Men and women in heavy makeup stood before video cameras talking about the debacle. It was six o'clock but the morning traffic was lighter than usual. It was a holiday of violence which most people stayed home to observe.
Everything from a certain point of view seemed ordinary, almost orchestrated. The policemen in their fancy war dress, the anchors and their cameramen, a day to stay home from school.
But then Socrates Fortlow, in his sandwich board, came through an alley into the street across from the police and their chroniclers. He planted his feet defiantly and stood with his message still intact. The bloodred letters seeming prophetic now; the questions and accusations a bit more serious.
Katy Moran of
a TV news program that Socrates had never seen or even heard of, was the first to notice him and register his potential to her career.
?Excuse me, sir,? she asked. She had run up to him followed by a cameraman and someone else who held a microphone on a pole. ?Were you here yesterday morning when the violence began??
She was a beautiful white woman dressed in a tan two-piece suit. Her lips were a deep peach hue. Her blouse was brown silk and there was a green jeweled pin on the lapel that folded over her heart. Socrates wondered about the pin while other news broadcasters came his way. He wondered if she had decided to wear that pin because somebody would see it on TV and like it. He wondered who that somebody was.
The microphone was hovering over his head.
?Were you the one who was here yesterday?? Katy Moran asked.
?It's right here on my sandwich board,? Socrates said.
?What does it say?? Katy Moran asked. Five microphones were jammed in front of his face.
?All you got to do is read it,? Socrates said.
The newscasters and reporters stood back to allow their cameras to record the document. Then the police broke through. They pushed the reporters aside and grabbed Socrates, throwing him to the ground. They ripped the sandwich boards from him and put on a new pair of handcuffs and dragged him toward the station.
?Are you arresting him for starting the riot?? Katy Moran's voice asked.
?Does this man have rights?? a man's voice shouted. Socrates thought it was the voice of a black man but he wasn't quite sure.
He was dragged into the station and thrown into a room. He was surrounded by at least a dozen angry cops. All of them pushing and swearing.
For a moment Socrates thought that he was going to die. He could tell when there was murder in the air.
?All right, back off!? a plainclothes black police officer shouted.
The white sergeant from the day before pressed his chest up against the detective. ?Who the hell are you??
?Sergeant Biggers. They called me from Watts because I know this man.?
?This nigger's mine,? the burly sergeant replied.
Instead of answering, Biggers slammed a beefy fist against the sergeant's jaw. The man went down and out.
Socrates had never been so surprised in his adult life. The men yelling, blood coming from the mouth of the downed sergeant. Biggers shouting, ?Back off!?
Another man entered the room then. His uniform was that of some high rank. Maybe a commander, Socrates thought. This man didn't say anything, but his presence brought silence to the angry men in the room.
?Biggers,? the commander said. ?Bring him down the hall, to alpha room.?
?He hit Sergeant Taylor,? a uniform complained to his commander.
?Somebody had to one day,? the commander replied.
