#ElbowsUp: Santuary Cities and the Longhouse Compact
How Mayor Torres' fictional arrest mirrors the very real threats sanctuary mayors face today
As you read Mayor Torres' story of escalating federal pressure, remember: this isn't speculative fiction. It's constitutional crisis journalism written in real-time.
On March 5, 2025, four Democratic mayors faced six hours of hostile congressional questioning, with Rep. Anna Paulina Luna announcing she would refer them to the Justice Department for prosecution and Rep. Andy Biggs declaring "Every one of you is exposed to criminal culpability here."
Three weeks later, the Justice Department issued a memo directing federal prosecutors nationwide to investigate and potentially prosecute state and local officials who don't cooperate with mass deportation plans.
DOJ threatens to prosecute local officials for resisting immigration enforcement
The threats are working. NYC Mayor Eric Adams had federal corruption charges dropped after agreeing to cooperate with immigration enforcement—what a federal judge called "an apparent quid pro quo arrangement" that "smacks of a bargain: dismissal of the indictment in exchange for immigration policy concessions."
NYC Mayor Eric Adams' corruption case dismissed; judge says charges can't be used as 'leverage'
Border czar Tom Homan has warned sanctuary city leaders could face arrest, telling reporters to "wait to see what's coming" when asked if federal agents would detain elected officials.
What Just Happened: Sanctuary Policies and the DOJ Memo’s Empty Threat of Criminal Liability
The constitutional question Torres faces—choosing between federal compliance and community protection—isn't hypothetical. It's the choice sanctuary mayors are making right now, today, as federal prosecutors compile criminal referrals and DHS compiles target lists.
What you're about to read isn't a warning about what could happen. It's an analysis of what is happening, told through the story of one mayor who chose her community over her own safety.
This is Part 2 of Mayor Jessica Torres' complete interview from #ElbowsUp: An Oral History of the American Partition.
Part 2: Underground Networks and the Longhouse Compact
Interviewer: How did resistance coordination develop between cities?
Mayor Torres: It started with phone calls between mayors who were facing the same impossible choices. Portland's mayor, Jessica Vega Pederson, called me in October 2025 after federal agents started targeting city employees who provided services to undocumented families.
"Jessica," she said, "they're not just coming for the immigrants anymore. They're coming for anyone who helps them. We need to coordinate the fight. The only solution is working together."
That led to what we called the "Longhouse Compact"—named after the Haudenosaunee confederation that Indigenous peoples used to coordinate between autonomous communities. Twelve sanctuary cities agreed to share resources, coordinate legal strategies, and provide mutual aid when federal pressure intensified.
But Carmen Delgado, the underground railroad activist, was there from the start and . "Our plan must be based on a cell structure, she said. Never more than four people know the full plan." We were all aware that we were embarking onto new territory.
Interviewer: What did coordination look like in practice?
Mayor Torres: We used Signal for encrypted messages, but real coordination happened face-to-face. I racked up the frequent flier miles. I’d meet Mayor Wheeler in Portland at conferences that looked routine—National League of Cities, climate summits. We'd walk and talk, never in the same place twice.
Each city developed "rapid response protocols." When ICE raided community centers in Seattle, Portland's legal clinic had lawyers there within two hours. When federal agents threatened Austin's budget, San Francisco quietly transferred $2.3 million through a "sister city cultural exchange program."
The underground networks required careful vetting. Carmen had learned from decades of refugee work: people who'd been part of our community for years—church members, volunteers, city employees—they could be trusted. Newcomers had to earn that trust slowly.
We had three levels of operation. First, legal services, know-your-rights training, and court accompaniment. Anyone could volunteer for this. Second, safe house coordination, emergency transportation, and family communication. Only people Carmen had personally vetted. Third level: cross-border coordination, document assistance, long-term placement. Maybe twenty people total across all twelve cities. We learned from Harriet Tubman and the other heroes of the Underground Railroad.
Interviewer: Can you describe how the underground railroad actually worked?
Mayor Torres: The beauty was its simplicity. Carmen had studied the historical Underground Railroad—loose networks of autonomous operators who could function even if other parts got compromised.
Let me tell you about one family: the Herreras. When Carlos got picked up in February 2026, Maria came to me crying. "They're going to deport him," she said. "Sophia will grow up without her father."
Carmen's network got Carlos released on bond, but we knew ICE would come back. So we activated the network. Pastor Rodriguez's church had a family willing to house them temporarily. Rabbi Stern's synagogue provided legal assistance. Dr. Washington's congregation collected money for living expenses.
The key was communication security. We never used names in messages—the Herreras were "the musicians," safe houses were "venues," transportation was "equipment." When Carlos needed to move to the next safe house, the message was "equipment ready for venue change at 8 PM."
But the federal pressure kept escalating. By late 2026, ICE was doing workplace raids almost daily. That's when Carmen made the hardest decision: "Some families need to leave Texas entirely."
Interviewer: How did cross-border coordination work?
Mayor Torres: Through the faith networks, mainly. Pastor Rodriguez had connections with churches in Canada going back to the sanctuary movement of the 1980s. There's a United Church minister in Toronto, Reverend Sarah Kim, who'd been helping Central American refugees for forty years.
The legal pathway was complex. Families couldn't just claim asylum in Canada—they had to demonstrate they were fleeing persecution. But when the U.S. government started arresting community volunteers, that created grounds for political asylum claims.
Reverend Kim would coordinate with Canadian immigration lawyers. Families drove to border crossings—Windsor, Niagara, Peace Bridge—and formally requested protection. The key was documentation. We'd provide affidavits about federal harassment, photos of surveillance, records of threats.
It worked because both sides prepared carefully. Carmen's people made sure families understood the process, had proper documentation, knew what to expect. Reverend Kim's people had lawyers waiting, temporary housing arranged, translation services ready.
Interviewer: What was your personal involvement in the underground operations?
Mayor Torres: Officially, I knew nothing. The mayor of Austin couldn't be directly involved in helping people evade federal immigration enforcement.
Unofficially, I provided political cover. When federal agents asked about city employees helping families, I'd cite the anti-commandeering doctrine. "Agent Peterson, Austin police officers are not federal immigration agents. We don't enforce federal law that conflicts with local priorities."
And I used my platform to normalize resistance. At every public event, I'd say, "Austin is a city where neighbors help neighbors. We don't ask for papers when someone needs help, and we don't call federal agents when someone asks for assistance."
But the real work was done by people like Carmen, Pastor Rodriguez,and Elena Vásquez. I just tried to create political space for them to operate.
Though I'll admit, there were times I crossed the line. When the Herrera family was ready to leave for Canada, Carmen called me at 11 PM. "We have a problem. Carlos is having second thoughts. He's scared about leaving everything behind."
I drove to the safe house—Pastor Rodriguez's church—and sat with Carlos and Maria. "I can't promise you'll be safe if you stay," I told him. "But I can promise your daughter will be proud that her father chose to protect his family."
Carlos started crying. "Will we ever see Austin again?"
"Yes," I said. "Because we're going to build a world where families like yours don't have to choose between safety and home."
Interviewer: Did you have doubts about what you were doing?
Mayor Torres: Every day. Roberto would ask me, "What if you're wrong? What if helping people break federal law makes things worse for everyone?"
And sometimes, lying awake at night, I wondered if I was being selfish. Was I risking my kids' future for my own political principles? Was I putting my desire to be the "good guy" above my responsibility to my family? The decisions I made now put us all in danger from MAGA retaliation.
The worst moment was when Agent Peterson, called me in March 2027. "Mayor Torres, we know about the Herrera family. We know about Pastor Rodriguez's church. We know about the financial transfers from San Francisco. You have one final opportunity to cooperate."
I hung up the phone and sat in my office for an hour, staring at photos of Sofia and Miguel. What kind of mother chooses strangers over her own children's safety?
Then I remembered Sophia Herrera at the school festival, laughing with her friends, speaking perfect English with no trace of fear. Her family was safe in Toronto because our community had chosen to protect them. How many other children would grow up free because we'd chosen community over compliance?
That's when I called Roberto. "Honey, you might want to start thinking about visiting your sister in Oregon sooner rather than later."
"Jess—"
"I'm not backing down. But I need to know you and the kids are safe."
Interviewer: Any regrets about the underground work?
Mayor Torres: I regret that it was necessary. I regret that American local officials had to choose between federal law and human decency. I regret that we couldn't save everyone.
Carmen estimates we helped about 400 families during those two years. But for every family we saved, there were three we couldn't reach in time. Kids who came home to empty houses. Spouses who disappeared from hospital shifts. Students who stopped showing up to class.
But I don't regret building networks that protected families like the Herreras. I don't regret connecting with mayors who became lifelong allies in the work of democratic renewal. I don't regret learning that communities are stronger than governments when they're organized around shared values instead of shared fears.
The underground networks we built during the crisis became the foundation for USC integration services. The relationships we forged under pressure became the basis for new forms of democratic governance. The children we protected became the citizens who are now building a better democracy.
Sometimes protecting democracy requires working outside the law when the law has been captured by anti-democratic forces. Sometimes the most patriotic thing you can do is refuse to be complicit in your own government's betrayal of its founding principles.