Seven CHP officers in day-glo rain gear stop the car. It is storming. Rain pummels the asphalt. Surf thrashes the shore. The road to San Quentin bends a quarter mile, perched above the sea.
Eucalyptuses thrash in the darkness.
The town of San Quentin and the prison meet abruptly, the two benignly ignore each other. On a makeshift podium 200-odd protesters and one supporter congregate. Some chant, some scream, others look off emptily into their private thoughts. The storm pounds unabatingly. Everyone competes for a voice against the darkness of the clock.