A small child passes the time as lawyers and interpreters help his mother with immigration and asylum documents

A young child passes the time as lawyers and interpreters help his mother with immigration and asylum documents, during the free legal clinic at Catholic Charities of Dallas. Nearly 100 women and children have passed through the clinic since it began eight months ago. (Ricky Moon/Special Contributor)

Immigration

The ‘lottery from heaven’

Legal clinic teaches juvenile immigrants and their guardians how to apply for asylum on their own.

    In a cramped room lined with photos of hopeful immigrants, a dry-eyed 6-year-old girl in a Hello Kitty T-shirt described how thugs took over her school in El Salvador. “The teacher ran away,” she said.

    A 16-year-old Salvadoran girl wept as she described a sexual attack in a bathroom by men and women. A 16-year-old Guatemalan boy nervously peered over his shoulder before his story spilled out in Spanish.

    “They beat us to make us afraid,” he said through an interpreter. “They said the next time they’d kill us.”

    Adults responded sympathetically. “Good God.” “Aye, mi’jito.”

    Once a month, lawyers, translators, schoolteachers and other volunteers gather at a free legal clinic at Catholic Charities in northeast Dallas.

    They listen to horrific stories from children who crossed the Texas border in unprecedented numbers last year seeking refuge from gang violence in Central American countries.

    Nearly 70,000 teens and preteens were apprehended last year, many of them sent to the U.S. by their families to travel alone or with smugglers. The surge dominated headlines as the government rounded up children and provided shelter until they could be placed with guardians or returned to their home countries.

    The flow eased. The furor died. Now, the stream is at half the level of last summer.

    The border crisis has become a courtroom crisis as children work their way through the federal immigration process. They hope against the odds to convince a judge or other officials that they merit asylum in America.

    That is where volunteers at Catholic Charities come in. They serve as scribes, filling out Form I-159 to help the children apply for asylum. For most, it’s the last option to legally remain in the U.S.

    Among the questions: “Have you, your family or close friends or colleagues ever experienced harm or mistreatment in the past by anyone. If ‘Yes,’ explain in detail.” Or, “Are your afraid of being subjected to torture in your home country or in any other country to which you may be returned?”

    Nearly 100 women and children have passed through the clinic since it began eight months ago.

    Clinic leader and immigration lawyer Paul Zoltan (left) listens to questions from lawyer Brett Foster while helping a minor with immigration and asylum documents.

    Volunteer Rachel Kingrey of Dallas helps a juvenile fill out an application during an asylum workshop at Catholic Charities in Dallas. (Vernon Bryant/Staff Photographer)

    Volunteers huddled around the 6-year-old girl, Angelica, whose class was left defenseless when a gang came to school to recruit. The girl had been staying with her grandmother. Her parents, already in Texas, sent for her, placing her in the hands of a smuggler.

    “They were going to kill her,” said the mother, who like others asked for anonymity to protect her child. She had been paying a monthly $20 extortion fee for “la renta.” Her daughter’s journey cost about $5,000.

    “Did you ride the train called La Bestia,” the girl was asked. She shook her head, “No, they push you off.”

    An older brother protectively wiped her mouth as though he could wipe clean the ugliness of her words. He wore a blue rosary as a necklace.

    Across the room, Cheryl Pollman, a volunteer and retired business lawyer who speaks some Spanish, gently questioned a child.

    “How many beatings?”

    “There was only one beating.”

    “What was the name of the person?”

    “Las Maras 18. They hit me with fists on my face. On all my body.”

    “Did you fight back?”

    “I couldn’t because there were so many.”

    Pollman volunteers as part of a social service project of the Dallas chapter of the National Council of Jewish Women. She also helps monitor how juveniles are handled in the federal immigration courts.

    Pollman was incredulous when she initially heard the children’s stories. “Insane,” she whispered at one of the first clinics.

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    At risk of gang violence

    An asylum application must be based on a well-founded fear of persecution because of race, religion, nationality, political opinion or membership in a social group.

    Advocates for the Central American children believe they qualify because they are in an age group that places them at risk of gang violence, recruitment or exploitation. They believe the law has been interpreted too narrowly regarding the youths.

    Many of the the children have to represent themselves — pro se in legal terms — in their quest for asylum. They have no right to a government-paid attorney for civil deportation proceedings. Some find private attorneys who will work for free. In some cases, their parents or guardians find the money to hire an attorney.

    About a third of the unaccompanied children in the federal immigration courts in 2014 had attorneys. In Dallas, about 25 percent had attorneys, according to a Syracuse University research center called the Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse.

    Without lawyers, they have little chance to remain legally in the U.S.

    Dallas judges are duros, hard on asylum seekers, said clinic leader Paul Zoltan inside the Catholic Charities meeting room. One Dallas judge denies asylum cases 90 percent of the time; another Dallas judge denies 61 percent of the time, according to the Syracuse University research center.

    They might win on appeal, said Zoltan, an immigration lawyer.

    “While the process goes forward, you have the right to stay here,” he told the crowd. “You don’t have to worry about this sound.” He pounds his fist on a metal table, imitating an immigration agent at a door.

    Clinic leader and immigration lawyer Paul Zoltan (left) listens to questions from lawyer Brett Foster while helping a minor with immigration and asylum documents.

    Clinic leader and immigration lawyer Paul Zoltan (left) listens to questions from lawyer Brett Foster while helping a minor with immigration and asylum documents. (Ricky Moon/Special Contributor)

    With all the delays comes a chance to live in a safe place.

    As limited as the preparation is in the clinics, Pollman favors seeking asylum. “Without it, there’s no opportunity for relief. I believe in the process. I believe in their day in court to tell their story.”

    Zoltan hopes for change on cases of gang persecutions in Honduras, Guatemala and El Salvador, the countries where most of the children were born.

    Dana Leigh Marks, president of the National Association of Immigration Judges, said immigration judges vet the cases for inconsistencies and gaps while weighing the vulnerability of the child. She said it’s a stressful task. A 2007 survey by a California psychiatrist found immigration judges had more stress than prison wardens or emergency room doctors.

    “If you are the one that has to say to the child, ‘I’m sorry but the law does not provide me with anything to help you,’ it is a very difficult job on those days.”

    ‘Flee from being killed’

    A 14-year-old Salvadoran girl who swam across the Río Grande last fall was one of the clinic’s first successes. The clinic rerouted her from immigration court to an appointment with an asylum officer in Houston with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. Going before an asylum officer is preferred for the teens and preteens because it’s a less adversarial setting.

    The girl had traveled with 15 other juveniles through Guatemala, then Mexico and into Texas. She was grabbed by a Border Patrol agent after crossing the river at night. She had memorized the telephone number of her mother in Dallas and was reunited with her.

    “I just wanted to get to my mother and be out of danger,” said the teen.

    At one of the Dallas clinics, she met Larry Schoenbrun, a volunteer and a partner in the corporate law firm Gardere Wynne Sewell LLP. He is the son of Eastern European refugees who fled the Holocaust. Schoenbrun helped brought together volunteer lawyers who prepared her case.

    The girl’s father was a police officer threatened by gangs. They said they’d kill his children if he didn’t pay them thousands of dollars, the girl and her mother said. He paid once but not the second time. That’s when he sent his daughter north.

    Last month, she was granted asylum. Her mother calls the victory “la lotería del cielo,” heaven’s lottery.

    Schoenbrun has convinced his colleagues to take about a half-dozen more cases. “The system is abusive,” he said. “A murderer and a rapist are entitled to appointed counsel. These people have done nothing but flee from being killed.”

    Staff writer Jasmine Aguilera contributed to this report.

    Follow Dianne Solís on Twitter at @disolis.

    In their words

    Paul Zoltan

    Paul Zoltan

    Clinic leader and immigration lawyer

    Martha Penturf

    Martha Penturf

    Volunteer Attorney for the asylum clinic

    Rita Nicolini

    Rita Nicolini

    Paralegal with Justice AmeriCorps assigned to Catholic Charities

    Larry Schoenbrun

    Larry Schoenbrun

    Volunteer and a partner at Gardere Wynne Sewell LLP

    silhouette of girl

    A Salvadoran girl

    The 14-year-old Salvadoran girl who won asylum in April. (Spanish audio)

    silhouette of girl

    A Salvadoran girl

    The 14-year-old Salvadoran girl who won asylum in April. (English translation)

    Author: Dianne Solís

    Audio: Jasmine Aguilera

    Graphics and Design: Troy Oxford

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