by Mark Oshiro
“We’re going the wrong way,” Moss said, quiet at first, and then he started screaming it as loud as he could. “We’re going the wrong way! The police have officers all over 8th Street! Go back the other way!”
He tried to turn around, but he was so tightly wedged in the crowd that it was impossible. The motion of the crowd flowed north again, and then a sound overpowered everything. He had no frame of reference for it, no way for his brain to process just how horrible it was. The screams rose, first in volume, then in pitch, and then it sounded like a slaughter, like farm animals squealing and shrieking.
“What is that?” Moss yelled. “What’s happening?”
“Silent Guardian,” his mother said, and she pointed. He followed the direction of her finger, saw the white van at the end of the block, the sand-colored box on top of it. It was like a weapon out of Star Wars; it looked about, roving from one side of the crowd to the other. It didn’t make a sound, and he saw nothing emitting from it. The people in front of him began to part ways, to push to either side instead of toward the sounds of human suffering, and then he saw it in action.
The antenna on the top of the box would move sluggishly, and as soon as it seemed to be pointing at someone, that person would drop to the ground. Hands scraped at skin. People clawed at their faces, sometimes drawing blood. He watched a young woman run headfirst into the side of a car, trying to escape the sensation that Martin had described to him, and she lay still on the ground.
There was blood. Bodies bent in ways they should not be. He wanted to turn around and run away, to save himself, and the urge sent shame through his body. But as more people succumbed to the Silent Guardian, the more certain he was that he didn’t want to know what that thing felt like.
Yet there was nowhere for them to go. More people were rushing from the flagpole and running into the group, discovering the wall of other protesters and bystanders. For every inch Moss managed to push forward, he’d be shoved farther back toward 8th Street. “Stop it!” Moss yelled. “We have to go the other way!”
He felt it on the back of his neck first, like a sunburn that suddenly bloomed into a burst of heat. It seared his skin, and a memory popped in his head: putting his hand on top of the burner on the stove. But it wouldn’t stop, and as Moss began to scream himself, he tried to climb over the people who were in his way.
It passed, like a wave, and those to his right began to scream now, and his mother yelled in his ear. “Go! Go!” They pushed, and the wall broke, and they made a run for it. Wanda had her arm over his shoulder, and he did his best to carry as much of her weight as possible as they kept up the pace, telling those they passed to turn around, to head south. He heard the echoes of a helicopter above him, and the crowd craned their necks up as they moved. “This is an unlawful assembly,” blared a voice from the chopper. “Please leave or you will be arrested.”
“Well, I tried,” Moss said, his breath ragged. “I tried to do something.”
“Moss, you did something incredible today,” said his mother. “Please don’t let this discourage you.”
He wanted to believe her, but it was difficult at the moment. The shoving was the worst. His legs felt trapped, but people kept pushing. At one point he used his left arm to hoist himself up, and the momentum of the mass carried him forward. Something pressed on his chest, just below his ribs. Someone’s elbow. Another person was shrieking in his ear, but he didn’t even have enough room to turn around to see who it was.
“Don’t stop,” his mother slurred, and it was then that he realized just how many people had shown up over the night. It was a strange moment for the epiphany; only now, as they all struggled to escape the cops, did Moss know how influential he’d been.
He just wanted to breathe. He threw his head back again and tried in desperation to fill his lungs. No, no! Moss thought. Not now! He shot a glance at his mother and her face was unrecognizable, swollen and battered and twisted into a grimace of pain. His vision began to fade in the corners, and panic swept through him.
The momentum spilled forward and Moss landed on top of the large man who had been in front of him. He scrambled up, apologizing while doing so, and he reached for his mother, pulling her out from under the other protestors who had fallen as well.
“Move!” Wanda screamed, and her words sounded broken. She spat out more blood, and Moss did as he was told. With his mother trailing behind him, he bolted down Broadway, the crowd slowly thinning out. His eyes darted from one face to the next, but they were all strangers. All of them. A profound sense of isolation grew in him as he pushed onward, unable to find any of his friends in the swarm of people. Someone darted across from him, their face swollen and red, and he flashed back to that afternoon in West Oakland High, to the hallways full of his brutalized peers, and he knew it was happening all over again.
36
The morning sun disappeared as they rushed under the 880 overpass. Moss saw someone climb up onto the railing on the east side of Broadway, and they were promptly tackled by an officer clad all in black. A skateboard clattered to the ground. Was that Enrique? Moss thought. He couldn’t stop to find out, and the sheer terror of what was coming from behind kept his feet moving. He wanted to rest so badly, the soles of his feet on fire with pain, his heart raging, his head pounding.
“Oh, no,” he heard his mother say, and then she was no longer at his side, no longer holding his hand. He came to an abrupt stop and numerous people slammed into him, some of them shouting at him to move, others giving him a double take when they realized who he was. His mother stood upright on Broadway, just beyond the freeway overpass, and the sunlight spread over her body, and she was angelic there, even with the blood down the front of her shirt, even with her face bloated and wrong. He heard horns blaring to his left; cars were trapped at the light at 5th because of the throngs of people streaming by.
“Don’t,” she said, and she waved Moss toward her. “We can’t go that way.”
He glared at her, then turned to look back toward 4th. He saw people scattering about in either direction. “I don’t get it!” Moss yelled. “Mama, come on, we gotta go!”
Another person collided with him, and they wrapped their arms around his body and nearly took him down. He yelped in shock, but they pulled themselves away, and it was Njemile, fear in her eyes. “Moss!” Njemile shouted. “Oh my god, I thought they had already nabbed you!”
Wanda strode up to them quickly, and Njemile cried out when she saw her. “You two, we need to go now,” she said. “It’s a trap.”
“What?” Moss said. “How?”
“Kettling,” Wanda said, and she grabbed them in each of her hands. “It’s an old technique, and they’re trapping us in.”
“But why?” Njemile asked. “They just told us to leave!”
“That’s the trick,” Wanda said in between breaths. “They give us the option to leave, then trap us so that they can later use it against us and portray us as unreasonable. Irrational.” She bent over, her hands on her knees, her breath rasping out of her throat. “It’s so we look like an unruly mob.”
“What is wrong with them?” Moss screamed. He let out a guttural shriek, rage pulsing in his face. “Why do they keep doing this to us?”
“Moss, baby,” said his mother, and she rose as more people streamed by. “I would love to give you a complete history of protesting in modern America, but we don’t have time. Look!”
He followed her finger and saw the line of cops in black gear, their batons out, their shields up, as they completely blocked Broadway at 4th Street. Moss watched in dismay as someone tried to leave and was promptly dropped by multiple baton swings. What if it was someone else he knew?
“Ms. Jeffries, what do we do?” Njemile said, and her voice cracked on the last word. “I’m scared. I can’t get arrested. Do you know what they do to girls like me? Do you know where they put us?” Moss saw her face crinkle up in terror. “Please, please, help me.”
“I got you, honey,�
� said Wanda. She looked behind her, and they all heard the roar of the police chopper, the horns blaring, the crowd screaming. He could see her desperation; she was trying to find a way out. Moss glanced toward the south and saw more people trying to claw their way out of the line of cops that stretched across the street. Then he looked to their left.
“I have another terrible idea,” said Moss.
“We don’t have many options,” said Wanda. “So say it, baby.”
He pointed over his mother’s left shoulder. “Let’s go there.”
His mother looked and he watched her face light up with humor. “Oh, Moss, you’re too much,” she said.
“I don’t get it!” Njemile said. “The freeway?” But then realization dawned on her face, too. “Oh my god, we should go through the Alameda tunnel!”
From where they stood, a dual set of roads branched off to the east. One rose to join the freeway, but the other—that was where Moss wanted to go. It looped underneath the on-ramp and headed south toward Alameda. The tunnel dropped underneath the bay for nearly a quarter mile before it rose onto the island.
Moss nodded at Njemile as he processed the plan. “They’re not going to expect anyone to go that way,” he explained. “And there’s that weird elevated sidewalk thing along one side.”
“It’s separated,” Wanda said, understanding spreading rapidly across her features.
“Meaning that the northbound cars can’t see us,” said Moss. “If we’re quick enough, no one will even know we’ve left!”
“You’re brilliant,” his mother said, and she kissed him on the forehead. “Njemile, do you want to lead people? I’ll stay here and direct people to follow you.”
“I’m staying, too,” said Moss.
“No, you have to go,” said Wanda. “I can risk getting arrested. You can’t.”
He shook his head. “Mama, this is my thing! I want to help, at least as long as I can.”
Sirens blared from behind him, and they all turned to see three police vans, white and plain, roll up on 4th. The doors slid open, and more cops in black riot gear poured out.
“Fuck,” Moss said, then clamped his hand over his mouth.
“I’ll let that slide just this once,” his mother said. “Go, Njemile, go!”
Njemile embraced Moss in a quick hug and said, “Good luck,” then yelled out, “Follow me!”
“Do not go down to 4th!” Wanda shouted. “Go this way, now!” She waved her arms in the direction of the Alameda Tube, and the reaction was instant. The folks who had been milling about in confusion now sprinted toward the entryway. Moss stood next to his mother, jumping up and down, screaming at people as loud as he could, pointing them toward the group that was now pouring off Broadway.
All the panic he felt began to wash away. A couple rushed by him, thanking him for what he’d done, then bolted toward the ramp. Bits and Esperanza sprinted up to them, their hands locked together. There was a large crack running down the right lens of Esperanza’s glasses. “Moss, what do we do?” she screamed. “Please, I don’t know what to do.”
The thought that crept into his mind felt so bitter. Maybe now she understands it. He wiped his face with both hands, pushing through the fright, then pointed to the escape route he’d come up with. “You two,” he said, “grab as many people as you can and lead them to Alameda.” He reached over and put a hand on each of them. “Do not go anywhere south of here. We’re trapped that way.”
“Thank you,” said Bits, then tugged on Esperanza. “Let’s go.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, but she was gone, sprinting as fast as she could alongside Bits. What was she apologizing for? He didn’t even know.
Less than a minute later, Moss was overjoyed to see Kaisha pushing Reg toward them. Tears ran down his cheeks as he hugged Reg. “How did you get out?” Moss asked.
Kaisha was shaking her head. “I don’t honestly know,” she said, and she was out of breath and covered in sweat. “It’s a nightmare back there.”
“Someone’s dead.”
Reg said it with no amusement or horror. It was plain, a statement of fact. His face was still, a mask of shock.
“What do you mean?” Wanda asked. “Who died?”
“We don’t know,” said Kaisha. “But they started shooting these canister things into the crowd. Tear gas, I think.”
“You serious?” Moss said.
She nodded. “Some girl took one point-blank in the face. White girl. She went down and there’s no way she survived it.”
“Someone’s dead,” said Reg, his voice unchanged from before. “They killed someone right in front of us.”
“Again,” said Kaisha.
Moss stopped directing people toward the tunnel and looked to his mother. “Mama, what are we gonna do?”
“Do you want to leave, Moss?” She did not look upon him with guilt or an accusation in her eyes. “We can go right now.”
“Did I fail everyone?” Moss asked. “Did I fail Javier?”
“Don’t say that, man,” said Reg, and now, his voice pitched up. “Look what you’ve done, Moss!”
“Caused a mess,” he said, dejected.
“Moss, you helped organize a protest when most people wouldn’t have done anything after I got hurt,” Reg said. “You supported me even after you lost Javier. You still cared about me. So don’t you dare say you failed us. You didn’t fail me!”
“He’s right, baby,” said Wanda. “And we gotta decide soon what we’re gonna do. The police line up there is moving towards us.”
She gestured back toward the police station, and he saw that she was right. The thousands of people had been weeded down to a few hundred, many of whom were still trying to find a way out. Does this make me a coward? Moss wondered. Would Javier be disappointed in me?
“I’ve done what I can,” Moss said. “Let’s go.”
The four of them jogged off Broadway toward the ramp, and Moss let relief take over. He had survived a long night; he had made a powerful statement; he had done everything he could. Maybe he could try something else if nothing came of this. His mother locked her fingers in his as they curved around toward the entrance to the Alameda Tube, and Moss gave her a look of appreciation. We’ll have to try again.
They ran, then. His lungs hurt, burned with the fire of exertion, and his shins still throbbed from the bruises that Daley had given him, but it folded into the fabric of pain that Moss felt all over his body. He ran because he knew he had to stay alive.
He heard the screeching tires first, then the loud, bleating siren next. What now? Moss thought, and the blur of white rushed into his field of vision. His brain could not interpret what was happening at first. It solidified: a white police van. A door opened, and they poured out. He just saw a blackness heading toward him, and Kaisha screamed out in terror.
He saw the baton in the air. Moss ducked out of the way, but tripped over something on the ground. It was Reg, sprawled on the asphalt, his chair overturned a few feet away. He watched as Reg tried to lift himself up, but there was an officer’s knee in Reg’s back keeping him down and the sound of a crack against the ground. Moss reached out to his friend and a shiny boot slammed his own fingers down, too, and the rage and terror finally overwhelmed him. Stars of pain filled his eyes, and there was his mother, crawling toward them, her eye swollen shut, and she stopped, her face just inches from his. “Don’t fight it, baby,” she said, and she put her arms behind her back. “Please don’t fight it.” Her words were barely above a whisper, and the men shouted at them. Moss was pressed to the street with a foot in his back, and he couldn’t breathe. “Please don’t take him from me,” said Wanda as loud as she could. “I’ll cooperate, I promise.”
“Stop resisting!” The voice was in his ear, but Moss couldn’t even move if he’d wanted to. His body ached. His brain was so tired. They forced his arms back, looped a zip tie around his wrists and pulled it tight. Moss yelped when it dug into his arms, but the pain in his fingers quickly dr
owned it out.
“I love you, baby,” said Wanda, and she was pulled upright and out of his line of sight. He couldn’t see Reg or Kaisha, but he could hear them crying. Where was Esperanza? Bits? Njemile? Had they made it? Were they free?
A sob filled his throat and spilled out of his mouth. Moss had failed his friends. He had failed them all.
37
The van ride was too quiet. Moss wanted to say so many things—to tell his mother that he loved her, to express his admiration for Kaisha and Reg, or even to beg the silent cop who sat in the back with them to loosen the zip ties at his wrists—but he knew not to. His mother had instilled that in Moss a long time ago. “Never say a word if you’re arrested,” she had said. “Just stay quiet and ask for your phone call. Do everything you are asked, but don’t say anything.”
He leaned into his mother. Who was he supposed to make a phone call to now? He supposed that it didn’t matter. His mother would figure it out. But what if they got separated? What should he do then?
Moss still kept quiet. He would figure that out when the time came. His mother’s breathing—in and out, in and out—was a soothing rhythm, and it helped to distract him from the mounting dread inside of him. He locked eyes with Kaisha. She smiled, a quick burst, and it warmed him. But the coldness of his fear quickly returned. His life was over, wasn’t it? This was it. He’d be thrown in jail. He’d be the department’s example, and there was nothing he could do about it. It felt so final, so definitive, and Moss could not fathom hope.
The van made a sharp turn to the right and stopped. The officer in the back—his face blocked by the opaque black visor on his helmet—rose, and when he spoke, his voice was clear and sharp. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” he announced to the four other occupants. “Unless you don’t want to get out of this van walking.”
Moss wanted this to be over. He briefly considered disobeying the man. The idea seemed so attractive then: a momentary rebellion, a flash of anger and revenge, and then Moss would probably be dead. It felt like a sensible alternative to prison, to living like this for the rest of his life. Then the van slowed down for a second, and the cop leaned forward, and Moss saw his chance. Saw how he could throw himself at him. But the urge passed just as soon as it had arrived.