At first Felix could accept it: their son was dead; they blamed the police; they wanted to fight for some dignity. Fair enough.But the moment they named seventy million dollars, the feel changed. Were they grieving a son—or trying to cash out?
"Our program continues. Recently, a Black advocacy group proposed dissolving the Los Angeles city and county police departments. Council rejected the proposal, noting that public safety concerns all residents and any dissolution must be decided by all residents. A unilateral proposal by one group does not reflect the whole public interest and is therefore denied."If the group insists, they will be required to gather signatures from over half the residents of Los Angeles County. Once verified, a referendum on 'dissolving the police department' may be scheduled."Other demands will be reviewed and answered after serious study."
"KTLA reports: in the Twin Peaks restaurant gang melee, the District Attorney's Office has concluded that all 177 arrestees will be released. The rationale: prosecutors cannot establish who exactly fought, nor to what degree. To avoid massive expenditures of funds and judicial resources—and given the legal risk of failing to convict the true culprits—ending the case and releasing everyone is deemed 'fair, just, and responsible to taxpayers.'"
"Turn it off," someone said. "The more you watch, the worse you feel. Get back to work."
Felix didn't feel worse—just annoyed he hadn't fired a few more rounds when he had the chance.
He suited up in riot gear and rolled out on patrol. The San Gabriel marches continued; today the turnout dwarfed yesterday's. Streets were packed.Some missed the memo yesterday or couldn't get away; tonight they came to join the spectacle.More street punks showed up too. Trouble excites them, and crowds make them feel ten feet tall.
A few youths wove through traffic on bikes, whooping. A driver, stuck behind their slow zigzags, tapped his horn.That set them off. One tossed his bike aside, strode over, and kicked the car. The others laughed and followed, boots denting panels in seconds.The owner couldn't take it. He jumped out and shoved one of them away.Wrong move. You pushed me? Not them?A fist slammed the owner's face. He stumbled back. The pack swarmed and beat him.Kicking a car wasn't half as fun as kicking a man.
"Stop! Now!"Felix and his partner came up as the blows fell. The partner shouted.No one cared. With a mob around, the kids figured cops wouldn't dare.
"Quit yelling. Use your hands," Felix said, tapping his partner's shoulder.
He flicked out the long riot baton—polymer composite, tuned for pain—and stepped in. One clean stroke across a back put a kid on the ground writhing.An all-metal collapsible would shatter bone; too much for riot control and a lawsuit magnet. The tuned stick hurt plenty without breaking everything.
Three were bouncing on the roof and hood. Felix clipped each in the leg; they toppled to the asphalt.His partner decided to join—drove the tip hard into a gut.One youth charged Felix. Distance judged—Felix whipped a roundhouse across the face. Down he went.
The car owner rolled on the pavement. "Officer—my leg—"Felix glanced down—ugly angle. Likely broken.Savage little bastards.
He didn't lift the man. Two quick strides; a looter halfway into the car caught a baton across the lower back. Felix yanked him out and dumped him.Two tried to run. Felix ran them down, knocked them flat, and dragged them back by the legs.Other officers arrived and zip-tied the lot.An ambulance eventually carted the driver off. Compensation? Hard to say. The attackers were around twenty, broke. Families rarely pay in these cases.
With the punks hauled away, Felix went back to holding the line. The crowd's manners improved fast.Cops really hit, and not excessively. That meant clean, unavoidable pain. No one liked that.San Gabriel's heavy Chinese population helped; most stayed out of a protest they felt had nothing to do with them.
Felix stood from daylight into dusk. Just as the crowd began to thin, he figured they were done.
"Dispatch to all units: proceed immediately to transport vans. Downtown museum requests assistance. Repeat, downtown museum requests assistance."
It's already dark. Don't you people sleep?Last night went past midnight; tonight too?
No choice. Felix climbed in with the team and headed downtown.
The scale hit him the moment he stepped off. Last night had been a warm-up. This was the show.Hundreds ringed the museum, flags waving, voices boiling over.Energy climbed. They were edging toward a breach.
The museum panicked. Too much culture and memory inside, and too much money. One artifact lost would hurt; with hundreds of people, a breach would be ruin. They called it in. The department took it seriously and called for dispersal.
While Felix's line formed, a couple dozen protesters vaulted the fence and swarmed Lincoln's statue, chanting to pull it down.Maybe the thinking went: Lincoln signed emancipation, but Blacks never got true equality; discrimination endures.Even so, taking it out on a statue wouldn't move the needle.
"Masks on! Pairs! Stay tight—no stragglers. Advance!"
Felix led the push.He shouldered the green-marked less-lethal shotgun and lobbed a tear gas round. Others followed with more. Hotter than pepper spray by a long shot.In seconds the air turned unlivable.Still, the crew at the statue held long enough to topple Lincoln before they broke and ran.
A few too slow were grabbed. Batons came down. They hit the deck.Cover men pinned them and cuffed them.
Seeing police strike, a handful of hard cases doubled back to brawl.Rear gunners picked them up and snapped rubber rounds into faces—blood in an instant.But more kept coming, dressed alike—hoods, hoodies, jeans, masks—faceless, countless.They pressed in a ring. One kicked at Felix.He chopped the baton down onto the shin. The man howled and folded.Felix stepped and cracked a shoulder—down. Another thrust something at him—Felix flicked the stick, rapping the fingers. The object clattered. Before the scream, a second shot broke the forearm—crack.
A gap opened. Felix leveled the baton and drove forward. The impact bowled one man and knocked several behind him flat.It worked better than he expected. He surged, tapping each downed body again to keep them there.
With those threats handled, he looked around. He wasn't the only violent one—others were worse.Shields smashed faces hard enough to rattle skulls. Two officers pinned one man and thrashed him till he stopped trying.It didn't take long. Anyone still game to fight was put on the pavement.Then the line re-formed and pushed the rest back, far enough from the museum to stop caring.
The statues were another matter. Lincoln was gone. Several others—old men he didn't recognize—were damaged or defaced.Someone explained they were prominent slaveholders from the Civil War era, displayed as "part of American history."Felix had no comment.
They packed it up and rolled back to the station.Clocking out wasn't happening. A few minutes of rest would have to do.
Dispatch pinged again: street argument, officers to respond.They went. From a distance, eight or nine Black men were trading rhyme and bar, gestures sharp and fast—an argument turning into a cipher.Heat rose.Then one man snapped. He drew from his waistband and fired.The others weren't rookies. The second they saw the hand go to the beltline, they pulled too.Gunfire exploded at arm's length. Shots that close rarely miss. Screams. Bodies fell.The survivors ran and kept shooting back over their shoulders.
The officers parked well back and hid behind doors. No one popped up.
"Aren't we stopping the shootout?" someone asked."How?" came the reply.Felix thought. "Shoot every armed one dead.""I'm with you, partner—but they're still 'protesting.' If we drop a few more Black males tonight, what do you think happens next? Let them finish. We'll bag it after."
Sounded right. Charging in would just make them all pivot and fire at him.And politically, stacking bodies tonight would invite disaster. Better to wait.
The guns fell silent.Felix peeked. Three or four down on the ground, status unknown. The rest gone.They moved in slow, postured like they were still under threat, kicked pistols away, cuffed everyone who moved, then called EMS.Two wouldn't last that long.
A partner glanced at tattoos. "Crips and Bloods. Something set them off. They hate each other anyway.""Even in a march 'for Black rights' they still shoot each other in the street. Impressive.""You want them united against you?""Point taken. Better they keep at each other."
After ambulances cleared the scene, they drifted back to the station and pretended to rest.
Another group came in soaked in blood."What'd you do—rob a blood bank?" Felix asked.A shaken officer said, "Latino male opened fire on Black marchers—killed several, hit more by accident. He was gone when we arrived. We did what we could for the victims. That's their blood.""Latino on Black? Strange.""What's strange? You forget MS-13 and Varrio White Fence? They lost a lot of lieutenants in that bust. DA let them all go. You think they'd wait to hit back? The marches have the Black sets tied down—perfect time for a sneak attack."
Chaos. Pure chaos. The whole basin felt like a boiling pot.Old Ao would surely—
Felix spotted a familiar face—Mark."Hell. You? Here? Back for questioning?""Shut up," Mark said, rolling his eyes. "I'm reinstated. Here to do riot control with you.""You're joking.""Why would I joke? I already met with Internal at HQ. They reviewed our body-cam—yours and mine. Clean shoot. Nothing wrong."Felix scratched his head. "They're not using you as a shield, are they?"