I was supposed to have a drink with an ICE agent.
His wife had arranged it—she said it was important that I, and others like me, understood. She said her husband was a good man, doing a hard job for the sake of the country, and she wanted me to understand. She said they didn’t want any trouble. That he wasn’t one of the bad ones. That he’d explain everything, and I’d like him.
She told me he had a gay cousin.
I wanted to understand. I still do.
This couple isn’t anonymous to me. She once worked at a nonprofit with a friend of mine. They attend a church where I know the pastor. Our lives nearly overlap—just a few degrees of separation, really. That’s the thing about Spokane. With a little work and cleverness, we know these people.
He messaged. “Not all ICE agents are good people,” he wrote, “but a lot are trying to be.” He said he’d explain it all—“over a drink.”
“I want to understand,” I replied back.
He shared that he had to support his family. He said he’d heard I knew someone who’d been previously taken. He said that was unfortunate but that, “sometimes things are messy.” Some people are being taken “just in case… for safety.”
He assured me he’d help me understand.
But then he didn’t show up. I sat at the restaurant alone. One drink, one empty chair.
And I very much do not understand.
Two days later, two young men—Cesar Perez and Joswar Rodriguez—were taken into ICE custody in Spokane. Not dragged off the street. Not found in a raid. They were detained at their routine ICE check-in. They had entered the U.S. legally after qualifying for asylum. Both had work visas. Both had sponsors—one a former Spokane City Council President, a Democrat. The other was in the process of securing a former County Commissioner, a Republican.
They had court dates scheduled for October.
They followed the rules.
They were not given notice. No time to call their employers. No chance to hug friends or pack belongings. Just vanished into a system that keeps few receipts and offers even fewer explanations.
Alvarez’s sponsor put out a desperate call on social media. That’s how I found out.
I’d just left a board meeting, and, as I walked toward the ICE building, I texted my husband:
“I’m going to the protest.”
I looked up from my phone. There he was, my husband—already standing there, just about to text me the same thing. We joined hundreds of others- teachers, social workers, lawyers, reporters, senior citizens, children- all trying to understand while taking a stand.
We both knew where we needed to be. We’d both watched a beloved neighbor disappear into this system just two months ago. A man also here legally on a work visa. He was taken while pumping gas before work. His fiancée, a local schoolteacher, was shattered.
So we stood together outside the ICE facility, facing a tall metal fence. Behind it, masked agents in dark sunglasses glared at us—unmoved by our pleas.
I stared back, wondering if one of them was the man I was supposed to have a drink with. The “good” man. The one who said, “sometimes things are messy.”
The man who promised to help me understand.
The man who never showed up.
I want to believe people are good. I want to believe that broken systems can be mended by those working inside them. I want to understand what would compel someone to sign off on ripping lives apart without warning—lives of people who followed every rule we gave them.
But understanding requires honesty. It requires presence. And dinner. And drinks. And conversations that don't disappear when they become uncomfortable. It requires courage.
I want to understand.
But for now, all I have is an empty chair and more questions than answers.
And two more names to remember: Cesar Perez and Joswar Rodriguez.
