The first time I heard of Alejandra Driskell was in 2014, when the Texas Attorney General’s Office filed a lawsuit in Bexar County accusing her of practicing immigration law without a license.
The assistant attorney general who’d filed the lawsuit against Driskell, her then-husband, and others was kind enough to include in the public record hundreds of pages of depositions that outlined in great detail the shady side of San Antonio’s immigration law community. The depositions described her first operating as what’s called a “case runner,” someone who illegally solicits clients for a lawyer. Driskell worked at several law firms over two years, per the depositions, and was particularly active at the South Texas ICE Processing Center, a privately run Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) facility in Pearsall where nearly 2,000 people are held in warehouse-like barracks. One attorney paid her a $400 weekly stipend plus a $50 bonus for every client she brought in, according to her own deposition. Another paid her a third of whatever fee the client paid, she testified.
The nearly 300 pages of depositions also had lurid details of office romance and infidelity. More relevant to the state’s case was testimony that Driskell, a short woman with dark hair that she occasionally lightens and who also goes by Alejandra Alvarez de Dyer, launched in late 2013 a more brazen plan to make money. A native of Mexico who testified that she earned advanced degrees in education there, Driskell chafed under lawyers she described as “lazy,” leaving most of the legal work to subordinates like her. On some days, she was in Pearsall by 7 a.m. On others, she was flying to meet with clients at detention centers in Louisiana, New Mexico, Washington, and Virginia. Her relationship with one of the lawyers had gotten particularly toxic, too. Both were married, yet their relationship had become “intimate,” according to the lawyer’s deposition, and culminated in a fist fight at a San Antonio steakhouse chain between that lawyer and a patron who was mocking Driskell. The lawyer went to the hospital, and their work and personal relationships unraveled. In his deposition, the lawyer testified that—after one of his clients claimed that Driskell had coached the client on how to make an asylum claim—Driskell told the immigrant’s family he’d go to jail if he told ICE she’d had him lie.
Driskell said she kept getting calls from immigrants who needed representation. So, Driskell said in her deposition, she and her husband decided to start their own law office, though neither was a lawyer. Instead of relying on referral fees, they would run the business and pocket the profits. “The model was to hire the two attorneys, to have two legal assistants and then I’ll be the office manager to supervise all the work from the legals and supervision of the attorneys,” she told an assistant attorney general in 2014. Driskell hired one lawyer for $30,000 or $45,000 a year, though the depositions are unclear on the exact amount.
That same year, the Attorney General’s Consumer Protection Division, which, as its name suggests, is tasked with filing lawsuits against people who take advantage of commercial consumers in Texas, started receiving complaints about Driskell from immigrants and their families as far away as Virginia and Massachusetts. The complainants told various versions of a similar story. They’d paid Driskell to represent a family member in detention thinking she was a lawyer. Driskell accepted their money and responded to their inquiries for a while, ultimately ghosting them. One man said he paid Driskell $2,700 to represent his brother. She didn’t show up to court, and his brother was deported in August 2014, the complaint said.
In October 2014, the AG’s office filed a lawsuit accusing Driskell and several people who worked with her of violating the Texas Deceptive Trade Practices Act. In Texas, only attorneys can own a law office, but the lawsuit alleged that, though they weren’t lawyers, Driskell and her then-husband owned and operated the firm, collected fees from clients, stayed in business after the attorney they’d hired left, and forged that lawyer’s signature on paperwork.
Only attorneys or professionals known as accredited representatives, non-lawyers who work for nonprofits and have authorization from the Justice Department to represent immigrants, can offer legal services to immigrants in Texas. Driskell is not an attorney or an accredited representative, but the lawsuit alleged she charged immigrants for legal advice.
The following month, I wrote a story detailing the allegations for the San Antonio Express-News. In 2016, a state district judge barred Driskell from “providing immigration services” and “harassing or threatening consumers with deportation or other legal action,” among other things. At least three lawyers she’d worked with were eventually disbarred; one of them was later arrested and accused of impersonating an attorney.
I didn’t hear Driskell’s name again until June 2024, when the Express-News passed on to me a voicemail from a New Yorker named Caitlin Cavalletto. Cavalletto, who had lived in Ecuador, said family friends from that country had paid someone named Alejandra Driskell, who also went by Alejandra Alvarez, thousands of dollars; the family friend later sent me screenshots of bank transfers to prove it. Driskell was supposed to represent a teenager from Ecuador who had come to the United States seeking asylum and was being detained in Colorado. When he had a bond hearing in immigration court, Driskell didn’t show up, and he had to navigate the process alone, the young man later told me. Cavalletto’s family friends said they believed Driskell was an attorney, though in the screenshots of their communications they shared with me, she’s careful not to identify herself as one. The closest she comes is, when Cavalletto asked her to “confirm your authorization to practice law,” Driskell responded: “It’s in California.” The California Secretary of State’s Website shows Driskell runs an immigration consulting company (California, unlike Texas, allows consultants who are neither lawyers nor accredited representatives to charge for help preparing some immigration forms, but they can’t offer legal advice.)
When I showed up at Driskell’s apartment that July in an aging, sprawling complex in northwest San Antonio and asked her about the allegations, she said she didn’t know what I was talking about. But the next day, she threatened to sue Cavalletto. “You already started a war,” Driskell wrote, according to a screenshot Cavalletto shared with me.
I wrote another story for the Express-News. At the time, University of Texas law professor Mike Golden told me that if the AG’s Office had evidence Driskell violated the 2016 order barring her from providing immigration services, the state could ask the court that oversaw her case to hold her in contempt. But Golden cautioned it’s unlikely the AG would care much about fraud happening outside of Texas.
Then, on Christmas Eve last year, I received another communication about Driskell. A construction supervisor from Massachusetts named Luis Santana emailed me that he’d paid Driskell $4,000 to represent a friend who’d requested asylum and been detained in Pearsall. Driskell had done nothing to help his friend, who’d ultimately been deported, Santana said.
When I spoke to the friend, Endrina Gabriela Ramírez Reinoza, over the phone earlier this year, she was back in her home country of Venezuela. Ramírez told me she crossed the Rio Grande near Eagle Pass last fall and requested asylum when she encountered Border Patrol agents. This is borne out by federal court records, which show she was arrested near Eagle Pass in mid-October and prosecuted in Del Rio on the misdemeanor charge of illegal entry. A judge sentenced her to time served on October 22, according to the records, and Ramírez told me she was then transferred to Pearsall. She sent me a picture of paperwork showing she went through orientation at the detention center on October 24.
According to Ramírez, in Pearsall she had no idea how to contact a lawyer to pursue her asylum claim, and another detainee referred her to Driskell.
“Those were the only options I had,” Ramírez said in Spanish. “A personal recommendation or someone telling me, ‘Hey, this person can help you.’ Because, as you can understand, I had no means of communication other than what [the detention center] provided. And being new or just arriving in the United States, I didn’t know how the system worked there.”
Ramírez told me she called Driskell from the detention center and explained that she was fleeing Venezuela and wanted to make an asylum claim in the United States. Several days later, she said, Driskell came to meet with her. They conversed through telephones with glass between them. I sent Ramírez the picture of Driskell from the California Secretary of State’s website, and she told me that was the person she met in Pearsall. “She introduced herself to me as Alejandra Driskell, immigration attorney,” Ramírez said. Later, Ramírez clarified that the woman she met in the detention center introduced herself as Alejandra Alvarez. But later, when they communicated via text on one of the tablets the detention center provides, Ramírez said the woman used the name Alejandra Driskell.
She told me Driskell explained how to get a bond, and promised to contact ICE to see if Ramírez was eligible for release, but warned she could spend six months to a year in detention.
“She offered me many words of encouragement, truly very comforting ones,” Ramírez said. “But that was the only time I saw her.”
Santana, Ramírez’s friend, sent me screenshots of bank transfers showing that in early November he gave Driskell a total of $4,000. The screenshots also show him and Driskell discussing Ramírez’s case and Santana sending Driskell records she requested. Driskell does not refer to herself as a lawyer in any of the messages he sent me, but she does refer repeatedly to “my paralegal.” Santana told me he didn’t see any red flags. “Through all of this, she was calm, collected, really cool,” he said. “She responded to my text messages.” Santana told me he agreed to pay Driskell and Ramírez promised to pay him back if she received asylum.
Several days after her meeting with Driskell, Ramírez told me, ICE transported her to El Paso to prepare her for deportation (she sent me a picture of a notice, in English, dated November 11 that she’d be transferred to the notorious Camp East Montana). As she boarded her deportation flight in El Paso, Ramírez said, she asked about her asylum claim.
“I spoke with some ICE agents, and they checked the system and explained that my paperwork hadn’t been submitted,” she said, “and that I had to be deported because I was already in the system, that I had no legal representation, I had nothing, it was like an empty file. And I was left with no choice other than to board the plane and come here.”
I asked Ramírez what her reaction was. “That the lawyer lied to me, let me down … or failed to deliver on her promises,” she responded.
In an attempt to reach Driskell for this story, I called the phone number Cavalletto, Santana, and Ramírez told me they used to communicate with her in July and left a voicemail. I never heard back, and when I called again in August, the voicemail inbox was full. I also sent the number a text message and a message on WhatsApp, the messaging application Cavalletto, Santana, and Ramírez said she used to communicate with them, and I left a voicemail with a San Antonio phone number an online people search said was associated with Driskell. She didn’t respond, nor did she respond to my attempt to reach her through her apparent LinkedIn page.
Paxton (AP; Texas Observer)
After her deportation, Ramírez said, she was detained by Venezuelan officials for several days, then released. Screenshots of text exchanges she and Santana shared with me show them pressing Driskell to refund the fees. At first, Driskell seemed to be amenable, but the messages soon got testy. Santana told me that Driskell offered to connect him with a smuggler to bring Ramírez back to the United States. “[Ramírez] and I discussed that,” he said. “But we didn’t want to do that. All we wanted was for her to refund the money.”
In one exchange that they shared with me, after Santana threatened to sue her, Driskell wrote: “Remember that doing business with organized crime smugglers is a criminal offense.”
So I set out to write this story. But now, I wanted to better understand how someone like Driskell is allowed to continue operating. The texts Cavalletto, Ramírez, and Santana had sent me and the disclosure from the California Secretary of State raised questions about whether Driskell was complying with the 2016 judge’s order. And the AG’s office knew about the 2024 allegations—I’d emailed them questions before I published my second story. Was anyone doing anything?
The first thing I did was check the docket of the old Bexar County case for any new activity. No new filings since 2016. When he was attorney general himself, Governor Greg Abbott had a reputation for aggressively combating immigration fraud (in a 2012 op-ed warning about the dangers of immigration fraud, he boasted, “Since 2002, my office has shut down two dozen fraudulent ‘immigration consulting’ operations.”) I’d been told his successor, Ken Paxton, has little interest in that sort of case. The Attorney General’s Office had ignored my questions when I wrote about Driskell two years ago, so I filed a request under the Texas Public Information Act for a list of every lawsuit filed by the Consumer Protection Division going back more than a decade. By poring through court records and press releases related to the more than 400 consumer protection suits the office filed since 2014, I identified about 30 against people accused of defrauding immigrants.
In 2014, Abbott’s last full year as attorney general, the office filed 11 lawsuits against people accused of defrauding immigrants, according to the records. Paxton took office the following year, and his attorneys filed five new lawsuits and asked judges to hold in contempt the defendants in two previous cases who had allegedly violated orders similar to the one against Driskell. In 2016, the office filed four such suits.
Many of the lawsuits were about what’s called “notario fraud.” In parts of Latin America, including Mexico, a notario público is a special designation for a licensed attorney. In Texas, an identically named notary public witnesses the signing of certain documents and administers oaths. The confusion over the difference has created an opportunity in Texas for notaries public to pose as attorneys or consultants who can help people with their immigration proceedings. State law prohibits notaries public from using the Spanish term in advertising.
Some of the allegations, among the AG’s decade-old filings, described more sinister schemes. “Arrange fake marriages and fix the paperwork,” read an advertisement cited in a 2014 case against an Austin woman accused of offering immigration services without a law license. A lawyer with offices across the state was accused in 2015 of encouraging immigrants who had lived in the United States for years to file frivolous asylum claims so they could apply for work permits while their cases dragged on, without telling them that they could face deportation when their doomed applications were rejected. And of course there was Driskell’s tawdry saga.
Then the numbers started to decline. In 2017 and ’18, the office filed two new immigration fraud lawsuits each year, as well as one motion for sanctions in 2018 against a notary who’d previously been ordered to stop providing immigration services. In 2019, the office filed four cases. In the nearly seven years since, according to the data the office provided me in August, it has filed a total of two immigration fraud cases. One was a 2023 lawsuit against an El Paso notary whom the AG’s office alleged “targets Spanish-speaking consumers with limited resources who do not understand the legal system in the United States.” And the other was filed this year against a North Texas notary who, state lawyers alleged, charged immigrants for help filling out forms. Though the notary provided documents identifying her as a lawyer in Venezuela and took classes from a company in Florida that teaches people how to prepare immigration forms (like California, Florida permits laypeople to assist in filling out some paperwork), she was not allowed to offer those services in Texas, the lawsuit alleges.
“The Attorney General’s office in Texas is supposed to do this,” said Michelle Méndez, the legal director at the National Immigration Project, referring to the policing of scams that target immigrants. “They did it for a while. Now they’re not enforcing these laws and protecting people.”
Méndez said that letting fraudsters go unpunished doesn’t just impact immigrant communities. “It’s just a matter of time before those fraud schemes reach any one of us,” she said.
I asked Méndez to review the most recent lawsuit by the Texas Attorney General, and she said that, though it includes Trump Administration talking points—unlike previous lawsuits, the one filed this year cites the restrictionist organization the Federation for American Immigration Reform and goes on at length about allegations of fraud in a Biden-era parole program Trump canceled last year—“the aim of the complaint is noble, and hopefully we will see Texas and other states pursue more cases of unauthorized practice of law, especially those where noncitizens were deprived of property or liberty, just as Driskell’s victims were.”
As before, Paxton’s office did not respond to my questions for this story.
Illustrating how aggressive the AG’s office once was in cases of alleged fraud against immigrants, Méndez said that after the office’s 2014 lawsuit against Driskell, state lawyers contacted her—then working for another organization—looking for a nonprofit to replace Driskell as the guarantor on immigrants’ bonds to ensure the money went back to the people who’d paid. Court records also show that Texas attorneys intervened in Driskell’s bankruptcy proceedings, trying to ensure that immigrants who hired her were included as creditors.
“I think that just showed the thoroughness of the prior campaign by [the AG’s] Office,” Anne Schaufele, now the co-director of the Immigration and Human Rights Clinic at the University of the District of Colombia, said. She helped prepare some of the 2014 complaints against Driskell after people who’d hired the Texan approached the nonprofit legal provider where Shaufele worked at the time. “It’s just so gutting,” she told me when I called her earlier this year. “Especially when folks are already in some of the worst chapters of their lives.”
In recent years, as state and federal officials have implemented harsher anti-immigration policies, Schaufele said, immigration scams are often going unpunished. ProPublica recently reported that the number of immigration scams reported to the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) has doubled since President Donald Trump returned to office. The schemes have also gotten more complex. ProPublica detailed a case involving fake hearings via video to bilk money from an immigrant who was deported after she reported the fraud to ICE. (After the news organization’s report, the Department of Homeland Security said it was “declaring an all-out war” on immigration scams.)
“I think it comes as no surprise that in the state of Texas there’s been a shifting of priorities in such a way that certain crimes just aren’t litigated anymore, certain civil violations are just being ignored because of who the victims are,” Schaufele said.
I noted that the AG’s Office also gave me records that showed, in contrast to the FTC, the number of complaints about immigration fraud it had received has declined in recent years. Schaufele said that, in Texas—where the state police are extensively involved in deportation efforts, Abbott has ordered hospitals to collect patients’ immigration status, and Paxton has tried to use the Consumer Protection Division to shut down nonprofits that provide services to immigrants—people are likely afraid to come forward. The state “has weaponized every possible agency to go after undocumented immigrants,” she said.
I also wondered why Driskell keeps reportedly getting access to detention centers. According to the state’s 2014 lawsuit against her, ICE banned Driskell from its detention centers more than a decade ago after the lawyer she’d had the messy falling out with accused her of “criminal activity” related to her case running. If she’d been allowed to visit the South Texas ICE Processing Center last year, as Ramírez told me, why was someone who’d been sued by the state, previously banned from the detention center, and ordered to stop providing immigration services allowed to visit detainees?
So I asked ICE and the GEO Group, the private prison company that runs the Pearsall detention center, if Driskell had visited Ramírez and what their policies are about access to detention centers for someone who’s been accused of immigration fraud. GEO referred me to ICE and wouldn’t tell me if it has a policy. ICE told me to file a request under the federal Freedom of Information Act, which it then refused to fulfill.
Before publishing this piece, I called Cavalletto, the New Yorker who’d tipped me off about her Ecuadorean family friends who said they’d been ripped off by Driskell. Cavalletto said that after my story ran in 2024, she was contacted by investigators from ICE’s criminal division. An agent in Texas and a government attorney called her in late 2024, Cavalletto said, and seemed serious about investigating Driskell. “I asked, ‘Are you sure you’re going to do that?’ because it was just before Trump was in office,” she told me. The agent responded that she might have a point, Cavalletto said, but he still made plans to fly to New York to interview her. “And he just ghosted and didn’t follow through.”
The post Immigrants Keep Saying She’s Ripping Them Off. Why Won’t Texas Stop Her? appeared first on The Texas Observer.
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