Chapter 1: Protest

About thirty demonstrators stood on the steps of San Francisco’s City Hall, beneath its signature black and gilt-trimmed dome overlooking Civic Center plaza. Many held signs reading “No War In Iraq”. They chanted, “No War, No More,” following the lead of a white-haired man with a megaphone. A larger crowd in the hundreds stood facing them like a reflection in a mirror, waving the same signs and echoing the chants. Off to one side, police flanked a small group that jeered and mocked the protesters. White media vans bordered the event, their giraffe-like necks stretching toward the sky.

The crowd absorbed Riley Turner as he searched for his friend, Mara Ware. Here, stood a tall black man in a brown leather jacket and thick matted hair, like flattened rope, falling down his back. There, two silver headed women, who looked like grandmothers, clung to each other, chanting. Nearby, a cluster of adolescents, sitting in a circle like a tribe, was oblivious to those around them.

Tall and broad shouldered with short, gel-molded blond hair, Riley was the epitome of Midwestern clean cut good looks. He stood out in the crowd whose personal and political positions ran counter to the mainstream.

In his junior year at State, he was majoring in International Relations. Mara, his housemate, majored in Communications and was interning that summer with a local TV station. She was working somewhere in the crowd.

The closer he approached to City Hall, the more tightly packed people were. Barely able to move, he retreated to the rear.

“Riley! Riley!”

Following her voice, he spotted Mara. Beside her were an attractive woman and a burly cameraman.

Mara was a petite blue-eyed brunette wearing tight jeans with denim jacket and a blue brimmed cap that pushed her hair onto her brow. She introduced him to Susan Fernandez, reporter. She had brown eyes, black hair, olive-colored skin and a finely shaped face. Rex, the cameraman stood beside Susan, waiting for her cue. She fidgeted with a black microphone as she surveyed the crowd.

Mara told him they were doing interviews. Despite his own protest, she insisted he make himself useful. He agreed to an interview. Susan held the microphone towards him. Rex focused the camera.

“Why are you here?” She asked.

“I was checking out the protest.”

“Are you against the war?

Before he could answer a clatter of terror and excitement surged behind him. He felt two fists pound his shoulder blades. He lurched forward and glimpsed blue sky. He bumped heads with Susan. She smelled of lilac perfume. She fell back. Mara yelped. Bodies tumbled like dominoes. Rex kept shooting, pushing a fleeing woman from his lens.

“Fuck you, Commies!” A contingent of counter-protesters charged the crowd. Burly police in blue helmets and black leather jackets struggled to insert themselves, using nightsticks liberally to carve out a buffer. They pushed the counter-protesters to one side as the crowd pulled back. Between them was a gruesome sight.

The man lay on his left side, head pushed into the ground, blood pooling around his head like a crimson nimbus. High-pitched screams filled the air. “No!” A man’s voice shouted. “Murderers!” A woman screeched. An awestruck silence spread through the crowd and around the lifeless body.

Transfixed by death, Riley stood dazed. The police pushed away onlookers, then stretched yellow tape around the scene. Eventually they covered the body under a thin black tarp.

A lanky policeman, approachable in a soft barracks hat and short-sleeved shirt, came up to Riley and asked what he saw. He recounted what he knew, and gave him his name and address. The officer suggested he go home.

He was still numb. The coroner had come and gone, taking away the body. The media vans hadn’t moved. Mara, Susan and the cameraman weren’t around. The others who stood beside him seemed as dazed as he.

He suddenly felt tired and hungry and started home. He walked a short distance when he noticed a red backpack on the ground. It was unzipped and looked discarded. Seeing no one who might claim it, he picked it up. It was empty. He thought he could use it, so he took it home.

The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted February 7.