DISCONNECTED

Chapter 1

10/30/91

Intuition is a flash of insight. Neither telepathy, nor stroke of divinity, its enlightenment comes from empirical evidence, consciously or unconsciously attained. Intuition may not tell you what you want to hear, but if ignored, you're basically fucking yourself.

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It's hard to tell what's happening at first. The video is blurry, shot at night, and in black and white. I can make out a police car with its headlights on, lighting up a group of cops loosely encircling a guy trying to get up off the ground. The video sharpens to clarity as a cop, wielding a baton, slams it full force into the guy's head, like he's batting a T-ball. The guy goes down again. The image jitters, as if whoever is filming felt the blow. It's always shown with no sound,leaving the newscaster to narrate the scene.

"Shocking! Deeply disturbing footage," Stan Chambers, the sage of the KTLA Morning News, manages to mix the right amount of righteous indignation with urgency in his delivery. "This is an obvious case of racial profiling, and blatant police brutality," Stan insists. So much for unbiased reporting.

Video pulls back to reveal two officers relentlessly clubbing the guy on the ground. He curls onto his side to avoid the blows, then rolls to his other side in a fetal position as the pummeling continues. An officer among the many standing around watching the beating yells and gestures at guy to lay face down. He does, rolls onto his belly and stills. The beating stops, and for a moment there's peace, like no one knows what to do next.

"Mr King was savagely beaten by LAPD officers..." and Rodney King'smug shots come on-screen. Only then is it obvious he's Black. His right eye is swollen shut, his cheeks and forehead bloody. White butterfly bandages above his thick brows stand out against his dark skin.

"So,what are you doing right now?" Lee asked me. I'd forgotten he was on the line. His question felt invasive, verging on lewd, like he was peeping into my bedroom.

I'd clicked on the TV after prompting him to "Tell me about being Lee," and he began reciting the same script as the twenty guys before him. Thirty-something, athletic, successful entrepreneur, 'at a great space in his life.' All he wanted (not 'needed'—'wanted' makes one better adjusted) was someone to share his wonderful life with. My intuition bridled. How fulfilling could his life possibly be, if, like me, he was looking for love in personal ads in the L.A.Daily News?

"Is that the TV I hear, or are you with someone?" He asked casually,but there was an edge of 'why did you call me if you're with somebody.'

"Just me. Well, and my roommate, who's probably still sleeping. Oh, and my dog, of course." I muted the TV, looked over at Face curled in her beanbag bed, whimpering and twitching, lost in a doggy dream.Made me feel safer somehow, declaring I had allies on hand.

The video demands my attention when one of the loitering cops near Rodney savagely stomps on his head. King's bulbous body writhes on the ground with the blow. Police resume beating him, alternating between baton blows and violent kicks to his head and back. Miraculously, he manages to sit up, tries to shield himself from the relentless pummeling. Clearly dazed, he sits on the ground holding his head,then a half dozen cops pounce on him at once, throw him on his stomach, pull his arms behind him, and cuff him.

"I don't have a roommate. Or a dog either. But I like dogs. What kind of dog do you have?"

"A Shepard pound hound," I announced with a hint of bravado. "Seven years old and at the top of her form. She's a bit of a brat. Somewhat possessive, though she generally likes most everyone I do."

Lee chuckled, like he got my implication. "So, tell me more about being Rachel."

I flashed a tempered grin he'd turned my question to him back on me."What would you like to know?"