Imagine being in this fix. You’re born in a war-torn land where repression has been elevated to genocide. You escape as a young child with your parents, or maybe just your mother—your father being one of the many men lost to war—and make it to America. You grow up in the sort of neighborhood that refugees often land in—poor in most resources but rich in crime, gangs, and opportunities for a kid to stray. Stray you do; your mom, lost in this new land, can scarcely keep tabs, much less control you. Your gang becomes a surrogate family. You get in some scrapes, get busted, and do your time or probation.

You grow up and learn to fly straight. You finish school, get a job, maybe get married. You think you’ve left all that trouble in the past, back when you were, as George W. Bush put it, “young and stupid.”

One strike, you’re out of this country

And then suddenly the past isn’t past anymore. You watch as friends and neighbors, guys you grew up with, are picked up by the feds and shipped back to the troubled lands where they were born but did not grow up, leaving their lives here—even their children—behind. You start waiting for the knock on the door, the letter from ICE. All because when you were a child, your parents—dazed, confused, and unable to speak English—did not understand that being granted legal residency as refugees was not enough to guarantee you and they could stay here. They had to jump through more hoops and become citizens.

For decades, U.S. immigration law provided for the deportation of non-citizens who committed “aggravated felonies”—crimes carrying sentences of five years or more—unless judges granted waivers. Then, in 1996, during a bout of our recurrent immigration phobia, Congress lowered the threshold, making virtually all felonies and some misdemeanors subject to mandatory deportation. It eliminated the judicial review. And it made these changes retroactive. ICE began working through the files, deporting people who grew up as Americans for youthful transgressions committed 10, 15, 20 years ago. With no appeal to explain the circumstances or show what an exemplary life you’ve led since then.

First hearing, last chance

One ex-felon caught in this vise is Many Chout Uch, whose story was told in Seattle Met two years ago. Twelve years earlier, when he was 18, Many drove the car for a couple buddies who tried to take back money another guy owed them. He served time for armed robbery, matured, and became not just an upstanding citizen but a respected community figure—the leading local voice against mandatory deportations. He’s spoken widely to schools and community groups. He drafted the initial petition for another deportee whose case went to the U.S. Supreme Court and stopped ICE from holding prospective deportees in indefinite detention. He’s the subject of a PBS documentary on the deportations.

In Gregoire’s court

Now Many Uch’s own neck is on the block. On June 11 he’ll go before the state Clemency and Pardons Board in Olympia and ask it to recommend that Governor Christine Gregoire grant him a pardon —the only way, absent a change in the federal law, to free him from the threat of deportation. Good luck. The clemency board endorses only a small share of the petitions it hears, and Gregoire has approved a far smaller share of those than her predecessors did.

But Many’s case is compelling. It’s also the first involving mandatory detention to go before the board, so it would set a political precedent.

Those who’ve observed the perverse effects of this cruel law are more hopeful now that President Obama has promised comprehensive immigration-law reform. They’ll lobby Senators Murray and Cantwell to get mandatory deportation on the list. But immigration phobia is running high again, and reform will take time. A pardon may be Many Uch’s last chance. His supporters are urging sympathizers to write the Clemency Board and attend the June 11 hearing.