If you live out by the Little Manatee River, in the swamplands south of Tampa, Florida you probably know the name Maurilio Ambrocio. He's an Evangelical Pastor at a local church, he's lived here for 20 years. He also owns a landscaping business, tending the lawns and yards in the neighboring city of Fort Myers.
And a few weeks ago, he was detained in President Trump's massive immigration crackdown, which Florida Governor Ron DeSantis has promised to fully partner with - in fact he's pledged to make the state the lead on the government's deportation campaign.
The Trump administration says the Florida deportations are a preview of what is to come across the U.S: large scale operations in close partnership with local law enforcement.
News about Pastor Maurilio's detention spread fast.
"We were helping a neighbor and he said: 'did you hear?' " says Ambrocio's next door neighbor, Greg Johns. "Maurilio got deported."
Johns says he was beside himself. His eyes water as he recalls when Hurricane Milton hit last year. Ambrocio checked in on him immediately. "Do you need propane?" he asked. "Do you need water? What do you need? That's the type of neighbor [he is]. This man is a part of the neighborhood." Like many in this small rural community, Johns voted for President Trump last November. In fact, he did so at Ambrocio's church, which doubles as a polling station. "I did." He hesitates. "Because I was not happy with the direction the country was going." He says he was hoping migrants in the country without papers and with criminal records would be targeted. But he says he never expected a pillar of the community like Maurilio Ambrocio would be taken away. "You're gonna take you know a community leader, a Pastor, a hard working man… What, did you need a number that day?"
That day was April 18th.
Ambrocio had gone in for one of his mandatory check-ins with immigration agents: he has a form of legal protection called a stay of removal. That means although he entered the U.S. unlawfully he is allowed to remain, as long as he meets with immigration officials at least once a year. They ask him if he's still employed and check that he hasn't committed any crimes. Every year for the last ten years or so, Ambrocio has attended these interviews and been approved.
But on April 18th, he was detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents.
NPR reached out to ICE to ask why Ambrocio was detained this time around. In an email a spokesperson responded that he was in the U.S. illegally, but did not answer questions or clarify: why now?
So far, the increase in arrests has been notable. In one weekend alone this month, ICE says over 1100 immigrants were detained throughout Florida, touted as the "largest joint immigration operation in Florida history." Sixty-three percent of those detained that weekend had existing criminal convictions or arrests. There is, however, another way to read that number: 415 people were arrested that weekend who had no existing criminal conviction or arrest.
For the Ambrocio family, the Pastor's detention has been catastrophic.
"For my kids, it's like the world ended," Ambrocio's wife, Marleny says.
They have five children, all U.S. citizens, ages 12 to 19.
Marleny herself has been consumed by grief. As she fries an egg for breakfast, she says she dreams about her husband most every night.
Last night, she says, he knocked on the door of their trailer home. He'd bought her a perfume.
"He started spraying it on me. I giggled and said, 'Maurilio, when did they release you?' He didn't respond. He just looked at me silently."
And then she woke up, to the very real problems her husband's detention has saddled them with.
"How are we going to eat?" She asks. "How are we going to pay the bills?"
The only one bringing money into the family now is 19 year old Ashley Ambrocio, who is juggling several jobs.
When she gets back home from work, she goes for a walk out to the field, away from the trailer and her mother. A thunderstorm is approaching. The cicadas scream, and a hot breeze runs through the Spanish moss.
Like many young Americans whose migrant parents have been detained, the burden to provide for her family now falls on Ashley. She's had to take over her dad's landscaping business: learn payroll, coordinate job assignments, and speak to his clients. She's also taken on a lot of his pastoral duties at church. And she works as a hostess at a restaurant. "I try to get as many hours as I can in work you know, and get some extra money to buy groceries," she says during the walk. She says she feels increasingly overwhelmed, but only allows herself to break down in private.
"In the car. It's always in the car," she says. "Before going to work or after work I just feel stressed because of everything and I just start crying there."
Her cell phone rings, it's a video call from her dad at the Glades County Detention Center in Central Florida.
He's lost eight pounds, he tells her. He's been sick with a fever - a bug is going around the detention center. He tells her that hasn't stopped him from preaching on the inside.
But he wants to know about the family landscaping business.
Have you spoken to the customers? Laura? Frank? Has she scheduled any jobs?
In the background of the video call Ashley can see the blurred silhouettes of other detainees.
"You have no idea how crowded it is here," he tells his daughter.
By Sunday the thunderstorm has arrived.
At church, on the piano, near the altar, is Maurilio's youngest son: 12 year old Esdras.
In a low voice, Esdras wonders if his dad will be back soon. "I wouldn't know what to do without him," he says. "He's like a best friend to me. Yeah."
Families file into the pews. It's a small space, wooden pews and bright red carpet.
Most of these churchgoers have lived here for more than a decade, and almost all of their children are US citizens.
In Maurilio's absence, a guest Pastor, Oscar Hernandez, takes prayer requests. From around the room, women list husbands and sons who have recently been detained by ICE or the Florida Highway Patrol, which Governor DeSantis recently announced will be playing a greater role in enforcing immigration. Most were arrested on their way to work.
A few of the men cry silently.
Outside the rain is starting to come down, the air feels dense, and dewey flushed faces look anxiously toward the Pastor. He tells them he wrestled with what to say today.
"God", he starts, "God will often break your heart. But let me tell you something else: God never shows up late."
If you have immigration tips you can contact our tip line, on Whatsapp and Signal: 202-713-6697 or reporter Jasmine Garsd: jgarsd@npr.org
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