{"id":110437,"date":"2026-05-30T14:26:51","date_gmt":"2026-05-30T14:26:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/neclink.com\/index.php\/2026\/05\/30\/like-an-angel-meet-the-helpers-working-at-bay-area-immigration-court\/"},"modified":"2026-05-30T14:26:51","modified_gmt":"2026-05-30T14:26:51","slug":"like-an-angel-meet-the-helpers-working-at-bay-area-immigration-court","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/neclink.com\/index.php\/2026\/05\/30\/like-an-angel-meet-the-helpers-working-at-bay-area-immigration-court\/","title":{"rendered":"\u2018Like an Angel\u2019: Meet the Helpers Working at Bay Area Immigration Court"},"content":{"rendered":"


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\u201cWhat I want is to help you,\u201d Jaime said, handing her an asylum application.<\/p>\n

Rosaura, who, like other asylum seekers KQED spoke to, asked to use only her first name for fear of retribution, told him she lived far away, in a small town near the southern end of the Central Valley. He handed her a packet listing free and low-cost legal resources by region, then offered to connect her with a volunteer who could help her fill out the paperwork \u2014 aware that, with most immigration legal aid groups<\/a> overwhelmed by calls, she\u2019d be unlikely to get a lawyer in time.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to show up with the application in hand,\u201d he told her, referring to her next court date. \u201cOtherwise, the judge told you, \u2018I will deport you if you don\u2019t bring me anything.\u2019 OK?\u201d<\/p>\n

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Stickers and flyers on a table in the Undocumented Community Center at the College of San Mateo in San Mateo, on Nov. 28, 2023. At this center, students without legal status can access financial and legal aid as well as guidance in navigating grant applications. (Photo by Amaya Edwards for CalMatters)<\/cite><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

He took down her phone number and told her to expect a call.<\/p>\n

Jaime\u2019s days are filled with Rosauras \u2014 people navigating the complex bureaucracy of immigration court, often without attorneys, interpreters or a clear sense of what judges are asking of them.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn my experience, people are too afraid in that courtroom to understand what is happening,\u201d said Jaime, the community defense program manager for the SAFE Center<\/a> in Contra Costa County.<\/p>\n

His work to help people understand has taken on new urgency as the Trump administration aggressively reshapes the nation\u2019s immigration system, including by shutting down San Francisco\u2019s longtime immigration court<\/a>.<\/p>\n

For decades, it was Northern California\u2019s principal immigration court. Over time, advocates built around it one of the most extensive immigrant-defense networks in the U.S. \u2014 a web of nonprofit legal organizations, volunteer court companions, rapid-response groups and pro bono attorneys who help immigrants find their way through a system where they\u2019re not guaranteed legal representation.<\/p>\n

But by the end of this year, thousands of cases handled at the downtown courtroom on Montgomery Street are expected to be transferred to Concord, about 30 miles to the northeast, where the immigration court is only a couple of years old<\/a> and the support infrastructure around it is still developing.<\/p>\n

Jaime knows the importance of building up that network. He once stood in front of an immigration judge himself.<\/p>\n

A firsthand look at a complex system<\/h2>\n

Growing up in Granada, a picturesque colonial city on the shores of Nicaragua\u2019s largest lake, Jaime studied business administration, worked in sales, married and started a family. Then, he said, the political situation changed. \u201cIt was not safe.\u201d<\/p>\n

Out of concern for relatives still in Nicaragua, he spoke only cautiously about why he fled. \u201cPeople in power \u2026 want to remain in power no matter what,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd that\u2019s when it\u2019s really dangerous for other people to speak against them.\u201d<\/p>\n

In 2019, he left behind his pregnant wife and began a six-month journey north through Honduras, Guatemala and Mexico. Along the way, he spent two weeks in a derelict jail in Chiapas and was slashed by a stranger with a knife.<\/p>\n

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The heavily fortified U.S.-Mexico border fence ends in the Pacific Ocean between the Playas de Tijuana neighborhood and Border Field State Park in San Diego, Sept. 16, 2024. (Zo\u00eb Meyers for KQED)<\/cite><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

At the U.S. border, he applied for asylum from Tijuana under the Trump administration\u2019s \u201cRemain in Mexico\u201d program<\/a>.<\/p>\n

After one of his hearings, he was unexpectedly detained while returning to Tijuana and spent six months in a San Diego detention facility. There, he began teaching himself the intricacies of the U.S. immigration system, studying books and case law in the library.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt that point I realized, oh my God, this is so complex,\u201d he said. \u201cBecause even with my education level, I couldn\u2019t understand much.\u201d<\/p>\n

He wrote letters to immigration legal aid organizations until one agreed to take his case. After his release, he moved to the Bay Area, where a woman with extra space in her Piedmont home offered him a place to stay through an immigrant support network.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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He lived there until 2023, when he was granted asylum. \u201cIt felt so good \u2026 because I had the hope that I\u2019m going to see my family soon,\u201d he said. The following year, his wife and two children joined him in California. So when Jaime learned about a new job helping immigrants like him navigate the Concord court, he immediately felt drawn to it.<\/p>\n

Today, he\u2019s at the court nearly every day it\u2019s open, helping people find their courtrooms, understand judges\u2019 instructions and connect with services, while training a growing cohort of volunteers to do the same. He runs the volunteer welcome navigator program<\/a> at the court, a collaboration between various community and legal services organizations.<\/p>\n

Most of the people appearing in Concord immigration court were released into the United States after crossing the border and issued notices to appear before an immigration judge. Many are seeking asylum. Their first hearings are often brief procedural appearances where judges explain charges, deadlines and legal rights. Individual asylum hearings, where a judge decides whether someone can remain in the country, are typically scheduled years into the future.<\/p>\n

According to the Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse, or TRAC, at Syracuse University, more than 3 million<\/a> cases are pending in immigration courts across the country. Concord alone already has nearly 60,000 such cases.<\/p>\n

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The Concord Immigration Court in Concord on May 7, 2026. (Beth LaBerge\/KQED)<\/cite><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

With thousands more cases coming from San Francisco, the backlog means \u201cpeople are going to have longer and longer waits to actually have their day in court,\u201d said Milli Atkinson, who runs the San Francisco Bar Association\u2019s Immigrant Legal Defense Program.<\/p>\n

Many immigration advocates and legal observers see the restructuring of the Bay Area courts as part of a broader shift in the culture of the immigration court system<\/a> under the Trump administration.<\/p>\n

\u201cBy closing courts and reassigning cases \u2014 and in this case, to Concord \u2014 the Executive Office for Immigration Review is thinking, \u2018How do we change that pro-immigrant culture that we saw in the immigration courts for many years?\u2019\u201d UC Davis law professor Kevin Johnson said.<\/p>\n

\u2018The kids feel their fear\u2019<\/h2>\n

On a morning in late April, Jaime stood near the door of a packed courtroom. Next to him, a volunteer court observer took careful notes on the proceedings, sweat stippling his forehead.<\/p>\n

The judge sat behind two computer screens, the top of her head barely visible above them. Lawyers from around the state appeared remotely on large monitors while their neatly dressed clients sat in person before the judge, one after another.<\/p>\n

An hour in, it was hot, and the kids in the audience were starting to squirm. Jaime spotted a girl, maybe 5 years old, with dark bushy bangs, in the back row of the gallery, and he quietly squeezed through the aisle to hand her a picture book.<\/p>\n

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Sergio Jaime Lopez, a community defender coordinator, outside the Concord Immigration Court on May 7, 2026. As a community defender coordinator, he works within the public defender\u2019s office to help connect clients and families with community resources and support alongside legal representation. (Beth LaBerge\/KQED)<\/cite><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The girl looked through the book a few times, then turned her attention to grooming her father\u2019s hair.<\/p>\n

For Jaime, seeing these children is one of the hardest parts of the work. \u201cSometimes they smile, they\u2019re really happy, they don\u2019t care about what is going on. But sometimes also, I can see the fathers are terrified,\u201d he said. \u201cThe kids feel their fear.\u201d<\/p>\n

Soon, the young girl was lying on the floor between benches while a man in an orange jumpsuit appeared by video from a detention facility in Louisiana. Amid confusion about his arrest record, which appeared to include a conviction for leaving the scene of an accident, the government attorney asked for additional time to prepare.<\/p>\n

The judge addressed the man: \u201cDo you want more time to find an attorney?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLocked up in here, I can\u2019t get one,\u201d he said, explaining that he\u2019d tried calling around, but nobody answered.<\/p>\n

She repeated her question.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I don\u2019t want anything,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

In the back of the room, Jaime\u2019s colleague crouched down to offer the girl more books. When her family was finally called before the judge, alongside several other people without attorneys, she carried one with her to the front of the courtroom.<\/p>\n

As the judge explained that the proceedings would determine whether the family had a right to remain in the United States, the girl sat cross-legged on the floor, paging through the comic book. Her parents took the judge up on her offer of more time to find an attorney.<\/p>\n

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Ixchel Barrag\u00e1n, left, and Maria Zavaleta, associate attorney with Bean, Lloyd, Mukherji, & Taylor, LLP, at an informational session about immigration services at Willow Cove Elementary in Pittsburg, California, Jan. 29, 2025. More than 300 people attended the event organized by Stand Together Contra Costa and the Pittsburg Unified School District, which offered free, private consultations with immigration attorneys, medical services and a resource fair. (David M. Barreda\/KQED)<\/cite><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Afterward, Jaime walked them out of the courtroom and offered a free consultation with the attorney of the day \u2014 a position staffed by lawyers who volunteer their time and attorneys with Stand Together Contra Costa<\/a>, a collaboration between the county and other organizations.<\/p>\n

The Concord courthouse now has attorneys of the day on hand about 70% of the time, and advocates say they\u2019re working to get to full-time coverage.<\/p>\n

Volunteers who aren\u2019t attorneys have also been trained to help people complete asylum applications when they have nowhere else to turn \u2014 as in Rosaura\u2019s case.<\/p>\n

Reciprocating life-changing support<\/h2>\n

The Concord immigration court is housed in a modern, mirrored office building near downtown. Often, a line forms outside before it opens at 8, serenaded by a makeshift chorus made up of congregants from around the region.<\/p>\n

On a Tuesday morning, a small group from Kehilla Community Synagogue in Oakland and Mt. Diablo Unitarian Universalist Church in Walnut Creek stood on the sidewalk singing \u201cThis Little Light of Mine\u201d in alternating Spanish and English verses.<\/p>\n

They held signs that read \u201cKeep families together,\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t lose hope,\u201d and \u201cWe are here with you.\u201d Cars honked as they passed.<\/p>\n

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Mary Rae Arnold at her home in Oakland on May 8, 2026. (Beth LaBerge\/KQED)<\/cite><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

\u201cPeople have come up to us, hugged us, thanked us, sometimes in tears,\u201d said Penny Rosenwasser, of Kehilla. \u201cThe lawyers come up, too, and just thank us, because it gives them support as well. We\u2019re all part of it together, a team.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mary Rae, a volunteer in training, started her work at the court out on the sidewalk. Today, she stood in the lobby preparing to begin a day of learning alongside Jaime. She\u2019d already watched the required videos and tagged along with other volunteers; now she was here to learn from the man in charge.<\/p>\n

Rae, 73 with silver shoulder-length hair and metal-framed glasses, is a former emergency medicine doctor from Texas who moved to California after retiring in 2020. \u201cI just feel the need to help these people. They\u2019re coming here to start a better life,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

The court occupies the top three floors of the 10-story building, also home to an urgent care center and various businesses. When Rae emerged on the top floor, she encountered a security line curled around the narrow elevator bank.<\/p>\n

One by one, people fed their bags into the X-ray scanner and stepped through the metal detector. Rae, with her replacement hip and knee, got a thorough wanding.<\/p>\n

\u201cMuch more rigorous than TSA,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Inside, the walls, ceiling and linoleum floors were white. Fluorescent lights blazed down on notices tacked to the walls with warnings about asylum fraud and the \u201cbenefits and consequences\u201d of self-deportation.<\/p>\n

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Attorneys provide simultaneous translation for a member of the public attending an informational session about immigration services at Willow Cove Elementary in Pittsburg, California, Jan. 29, 2025. More than 300 people attended the event organized by Stand Together Contra Costa and the Pittsburg Unified School District, which offered free, private consultations with immigration attorneys, medical services and a resource fair. (David M. Barreda\/KQED)<\/cite><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Jaime, in an azure blazer and black-rimmed glasses, greeted Rae and launched into a tutorial. He described the role of volunteers: Be present, supportive and smile; give people resource packets and connect them with the attorney of the day. He showed her where he stores the box of donated children\u2019s books in various languages and explained that there\u2019s limited grant funding available to cover the $100 annual asylum application fee. He reminded her not to give legal advice.<\/p>\n

Every couple of minutes, he stopped to attend to a need, speaking in Spanish to people looking for help.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you have court?\u201d he asked a lost-looking woman, then showed her to courtroom 17.<\/p>\n

Volunteers wearing baby blue lanyards or blue vests that read \u201cContra Costa Civil Rights Alliance\u201d stepped in and out of courtrooms, ushering people to the pro bono attorney room and explaining judges\u2019 instructions.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d a man asked Jaime upon emerging from the courtroom with a document in hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe judge gave you more time to get an attorney,\u201d Jaime said. \u201cIt\u2019s not a requirement, but it helps.\u201d<\/p>\n

He offered the man a consultation with the attorney volunteering that day.<\/p>\n

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Ernesto Reyes holds a sign outside the San Francisco Immigration Court in downtown San Francisco on Oct. 14, 2025. (Beth LaBerge\/KQED)<\/cite><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

\u201cIs it free?\u201d the man said.<\/p>\n

Jaime assured him it was and showed him to a waiting area.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have court in September. What should I do?\u201d another man said.<\/p>\n

Then a woman with a black ponytail reaching down her back asked: \u201cDo I have to come back with an attorney?\u201d He explained that she \u2014 like everyone else seeking asylum \u2014 would have to prove to the judge that she had a well-founded fear of persecution.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know it because you lived it, but the judge doesn\u2019t know any of that. It\u2019s up to you to explain it and provide evidence,\u201d Jaime said. \u201cAn attorney can help with that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Rae stood beside him, doing her best to take notes.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t expect you to do all that,\u201d Jaime said with a smile. He could tell Rae was a bit overwhelmed. \u201cIt\u2019s a lot of information. You don\u2019t need to know everything right now.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n