California resident Nelly Reyes wanted to help immigrants. She herself had moved from Mexico to support her husband's dream of living in America. She understood how difficult it was to adjust to a new country and keep up with its rules and regulations.
After her marriage fell apart, Reyes was also a single mother in desperate need of income. She briefly considered studying law but didn't trust her English-language skills in court, where a single word could change her client's life.
So, more than twenty years ago, Reyes became an immigration consultant, working to help immigrants translate, organize and file petitions for change of status. All she needed was to post a bond and pass a background check. The flexible hours meant more time to spend with her kids, and thousands of immigrants needed her services. Reyes was proud. Her business may have been untraditional, but it was, she said, "still a family business."
But not all immigration consultants treated their clients fairly, instead targeting vulnerable people they viewed as easy prey, failing to deliver promised documentation and bilking them out of thousands of dollars. Stories of those cases spread through the immigrant community, and with them a sense of dread and a new disparaging name for Reyes' occupation: notario. While Reyes and other immigration consultants rejected the notario name, the lack of regulation continued to attract fraudsters, igniting an ongoing battle that landed in the California State Legislature. Immigration allies who normally found themselves on the same side were now at each other's throats over the future of immigration consulting. It all came down to one bill: AB-638.
Bill AB-638 was created by Assembly members Anna Caballero (D), Lorena Gonzalez Fletcher (D), Mike A. Gipson (D), and Senator Scott Wiener (D) with the help of the Central American Resource Center (CARECEN), the California Rural Legal Assistance Foundation, and the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights (CHIRLA). The bill would prevent immigration consulting from operating without oversight from an accredited non-profit or attorney.
The bill would put Reyes and others like her completely out of business, all for "a few bad apples," according to Reyes. She added that some think, "that because I don't have a law degree, my work is worth less. That's not true."
Reyes said she wasn't sure what she would do if the bill passed. She was now fifty-years-old. No other job would give her the same flexibility and satisfaction.
Reyes' friend and fellow immigration consultant Carlos Sotomayor said he depended on his immigration consulting income as well. If the bill passed, he would have had to sell his house of twenty years and wouldn't have been able to send his son to college. The creators of AB-638 didn"t care about the nearly 1,000 bonded consultants or the people who relied on them, according to Sotomayor. They didn't care about Sotomayor's clients."
"There is work for everybody," Reyes said. "Work for attorneys. Work for non-profit organizations. Work for consultants." The bill would cause consultants to lose their certification, but it wouldn't stop the most unscrupulous from practicing out of the reach of the law. "All the good ones would be gone," Reyes said.
Reyes tackled the bill with the same energy she brought to her business. She visited state senators and assembly members. She eventually testified before the judiciary committee on the issue.
Reyes and Sotomayor said that the announcement of AB-638 also set off a wave of terror in the immigrant community. Many believed this was part of the new administration's crack-down on immigration, according to Reyes. People in the community, "thought it was Trump who was doing this. It was not. It was Anna Caballero from Salinas."
That's One of the Worst
Assemblywoman Anna Caballero from Salinas had a very different experience creating and championing this bill. She remembered seeing a group of immigration consultants at the state capitol. She pointed one out as "looking harmless." Her companion told her, "That's one of the worst." She learned not to judge a book by its cover.
Caballero has been an attorney for thirty years. The main purpose of the bill was to "stop fraudulent practice of law," she said. Caballero said that she has seen families split up over notarios. If an immigration consultant, either through ignorance or spite, filled out a form incorrectly, there were "consequences paid by the immigrants themselves."
According to her, immigration consultants, "should never have been allowed."
Immigration consultants have "become part of the landscape here for the last thirty years," said Daniel Sharp, the legal director of CARECEN. They were created in response to the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986. Bill AB-638 is the personal crusade of Sharp. When asked about the prevalence of immigration consultants in California, he said, "Our state is the national disgrace in that regard."
At first, it was an enormous boon for the immigrant community, but in 2015 the rules became more complicated under Attorney General Jeff Sessions. Immigration forms that were once four pages ballooned to twenty-eight. Sharp observed that after the rules changed, "People who were helping people get green cards were leading lambs to the slaughter." The forms became too complex for someone without a legal background to complete, and immigration consultants were making mistakes that attracted the attention of ICE.
It also began attracting wolves.
Although the name "notario" is Spanish, Tiffany Panlilio, a legal advocate with Asian Americans Advancing Justice- Los Angeles, has seen scams in the Chinese, Filipino and Cambodian communities she works with. Sometimes, notarios even come in the form of respected pastors at community churches. The main problem, according to Panlilio, is that "there's not enough attorneys in the world to represent all these people." They turn to whoever they can.
Immigration attorney Clemente Franco pointed out that many immigration consultants talked about losing their livelihoods, but no one could make a living just doing translations. He referred to a case where his clients were defrauded for $5,700. No one pays someone $5,700 just to translate forms. The only way immigration consultants can thrive is to offer something more valuable than translation - legal advice. That could legitimate, but misguided, or it could be straight-up fraud.
Joseph Villela of CHIRLA also rejected the idea that immigration consultants cared about their customers: "Their issue is not the immigrant community. Their main priority is that they make profits on the backs of the immigrant community."
Two of the most infamous examples of notarios Sharp and Franco cited were Oswaldo Cabrera and Romina Zadorian. Both have been charged and convicted of fraud. However, Cabrera and Zadorian were not bonded immigration consultants. Yet they managed to attract dozens of clients.
Tom Heymann, CEO of the National Notary Association, gave a comparison to show what he thought to be an extreme overreaction. It would be like catching a college student drinking underage and bringing back prohibition because of it. Heymann added that many immigration consultants, like Reyes, are single women of color looking to make a living.
The proponents of the bill were out of touch with the immigrant community, Heymann said. Removing immigration consultants wouldn't force immigrants to hire paralegals or lawyers but drive them deeper into a black market of fraudsters. Ricardo Marquez, the CEO of the National Association of Immigration Consultants said that the immigrant community is "tired and bored of the same advertisements" about notarios. The government blocked their access to help without providing alternatives.
Carlos Solorzano, CEO of the Hispanic Chamber of Commerce - San Francisco, pointed out that there is often a long wait-list at non-profits. Many people don't have that much time. The bill would either force immigrants to use non-licensed consultants or pay extravagant fees for attorneys who could be as ill-intentioned as the notarios.
A Life or Death Situation
After passing in the state assembly, the bill failed in the Senate in August.
Reyes, along with six of her clients, had traveled from San Francisco to Sacramento to hear the vote. She said she couldn't stop crying from happiness when she found out her business was saved.
Supporters of the bill were disappointed in the vote.
"The legislature sided with an industry this is putting profits over the lives of immigrants," Villela said. "If those consumers were to have light skin and blue eyes, the legislature would have potentially acted differently."
At least two women will still keep fighting. "This bill is not going to go away," Caballero warned. "I'm not done with it." She advised consultants to join up with a non-profit which would provide oversight.
Reyes didn't discount a collaboration with non-profits. In fact, she wanted them to "give us training."
"We try to improve our lives, but we don't have the money to go to law school," Reyes said. She would like to see immigration consultant certification courses offered at community colleges and a set code of ethics created to keep her profession honest.
Villela called this matter a "life or death situation." Previously, if an immigrant or an immigration consultant didn't fill out a form correctly, USCIS would either send it back with a request for more information or simply ignore it. In June, USCIS released a memo that stated that any immigrant who was denied relief would immediately be referred to deportation proceedings. What was previously just an unfortunate mistake could now be a deadly error for immigrants terrified of going back to their home countries due to violence and persecution. The future for these immigrants, and everyone dedicated to supporting and protecting them, is still uncertain.