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pilot accused of war crimes as August William Tyler, a retired United States Air Force colonel.”
    Directly in front of him, a convoy of four vans and an old school bus loaded with people coalesced around the old VW minivan and slowed even more, effectively blocking any traffic from passing. The blockade slowed and let the old VW minivan set the pace. The lanes in front of the convoy rapidly opened as frustrated drivers leaned on their horns.
    The horns grew louder as the convoy halted in mid span, well short of Yerba Buena Island. “What the hell,” Hank said. Men and women streamed off the bus and unfurled a large banner. On cue, a TV crew drove up on motorcycles to record the demonstration. More signs appeared, all condemning the United States for committing war crimes. Two men, one on each side of the bridge shinnied up the suspension cables. Both were carrying the end of a long line attached to the banner. The lines were quickly attached, and the men slid down, hoisting the banner above the stopped traffic.
    STOP AMERICAN WAR CRIMES AGAINST THE WORLD
    Horns blared behind him. “Don’t do this!” Hank shouted. Then he saw it. A woman was holding a poster with a man’s photo and the word KILLER scrawled in red across it.
    Another woman climbed up a small ladder clutching a bullhorn. “Oh no,” Hank moaned. It was one of his students at the University of California at Berkeley. “The ditzy one.” Hank taught at Boalt Hall, Berkeley’s law school, but he had been shanghaied to conduct a graduate level seminar on international law, his specialty, for the political science department. It was a decision he had regretted from day one. He couldn’t remember the young woman’s name, and while she was intelligent, he despaired of her critical thinking skills and feared for the legal profession should she pursue a law degree. “Madison,” he mumbled, finally recalling her name. He set the parking brake and got out to hear.
    “We need the TV cameras over there,” Madison ordered, pointing to the clear traffic lanes. “I want the stopped cars as background.” The TV reporters dutifully obliged and moved to their appointed location.
    An attractive young woman got out of a car two lanes to Hank’s left. “I’ve got to catch a flight!”
    Madison turned her bullhorn on the woman. “This is more important than you catching an airplane, lady.”
    “My job depends on it!”
    Madison blasted her with “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”
    The loud bass of truck air horns echoed over them. Hank stood on his car’s doorsill in order to see. Six truck drivers were out of their trucks and headed his way, picking up angry drivers as they came. “Now it gets interesting.” He reached for his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. He quickly described the situation. “You got a riot about to start. And it’s gonna get very ugly very fast.” He broke the connection. He looked skyward and spread his arms. “Why me?”
    “Here come the rednecks,” Madison announced over her bullhorn.
    “Now that really helped,” Hank muttered. He opened the sunroof to his car and stood on the driver’s seat. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the combatants. He calculated there were at least eighty demonstrators, about half women. He counted the men surging past his car. Seventeen. But more irate motorists were joining them by the second.
    One of the truck drivers pointed at Madison who was still standing on the ladder orchestrating the demonstration. “Get her!” The battle was joined as a dozen or so of the demonstrators formed a defensive line.
    “We come in peace!” a young woman shouted as the demonstrators locked arms.
    “Peace my ass!” the same truck driver yelled. He barreled into the line, his muscular arms pumping with short, hard jabs. More men piled in behind him, giving weight to the attack. The line split apart and the men headed straight for Madison. “Grab the fuckin’ bitch!” the