Tom Homan, President Trump’s Border Czar, speaks to The Alex Marlow Show podcast in Washington
Tom Homan, President Trump’s Border Czar, speaks to The Alex Marlow Show podcast in Washington, D.C. on why he chose to help the government make the southern border safer.
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Homan had a long chat with Alex Marlow, the editor-in-chief of Breitbart, about the consequences to people and society of policies that favor mass immigration.
Homan got a job with the U.S. Border Patrol in 1984. Later, he became the first person from the Department of Homeland Security to lead Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). He has always been a strong supporter of stronger immigration and border enforcement throughout his entire career.
Breitbart reported that Homan worked for six presidents, the first of whom was Ronald Reagan. People thought he was neutral in both Democratic and Republican governments for a long period.
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Since he went back to work for the federal government, Homan has become one of the most targeted officials in the Trump administration. A lot of people who don’t like the administration’s immigration policy have been pretty harsh on him.
When Marlow confronted Homan about the threats and attacks he gets every day, Homan said, “I don’t care.”
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I remarked, “This is the second time I’ve come out of retirement for the president.” “It’s hard to say no to the president of the United States and help him fix something where thousands of people have died,” Homan said. “So I knew the hate was coming.” “And, you know, sadly, my family has to pay the price.” I haven’t lived with my family in months because of the threats on my life. But my family realizes how important this task is.
Homan said during the interview that his opponents would understand how serious he is about border security more if they had gone through what he has over the past three and a half decades.
He claimed that his long career in immigration enforcement has made him even more eager to protect the country’s borders, which he called a very personal and highly effective mission.
Homan said, “These are just a few things.” “If they held the dead kids I’ve held, talked to little girls as young as 9 who were raped multiple times by cartel handlers, stood on the back of a tractor-trailer when 19 people were at your feet because they baked to death, including a 5-year-old boy…running an operation in Arizona where alien smuggling cartels are ripping bodies apart with drugs, and when someone couldn’t pay their smuggling fees, they would torture them and call their relatives and let them listen while they torture them and kill them because they couldn’t pay the fees.”
“If you wore my shoes for three and a half decades, you wouldn’t ask that question because I’ve seen so much tragedy in my life that it’s who I am today.” “So when they ask me to come back and protect the border and you know it will save lives, how do you say no?”
Homan got angry as he talked about the five-year-old boy and nine-year-old girl he had met in his job. He said that what they went through and how much anguish they were in stayed with him.
“The 19 dead aliens in the back of a tractor-trailer break my heart the most.” Homan said, “When I got to the back of that tractor-trailer, there were already several bodies on the ground. When the doors finally opened, people rushed out to get air, and some of the dead bodies that were fighting for a small hole where the break light used to be to breathe were pushed out.”
“I noticed a dead five-year-old boy in his underpants when I glanced back inside. His father was holding him on top of him. He said, “Most of them, if not all of them, were in their underwear because they were trying to cool off in that steel cage.”
I’m An ER Doctor With 15 Years Of Experience
"I’m An ER Doctor With 15 Years Of Experience. When A Heavily Pregnant Woman Came In With A Massively Swollen Leg, I Thought It Was A Routine Blood Clot. Then, I Pressed The Skin… And Something Underneath Pushed Back."
I’ve been an emergency room doctor for over fifteen years, working in one of the busiest trauma centers in Chicago.
I’ve seen it all.
I’ve pulled bullets out of gang members, restarted hearts that had been still for minutes, and delivered babies in the back of cramped, moving ambulances.
You build a thick skin in this line of work. You learn to detach your emotions, to look at a human being as a puzzle of anatomy and physiology that needs to be solved before the clock runs out.
But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for the sheer, cold terror I felt when I touched her leg.
It was a Tuesday night, somewhere around 2:00 AM.
The kind of night where the bitter November wind howls against the sliding glass doors of the ER, and the waiting room is packed with coughing kids and exhausted parents.
I was on hour ten of a fourteen-hour shift.
My back ached, my eyes burned from the harsh fluorescent lights, and the stale hospital coffee in my cup had gone ice cold hours ago.
I was standing at the nurses' station, rubbing my temples and trying to chart my last patient, when Brenda, our veteran charge nurse, tapped my shoulder.
Brenda doesn't flinch at anything. She’s been an ER nurse longer than I’ve been out of med school.
But when I turned to look at her, her face was pale. Her jaw was set in a tight, grim line.
"Doc," she said, her voice dropping to a low whisper so the patients in the hallway wouldn't hear. "You need to get to Bay 4. Right now."
"What do we have?" I asked, instantly tossing my pen down and following her rapid pace down the corridor.
"Twenty-eight-year-old female. Eight months pregnant. Presenting with severe, localized swelling and acute pain in the right lower extremity."
"Deep Vein Thrombosis?" I guessed, running through the mental checklist.
Pregnancy drastically increases the risk of blood clots. A DVT in the leg is dangerous. If that clot breaks off and travels to her lungs, it becomes a pulmonary embolism.
That’s a death sentence for the mother, and by extension, the baby.
"That's what triage thought," Brenda said, swiping her badge to open the double doors to the trauma bay. "But Doc… it doesn't look right. It doesn't feel right."
I didn't have time to ask what she meant. We pushed through the curtain into Bay 4.
The room was filled with the frantic, rhythmic beeping of the fetal heart monitor and the mother's rapid, shallow breathing.
Her name was Sarah.
She was young, probably in her late twenties, but right now, she looked fragile and terrified.
She was propped up on the hospital bed, her massive belly resting beneath a thin hospital gown.
Her face was drenched in a cold sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead. Her eyes were wide, darting wildly around the room.
Sitting in the plastic chair beside the bed was her husband, Mark.
He was gripping Sarah’s left hand so tightly his knuckles were completely white. He looked like he was on the verge of passing out.
"Dr. Vance," Brenda announced as we walked in.
I forced a calm, reassuring smile onto my face. It's the mask we wear to keep the panic from spreading.
"Hi Sarah, I'm Dr. Vance," I said, stepping up to the side of the bed. "I hear you're having some trouble with your leg tonight."
"It hurts," Sarah gasped out, tears welling up in her eyes. "It hurts so bad, Doctor. It feels like it’s burning from the inside out."
"Okay, take slow, deep breaths for me," I instructed, glancing up at the monitor.
The baby’s heart rate was a little elevated—probably a response to the mother's immense stress and pain—but still within a safe, viable range.
"When did this start?" I asked, pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves.
"Just… just today," Mark stammered, standing up. "We woke up this morning and her calf was a little puffy. We figured it was just normal pregnancy swelling, you know? Water retention."
"But then it kept getting bigger," Sarah cried, her breathing growing more erratic. "By dinner time, I couldn't put any weight on it. And then the pain started. It’s like a throbbing… like pressure building up under my skin."
"Has she had any trauma to the leg?" I asked, scanning her chart on the tablet Brenda handed me. "Any falls? Any recent long trips or flights?"
"No flights," Mark said, shaking his head rapidly. "We just got back from a camping trip up near the state park a few days ago. We were trying to get one last weekend away before the baby comes. But we didn't hike or anything. She just sat in the cabin."
A camping trip.
I filed that piece of information away in my brain, though at the time, I didn't think much of it.
People go camping all the time. But people also get blood clots after sitting idle in cabins for a weekend.
"Alright Sarah, I'm going to pull this blanket back and take a look, okay?" I said, my voice steady and professional. "It might be a little uncomfortable, but I need to see exactly what we're dealing with."
She nodded weakly, squeezing her eyes shut.
I reached down and grabbed the edge of the stark white hospital blanket.
I pulled it back, exposing her lower legs.
I’ve seen horrific injuries in my career. I’ve seen crushed limbs and severe burns.
But the sight of Sarah’s right leg made my breath catch in my throat for a fraction of a second.
The contrast was jarring. Her left leg was perfectly normal—a little swollen at the ankle, as expected at thirty-two weeks pregnant, but otherwise healthy.
Her right leg, however, was a nightmare.
From the knee down to the ankle, it was swollen to nearly three times its normal size.
The skin was stretched so incredibly tight it looked shiny, almost like it was made of polished wax.
It wasn't just red; it was an angry, deep purple color, mottled with dark, bruising patches that spread like a horrific map across her calf.
The heat radiating off the limb was palpable. I could feel the feverish warmth of her skin before my hands even made contact with it.
"Oh my god," Mark whispered, bringing a trembling hand to his mouth as he looked at it. "It looks worse than it did at home."
It looked like a massive, severe deep vein thrombosis. Or perhaps a raging case of cellulitis, a deep skin infection.
Both were life-threatening. Both required immediate, aggressive intervention.
"Brenda, let's get the portable ultrasound machine in here right now," I ordered, not taking my eyes off the leg. "We need to check the deep veins for a blockage. And let's get a full panel drawn—CBC, CMP, D-dimer, and blood cultures."
"Already ordered, Doc. Tech is on the way with the ultrasound," Brenda replied efficiently.
"Doctor… is my baby going to be okay?" Sarah sobbed, her body trembling with fear and pain. "Please don't let anything happen to my baby."
"We are doing everything we can, Sarah," I said softly, stepping closer to the bed. "Right now, my priority is figuring out exactly what's causing this swelling. I'm going to need to touch your leg to check for pitting edema and to feel the temperature and tension. Tell me if it’s too painful."
"Okay," she whispered, bracing herself.
I held my gloved hands out, my fingers hovering just inches above the inflamed, purple skin of her calf.
The room was deathly quiet, save for the rhythmic, rapid thump-thump-thump of the fetal monitor.
I gently placed my hands on the sides of her calf.
The skin was burning hot. It felt like I was touching a radiator.
First press.
I applied gentle pressure with my right thumb, pushing down into the swollen tissue near her shin.
Usually, with fluid retention, the skin will 'pit'—leaving a small indentation where your thumb was.
But here, the tissue was rock hard. There was no give. It was incredibly firm, indicating severe inflammation and incredible pressure building up inside the muscle fascia.
Second press.
I moved my hands slightly lower, moving toward the thickest part of the calf muscle.
I pressed down again, a little firmer this time, trying to gauge the depth of the induration.
Sarah let out a sharp, agonizing cry.
"Ah! Stop, please, it burns!" she shrieked, her back arching off the bed.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said quickly, easing up the pressure but keeping my hands on her leg. "Just one more spot, Sarah. I just need to check the posterior muscle belly."
I moved my right hand around to the back of her calf.
The skin here was the darkest shade of purple. It looked angry, inflamed, ready to burst.
I took a breath.
Third press.
I pushed my thumb firmly into the thickest part of the swollen, discolored calf muscle.
I expected it to feel like a hard knot of swollen tissue. I expected it to feel like a massive blood clot.
Instead, the tissue beneath my thumb… gave way.
But it didn't just give way like fluid.
As my thumb pressed down into the tight, burning skin, something pushed back.
My heart completely stopped in my chest.
I froze. My breath hitched.
Beneath the hot, stretched surface of her skin, right against the pad of my thumb, I felt a distinct, solid shape.
It was thick. It was hard.
And it was heavily segmented.
Like ridges on a pipe.
Or joints on a massive finger.
I stared at her leg, my eyes wide, my mind completely rejecting the sensory input my hand was sending to my brain.
Medical science says this is a blood clot. Medical science says this is an infection.
But as I held my thumb there, paralyzed in absolute disbelief... the segmented shape beneath her skin suddenly rippled.
It shifted.
It writhed away from the pressure of my hand, gliding under the surface of the skin toward her knee.
A visible, sickening bulge moved up her calf, tracking right beneath the purple flesh.
This wasn't a blood clot.
This wasn't an infection.
Something was alive inside her leg.
