Walton County Sheriff’s Office Sgt. Oscar D’Lassalas, 40, an officer certified to enforce federal immigration law, stands on the road to the jail where undocumented people are held for federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents to pick up. The sheriff’s office in this Florida Panhandle city has partnered with ICE.
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Oscar D’Lassalas’ pride is obvious when he speaks of his family.
“I got four boys and a girl living with me. The baby’s going to be 3 in December. She runs the house,” he says with a laugh.
Photos of his wife and children are pinned above the driver’s seat of his sheriff’s office-issued vehicle, which is packed with rifles, a fire extinguisher and bulletproof vests.
D’Lassalas, 40, is a sergeant with the Walton County Sheriff’s Office in Florida. He also leads the office’s SWAT team. Last year, he became a certified 287(g) task force officer, which allows him to enforce certain parts of federal immigration law in the field.
The sergeant completed 40 hours of training online to get certified. The Trump administration recently accelerated the training, which used to require a monthlong in-person commitment, as it sought to expand the number of law enforcement agencies participating in the 287(g) program.
“To me, it was just another way to help out as much as I can in my community,” D’Lassalas says.
The Trump administration has embraced the 287(g) program as a way to boost its mass deportation effort. It’s a controversial program that has led to civil rights lawsuits alleging racial profiling and complaints that it drains local resources.
The interior of D’Lassalas’ SUV, on the road to the jail where undocumented people are held for ICE agents to pick up.
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In this fast-growing Florida Panhandle community — a county heavily reliant on immigrant labor for construction and tourism — the sheriff’s office insists its role in the program is narrowly focused.
“We’re certainly not out doing immigration raids. That’s not what we do,” Walton County Sheriff Michael Adkinson says. “But if we come across those individuals who are committing a crime or endangering someone else, in the state of Florida, then we’re certainly going to do that.”
Still, many immigrant workers are terrified.
“In Florida, it’s … more insidious”
The 287(g) program has been around for 30 years. It has been used in Democratic and Republican administrations to varying degrees. But the Trump administration has significantly expanded it.
Under a task force agreement, a version of 287(g) that Walton County signed onto last year, officers are deputized to perform specific types of immigration enforcement in the field. This can include interrogating someone suspected of being in the U.S. illegally, collecting evidence or making immigration arrests.
Sam Lester, an immigrant rights attorney with the ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union) of Florida, says immigration enforcement in the state is different from the aggressive and very visible operations seen elsewhere.
La Guerrerense is a common hangout and family-owned shop that features Mexican groceries and ready-to-eat dishes in downtown DeFuniak Springs, Florida. The store doesn’t have as many customers lately, according to one of the store clerks, because more and more immigrants are afraid to venture out in public due to fear of law enforcement.
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“In Florida, it’s much more under the radar and in many ways more insidious,” he says. “By far, the vast majority of immigration enforcement is done by local and state law enforcement who are deputized under 287(g).”
Florida leads the nation with the most local law enforcement agencies with 287(g) agreements. As of last year, all 67 counties had signed cooperation agreements with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), according to the Florida Sheriffs Association.
Training is a component of those agreements. But Lester says that the training is insufficient. As a result, Lester says, “we hear of instances of U.S. citizens and lawful permanent residents who are Latino who speak with accents, and they’re being profiled. And they’re being asked about their immigration status and, in some cases, even arrested.”
D’Lassalas says that’s not something he would do.
“Being pulled over by a trooper and he starts asking me just for my status simply because of my complexion. I think that’s unfair to ask,” he says.
Adkinson, the sheriff, says his office prioritizes professionalism and respect.
Sheriff Michael Adkinson, in his Walton County office. His office partnered with ICE, and he says he thinks of this cooperation on immigration enforcement as he would any other duty.
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“There’s a big difference between what you can do and what you should do,” he says.
Cooperation with ICE pays off
The Trump administration is offering billions of dollars in incentives to law enforcement agencies willing to work with ICE.
Outside of its 287(g) work, the Walton County Sheriff’s Office signed a deal last year with ICE that turned a portion of its jail, about 48 beds, to be used as a 72-hour hold facility for immigrant detainees. Under that deal, the federal government reimburses Walton County $72 per inmate per day.
A visitation room at the Walton County Jail, where undocumented immigrants are held for ICE pickup. The room is typically used by lawyers and bondsmen.
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Florida is kicking in its own grant money as well. The State Board of Immigration Enforcement approved more than $9 million in grants this summer for the Walton County Sheriff’s Office for its work as an ICE holding facility.
Walton County’s approach
Walton County sits along the Florida Panhandle, halfway between Pensacola and Tallahassee. It touches the border with Alabama to the north, where it’s largely rural and home to many middle-to-lower-income residents. Its southern border meets the Gulf of Mexico. There, pastel multimillion-dollar homes line wealthy beachside communities like Santa Rosa Beach and Seaside.
Long stretches of road separate the two communities. Construction sites dot either side of U.S. 331, as builders try to meet the demands of a growing population.
Two homes in Walton County. The sheriff’s office in Defuniak Springs sits between the rural, largely lower-income communities in the north and the more affluent communities in the south, bordering the Gulf of Mexico.
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The sheriff’s office sits in the middle of these two disparate sides in Defuniak Springs. It’s from here that D’Lassalas drives out for his daily patrol.
In between constant cellphone pings and squawks from his dispatch radio, D’Lassalas discusses how 287(g) works on the ground.
“Generally, nothing much has changed,” he says.
This Walton County compound holds the senior leadership staff of the sheriff’s office, firefighters and the jail where undocumented immigrants are detained as they wait to be picked up by ICE.
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If a person is pulled over for a traffic violation, D’Lassalas says, he runs the person’s name through a local and national database. Doing so checks the name for any active charges or warrants, including those that are immigration related. But he says he never assumes anyone’s legal status beforehand and doesn’t ask about their status when he requests identification.
If a driver is pulled over for a minor infraction and has no warrant, “I’ll cut them loose,” D’Lassalas says. If they do have a warrant for their detention, he is clear: “I have no discretion. I have to take them to jail.”
When the sheriff’s office is called to assist on immigration issues by other agencies or federal officers, D’Lassalas says, it’s usually for interpretation — he speaks Spanish fluently — or help transporting people already in custody.
“We’re just a group of people that have been given an additional task,” he says.
“This country feels like jail”
Sheriff Adkinson repeatedly says the office’s role in 287(g) is a matter of duty.
“If the law is not unethical, immoral or illegal, I have an obligation to follow it,” he explains. “I don’t get to sit in judgment. I have to carry out these duties.”
That has rattled the county’s immigrant population.
Alfonso, a 36-year-old from Central America, has been in the U.S. for four years and works in construction.
Alfonso, a 36-year-old undocumented person from Central America, has lived in the U.S. for four years and works in construction. He left behind his parents, his wife and 7-year-old son.
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“I’m afraid,” he told NPR in Spanish. “I want to keep working here, but I’m panicking.”
As he spoke, he pulled tools from the back of his boss’s truck, which was parked in front of a construction site where three homes are being built.
He requested that NPR use only his first name because he’s undocumented.
He is well aware of the sheriff’s office’s role in immigration enforcement. To lessen the risk of detention, Alfonso has changed his daily routine and has stopped going to church or the beach, which used to be his favorite things to do.
Alfonso and his 22-year-old cousin, Ronaldo, worked together in the muggy mid-July afternoon as they quickly began framing the first of the three houses.
Ronaldo also requested that NPR use only his first name because of his immigration status. He came to the U.S. alone from Central America when he was 15 and is still undocumented.
“It will be God’s will. If they send me back to my country, I think I’ll find freedom. This country feels like jail,” he says. He often thinks about returning home, but opportunities there are limited.
“I still have goals to accomplish here,” he says. He’s saving money so one day he can buy a house in Central America, he says.
A construction site in Walton County. The vast majority of homes being built in this fast-growing county rely on skilled immigrant labor. Developers say it has become more difficult to find laborers because many are scared of ICE.
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But undocumented workers are finding it increasingly hard to ignore targeted stops by the Florida Highway Patrol and other agencies that can now detain people based on their immigration status. Those fears have an impact on the construction industry, as more immigrants worry about coming to work. Developers and local officials are concerned.
Like much of the country, Walton County has an affordable housing shortage, County Commissioner Danny Glidewell says. He represents the district that includes DeFuniak Springs.
At the same time, Glidewell says that he, as well as many other county residents he has spoken to, supports the sheriff’s office’s cooperation with ICE.
“Most people want immigration enforced. If you ask them, do they want illegal immigrants? They’ll tell you, no,” he says.
Danny Glidewell, a Walton County commissioner, outside his office. Glidewell, formerly in law enforcement, rose through the ranks at the Walton County Sheriff’s Office. He supports the 287(g) agreements that deputize police to enforce federal immigration laws.
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Sheriff Adkinson says there’s also a challenge with crime victims who are immigrants feeling reluctant to report those crimes out of fear. Adkinson says that this stems from an inability to build rapport with immigrant communities. “They don’t come to us because they’re afraid of being deported.”
What’s more, Adkinson says, some immigrants assume all law enforcement is the same.
“Then conversely, they don’t come to us because in their country of origin, they don’t have great relationships with the police to start with,” Adkinson says. “It’s extremely problematic. And I don’t know how we overcome that.”
D’Lassalas says he understands how difficult and scary the immigration system is for undocumented immigrants right now. His father is an immigrant from Colombia. So was his late grandmother.
Sgt. Oscar D’Lassalas can enforce certain parts of federal immigration law. He didn’t seek out the training — he was chosen, he says. “I was a sergeant that’s bilingual. They thought that I could be of use for that assignment.” He’s fluent in Spanish and is sometimes called to interpret.
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“I make sure that anytime I interact with anybody, I don’t care what status they are, that we can interact as human beings and we can be respectful,” he says.
Besides, he says, his primary duty is to the locals in Walton County and not the federal government’s 287(g) program.
