She was adopted into an abusive US home. Decades later, immigration policies sent her back to Brazil

A single man in his 40s, Floyd Sykes III, came to meet her. He signed paperwork and brought Maria home.

She arrived in suburban Baltimore in 1989. She was, she believed, officially an American.

But what happened there would come to haunt her.

“My father — my adopted father — he was supposed to save me,” Pires said. Instead, he tortured and sexually abused her.

After nearly three years, Sykes was arrested. Pires entered foster care.

By then, she was consumed with fury. In the worst years, she beat a teenager at a roller rink, leaving him in a coma. She attacked a prison guard and stabbed her cellmate with a sharpened toothbrush.

In prison, she discovered that no one ever completed her immigration paperwork. That oversight would leave her without a country, but immigration officials let her stay in the country.

In President Donald Trump's second administration — with its promise of mass deportations — everything changed. Trump's unyielding approach to immigration enforcement has swept up tens of thousands of immigrants, including many like Pires who came to the U.S. as children and know little, if any, life outside America.

Pires was detained during a routine check-in, sent to one immigration jail after another, and ultimately deported to a land she barely remembers. The Associated Press conducted hours of interviews with Pires and people who know her and reviewed Maryland court records, internal ICE communications, and adoption and immigration paperwork to tell her story.

U.S. immigration officials say Pires is a dangerous criminal who’s no longer welcome in the country.

Pires, now 47, doesn’t deny her criminal past.

But little about her story is straightforward.

A new chapter of childhood, marked by abuse

Pires has no clear memories from before entering the orphanage. The organization that facilitated her adoption was later investigated over allegations it charged exorbitant fees and used videos to market children.

Pires remembers a crew filming a commercial. She believes that’s how Sykes found her.

In his custody, the abuse escalated over time. He'd lock her in a room, chained to a radiator. He overpowered her when she fought back. She started cutting herself.

In September 1992, someone alerted authorities. Sykes was arrested. Child welfare officials took custody of Maria, then 14.

Maryland Department of Human Services spokesperson Lilly Price said the agency couldn’t comment on specific cases because of confidentiality laws but noted in a statement that adoptive parents are responsible for applying for U.S. citizenship for their children.

Court documents show Sykes admitted sexually assaulting Maria but he claimed the assaults stopped in June 1990.

He was convicted of child abuse. In the end, Sykes spent about two months in jail.

Sykes' sister Leslie Parrish said she's often wondered what happened to Maria. Parrish said her brother seemed committed to fatherhood.

In hindsight, she sees it differently. She believes sinister motives lurked “in the back of his sick mind.”

Years in prison, with progress and setbacks

During her teenage years, Pires was kicked out of school for fighting. She ran away from foster homes, sometimes ending up homeless.

At 18, she pleaded guilty to aggravated assault for the roller rink attack. She served two years in prison. It was then that authorities — and Pires herself — discovered she wasn't a U.S. citizen.

Her criminal record meant it would be extremely difficult to gain citizenship. Suddenly, she faced deportation. Pires said she hadn't realized the potential consequences when accepting her plea deal.

A team of volunteer lawyers and advocates argued she shouldn’t be punished for something beyond her control.

Ultimately, the American judicial system agreed: Pires would be allowed to remain in the U.S. if she checked in annually with ICE.

Pires didn’t immediately take advantage of her second chance.

She was arrested for cocaine distribution in 2004 and check fraud in 2007. While incarcerated, she picked up charges for stabbing her cellmate in the eye, burning an inmate and throwing hot water on an officer.

Her 2017 release marked a new beginning. Through therapy and other support services, she learned to manage her anger and stay out of trouble. She started working long days in construction. She checked in yearly with immigration agents.

But in 2023, work dried up. She fell behind on rent and felt her mental health slipping. She applied for a women’s transitional housing program in Baltimore.

Pires thrived there. With no high school diploma and only second-grade reading skills, she qualified for a state-run job training course to polish and refinish floors. Photos show her smiling broadly in a blue graduation gown.

This year, on March 6, Pires showed up at the Baltimore immigration office for her annual check-in. Instead of receiving a compliance report, she was handcuffed and detained.

That sparked a journey across America's immigration detention system. From Baltimore, she was sent to New Jersey and Louisiana before landing at Eloy Detention Center in Arizona.

A deportation priority, and starting from scratch in Brazil

On June 2, in an email exchange obtained by AP, an ICE agent asked to have Pires prioritized for an upcoming deportation flight to Brazil.

Her lawyer tried to stop the deportation. He received terrified calls from Pires, who was transferred to a facility near Alexandria, Louisiana, a common waypoint for deportation flights.

Finally, Pires said, she was handcuffed, shackled, put on a bus, driven to the Alexandria airport and loaded onto an airplane.

“I was just praying to God,” she said. “Maybe this is his plan.”

After two stops to drop off other deportees, they arrived in the Brazilian port city of Fortaleza.

Brazilian authorities later took Pires to a women’s shelter in the eastern part of the country.

She's spent months trying to get Brazilian identification documents. Most of her belongings are in a Baltimore storage unit. She tries to remain hopeful.

“I’ve survived all these years,” Pires said. “I can survive again.”

Her attorney filed an application for U.S. citizenship. But federal officials say that’s not happening, citing her "serial criminal record.

Pires applied for Brazilian work authorization. In moments of optimism, she imagines herself working as a translator, earning a decent salary and renting a nice apartment.

She wonders if God’s plan will ever become clear.

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Mauricio Savarese contributed from Sao Paulo, Brazil.