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  • Defiant after impeachment vote, Mayorkas tells The Times the effort ‘does not rattle me’

    Defiant after impeachment vote, Mayorkas tells The Times the effort ‘does not rattle me’

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    This isn’t the kind of history Alejandro Mayorkas wanted to make.

    The son of immigrants who fled Cuba and settled in Beverly Hills when he was a child, Mayorkas was tapped in 2021 by President Biden to become the first Latino head of the nation’s Department of Homeland Security.

    Decades earlier he made a reputation as the country’s youngest U.S. attorney in 1998, leading the Central District of California based in Los Angeles at 38.

    In recent months, however, Mayorkas, 64, has found himself in a far less flattering historical spotlight: targeted to become the first U.S. Cabinet official impeached in nearly 150 years.

    “I knew I was entering an extraordinarily polarizing environment, an environment where norms were in jeopardy, where civility was not always respected,” he said of his mind-set when he became secretary. “I didn’t assume this. It doesn’t rattle me, though.”

    House Republicans, eyeing chaos at the border as a path to regain control of the White House and Senate, say Mayorkas’ failure to prevent record arrivals of migrants meets the constitutional bar for impeachment of “high crimes and misdemeanors.”

    Democrats call the impeachment effort a vast, politically motivated overreach, characterizing Mayorkas as a committed government servant being used as a pawn in the 2024 presidential race.

    To the surprise of many, the embattled secretary on Tuesday narrowly escaped impeachment by the House when three GOP lawmakers — including one from California — broke ranks with their party and joined all Democrats to vote no.

    But House Republican leaders have vowed to try again, perhaps as soon as next week, even though the Democratic-controlled Senate is certain not to convict and remove him from office.

    In his first extensive, sit-down interview since the vote, Mayorkas told the Los Angeles Times on Thursday that he did not watch the impeachment proceedings. Instead, he was in a meeting in the San Francisco Bay Area discussing the agency’s prioritization of artificial intelligence. He broke away for a call and was informed the vote had failed.

    Mayorkas, who insists he will not resign even if impeached, says he inherited a broken and outdated immigration system that can’t adequately respond to what has become a global migration crisis brought on by violence, poverty, authoritarian regimes and climate disasters.

    He called the impeachment proceedings baseless, the accusations false and blamed Congress for failing to allocate enough funding to address the issue.

    After devoting his life and career to public service and law enforcement, Mayorkas said the threat of impeachment, one of the rarest, most shameful rebukes a government official can face, is disappointing but has not shaken his commitment.

    Respect for the law and service to democracy are themes that run deep in Mayorkas’ upbringing.

    As a boy in Los Angeles, Mayorkas recalls his mother encouraging him to approach police officers in uniform, extend his hand and thank them. After escaping Fidel Castro’s regime in Cuba, American police were, to her, a symbol of safety and the rule of law.

    Mayorkas was born in Havana. His Jewish Cuban father owned a steel wool factory; his mother, a Jewish Romanian, narrowly survived the Holocaust when her family caught one of the last ships to Cuba.

    In Beverly Hills — where his parents were drawn because of the education system — the family lived in a two-bedroom apartment before later moving to a modest home, where Mayorkas shared a bedroom with his two younger brothers. They attended a local synagogue twice a year for High Holy Days and frequented El Colmao, a Cuban restaurant in Pico Union.

    Mayorkas attended Beverly Hills High School, UC Berkeley and Loyola Law School.

    As a promising young federal prosecutor in Los Angeles, Mayorkas pursued the death penalty against members of the Mexican Mafia, brought organized crime charges against a Los Angeles street gang and prosecuted Hollywood madam Heidi Fleiss for tax fraud and money laundering.

    Time in the courtroom, where he said defense attorneys lobbed heated verbal missiles at him, prepared him for what was to come.

    “When I was in the courtroom, and the arrows are flying, what one is representing is the truth,” he said. “To have to fight to have that truth prevail is, I thought, what a privilege. And the arrows? Let the arrows come. We will deflect them, and break them.”

    David Lash, then-chief executive officer of Bet Tzedek Legal Services, a nonprofit law firm in Los Angeles, remembers consulting with Mayorkas on a series of fraud cases targeting elderly people. “Ali,” as Mayorkas is known to friends, was instrumental in the success of those cases, Lash said.

    Lash and Mayorkas, who lived five blocks from each other, had children around the same ages. They became close friends, getting together for backyard barbecues over the years.

    Mayorkas helped recruit Lash to the pro bono program at O’Melveny, the Los Angeles law firm Mayorkas joined after President Clinton left office in 2001.

    Just walking to lunch might take 20 minutes, Lash recalled, because Mayorkas seemed to know every third person on the street, and would stop to shake their hands and ask how their families were doing.

    “I think that comes from himself being an immigrant and working in the public interest,” Lash said. “It’s so important to him that he’s just imbued with this respect for people who are everyday folks working to make a life.”

    President Obama appointed Mayorkas to lead U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services in 2009. There he led implementation of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, or DACA, the program that offered work permits and deportation protections to hundreds of thousands of immigrants brought to the country as children.

    Four years later, Mayorkas was confirmed by the Senate as deputy secretary of DHS. He led the agency’s response to the Ebola and Zika virus epidemics, built up the agency’s cybersecurity capabilities and targeted drug cartels.

    His tenure wasn’t without controversy. A 2015 DHS inspector general’s report accused Mayorkas of creating “an appearance of favoritism and special access” for politically connected businesses under a visa program that provided a path to citizenship for wealthy foreign investors.

    Mayorkas returned to private practice during Trump’s administration as a partner at WilmerHale. But he appeared, to his friends, unsatisfied.

    “He felt like there was unfinished business there, and that he could get the job done,” said Jim Pasco, executive director of the national Fraternal Order of Police. He and Mayorkas have been friends since Mayorkas led the citizenship services agency.

    Pasco said Mayorkas has a real reverence and affinity for law enforcement.

    “His whole worldview, his whole approach to life was really imprinted on him in his early childhood and early adulthood,” Pasco said. “His family, particularly his mother, and his father, were very, very patriotic and raised him to be patriotic and appreciative of the things that the government did for them and the things that [it] protects them from.”

    Mayorkas returned to the Homeland Security Department with Biden’s administration, faced with the challenge of undoing many of Trump’s policies, including travel bans for people from certain Muslim-majority countries, and with the aftermath of others, such as the separations of migrant children from their parents.

    Mayorkas was quickly overwhelmed with the unprecedented arrival of migrants at the southern border, not just from Central America but now also in greater numbers from places like China, India and Afghanistan. Republicans quickly put him, and his impeachment, in their sights after taking control of the House in 2023.

    Rhetoric against Mayorkas has turned ugly at times. The morning of the impeachment vote, House Homeland Security Committee Chair Mark Green (R-Tenn.) behind closed doors called Mayorkas a “reptile with no balls” because he has refused to resign, according to Politico.

    The attacks against Mayorkas have led even some conservatives to come to his defense.

    Pasco’s organization, the Fraternal Order of Police, sent a letter to Congress just before the House vote Tuesday praising Mayorkas and the partnership between the DHS and local law enforcement to combat the fentanyl epidemic and violent crime. The FOP, the country’s largest police union, endorsed Trump in 2016 and 2020.

    Trump’s impeachment lawyer, Alan Dershowitz, urged Republicans not to “apply a double standard” by impeaching Mayorkas.

    In a letter to his colleagues Tuesday morning, Rep. Tom McClintock (R-Elk Grove) said Mayorkas’ policies have damaged the country, but malpractice is not an impeachable crime. Homeland Security Committee members, he said, “stretch and distort the Constitution in order to hold the administration accountable for stretching and distorting the law.”

    Three former Homeland Security secretaries, from Democratic and Republican administrations, said the impeachment jeopardized national security and undermined the department’s mission, including counterterrorism efforts.

    And groups on the left, some of which have stridently criticized policies under Mayorkas, extended olive branches in support of the secretary, one of the highest ranking Latinos in government.

    A coalition of 18 Latino-led civil rights and advocacy groups, including the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles, wrote to House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) on Tuesday calling the impeachment effort a sham.

    “While not all his decisions have been met with unanimous approval, including from the signers below and other voices within our community, we strongly urge Congress to redirect their efforts to working in a bipartisan manner toward humane and effective immigration reform that helps move the American people forward,” the groups wrote.

    At the same time the House was advancing impeachment proceedings against Mayorkas, the Senate released a bipartisan $118-billion border and foreign aid bill, supported by Biden and which Mayorkas consulted on.

    “The irony is not lost on me,” said Sen. Alex Padilla (D-Calif.), who opposed the bill, in part because it failed to include a legalization component for immigrants including so-called Dreamers, as previous negotiations have. “Republicans can’t have it both ways,” he said.

    Nonetheless, Padilla said running Homeland Security is one of the toughest jobs in America, made even tougher when Congress plays politics.

    Republicans, he said, “can’t bring forward meaningful solutions — so they pivot to trying to scapegoat somebody through the impeachment process.”

    Times staff writer Sarah D. Wire contributed to this report.

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    Andrea Castillo

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  • How a California Republican helped tank Mayorkas’ impeachment vote

    How a California Republican helped tank Mayorkas’ impeachment vote

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    California Republican Rep. Tom McClintock said Wednesday he bucked his party to vote against impeaching Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas because it would cheapen the use of the greatest punishment Congress has.

    “It dumbs down the standard of impeachment to a point where it will become a constant fixture in our national life every time the White House is held by one party and the Congress by another,” McClintock told The Times on Wednesday. “That’s exactly what the American founders feared and that’s why they were very careful to specify narrow limits to its use.”

    The Tuesday evening failed 214-216 vote was a stunning setback for House Republicans, who had been signaling plans to impeach Mayorkas since they retook control of the chamber last year.

    McClintock, a stalwart conservative from Elk Grove, has been known as a constitutional originalist willing to break with his party when he feels it is necessary. That’s included supporting marijuana legalization and opposing the 2017 Republican tax bill because it curtailed the popular state and local tax deduction, also known as SALT.

    “I’ve learned over the years if you’re going to be an outlier, you better be damn sure you’re right, and I took the time and I’m damn sure I’m right,” McClintock said.

    McClintock explained his reasoning in a 10-page memo early Tuesday before the impeachment failed.

    In the memo, McClintock said the two articles of impeachment “fail to identify an impeachable crime that Mayorkas has committed. In effect they stretch and distort the Constitution in order to hold the administration accountable for stretching and distorting the law.”

    The articles accuse Mayorkas of failing to properly enforce the nation’s immigration laws and breaching public trust. Republicans have accused Mayorkas of ending immigration policies in place during the Trump administration and enacting new immigration policies under President Biden that they say have encouraged more people to come.

    The White House has argued that a Cabinet secretary shouldn’t be impeached over a policy disagreement and that the policies in place address immigration within the scope of the budget that Congress approves.

    McClintock said new laws or more money won’t help. He said if voters are unhappy with immigration policy, they need to give Republicans control of the government.

    “This problem will not be fixed by passing bills that won’t be signed or laws that won’t be enforced, or funds that will be used only to admit illegal aliens and not to expel them,” he said. “And it won’t be fixed by replacing one left-wing official with another.”

    The vote against impeachment was a surprise, caused by a combination of Republican absences on the floor Tuesday, the “no” votes from four Republicans and the surprise appearance of a shoe-less, scrubs-wearing Democrat straight from surgery at a local hospital.

    McClintock was one of four Republicans to vote no on impeaching Mayorkas. One of those no votes, by Rep. Blake Moore (R-Utah), the vice chair of the conference, was a tactical no. If a member of leadership votes no, they can bring the issue back up at a later date.

    House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) stressed Wednesday that while the failure was a setback, he plans to bring the impeachment articles up again.

    “Democracy is messy. We live in a time of divided government. We have a razor-thin margin here and every vote counts,” Johnson said. “We will pass those articles of impeachment. We’ll do it on the next round.”

    One of the other no votes, Rep. Mike Gallagher (R-Wis.), was being pressured to change his mind while the vote was taking place, but McClintock said he wasn’t pressured to change his vote by House leadership or his fellow Republican representatives.

    “They all have been very respectful and recognize the position that I’ve taken is in support of our Constitution and the process that makes this government run,” he told The Times.

    Still, he got from criticism after the vote from Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-Ga.), who brought the articles of impeachment.

    “He’s failing his oath of office,” she said, referring to McClintock. “He needs to grow some courage and read the room. The room is our country and the American people are fed up. … He needs to do the right thing.”

    In a CSPAN interview Wednesday, McClintock pushed back.

    “Instead of reading the room, I would suggest that maybe she read the Constitution that she took an oath to support and defend,” he said. “The Constitution very clearly lays out the grounds for impeachment. This dumbs down those grounds dramatically and would set a precedent that could be turned against the conservatives on the Supreme Court or a future Republican administration the moment the Democrats take control of the Congress.”

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    Sarah D. Wire

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  • A Republican Congresswoman’s Lasting Regret

    A Republican Congresswoman’s Lasting Regret

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    Among the things Jaime Herrera Beutler remembers about January 6, 2021, is that her husband managed to turn off the television just in time.

    He was at home with their three young children in southwestern Washington State when the riot began. It had taken him a few moments to make out the shaky footage of the mob as it tore through the Capitol. Then he started to recognize the hallways, the various corridors that he knew led to the House floor, where his wife was preparing to break from her party and speak in favor of certifying the 2020 presidential election for Joe Biden. He grabbed the remote before the kids could register what was about to happen.

    It was a few moments later that Herrera Beutler, huddled among her Republican colleagues, heard the door. “I will never forget the pounding,” she told me recently: Boom, boom, boom.

    Before January 6, Herrera Beutler was a purple-district congresswoman who had spent most of her 12-year tenure removed from controversy, passing legislation on bipartisan issues such as maternal health and endangered wildlife while maintaining a social conservatism that kept her in good standing with the base. In the weeks that followed the insurrection, however, when she and nine other House Republicans voted to impeach President Donald Trump, the 44-year-old found herself the pariah of a party whose broader membership, for most of her career, had not precisely known she existed. Today, when the 118th Congress is sworn in, she, like all but two of the Republicans who voted to impeach, will find herself out of office.

    In an interview with The Atlantic about her six terms in the House and the Trump-backed primary challenge that ousted her, Herrera Beutler remained convinced of Trump’s culpability for the events of January 6. Yet she appeared still bewildered that a crisis of such magnitude had come to pass, and that not even her own constituents were immune to Trump’s propaganda about the 2020 election and the insurrection itself. “I didn’t know that I had so many people who would be like, ‘What are you talking about? This was a peaceful protest,’” she told me. “I had no idea the depth of misinformation people were receiving, especially in my own home.”

    Throughout our conversation, it was clear that the insurrection’s fallout hadn’t changed Herrera Beutler the way it had Liz Cheney or Adam Kinzinger, the two Republicans who sat on the January 6 committee and who have publicly committed themselves to keeping Trump out of office. These and other Republicans who retired or lost their seats after voting to impeach Trump have seemed liberated to speak about the GOP’s widespread delusion over election fraud. But Herrera Beutler is different: refusing to say that the forces of Trumpism have triggered a fundamental shift in her party, even as her own career was upended by them. Despite two years of hindsight, she seems to have rationalized her party’s continued promotion of lies concerning January 6 as a function of tactical error—believing that had Republicans and Democrats agreed to proceed with witnesses during Trump’s impeachment trial, and had she communicated the stakes differently back home, her base would have rejected the conspiracy theories and accepted Trump’s guilt. “I know a majority of the Republicans who disagree with me on impeachment, had they seen and talked to the people that I had, and had they seen what I saw—I have no doubt about where they would have come down,” she said. “I really don’t.”

    That Herrera Beutler has arrived at this conviction might seem naive but is in many ways understandable. For the better part of 12 years, she has been reinforced in the idea that the Republicans in her district are ideologically independent, cocooned from the national party as it leaps from one identity to the next. In her first bid for Congress, at the height of the Tea Party wave, she easily beat challengers from the right to become, at just 31 years old, the first Hispanic to represent Washington State in Congress. She had barely unpacked before the media christened her the future of her party. To the disappointment of the Republican leadership, however, the young and charismatic statehouse veteran wasn’t terribly interested in developing a national profile. Over the next several years, Herrera Beutler instead oriented her office around the hyperlocal work her constituents seemed to prefer—efforts such as expanding the forest-products industry and protecting the Columbia River’s salmon and steelhead runs from sea lions.

    On January 6, Herrera Beutler’s career moved onto alien terrain. Immediately after the insurrection, she directed her staff to start making calls, to find out where Trump had been during the rioting and why. Late that afternoon, she texted White House Chief of Staff Mark Meadows for answers—“We need to hear from the president. On TV,” she sent, to no response—and, on January 11, two days before the impeachment vote, she privately pressed Kevin McCarthy for his impression of Trump’s culpability. During their conversation, the House minority leader confessed that the president had refused his pleas over the phone to call off the rioters—that as they smashed the windows of McCarthy’s office, Trump accused him of not caring enough about purported election fraud. For Herrera Beutler, it was enough to prove Trump’s guilt. In a press release the next day, and later a town hall back in her district, she invoked the conversation with McCarthy to explain her decision to vote to impeach.

    At the time, she hadn’t thought twice about airing the details of the Trump-McCarthy call. In the context of the various other things that she and the public had learned by that point, she told me, “I didn’t think it was unique or profound.” In fact, for McCarthy’s reputation, it was. The California Republican would soon make something of a penance visit to Trump at Mar-a-Lago, despite having been, according to Herrera Beutler and other (anonymous) Republican members who were privy to details of the call, terrified and livid at the height of the insurrection, acutely aware of Trump’s real-time recognition of the danger and refusal to do anything about it. Before long, Herrera Beutler’s revelation about the Trump-McCarthy call became the lead story on CNN. Jamie Raskin, the House Democrat managing Trump’s impeachment trial in the Senate, suddenly wanted to know everything about this congresswoman he had hardly heard of.

    For Herrera Beutler, the attention was unlike anything she’d experienced. “I wasn’t trying to insert myself into the national conversation,” she told me. “I wasn’t trying to be the, you know …” She trailed off, seemingly trying to say something like the truth teller. She was open to testifying in the impeachment trial and contacted Nancy Pelosi’s counsel about how to proceed, according to reporting by Rachael Bade and Karoun Demirjian in Unchecked, yet the House speaker’s attorney never relayed the message to Raskin and his staff. With zero surefire commitments from Republican witnesses to Trump’s conduct during the riot, and facing pressure from his own party not to gum up the 46th president’s honeymoon period with proceedings against the 45th, Raskin rushed the trial to a close.

    If Herrera Beutler had pushed more publicly to testify, would Raskin have charged ahead and subpoenaed others? Would it have changed the final vote in the Senate? It’s impossible to say. But for Herrera Beutler, the outcome remains bound up in regret. She said it was “overwhelming” when she began to realize “that good people, honest people, amazing people that I knew” believed, for example, that antifa had orchestrated the riot. “Because, at that point, what could I do?” In retrospect, she believes that pushing ahead with a full trial, before public opinion about January 6 could “bake,” as she puts it, might have plugged the flow of conspiracies in her district and elsewhere. The implication, left unsaid, is that it also might have changed the outcome of her primary. “Had we made everything as public as we could at that moment, I think that we could have come to a better agreed-upon actual history of what happened,” she said. “That’s the only thing that I wish I had known—I moved into this thinking we all had the same information, and we didn’t.”

    Though she said she appreciates the “sense of duty” of the lawmakers on the January 6 committee—whose final report was published just before we spoke—Herrera Beutler was pessimistic about the resonance of their work. “The challenge for me with the committee was that the 70 million people who voted for Trump are never going to get anything out of that,” she said. “And that’s who I wanted to move.”

    This past August, a Trump-backed Republican and former Green Beret named Joe Kent, who had promoted the former president’s lies about the 2020 election, defeated Herrera Beutler in the Third Congressional District’s jungle primary. (Two months later, Kent narrowly lost the general election to Marie Gluesenkamp Perez, who will be the first Democrat in the seat since Herrera Beutler took office in 2011.) On the one hand, Herrera Beutler seems clear-eyed about the forces behind her loss. “It’s just turned into such a tit-for-tat on personality things, and I think my base has definitely at times wanted to see more of that from me,” she said. “And that’s probably part of why the guy in my race made it as far as he did, because that was his oxygen—scratching that itch and making people feel justified in their ideas.”

    On the other hand, Herrera Beutler at various times in our conversation expressed an optimism about the future of Republican politics that seemed unmoored from the fact that her party’s base had rejected her. In criticizing both Republican and Democratic lawmakers she called “members in tweet only,” she said she often wondered what their constituents think “when they don’t get anything done—like when they can’t help a local hospital with a permit, or when Grandma can’t get her spouse’s disability payment from the VA.” “I don’t know if they just speechify when they go home,” she said, “but I know that the American people are going to get tired of that. It’s just a question of when, and under what circumstance.” The broader results of the midterm elections, in which numerous Republicans in the mold of Kent ultimately lost to Democrats, would seem to prove her point. But the results of countless Republican primaries, including the victories of election deniers such as Kari Lake in Arizona, indicate that the “when” is likely still far off.

    Perhaps one reason Herrera Beutler insists that a “restoration is coming” for the Republican Party: She’s probably going to run again. She won’t say so definitively; she told me she’s looking forward to living in one place with her family and “just being functional.” “I mean, would I be shocked if I ran for something? At some point in my future? No,” she said. The sheer possibility might explain her unwillingness to speak candidly about her party’s current leaders, even two years after the cumulative letdown of January 6. Reports have suggested that her long and friendly relationship with McCarthy, for instance, ruptured after she inadvertently exposed his two-faced response to the insurrection. Bade and Demirjian have written that the House Republican leader exploded at Herrera Beutler, making her cry. (In a joint statement, McCarthy and Herrera Beutler denied that this happened.) When I asked Herrera Beutler for her thoughts about McCarthy’s current bid for the speakership, she demurred, saying, “I don’t want to be the one who comments on that.”

    It wasn’t her place, she reasoned. She no longer has a voice in how the House Republican conference chooses to lead. And in the end, even if she is reluctant to acknowledge it, few things constitute more of an indictment of her party than this. All of the qualities that once fueled Herrera Beutler’s rise are still there. She is still a young Hispanic woman in a party that skews old, white, and male. She still rhapsodizes about individual liberty, still considers herself a social conservative in a moment when the Republican stance on abortion seems as unpopular as it ever has. But in little more than a decade, Herrera Beutler has gone from being the future of the party to a casualty of one vote.

    Three thousand miles away from Capitol Hill, she begins the work of moving on. She wants to continue to serve the public, she told me, but as a private citizen for the first time since her 20s, she’s still trying to figure out what that means. “I need a cause, something that gives me something to fight for,” she said. “And I just don’t know yet what that’s going to be.”

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    Elaina Plott Calabro

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