FAC Weekly Update: Twenty Years Later and Still Sleeping on Concrete. Help Us End This

Weekly update for October 20, 2026. This is recording number 400

Dear Members and Advocates,

This past Thursday night, one of our county coordinators and I accompanied a reporter from the Miami New Times to one of the homeless encampments in Fort Lauderdale. It was after 10 p.m., well past my usual bedtime. But we had no choice. Under the law, this was when people on the registry were required to be there: between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. Ironic. During the day, these individuals are working, spending time with their families, showering, using a bathroom, and in the community, simply going about the ordinary routines most of us take for granted. But for eight hours every night, they are expected to return to street corners, parking lots, and whatever other scraps of space remain available to them. No bed. No bathroom. No shower. No shelter from the elements. Just eight hours of trying to exist without getting arrested.

Close to 11 p.m., we arrived at a parking lot behind a run-down strip mall along Federal Highway. I had driven past this place plenty of times, never thinking twice that it was “home” to nearly 100 registered people forced to live this way. There were no parks, schools, or daycares in sight. But even that observation felt beside the point. It was nearly 11 p.m.! What children would be there or out anywhere? And what exactly was the “public-safety” purpose of requiring people to spend the night in a parking lot?

As we pulled in, we saw a scattering of cars. That wouldn’t ordinarily be unusual in a parking lot, except that every business in the plaza was closed. Look a little closer, though, and you began to notice things: windows cracked open, the faint glow of a cellphone illuminating a face inside a vehicle. These weren’t people waiting for a store to open. These were people at “home.” We approached as gently as possible. We waved or tapped on windows, introduced ourselves, offered an FAC brochure, and explained what we were doing there. The reporter asked questions, and we listened.

Most people were understandably reluctant to engage. Imagine being in their position. You are sleeping in a parking lot because the law has made it impossible to find somewhere else to live. You have every reason to be suspicious of strangers approaching your car after dark. How many people have come out here simply because they wanted to help? But a few people were willing to talk. Once they understood why we were there, some opened up about their lives.

One man had been released from prison just two months earlier. He already had a job, and his family lived nearby. The car we found him in belonged to his sister, who let him borrow it to sleep in. But when she needed to use the car herself, he slept on the sidewalk in front of one of the businesses in the plaza. Every night, he came to the parking lot shortly before 10 p.m. Every morning, he left promptly at 6 a.m. He went to work, then to his sister’s home, where he could spend time with family, eat, clean himself up, and prepare for the next day. He had a job. He had family nearby. He had somewhere he could live—he could have been living with his sister. But for these laws, he would be.

Another man had managed to create a somewhat more comfortable arrangement. We were drawn to his converted camper van by the sound of a generator humming. He was working, running his own business, and clearly making the best of a terrible situation. His brother had helped him purchase the van, giving him at least some protection from the elements and a measure of privacy. He had been living this way for six years! He had originally parked in a nicer lot nearby, but when the property owners put up “No Trespassing” signs, his probation officer told him he had to leave. He moved across the street. Then, after a Local 10 news story about the encampment a couple of months ago, he was told he would be arrested if he returned. So, he moved again.

So far, this lot has largely escaped public attention. But we all know how this works. Eventually, someone will complain, the property owner will put up signs, or something will draw attention to the people living there. Then what? When the reporter asked where he would go if this parking lot also became off-limits, there was no answer. He asked the same of everyone. Nobody knew. What struck me about this man was his attitude. He wasn’t making excuses for his past. He acknowledged that he had done something wrong, served his time, and was trying to move forward. All he cared about was working and providing for the mouths he had to feed. Despite the circumstances, he had to support his family. Six years of living in a van, moving from one parking lot to another, because there is nowhere else he is permitted to go. These laws endure for life.

There were perhaps a dozen people in cars and another dozen without them. We were told that many of those without cars spent the night in the bushes or walking around the tiny perimeter of the area they were permitted to occupy under GPS monitoring, waiting until it was time to settle down. But what about the nearly 100 people registered at this location? The uncomfortable reality is that many were likely somewhere else entirely. People who are not on probation still have to register an address. When the law makes it impossible to register the place where they actually live, they are forced to register somewhere else. And many are understandably unwilling to spend every night outdoors and deprived of basic human dignity. I cannot honestly say that, faced with the same choice, I would do anything differently.

People are being forced to choose between complying with a system that may require them to report an address where they cannot actually live and finding somewhere safe to sleep, even if doing so risks a violation. And that raises a fundamental question: If these laws drive people underground, encourage inaccurate reporting, and make it harder for authorities to know where people actually are, how effective are they as the “monitoring” tool they are supposed to be? What good is a registry that creates incentives for people to hide their actual living arrangements? How does making someone homeless between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. improve public safety? These are the real-world consequences that we’ve witnessed firsthand for decades.

This wasn’t my first visit to one of these encampments. Twenty years ago, I visited the Julia Tuttle Causeway. I’ve also visited the railroad tracks in Hialeah several times. The conditions I saw in Fort Lauderdale were not a surprise. But knowing what to expect didn’t make the experience any easier. That night, as I lay in my own bed, I had trouble sleeping. Part of it was guilt. I was warm, comfortable, and safe, while people I had met just hours earlier were sleeping on cardboard and concrete. They were listening for approaching footsteps, avoiding rain and bugs, or wondering how long they would be allowed to remain in the place they had found. But the other thing keeping me awake was anger. Two decades and we are still here! Everyone knows these conditions exist. Everyone knows the laws create barriers to housing, employment, family stability, and successful reintegration. Everyone knows these laws are ineffective. Yet the problem persists.

There is no shortage of political rhetoric about public safety. There is no shortage of politicians eager to promise that they will be tough on crime. But when it comes to examining whether these laws actually work, whether they make communities safer, or whether they simply impose suffering without achieving their stated goals, there is remarkably little political courage. It is easier to look away. It is easier to pretend these people don’t exist. And it is easier to pass another law than to acknowledge that the laws we already have on the books are doing more harm than good.

Our lawsuit is about more than legal arguments and constitutional principles. It is about the man who should be able to live with his sister. It is about the man who has spent six years in a van while trying to support his family. And it’s about the thousands of others in the same situation across this state who I didn’t meet that night. It’s about all of us who are living under restrictions that deprive us of our families, our freedom, and the basic necessities of life, without any meaningful consideration of whether those restrictions are justified, effective, or constitutional.

The story will appear in the Miami New Times in the next week or so. It might even be the cover story for that edition. We hope that it will bring more awareness to this issue and change public perception. But outrage or sympathy alone won’t change the law. And a front-page story about these conditions, as important and as exciting as that is for our cause, won’t be enough to change these laws. Only a lawsuit will.

FAC took this fight to court because decades of inaction have made it clear that waiting for politicians to do the right thing is not a strategy. We are challenging these laws because everyone in Florida, registrant or not, deserves more than empty promises about public safety. They deserve laws that actually work, that respect the Constitution, and that don’t needlessly break down the lives of people who are trying to rebuild them.

Twenty years ago, I visited the Julia Tuttle Causeway. Last Thursday, I stood in a parking lot in Fort Lauderdale and met people living under the same cruel circumstances. I don’t want to be writing about another encampment years from now. So, let’s make sure we don’t have to. Please support FAC’s lawsuit and help us challenge these laws. We’ve spent two decades witnessing the problem. Now, together, we have a chance to do something about it.

Sincerely,

The Florida Action Committee

As of 10/16/2026, we are at 81% of our fundraising goal for this lawsuit! Help get us to the finish line by making a donation here. You can also make a tax-deductible donation to the Florida Action Foundation, Inc. (a 501(c)(3) entity) earmarked for this challenge by contacting [email protected].

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