Why wasn't anybody helping him? I asked myself.
Unfortunately, I couldn't help him. I was working my assigned post: As a newly promoted floor sergeant at Men's Central Jail. As word filtered throughout the facility of what was happening on the streets about us, the growing consensus among the deputies was one of frustration: We wanted to be out there doing something to quell the violence.
I'll never forget what one of my fellow deputies said during the riots: "Yeah, years from now when my grandkids ask me what I did during the Riots, I'll be able to say I was backing up chow in the mess hall," he grumbled.
That first day of rioting was the flashpoint for four days of violence, days wherein downtown Los Angeles acquired a surreal feel that at times made it seem like something out of the old Charlton Heston horror movie "The Omega Man."
Traffic on the I-10 Freeway was non-existent, save for those who absolutely had to go to work under a hazy film of smoky clouds. I remember thinking that all of the other commuters must have been either cops or firefighters.