Deported Felon's Return Sparks Immigration Debate in Oklahoma

On a late March day in Catoosa, Oklahoma, federal officers descended on a residential neighborhood. Their target was Carlos Ambriz, a 53-year-old Mexican national with a dark history. Ambriz, convicted in Montana of deliberate homicide decades ago, had slipped back into the United States after being deported. U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) tracked him down on March 25, 2025, apprehending him near his home. The arrest, carried out by specialized ICE teams, reignited discussions about immigration enforcement, public safety, and the challenges of tracking individuals with criminal records across borders.

Ambriz’s case is striking but not isolated. ICE’s Dallas field office, overseeing North Texas and Oklahoma, has ramped up operations in recent years to detain people like him, individuals with serious convictions who re-enter the country illegally. Acting Field Office Director Josh Johnson described Ambriz as a significant danger, pointing to his past crime, the killing of his own child, as justification for the agency’s swift action. For many Americans, stories like this raise pressing questions: How do such individuals return undetected, and what does it mean for the communities they rejoin?

Ambriz’s journey through the U.S. immigration system spans decades. Convicted in Montana, he served a 40-year sentence for felony homicide before encountering immigration authorities while still behind bars. In 1999, an immigration judge near Seattle ordered his removal, and by 2006, he was escorted out of the country across a Texas bridge. Yet, at some point, he returned, living under the radar until ICE caught up with him. His arrest reflects a broader pattern; ICE has made over 48,000 arrests in the Dallas region alone between 2020 and 2024, often targeting those with prior convictions.

The agency’s focus on individuals with criminal histories is rooted in long-standing policies. Laws from the 1980s and 1990s, like the Immigration Reform and Control Act and the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act, expanded the grounds for deportation, prioritizing those convicted of serious crimes. Today, ICE collaborates with agencies like the FBI and DEA to hone its efforts. In January 2025, operations across North Texas and Oklahoma netted 84 arrests, most tied to criminal backgrounds, though some undocumented individuals without records were also swept up.

ICE frames these arrests as vital to public safety, a stance echoed by supporters who argue that removing convicted offenders protects communities. Johnson’s statement about Ambriz underscored this mission, emphasizing the agency’s role in targeting those who pose clear risks. Yet, not everyone agrees on the broader impact. Local police chiefs in immigrant-heavy areas report a chilling effect; fear of deportation drives some residents to avoid reporting crimes or cooperating with law enforcement, potentially undermining safety efforts.

Public perception often hinges on how these stories are told. Media coverage tends to spotlight violent crimes tied to immigrants, amplifying fears while sidelining context, like the millions of undocumented individuals living quietly without incident. Advocacy groups counter that ICE’s tactics, including arrests of people without criminal records during targeted sweeps, erode trust. Community meetings nationwide have sought to clarify that local police don’t double as immigration enforcers, but tensions persist as federal priorities clash with local realities.

Ambriz’s return after deportation points to a stubborn challenge: recidivism. Data from 2023 shows illegal re-entry made up over 71% of immigration offenses, with Texas and Arizona leading the tally. Most offenders are men, overwhelmingly Hispanic, averaging 39 years old, often driven back by economic need or family ties. Sentences for re-entry average a year in prison, but deterrence remains elusive. Studies suggest deported individuals with prior removals face rearrest rates as high as 73% within a year, a cycle fueled by limited support in their home countries.

Efforts to curb this trend vary. Stricter penalties under current border policies aim to discourage returns, while proposals like Project 2025 push for faster removals without court hearings. Critics warn such moves risk due process, especially with immigration courts already bogged down by 3.6 million pending cases. For now, Ambriz sits in ICE custody awaiting another trip across the border, a familiar fate for many caught in this loop.

Cases like Ambriz’s pull the curtain back on a complex system. ICE touts its role in rooting out dangerous individuals, a mission backed by decades of law and bolstered by recent operations. Yet, the ripple effects touch more than just those in handcuffs. Families face separation, communities grapple with fear, and the public wrestles with what safety really means. The agency’s use of platforms like X to share updates, as seen with the @ERODallas account, keeps the conversation alive, though misinformation online often muddies the waters.

What lingers is the human cost on all sides. For residents of Catoosa, Ambriz’s arrest might feel like a win for justice. For others, it’s a stark reminder of a system stretched thin, balancing enforcement with fairness. As ICE presses forward, the debate simmers, grounded in real lives and real stakes, far beyond the black-and-white of policy briefs or press releases.