The idea was simple: take the Green Line from Newhall early in the morning to its last stop at Union Station. A clean shot through the valley.

Leaving early would give me the chance to visit every stop, and understand how this distinct area of greater Los Angeles, with a huge South American and immigrant population, is feeling ICE’s presence.

Has anyone seen ICE agents behaving oddly in their neighborhoods or on public transit? Who would know?

I went to bed the night before with a head full of beer, and figured it would be wiser to leave much later in the day. It was a weekday, and I figured that commuters would clutter the story.

People who loiter see strange stuff first, and aren’t always in a hurry.

And there will be plenty of people hanging around on days like today, when the trains and buses run slower due to the high heat.

Newhall

I got a pack of cigarettes to offer to people who wanted to chat with me. I had an American breakfast and a Bloody Mary at the Egg Plantation; its close proximity to the station made it a perfect place to start my assignment.

On the way, I offered a homeless man help with his bags of cans he was carrying in the hot sun, so I could talk to him. He refused my help, but accepted a smoke.

He was Latino, spoke with a heavy accent, and said, “I do not fear ICE, not here.”

He whispered, “But the sheriffs, they work with the cartel.”

I gave him a cig for the road and headed toward my first train toward Los Angeles, beginning to realize, perhaps news stories won’t appear in front of me like Guidance of Grace just because I drink, give people cigarettes, and do no research.

On the train I learned that there was going to be a major demonstration in Pershing Square. This was a boost to my morale and sense of direction. My story’s climax would take place in the middle of the inflection point, blocks away from my final stop. Maybe I am riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave after all. If I am pure of heart, the story will unveil itself to me.

Sylmar

I talked to several different groups of homeless people who promised they would check out the podcast. One said, “Sylmar is really nice, so I’m not really worried about it right now. They might come, though.” He was mostly concerned about getting tickets for drinking in public, but he complained it’s the only way he can fall asleep, and he has no house to sleep in.

His friend was a street preacher. He was talking to homeless people about the gospel and getting help. He told me, “I take the bus from Sylmar to Van Nuys every day and haven’t seen anything, but I feel they will come soon.” He’d never been profiled by the police, he said, but he knew people who had. “There’s no reason to be afraid if you have Jesus in your heart.” I told him I agreed.

I talked to a young man taking the bus who works at the school district and hasn’t seen or heard of anything related to ICE. He told me it was “a good idea to ask people around the bus/train stations.” I appreciated that and was reassured.

I talked to a young couple separating trash from recycling. They felt things have been “very quiet, and not very many people are working on the street, and we’re on the street every day.” She shrugged and continued sorting cans: “We haven’t seen them, but we feel like they’re coming soon.”

I met an older man working at an auto shop. He said he’s “seen nothing but also heard that it’s happening a lot in Pacoima.”

He was actually the third person to mention Pacoima.

I grabbed a cold Bud Light at the store and considered my next move.

I heard that everyone was protesting downtown, but nearly half the people I’d talked to mentioned Pacoima as a serious target for ICE, and there was a bus that would take me right there.

However, the geographical narrative of the protest and the Green Line proved too compelling. Pacoima would have to wait.

Burbank — Downtown

I got off and ascertained there was no one here to talk to at this time. I figured my hour would be better spent at a nearby bar to cool off and gather my notes. I got two coconut cocktails on happy hour at the Broken Compass. There were many young and beautiful couples curious about the rotating seasonal cocktails. This was incredibly refreshing, and I was able to get out of the heat so I could think. Burbank always calms me down.

L.A. Union Station

An iconic and opulent Art Deco masterwork, with its high painted ceilings, imposing mission windows, and a bar. Which I went to. For no good reason other than pure greed. After some lovely chitchat with an older gentleman who was familiar with my small hometown in Washington, some protesters kindly asked me what I was doing there.

I told them what I’d been telling people all day, “that I’m a reporter, covering today’s events.” They were very confused and troubled that I was drinking with them and not covering the protest, so I paid my tab and took the Red Line to Pershing Square, embarrassed for slacking off.

Pershing Square

Here I saw thousands of people marching peacefully and joyously on what are normally very busy streets. They were carrying Mexican, American, and Palestinian flags. They were wearing Kaffiyehs and Gas Masks. Some elderly and some small children. I saw several police, national and news helicopters. I saw LAPD and the National Guard cutting off the area around City Hall. I didn’t see any protestors clashing or interfacing with the police. I met several people who insisted they should walk with me, so I didn’t have to walk by myself

I saw speakers talking furiously and articulately about why ICE, the Marines, and the National Guard have no business here. They pointed out that the actions the police are taking are illegal—which appears to be completely true, considering the widely circulated video evidence of kettling, shooting rubber bullets at journalists, etc.

I heard dozens of second-hand stories of brave escapes, long-term harassment, law-breaking, fighting, and arrests.

I saw none of it except for a man throwing a water bottle from the top of a tall building at a truck carrying a big watermelon that said Free Palestine.

I talked to some friends I bumped into there who said that if I wanted to talk directly to people who are being affected by this, I could have just asked them.

I wondered how I became so fixated on this idea of a roving journalist using alcohol and magic that I did not consider there are countless people who are much more knowledgeable about this than me, who would happily tell me exactly where to go and who to talk to.

Homeward

I was able to hitch a ride home about thirty minutes after the curfew ended, which was nice because the trains were shut down. I guess I was born lucky. Someone I knew tried to take the same train I planned on taking home, but was blocked off by the police and barred from entering before the Subway closed five hours early, leaving some commuters stranded and confused.

On the way home I wondered if I had done what I set out to do. I learned that for those specific people I talked to, on that parcticular day, ICE wasn’t on the forefront of their minds. I wondered if this was more of a clipboard exercise to monitor the condition of my own routes in and out of the city, or worse, just a backdrop for me to drink and watch something play out with little fear of consequence.

Maybe there is a current I can follow like a slipstream, and the truth will be revealed to me. And maybe I slipped out of it when I decided not to go to Pacoima.

I have not seen any evidence of that neighborhood being targeted specifically. But I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was. If anyone has heard anything about that, please email me at freecountrypod@gmail.com. I will reassess my strategy and investigate this tip further, and go out there if need be.

All of my love,

Jeff