Editor’s note: This is the second article of an eight-part series about Moshannon Valley Processing Center produced in partnership with Penn State University’s Donald P. Bellisario College of Communications.The next article in this series will publish Monday, May 18, 2026. Nicole Ulerio and her husband, Juan David Arango-Caicedo, knew the routine. They would make the hour-and-a-half drive from their home in Reading to Philadelphia, so Arango-Caicedo could check in with immigration authorities. The couple had made the trip several times since getting married in 2023. He was close to getting his green card, and these check-ins had always been quick formalities.So, on a chilly November afternoon, it made sense for Ulerio to stay in the car and keep it running while her husband went inside. But a few minutes turned into an hour and a half. She sat alone, worried as others continued flowing in and out of the ICE facility. Suddenly her phone lit up with a notification from her husband. “Help. Lawyer,” the text read. He was doing everything right, Ulerio thought, but ICE still took him.Nicole Ulerio and her husband Juan David Arango-Caicedo spoke to PennLive inside their home in Reading on February 28, 2026Joshua Vaughn/PennLive“I seriously couldn’t breathe,” Ulerio, 25, said. “The only thing I could do at the moment was cry because I just felt like I couldn’t do anything.”Arango-Caicedo, a 28-year-old Colombian immigrant, was living in the U.S. for more than three years with a legal status. He paid his taxes, worked at Ulerio’s family-owned automotive shop in Reading, and attended a local church. After his detainment, he would be held for the next three months in the Moshannon Valley Processing Center in Clearfield County, the largest immigrant detention center in the Northeast.Faced with mounting legal fees, long drives to the facility and the cost of basic communication, the couple lost $10,000 during his detainment.Before Arango-Caicedo’s detainment, the two had been saving for a down payment on a house. Now, they’re uncertain about their future in the U.S.“I don’t know if it’s going to be worth it, waiting, and spending more money, and fighting and risking my life just to get detained again,” said Arango-Caicedo, with translation assistance from Ulerio. “I don’t have any protection from getting detained again. ICE can come any day, get me from my house and take me back in there.”Since returning home, Juan David Arango-Caicedo continues to work with his wife Nicole Ulerio at a mechanic shop owned by Ulerio's parents.Joshua Vaughn/PennLiveArango-Caicedo was temporarily out of status because his lawyer, despite multiple attempts by the couple to get in touch with him, missed the deadline to file necessary paperwork for his case with immigration after the couple got married.Arango-Caicedo is among 4,400 people who federal judges have determined have been unlawfully detained by ICE during President Donald Trump’s administration, according to a court records study by Reuters. “This whole situation with my husband could have been prevented,” Ulerio said.Nicole Ulerio and her husband Juan David Arango-Caicedo live in a small, second-floor apartment in Reading in February 2026.Joshua Vaughn/PennLiveAfter Arango-Caicedo was taken, she drove home alone and returned to their apartment — without even getting to say goodbye.Ulerio was unable to contact Arango-Caicedo for three days. Five days after his detainment in a local jail, he was transferred to the Moshannon Valley Processing Center.In search of a better life The couple met on a dating app, calling it a stroke of luck. Ulerio had her preferences set to show only profiles within 20 miles of her hometown. Arango-Caicedo lived about 150 miles away, but he happened to open the app while he was driving by her town. His profile popped onto her screen, marking the beginning of their love story.Arango-Caicedo and Ulerio got married in October 2023, and the two started the process of filing for Arango-Caicedo’s citizenship at the beginning of 2024. He received a work permit and a Social Security card, and his I-130 was approved, establishing their marital relationship as a factor for permanent U.S. residence.They were waiting for his green card application to be processed when he was detained.“He is a good brother, he’s a good son, he’s a good friend,” said his older sister, Dahlia Rooney, a U.S. citizen for 11 years. Juan David Arango-Caicedo works inside a mechanics shop owned by his wife's parents in Reading on February 28, 2026.Joshua Vaughn/PennLiveNicole Ulerio works inside a mechanics shop owned by her parents in Reading on February 28, 2026.Joshua Vaughn/PennLiveArango-Caicedo left his home country of Colombia in July 2022 to seek asylum from dangerous conditions. He struggled to get by, often going without food for days at a time.“There’s no way of you moving forward in life in a country like Colombia,” he said.Arango-Caicedo had taken a small boat from Buenaventura, the main seaport of Colombia, to Panama, and over the course of a month traveled by foot and bus to the U.S. border by El Paso, Texas, seeking asylum.There, he was detained by immigration officials and spent three months in Jackson Parish Correctional, a Louisiana detention center, waiting to be interviewed by officers for humanitarian parole.Juan David Arango-Caicedo works inside a mechanic shop in Reading owned by his wife's parents on February 28, 2026.Joshua Vaughn/PennLiveHe was granted parole, which allowed him to legally remain in the country for one year.During his first detainment, Arango-Caicedo said he was hopeful because he was seeking a better life in America.“But the second time, the situation was different because I have my life here. I have my wife here,” said Arango-Caicedo, tearing up and holding hands with Ulerio. “And the only thing I wanted was to be able to tell Nicole to be OK and to be calm and that we were going to fix it somehow.”Detained againFor the second time in his life, Arango-Caicedo had his hands and feet cuffed by immigration officers and was detained. He was transferred to the ICE facility in Moshannon Valley, three hours from his home in Reading.“I didn’t know what to do in that moment,” said Arango-Caicedo, wiping tears from his eyes. “I was not expecting to go through that again.”Nicole Ulerio and her husband Juan David Arango-Caicedo spoke with PennLive inside their home in Reading on February 28, 2026.Joshua Vaughn/PennLiveOfficials took his photos and fingerprints and gave him a uniform, color-coded by criminal history, to wear. Arango-Caicedo, like most of the detainees in the facility, wore blue — no criminal history.At Moshannon, the detainees’ entire lives happen in one room. Roughly 37 bunk beds line the walls, each with a locker on the side for belongings.The meals consisted mostly of flavorless rice and beans, and lots of bread. Ulerio often tried to scrape together money to send her husband $3 for a can of tuna, so he could add more protein to his diet.Text messages cost 3 cents per minute on Arango-Caicedo’s end and 35 cents per message for Ulerio. Phone calls between the two cost 11 cents per minute, and video calls were 25 cents per minute.Juan David Arango-Caicedo watches his wife Nicole Ulerio play piano and sing inside their home in Reading on February 28, 2026.Joshua Vaughn/PennLive“I’m struggling,” Ulerio said in late January. “I have one less income. I have to send over $100 weekly so that he can get by in there.”The couple received a glimmer of hope when they attended Arango-Caicedo’s first bail hearing on Dec. 3, hoping he would be released.That hope was quickly dashed when his bail was denied.After getting the smallest taste of freedom from walking outside to get to his hearing, Arango-Caicedo was led back to the confines of Moshannon.At bail hearings, defendants need only to prove that they are not a flight risk or a danger to the community. Still, granting bail is at the discretion of the presiding judge.“I have not seen one [bail] motion that has been granted in the last three weeks, at least,” said immigration attorney Abhilasha Khanal.On Dec. 12, Arango-Caicedo’s lawyer filed a petition for a writ of habeas corpus, a document challenging the legality of an individual’s confinement. Arango-Caicedo was granted another bail hearing, and bail was approved.“It is kind of insane right now, how much power ICE has and how much of us, as immigration lawyers, keep having to question ourselves because it feels like the rules don’t matter, and the law doesn’t matter,” Khanal said.Finally togetherOn Feb. 17, exactly three months after his detainment, Arango-Caicedo went home.When Ulerio finally spotted him leaving Moshannon, the tires of her car screeched through the parking lot as she rushed over to him.Since Juan David Arango-Caicedo returning home, he continues to work with his wife Nicole Ulerio at a mechanic shop in Reading owned by Ulerio's parents.Joshua Vaughn/PennLive“We went to each other, we hugged each other and we started crying,” Arango-Caicedo said.His first meal out: Chick-fil-A.“I told him, ‘You’ve been in there since November — I feel like I was taken in there with you because my whole life was just paused,’” Ulerio said.The two live together in a small apartment above Alignment Pro, Ulerio’s family auto repair business where they both work. The living room wall is filled with photos of the couple, from selfies to wedding pictures. Ulerio, from the Dominican Republic, and Arango-Caicedo speak to one another in Spanish, often sharing smiles and laughter.“He is kind, he is loving. He is a very straightforward person, but everyone ends up loving him at the end of the day,” Ulerio said.After being held by ICE for three months, Juan David Arango-Caicedo told PennLive that he has lost hope in his ability to build a life in the United States.Joshua Vaughn/PennLiveThe couple is still recovering from the financial setback from Arango-Caicedo’s detainment. Ulerio spent about $3,000 for his bond, $3,000 for the habeas corpus petition, $1,500 for the failed bond and $500 on consultations. She also spent $2,000 for communication between her and Arango-Caicedo, which included money for him to message her, and hotel costs, among other travel expenses.During this time, the community helped provide emotional and financial assistance to Ulerio. A GoFundMe covered about $4,000, leaving the couple to pay $6,000.Ulerio and Arango-Caicedo want to plan a future, but now they’re not sure whether staying in the U.S. is feasible. Beyond the $6,000 loss, the couple has also lost faith in the American dream.“Everything was just taken away from us,” Ulerio said. “In a matter of moments. So yes, we want to plan, but we don’t really have hope in the justice system of this country.”This article was reported by Penn State journalism students Chloe Bland and Alexa CalvaneseAfter Supreme Court setback, Trump again targets birthright citizenship | The ConversationImmigration courts in Pa., neighbor states order a record number of deportationsU.S. troops see their spouses, parents detained by Trump immigration crackdown