The Brief

This story is part of ICE vs. LA, a collaborative reporting project by LA Public Press, Caló News, Capital & Main, Capital B, LA Taco, and Q Voice.

Four months after nearly 5,000 federal troops descended onto Los Angeles, Marsha Mitchell, a Black organizer in South Central, explained what made it impossible for her not to act: her neighbors.

At the peak of the federal immigration raids this summer — when U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement was arresting an average of 540 people per week in the city — her neighbor, Erica, and her husband and friend were taken by federal agents while eating breakfast in their home.

All three were placed in a van and driven toward downtown Los Angeles.

But Erica knew she had to get back to her small children, recalled Mitchell, a lifelong South Central resident, from a conversation she had with her neighbor.

“As a mother, her whole thing was, I got to get to my babies,” Mitchell said.

When the agents opened the van doors in downtown L.A., Erica broke free — still tied up, still terrified — and ran. While Erica managed to escape, her husband was placed in the detention center, where he said conditions were unbearable. According to Mitchell, he self-deported rather than endure them, choosing to escape the system that had trapped him.

Erica was the family’s breadwinner through her tamale stand, but with her husband gone, she is too afraid to leave her home. The family has collapsed financially under the weight of a single raid, Mitchell said.

“Not only has she lost her business, but also her husband and the ability to give her family what they need to survive,” said Mitchell, an organizer with Community Coalition, the long-standing anti-violence and drug addiction group founded by now-Mayor Karen Bass in 1990.

In South L.A., where Los Angeles City Council Districts 8, 9, and 10 have transformed from predominantly Black to predominantly Latino, and where the highest percentages of undocumented residents in the city now live, Erica’s story is part of the new normal.

For some South Central residents, the raids have triggered economic and social catastrophes. During the first weeks of concentrated immigration enforcement, 465,000 fewer workers reported for work. One local business owner told the economic justice group Strategic Actions for a Just Economy that he’d lost 80% of his business in the first month of the ICE crackdown. Other shops across South Central and downtown lost business for weeks.

The raids are posing a new hurdle for Black and Latino families to pay rent in one of America’s most expensive cities. But they’ve also catalyzed Black neighbors to act.

“[Erica] is a member of our community, and she is afraid to come outside,” Mitchell said. “She is not alone, and that is why we’re helping with mutual aid.”

Immediately, that looked like bringing her family groceries and referring them to resources for free mental health care.

Community Coalition, known as CoCo, is training dozens of block captains to canvass their communities and coordinate food drop-offs, safety check-ins, and care referrals in real time. They’re organizing their neighbors around the threats facing everyone, regardless of their race or residency status.

The immediacy of this care network — 18 block captains now, with hopes to reach 28 — emerged after Erica’s abduction by ICE, according to Mitchell, who works for CoCo.

L.A. County’s Black residents — 20% of whom are immigrants or children of immigrants — are standing in solidarity with their Latino neighbors, saying they are part of a shared fight against over-policing and racialized violence. Nine out of 10 ICE arrests have been of Latinos.

“Seeing families torn apart is so reminiscent of the white supremacist playbook that we’ve seen historically in communities of color, and that starts with our Indigenous siblings to slavery and through these latest ICE raids,” Mitchell said.

Neighbors moved to action

Pamela Riley envisions her South Central neighborhood with all the resources it needs to thrive, but that starts at the block level, she said.

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On a quiet stretch of 92nd Street, Pamela Riley propped open her front gate around 8 a.m. For one Saturday in October, her front yard — one of the typical South Central flair caged in by a sagging iron gate — became the heartbeat of a block fighting back against abandonment.

Within minutes, her neighbors began to gather. Grandmothers sipped coffee, young mothers munched on donuts, and teenagers organized flyers printed in Spanish and English.

Just steps from the 110 freeway and the ghostly remains of shuttered shops and clinics, her community is forging new lines of solidarity amid chronic neglect and a deep need for connection. This is the new frontline in South Los Angeles, where a coalition of Black and Latino residents is launching a network of “Neighborhood Action Hubs” along the Vermont and Broadway corridors to keep mutual aid alive as official support shrinks.

The goal: to weave a grassroots shield against ICE crackdowns and social services cuts and offer a model for how neighbors, not institutions, can bridge fear and isolation.

“That blueprint of success is there. The road is paved, we just need to walk it together,” said Riley, a 64-year-old lifelong South Central resident.

Later that morning, as the sun tried to fight through the gloomy sky, a group of three of the women who showed up at Riley’s event — two Black, one Latina — passed the same mural-painted utility boxes and chain-link fences that mark so many South L.A. blocks. Old-school Chevys, some missing hubcaps, were parked next to pickups and battered minivans, while the sound of cumbia drifted from a doorway where a woman watered her agave under the music’s sway.

As they moved from house to house, the group stopped at gates and asked neighbors about the specific issues facing their blocks and individual households. At one, a longtime Latino immigrant, gray-haired and smiling, shared how she planned to vote in the now-passed November election.

Riley’s block has become a lot more quiet and less frequented since ICE raids began.

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Deeper onto the block, the canvassers encountered two undocumented migrants — one a young father, the other a middle-aged woman. The father spoke to tangible issues in the neighborhood: “People have started stealing car tires at night and cutting wires from light poles for quick money,” he said.

The mother spoke quietly about work drying up and more neighbors “laying low” as rumors of ICE sightings swept through the area. The Latina canvasser asked directly about food access and whether anyone still sold homemade snacks. The woman hesitated, then explained in Spanish that she stopped selling crepes out of fear.

The canvassers turned to the others and suggested a solution: organizing a block-wide food vendor party, so people could sell their products safely.

Walking farther, they found themselves cautiously welcomed by a Black city worker who had lived on the block for decades. She described losing sleep as the city’s racial demographics shifted and her worry about Black and Latino votes being split or erased.

At each stop, the canvassers handed out cards with voting information and explained how to register, where to find drop boxes, and how to access rapid response teams if ICE was spotted or the lights went out again.

“Solidarity is literally in L.A.’s DNA,” Mitchell said. “We know that when communities come together, we weather all kinds of storms — governmental, financial, whatever comes our way.”

L.A.’s long-history of racial coalitions

Neighborhood canvassers speak to a women. This specific Saturday, these two canvassers knocked on dozens of doors for over 2 hours.

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Riley said her memories are filled with better days: bustling shops, a hospital on 94th, neighbors who’d send their kids to college together. She has watched her neighborhood swing from prosperity to depression and now, uncertainty.

Today, Riley’s yard and days are devoted to strategizing — she and other block captains count names, rehearse response plans and dream of new “welcome to South Central L.A.” signs at every corner. During meetings, they talk about how, in other parts of the city, neighbors stand by each other in crisis; here, too, unity could mean survival. The terror of recent abductions — a beloved tamalera torn from her routine and dayworkers swiped off the streets — still haunts these blocks, sharpening every knock at the door.

“I grew up in a civil rights era of the ’60s, and I’m starting to realize this is the new era of civil rights,” Riley said, explaining that the attack on civil rights today has extended far beyond immigration raids. “It is requiring more from all of us.”

Having lived through what she considers broken promises following the devastation of the 1992 L.A. Riots, Riley said she understands that revival cannot rely on state intervention alone, and it bridges racial divides. Instead, she insists, “what’s going on in Washington DC is showing us we need to join together and support each other.”

It also reminds her of the power of community. During the 1992 protests against police brutality, Latinos constituted the largest portion of arrests despite making up a smaller percentage of the overall population at the time.

Dozens of volunteers began their Saturday at 9 a.m. to door knock.

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The roots of Black and Latino collaboration go back to the founding of L.A. itself, where 26 of the city’s 44 original settlers in 1781 were Black/Afro-Latino with Spanish surnames — establishing a tradition of mixed neighborhoods and joint political action. This foundation was later strengthened during the Great Migration and again throughout the 20th century, when Black and Latino residents forged working alliances in the face of shared exclusion from citywide power.

In recent decades, the demographic mix in South Central has shifted further. Where once the community was predominantly Black, Latino residents now form the majority. The change created new opportunities for solidarity, as well as challenges, especially after Latino L.A. City Council members were caught on tape using racist anti-Black language while discussing concerns about the political power of Black residents. The tapes reopened wounds over neighborhood displacement.

Today, the skepticism remains real for a lot of Black people in L.A. In June, a viral moment spread across the internet after Latino protesters hurled racial insults at a Black L.A. police officer.

“A significant number of Black folks don’t see this as their fight,” author and commentator Earl Ofari Hutchinson said after the protest in June. “They’ve seen anti-Blackness in Latino communities. They’ve felt left out when it came to our issues. That breeds skepticism.”

But “if anything, the debate over whether Blacks should link hands with Latino activists in the immigration battle seems age old,” Hutchinson wrote on his daily blog.

Hector Sanchez, CoCo’s Deputy Political Director, agreed.“It takes a lot of work. I’m not going to say it’s very easy … but it’s people that are willing to have those difficult conversations at times to ensure that we have each other’s back.”

Just a day after the city council tapes leaked, more than 400 people came together in Boyle Heights “to talk about the importance of multi-racial solidarity,” he said. Despite the tensions, neighbors continue fighting side by side for justice and belonging.

When canvassers could not get in contact with residents, they left behind these door hangers with a list of resources.

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In the years since, organizers have responded by promoting cross-cultural events, joint canvassing efforts, and language exchange programs. Language exchange workshops and “know your rights” sessions — alongside mutual aid deliveries — have become linchpins of the hub approach.

“We are not just helping Black folks, not just one population. It’s for all of us,” explained Sequarier McCoy, a 49-year-old lifelong L.A. resident.

“I grew up in a Black and Brown community,” she added. “I smelled Black-eyed peas, but I also smelled tortillas. I like corn on the cob and Esquites.”

McCoy is also acutely aware that the issues of migration, detention and deportation are far from just Latino issues. “It’s also for Dominican folks. It’s also for Belizean folks. It’s also for Caribbean folks,” she said. She said her partner, a Belizean migrant, is living in fear too.

Black undocumented migrants are deported at a rate four times more often than their numbers would suggest, according to an analysis of federal data by the Black Alliance for Just Immigration.

It is why this practical solidarity spans crises, organizers said. When SNAP benefits run dry, when an ICE van is spotted, or when a neighbor’s lights go out, the same phone trees and rapid response plans kick in.

“This work is an honor as a human being, not just as an activist,” McCoy said.

If you’re already planning to return a holiday gift that you’re just not that into, you could be in for a surprise.

More stores and shopping outlets are charging a restocking fee or a return surcharge of some kind. And many are also imposing deadlines or restrictions on returns, according to the National Retail Federation.

A quick search turned up these policies that might complicate your return plans:

• Best Buy charges a restocking fee of $45, or 15% of the purchase price on certain items, such as prepaid cell phones, cameras, drones and projector screens and … saunas.
• Macy’s offers free in-store and return shipping for its Star Rewards members, but non-members can face a $9.99 return shipping fee, plus tax, that will be deducted from your refund.
• UNIQLO requires online purchases to be returned online, not in a brick-and-mortar location.

How we got here

The reason is simple. We love to return stuff. Retailers are expected to see nearly $850 billion — with a "b" — in returns this year. And nearly 20% of online sales will be returned, according to a report by the National Retail Federation. (Interesting fact: Gen Zers are more likely to return an online purchase, the report found.)

Processing all those returns cuts into company profits. And then there’s the fraud, abuse and waste that goes along with it. (This includes everything from returning empty boxes, using and abusing items and then requesting returns, and something that I do quite a lot of — it’s called “bracketing,” where you buy two or more sizes of something to try them all on, planning on at least one return.)

It all adds up, and businesses are not in the business of wasting money.

“We’re seeing return figures that are much more than the norm,” said David Sobie, the Santa Monica-based co-founder and CEO of Happy Returns, a third-party business that you’ve probably seen inside places like Ulta. For consumers, it provides returns without a need for printer labels or packing tape. For businesses, this service provides built-in fraud protection.

He said limitations on returns in the form of restocking fees and charges are likely to increase in response to what businesses see as “costly consumer behaviors."

What you can do about it

Sobie said consumers can avoid unpleasant surprises with a little pre-purchase sleuthing:

• Ask about return policy details.
• Consider whether you might be better off checking the item out in person before purchasing.
• Find out about any “fine print” issues regarding return details, fees, or limitations. For example, if you purchase in person, can you return the item by mail?

And of course, hang on to receipts.

“I always say you want to check it out before you check out,” Sobie said.

Sitting in the Oval Office this month, President Donald Trump went on one of his trademark riffs, an aside about vehicles that are popular in Asia but impossible to buy new in the United States.

"They have a very small car. It's sort of like the Beetle used to be with the Volkswagen," he said. "They're very small. They're really cute."

In Japan, these vehicles are known as kei cars. They are, indeed, very small. They are, indisputably, very cute.

"But you're not allowed to build them" in the U.S., Trump went on. "I've authorized the secretary [of transportation] to immediately approve the production of those cars."

A shirt featuring a variety of kei cars was on display during a meeting of the Capital Kei Car Club.

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That news came in the middle of a press conference about the Trump administration relaxing fuel economy rules — a change that will make it easier for Americans to buy more of the big, fuel-guzzling trucks and SUVs that car buyers love.

Trump's endorsement surprised, delighted and somewhat confused American kei car enthusiasts.

It is not actually illegal to build tiny cars for the U.S. auto market. The problem is that kei cars built for foreign countries don't meet U.S. safety standards, so you can't import them unless you're willing to buy an antique. And companies could build tiny cars to U.S. standards, but given the American preference for big vehicles, they simply don't.

"If this is going to be a kick in the right direction to maybe get the domestic auto industry to reconsider cars like this," said Andrew Maxon, a kei car owner and the founder of the Capital Kei Car Club, "I'm all for it. I'll take what we can get."

An antique exemption 

Andrew Maxon, the founder of the Capital Kei Car Club, sits in his Autozam AZ-1.

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Kei cars, trucks and vans are very popular in Japan. But while new models might meet Japan's safety standards for things like airbags and seat belts, they're not designed to meet the very specific U.S. requirements.

So they can't be imported and driven in the U.S. unless they're at least 25 years old, which qualifies them as an antique and exempt from federal safety standards. That's why every vehicle at a recent Capital Kei Car Club meetup in Northern Virginia was at least 25.

Drivers raved about their tiny cars — their fun handling, their cute appearance, the delighted responses they get when they drive them around.

Drivers of kei vans and trucks also emphasized that the vehicles are practical. Ryan Douglass replaced his midsize American pickup with a pint-size Japanese one, but while it's shorter than a modern Mini Cooper, it still has a full 6-foot bed, longer than you'll find on a lot of massive trucks these days.

"I can lay down in the bed and not even touch the ends of it," he said. More to the point, he can fit in a sheet of plywood.

Unbeatable prices, with some drawbacks

Car enthusiasts work on a minor repair in the engine bay of a Suzuki Cappuccino.

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A new kei car, truck or van can be snagged in Japan for less than $15,000.

And the imported antiques? Douglass paid $8,000 for his truck, which runs great, and he says that was on the expensive end; he paid someone else to manage all the import paperwork.

Mainstream pickups are pricey in the U.S. right now, even when they're used. In November, the average price on Carfax.com was more than $34,000.

Douglass marvels at how much his kei truck saved him.

"I think I could get five or six of these and customize them to my heart's desire and still be cheaper than a brand-new truck that I can buy out of a dealership today," he said.

There are drawbacks, of course. Douglass' license plate warns drivers behind him that his vehicle is, in fact, "VRYSLW."

Ryan Douglass steps out of his Honda Acty.

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The snub-nosed front of the vehicle means there's no protective crumple zone in front of the driver. If you crash a kei truck, your knees take the hit directly. And because these vehicles are all antiques, their safety specs are antiquated too.

"I accept the terms and conditions," said Sergey Hall, whose 1992 Suzuki Cappuccino car is even smaller than Douglass' vehicle. "That's the best way to put it. I know that there are no safety features on it. No airbags, ABS [antilock braking system], no throttle position sensors or anything like that."

Safety concerns are why some states ban imported antique kei vehicles, even if federal rules allow them. That frustrates kei car enthusiasts, who note that motorcycles, which are not renowned for safety, are legal on highways.

"What is a 'safe' vehicle?" mused Dan Kobayashi, who drives a Honda Acty kei truck. He noted that a car that's slow and small is safer for pedestrians. And he pointed out that kei cars have great visibility, compared with bigger vehicles with giant hoods and chunky "A pillars" framing the windshield. So unlike the driver of a big SUV, Kobayashi said, "I don't have to worry about hitting kids in front of me, because I can see in front of me."

Still, kei car drivers do have to worry about whether other drivers can see them on American roads, where giant vehicles are moving at high speeds.

Little interest in little cars 

Nevi Bergeron sits behind the wheel in her Suzuki Cappuccino during a meeting of the Capital Kei Car Club.

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In his remarks, Trump said that companies "can't build" little cars in the U.S. and that he'd immediately authorize the production of tiny vehicles.

The thing is, building these vehicles is not actually prohibited in the United States.

Yes, federal safety standards block imports; for the record, the Transportation Department confirmed to NPR that those safety standards are not being waived for small cars. And, yes, some states restrict imported antiques because of safety concerns. So what's stopping automakers from building versions of these cars that do meet U.S. safety standards?

The American shopper.

When companies sold smaller cars in the past, "people didn't want to buy them," says Jessica Caldwell, head of insights at the car data site Edmunds.

"We look at the subcompact car — that is the smallest car sold in the United States. That segment is less than 1% of the market," she says. And it's shrinking, not growing.

Federal fuel economy rules have been criticized for incentivizing larger vehicles. Automakers have another incentive to go big: They make bigger profits on bigger vehicles.

But consumer preferences have also spoken loud and clear. Years ago, Daimler made a push to sell the Smart fortwo, a tiny car by any definition. It was cheap and cute, and it could fit sideways in a parking spot. But it was discontinued in 2019 after about a decade of disappointing sales.

Andrew Maxon walks by his Autozam AZ-1.

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At the Capitol Kei Car Club meetup, I asked everyone there — big fans of tiny cars — whether they think America writ large could learn to love them too. Could small, cheap and slow take off?

"If I had to bet, I would bet against it, unfortunately," Andy Creedon said, summing up the overwhelming consensus.

Kobayashi was more optimistic. His truck is useful, he said. And small vehicles like this are popular in other countries; why not in the U.S.? As he said, a little enviously: "Everybody else in the world has it."
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Teamsters Local 2010, which represents trade workers across the Cal State University system, last week approved a strike if negotiations with management continue to stall.

The union says the system has reneged on paying previously agreed upon contractual raises and salary step increases. CSU officials say contingencies in place for those raises to go into effect require new state funding that has not happened.

What is Teamsters Local 2010?

The union represents 27,000 public education employees throughout the state, including the University of California system, Los Angeles Unified and the Cal State University system.

The 1,100 union members who work for the CSU include electricians, elevator mechanics, plumbers, carpenters, locksmiths and other trades workers.

What is each side's position?

In a press statement, the union said that instead of the previously agreed upon terms, the CSU is offering workers “a one-time bonus worth far less than what workers are owed.” Teamsters Local 2010 said it “won back salary steps in 2024 after nearly three decades of stagnation.”

In an email, CSU spokesperson Amy Bentley-Smith described the strike authorization vote as “disappointing” and counterproductive. The current labor agreement between the system and the union, she added, contains “clear contingency provisions language that tied certain salary increases to the receipt of new, unallocated, ongoing state funding. Those contingencies were not met, leading to the current reopener negotiations on salary terms.”

When would a strike start?

Strike authorization votes are “procedural,” Bentley-Smith said, so this “does not mean a strike is imminent.” The CSU, she added, “is hopeful continued negotiations will result in the parties reaching an agreement.”

The union says there is no timeline for when the strike might happen. Some 94% of workers voted to authorize their bargaining team to call a strike, according to a statement released Friday. The move, the union said, gives the CSU a clear sign that "we are strike ready."

Last year, Teamsters Local 2010 was on the verge of striking alongside the system's faculty, but the union reached a last-minute deal with the CSU.

Learn more about CSU's financial picture

• Cal State Dominguez Hills students, faculty rally to save 6 'essential' programs from chopping block
• Cal State wants to offer bigger raises to campus presidents while cutting elsewhere
• Why did the CSU spend millions on ChatGPT amid a budget crisis? We asked school leaders

An immigration judge issues a stern warning: "If you don't show up, there is a good chance the court will order you removed."

She speaks to an immigrant from El Salvador in a quiet immigration courtroom in Hyattsville, Md., in November. Clad in an all-black dress jacket and shirt, the immigrant — who was identified only by the number of his case — swears that his last immigration notice was lost in the mail.

The judge tells him to check his mail regularly, ahead of his next appearance in January.

As the room empties out, the judge says out loud that there are a number of no-shows that day. The Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE, attorney in court files motions to remove five people "in absentia." The judge grants it. Those people can now be deported.

A similar scene has played out, and increasingly so, in nearly every immigration court nationwide over the past year, according to immigration attorneys and NPR's early analysis of court data. The results mirror those of Joseph Gunther, an independent researcher, who has also been tracking the data closely. More immigrants are not showing up for their mandatory immigration court hearings, allowing the government to order their immediate deportation.

"What happened is that the word spread that if you go to court, you could get picked up from ICE," said Ruby Powers, an immigration lawyer based in Texas with cases all over the country.

In 2025, ICE turned to arrests directly from federal or immigration courtrooms in order to meet arrest quotas set by the Trump administration.

"Those instances weren't consistent around the country, but at least the word had spread, the fear had spread. And so individuals were really hesitant to go into court," Powers said.

The number of in absentia removals was generally already on an upward trend each year since 2022, said Andrew Arthur, resident law and policy fellow at the Center for Immigration Studies, a nonprofit that advocates for lower levels of migration. Still, the number of such removal orders in fiscal year 2025 nearly tripled that of the previous year — topping over 50,000.

NPR calculated just how many people were ordered removed "in absentia."

Each of the top 10 cities with the largest number of completed immigration cases in those courts is on track to end the year with a higher rate of in absentia removals than they started. That is according to data from the Executive Office for Immigration Review — part of the Department of Justice — from January through November.

Each of these courts experienced an uptick in this kind of removal order starting in the summer months. That timeline is consistent with when immigration attorneys say ICE officers began arresting people inside the courts.

NPR has spoken with the family members of immigrants who came to court in New York, for example, in place of their parents or partners — out of concern their loved ones might be detained. New York's courts have become notorious this year for scenes of violent arrests and confrontations with federal officers.

Powers said that there are other reasons people may fear coming to court, including that they may not win their case or get deported to a third country. There are logistical barriers, too.

"A lot of times people don't even know that they have a hearing, or hearing dates can change without receiving the notice in the mail," Powers said. Sometimes immigrants can move and addresses are not immediately updated with the court, or go to places like apartment buildings that have less consistent mail delivery, she said. Notices can also be sent to completely incorrect addresses, which lawyers said has been an issue in years past.

Immigration attorneys across the country have noticed an uptick in this kind of removal order. Organizations like the Center for Immigration Studies have also spotted it.

In many cases, the Department of Homeland Security has to receive a removal order issued by an immigration judge before it can physically deport any person from the U.S., Arthur said.

"The more orders of removal in absentia or at the end of proceedings that are issued, the more people that ICE can then target for removal from the United States," he said.

Arthur said that immigrants who fail to appear opt to not take the government up on the offer for due process.

"The more people who are under final orders for removal … the more people who are going to end up in ICE custody because the law requires that ICE take into custody everybody who's under a final order of removal, notwithstanding the administration's stated focus on the worst," Arthur said.

"This appears to be well in excess of those historical trends," Arthur said.

Immigrants may have the opportunity to reopen their cases. However, most people in immigration court do not have legal representation, which they must pay for themselves.

Nonprofits like the organization Mobile Pathways have tracked a low rate of arrests in courts. But immigrant advocates said that doesn't mean the fear and negative perceptions go away.

"It probably falls into the narrative that the administration wants to be portrayed, that these individuals are not participating in the process that they're supposed to," Powers said, about the rise in no-show removal orders.

Some families she represents have fled violence, are working through trauma, or are navigating language and other barriers in addition to the immigration law system.

"[They] are just making the best decisions they can with the information they have provided to them," Powers said, adding that most immigrants are still showing up for their court appointments. "It's just because a lot of things are being stacked up against them. And that's why we're seeing these numbers."
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