Written by Peter Lawson.
The Trump administration is drafting a stringent measure to push undocumented migrants toward self-deportation. A proposed $998 daily fine would target those who refuse to leave voluntarily, with property seizure on the table for nonpayment. This isn’t a new playbook—Trump leaned on a 1996 law during his first term to penalize a handful of migrants, and now, advisers like Stephen Miller are urging a broader revival of the tactic as part of a larger immigration crackdown.
A Revived Policy with Sharper Teeth
Back in 2018, Trump’s team tested this approach on a small scale. Nine migrants hiding in churches faced fines of $60,000 each under the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996—a law that allows penalties for ignoring deportation orders. That effort was limited, almost experimental. Biden scrapped it in 2021, calling it excessive. Now, the administration wants to scale it up, slapping nearly $1,000 a day on violators and pairing it with asset grabs to hit where it hurts.
The logistics, though, are a hurdle. Customs and Border Protection has flagged a gap—no system exists to track or collect these fines at scale. Standing it up could mean hiring hundreds of paralegals, a detail that underscores the policy’s ambition. It’s still a blueprint, with no firm rollout date, but the intent is unmistakable: make staying too costly to bear. For a family of four, that’s almost $4,000 daily—unpayable for most, nudging them toward the exit.
Self-Deportation Already in Motion
The ground’s shifting even without the fines. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has ramped up nationwide sweeps, detaining and deporting over 100,000 undocumented individuals since Trump took office. Add the shutdown of Biden’s CHNV program—which let migrants from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela stay temporarily with minimal checks—and the pressure’s mounting. Letters are landing in mailboxes, bluntly informing those beneficiaries their time’s up; they must secure legal status or face “expedited removal.” No appeals, no wiggle room.
Look at Charleroi, Pennsylvania. Once swamped with Haitian migrants—thousands flooding a small town, grabbing headlines—the community’s now thinning out. Local reports note a drop, subtle but real, as some pack up. Texas journalist Alfredo Corchado, speaking at the Council on Foreign Relations, said coyotes who once smuggled people in are flipping the script. They’re pitching return trips—packages to sneak migrants back home. Not everyone’s biting, but enough are to signal a trend. Fear of ICE, lost status, and now this fine threat—it’s a vise tightening daily.
The numbers hint at scale. If just 10% of the estimated 11 million undocumented migrants self-deport, that’s over a million gone without a single raid. Stack on fines, and the math tilts further. A single migrant owing $998 daily racks up $30,000 in a month—more than most earn in a year. Property seizures could seal the deal, stripping away homes or cars bought under the radar. It’s coercion by wallet, and it might just work.
Lessons from the Past, Gaps in the Present
This isn’t uncharted territory. The 2018 fines rattled their targets—church sanctuaries couldn’t shield those nine from the bill, though collection lagged. Biden’s reversal let the idea fade, but Miller and company see untapped potential. The 1996 law’s still on the books, a dormant tool waiting for horsepower. Today’s version aims bigger—less about symbolic slaps, more about mass deterrence. Imagine a construction worker in Dallas or a cleaner in Chicago, already scraping by, staring down a fine that doubles their rent overnight.
Execution’s the catch. No one’s tracking these debts yet—CBP’s memo admits as much. Building that machine takes time, staff, and cash; hundreds of paralegals don’t hire themselves. Until then, it’s a threat without teeth. And enforcement isn’t free—ICE’s current pace burns resources, with agents stretched from border to heartland. Layer on a fine system, and the budget swells. Taxpayers might balk if the cost outstrips the deportations.
Still, the ripple’s started. Communities feel it—Charleroi’s not alone. Springfield, Ohio, another migrant hub, reports quieter streets too. The CHNV rollback’s a gut punch for those who banked on temporary reprieve; letters spelling out “no appeal” land like eviction notices. Pair that with coyotes flipping to exit routes, and the policy’s shadow looms larger than its draft stage suggests.
Our Take
The $998-a-day fine proposal is a blunt instrument, and that’s by design. It could accelerate a self-deportation wave already underway—ICE raids and status cuts are doing half the job—but the machinery’s not ready, and that’s the rub. Success hinges on follow-through; a toothless threat risks emboldening defiance, not departure. For undocumented families, it’s a brutal squeeze—stay and bleed cash, or leave with nothing. As a journalist watching this unfold, I see a gamble that could clear the board or clog the system. The intent’s clear: empty out the margins. But if the fines falter—or spark legal pushback—the administration might find itself with a louder bark than bite.
