海角大神

A former Kansas mayor wasn鈥檛 a US citizen, but voted. His supporters say it鈥檚 not that simple.

You can鈥檛 call Coldwater a one-stoplight town because it doesn鈥檛 have one. But on Main Street after sunset, rows of headlights start to glow.

鈥淭hrow your hazards on, everybody!鈥� a man yells in the dark to a gathering crowd in early June. Horns honk, lights blink, and the whooping and hollering start. Someone brings an American flag.

Joe Ceballos, a two-time mayor, is coming home after three weeks in detention several counties away. He is a Kansan in a town of ruby-red politics and amber waves of grain. But on paper, he is not American. That made it illegal for him to vote, as the state says he did many times.

He pleaded guilty this spring to election-related state crimes and faced a fine but no jail 鈥� a relief to him and his supporters. Then things escalated: detention by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement in May and the start of deportation proceedings.

Many locals defend the green-card holder from Mexico. They call his wrongful ballot-casting an honest mistake, outweighed by his hard work and heart. Barry Loveall, a retired pig farmer who came to greet 鈥淛oe,鈥� says he wouldn鈥檛 care if his friend were from outer space.

鈥淗e鈥檚 not afraid to roll up his sleeves and jump in a ditch with you. ... He fixed my sewer pipe,鈥� Mr. Loveall says. 鈥淔ar as I鈥檓 concerned, best man I know.鈥�

Since President Donald Trump returned to office, more and more Americans have learned that their neighbors are deportable. The government is rounding up far more than the murderers and rapists it said it would be targeting.聽Immigrants who have lived in the United States lawfully for years are among them.

Support for Mr. Trump here runs deep, in a county that he carried in 2024 with 83% of the vote. Many Trump supporters, including Mr. Ceballos, don鈥檛 necessarily see the former mayor鈥檚 case in conflict with their politics. No, this isn鈥檛 what they voted for, they say. Instead, those Republicans see Mr. Ceballos鈥� story as an exception to the rule and hope an immigration judge agrees.

Mr. Ceballos鈥� legal team is working to keep his green card and avoid deportation. Ironically, Kansas, a GOP stronghold, has led the charge against immigrants voting illegally, an effort earlier rebuked by federal courts. The Trump administration has amplified the real but statistically tiny concern. This month, the Department of Homeland Security called on ICE to pursue stiffer penalties 鈥� including deportation 鈥� because such voting 鈥渄ilutes the votes of American citizens and undermines our democracy.鈥�

So what happens when the 鈥渂est man鈥� you know is a rallying cry for your party鈥檚 base? And worse, could be expelled?

On Coldwater鈥檚 Main Street, a red pickup truck appears with Mr. Ceballos inside. A friend approaches with a 鈥淲e Love You, Joe!!鈥� sign as the horns and sirens swell.

A hand reaches out the truck window and waves.

Small town life

In the distance, wind turbines somersault in place. Closer in, pumpjacks nod at the earth, coaxing crude oil out. It鈥檚 been a bad year for wheat, thanks to fickle rain in south-central Kansas. A church marquee calls for harvest prayers. The loudest sound in Coldwater is the occasional grunt of semitrucks down U.S. 183, which splits the town of hundreds in half.

When the local paper was first printed in 1884, it called the county home to 鈥渟ome 1,000 honest, contented and happy people.鈥�

In its inaugural edition, The Western Star wrote of 鈥渋mmigrants that daily flock鈥� into Coldwater, 鈥渄usty and hungry looking.鈥� The paper forecast their upward mobility, reckoning that those newcomers would, in a couple of years, own good farms. Then, their grandchildren would attend college and go on to 鈥渇ill positions of honor and trust.鈥�

As far as Mr. Ceballos can recall, he鈥檚 always been 鈥淛oe.鈥�

Born Jos茅, he says his family brought him to the United States at age 4. His stepfather鈥檚 itinerant work meant a lot of moving around. In the 1980s, he says, a Texas ranching family that employed the teenage Mr. Ceballos brought him to Coldwater.

His senior photo still hangs in the high school, part of the class of 1991. His special ed teacher, Gail Boisseau, says he was placed in her class because of his gaps in formal learning, but quickly caught up. During one of her field trips to the county clerk鈥檚 office, an official encouraged him, then over 18, to register to vote. He says he did.

There鈥檚 a wrinkle to that story told around town. The current county clerk says her records show that the Republican first registered to vote several years later in April 1999. Regardless, Mr. Ceballos would have registered before a Kansas law, enacted in 2013, required proof of citizenship to register to vote. Federal courts later struck down that law after it halted more than 30,000 voter applications.

Mr. Ceballos has had a green card for 36 years, meaning he鈥檚 lived here lawfully all that time. He speaks with the regional twang and R鈥檚 that dip like wells.

In Coldwater, he became known for putting up American flags for Memorial Day. He also digs a huge hole in a field, fills it with mud, and lets trucks try 鈥� and fail 鈥� to traverse it. His 鈥渕ud run鈥� trophies from those events glint from a shelf in his garage.

Mr. Ceballos served on Coldwater鈥檚 city council and was elected mayor twice, the last time in 2025. The day after he won reelection, the Kansas attorney general announced felony charges against Mr. Ceballos: voting without being qualified and election perjury. In an affidavit, a state official alleged that, since 2006, Mr. Ceballos voted 25 times. He declined to comment on that accusation.

鈥淎t no point do I recall, when I got my green card, [anyone] giving me instructions on what I could or couldn鈥檛 do,鈥� says Mr. Ceballos, who resigned last year. He says he believed that ID card gave him permission to vote. (Though he has previously said he voted more than once for Mr. Trump, he declined to comment on that for this story.)

Around the start of 2025, Mr. Ceballos had surgery after a fall and was told recovery could take months. With his green card up for renewal, he decided to apply for citizenship.

鈥淣ow that I have the time,鈥� he recalls thinking. Permanent residents like him aren鈥檛 required to naturalize.

Asked during an official interview if he鈥檇 ever voted, Mr. Ceballos said yes.

Before a packed county courtroom in April, Mr. Ceballos pleaded guilty to three misdemeanor counts of disorderly election conduct. He faced a $2,000 fine.

鈥淭he judge even clapped,鈥� says his wife, Jayne Ceballos.

Relief was brief. After the close of his criminal case, immigration authorities called for Mr. Ceballos. He turned himself in to ICE in Wichita in May, then was transferred to a county jail.

It鈥檚 unclear how, if at all, Mr. Ceballos鈥� criminal history will factor into his case before federal immigration court. In the 1990s, Mr. Ceballos was convicted of two other state misdemeanors: battery and property damage, court records show. He declined to comment on those charges for this story.

Immigration judges weigh positive and negative factors when deciding whether people in Mr. Ceballos鈥� position should stay, says Paul Hunker, former chief counsel for ICE in Dallas.

Good behavior and community contributions can count, he says. The judge can also look at potential harm to family members and others if he鈥檚 removed.

鈥淵ou don鈥檛 want to deport fine, upstanding people,鈥� Mr. Hunker says. 鈥淭hat actually harms your community.鈥�

Some Coldwater residents have offered donations and written letters of support for Mr. Ceballos, as they grapple with the local implications of their politics.

As Mr. Loveall, the former pig farmer, puts it: 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if they鈥檙e trying to make all Democrats out of us or what.鈥�

A reckoning

Mr. Ceballos鈥� supporters say the man deserves administrative grace, as someone who embodies the American dream.

Waiting for his release from custody is hard for Ms. Ceballos. When they met in the 1990s, she recalls, he had probably just two pairs of jeans.

鈥淗e didn鈥檛 have anything. And now look at him,鈥� she says with pride.

The retired nurse knew her husband had a green card; he had renewed it over time. Ms. Ceballos says she thought it was fine for him to vote because he had registered. She struggles to support what became an aggressive immigration crackdown over the past year.

鈥淚 think that ICE has gotten out of control,鈥� says Ms. Ceballos in her living room. 鈥淚 really do. Especially in the bigger cities. You know, shooting and beating people up, because they鈥檙e standing in their way.鈥�

鈥淚 think those are extremes, though, that are really put out there in the media,鈥� her son, Larry Woodrum, counters from across the room.

鈥淚 like the idea that they鈥檙e going to take criminals away ... not everyday people,鈥� Ms. Ceballos says. 鈥淏ut it鈥檚 not how it works, I guess.鈥�

As confidence in the president over immigration policy has , the administration has scaled back high-profile street arrests. Yet while detentions and deportations have continued, Trump officials have hinted at exceptions that they鈥檙e willing to embrace, such as immigrants they say will benefit the nation economically or assimilate well.

Mr. Ceballos has 鈥渨orked for everything he has,鈥� says Paul Rickabaugh, a loan officer at a local bank. The former mayor sharpens Mr. Rickabaugh鈥檚 chainsaw.

鈥淲e all need to abide by our laws,鈥� Mr. Rickabaugh says. 鈥淏ut I felt like Joe was a guy that didn鈥檛 understand that he was doing wrong.鈥�

Everyone鈥檚 ignorant of something, says Mr. Woodrum, the rancher鈥檚 stepson. Offering himself as an example: He thought that, by Mr. Ceballos marrying his U.S. citizen mom, the man automatically became an American years ago.

A rare Democrat here, Ms. Boisseau, the former special ed teacher, says Mr. Ceballos鈥� saga has only entrenched her politics.

鈥淚 am not in favor of open borders, but I鈥檓 also not in favor of plucking people off the street,鈥� she says. Not only is Mr. Ceballos here lawfully, but she adds, 鈥淗e loves America more than most Americans.鈥�

At the high school, Linda Basnett, a Republican, wrestles with envisioning what ideal immigration enforcement should be.

鈥淵ou see these small children and these families come over here, because they want a better place to raise their kids, and I understand that,鈥� says Ms. Basnett. 鈥淏ut I don鈥檛 know how much the United States can handle.鈥�

As the school district鈥檚 secretary for four decades, Ms. Basnett has known Mr. Ceballos since he roamed her halls. 鈥淢aybe in this situation, it鈥檚 wrong to send him back.鈥�

Mr. Ceballos is one of six electrical linemen locally employed. His absence has slowed operations, according to his boss, Michael Bushnell.

鈥淚 just figured Joe was one of us,鈥� a U.S. citizen, says Mr. Bushnell. 鈥淚n my mind, he is. But on paper, he鈥檚 not.鈥�

Relief arrives

Some 200 miles away, Mr. Ceballos spent three weeks at the Chase County detention center as an ICE detainee. At one point, his housing unit held 30 other immigrants, he recalls. Some fellow detainees were glad to be deported, he says, 鈥渂ecause they鈥檝e been in there a while.鈥�

Chase County has for years held immigrant detainees, who typically occupy the most beds. According to Mr. Ceballos, 鈥渢he guards were awesome.鈥�

Sheriff Jacob Welsh calls the treatment 鈥淜ansans taking care of your neighbor.鈥� He鈥檇 rather that immigrants be held at his jail, he says, than shipped off to a 鈥渕egafacility鈥� where 鈥渢hey鈥檙e just a number.鈥�

Mr. Ceballos鈥� legal saga has strained the family emotionally and financially. His wife says they sold a couple of trailers of cattle to pay for court costs.

Parker Woodrum, Mr. Woodrum鈥檚 son, took over feeding the cattle once his grandfather went to jail. The 15-year-old works for Mr. Ceballos, whom he likens to a best friend. Driving a truck, Parker rumbles toward the pasture with a hay bale in the back.

鈥淚 want to take over this ranch, if he ever passes it on,鈥� says Parker, dark curls cushioning his cowboy hat. He also wants to become a lineman, 鈥渏ust like him.鈥�

Parker says he didn鈥檛 know his grandfather was an immigrant until he saw a news story online. He thought 鈥淛oe鈥� was short for Joseph.

With an old Folgers coffee jug, Parker scoops out grain for horses and whistles out to cows. Recent weeks have stressed the animals 鈥� even the dogs, Parker says. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e not used to being away from Joe.鈥�

Relief comes in early June. An immigration judge approves Mr. Ceballos鈥� $3,000 bond. Three days later, he鈥檚 released.

Word gets out in Coldwater that night. Locals load up their trucks.

Homecoming

On Main Street, Mr. Ceballos wraps everyone he sees in hugs. Friends, neighbors, grandson Parker.

鈥淚 can鈥檛 believe it,鈥� he says in a daze. His beard has grown thick. 鈥淎ll the people that are here to support me 鈥� it鈥檚 amazing.鈥�

The next morning, down a dirt road on the edge of town, he鈥檚 catching up with family and friends inside his garage.

Mr. Ceballos, in a baseball cap, apologizes that he can鈥檛 answer all the questions, given his immigration case.

If he ever met President Trump, what would he say?

He pauses.

鈥淚 would definitely be respectful and shake his hand,鈥� Mr. Ceballos says. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think I would confront him.鈥�

In his view, the administration started off strong, 鈥渇inding the bad guys.鈥� Murderers, rapists, and drug dealers should be targeted, he says. But some actions have gotten out of hand.

鈥淭hey鈥檙e actually detaining kids, detaining moms, and parents and stuff, and separating the families,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 really don鈥檛 agree with that.鈥�

The thought of being sent to Mexico scares Mr. Ceballos. There, he wouldn鈥檛 know 鈥渨hat I can and can鈥檛 do.鈥� Now in his 50s, the rancher says he has no family there. And his Spanish is rusty.

鈥淚t鈥檇 be like sending an old man to Mars.鈥�

For now, he sits in his garage, door open to a soft wind. Neighbors come for one more hug. A dog won鈥檛 leave his feet.