TK was born in Guatemala in 1962. He arrived in the United States in 1965, at the age of three, as a lawful permanent resident with his immigrant mother and American stepfather. For the next 61 years, he lived what most people would recognize as an American life.
TK grew up in American schools, graduated from a Texas high school and attended college. As a child, his classmates struggled to pronounce his given name, Enrique. They began calling him “Keke,” a nickname that eventually became “TK”—the name he has been known by ever since. He married, raised three daughters, divorced, and eventually remarried, all in the US. Today, he is a grandfather and a successful businessman whose life has been rooted in this country since the age of three.
English is his first language. America is not simply where he resides. It is where his life happened.
Today, TK is in federal immigration detention, facing possible deportation to a country he left six decades ago and has only returned to a handful of times.
TK's history is not without complications. He was arrested in 2003, an event whose legal consequences deserve appropriate consideration. But so do the 23 years that followed.
He overcame personal obstacles, rebuilt his life, and built a successful business that requires frequent international travel. Over the past decade, TK has traveled between the United States and the Caribbean dozens of times without difficulty. I was fortunate to accompany him on one trip earlier this year. We returned without any issues.
About a month ago, his permanent resident card was renewed without incident.
Then, after returning from another routine business trip this month, he was referred for secondary inspection, found inadmissible, and taken into federal custody.
What followed has been as disturbing as the detention itself.
TK was permitted one telephone call. After his transfer to another facility, communication effectively disappeared.
TK initially appeared in ICE's online detainee locator, but only briefly. Following his transfer, however, I could no longer establish his whereabouts through the system. Nearly 24 hours passed before TK managed to borrow telephone access from another detainee, for a price.
He told me where he was and asked for help.
I called the detention facility twice. Both calls were answered dismissively. I was instructed to call during normal business hours or told that the person answering was not employed by ICE and could not address my questions since TK was brought in by ICE.
I was not asking difficult questions or requesting preferential treatment. I was trying to assist someone in federal custody and get basic information: how do I obtain his belongings, visitation, etc.
Next, I tried to deposit money into his commissary account so he could buy basic necessities like toothpaste and food beyond the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he was being provided. I tried two online systems, two separate accounts, and two different credit cards. Every transaction failed. Eventually, the accounts were locked, “Too Many Attempts”.
The solution? Call Customer Service during normal business hours.
It was Saturday. Monday was a holiday.
Four days before I could even seek assistance with a failed payment system. Now Tuesday and seven calls later. Nobody available. Every call went to voicemail. Imagine a facility that is designated as “Undercapacity,” and everyone is busy?
Consider the situation: A person is detained by the federal government, transferred without reliably accessible location information, afforded extremely limited communication, and left dependent on administrative systems that cannot be corrected over a holiday weekend.
In the American criminal justice system, even individuals accused of serious offenses, murder, sex trafficking, generally have established procedures for prompt judicial oversight and consideration of pretrial release. Immigration detention operates differently, and access to bond or prompt judicial review is restricted.
These legal distinctions are important. But they do not eliminate the fundamental question of what procedural safeguards and basic standards of treatment should accompany government detention.
There is another question worth examining.
People who enter the United States unlawfully generally understand that apprehension may lead to detention and deportation. But does that understanding prepare their families for the experience of losing contact with someone in federal custody?
What happens when a spouse, parent, or child is detained, transferred between facilities, and becomes difficult to locate? When families cannot obtain reliable information, when calls go unanswered and when uncertainty extends for days, weeks or longer?
Could some of the anger and confrontation surrounding immigration enforcement stem not simply from opposition to deportation, but from fear about the whereabouts and treatment of loved ones?
That possibility deserves examination. Understanding the sources of public distrust does not require excusing threats or violence.
I experienced less than 24 hours of that uncertainty before TK contacted me. For families who endure it much longer, the consequences may be profound.
I have experienced firsthand individuals entering the US illegally across the southern border. They were generally arrested (because they surrendered), processed, and released with a court date several years away in a matter of days. TK, a lawful permanent resident for over 60 years... detained indefinitely.
I support immigration enforcement unequivocally. A sovereign nation has the right and responsibility to protect and control its borders and enforce its laws. What I question is whether our immigration detention system operates with the transparency, proportionality, and accountability we should expect from the federal government.
I also recognize that lawful permanent residence does not confer citizenship, and that immigration law may impose consequences for conduct that occurred decades ago. TK's legal status and eligibility for release must be determined under the applicable law. That is the law.
But the legality of detention and the administration of detention are separate matters.
Perhaps each failure has an explanation: a database that updates slowly, a contracted facility with limited authority, a payment vendor closed for the weekend. But this is 2026, not 1982. Imagine your phone or your tablet “updates slowly,” or a payment vendor is “closed for the weekend.” The frustration you feel from such a mundane service is something you've grown to feel entitled to. Individually, these explanations are barely reasonable. Collectively, they reveal a system in which responsibility is fragmented, and those seeking answers have few places to turn.
I believe that immigration laws should be enforced. I also believe that the authority to deprive someone of liberty carries an obligation to ensure meaningful communication, access to basic necessities, and accountable treatment, even for those who entered the US illegally.
TK's case will ultimately turn on the facts and the law. It should.
But his experience leaves a question that should concern Americans regardless of their views on immigration:
If the federal government has the power to take away a person’s freedom, shouldn’t it also be responsible for ensuring that person can be found, contacted, and treated with basic dignity? Even Amazon can track a package.
Spencer Ross is the Chief Operating Officer (COO) of TerraKross Building Contractors & Developers, LLC.
