Back then, as he was shackled and led to his cell, sure he was about to be deported back to Honduras, Turcios \u2013 an immigrant who had made a terrifying journey as a teenager, fleeing violence there \u2013 had no idea that his community in Rhinebeck was already mobilising; that they would raise tens of thousands of dollars in days, galvanise support from Hollywood actors and film-makers who also called the town home, and even recruit the lawyer who essentially wrote the book on stopping ICE deportations around the nation to represent him.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d moved to Rhinebeck with my own family from Texas during the pandemic, drawn to the bucolic countryside and good schools. Our own daughter now walks the same high school hallways Turcios once did. For me, and a lot of other people who call this small town home, Turcios\u2019s arrest was personal.<\/p>\n
double quotation markIt was the first time I\u2019ve ever used Instagram without being embarrassed about self-promotionActor Griffin Dunne, who has raised awareness of Turcios\u2019s case. Photograph: Celeste Sloman\/The Guardian<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, it\u2019s happened,\u201d wrote<\/a> actor Griffin Dunne on Instagram. \u201cICE has come to my beloved Dutchess County and kidnapped a hard working kid with his own local lawn care business, and without a criminal record, off our tranquil streets.\u201d But he added, \u201cThis is only the beginning.\u201d Dunne, who has a home in Rhinebeck, told his followers that the community had started a war chest to defend Turcios. \u201cOur pressure has brought about a hearing for Gerson at 11:00 tomorrow morning at Thurgood Marshall Courthouse for those who wish to show support. To my Rhinebeck neighbors, a bus will leave from Tops [grocery store] at 7:00 am.\u201d<\/p>\n Six years earlier, around 9pm on a freezing December night, Turcios and three other migrants had stood by the southern banks of the Rio Grande river in Mexico, looking across into Texas as flames torched the desert brush behind them; Mexican soldiers had set it alight to flush them out.<\/p>\n With nowhere left to go, Turcios turned to the others. \u201cWe are right here,\u201d he told them. \u201cThe other side is the United States.\u201d Another boy checked that everyone was able to swim \u2013 they were \u2013 but all Gerson could think about was alligators, which had occasionally been known to inhabit the Rio Grande.<\/p>\n Turcios before he fled to the US \u2026 Photograph: courtesy of Henoch Turcios\u2026 and celebrating his birthday with his brother Henoch in the US in 2021. Photograph: courtesy of Yorleny Weigel<\/p>\n The four boys jumped into the black water together, fighting the current as it pushed them downstream. Along that stretch, near McAllen, Texas, the width of the Rio Grande ranges from 45 to 90 meters. Finally, soaking wet, they scrambled up a concrete wall on the US side. They ran through scrubland until headlights appeared behind them, then three German shepherds. A heavier boy was dragged down by the dogs as he scaled a fence; the others scattered. Turcios sprinted until three cars boxed him in and US immigration<\/a> officers emerged with guns drawn. \u201cIf you keep running,\u201d they shouted, \u201cwe\u2019re gonna shoot your legs.\u201d Turcios stopped, put his hands up, then fell to his knees and felt a boot between his shoulder blades as they threw him to the ground and handcuffed him. He had spent six weeks on a journey that had nearly broken him. Against all odds, he had made it across the river. And now he\u2019d been caught.<\/p>\n In 2019, during the first Trump administration, an adult detained by Border Patrol crossing into the US was increasingly likely to be sent back to Mexico to wait for their immigration case to be heard. Turcios, though, was under 18, and the law dictated he be taken to refugee resettlement housing for minors. Turcios stayed at a facility in Long Island for almost a month until his brother, Henoch, and Henoch\u2019s girlfriend, Yorleny Weigel, were allowed to pick him up and return to Weigel\u2019s home in Rhinebeck.<\/p>\n Henoch had come to the US in 2017 via a tortuous route, and Turcios hadn\u2019t seen him for six years. Their first stop was a Wendy\u2019s fast food joint for a burger \u2013 \u201cSo big,\u201d Turcios now recalls, \u201cI didn\u2019t know how to eat it.\u201d<\/p>\n He would have to wait for the government to notify him of his first immigration hearing, but soon the Covid pandemic would throw the courts into chaos, with some hearings postponed indefinitely and others rescheduled then postponed again, leaving Turcios in limbo.<\/p>\n Weigel showed Turcios his room, then drove him across the river to a big outlet store in the city of Kingston to buy clothes. He spoke no English, so Weigel registered him with a county language integration programme and with the local high school. In the summer of 2020, ahead of the start of the school year, he was introduced to Anna Lawson, who would be one of his classmates. Lawson was in advanced Spanish and, as Covid was still forcing people to meet virtually, they spoke regularly over Zoom. \u201cHe is a really lovely, positive person,\u201d Lawson says. \u201cHe\u2019d often be sitting outside, talking about how much he enjoyed Rhinebeck.\u201d<\/p>\n double quotation markHis English progressed very quickly. Each day we\u2019d go outside and play basketballBrendan Dougherty, who shared a study hall with Turcios at school in Rhinebeck. Photograph: Celeste Sloman\/The Guardian<\/p>\n On the first day of school, Turcios was afraid he\u2019d be arrested by the police officer who sat outside in his car for an hour each morning as kids entered the building \u2013 just under half of US state schools have police patrol on campus \u2013 but after his first day, that fear passed. \u201cAfter that I wasn\u2019t afraid. I was excited,\u201d he says. \u201cBut I didn\u2019t speak any English at all.\u201d Turcios immediately hit it off with his classmates. Brendan Dougherty shared a study hall with him. \u201cGerson is a very sociable guy, so it wasn\u2019t difficult to strike up a conversation with him,\u201d Dougherty says. \u201cAnd his English progressed very quickly. Each day we\u2019d go outside and play basketball.\u201d<\/p>\n Turcios finished high school in the early summer of 2022 and began working in the kitchen of a local French restaurant and, in his spare time, for a crew that did landscaping and house maintenance, and mowed lawns. One of his first clients was Jenny Friedberg, a creative director and producer who had moved up to Rhinebeck from the city during the pandemic. Turcios and the maintenance crew painted her basement in Brooklyn, and excavated 24in of bedrock under her barn in Rhinebeck. \u201cWhatever they did, Gerson was always there,\u201d Friedberg says. \u201cHe was the youngest of the crew, the smiliest, the most helpful, and my favourite.\u201d<\/p>\n In the summer of 2025, Turcios left the restaurant and went to work full-time with the crew. At 7.30pm on 18 July 2025, Friedberg\u2019s phone rang. It was Carlos, Turcios\u2019s boss. Turcios had been detained by ICE, he told her, and he didn\u2019t know what to do.<\/p>\n Friedberg made several calls that evening. The first was to Luciano Valdivia, a local restaurateur and president of Rhinebeck\u2019s chamber of commerce. The next was to Amanda Miller, a local attorney. Then John Reinish, a political communications strategist she knew. Within 24 hours, they\u2019d set up a Spotfund<\/a>, an online fundraising platform, to raise money for Turcios\u2019s legal battle. Miller called Gregory Copeland, a law school friend who had pioneered legal strategies to stop ICE deportations and had also moved to Rhinebeck.<\/p>\n double quotation markWhatever the maintenance crew did, he was always there. He was the youngest, the smiliest, the most helpful, and my favouriteJenny Friedberg, a creative director and producer for whom Turcios had worked. Photograph: Celeste Sloman\/The Guardian<\/p>\n Copeland was a nationally recognised civil rights and immigration attorney, and co-founder of the Rapid Defense Network, a non-profit providing pro bono legal support to immigrants facing deportation. He was also the subject of the documentary Guerrilla Habeas, which looked at the legal strategy it employed to stop deportations at the last moment. That strategy hinged on filing habeas corpus petitions, which empower federal judges to compel the authorities to justify detentions, a power enshrined in the constitution. Doing this forces cases out of immigration courts and into federal court, where due process can be properly considered and immigrants have a fairer shot at justice.<\/p>\n Miller says Copeland had experience fighting \u201cthe biggest machine there is \u2013 the federal government\u201d. But since his move to Rhinebeck, he had stopped practising civil rights and immigration law, and had turned his attention to estate planning for clients. Still, Miller knew there was no one better to help Turcios.<\/p>\n \u201cIt wasn\u2019t clear to me immediately that I would help him, but I went into triage mode, gathering information and figuring out what our options were,\u201d Copeland says. As soon as Copeland got Turcios\u2019s \u201cA-Number\u201d \u2013 the alien registration number assigned by the US Department of Homeland Security to non-citizens\u2013 he could check his status in the system. He discovered that, years earlier, Turcios had been ordered deported \u201cin absentia\u201d for missing a hearing. During Covid, courts repeatedly moved locations; Turcios missed a notice despite living at the same address he\u2019d always provided.<\/p>\n Copeland knew it was now vital to get the Rhinebeck community to show up for him. \u201cIf you consider what the government evaluates when justifying someone\u2019s detention, it\u2019s whether they\u2019re a danger to the community and a flight risk,\u201d Copeland says. \u201cThe community is typically not going to show up for a dangerous person. And you\u2019re less of a flight risk if there\u2019s a strong community around you.\u201d<\/p>\n It was a matter of urgency to identify where Turcios was being taken and where he was going next. Copeland says it\u2019s not an exact science, but after working these cases as long as he had, you get a feel for it. A red flag was if he had been sent to Louisiana, a staging location for deportations \u2013 at this point, he had not. However, Turcios had been detained with his passport \u2013 another red flag. \u201c[The government] needs two things to remove you: a travel document and a final order of removal,\u201d Copeland says. \u201cThey need something to show who you are because in immigration court one of the first things they need to establish is that you\u2019re not a citizen.\u201d If an immigrant picked up by ICE doesn\u2019t have a travel document on them, that buys their attorneys more time.<\/p>\n Meanwhile, Valdivia asked Leah Conklin, another resident who worked in international criminal justice reform, to get involved. Within days of Turcios\u2019s arrest, a crack team was coming together, but time was of the essence. \u201cOne of the reasons they make arrests on Friday, I think, is because you can\u2019t catch up,\u201d Valdivia says, \u201cand if you don\u2019t know where they\u2019re going, you don\u2019t know how to stop it.\u201d<\/p>\n Copeland was looking at the online detainee locator system<\/a>, trying to get a feel for where Turcios was moving \u2013 through which processing centre; which detention centre. In New York state, if you are taken to Federal Plaza in Manhattan and then your location \u201cgoes dark\u201d, that\u2019s an indicator you could be bound for a deportation flight. \u201cIt\u2019s very relevant for filing a habeas petition,\u201d Copeland says, \u201cbecause you have to file where they\u2019re detained.\u201d If you don\u2019t know where your client is, you can\u2019t file and they can be deported. \u201cSo it\u2019s a game they\u2019re playing \u2013 hiding the person.\u201d<\/p>\n Conklin had been calling around law firms but found it impossible to get a lawyer quickly enough. On Sunday, Copeland agreed to take on Turcios\u2019s case himself. \u201cI had created the Rapid Defense Network because there\u2019s a small window in which you have to do this. It\u2019s like a death penalty case: you have to strike while the iron\u2019s hot or you\u2019re dead.\u201d By that evening, with Miller\u2019s help, Copeland had filed an emergency petition on Turcios\u2019s behalf, seeking a stay to allow him to consult with lawyers and challenge his removal order. Conklin says that the community came together in record time.<\/p>\n double quotation markThey make arrests on Friday so you can\u2019t catch up. If you don\u2019t know where they\u2019re going, you don\u2019t know how to stop itLocal residents who joined the fight included Luciano Valdivia, restaurateur and former president of the Rhinebeck chamber of commerce \u2026\u2026 and Leah Conklin, who worked in international criminal justice reform. Photographs: Celeste Sloman\/The Guardian<\/p>\n Valdivia messaged some other Rhinebeck residents he knew could amplify Turcios\u2019s story. He called Dunne, the actor and writer who had starred in An American Werewolf in London and After Hours, and whom Valdivia counted as a friend. He texted film-maker Andrew Jarecki, who donated, as did actor Paul Rudd, who co-owns a sweet shop in Rhinebeck and lives there with his family. Word spread. Other contributions came in from all over the US and beyond.<\/p>\n Dunne began posting about Turcios\u2019s case on social media. \u201cIt was the first time I\u2019ve ever used Instagram without kind of being embarrassed about self-promotion because I had a movie coming out,\u201d he says. \u201cIt made sense to me for the first time. I was just struck by the inhumanity and the contagion of cruelty.\u201d<\/p>\n Friedberg says that when Turcios was arrested, she had a reckoning with herself: \u201cThis sort of recognition of how we don\u2019t often know the people that have been working for us or near us for years.\u201d She had never asked about Turcios\u2019s story.<\/p>\n skip past newsletter promotion<\/a><\/p>\n Sign up to Inside Saturday<\/p>\n The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend.<\/p>\n after newsletter promotion<\/p>\n Turcios spent his early childhood in the small town of Balfate on Honduras\u2019s northern coast. His father, Juan, raised cattle. Irma, his mother, gave birth to 10 children. The disappearance of his eldest brother, Amilcar, is one of Turcios\u2019s earliest memories. He was four when his brother went missing after travelling by boat to Roat\u00e1n, a Honduran island, to seek a better life. Of the five people who made the trip, authorities recovered the bodies of three. Amilcar and the boat\u2019s captain were never found. Turcios\u2019s family never learned the truth; they suspect it had something to do with organised crime, but they\u2019ve come to accept that Amilcar is dead.<\/p>\n While there has been a drop in violent crime in the last couple of years, historically Honduras has been one of the most dangerous countries in the world, with gangs vying for control of drugs and extortion rackets. A decade ago, it frequently topped global lists of the highest murder rates in non-war zone countries<\/a>, fuelled by its position as a major transit hub for South American cocaine heading to the US.<\/p>\n \u201cMy mother was afraid, so she decided we should move from that place where she lost her son,\u201d Turcios says. The family relocated to just outside the large city of San Pedro Sula and stayed there for nine years. Turcios went to school, but eventually they sold up and moved to a house in the mountains. It was beautiful, he says, but dangerous; you could never be sure which was more deadly \u2013 the criminal gangs who stole livestock, or the venomous snakes and other wildlife.<\/p>\n They had 10 cows to tend and a few horses, and they began constructing their own house. Laundry was done in a small stream and cooking over fire. Walking to the city took nine hours, over mountain passes; Turcios recalls jumping on his father\u2019s shoulders to cross rivers.<\/p>\n By the time Turcios moved to the mountains, his brother Henoch had already migrated to the US. Henoch says he travelled from Honduras, across Mexico by train, without any money and had to beg for food. He spent three months in Monterrey, where he almost had to have his left hand amputated due to an infection. A friend helped him pay for the medication \u2013 the same friend would eventually take in Henoch in Rhinebeck. After he\u2019d recovered enough, he hitched a ride on a train to the border town of Sonoyta, then spent 22 days walking through the southern desert into Arizona. He says he nearly died after spending weeks without eating, surviving on nothing but water.<\/p>\n Eventually, Turcios\u2019s parents decided to move back to town as they wanted his younger sisters, aged eight and 10, to go to school, and to be nearer to a hospital in case they got sick. Turcios stayed in the mountains, living alone for six months so his father wouldn\u2019t have to sell his animals, but he was an hour away by foot from the nearest house. His father gave him a gun for safety and most nights he\u2019d lie awake, clutching it, and listening to the cries of animals in the wilderness.<\/p>\n After the 16-year-old son of his nearest neighbour was murdered over drugs, Turcios\u2019s siblings decided it was time for him to leave Honduras. One day, when visiting his sister in town, he was told that the following morning a man would arrive who would help him cross into Mexico and travel to the US to join his brother. \u201cI didn\u2019t have a future in Honduras,\u201d he says. \u201cIf you wanted to go to college, you had to pay a lot of money and my parents couldn\u2019t afford it. And I knew if I went to the United States I would learn how to speak English and it would be better for me.\u201d<\/p>\n Two days later he was travelling across Guatemala by bus and car, under the \u201ccare\u201d of a coyote \u2013 a people smuggler he had paid 12,000 Honduran pesos, the equivalent of about \u00a3350 \u2013 or, as he recalls, the amount he\u2019d received for a cow he\u2019d sold five days earlier. Turcios had been told the back route through the mountains would keep him safe. He, his coyote and a group of other migrants moved only at night, but safety proved elusive. At a bus stop in Guatemala, armed officers boarded and ordered passengers to strip. Turcios had hidden his money in his sock, out of sight. The coyote paid the officers off and they kept moving. Hours later, another police stop. This time the driver was pulled from the van, kicked and beaten while officers held a pistol to his head. Only when the driver produced 25,000 Mexican pesos (about \u00a31,000) did they relent.<\/p>\n After 16 nights in a safe house, one migrant demanded better treatment from the people smugglers and that they get moving. Three strangers dragged him outside and he never returned.<\/p>\n double quotation markIt\u2019s like a death penalty case: you have to strike while the iron\u2019s hot or you\u2019re deadCivil rights and immigration lawyer Gregory Copeland \u2026 \u2026 and fellow attorney Amanda Miller, who alerted him to Turcios\u2019s plight. Photographs: Celeste Sloman\/The Guardian<\/p>\n The journey took a month and a half. In early December, Turcios and his closest companion, Antonio, were roused at midnight and, together with four others, were packed into a van and dumped in desolate brush. Turcios and Antonio were from the same state in Honduras but hadn\u2019t known each other before. The others were from different countries \u2013 El Salvador, Guatemala, Mexico. \u201cI was 17. Antonio was 28 and like my older brother,\u201d Turcios says. \u201cHis wife and kid had moved to the US a year before and lived in Georgia, so he was trying to reunite with them.\u201d<\/p>\n A guide led them through darkness for 30 minutes. By 3am they had joined 40 others alongside the Rio Grande, shivering in the winter cold. The border was not unguarded. Helicopters buzzed low, forcing them to hide in the grassland and scrub. Mexican army troops encircled them, weapons raised, setting fire to the surrounding brush to flush out the remaining migrants, most of whom fled into the night. Turcios surrendered his pesos and ran. Then, it was time to cross.<\/p>\n After his capture, the US Border Patrol officers took Turcios to a room with a table and two chairs. An officer accused him of being an adult; of running drugs across the border. Turcios told them he was 17, that he had never muled drugs, and that he had gone three days without sleep or food. He produced his birth certificate, which they took and never returned. A doctor arrived, checked his teeth, and confirmed his age. Then the officers stopped yelling, moved him to a cell full of boys his age or younger, and gave him two cookies and a bottle of Kool-Aid \u2013 the best meal he had eaten in weeks.<\/p>\n Two days later, he was given new clothes, a jacket for the cold, and told he was flying to New York. It was his first time on a plane, his first time seeing \u201cice fall from the sky\u201d, as it was snowing that day in New York City. After 26 days in a Long Island shelter, showering each morning and night, and attending a little school inside the facility, he was met by Henoch and Weigel, who drove down from Rhinebeck to collect him.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/us\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/06\/1782378909_752_500.jpg\")
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