A Time for Patriots

The protests were organized, almost routine, and relatively nonthreatening. The marchers — about a hundred of them today, the biggest number yet — would pile up to the front gate, chanting and singing as they approached, waving signs and banners, surrounded by photographers and crews from news outlets all over the world. A Highway Patrol trooper would order them to get off the highway. Someone with a bullhorn would read off a list of demands, usually right into the trooper’s face. The Highway Patrol trooper would repeat the order. The protesters continued to sing and chant, amplified with bullhorns, and a half dozen or so would sit down in front of the gate. The trooper would put one of them in handcuffs, surrounded by the crowd, yelling and screaming while the one person was taken away. Then the one patrol car’s lights and sirens activated, and the crowd would slowly move off to either side of the highway. They would stay for another hour or so, then start to leave. The one arrested protester would be allowed to leave as soon as the cameras were out of sight. By nine-thirty, ten o’clock tops, it was over.

It was Leo Slotnick’s turn at the front gate. The air was already fairly hot and humid for this time of day, but he still wore his long-sleeved blouse with body armor underneath, and he was already damp with sweat. He had been sure to install a pair of foam earplugs to help preserve his hearing from the noisy crowd with their bullhorns, and he was wearing a pair of black Kevlar knife-proof gloves with steel knuckles. His trainee, Bobby Johnson, was back beside the patrol car, ready to take today’s designated volunteer arrestee into custody.

When the protesters approached, Leo let them chant and sing for about fifteen minutes — he thought a few of them were actually looking at their watches, wondering why he was taking so long to confront them. At the next pause between songs, he filled his lungs and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please. I am Sergeant Slotnick of the Nevada Highway Patrol. I am here to inform you that you are illegally blocking a state thoroughfare and interfering with normal traffic, in violation of Nevada Revised Statute four-eighty-four B point nine-twenty dash one. You are hereby ordered to clear the highway and allow traffic to proceed. Failure to obey a traffic officer is also a violation of Nevada Revised Statutes four-eighty-four B point one hundred, and could result in arrest and detainment. Please clear the highway immediately. Thank you.”

Now it was time for the shouting and demands. Leo folded his hands in front of his body — these folks were mostly harmless, but he still had to be ready to protect himself — and he steeled himself to accept the amplified yelling and screaming that was about to occur. Sure enough, the bozo with the bullhorn began shouting just a couple feet away from his ear, and even with the earplugs firmly installed, the bastard was giving him a splitting…

… and then he saw them: the same two tall guys he had seen at the first demonstration, but this time they were right up front, at the head of the crowd.

He tilted his head so he could talk into his shoulder-mounted microphone: “Bobby, this is Leo. C’mon out here and cover me, will you?”

“Roger,” came the immediate reply.

Leo looked directly at the taller of the two men. They returned his gaze, not attempting to retreat or hide at all. Over the blaring bullhorn beside him, he waved two fingers at the man. “You, sir, would you come with me, please?” The man did not move. “I said, you, sir, come with me.” The crowd, sensing something unknown was unfolding, seemed to back away from the direct line between the two men. “Anyone here know this man?” Leo shouted.

“He has a right to be here!” the guy with the bullhorn shouted. “What’s your beef, man?”

“I want to talk with you, sir,” Leo said to the stranger. “I want you to come with me.”

“What the hell’s going on, Leo?” the guy with the bullhorn asked. Leo recognized him as the night-shift clerk at the 7-Eleven in town. “Why are you dissin’ this guy?”

“Do you know who he is, Tommy?” Leo asked him. “Have you met him before? Is he from around here?”

The guy with the bullhorn looked at the stranger with a blank expression, but turned to Leo and said, “Hey, Leo, I don’t get it. I don’t know this dude, but he ain’t doin’ nuthin’. We don’t want no trouble, bro. He’s not the one we’re going to get arrested today with you, so don’t—”

“I want you to come with me, sir, right now, ” Leo shouted, and he put a hand on his sidearm…

… and no one was exactly sure what happened first after that: