Reflections on an Afternoon in Immigration Court: How We Can Help

The midmorning of Friday, Oct. 24th, seemed like something out of a greeting card at first glance. The trees had reached that rich autumnal orange, and the streets of downtown Chicago were alive with the camaraderie of busy passersby and the giggling of children in strollers. Yet, where I stood—inside Chicago’s Immigration Court on 55 E. Monroe—the liveliness outside felt distant and inconsequential. The bleak waiting room hung with a melancholy quiet, so heavy it was tangible. I soberly made my way to Courtroom 2 to begin my observations.

Observing hearings is standard procedure for Professor Wilk’s Immigration Law and Policy students, but this year carried new apprehension. Increased ICE activity in the city under President Donald Trump’s mandates left many students and their families fearful of racial profiling, prompting some to opt out. Professor Wilk also noted that, unlike previous years, the court never responded to her requests for hearing schedules. I went in blind and anxious, but I felt it essential to use my privileged position to see what goes on behind the curtain. If I were nervous as an observer, I could hardly imagine the anxiety felt by those with their futures on the line.

As the five respondents filed in, I noticed one glaring absence—attorneys. Most assume legal representation is guaranteed in any American courtroom under the Sixth Amendment, but immigration proceedings are classified as civil, not criminal, because deportation is not considered a punishment. This distinction means the right to a government-paid lawyer does not apply. The result is devastating: according to data from the legal advocacy group Vera (Jan–Aug 2025), 58% of immigrant respondents nationwide appear before a judge without representation at any stage. In Illinois, only 30% manage to secure a lawyer. Despite the state’s sanctuary policies, our few pro-bono and low-cost legal services are overwhelmed and underfunded, leaving most immigrants to fend for themselves.

I knew these statistics before entering the courtroom, but seeing them play out was heartbreaking. Every respondent that day was an asylum seeker—people who had fled unimaginable atrocities to start anew, only to confront a confusing and hostile legal system alone. 

Learning a new language and culture while providing for oneself is already an immense challenge; navigating immigration law without guidance is almost impossible. Representation can make all the difference. Immigrants with lawyers are over five times more likely to win their cases than those without, according to a recent study by the American Immigration Council. 

One woman, appearing virtually, had expected to be represented, but her lawyer’s license was revoked two weeks before her hearing. She reached out to two others, both of whom declined to take her case on short notice. 

Another respondent, a young Venezuelan man, struggled to fill out documents and navigate biometric procedures, never having learned to write fluently in his native language. Watching them was painful, but Judge Gina L. Reynolds, who presided that day, showed remarkable compassion. A former asylum attorney herself, she granted continuances for all five respondents, giving them anywhere from six months to three years to secure representation and gather evidence. 

Her calm empathy and flexibility were striking—and statistically rare. With 88.2% of her asylum cases granted, Reynolds is the most lenient Judge in the Chicago court, and stands out in a system increasingly pressured toward “efficiency” over fairness. Many judges with similar humanitarian approaches have been pushed out under recent mass deportation initiatives.

My afternoon in court offered more than just an academic lesson. It revealed the human cost of a broken system. Immigration law exposes the gap between American ideals and reality: a nation that promises liberty and opportunity but often denies both to those seeking safety. The ultimate challenge is finding the approach that balances a respect for our borders with a respect for the hardworking men and women looking to build a life here free of needless persecution. 

As students, we hold a unique privilege: the ability to learn, to question, and ultimately to act. For those of us drawn to the legal field, this experience underscored how indispensable accessible, humane aid is on both sides of the bench, and how urgently young voices like ours are needed to make it attainable.

The courtroom’s silence that morning was not just procedural; it was the sound of people waiting for a chance at dignity, often without a voice to speak for them. We can help change that. Taking every opportunity to witness, learn, and serve—like my classmates and I did in POLS 265—is a powerful first step. In times like these, empathy is not merely a virtue but a necessity. Cultivate it, and use it well.