A Pottstown resident who would give her name only as Kathy Lou paced the sidewalk outside the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement office in Center City on Sunday morning, waiting to see if her husband would be permitted to leave.

"It feels a bit off," she said in Spanish, fidgety with anxiety and shivering from the cold.

This was a long way from the joyous surprise of a family barbecue that Kathy Lou and her 12-year-old son had been plotting for Father's Day.

And they were not alone in the predicament.

Immigrants across Philadelphia received terse text messages or app notifications on Friday evening, demanding they come to the ICE office on North Eighth Street on Sunday between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m.

The notification did not specify a reason for the invitation. But it did include a warning: "Failure to report as instructed will be considered a violation."

Lawyers and community organizers called the message highly unusual, because of the short notice and the vague time frame. It was unclear how many people received the orders, and how those individuals were selected.

A Department of Homeland Security spokesperson did not respond to a request for comment on Sunday.

Emma Tuohy, an immigration lawyer and chair of the Philadelphia chapter of the American Immigration Lawyers Association, said one person who already had a deportation order contacted her late Friday after receiving the directive.

The prospective client wanted Tuohy to attend the appointment, but she was unavailable on short notice. She asked around, and heard from four or five other lawyers that they had fielded similar calls.

"Your conspiracy brain thinks, maybe they did this on Sunday, on Father's Day, to make it less likely attorneys could go," she said.

The scene played out after a week of protests in Philadelphia and elsewhere against ICE raids and arrests, which have terrorized immigrants from Norristown to South Philadelphia's Italian Market.

Saturday's national "No Kings" demonstrations, held in cities around the country, drew a peaceful crowd of tens of thousands along the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in Philadelphia. About 50 people continued protesting outside the ICE offices into the evening.

By Sunday morning, that defiant crowd had been replaced by a small, tense group of immigrants waiting to check in as required.

Some people had deportation orders. Others were asylum seekers. And still others were working toward obtaining green cards.

Philadelphia Chief Defender Keisha Hudson said at least two current or former Defender Association clients had received the messages. A public defender asked ICE to reschedule the appointments for a business day so a lawyer could be present, but that request was denied, she said. The lawyer's questions about the purpose of the appointment went unanswered, she said.

Her office was advising clients to get there as late as possible — around 3:30 p.m. — in hopes it might improve their odds of being released.

Kathy Lou and her husband had arrived before 8 a.m., joining a line of about six others. She said her husband, a 40-year-old immigrant from Ecuador, was the family's primary breadwinner. He had been deported 15 years ago, she said, but after waiting the required 10 years he was following a legal process to permanent residency. He'd worked as a carpet installer since they arrived in 2021, she said.

Around 10:30 a.m., her phone rang. It was her 12-year-old son, concern in his voice, asking, "Mami?"

His parents hadn't told him about the appointment, instead letting him sleep in at home with an aunt and cousins in hopes of sparing him the worry.

"As soon as my husband gets out, we are running to get our boy," she said. "He is desperate to see his dad."

At least 20 people had gone into the building by noon. Some filtered out after waiting as long as four hours, only to be asked to reverify personal information they had previously submitted.

A Honduran woman who walked out holding hands with her 3-year-old child looked stricken with grief.

The woman, who gave her name as Maira, had arrived five hours earlier with her child and her husband of five years, Jose — an Uber driver who supported his family.

Then, officers called Jose into a room, alone. An hour later, they gave Maira a mesh bag containing Jose's wallet and house keys, and told her that her husband already had five deportation orders.

"They said they were sending him back, and we could leave," Maira said, looking disoriented. "I don't know what do, or where to go now."

Others who were called in believed themselves to be in good standing with ICE, and on the path to a green card.

A Honduran woman, Caty, who declined to provide her last name out of fear of retaliation, came and left in just a few hours, holding hands with her two children, who are U.S. citizens.

Upon arrival, they'd been directed upstairs to the second floor, where they waited in silence. She watched as others were called into rooms, never to emerge.

"There are lots of people up there, sitting, waiting, full of fear," she said. "It's hard not to be scared when we are being summoned on a Sunday."

In her case, she said, an officer checked her paperwork, then let her go.

"At the end of the day, if they want to send me back. I just hope they let me self-deport," she said, "because I am not leaving my kids behind."

Danilo Chavarro, an immigration lawyer, said he'd come to accompany a client who already had a removal order, but she'd been too afraid to show up. He was able to secure a new appointment on her behalf.

It was, he said, just one more in a string of unusual ICE actions in recent months.

"[Until recently], I don't remember seeing people arrested in court. I don't remember personally being on a Sunday in the ICE office," he said. "I think they're closing doors for people that [would otherwise] have a possible solution in the future."

One man eventually walked out of the office wearing an ankle monitor. Five others who were allowed to leave showed The Inquirer paperwork requiring them to return for yet another appointment later this week — though the purpose of that follow-up was also unclear.

One was a man in an Eagles shirt and a Phillies hat, who said friends call him El Chipilin. He emerged into the brisk afternoon after almost three hours at the ICE office, a 12-year-old boy gripping his hand tightly.

As an asylum seeker, El Chipilin said he is used to getting notifications from ICE. But being called in on a Sunday made him fearful — especially since he was unable to get in touch with his lawyer.

In the waiting area with about 10 other people, mostly Latinos, "I just prayed not to be one of the ones getting taken into a room," he said.

The Honduran man had brought his son along so that, if it comes to it, they'll leave the same way they came here: together.

The pair crossed the U.S.-Mexico border in 2019, El Chipilin said, seeking a better future for his son.

"I think [this week], they will be sending me on my way to Honduras," Chipilin said with a nervous chuckle. He looked at his son, who was silent, anxiously chewing on his sleeve. "He is just a kid. He can't stay here by himself."

He sighed, noting their Father's Day plans had now shifted to a quiet evening at home.

By midafternoon, two Colombian women had joined Kathy Lou on the sidewalk, sharing a takeout order of empanadas with her as they watched the entrance warily. One of the women said her mother had received the text message, so she and her cousin had come as a scouting team, to assess whether it was safer for her to report as instructed or to stay away.

They finally decided to tell her to come. She arrived, and soon was permitted to leave with a future appointment scheduled.

Kathy Lou's husband had now been in the building for almost eight hours. One of the Colombian women went in to ask about his status, and was told that no one else was coming out that afternoon.

Kathy Lou wiped away tears as she began making phone calls. She said there was no backup plan for her family. They needed her husband to come home.

"I have a knot in my throat," she said, massaging her neck. "My boy keeps texting, asking, 'Where is Papi?'"

At 4:20 p.m., a white van pulled out of the building's garage with at least six people in the back, and Kathy Lou began sobbing.

"That's him," she said. "I saw him. He's in there."

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