hodge says he was abused in multiple federal penitentiaries, but was frequently blocked from filing complaints about it. “If you’re grieving over abuse, they’re going to harass you, they’re going to assault you, but you’re never going to get relief.”
Since the passage of the Prison Litigation Reform Act 30 years ago, which required incarcerated people to file grievances before attempting to sue, the rate of civil rights cases filed from prison has dropped significantly.
Lawmakers at the time were concerned about “frivolous” lawsuits from prisons overwhelming federal courts. Politicians pointed to one case where a person had allegedly sued over whether he received chunky or creamy peanut butter. (The case was actually about not getting a $2.50 refund for peanut butter returned to the commissary, which is the equivalent of hours of prison labor.)
“People talk a lot about prisoners filing frivolous lawsuits,” said professor Margo Schlanger of the University of Michigan Law School, who has studied prison litigation across the U.S. “But a huge number of prisoner cases are about really, really serious matters. They’re about abysmal medical care and awful conditions and failures to protect them from harm by staff or by other prisoners. They’re about sexual violations.”
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Attempts to significantly reform the law have gone nowhere, Schlanger said. “Having a system that stands in the way and says, ‘You know what, because you filed that grievance after three days instead of after two, you are out of luck and out of court’ — that is a shocking betrayal of justice.”
People who are blocked from filing grievances can sometimes convince a court that the remedy system was unavailable and their lawsuit should proceed. But that is a high bar that may require documentation and the help of an attorney, which many people filing from prison don’t have.
As is, the law fails to account for all the ways prison staff can thwart someone’s attempts to follow the remedy process, attorneys say.
To submit a complaint, someone must obtain a form from their counselor or another prison employee and then return the completed form to staff. According to bureau rules, an incarcerated person must file on their own behalf, unless it is regarding sexual abuse — whether they are in the infirmary or solitary confinement or have a disability. They can receive assistance with their filing from “trained inmate aides,” someone on the outside or a staff member, Giamusso wrote.
For people in isolation, filing a complaint is even harder. “You can’t just walk over to a box on the wall that says grievances and put it in the slot,” said attorney John Boston, co-author of the “Prisoners’ Self-Help Litigation Manual.” “You’ve got to hand it to the correctional officer. And that right there is a prescription for mischief.”
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Multiple people in federal prison said officers refused to provide the forms they needed. “I have had difficulty in obtaining the initial grievance form because the unit counselor who issues the forms was friends with the officer whom the complaint was about,” wrote Erick Hobbs, now incarcerated in federal prison in North Carolina. According to Giamusso, if someone can’t get a form, they can ask for help from any staffer, “proceed to the next step in the remedy process, or report concerns through alternative channels.”
Even if you can get a form, there’s no guarantee the paperwork will be filed. “I have had officers doing a ‘random shakedown’ of a cell, and remedy papers go missing,” wrote William Batton, from a federal prison in Massachusetts. Many said prisoners were often transferred to a new facility and lost their paperwork in the process. That halts a case, as any appeal requires copies of every previous response and filing.
People in federal prison have just 20 days after an incident to file a complaint. Those regarding sexual abuse are supposed to be exempt from deadlines, under the federal Prison Rape Elimination Act. There is no such exemption for physical violence.
“People who are the most hurt are often the least equipped to describe it and file a grievance promptly,” Schlanger said. “Requiring them to very speedily figure out exactly what they’re complaining about can be a very, very high hurdle.”
By the time J.M. was assaulted in California, he had served time in some of the country’s most notorious federal prisons. In 2020, he was held at Big Sandy penitentiary in Kentucky, where officers had an unofficial policy: If someone requested protective custody because they feared other prisoners, guards would beat the person asking for help. Then the guards worked together to cover up the attacks, according to court records. Six staff members at Big Sandy were convicted for their role in the abuse.
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J.M. tried to report the abuse he received at Big Sandy penitentiary in 2020 to the Eastern District Court of Kentucky. The highlighting and redactions were done by The Marshall Project.
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When J.M. tried to report the abuse he said he suffered at the hands of Big Sandy staff, it only brought more mistreatment. “I have an 8th-grade education, I don’t understand law,” he wrote to a federal court in 2020. “I have been targeted, retaliated and abused for trying to exhaust my remedies. Big Sandy [staff] told me if I keep filing these remedies that I won’t ever leave.” In his letter, J.M. described being chained to a chair for 12 to 18 hours at a time with no “food water or bathroom.”
“Nobody should get chained to no bed for … hours for filing a piece of paper, no matter what,” J.M. said in a recent interview.
His plea to the court, like several others filed from Big Sandy at that time, went nowhere.
In one case reviewed by The Marshall Project, an incarcerated man reported being pepper-sprayed, choked, beaten with a baton and repeatedly called racial slurs by Kentucky officers who were later convicted. He tried multiple times to file grievances about the attacks but received no response before he was transferred to another prison, according to a legal complaint. When he sued in court, his case was thrown out: He hadn’t completed the final two levels of the bureau’s remedy process.
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By 2021, J.M. was transferred from Big Sandy to Thomson penitentiary in Illinois, then one of the most violent federal prisons in the country. Bureau officials closed the high-security Special Management Unit there in 2023, after an investigation by The Marshall Project and NPR exposed a culture of abuse and multiple homicides.
In his legal complaint, J.M. said officers at Thomson also refused to provide him with grievance forms. In a survey of over 120 people who had been held at Thomson, conducted by legal advocacy group The Washington Lawyers’ Committee, many reported the same interference. “I’m gonna break your fucking hands since you like to write us up,” one man said he was told, after an officer confiscated his stamps and legal documents.
There are supposed to be other avenues for incarcerated people to report their abuse. But in a setting where no communication is truly anonymous, and the fear of retaliation is prevalent, even reaching out to the Inspector General felt risky, J.M. said. And it was hard to trust another government agency. “It’s like being in a house, and your mother or father is abusing you,” he explained. “And then you go and try and tell your mother or father, ‘Y’all abusing me.’ It didn’t make sense.”
In the U.S. Government Accountability Office report, published in May, investigators found that most surveyed prisoners said they could experience retaliation from staff if they reported sexual abuse. Less than half said they would feel comfortable reporting to the warden or a corrections officer. And many of the surveyed people didn’t know they had other options to report a sexual assault, like calling a rape crisis center or asking a family member to report on their behalf. The bureau agreed with the recommendations laid out in the report.
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Fear of being targeted can hide systemic problems. At FCI Dublin in California, which closed in 2024 over widespread sexual abuse, officers frequently punished people for trying to file complaints, said Aron Laureano, who spent two years at the facility.
“They made it literally impossible for anybody to say anything,” she said. The first time Laureano filed a grievance, an officer came to her cell and quoted from her written complaint in front of everyone. “And that’s why they got away with it for so long.”
According to a federal lawsuit, officers retaliated against Laureano by placing her in solitary confinement, taking away her visits and phone calls, and confiscating her property. In one bizarre form of punishment, Laureano said, an officer made her walk around the prison yard, gather the eggs and baby hatchlings of geese who were roosting on the grounds, and stuff them in a trash bag.
Laureano came home from prison in 2024. “You went from one monster to another,” she said of navigating her time at Dublin. “You didn’t have anywhere to go. And I think that’s the worst feeling in the world. I told myself I would never put myself in a predicament like that again, ever.”
After the 2023 assault at Atwater penitentiary in California, J.M. was transferred to a different federal facility and locked in solitary confinement for making threats, insolence, and refusing to obey an order. In her official retelling of the incident, Officer Munagay had claimed that J.M. “walked toward me in an aggressive way” and that she “feared for [her] life.”
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What happened with Munagay and the other officers followed J.M. to the new facility. “Everybody knew about the situation, it was funny to them,” he said of the guards there. “I had officers come and tell me, ‘Hey, drop the case, she’s got three kids.’” Staff also began threatening him, according to J.M.’s complaint. They told other prisoners he was a snitch, he said, and locked him in four-point restraints for hours, where each limb was chained to a concrete slab.
It wasn’t just the guards he was worried about. J.M. had seen employees turn prisoners against each other, he said, as payback for writing someone up. “If I file a remedy … my unit team is going to come … take everybody’s stuff, trash everybody’s cells, and say, ‘We’re doing this because [J.M.] complained,’” he said. “Now the other inmates are mad, ‘Oh, it’s your fault.’ Your life is in danger.”
Federal prison policy required J.M. to file his complaint at the institution level first, unless it was regarding a “sensitive” issue. Then he could mail a claim directly to the regional director. J.M. didn’t have enough postage, so he fashioned a fishing line out of plastic wrappers, and used it to trade food for stamps with other men on the tier.
His grievance was rejected. The bureau did not consider his issue “sensitive,” according to a federal database, and required him to file again at the prison level. When J.M. went to file an appeal, prison staff seized and destroyed his paperwork, his lawsuit says.
“He had been assaulted, isolated, trapped, and could not tell anyone who would listen,” his complaint states. “By mid-January 2024 … JM was expressing ‘suicidality’ to the mental-health department because he could not ‘participate’ in the ‘Administrative Remedy Process.’”
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Nearly six months after his attack, prison staff dropped the disciplinary charges against J.M., as video footage showed Munagay had punched him. Federal prosecutors filed criminal charges against Munagay six months later. In June, she was sentenced to four months in prison. J.M.’s lawsuit is ongoing.
No charges have been filed regarding the sexual assault J.M. says he experienced. In 2024, there were 32 allegations of sexual abuse by staff reported at Atwater penitentiary.
J.M. has since been moved to another federal penitentiary out of state. His struggles with the grievance system continue. He’s trying to appeal a grievance he filed about not receiving his allotment of postage stamps, but he doesn’t have enough stamps to mail the paperwork.
“I’m resilient. I’m not going to give up just because other people failed,” he said about his commitment to keep trying to use the system. “I’m going to keep filing no matter how small or big the situation is, and hopefully something will change. These are the rules I gotta follow. This is the only way I got to fight.”
A person was killed Monday in an ICE-involved shooting in Biddeford, Maine, according to the state’s speaker of the house — just days after a federal agent fatally shot a Mexican immigrant during a traffic stop in Houston, sparking mass protests and demands for transparency and accountability.
“A person was killed. ICE was involved. State Police and the Department of Public Safety are now on scene to gather details and would expect the FBI to investigate as well,” Maine House Speaker Ryan Fecteau said in a statement on Facebook. “These are the details that I have at this time. I will provide further updates, as they are relayed to me.”
CNN has reached out to Immigration and Customs Enforcement and the Department of Homeland Security for comment.
Biddeford police told CNN there was a “police incident” in the area, about 18 miles south of Portland, and said there is no threat to the public at this time, but declined to provide additional details.
Maine Democratic US Rep. Chellie Pingree said she was “disturbed and angry” upon hearing the news of the shooting. She called for an investigation into the incident, adding a question directed at ICE officers: “Why are you in Maine?”
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The incident comes less than a week after a man on his way to work in Houston was shot and killed by an ICE agent. Lorenzo Salgado Araujo was killed during a traffic stop in what ICE initially described as a targeted enforcement operation, though a source later said Salgado Araujo was not the target of the operation.
The shooting has reignited calls for accountability among ICE agents, which reached a fever pitch earlier this year after 37-year-old mother Renee Good and 37-year-old ICU nurse Alex Pretti were killed by federal immigration agents during the Trump administration’s operation in Minneapolis.
The administration dubbed a similar surge in immigration enforcement across Maine in January “Operation Catch of the Day.” The ACLU and other advocates filed a lawsuit against federal immigration agents for “abducting a lawful immigrant” during the surge.
Some community groups and advocates that rallied against the surge earlier this year have already started to organize in response to Monday’s shooting. The group “Maine Resists” has planned an emergency community rally in the city at noon. The racial justice and immigrant rights group Project Relief said it is in touch with the victim’s family.
