Traffic barriers and high powered lights block the road to the prison gates. 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.