Elizabeth watched, wondering what it would be like to sit out there, her face level with an approaching car, willing it to stop, willing everything to stop. With the emotional support of the gathered demonstrators, they could do anything.
Security forces moved in on the seven protesters sitting in the road. Working from the left, the group of guards surrounded the first protester, a man in patched jean jacket and a red headband. Six guards blocked him off on all sides, isolating him from the others. The media cameras pushed closer. Cars stopped and began to block the intersection. Elizabeth grabbed Jeff’s hand and pulled him closer so she could see, and hear, and experience what was happening.
One of the security men warned the demonstrator. Another guard timed everything with a watch. After an appropriate period had passed, the officer issued another warning, quoting some California statute. The demonstrator, barely visible between the blockade of security men, sat in silence, refusing to move. Elizabeth clenched her hand, feeling fingernails bite into her palm. Waves of anger and emotion poured from the man on the pavement. It seemed an outrage.
After the third warning, the officer placed the man under arrest. Guards picked him up and removed him from the road, then encircled the second person, repeating the entire procedure. People cheered. The cameras recorded. The first arrestee managed to raise his fist high as the guards carried him off.
Elizabeth watched, but she didn’t really see. Her anger was culminating in this one action. She wondered what had driven these other people to extremes. She had never been arrested before. She had always chosen the safe way, Jeff’s way.
But hadn’t she gotten tired of passing out leaflets, consoling herself by arguing with other activists who already agreed with her anyway? “Once you get arrested, your record is never clear,” Jeff kept saying. “That information will appear every time you apply for a job for the rest of your life.”
She hummed the chorus of “Give Peace a Chance” with the others. The security guards arrested another demonstrator.
The last time she had visited Ted Walblaken in the hospital, he had patted her arm with his clammy hand. “Have a good life,” he said. Somehow it didn’t sound corny to her. He had known he was saying good-bye, that the cancer would take him before long.
United Atomics had denied everything. They had somehow misplaced Ted’s exposure records over his career of working in the processing shop with its lax radiation safety standards. The California Occupational Safety and Health Administration had fined United Atomics, citing them with more than a dozen safety violations. United Atomics had paid the fines, weathered the negative publicity, and considered the slate cleared.
Ted Walblaken had died at the age of forty-six, in a hospital room with his wife and three children at his side.
“If you get arrested, that record will haunt you for the rest of your life,” Jeff had said. But how many lives did it take? It was worth it. She could not sit in silence anymore.
Elizabeth turned to meet Jeff’s eyes. “I’m going,” she said. “Are you coming with me?”
Behind his glasses Jeff turned into a stranger in front of her.’ ‘You can’t! Think about what you’re doing, Elizabeth.”
“I’ve had too much thinking. That’s not enough anymore. “ She pulled her arm, and suddenly Jeff was not holding her hand but was holding her back. She jerked away.
“Fine,” he said. His voice carried scorn, and in that instant everything changed between them.
Elizabeth pushed into the second group to march across the street. Some of them looked surprised at her intrusion, but others smiled and nodded. One old man patted her shoulder. Trying not to stumble, she walked onto the pavement, saw oil stains, an old crushed cigarette butt, a broken bottle at the side of the road. She sat down and faced the traffic. The cars stopped as frustrated employees tried to get past the blockade. Someone a few rows back honked his horn, startling everyone.
The gathered protesters along the fence cheered for her now. She thought of old Ted being among them. She did not look to see if Jeff had remained to watch.
The front car edged closer, pushing the grill close to Elizabeth’s chest. She leaned back, forcing herself not to close her eyes. She could hear the rumble of the engine. Staring at the fish-eyed headlights, she could not see the driver’s face, only the license plate, skier 4. What on earth did that mean?
She could stop everything. She had to do her best.
Elizabeth felt the rough pavement under her skirt. The road remained cold from the morning. She stared straight ahead, focusing on remaining where she was. Only that mattered.
Ranks of guards strode out across the road again. Elizabeth did not look up. She saw only sets of legs in identical tan uniforms and dangling black riot clubs. She heard the officer’s voice droning, and the person next to her was carried off.
The anger, the triumph, the love and support of her companions, pounded on her in waves. She felt that it would lift her up and rescue her, rescue them all, and change the world.
“We request that you leave these premises,” the guard said. “If you choose to remain, we can arrest you. Will you leave voluntarily?”
She realized he was speaking to her. She heard the engine of the car in front of her and smelled the mixture of gasoline and exhaust. In the background she could hear the song begin yet another chorus.
“I can’t just sit in silence anymore,” she muttered.
“This is your second warning.” She hadn’t noticed any time passing at all, but out of the corner of her eye she saw another officer staring at his watch. The first man recited lines from a California statute. Her conscience counted more than any laws. Laws promoting research that led to mass murder were immoral, and she could not be held accountable by them.
“If you choose to remain, you will be arrested. Do you choose to remain?”
“I can’t just sit in silence anymore,” she said again, as if it were a chant. She was doing something. She would make some sort of difference, some sort of statement for everyone to see. Jeff didn’t matter at all anymore.
“You are under arrest.”
She hadn’t even seen the officer’s face. Strong hands grabbed her arms, but she refused to stand, refused to cooperate in any way whatsoever. Every part of her felt numb, but euphoric. Two guards picked her up by the arms in a skillful carry; as time went on and they got tired, no doubt the handling would get rougher. She let her shoes drag on the pavement, making it difficult for them to haul her off. A third guard picked up her legs. Everything felt very careful. Too many cameras were watching.
From the sidelines others cheered and continued to sing. The Bay Area Baptist Peacemakers went into a hymn, which overlapped with the continuing chorus of “Give Peace a Chance.”
In the group with the other arrestees, a woman guard wrapped Elizabeth’s wrists with plastic handcuffs, a thick band like a tie for a garbage bag. The guard’s belt had a clip holding about a hundred sets of cuffs. Elizabeth couldn’t snap out of the restraints; for mass arrests the plastic cuffs were as effective as but much cheaper and simpler than metal handcuffs.
She waited for over an hour as more people came into the detaining area. It still hadn’t sunk in yet. She rode the crest of her feelings. Everyone around her seemed to be in a similar daze.
Processing started without delay, with clerks in guard uniforms filling out the arrest forms and going through the bureaucratic ritual. Some protesters remained militant and gave blatantly false names, false Social Security numbers, false addresses—but Elizabeth thought that was stupid. They had already made their point, and misinformation would only delay their own release. Resisting now harmed no one but themselves.