No Jobs, No Justice!

Traffic was always bad in LA. Typically, Ranell was used to it, but today was ridiculous! The bumper-to-bumper mess had him stopped dead. He groaned. It’s starting to get dark. We’re going to miss the sunset. To make matters worse, he was stopped beside some scary-looking guy holding a cardboard sign that read, “No jobs, no justice!”

Ranell fixed his stare straight ahead, studiously avoiding eye contact with the angry protestor trying to attract his attention. He assumed it was a young man, but it was hard to tell with a black hoodie and mask. There had always been protestors, but it seemed like it was getting worse every year. I thought those guys weren’t allowed on the freeways.

The phone rang, and Ranell was grateful for the distraction. The caller ID said it was his wife. She’s probably mad that I’m taking so long.

“Sorry I’m late, hon. Traffic is a nightmare today.”

His wife wasn’t mad, although she did sound anxious, even a little scared. She’d been trying to reach him. “Where am I at?” He repeated her question. “Um…” he looked past some trucks, craning his head to read a sign on an overpass, “I’m just coming up on the West Anaheim Street exit. Why?”

His wife became nearly hysterical. Ranell tried to calm her, “Honey, slow down! I can’t understand what you’re saying. You want me to what? Get off the freeway? I can't, hon. We're at a dead stop. What’s going on?”

Something hard crashed into the passenger side of Ranell's windshield, sending fracturing spiderwebs across his field of view and rocking his car violently. Several companions had joined the protestor, and one stuck his fender with a baseball bat. His initial fear at the startling sound gave way to anger. Idiots! Ranell gritted his teeth. You’re not going to win anyone over this way. As far as I’m concerned, whatever you’re protesting, it just backfired.

Ranell’s first impulse was to storm out of his car and confront the protestor for his reckless behavior. But he recoiled in horror as he realized that first dozens, and then hundreds, of black-clad protestors were swarming over the cars parked on the freeway.

He checked to ensure his doors were locked as they streamed past his windows. Fists pummeled his hood, and boots kicked at his doors. They were mobbing all the cars, screaming incoherent slogans at terrified drivers, and Ranell was certain that it was just a matter of time before they broke through his windows. His heart raced uncontrollably as he imagined what they might do to him if they dragged him from the fragile protection afforded by his vehicle.

He remembered his phone and grabbed it from where it had dropped in his lap. She was still on the line. “Honey, listen to me!” It took her a moment to stop shouting. She was trying to explain that a mob had blocked the overpass, but Ranell had already figured that part out. “No, I’m not all right!” It was Ranell’s turn to shout, “Hang up with me and call the police! Tell them I’m at the intersection of Long Beach Freeway and West Anaheim. They’re smashing everything. Everything! They’re even trying to turn cars over!”

Directly in front of him, the owner of a tiny silver Kia seemed to be fighting for her life as a pack of black-clad thugs reached through broken windows to drag her out. Another group gathered on the far side of her car, rocking in unison, trying to flip it. There was a chaotic scramble as the vehicle began to tip over, and her tormentors scrambled to get clear before they were crushed beneath the overturning car.

Choose Option 1: Help the Woman

Choose Option 2: Drive to Safety