ON GRAND AVENUE IN CHICAGO, ACROSS FROM THE TIRE SHOP where the kids used to ride bikes and the shop owners now keep their heads down, a man named Silverio Villegas-Gonzalez died in a silver sedan with the window shot out and his name already forgotten by the men who killed him.
He wasn’t famous. He didn’t have a lawyer or a camera crew. He had four traffic tickets, none violent. A scraped car he offered to fix. A kid he played with after work. And a fear, they say, that sat so deeply in him it drove him to flee when ICE agents came like ghosts in military gear.
The feds say he tried to drive through them. The feds always say that…