Fear has become a currency in America’s immigration system, and two federal lawsuits raise the disturbing question of whether it is being monetized.

Camila Overmyer, an Indiana-based beauty influencer turned immigration commentator, is accused of using Spanish-language TikTok livestreams to convince frightened immigrants seeking humanitarian relief that their lawyers may have implicated them in fraud. The complaints allege that she solicited contracts, immigration records, and sworn statements while directing viewers toward competing attorneys. One lawsuit further alleges that Overmyer acknowledged receiving commissions when referrals became paying clients.

The allegations remain contested, but they expose a danger larger than any dispute among law firms: What happens when someone without identified legal training gains immigrants’ trust, undermines their existing counsel, and may profit from directing them elsewhere?

The stakes are especially high in President Trump’s second term. Immigration detentions and deportation proceedings are skyrocketing, and millions of people are in desperate need of immigration legal assistance. A single legal filing can determine whether a family remains together or is permanently separated.

Houston-based Meneses Law alleges in its federal complaint that at least ten clients terminated or began canceling their agreements because of Overmyer’s social media activity. In a separate federal case, the Dublin, Ohio–based Lisinski Law Firm alleges that Overmyer and several attorneys coordinated broadcasts accusing it of fraud while encouraging clients to seek representation elsewhere. Lisinski says it received more than 475 calls from concerned clients.

“The noncitizens are caught in the middle running the risk of getting stuck in removal or ending up in ICE detention because they lost an attorney,” Kevin R. Johnson, a UC Davis law professor emeritus and immigration scholar, told me.

He immediately qualified his assessment: “And I have no knowledge one way or the other whether the attorneys are providing good legal advice or not.”

Many of those affected are pursuing humanitarian relief involving domestic abuse, sexual violence, or forced labor. A mistaken decision can affect employment authorization, deportation exposure, family unity, and their ability to remain in the United States.

The Trump administration’s heightened immigration enforcement policies make competent legal advice especially consequential. In this environment, pressure to abandon counsel or surrender sensitive case files deserves particular scrutiny.

Describing advice given to families facing detention risks, Johnson said, “Every family with an undocumented parent should have a plan for if the parent gets detained.” Such planning includes deciding who would care for the children and explaining those arrangements to them.

That context adds serious gravity to allegations that Overmyer encouraged viewers to question their existing counsel and seek help elsewhere. Such people, listening to a livestream with the fate of their entire family on the line, are in an exceptionally vulnerable state.

Overmyer is not the only one accused of this behavior. Regulators in California and Texas have acted against nonlawyers accused of using Facebook, TikTok, and YouTube to market paid legal guidance, underscoring broader concerns about online personalities converting perceived authority into legal business.

It also arrives at a moment when immigrants, lawyers, and regulators are scrutinizing the entire immigration services landscape. In May, the Washington State Bar accused Alexandra Lozano, an immigration attorney who marketed heavily on social media, of fraud. She permanently surrendered her license rather than face discipline, though she denies any wrongdoing. The bar says her signature appears on more than 53,000 pending cases. Former clients have sued, and the fraud unit at U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) is investigating, according to reporting by the Associated Press.

I reached out to Overmyer for comment, but did not get a response.

The fallout has rippled well beyond one firm. USCIS has announced an overhaul of the domestic-violence visa program, citing “rampant fraud,” and immigrants with legitimate humanitarian claims are left wondering whether their own cases are safe. That anxiety is understandable—and it is exactly what makes this moment ripe for exploitation. When trust in immigration lawyers is shaken across the board, anyone who claims to know which firm is next can command an audience and, one lawsuit alleges, a commission.

“As far as law firms are concerned, I’ve not seen a fraudulent filing by a law firm,” Texas-based immigration attorney Chris Garcia said of the hundreds of deportation and USCIS cases he’s seen. What he has repeatedly encountered, however, are faulty applications prepared by nonlawyers, including notarios—people who merely believe they understand immigration law and earn the trust of immigrants in need of services.

Garcia warned that immigrants may request their files from counsel and hand privileged information to a non-attorney. Sharing those materials with unrelated third parties may compromise their confidentiality and, depending on the circumstances, jeopardize attorney-client privilege.

Garcia said that in Texas lawyers are barred from splitting legal fees with nonlawyers or paying them referral fees. The arrangement disincentivizes a working relationship, but it’s not the case in all states, where partnerships between lawyers and nonlawyers can become vague.

What makes the case against Overmyer particularly challenging is that evaluating the accusations attributed to her also requires distinguishing dishonest filings from aggressive legal advocacy.

“It’s very difficult to show fraud by an attorney as opposed to aggressive advocacy by an attorney, absent some kind of glaring problems in the papers submitted,” Johnson said.

Johnson said a disclaimer acknowledging someone is not a lawyer provides “some protection from charges that she was providing legal advice,” but the boundary between protected commentary and legal advice is not always clear.

Public criticism can expose genuine wrongdoing. But audiences—especially vulnerable ones—deserve to know when someone profits from the advice they offer. The allegations against Overmyer raise a central question: Did financial incentives shape her warnings about immigration lawyers and her recommendations of competing firms? Answering that requires evidence about her statements, referrals, and compensation. Immigrants making decisions about their families’ futures deserve to know who profits from their trust.

“It’s kind of like saying, ‘I’m not a surgeon, but I’m going to go out and open your heart and fix the valve,’” Garcia said. “There has to be some sort of accountability there.”