Union League banners had sprouted among the clumps of protesters converging on the dull-white edifice of the Criminal Courts building. The participants were well organized, not quite so well intentioned, their voices loud, their arms raised. They demanded freedom for their leader, freedom for themselves, were cranking the volume, ratcheting the stakes. Outbreak was close. ‘You gonna send a plane over, spray us with fuckin’ bullets?’… ‘You gonna send in a sniper to take us down?’ Nonplussed, a squad of police in stab-proofs and paramilitary sunglasses looked on. They had their man, or at least had him in custody close by, had right, might, birdshot and concrete balustrades on their side. No problem, a containable local difficulty. The place could do with a lick of paint, would benefit from evacuation, Krista thought. This was how imminence smelt, tasted, sounded. She braked sharply on the turn – breath intake held – as the wall of bodies washed and eddied along the vehicle sides. Trapped in her own air-pocket, insignificant, she inched the car forward, the tide gathering, pressing, along Los Angeles Avenue. It was inadvisable to cause an injury, even to cause offence; it would be foolish to disturb the hive. She kept her hands away from the horn, her foot light and intermittent on the accelerator. People were moving, people were chanting, people were praying. Their focus was on the Parker Center, City of Los Angeles Police Department, site of Azania’s temporary incarceration. He carried their hopes, carried the scourge of the white man’s whip on his back. Leader, totem, survivor of the DC shootings, finally brought low by joint federal-police machination. ‘Release the Reverend!’… ‘Oppressors!’ … ‘Stop the crucifixion!’ A charge had yet to be laid, but the demonstrators were laying siege. Before them, the bulk fortress form, dun and bland and wrapped in bullet-resistant glaze, rose up eight storeys; around them, stewards and provocateurs corralled and herded them towards breaking-point.
A face pressed against her window gave a neutral, dead-eyed smile. She tightened, maintained control, skin stretching on her knuckles. The head stayed where it was, framed, staring, an identity wallet held open beside it. One of Azania’s men. She nodded to him, eyebrow questioning. The smile broadened. He was enjoying himself, investing in discomfort. She looked cool, must be afraid. Anyone with that poise, that level of restraint, was working at it. Difficult to maintain when you were dragged out bleeding, your clothing ripped, your limbs kicking. His imagination was already raping her, blocking out her screams, tearing at her panties, hands slapping, pacifying, fumbling. Hot breath, hot exertion. She would be a fighter – would go down battling, go down anyway. He cocked his head, placed his hand on the roof, and indicated she should follow. She mouthed her thanks and strained to see ahead. In front, a funnel was opening, car width apart, towards the police cordon. Safe passage. It was there for her, closed behind as she was drawn in. The man turned and gave a thumbs-up. He was happy to supervise, delighted to see her fall in. Only recently he had facilitated the ingress of a white, the covert arrival of a Forrester sharpshooter at the rally in DC. He had also directed the subsequent eradication. Job description was broad, largely hidden. The enemy waved and went through. Nice piece of ass. Delivered up.
‘I guess it’s not the best time for the Mayor and Police Chief to be arguing.’ Azania studied the scene from the window. Krista stood with him, watched the cops fretful and small behind their barricades, the denser mass pushing in against them.
‘You seem to be the sticking point.’
‘That I am.’ Trademark suit, trademark superiority. ‘There appears to be a situation developing.’
‘How does it make you feel?’
The eyes swivelled. ‘Better than the moral cowards, the inadequates, the pretenders who have let this city slide into the abyss.’
‘Is this your game-play to get us out of it?’ She nodded to the scene below.
‘Oh, this isn’t play, Miss Althouse.’
‘You’d probably call it strategy.’ He would probably call it intention. That morning, the bodies of police and FBI informants had been found hanging, their hands tied, tongues cut out, from oil donkeys in the Baldwin Hills, from pylons on the lower reaches of La Cienega, from the pillared concrete supports beneath the 10 Freeway. Rounding up, mopping up. In a single purge, local intelligence sources were silenced, discipline enforced, a warning given. Few would oppose, would dare to speak out. The campaign had started
He was facing her, full-square, large build. ‘You’re a bright lady, knowledgeable, intuitive. Don’t abuse it. Don’t waste it.’
‘Why did you call me here?’
‘Why did you come?’
‘Curiosity.’
‘I’m glad. I want to let you see.’
‘What, precisely – the reaction of your audience, how you’re bearing up?’
He paused on a long in-breath. ‘The changing face of America.’
‘It’s the radical plastic surgery on offer I don’t like.’
‘You’re an agent of federal government. Of course you prefer the status quo, natural ageing. But the negro wants change, the negro will get it.’
‘Then the negro can join in democratically the same as any other citizen.’
‘That.’ The arm stretched out, finger pointing to the exterior. ‘That is democracy.’
‘From where I stand, it’s simply your supporting cast.’
‘Know what’s been happening in the past three days?’
‘Right down to the finest detail.’
‘We’ve had the NAACP headquarters bombed, my own homes and offices raided, the Southern Poverty Law Center ransacked, nine AME churches torched throughout the South, and the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis razed to the ground.’
‘Your arrest doesn’t come at a good time, then.’
‘It comes as the culmination, the end to restraint.’
A cavalcade of police horses and their riders, fitted out in shin and fetlock protectors, eye-shields and compound plates, jolted its way around the corner and disappeared. Reinforcements came by armoured bus, each one slowed, each one jeered or pelted. LAPD were committing resources, themselves, to the defence of their home ground. Quite a sight; hell of a target. Krista hoped it was not over-commitment. Her attention slipped back to the room, returned to Azania.
‘A lot of events happening together, Reverend,’ she stated flatly. ‘Grim coincidence or happy convenience?’
‘There’s nothing happy in our history, Miss Althouse. We’re a wronged people, an angry people, a persecuted people. The Thirteenth Amendment may have gone, but its values are enshrined in the US psyche, the American way of life.’
‘I prefer to look for the positive.’
‘I prefer to preach the truth. I’ve seen prejudice, I’ve waded through prejudice.’
‘No one’s disagreeing.’ She folded her arms, protecting her space, warding off his energy-field. ‘You’re an avowed anti-Semite, proudly homophobic, and your comments regarding whites as the illegitimate offspring of Satan have become part of the militant black political lexicon.’
‘To inspire, one has to push the envelope.’
‘To lead, one must incite extremism? That it? That your version of the famed truth?’
‘It’s unwise to dwell on semantics.’
‘I’m focusing on hypocrisy. So perspective would be nice.
‘Your problem, Miss Althouse – you haven’t got enough melanin in your skin.’
‘That’s one way to put it.’ Like a true racist, she mused. The man had conviction, would probably never stand convicted.
‘You’re not exactly my constituency, not exactly the enslaved.’
