“We’re Here To Keep The Community Safe.”
August 10, 2025
On that May Monday morning, that Shell station at the intersection of Concord and Cochituate buzzed with its usual chaos. Impatient drivers frequently cut through the gas pumps to shave a few seconds off their commute. It was something that Daniel Orellana had, no doubt, seen countless times before. So when a line of dark SUVs slipped into the lot as he filled his tank, he likely assumed they were just more commuters taking the usual shortcut.
But within moments, his life changed. The doors swung open, ICE agents emerged, then surrounded him. They showed him a photograph, someone they claimed to be looking for, someone who looked nothing like him. Orellana tried to explain, but there was no time, no listening. He was handcuffed and taken into custody.
Scenes like this have become familiar in Framingham. Those vehicles arrive quietly, unmarked and easily overlooked. They’re Ford Explorers and Expeditions, Dodge Durangos, Nissan Pathfinders, Rogues. At first, they effortlessly blend into the neighborhood, but after a while, the signs are there. They’re combat parked at sharp angles, pointed toward their target like coiled traps. The windows are tinted darker than state law allows. Blue strobe lights, barely visible, are tucked into the grille or the upper edges of the windshield.
Walk past one, and you’ll hear it — a low hum from the engine, the faint pop of radio chatter leaking through the glass. Try to look inside and there’s little to see. The windows are blacked out, opaque, they rarely give anything away. Occasionally, you might catch the glint of a keychain, an air freshener, or a small Puerto Rican flag swaying from the rearview mirror — a quiet nod toward familiarity, or camouflage.
But the purpose of these vehicles is never casual. They’re not there to blend in. They’re there to wait.
A slow drive down Franklin Street or Union Avenue might reveal the signs, if you know where to look. An unmarked SUV idling on a side road, tucked just out of view. Check Beech, Henry, Pearl, Lexington, the cross streets, and you might find another. They sit silently, engines running, agents inside waiting for the signal. When that signal comes, when a spotter calls in a likely target, it all happens fast. One vehicle pulls in ahead, another from the side, a third from behind, boxing the car in with practiced precision.
Agents step out, often masked and with weapons drawn, and move quickly to detain the driver and any passengers. In Framingham, it’s common to see a fourth vehicle, a dark grey Dodge Grand Caravan, with Pennsylvania plates, arrive just moments later. That van is the transport, taking detainees to the ICE detention center in Burlington. From start to finish, the operation rarely lasts more than ten minutes.
What’s left behind, though, lasts much longer. More than once, the car belonging to the detained has been found right where it was stopped — doors open, engine still running, wallet on the seat, groceries in the back. Whether it’s the result of shifting protocol or a shortage of space at ICE impound lots is unclear. But in the absence of an official response, the community has stepped in. Volunteers track these vehicles, contact families, and help recover them before they’re towed, ticketed, or worse — one small act of care in the wake of something that often feels so deeply impersonal.
One morning not long ago, at Framingham’s Butterworth Park, two unmarked SUVs sat parked along Arthur Street, both facing east toward the Wallis Street apartments. The light was just right, and through the tinted windshield of a silver Nissan Pathfinder, an agent came into view, reclined in the driver’s seat, quietly watching. There was a third vehicle, a grey Ford Explorer with police-style trim, positioned farther down the block. When asked why he was there, the agent inside gave a brief reply:
“Federal investigation. Narcotics in your area. Nothing to worry about. We’re here to keep the community safe.”
It was rehearsed, terse, respectful, almost polite.
About twenty minutes later, all three vehicles pulled out in unison, turning down Willis Street and accelerating toward a nearby apartment complex. Their attention appeared focused on a middle-school-aged girl, who, clearly terrified, ran into the supervisor’s office for cover. When the agents were unable to produce a judicial warrant, the supervisor asked them to leave. They did, and no arrests were made. Whether she was their intended target or simply related to someone who was, remains unknown.
In Framingham, life moves forward the best it can, while the presence of ICE continues to simmer just beneath the surface. After a day of rumored enforcement activity, School Superintendent Bob Tremblay reported that more than 2,500 students — over a quarter of the district’s 9,000 — were absent from school the following day. Only a small percentage of those students are undocumented, the rest stayed home out of fear.
Each day, parents glance down side streets, scanning for unmarked SUVs. Children step off school buses more cautiously than before. The daily routines continue — work, school, errands — but across Framingham’s neighborhoods, a quiet unease has taken hold. ICE agents may come and go in minutes, but the effects linger long afterwards.
This is a city that spent years trying to build trust in its institutions, in its police, in the idea that help could be found in someone wearing a badge. But that progress has gone. Children are no longer taught to look for safety in a uniform. They’re taught, like the girl running to the building super, to run.
The true legacy of ICE’s presence in Framingham isn’t found in press releases or deportation statistics. It’s measured in the empty seats at school, in the hush that falls over a playground when a strange SUV rolls by, in the quiet glances exchanged between neighbors on stoops and sidewalks. It’s fear — steady, unspoken, ever-present.
And it stands in stark contrast to the words the agents so often repeat when asked why they are here: “We’re here to keep the community safe.”
