Page 15 of The Right to Remain
Jack texted back a quick response—ok—and told Theo to pull into the parking lot just ahead, which Theo interpreted as an order to get there by any means necessary. He jumped the curb, drove along the sidewalk, and steered into the lot, which charged a mere fifteen dollars for the first fifteen minutes. Jack bit the bullet and paid for two hours. He and Theo walked quickly, weaving their way through the long line of stopped cars, ignoring the horn blasts and angry shouts from frustrated drivers. At the intersection, they merged into a sea of young people, most of them wearing bandanas over their noses and mouths, many wearing protective goggles or helmets. A few wore gas masks. Two men had climbed atop lampposts to wave red flags, one with the image of Che Guevera and the other with Vladimir Lenin. Banners and posters dotted the crowd, the messages ranging fromgive peace a chancetopeople before profits. Jack pushed across the boulevard to the park entrance. A man approached him quickly, which startled Jack. He was dressed in full lacrosse gear, including shoulder pads, a chest protector, and a helmet.
“Hi, Mr. Swyteck,” he said.
Jack did a double take. “Elliott?”
He removed his helmet and metal cage mask so Jack could see his face. “Yeah, sorry for the getup. CJ told us to wear protective gear. I played lacrosse at Columbia. This is the best protection I have.”
“Do we need protection?” asked Jack.
“No,” said Theo. “I did my college at Florida State Prison. We ate lacrosse players for breakfast.”
Theo was six foot six and built like an NFL linebacker. Elliott took a step back.
“Ignore him,” said Jack. “How do we find CJ in this mob?”
“Follow me,” said Elliott.
Jack and Theo went with him, but Elliott didn’t lead them into the park. He was pushing forward along the edge of Biscayne Boulevard, taking them toward the arena where the Miami Heat played its NBA home games, stopping only when they’d reached what felt like the front line of the protest. The vibe was very much a ragtag army division gearing up for combat. Except for Jack and Theo, everyone was wearing goggles, masks, or some other facial protection. Some had fashioned makeshift shields from plastic lunch trays. Helicopters circled overhead.
“Be ready!” someone shouted.
Never had Jack seen such a showing of police muscle. Outside the arena, rows of fully armored police moved in formation, meeting the crowd of demonstrators with a line of riot shields and control batons. As police advanced, some on horseback, the chanting shifted from anti-capitalism—Eat the rich!—to a line borrowed from the 1960s:
The whole world is watching!
The throbbing crowd was squeezed between the barricades behind them and the oncoming wave of police.
“There’s nowhere to go!” people shouted. “Nowhere for us to go!”
As a police SUV rolled alongside the marchers, blaring its siren, a man danced in front of it, shooting his middle finger at the driver. Dressed in a black hoodie with a hammer-and-sickle insignia on it, he was a ball of energy, raising his fist, egging on the crowd with a cheer:
“No justice! No peace! No racist-ass police!”
Theo looked at Jack. “Who’s the middle-aged white dude who thinks he’s still a Berkeley undergrad?”
“That’s him,” Elliott said. “That’s CJ!”
Suddenly volleys of tear gas canisters launched from somewhere behind police lines and landed in the crowd, unleashing panic. People were soon stepping over the fallen, coughing and wheezing as they ran. The crack of gunfire erupted, and protestors on the front line writhed in pain from rubber bullets, beanbag projectiles, and chemical-filled pellets. Angry youths cursed as they picked up the smoking canisters of tear gas and hurled them back at the oncoming police.
“Run!” someone shouted.
“Stay together! Don’t fall back!”
“Medic!”
Elliott grabbed Jack by the arm. “Follow CJ!”
They were quickly on CJ’s heels, along with a dozen other demonstrators, in full retreat and headed deep into the park. The statue of Christopher Columbus came into view. The wordgenocidewas spray-painted over his name on the stone pedestal. Exhausted protestors lay on the ground around the statue. Some gasped for air or rinsed their eyes with water.
Elliott led Jack toward CJ, who was removing his protective gear and helmet. His long hair was in a topknot, and a single gold-loop earring adorned his right lobe, pirate-style. Jack noticed that a chunk of his left lobe was missing—ripped away, it appeared, in what Jack surmised was a lesson learned long ago: never wear a dangling earring to a street fight. CJ was quickly surrounded by his followers, mostly young, all looking at him with a sense of awe.
“I got blasted right in the face!” he said, bouncing with energy. “Man, that was good!”
A woman with one eye closed from pepper spray approached him. “Did you see me use the arm-drag tactic on that cop?” she said, beaming. “Out and away, just like you showed me.”
“Good soldier,” said CJ. “There’s no better way to de-arrest yourself.”
Jack watched as others slapped high fives with their leader. CJ then took a seat on the rock wall, lit a cigarette, and relaxed with his back to the bay. Elliott brought Jack and Theo forward and introduced Jack as his attorney.