{"id":707,"date":"2024-12-13T16:32:24","date_gmt":"2024-12-13T21:32:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn449-f24\/?p=707"},"modified":"2025-05-04T23:48:37","modified_gmt":"2025-05-05T03:48:37","slug":"un-represented-how-a-66-year-old-program-could-solve-the-representation-crisis","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn449-f24\/2024\/12\/13\/un-represented-how-a-66-year-old-program-could-solve-the-representation-crisis\/","title":{"rendered":"Un-Represented: How a 66-Year Old Program Could Solve the Representation Crisis"},"content":{"rendered":"\r\n

\u201cGonzalez-Ardia,\u201d the immigration court judge reads out as he hears his twelfth removal proceeding of the afternoon. A little girl with braids, dressed in a pink coat and pants, just shy of seven, jumps off her seat. The girl holds her mother\u2019s hand as the pair make their way past the wooden banister towards the defendant\u2019s table, opposite from the government attorney. The girl clumsily climbs into the wooden chair almost twice her size, as her mother slips a pair of headsets on her.

\u201cAre you Hallery?\u201d the judge asks in English. The words flow through the headset as the courtroom translator repeats the question in Spanish.

The pair have driven 13 hours from their home in Illinois to the Executive Office of Immigration Review court in Newark, New Jersey. The mother points to the little girl who stares intently at the translator.

The removal hearing is not for the mother. It\u2019s for the little girl\u2014and she is without an attorney.

Of the 40 or so people who appear before the judge over the next two and a half hours only two have attorneys, one of whom phones into court. For each defendant that appears before him, the judge repeats the same question over and over: \u201cDo you have a lawyer?\u201d

The answer is almost always the same: \u201cNo.”

\u201cIt’s so depressing when you’re a lawyer and you go into immigration court and you see how many people don’t have representation,\u201d Michele Pistone, a law professor at Villanova University, explains. \u201cIt\u2019s kind of like they\u2019re on this assembly line and we say that we\u2019re giving them \u2018process,\u2019 but they don\u2019t understand what\u2019s happening,\u201d she says.

For precisely this reason, in 1958, the Department of Justice (DOJ) established the Recognition & Accreditation (R&A) Program\u2014to increase legal representation for low-income immigrants, according to the American Bar Association. The Program certifies accredited representatives, non-lawyers who can represent immigrants in court. Accredited representatives must work at non-profits designated as recognized organizations.

Despite the program\u2019s 66 year history, there are still 1,413 undocumented people in the U.S. for every \u201ccharitable legal professional,\u201d according to the Center for Migration Studies (CMS). In New Jersey, that number increases nearly two-fold, to 2,687 undocumented people per legal professional.

Nicole Rodriguez, who works at a New Jersey non-profit helping domestic violence survivors apply for asylum, is one of those accredited representatives\u2014taking on over 60 cases at a time. Immigrants in removal proceedings who have legal representation, like Rodriguez\u2019s clients, are 15 times more likely to seek relief, and 5.5 times more likely to obtain relief, according to a study published by the University of Pennsylvania.

\u201cIt\u2019s very much a program that has been in the shadows,\u201d Pistone explains. Pistone has heard from former students who\u2019ve become accredited that some officers at USCIS\u2014which conducts site visits for the R&A Program\u2014have never heard of an accredited representative. \u201cI\u2019ve heard of judges who\u2019ve never heard of an accredited rep,\u201d she adds.


The Representation Crisis<\/strong>
In the removal proceedings court in Newark, as the afternoon session for hearings draws closer, a line of about a dozen people extends out the entryway of the courtroom into the hall. Some are dressed in immaculately pressed suits with manila envelopes containing paperwork they will need for court. Others wear jeans with translucent binders. Some carry children with them.

As the Clerk of Office begins to check people in at the door, the line continues to grow. \u201cWhat\u2019s your case number?,\u201d she asks. \u201cYou have a lawyer?\u201d Most repeat the same answer: \u201cNo.\u201d

\u201cWe can fit another five,\u201d the guard yells down the hall. The wooden bunches begin to fill up dangerously close to the courtroom\u2019s maximum occupancy of 32 people.

As the \u201cdefendants\u201d sort themselves among the wooden benches, they sit facing a seal above the judge\u2019s desk with a bald eagle and an American flag. \u201cQUI PRO DOMINA JUSTITIA SEQUITUR,\u201d the inscription reads: \u201cAttorney General who prosecutes on behalf of our Lady Justice.\u201d

But justice is a foreign concept to those who sit in the courtroom. Over the next three hours the judge will hear some 40 odd cases. Only one case will have a lawyer physically present.

For every person who tells the judge they do not have a lawyer, the judge\u2019s response is always the same: \u201cI\u2019m going to give you the list of lawyers who can represent you free or at low cost. You can choose to get one,\u201d the judge responds. \u201cI will give you another court date.\u201d The judge\u2019s gaze lowers. \u201cEven if you cannot find a lawyer you have to come back to court or else you might be ordered removed.\u201d

\u201cYou need to come back to this court on January 13, 2029 at 1:30 p.m. in the afternoon.\u201d

There are currently 9 million immigration cases pending at USCIS, and 3 million at EOIR, Robyn Lieberman, Associate Director of the Migration and Refugee Protection Strategic Initiative Group, says. But as of October 2024, there are only 2,561 accredited representatives working at 875 recognized organizations, nationally.

\u201cIt\u2019s an underutilized tool in the representation crisis,\u201d Lieberman says. \u201cThe Program has been on the books since 1958,\u201d she continues, \u201cand there\u2019s never been more than 2,500 at a time.\u201d

\u201cMost of the people who are coming will not have representation by a lawyer,\u201d Julia Preston, who has covered immigration at the New York Times for over a decade, explains. \u201cYou\u2019re looking at a process that, six years from now, you\u2019re very likely to fail in court.\u201d


The Waiting Game<\/strong>
To become an accredited representative, a prospective representative submits an application with their recognized organization to the DOJ. Rodriguez says, in all, her accreditation took about three months.

But when Rodriguez applied for accreditation, she had no idea how long the process would take. The DOJ provides no such information.

In 2022, backlogs for accredited representatives reached 12 to 18 months, according to Lieberman. \u201cIt is impossible for somebody to put their career on hold for that long,\u201d Lieberman says. \u201cIt’s impossible for organizations to keep open cases that long.\u201d In addition, funding for non-profit organizations often depends on quotas that measure how many cases they process.

\u201cThat\u2019s basically shutting down the program,\u201d Lieberman says.

While the processing time decreased to one to three months between February of 2023 and 2024, it has begun to increase again. In September, applications took six to eight months to process\u2014double the three to four months it should be taking\u2014according to Lieberman.

\u201cThere should be transparency on the website of how long you can expect to wait for your answer from DOJ,\u201d Lieberman says.

But the review process itself has transparency issues as well. There are currently two immigration judges\u2014removed from the bench for harassment\u2014who are adjudicating R&A applications, according to Lieberman.

\u201cThese are two judges that have had multiple complaints,\u201d she explains. \u201cThey are asking some very unusual questions,\u201d she continues, \u201cthat we think are beyond the scope of the regulations.\u201d


A Double Life<\/strong>
Between 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. you can find Kimberly Betz at her office desk at Princeton University\u2019s Center for Career Development with a plaque that reads, \u201cExecutive Director.\u201d But during the evenings and weekends, her laptop used to reply to student emails turns into a forum for a different kind of work: she is an accredited representative.

\u201cWhen I\u2019m working on these cases, it\u2019s easy to spend eight to ten hours on the weekend,\u201d Batz says. \u201cIt might be three to twelve hours a week.\u201d

Batz works at Arise, a Pittsburgh based non-profit, helping people file asylum claims and prepare for their proceedings. \u201cThere are no paid employees,\u201d Batz explains. \u201cEven, Jen,\u201d she says referring to the founder, \u201cthere\u2019s no money to pay her a salary at this point.\u201d \u201cShe works out of her home.\u201d

The organization has no office space: the website reads that the operations for Arise are fully remote. With the exception of one woman who is retired, all of Arise\u2019s employees have full-time jobs outside of Arise.

Batz only has capacity to work on one case at a time and can only take on a single case for a year. \u201cWhat we’re saying to people now is, if it takes, you know, three years before you hear anything back, you can come back to us and see if we can sort of fit you back in,\u201d she says. \u201cBut we can’t stay on your case for beyond a year.\u201d

With court backlogs at an all-time high, cases are rarely scheduled within the one-year timeline that Arise operates on.

Back in immigration court, the judge continues hearing cases. \u201cNow that I have your application for asylum, I\u2019m going to schedule you for a hearing,\u201d the Newark immigration court judge tells a Haitian woman. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be on May 4th, 2029 at 1:30 in the afternoon.\u201d

\u201cYou can hire a lawyer at any time you wish.\u201d

But asylum-seekers have much less agency than the immigration judge might lead them to believe. Manuel and Magda who filed for political asylum cannot afford a lawyer. \u201cWe were offered pro bono support but we would still have to pay some legal fees,\u201d Magda says.

\u201cThey were charging $8,000, $10,000, $15,000,\u201d Emanuel recalls. \u201cWe\u2019re saving up,\u201d Magda explains. \u201cWe\u2019re waiting for the day that we have to get a lawyer.\u201d

Manuel and Magda came to the U.S. from Colombia with their daughter in 2022. \u201cWe can\u2019t go back to Colombia,\u201d Magda says. \u201cMy father was a member of FARC.\u201d

In 2016, a peace accord was negotiated between the Colombian government and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC)\u2014the main paramilitary group in Colombia at the time, according to the U.S. Department of State. Around 13,000 combatants were disarmed.

Magda\u2019s father was one of them.

\u201cThere\u2019s a new armed group called Disidencias de las FARC and they\u2019re going after people who chose to put down their arms\u2014and their families,\u201d Magda says.

Both of Magda\u2019s parents are still in Colombia. \u201cMy father is under vigilance by a paramilitary group,\u201d she says.

But even if Magda and Emanuel do find a lawyer, not all lawyers can be trusted. \u201cLawyers would tell us, \u2018I\u2019m pro bono, but the cost to start the paperwork is this much,\u2019\u201d Magda explains. \u201cThere have been cases where people have paid $7,000, and then they find out they’re getting deported because the lawyer hasn\u2019t done anything.\u201d

\u201cWe\u2019re scared of getting scammed.\u201d

Without legal representation Magda and Emanuel have been left to navigate a complex system alone. \u201cWhat took the most amount of time was figuring out how to fill out the application,\u201d Magda says, \u201cso that what we wrote wouldn\u2019t be used against us later.\u201d

Filing the application is only half the battle. The court does not notify applicants if a court date has been moved. \u201cWe check on it every day,\u201d Magda says. \u201cThey don\u2019t tell you if your court date was changed. It\u2019s your responsibility to check it,\u201d Emanuel adds.

\u201cSomeone we knew had a court date in 2025,\u201d Emanuel recalls. \u201cThey realized the week of their new hearing date that it had been moved to February of 2024,\u201d he continues. \u201cThey got a deportation order.\u201d

\u201cThe system is not set up to help them,\u201d Batz explains.

\u201cIt both makes me angry and desperately sad,\u201d she continues. \u201cFor me, this is the way I can do something that I feel like is making a difference in a positive way.\u201d


No Contacts<\/strong>
Neither Magda nor Emanuel have heard of the R&A Program. Even if they had, there is no way for asylum seekers to directly contact an accredited representative. Despite the program\u2019s goal to increase legal representation for low-income immigrants, EOIR only lists the telephone numbers of recognized organizations. Contact information for accredited representatives is entirely missing.

Lieberman calls it \u201cthe referral rejection loop.\u201d \u201cThey get a name of an organization that can represent them, and then they pick up the phone, and they’re getting \u2018This voicemail is full,\u2019 or \u2018Please don’t call us for another two weeks,\u2019\u201d she explains.

\u201cHow are people supposed to contact these organizations?,\u201d Lieberman asks.

Rodriguez\u2019s clients, who are survivors of domestic violence, may not have safe access to a phone inside their home, Rodriguez says.

The DOJ has the contact information of every accredited representative. \u201cPeople apply with their emails, and they communicate with the DOJ by email,\u201d Lieberman explains.

\u201cThis is a public program,\u201d Pistone says. \u201cPart of the purpose is for the public to contact these people.\u201d

But Lieberman says the lack of data on accredited representatives is typical. There has been no comprehensive study of the R&A Program in the Program\u2019s 66 year history. \u201cThere’s no basic data in the field at all,\u201d Lieberman explains. \u201cWe have no idea how long the typical average stay is, or tenure is, for an accredited rep.\u201d

In May of this year, Villanova University and CMS announced the first comprehensive audit of the R&A Program. The audit is being conducted through surveys that closed in October, according to Pistone.

With the new President-elect, however, the future of the R&A program remains uncertain. \u201cThe R&A Program is not established by law, it’s regulatory,\u201d Matthew Lisecki, Senior Research & Policy Analyst at CMS, explains.

\u201cIt can be done away with just an executive action.\u201d

Anxieties also exist for Lieberman. \u201cI\u2019m living in fear that if there is a Trump administration, I don’t know what’s going to happen to the DOJ office that does the accreditations,\u201d says Lieberman.

\u201cWe’re going to have to fight like hell to keep the office open.\u201d

For now, Manuel and Magda still don\u2019t have a lawyer. They say they avoid thinking about what they will tell their nine-year-old daughter if their asylum application is denied. \u201cOur daughter is old. She\u2019s smart,\u201d Manuel says. \u201cIf our asylum application is rejected, we can\u2019t go back to Colombia.\u201d He continues, \u201cWe\u2019re just trying not to think about it.\u201d

\u201cFARC has branches in Panama, Venezuela, and Mexico,\u201d Magda says. \u201cThey have alliances with cartels. Nowhere is really safe.\u201d

Magda says that while the family waits, they try to lead a quiet \u201cAmerican\u201d life. \u201cAll we can do at this moment is really focus on the asylum case.\u201d

\u201cAll we can do in this moment is wait.\u201d<\/p>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cGonzalez-Ardia,\u201d the immigration court judge reads out as he hears his twelfth removal proceeding of the afternoon. A little girl with braids, dressed in a pink coat and pants, just shy of seven, jumps off her seat. The girl holds her mother\u2019s hand as the pair make their way past the wooden banister towards the<\/p>\n

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