Jay was just diving into the first of his ten points when he heard the other group come in. It was two dozen of ’em, at least. They came in through the back door, their feet heavy on the linoleum floor, their march exaggerated to get everyone’s atten tion. Cynthia was at the head, her fist in the air.
At the sight of her, Jay lost his place in the speech.
Behind him, he heard Marcus whisper, “What the fuck are they doing here?”
Jay had told Cynthia to stay away. He had told SDS to stay out of it. He was sure this was another one of their stunts.
Cynthia climbed onto the dais.
Jay covered the microphone with his hand. He whispered, “What is this?”
She was wearing a man’s vest over a ruffled, coral-colored blouse. She tugged at her shirt, smoothing it out. “This is our fight too, Jay.”
She yanked the microphone right out of his hand.
“Brothers and sisters.”
Bumpy grabbed Jay by the arm. “What the fuck?” he said, loud enough for the microphone to pick up the words and lob them across the room. Cynthia turned around to face Bumpy. “We mean you no disrespect, brother,” she said, her voice dulcet, almost cheerful. “But this is something that affects us all.”
The spectators on the floor seemed confused. SDS had taken up positions along the walls. Jay, the organizer of the march, had seemingly lost control. The air in the room felt tight, in short supply. The cameraman from the
Cynthia was now addressing her comments to the black folks on the floor. “We are here today not as rivals but as compatriots, partners in struggle,” she said. “Make no mistake, we appreciate the struggle for our people in Africa.”
“But we have some domestic issues that need to be addressed first. Namely, the encroachment of the federal government and their systematic oppression of our right to peaceably assemble. They are infiltrating our groups, people, illegally tape-recording our phone conversations.”
Jay reached for the microphone. Cynthia shoved him back.
“We know your group has been hit,” she said, looking back at the men onstage, looking a little too long and hard at Roger. “And we stand here in solidarity with you, to say we’re not going to take this anymore.”
She pointed a pale white finger in Roger’s direction. “The rat must go.”
Jay grabbed her from behind, and the microphone dropped to the floor, a loud thump echoing across the room. One of the SDS boys yelled, “Let her talk, man. You guys don’t own the cafeteria, you know.”
Jay had her firmly in his arms. He pressed his cheek against her neck. He whispered in her ear. “Stop this, Cynthia. Stop this shit right now.”
She was still glaring at Roger, calling him a rat, over and over.
Roger, a little guy to begin with, was only a few inches taller than Cynthia. He squared his shoulders and stepped to her, hopped up on the balls of his feet, peering down at her as best he could. “What the fuck you just call me?”
“I called you a rat, motherfucker.” She took her same white finger and poked him in the chest with it. Not once, but twice. Which was all it took. Roger hit her across the mouth with his fist, knocking her so hard that her head butted back and caught Jay across the chin. When Roger raised his hand to her again, Jay pushed Cynthia aside and clocked the man himself. He got Roger good across his cheekbone, and then once in the stomach.
There were flashbulbs going off every few seconds. The pho tographer was snapping away. Cynthia had tumbled to the floor of the stage. Jay squatted down and asked her if she was okay. He didn’t see Roger behind him. But he felt a swift kick across his ribs and felt himself falling from the stage, dragging Cynthia with him. When he looked up from the cafeteria floor, Lloyd had Roger by the arms. Bumpy had a weapon drawn at his side, ready if need be.
A few months later, Marcus Dupri would testify on the stand that he saw what happened next from the stage. He saw the first chair get thrown. It was a white kid, he said to the judge and jury. It was SDS who started the worst of it.
But in the end, it didn’t matter because, after that, all hell broke loose.
First, some of the SDS boys in the back overturned a table.
The rest of them rushed the stage.
The African liberation banner came down in someone’s fist.
Marcus Dupri shoved one of the white kids tearing up the stage.
Somebody punched Lloyd across the mouth.
Lloyd let go of Roger and grabbed a member of SDS by the back of the neck. He whacked the kid across the knees with the microphone stand.
The whole stage exploded into a ball of arms and legs.
Bumpy fired his weapon into the air.
In the back, the cafeteria workers ran.
Jay ducked, covering his head as the first window was bro ken.
