Luis Enrique Cuellar-Padilla was at a court in Newark when they suddenly put the handcuffs on him. He was wearing a fancy, brand new suit and tie and only moments earlier had a huge reason to celebrate: The 30-year-old from Colombia had just heard the word “approved” from the immigration officer reviewing his application and he was so ecstatic he could cry. After years of waiting, his “credible fear” interview — a screening to determine whether a person seeking asylum has a credible fear of persecution or torture in their home country — had finally taken place. And he was now one step closer to having his political asylum case reviewed and possibly approved by an immigration judge. “When I heard it was ‘positive,’ I thought, ‘OK, I can breathe now’” Luis tells me in Spanish, as I sit across from him at the Elizabeth Detention Center one evening. “But just a few minutes later, two ICE agents handcuffed me and brought me here,” he says, frowning. That was back in September. Since then, Luis, who came to the U.S. in 2022 escaping violent guerilla groups associated with the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, has hired — and fired! — a string of lawyers and supposed “lawyers” and spent thousands and thousands of dollars in his fight to be released from ICE detention. Before ICE took him, Luis worked for a large retail merchandising provider, restocking shelves and setting up product displays at stores across the state.Juliana Ayala Jimenez's husband, Luis Enrique Cuellar-Padilla, has been detained at the Elizabeth Detention Center for nearly 8 months. Chris Pedota | For NJ.comIn his absence, his wife, Juliana Ayala Jimenez, who’s 23, has had to sell most of their belongings to make ends meet and help cover Luis’ legal costs. She’s an at-home nail tech and says what she earns doing manicures and pedicures is simply not enough to cover rent, live, and account for the high fees charged by immigration attorneys. At their Paterson apartment, a cold, two-bedroom in the basement of an old building, she shows me photos of all the things she’s already let go of. Furniture. A computer. Some headphones. Equipment she used for her nail business. She recently put her car up for sale on the Facebook Marketplace, too. “As you can see, it’s pretty bare bones, at this point,” she says in Spanish, as she glances around the empty living room. “The next thing to go is that TV that’s boxed up, right over there...later today, someone’s coming by to pick it up.” She notices the worried expression on my face and sadly says, “Oh, it’s OK ...it’s just stuff, I just want Luis to come home already. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Under current policies, asylum seekers, like Luis, who pass their credible fear interviews can be released on parole, meaning they can live in the U.S. while they wait for their court hearings. However, the use of parole is sometimes limited or applied inconsistently and people too often remain in detention for weeks or in some situations much longer. In Luis’ case, he’s now been locked up for nearly 8 months. “If the plan is to keep me here until an immigration judge can review my asylum case, then, I’ll be here for a long, long time,” Luis says, shaking his head. His next court hearing isn’t until January 2028. A Department of Homeland Security spokesperson told me in an email Luis would “receive full due process and remain in ICE custody pending the outcome of his immigration proceedings.” “So, in the meantime, what?! I’m stuck in here suffering, I can’t work, I can’t provide for my wife, she’s out there alone, fending for herself, suffering, too,” Luis says. “It’s really frustrating for me and unfair, just ...unjust, you know? Because I’m not a bad person, I didn’t’ hurt anyone, I’m not a criminal. I followed the process, all of the steps, did the ‘right thing’ and still ended up here.” Unfortunately, asylum seekers who pass their credible fear interview are being detained at much higher rates than in previous years, according to the Asylum Seeker Advocacy Project, a nonprofit that fights for asylum seekers in the U.S. And since the start of Trump’s second term — and in the midst of his irrational crackdown on immigration — immigrants’ rights groups say obtaining parole has become much more difficult for asylum seekers, with increased scrutiny on parole decisions. ICE also has the authority to release asylum seekers (and others in ICE detention) on bond. But Luis’ requests for bond have repeatedly been denied. Diana Oliveras, of DLA Immigration Aid Inc., a Bronx business that offers legal support for U.S. immigration processes, says trying to get Luis released from ICE custody has been cumbersome. Oliveras, a DOJ-accredited representative — a non-attorney authorized by the Department of Justice to provide immigration legal services and represent clients before USCIS, immigration courts, and the Board of Immigration Appeals — has been handling Luis’ case since November. Luis’ previous attorney said he’d accompany him in court the day of his credible fear interview but didn’t show. And Luis says, despite having paid him nearly $9,000, when he called him to tell him he’d been detained, the attorney quickly brushed him off and said he couldn’t help. “Me, I’ve done, and I’m still doing, all I can,” Oliveras says, with a heavy sigh. “They’ve denied his request for bond twice, in February and in March, and twice, I’ve appealed the denials.” The reason? Immigration officials allege Luis is a flight risk, that his ties to the community “aren’t strong enough.” Hmm, he has a wife, friends, a lease on his apartment, a job. And most of all, since he’s been in the country, he’s never missed a single immigration check-in, court date, or appointment. His boss, several coworkers, his landlord, and a few neighbors, filed glowing character letters on his behalf. Many of them praised Luis for his strong work ethic, his deep sense of responsibility, and his kind, respectful nature.Oliveras says the “Matter of M-S-”— a decision that stripped immigration judges of authority to grant bond to asylum seekers who passed credible fear screenings but entered the U.S. without inspection — has also been cited in Luis’ case as a primary reason for denying his release on bond. To enter the country, Luis crossed the dangerous Rio Grande river. At the time, he says he was desperate to flee because politico-mafiosos in Colombia had tried several times to kidnap and kill him. Days before leaving for the U.S., Luis says he was ambushed and stabbed so many times they damn near succeeded. “I didn’t want to come here the way I did, but I had to,” he says. “And now, it feels like I’m being punished for it, punished for just trying to save my own life.” Still, Oliveras assures me that “in a ‘normal’ time,” under a different political climate, “this wouldn’t be happening.” In the last two years, she says she’s witnessed situations that “would’ve never played out” just a decade ago when she started doing immigration work. “Last month, a DOJ attorney, in a letter to a federal judge admitted that the Department had mistakenly relied on a memo from ICE to justify, and legally defend, civil immigration arrests at immigration courthouses,” she says. “But despite that admission, nothing’s changed. ICE has said its policy on arresting people after court proceedings hasn’t changed. They’re still doing it.” Juliana Ayala Jimenez's husband, Luis Enrique Cuellar-Padilla, an asylum seeker from Colombia, was detained by ICE last Sept. just minutes after his "credible fear" application was approved by an immigration officer.Chris Pedota | For NJ.comMORE BY DAYSI CALAVIA-ROBERTSONAs a last-ditch effort to try to free Luis, Oliveras earlier this month filed a habeas corpus petition to challenge the legality of his detention. And both she and Juliana are hopeful it’ll “eventually” be approved. “It will probably take some time though, because right now, there’s a deep backlog,” she says. “Judges used to review only a handful of habeas petitions, now there’s hundreds ...so, we just have to continue being patient.” For Luis, that’s easier said than done. “Pero bueno, no tengo de otra‚” he tells me. “But, then again, I don’t have a choice.”