Socrates called Iula at her diner from his backyard home. He asked her for a metal saw and a transistor radio. She brought them both, temporarily closing down her restaurant for the first time in over fourteen years of business. She told Socrates that she'd stay with him but he told her to go.
I just need to think, he explained.
It took four hours to hack through the metal cuff. While he worked at it the scratch radio reported on the violence.
The miniriot flared up sporadically through the day. There was a curfew set anywhere within eight blocks of the police station. There were four cops assigned to a cruiser, each one armed with a shotgun. They looked like space invaders, one eyewitness claimed, because of their helmets and heavy gloves.
By the time morning had come there was a sense of fear spread over Los Angeles. The schools were closed and store owners from all over town had taken up posts at the doors of their establishments, fearing looters but not, it seemed, death. News vans representing every TV station, and many radio stations, were parked on the street in front of the precinct headquarters where the violence had flared.
Late that night Iula brought him a baked chicken dinner with beer and half a blueberry pie.
You want me to stay with you? she asked while he picked at the meal.
Yeah.
She held him through the night, but in the morning he pulled away. He donned his overalls and his sandwich board.
I'm afraid they might kill you, baby, Iula said as he went out the door.
I hope not, he replied. But if somethin' does happen will you tell Darryl to look after my dog?
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
The Pulse,
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.
Socrates' hands were freed and he was sitting in a fancy wooden chair. Detectives Biggers and Beryl stood around him while the captain sat behind a simple table before a window that looked out on a brick wall.
What are we going to do now, Fortlow? the commander asked.
Socrates, who felt like he was dreaming, said nothing.
Answer the man, Inspector Beryl, another old aquaintance, demanded.
Where's my sign? Socrates asked.
It was destroyed during recovery, Beryl said. Now answer the commander.
Commander, Socrates repeated the word.
You in some serious shit, Fortlow, Biggers said. You better fly right.
What you want? Socrates was looking directly into the black policeman's eyes.
Have you ever been arrested by Officer Cardwell? the commander asked.
What's your name? Socrates asked the man in charge.
DeWitt, the man said after a moment's silence. Commander DeWitt.
Your officer Cardwell killed a boy. He done raped, beat, stole from an' threatened black men and women all over your precinct. I ain't never had nuthin' to do with him, though I considered killin' 'im at one time.
Beryl asked, But you didn't know him? The short but well-built white man had his thumbs in his belt loops, which held back his jacket and revealed his shoulder holster and gun.
Socrates did not reply.
DeWitt stared at Socrates while Beryl and Biggers stared at him. Socrates wondered what they were doing when DeWitt said, Book him on inciting to riot. Tell Mackie to put him in the special vault on three.
Socrates stayed in a cell called the vault on the third floor of the police station for three days without seeing anyone. He had a commode and a sink. There was a cot to sleep on and pizza three times a day.
He didn't mind. He'd known from the day he was let out of prison that he'd be back in a lockup somewhere. It was nice to be alone without responsibility or noise. It was a real vacation, just like he told Marty he'd take.
For the first time in his life Socrates had leisure time. There was light and food and there were no guards or fellow prisoners to negotiate. There was no job to go to, no cans to collect. There was no booze to get him hungover. And if there were screams in the night, they were too far away for him to hear them.
He didn't eat the pizza.
All he did was sit and think about what had happened.