Taking On Ice: A Lone Louisiana Lawyer's Fight against Trump's Deportations
SOURCE:Spiegel International
Louisiana is home to a higher concentration of migrant detention centers than almost anywhere else in the country. Many in the region don't seem to mind too much. Lawyer Christopher Kinnison, though, is an exception.
A Lone Louisiana Lawyer's Fight against Trump's Deportations
Louisiana is home to a higher concentration of migrant detention centers than almost anywhere else in the country. Many in the region don't seem to mind too much. Lawyer Christopher Kinnison, though, is an exception.
Christopher Kinnison is going to lose today. Again. He senses it as he gets into his car at noon, lays his pinstriped suit jacket and stack of papers on the back seat and drives out of the city, past the fast-food restaurants and the low houses that always look, here in rural Louisiana, like they're trying to hide from the eyes of strangers. He senses it as he turns onto the highway, flanked by green forests and farms, and as he drives along the country road, lined with wooden power poles looking like giant crosses. Outside, it’s fall and summer at the same time, the Southern heat shimmering over the asphalt and the sky glowing blue as if a child has colored it in with crayons.
In some of these areas, 90 percent of the populace voted for Donald Trump. Indeed, it feels like a promotional film backdrop for this president's vision of America: a simple, orderly world. Kinnison keeps his eyes stubbornly on the road. His world has been crazier than ever for several months. Sometimes, he doesn’t seem to understand it himself anymore.
He drives without the help of GPS; the route has become familiar to him by now – the route to the small town of Jena, home of the Central Louisiana ICE Processing Center, one of Trump's more than 200 deportation centers. It is a box-like building, surrounded by barbed wire and forest. A prefab fortress, thrown up in the middle of nowhere, logging country.
DER SPIEGEL 50/2025
The article you are reading originally appeared in German in issue 50/2025 (December 5th, 2025) of DER SPIEGEL.
Many of Kinnison's clients are locked up here. The one on today’s schedule has been here for two months – a man who once came illegally to the U.S. from Mexico. Today Kinnison will try to defend him. He parks his car between rows of SUVs and walks to a chain-link gate.
Kinnison, a thin man, his hair trimmed short and gray just like his beard, presses a button. A few seconds pass, during which his body tenses up. Then, a buzz sounds and the lock springs open. Kinnison enters, walks through a beeping scanner, past a human-sized U.S. flag, past a sobbing woman with smeared mascara, past a huge yellow container reading "ICE Trash." ICE is short for Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the U.S. immigration police. They are apparently producing quite a bit of garbage here.
He turns into a narrow hallway with a tile floor. On one wall hang candy, chips and chocolate bars, neatly arranged, as snacks for the guards and police officers in the corridors. An officer opens the door to Courtroom 2, a windowless brick space. Behind a desk sits a judge, a blonde woman in glasses. "Mr. Kinnison!" she says brightly. The always affable Kinnison nods to her and says, "Good to see you!" He takes a seat on a cushioned chair and sets his thick stack of papers on the table.
![A deportation facility in Louisiana's "Detention Alley."](https://cdn.prod.www.spiegel.de/images/c448cd34-f2e0-4d22-bf76-080a60ff83ec_w520_r1.7777777777777777_fpx25.3_fpy54.99.jpg "A deportation facility in Louisiana's "Detention Alley."")
A deportation facility in Louisiana's "Detention Alley."
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
The Central Louisiana ICE Processing Center in Jena, Louisiana.
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
The first sheet on the pile bears a name. But it doesn't matter. In Trump's deportation centers, almost no one knows the migrants by their names. Instead, they are identified by Alien Numbers. The first page of Kinnison's documents reads: A089-847-562. Kinnison has never before spoken with the man he will soon be trying to save. It was the man's wife who called him after her husband had been arrested. He doesn't know much about A089-847-562 – or perhaps he won't reveal what he knows because he doesn't want to violate attorney-client privilege.
A089-847-562, as Kinnison has noted down, has lived in the U.S. for 20 years. He has an American wife and five children – rather a decent starting point, one might think, for avoiding deportation. But under Trump, Kinnison says, there is no such thing for the vast majority of migrants. The only starting points that seem to exist are bad, very bad and impossible.
Perhaps A089-847-562 is a craftsman, maybe he works on a farm, maybe as a nursing home aide, maybe he loves his family, maybe he hates them. Maybe he once swam through the Rio Grande, maybe smugglers drove him across the border. Who knows? None of that will be the focus of today’s hearing.
Kinnison is here to apply for his client's release on bond. It used to be routine for people who had once come illegally to the U.S. but had lived here for years, had family, had relatives who were U.S. citizens or a job, people like A089-847-562, to be released on bond. But in early September, a court in the U.S. decided: No one who once entered the U.S. illegally can be released on bond by an immigration court. All those who have been arrested must remain locked up. At the end of November, a class action lawsuit will successfully challenge this ruling before a federal court. But that will come too late for Kinnison and the man from Mexico. Anyway, it’s a constant back-and-forth under Trump.
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"This has nothing to do with due process anymore," Kinnison said in the car. He refers to the proceedings that are about to begin as a "circus.”
Let the show begin.
Two guards lead A089-847-562 into the room, hunched over in a red prison jumpsuit, short, black hair and a black beard. He takes a seat on a chair next to his lawyer. On the other side of the room sits an ICE attorney. Behind her are two rows of chairs for spectators. They're empty.
Maybe 30 seconds pass, Kinnison hasn't spoken yet, before the judge tells him she's denying his motion. Kinnison says, "You have to follow the law, I understand." His client leans forward, eyes downcast, as if trying to hide from the judge's words. He says something in Spanish, whispering more than speaking. An interpreter, connected remotely, translates.
The man is asking whether he can just voluntarily allow himself to be deported to Mexico.
The judge raises her eyebrows and asks, "Have you discussed this with your lawyer?" Kinnison shakes his head. The ICE attorney asks, "Is this 093?" She means the last three digits of the man's Alien Number. Kinnison says, "No, this is 562."
"Oh!" says the ICE attorney.
She had opened the wrong file on her laptop. But it makes no difference. After eight minutes, the hearing is over. A089-847-562 and Kinnison say goodbye to each other. The man from Mexico tries to smile but is unable to. "Most of my clients no longer have any life left in them," Kinnison had said previously. "Being detained for months sucks all the joy and happiness out of them."
A089-847-562 is led out, back to his cell. The judge asks Kinnison, "And how's soccer with your daughters?"
A man's car window lies shattered following an ICE operation in North Carolina.
Foto: Erik Verduzco / AP
There is hardly anywhere else in the U.S. where so many deportation centers are packed so closely together as here, in Central Louisiana. Nowhere are there so many detained migrants per resident. In U.S. media, this region is referred to as "Detention Alley." There are 10 centers within a radius of 150 kilometers, isolated facilities located on roads that hardly anyone uses. In many cases, they are operated by private prison companies; some located on the grounds of former slave plantations.
Officially, these centers are not prisons. Unofficially, former detainees and documents report brown drinking water, rotten food, missing medications, mold on the walls and water dripping from ceilings over the beds.
This is where the migrants sucked in by Trump’s deportation machine are spit back out. This is where they're brought after they've been arrested at random checks in hardware store parking lots, at car washes, crossing an intersection, in raids – detained by the masked men of ICE. The inmates come from all across the country: from Arkansas, Alaska, Maryland. Some don't even know where they've ended up after arrival.
It's as if the government is trying to hide them here.
More than 8,000 people are locked away in immigration detention in Louisiana, the overwhelming majority without ever having committed a crime. They are being held to ensure that they don't flee prior to deportation. They have no right to a public defender, though they are able to engage a lawyer if they can afford it. And if they can find one.
Within the same 150-kilometer radius along Detention Alley, there is only a handful of immigration lawyers. Kinnison is one of them. He knows two others.
Spending a week with him as a reporter reveals a reserved man who steadfastly believes in principles. He doesn't curse, though he probably would like to. He goes to church on Sundays. And he believes that everyone in the U.S. has a right to a proper court proceeding. Migrants too. "And with that," Kinnison says, "I may now be in the minority in this country."
Kinnison is one of a dwindling number of saviors. The question is whether there's anything left to save.
It's a bit of a coincidence that Kinnison and his family live here, that he works as an immigration lawyer and that the Trump administration has moved the center of its deportation policy to Louisiana. Indeed, there is so much coincidence that Kinnison and his wife Tiffany, both devout Christians, have sometimes wondered whether a bit of destiny might be in play as well.
Kinnison's mother is from Alabama, his father from Texas. The two of them went as missionaries to Thailand, where they taught local priests the Bible and where Kinnison was born and grew up. They lived not far from the border with Cambodia, he says. The Khmer Rouge were waging a guerrilla war against the new government at the time. As a small boy, Kinnison saw the refugee camps for displaced people and wondered: Why do these families have to live in tents behind barbed wire? He didn't understand it.
After graduating from college, he moved to Cambodia and taught English there, in addition to distributing food in slums and helping to build dikes as protection against storm surges. When he heard machine gun fire on the street, he says, he would sleep on the floor to avoid being hit by bullets.
"After that I knew I wanted to help people," Kinnison says. "I just didn't know how."
On the main road that runs past Kinnison's office, a number of lawyers have rented large billboards, advertising quick assistance with traffic accidents. For Kinnison, who is in his 40s and who has been a lawyer for 15 years, it must seem like a warning from his old life.
Kinnison studied law in Louisiana, where his wife is from. They had their daughter Miriam before he finished law school. In 2010, America in the grips of the financial crisis, they needed money. Kinnison says he applied to more than 300 law firms and received just a single job offer: at a large law firm in Alexandria. He did insurance law. Figuring out whose fault it was after a crash at an intersection with a stop sign, that kind of thing. Some mornings, he says, he would sit in the car outside the office for minutes at a time trying to convince himself to get out.
Kinnison with his bird Mango in their kitchen.
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
Christopher Kinnison, lawyer
At some point, Kinnison says, the family of a woman from Armenia contacted him. She needed help with an asylum case. So he read up on the country's history and represented her. A short time later, he received a message came from the Syrian family of a doctor who had treated demonstrators during the uprisings against Assad and had been tortured with electric shocks by the regime as a result. Kinnison won the case.
He thought he had finally figured out how he could really help people. His colleagues at the firm, in his recollection, told him they didn't want to see the migrants running through the hallways when clients from the big oil companies came. He quit and went into business for himself, calling his firm Liberty Law Group, a reference to the Statue of Liberty.
Kinnison doesn't have a billboard on the main street, nor does his office have a nameplate. There isn't even a current photo of him on the internet. Still, his cell phone is constantly ringing. The people who need him know how to find him.
At the moment, the woman on the other end of the line is the wife of the man he represented on the previous day, the wife of A089-847-562.
"Can you hear me?" Kinnison asks.
He had actually intended to tell the woman that her husband would likely be deported. That five children and an American wife was unfortunately no longer sufficient in Trump’s America to justify a right to remain due to "exceptional and extremely unusual hardship." That to obtain such status, one of the children would have to have a disability like autism. That her husband, if he doesn't want to spend more time in detention, would be well advised to return to Mexico voluntarily. After a year and a half, he could then try to reenter the U.S. legally.
Now, though, the woman tells him that her husband had already been deported once before, several years ago. Kinnison buries his forehead in his hands. "That's not good," he says. He kneads his fingers, crosses his arms. Those who have already been deported once and still come back illegally don’t even have the right in the U.S. to another court hearing.
Kinnison starts to speak, breaks off, and starts over again. He says: "Under those conditions, he would have to return to Mexico for more than 10 years before he could try to come to the U.S. again."
The office fills with a short silence. Over 10 years. Likely separated from his family.
Kinnison has developed a rule for such phone calls: He doesn't want to give people false hope. He's not an NGO. He receives payment for the work he does, at least usually. And he doesn't want to take thousands of dollars for cases he believes he can't win anyway.
He says the 10 years are the best option now available to the man.
Once the call has ended, Kinnison says: "You'd think something like this previous deportation would be information that you might give your lawyer before a hearing." He seems at a loss. But only for a moment. He has no more time than that.
Kinnison keeps a Word document on his computer in which he summarizes his phone calls. The document is now 613 pages long. And those are only the calls he's answered. Some number is constantly flashing up on his phone with an area code he doesn’t recognize. Sometimes, it wakes him up at 2 a.m. He is concerned he might end up having a heart attack from overwork. He turns off his cell phone on Saturday and Sunday to protect himself. Not long ago, a woman called him 15 times over the weekend and even her pastor texted him. Kinnison called back Monday morning, but by then, the woman's son had already been deported.
"I didn't realize how urgent it was,” Kinnison says. "I felt bad for that.” But, he says, he has also reached the point when he has to shut off his emotions just to function.
He says he rarely gets sad or angry anymore. The last time was in the middle of August. He was representing a man from Afghanistan, a close relative of a high-ranking official of the old Afghan government who had fought against the Taliban and now lives in the U.S. His client said, he had spent 27 days in captivity in Kabul, and the Taliban had beaten him bloody and told him they would kill him. Kinnison had shown the judge evidence photos, called witnesses, presented letters from high-ranking U.S. military officers in which the American soldiers advocated for the man to receive asylum.
Most court hearings take place by videoconference, as if they were a meeting at a tech company. The Afghan was linked from a cell in one of the deportation centers. The connection was poor. The judge looked at the screen in front of her and decided to deport.
"And at the end of the day, this woman goes back to her nice home and turns on the TV," Kinnison says. Because none of this has any impact on her, he says, except that she is thus able to ensure that her job under Trump is secure. "Her own job is more important to her than the life of the person whom she may have just sent to his death,” Kinnison says.
It took him a week for the rage to dissipate. When he talks about it now, he still looks like he is about to scream. But he doesn't scream. Perhaps because he knows he must stay in control as everything around him is spinning out of control.
Most people in his own family, Kinnison says, are conservative. He suspects that not a few of his own relatives voted for Trump. In his youth, he was taught that those who vote for the Democrats go to hell. He no longer believes that. He believes in loving your neighbor.
Muslim prayer beads given to Kinnison by a client.
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
On one occasion, a client of his was released and had no place to sleep. So Kinnison brought him home, let him pray on the carpet and then spend the night. Another man gave Kinnison Islamic prayer beads in gratitude; they are still sitting in his car. And he still exchanges messages with the doctor from Syria who was one of his first clients.
Kinnison says his dream would be to walk down a street in the U.S. and hear five foreign languages. And he wishes that the Sermon on the Mount would hang in front of American courtrooms instead of the Ten commandments:
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.
Rural Louisiana is extremely devout.
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
Donald Trump has given his Department of Homeland Security and its police agencies one primary mission in his second term: to deport as many irregular migrants as possible. His administration has set a target of 1 million deportations for its first year.
Their methods to achieve this total are brutal.
Once they are apprehended, ICE often sends the migrants to remote places, known for little more than their cruelty. To Guantanamo Bay, or to "Alligator Alcatraz," the center in the Everglades swamps of Florida. Since the beginning of September, they've also been bringing people to "Angola," a maximum-security prison on the Mississippi River, so notorious for its harsh detention conditions that for decades it has been called "the dungeon.”
Kinnison says he has already been contacted by a family that has a relative being held in the "dungeon.” At almost the exact same time, Trump posted on social media: "I love the smell of deportations in the morning."
The next call reaches him in his office – a woman whose father is in one of the detention centers in Louisiana. Kinnison has a list of five questions that he always poses to first callers.
He asks the woman: When did your father come to the U.S.? Did he come on a visa? Does he have a criminal record? Does he have children who have citizenship? Is he married to a citizen?
The woman answers "no” four times. Kinnison says: "The problem is that your father has no possibility of living permanently in the U.S. I'm sorry. I can't do anything for you."
Prior to Trump’s arrival, Kinnison says, his job had been to enable people to have a safe life in the U.S. through asylum proceedings. Now, it has been reversed: He now tries to prevent people who had lived safely in the U.S. for decades from suddenly being dragged out of the country.
Kinnison doesn’t think that everybody should be allowed to stay in the U.S. He thinks migrants from safe countries of origin should be deported if they commit violent crimes. He believes the ICE officers are doing a job that needs to be done. But he believes the manner in which they are doing that job under Trump to be fundamentally wrong – that they are tearing apart thousands of families.
She used to be an elementary school teacher, but she quit her job a year ago and started helping her husband at the firm. With calls, letters, documents, buying pens. She says she's afraid he'll collapse from exhaustion at some point. Sometimes, when he's on calls, she sends him a message on his cell phone: "Stay calm!"
One afternoon, Kinnison wants to show something. He jumps into his car and drives for 10 minutes to the Alexandria airport. He points to white planes and says: "There they are!" He then indicates a low building behind them, brown and inconspicuous. It could easily be mistaken for a hangar. "That's where people are being held," he says.
The airport in Alexandria borders on a golf course.
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
![An ICE deportation plane. Like Amazon and FedEx, "but with people."](https://cdn.prod.www.spiegel.de/images/84f041ae-1219-407e-a709-24afbfddbafb_w520_r1.4993975903614458_fpx33.35_fpy50.jpg "An ICE deportation plane. Like Amazon and FedEx, "but with people."")
An ICE deportation plane. Like Amazon and FedEx, "but with people."
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
Another deportation center. Right on the tarmac.
ICE planes land here several times a day, more than at any other airport. People are led down the stairs and into the heat, their hands and feet in shackles. It's easy to observe. There is golf course right next to the airport fence. On this afternoon, men in cowboy hats and shorts are teeing off. They seem completely unaffected by what’s taking place maybe 250 meters away.
The head of ICE once said that deportations under Trump needed to work as efficiently as Amazon or FedEx, "but with human beings." In this vision, the Alexandria airport is the distribution hub. Migrants are held there for a short time before being either deported immediately or herded into white buses with barred windows that look like livestock transporters. The buses take the migrants to the small towns – to places like Jena, where Kinnison attended the court hearing.
Many of these detention centers are old jails. Now, though, the parishes lease them to ICE. In some cases, the parishes receive $120 per day per inmate from the government. This can be seen in contracts that the NGO Southern Poverty Law Center was able to obtain and which have been made available to DER SPIEGEL. It's good business. One of the small towns, a place called Winnfield with a population of around 4,000, is home to the largest deportation center in Louisiana, with 1,576 beds. In 2024 the detention center helped the parish achieve a profit of nearly $4 million. The former sheriff once said, it saved the parish from bankruptcy.
Kinnison says he no longer goes to Winnfield – ever since he heard a man there say the "N-word" in front of a crowd of other people, and no one objected. He suggests I go to a high school football game there if I want to get to know the culture and the people.
Winnfield is home to quite a few churches - and not much else.
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
The Winnfield football stadium. Full on a Friday night in September.
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
Winnfield is so far from any major city that you can’t even say that it’s near anything at all. It is home to a McDonald's, a number of discount stores and quite a few churches. The Winn Correctional Center in in the woods a few kilometers outside of town. On Facebook, a resident once wrote, in reference to the deportation center, that she feared "illegal immigrants" might escape and bring in tuberculosis. After all, she added, they’re already good at "jumping fences."
The football game was on a Friday evening, the Winnfield Tigers against the Jonesboro-Hodge Tigers. Pickup trucks, gleaming in the floodlights, were parked at the edge of the field. The tickets costed $11. The teams ran in; behind me, a man was munching loudly on peanuts as dragonflies zipped by overhead. Someone said a prayer over the loudspeaker, asking God for a fair game. God didn’t answer. Instead the national anthem was played.
The issue of Time Magazine following Trump's first election victory in 2016 is still available in a Winnfield barber shop.
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
"The land of the free and the home of the brave"
I took a few pictures and videos of the field and the stands with my cell phone. A few minutes passed before a woman approached me, maybe in her mid-40s. She demanded to know who I am rooting for. For no one, I said, explaining that I was a reporter from Germany. She asked why I was here. I told her I wanted to write about Winnfield.
The woman didn’t believe me and began screaming at me: "You just filmed our girls!" After a few seconds I realized she was talking about the cheerleaders, the teenage girls who were doing cartwheels down below, smiles plastered onto their faces in the sweltering heat. Many people around me were also taking photos and videos, but that didn’t seem to bother the woman.
She shouted: "Delete the pictures!" So I did. I didn’t want any trouble. She looked me in the eyes and said: "We can be the nicest people in the world here, but…" She paused briefly. "If you have bad intentions, we can also be the meanest people in the world." Shortly afterwards, a massive man sat down behind me and whispered in my ear: "I'll give you some advice, this is a small town…" He pated me on the shoulder. "Better take off a few minutes before the end of the game." Then he left. And so did I.
The message was clear: In Winnfield, no one trusts a stranger at first. And they assume the worst. This isn't the America from Kinnison's dream, free and courageous. This is a paranoid America. Consumed by fear.
The next day, I drove through the town, past signs reading: "Prayer – America's Only Hope." I saw wooden houses that looked as if they were trying to tear themselves down. I was wondering where all the money from the deportation center is ending up. After half an hour, I parked and wandered into the supermarket. When I came back out, my rental car was surrounded by three police vehicles. The officers waved me over. One asked me: "Were you at the high school football game yesterday?"
He said: "The problem is, you drove past a cheerleader's house. And the mother called us."
Uh.
They checked my visa and came up to my hotel room with me to look around. One of the officers said: "You're a nice guy. We believe you. But when you come here as a stranger, you should have introduced yourself at the police station first." Another nodded and said: "You never know, with all the child trafficking that takes place in the world."
I thought to myself: These guys watch too much Fox News. But I said: "I understand."
"Listen," one of the police officers said. "You haven't violated any law. We can't tell you by law that you have to leave town. But…"
The message came through loud and clear. After an hour they let me go. I packed my things and drove back to Alexandria.
When I tell the lawyer Kinnison about my encounter with the mother and the police, he's briefly silent. Then he says, "Welcome to the South." He means it ironically. During the time I spent with him, I began to realize that he sometimes feels alienated from this area. This area that is now his home.
He knows that kind of people, he also knows the judges and the men from ICE. They're parents at his daughters' school; he meets them in the supermarket or on the street. They're his community. One of his closest friends, Kinnison says, is an ICE officer; they know each other from church. Sometimes they go golfing together. But he hasn’t spoken with him about politics yet, Kinnison says. He doesn't make his political views very public here. He thinks that might be harmful for his family.
The Kinnisons live a few streets away from his office, in a brick house with a large oak tree and a treehouse in the yard. One evening, they invite me to their home. The younger daughter, Annaliese, packs up her bag for soccer practice; Kinnison is the team's coach. The older one, Miriam, returns from getting her hair dyed. Her boyfriend drives up and brings her flowers. Tiffany bakes cookies. Their dogs, Lucy and Oliver, pad across the wooden floor in the large living room. On the shelf are books about prayers and about North Korea. It's all very nice.
I have only one more question for Kinnison. I've already asked him the same question several times, and he’s already given me an answer several times. But I have the feeling I don't really understand him yet.
Why is he doing all this? As someone who dreams of hearing foreign languages on the street, why does he live here, among people who believe everything foreign is dangerous? Why does he meet eyes with his clients every week through a pane of glass – clients whom he probably won’t be able to free? Why does he put on one of his suitcoats hanging behind his office door every few days only to be defeated yet again by Trump's system in a 10-minute video hearing?
Kinnison with his daughter Annaliese right before soccer practice.
Foto: Bryan Tarnowski / DER SPIEGEL
If he didn’t have a chance, Kinnison says, he would stop. But that’s not how it is.
He tells me about another case, one he’s spoken about repeatedly in recent days, as if it were a small miracle. It involves a man who has lived in the U.S. for 30 years, has a construction business, eight children, two of them with disabilities, no criminal record. He was arrested at a traffic stop in May and was supposed to be deported to El Salvador. But Kinnison managed to get the judge to overturn the deportation. His client, Kinnison says, was allowed to stay in the U.S.
"Every now and then, I can't say how often, once a month, once every two months, I win,” Kinnison says. "There are still cases where judges find that my client deserves to stay in America. And the lives of these people are worth fighting for."
In this light, he actually does seem like the last savior. And perhaps also like the last person who believes there's still something to save.
Then he drives with his daughter to soccer practice. For the two hours it lasts, he leaves his phone in the car.
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