DETROIT -- At U.S. Immigration Court in Detroit's McNamara Federal Building, the waiting room is full. It's early January and most of those waiting are squeezed into winter coats, sitting in connected chairs making small talk in Spanish, Arabic, and English. Everyone had rushed to be present by 8:30 a.m. -- braving icy roads and a long security line in the lobby downstairs.

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When the clerk calls him forward, Attorney Ed Bajoka explains he has three paths to pursue in seeking release of his client, Mukhlis Murad, who's been detained for nearly six months. Murad is a 59-year-old suburban grandfather with numerous health problems. His adult children and his sister are in the waiting room. When asked how it's been at home without her dad there, his 23-year-old daughter, Summer, answers swiftly and directly, "He's our best friend." Murad is one of several hundred Iraqi-born U.S. residents now facing detention and deportation. Many are married to U.S. citizens. Most speak English. At least half are Chaldean and speak Aramaic -- not necessarily Arabic. They are parents and grandparents, business owners, and taxpayers. Many are churchgoing Catholics. Late last spring, as President Donald Trump's Muslim ban was being revised and reissued, Iraq was dropped from the list of countries in a deal Secretary of State Rex Tillerson called an example of "close cooperation" between the two governments. It seems, in return, Iraq would agree to repatriate Iraqi-Americans that the United States wanted to deport.

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The Chaldean Catholic community of Detroit's suburbs is heavily represented among the would-be deportees. Many believe the Christian Iraqis will be certain targets for torture, and even death, if they return. Chaldeans are an ethnic and religious minority with indigenous roots in Northern Iraq; there are about 640,000 worldwide. Starting 40 years ago, thousands of Iraqi-born Christians fled religious persecution under Saddam Hussein, and about 120,000 Chaldeans have made homes in Southeast Michigan. In many cases, they settled into jobs operating corner stores as family businesses -- as many of them had in Iraq because they were allowed to buy and sell alcohol, unlike Muslims. The Chaldean Chamber of Commerce says that today nine out of 10 food stores in the city of Detroit are owned by Chaldeans. In Detroit, late night liquor and convenience stores are called party stores, and for decades Chaldeans have been a stalwart part of the local culture. Locals visit their usual party store a few times a week for beer or toiletries and often for a friendly conversation with the store's Chaldean owner. As newcomers, Chaldeans took jobs others wouldn't, working late hours in corner stores during perhaps the most dangerous time in Detroit's history -- the 1980s and '90s. In 1997, Murad had jobs at two party stores, one during the day and one at night, at Teddy's Medicine Chest. Around 9 p.m. one night in October 1997, five intruders entered that store in a robbery attempt. Murad was shot five times. The bullet that went into his jaw remains there, and his mental and emotional health hasn't been the same since. At his home in the Detroit suburb of Farmington Hills, Murad, who can't work much, was cared for by his adult children. His daughter cooked. Every morning, his son shaved him because the left side of his face has been numb since the gunshot wound there 20 years ago. He used a cane to get around and helped look after his twin baby grandsons. Murad came to the United States on a visitor's visa in 1977, when he was 19. He got married, which adjusted his status to lawful permanent resident. Since his divorce 13 years ago, he's been under an order of supervision and has complied, visiting the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) office whenever requested, about once per year. When he reported in July, he was interrogated about his immigration status and detained on the spot. "Warehousing human beings" In December at Battle Creek's Calhoun County Jail, 115 miles west of his home in Farmington Hills, Murad was sitting in a wheelchair behind Plexiglass. He said canes aren't allowed there, nor is Ativan, one of his prescriptions. Detention is hard for Murad, and tears were rolling down his unshaven cheeks while he spoke. The jail is too far for his son to visit regularly. When Murad's daughter Summer visits, he often tells the guards to turn her away. It is too upsetting for Murad when Summer leaves, which he avoids by not seeing her at all. In 1983, Murad passed drugs to someone, for which he served jail time the same year. He said the practice of passing drugs in Detroit party stores in the 1980s was commonplace, and he had no understanding of the law. Making the sign of the cross over his head and heart, he said, "I swear to Jesus I did not know this about the USA." In U.S. District court in late December, the American Civil Liberties Union of Michigan argued before Judge Mark Goldsmith that detentions like Murad's are unlawful. They conceded that some of the detainees have a criminal past, for which they've made amends appropriately, but say that indefinite detention and possible removal to Iraq is unconstitutional. On January 2, Goldsmith issued an order declaring, "Our legal tradition rejects warehousing human beings while their legal rights are being determined," and referenced, "... our nation's historic commitment to individual human dignity -- a core value that the Constitution protects by preserving liberty through the due process of law." Murad's bond hearing on January 9 was the first since this order, with dozens more taking place over the next few weeks. About 1,400 people are seemingly eligible for deportation since the changes to the Muslim ban, but most of those have not been detained -- yet. Their attorneys guard their anonymity fiercely. Not all Iraqis with criminal backgrounds have been detained, while some who have been detained have no criminal background. A particular betrayal Jony Jarjiss, 58, is one of those people. He has been at Northeast Ohio Correctional Center in Youngstown, Ohio since July 11. Like Murad, he was scheduled for an ICE check-in and went voluntarily. He was detained for overstaying his visa and hasn't been back to his home in Saginaw since. The drive from Saginaw is five hours and $12 in tolls each way. His adult children and grandchildren, all four years old or younger, aren't able to visit. He hasn't even met his youngest grandchild, born six months ago, after he was sent away. After his parents were killed in a 1991 Tikrit bombing, Jarjiss' Chaldean family members arranged his marriage to an Iraqi woman living in the United States. They met once -- in Jordan -- and talked on the phone frequently. In 1993, he entered the United States on a so-called fianc