Lincoln Park Assault

Aliicia Menendez stood on the corner, near the ivy-covered mansion designed by James Nagle; she was waiting for her bus. She casually glanced down North Burling Street and noticed a gang of men staring at her. There were at least a dozen. Alicia did a double take. They were done up in military gear and their face coverings and gasmasks gave them the aspect of a swarm of six foot, 200-lb. insects. One of them pointed at her. They all wore coats emblazed across the back with ICE.

Uneasy, she began to drift from the bus stop. She looked again and they were moving, en masse, in her direction. Dropping her packages and clutching her purse, she took flight, in the direction of the intersection of West Armitage Avenue and North Halsted Street. She was wearing low heels and couldn’t make good time.

She fled for about half a city block before the big bugs caught up with her. Someone reached out and grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her back. Alicia cried out in pain.

“Get her ass on the ground,” one man barked gruffly and she was thrown to the pavement. Her hose shredded, her skirt tore. Her other arm was twisted behind her and twist ties affixed about her wrists.

“I got her purse,” said one of the men, turning up her handbag. “Alicia Menendez,” he muttered aloud. “She ain’t from Chicago.”

“Okay, Alicia Menendez,” purred a man, mocking her, “where’s you effing green card. Where are your documents, Beaner? You ain’t got ’em, do you?” he asked smartly.”

“I’m a citizen,” she wailed shrilly, then began to sob.

By this time, a crowd had begun to gather: Hispanics, Anglos, African Americans, a mixed-bag. They began to edge closer.

“Stand the fuck back!” shouted the presumptive leader. “This is official ICE business. You got no business here. Disperse or be detained.”

“You got a warrant?” asked a high-pitched voice. A woman. The crowd began rumbling angrily. The thugs of ICE looked uneasy.

“Like this lady said,” said a dark-suited man, “do you have a warrant?”

“What the hell are you?” asked the leader of ICE. “A goddamn lawyer?”

“I’m an immigration attorney,” replied the other man.

“This is a perfectly legal warrantless arrest, Esquire,” said the man bitingly. “You just carry your ass on out of here, while you can still walk.”

“What’s your reasonable suspicion?” asked the lawyer. “Warrantless arrests are only valid with probable cause or its equivalent.”

“She ran,” pointed out the head thug heavily.

“Because you ran after her,” the lawyer reminded her.

“If she wasn’t guilty, then why did she run?” ask the man, boldly putting his foot on the back of the prone Alicia.

“You men are all strangers to her. You’re heavily armed. You’re wearing masks. I saw the whole thing. You didn’t identify yourself as agents.”

Before the man could respond, one of his minions said, “Eh, Mike, this lady is a U.S. citizen.”

“Huh? And how do you know that?”

“Passport,” replied the other man, holding it out for Mike’s inspection.

Without another word, Mike bent and cut Alicia’s bonds. Then, as if on cue, two black SUVs rumbled up and, still without a word, the men climbed aboard. The vehicles sped away.

The attorney knelt and helped Alicia to her feet. “Anything I can do for you, ma’am?” he asked kindly.

“Wh…what happened?” she asked in a bewildered voice. “I’m a stranger to Chicago,” she explained. “I’m from Milwaukee.”