ICYMI: Trump Just Got Another Huge Immigration Victory From the Supreme Court

The U.S. Supreme Court ruled on Wednesday that federal appeals courts must apply a deferential standard of review when evaluating the Board of Immigration Appeals’ determination regarding whether asylum seekers faced sufficient persecution to qualify for asylum protections. Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson, writing for a unanimous court, stated that appeals courts can only deviate from the Board’s judgment when the evidence presented is “so compelling that no reasonable factfinder could fail to find the requisite fear of persecution.”
This ruling upheld a decision made by the First Circuit Court of Appeals and represents a significant victory for the Trump administration, with implications that extend beyond this specific case.
Here’s the background:
The petitioners — Douglas Humberto Urias-Orellana, his wife Sayra Iliana Gamez-Mejia, and their minor child (identified only as “G.E.U.G.”) — entered the United States illegally in 2021 and were placed into removal proceedings in the Boston immigration court.
They conceded they were removable but claimed they would be harmed if returned to El Salvador by a “sicario” who had been targeting the father since 2016, when the hitman shot two of his half-brothers and “vowed to kill every member of his family”.
The family claimed they repeatedly moved within El Salvador, but:
After each move, Urias-Orellana was threatened by men who demanded money and warned that they would leave him like his brothers if he did not pay up. One of the men even physically assaulted Urias-Orellana when he returned to his hometown for a brief visit.
Finally, the family alleged they decided to leave El Salvador after Douglas Urias-Orellana was told that unidentified men were “asking around town about the arrival of any newcomers”.
In order to fully understand the case, here’s what the process looks like under the Immigration and Nationality Act:
DOJ initiates removal proceedings before an immigration judge. Immigration judges are Article II rather than Article III judges. They are employees of the executive branch.
The immigration judge conducts a removal hearing.
If the alien is determined to be removable, the immigration judge enters an order of removal. This permits ICE to deport him. This is the “due process” allowed in immigration cases.
Once ordered removed, the alien can file an asylum claim in which they have to show that returning home would subject them to “persecution or a well-founded fear of persecution on account of race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion.”
The immigration judge renders a decision on those issues. If denied, the alien can appeal the decision to the Board of Immigration Appeals. Like immigration judges, the BIA is an Article II entity, not a federal court.
If the alien is still an unhappy camper, he can appeal to the appropriate Circuit Court of Appeals. This is the first time a federal (Article III) judge is authorized to examine the case. The law specifically says that the court may only review issues of law; it may not reexamine the factual findings.
At that point, the alien faces one of two outcomes: either he is granted asylum or he boards a plane back home.
In this case, the immigration judge rejected his asylum claim, and the Board of Immigration Appeals (BIA) upheld that decision. Urias-Orellana then took his case to the First Circuit, which similarly dismissed his claim. Following that, he appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court, arguing that the law was flawed.
The atextual deference regime driving the decision below invites inconsistent and incorrect results, often with life-threatening consequences. This Court should enforce the INA’s text and restore the Judiciary’s proper role in asylum cases. Federal courts must exercise their own independent judgment in deciding what constitutes “persecution” under the law. Because the First Circuit did not do so, its judgment must be vacated and the case remanded for further proceedings.
Essentially, his legal team was using the precedent set in Loper Bright Enterprises vs. Raimondo to attack the deference to immigration courts required in the INA. For context, there are about 2.4 million pending asylum claims. Having each of those adjudicated and reviewed in immigration channels and again by a federal appeals court is not workable.
If they had succeeded, it would have allowed every asylum claim to undergo a new round of “fact-finding” at the Appeals Court level. This would have effectively reduced the Board of Immigration Appeals (BIA) to an advisory role and brought the adjudication of asylum claims to a standstill, which was the true intention behind the case.
However, beyond preventing hostile actors from obstructing the immigration appeals system, the ruling established a clear standard: courts must adhere to the existing law rather than creating the law they wish existed. Although the Supreme Court initially considered this case before the second Trump administration, this ruling is certainly a positive outcome.
My 15-year-old daughter had been suffering from nausea and severe stomach pain, but my husband brushed it off and said, “She’s faking it
My 15-year-old daughter had been suffering from nausea and severe stomach pain, but my husband brushed it off and said, “She’s faking it. Don’t waste your time or money.” I took her to the hospital behind his back. The doctor studied the scan, then lowered his voice and whispered, “There’s something inside her…” In that moment, all I could do was scream.
The first time my daughter doubled over in pain, my husband didn’t even look up from his laptop.
“She’s faking it,” Greg said flatly from the kitchen table. “She has a math test tomorrow. This is convenient.”
My fifteen-year-old daughter, Ava, was curled on the couch with both arms wrapped around her stomach, her face gray with pain and sweat dampening the hair at her temples. She had been complaining for three days—nausea, cramping, stabbing pain low in her abdomen, then vomiting, then pain again. Not dramatic crying. Not a performance. Just that awful, breathless silence people make when they hurt too badly to keep talking.
I knelt in front of her. “Ava, look at me. On a scale from one to ten?”
“Eight,” she whispered. Then, after a pause: “Maybe nine.”
I turned to Greg. “She’s going to the hospital.”
He gave a short, disgusted laugh. “And tell them what? That she has a stomachache? Claire, do you know what an ER visit costs? She wants attention. Stop feeding it.”
That was Greg’s talent—taking real suffering and speaking over it until it sounded expensive, inconvenient, or manipulative. He had done it to me for years with smaller things. Migraines. Exhaustion. Panic attacks. If he couldn’t control it, he minimized it. If it cost money, he mocked it. If it belonged to Ava, he called it teenage drama.

I should have stopped listening to him sooner.
That night, Ava woke me at 2:00 a.m. with tears streaming down her face and one hand pressed hard against her side.
“Mom,” she whispered, shaking, “I really can’t do this anymore.”
That was enough.
I got her into the car before sunrise.
I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t even wake Greg.
The drive to Mercy General felt endless. Ava spent half of it bent forward in the passenger seat with a blanket over her legs, breathing in short, fast bursts. Twice I almost turned around from pure habit—from hearing Greg’s voice in my head telling me I was being hysterical, wasteful, stupid.
Then Ava made a low sound in the back of her throat like her body was trying to fold in on itself.
I pressed harder on the gas.
At the hospital, they took one look at her and moved fast. Much faster than Greg ever would have expected. Bloodwork. Urine sample. IV fluids. Pain medication. Then imaging. The ER doctor, a woman named Dr. Shah with tired eyes and a steady voice, asked careful questions: any chance of pregnancy, drug use, fainting, fever, injury, recent procedures.
Ava answered weakly. No. No. No.
I sat beside her bed trying not to let her see how frightened I was becoming.
When the scan came back, Dr. Shah didn’t speak right away.
She studied the screen.
Then studied it again.
Then she looked at Ava, then at me, then quietly asked the nurse to step out and close the curtain.
Something inside me dropped.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Dr. Shah lowered her voice and said, “There’s something inside her…”
For one second, my brain failed completely.
Then she turned the monitor toward me.
And all I could do was scream.
Because inside my daughter’s stomach—clear as day on the scan—was a tightly wrapped plastic capsule.
For a moment, the world stopped making sense.
I stared at the screen, trying to force the image into something familiar—something harmless. A cyst. A shadow. Anything.
But it wasn’t.
It was too defined. Too deliberate.
A small, oval shape. Smooth edges. Wrapped.
Placed.
“What… what is that?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
Dr. Shah didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she asked gently, “Ava, sweetheart… has anyone given you something to swallow recently? A pill, maybe? Something unusual?”
Ava shook her head weakly, her face pale. “No… I don’t think so… I just feel sick…”
Her voice trailed off into a groan as another wave of pain hit.
I grabbed her hand, my own shaking now.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I said, louder this time. “How could something like that just be there?”
Dr. Shah met my eyes.
“It doesn’t just happen,” she said quietly. “Objects like this are either swallowed… or placed.”
The word hung in the air.
Placed.
My stomach turned.
Things moved very fast after that.
A surgical team was called. More scans confirmed it—there was a foreign object lodged in Ava’s stomach, and from the inflammation around it, it had been there long enough to start causing damage.
“She needs it removed,” Dr. Shah said. “Immediately.”
“Is she going to be okay?” I asked.
“We caught it in time,” she replied. “But we can’t wait.”
They wheeled Ava away before I could fully process what was happening.
One minute she was clutching my hand.
The next, she was gone behind double doors.
I was alone.
Alone with a plastic chair, a buzzing fluorescent light… and a thought that wouldn’t stop forming.
Placed.
My hands went cold.
I pulled out my phone and stared at Greg’s name.
For years, I had ignored the small things. The dismissals. The control. The way he decided what was “real” and what wasn’t.
But this…
This wasn’t something you could talk over.
When the surgeon finally came out, I stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly behind me.
“She’s okay,” he said first, and my knees nearly gave out.
“They removed it. No rupture, no internal bleeding. She’s going to recover.”
I covered my mouth, tears spilling instantly.
“Can I see her?”
“Soon,” he said. Then his expression shifted—professional, but serious. “There’s something else.”
My chest tightened again.
“We opened the capsule.”
I froze.
“And?”
He hesitated just long enough to make it worse.
“It wasn’t empty.”
The room tilted.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“There was a substance inside,” he said carefully. “We’ve sent it to the lab, but based on initial appearance… it may be a form of concentrated narcotic.”
I stared at him.
“No,” I said immediately. “No, that’s not possible. She’s fifteen. She doesn’t—she wouldn’t—”
“I’m not suggesting she did this willingly,” he said quickly. “But we need to consider all possibilities.”
My heart was pounding now, loud and uneven.
Someone had put that inside her.
Not an accident.
Not a mistake.
Someone.
When Ava woke up, she was groggy, confused… but no longer in pain.
“Mom?” she murmured.
“I’m here,” I said, gripping her hand.
She blinked slowly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore…”
“I know,” I whispered, brushing her hair back. “You’re safe now.”
She nodded faintly.
Then, after a long pause, she said something that made my blood run cold.
“Mom… that drink… at Dad’s office…”
I went still.
“What drink?”
“The night he made me come with him,” she said, her voice weak but steady. “He said I should learn how business works… I felt weird after… like really sleepy…”
Every muscle in my body locked.
“When was this?” I asked.
“A few days ago… before I got sick…”
It clicked.
All of it.
The timing.
The dismissal.
The refusal to take her seriously.
My hands started to shake again—but this time, it wasn’t fear.
It was something else.
Something sharper.
I didn’t call Greg.
I called the police.
They arrived quietly. Listened carefully. Took everything seriously in a way Greg never had.
The hospital handed over the capsule. The lab results came back within hours.
It was drugs.
High-value. Precisely packaged.
Smuggled.
And my daughter…
had been used as a carrier.
Greg was arrested two days later.
Not at home.
At his office.
The same place he had taken Ava.
The same place where she drank something that made her “sleepy.”
The same place where someone had decided a fifteen-year-old girl was a safe place to hide something illegal.
I saw him once after that.
Through glass.
He looked smaller.
Not powerful. Not confident.
Just… exposed.
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” he said, even then. “You always do.”
I stared at him.
“No,” I replied quietly. “This time… I finally see it clearly.”
Ava recovered.
Slowly.
Physically first.
Then emotionally.
There were hard days. Questions. Fear. Anger.
But she was alive.
That was everything.
Sometimes I think about that moment in the ER.
The screen turning toward me.
The words: “There’s something inside her…”
I thought that was the worst thing I would ever hear.
I was wrong.
The worst thing…
was realizing it hadn’t been a mystery at all.
It had been betrayal.
Living in my house.
Sitting at my table.
Calling itself her father.
And the only reason my daughter survived…
was because, for once—
I didn’t listen to him.