Wilber Urbina Garcia tossed and turned in bed 23 on the first floor at the Adelanto ICE Detention Center. The mattress was as stiff as cardboard and he was worried about his mom.
He didn’t get to speak with her before he was detained, and she was already naturally anxious, nervous anytime her children were away from her. He knew she would be beside herself.
Just a day before, he had graduated from Jordan High School in South Los Angeles wearing an honors stole, the first in his family to walk the stage. His mother was so proud as they talked about what courses he might take at El Camino College in fall. They celebrated with a family dinner in Long Beach before taking a stroll along the shore.
But the next morning, Wilber, 18, was detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement during a routine check-in as part of his family’s ongoing asylum application. His hands and ankles were chained, and he was shipped off to Adelanto alongside a handful of other immigrants, all who were at least a decade older than him.
Wilber had never been apart from his family, and his first time traveling at all was when they emigrated from Nicaragua during political repression there in 2022.
The family — Wilber’s mom, two older brothers and younger sister — had since grown accustomed to regular appointments with ICE as part of their application.
Wilber could barely keep his eyes closed that first night in Adelanto. His thoughts were spinning. Would he be sent back to Nicaragua, where his family says they were in danger of political persecution by the government of President Daniel Ortega? Would his mother be able to bear his sudden disappearance? Would he ever set foot in a classroom again, let alone achieve his dream of becoming a doctor?
The other men detained in Adelanto, most well into their 40s, were shocked to see Wilber the morning after he arrived. His round baby face, the square-rimmed glasses and his short stature gave him a boyishness that made him look younger than he was.
“What happened to you? You’re too young to be locked up in here with us,” a man said.
Wilber felt terrified of the new and uncertain environment he was forced into, but the kindness and guidance of the other men in the facility kept him tethered, he said.
He hadn’t yet set up an account to make calls or purchase from the commissary, so the Guatemalan man gave Wilber one of his phone calls to call his mother that first full day in Adelanto, over 24 hours after he was first hauled away from his family. A few of the other men pooled together instant noodles, chips, cookies and coffee to last him at least his first week there, until Wilber could purchase his own food.
“Don’t worry, I’m OK. Just stay calm,” he told his mom. “The men here, they’re older. Some of them said they’ll take care of me. They also have kids my age. They said you don’t have to worry.”
Wilber’s family arrived in the United States together in 2022, and immediately turned themselves into ICE at the border. The family was granted parole, and allowed in the country as they applied for asylum. The mother, Yadira, applied for asylum and listed Wilber, who was 15 at the time, and his younger sister, as dependents of her case.
When Wilber was detained, ICE agents told him he was now 18 and was no longer a party to his mom’s asylum case. Wilber’s lawyer, Armineh Ebrahimian, said he should’ve remained a derivative of his mom’s case, since he was a minor when the application was filed.
The Department of Homeland Security spokesperson previously told The Times that a child attached to a parent’s immigration case does not lose the claim upon turning 18, but said that a pending asylum application doesn’t confer legal status.
In Adelanto, the men found creative ways to fill their time at the detention center. One man gifted Wilber a notebook he made of old chip bags and cardboard from a cereal box, and suggested he write down his family’s phone numbers. Others used the materials to make keychains and wallets.
They gathered in the evening daily for religious worship. They would pray over those detained, and ask God to protect those who had upcoming court hearings. One man would make rosaries for the group out of stale bread.
The men varied in age and hailed from countries across Latin America, but they bonded and kept one another grounded during their detention.
“You should be out there, studying, not in here with me,” one man told him.
Wilber wondered if he’d ever get to go to school again, or even hold his diploma in his hands.
Wilber woke up extra early on the morning of June 24, around 15 minutes before the guards came knocking at 4 a.m. He hoped to look presentable for his bond hearing that day, which his lawyer had fought to schedule.
He took the extra time to brush his teeth and comb his hair, before putting on his blue jumpsuit and getting ushered into a van in handcuffs. The men had prayed over Wilber the night before, asking God for a good result.
The bond hearing was a long shot. Although Wilber was granted parole, Homeland Security argued that his initial entry was still illegal, which would make him ineligible for bond. Even if the bond was granted, Wilber worried his family wouldn’t have the funds to pay his bail, which can cost thousands of dollars.
“I knew that every decision made in there could directly affect my mom and my whole family,” he said. “That’s what scared me.”
Instead of going home that night, Wilber found himself back in bed 23 of the detention center — his bond denied — trying to ignore a nasty odor permeating his 14-person cell. The pipes had clogged and the room was flooded with sewage coming up a drain.
The men were denied yard time the next day as punishment for not cleaning up the mess themselves, he said.
The denial was a hit to Wilber’s spirit, but Yadira tried to calm the restless teenager. The Federal Public Defender’s Office in Los Angeles had reached out to their lawyer after The Times reported on his case, and it wanted to help.
“These other lawyers, they joined your case, son,” Yadira told Wilber. “They’re going to do everything in their power to get you out. We just have to wait a little longer. Just please, don’t give up. Don’t sign anything.”
“Bed 23!” A guard yelled into the common room, summoning Wilber during the early afternoon of June 26.
Wilber tried to calm his excitement, but he’d been in there long enough to know if someone was called up by a guard during the day, it meant they had a court hearing or they were going home. If they were taken at night, they were being deported.
There’s no way, Wilber thought. He’d just spoken to his mom that morning, who said the lawyers still hadn’t received word on when, or if, he’d be released.
The day of The Times’ article publication, the public defenders office helped the family file a habeas corpus petition on behalf of Wilber. Habeas corpus is a basic legal principle that protects people from being unlawfully detained and the petition allows immigrants like Wilber to challenge the legality of their detention.
“Casa,” the guard told Wilber. It was time to go home.
After 16 days in detention, the government had approved the petition for Wilber’s release.
The holding cell erupted into cheers, as they did every time someone got released. The other men swarmed Wilber, who was still in shock.
“Oh man, could you take me with you? Just put me in your back pocket,” one man joked. Another more urgently asked Wilber if he’d spoken to his family.
Wilber said no.
“Give me their phone number. Hurry!” Wilber grabbed the notebook he carried around with his family’s information and tossed it the man, who headed straight to a telephone booth. He called Wilber’s older brother Winston, the first phone number listed, to make sure he had a ride waiting once he was released from the high desert facility.
Often, he was told, immigrants aren’t given the chance to call family members before they’re released, and are dropped off at a nearby plaza, often with uncharged cellphones or no phone at all.
As he left Adelanto, Wilber turned back to the men he was detained with. They stood near the common room, wide smiles plastered on their faces as they watched him collect his belongings, he recalled.
To Wilber, the men were more than cellmates. They were friends and, at times, father figures.
Getting to go home, while the rest of them stayed behind bars, was difficult.
Winston was getting ready to head to Adelanto to visit his brother the next day, when he got the call from Wilber’s bedmate. He nearly tripped down the stairs as he rushed to share the news with his mother. Within minutes, Winston and his younger sister were in the car and on the way to pick up their brother.
Yadira, who couldn’t go to Adelanto because of her ankle monitor, got to work, preparing the one meal Wilber requested for if and when he came home — carne asada. She rounded up some of his classmates, and bought a cake to celebrate his return.
“Even when he got home, he couldn’t believe he was out,” Yadira said. “We kept pinching him and telling him, ‘You’re here. You’re finally home.’”
Wilber can no longer be detained by ICE as long as he doesn’t commit any crimes, his attorneys say. Now, he prays the dozens of men he was detained with can one day return to their families.
Wilber’s family are still fighting against their removal in court. They will continue having regular check-ins with ICE until his case is resolved.
But his release at least temporarily gave him his life back. He’s spent his time back home playing video games and going to the movie theater with his siblings, trying to reclaim his summer.
And next week, he’ll sign up for his fall college classes.
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