It was August and sweltering; the kind of heat that settles over Miami, over top of people, making it hard to breathe, making people crazy. I had on a helmet with a shield. Sweat poured down my face and my neck, my chest and my back. There were over a hundred sheriff's deputies forming a wall around the rioters to try to control them. With a few hundred people all crammed together, everyone became hotter and angrier, including us cops. The rioters raised their fists in the air and shouted, "Black Power" in our faces and, “We hate you motha fuckin’ crackers.” My body was lit up with adrenaline pumping through my veins. If someone charged at me, I swung my billy club—left, right, behind me, out in front, wherever they were comin’ from. In riot training, we were taught not to let them get close, not to let them get a hold of you or your gun or it was all over, because police are outnumbered in a riot. Finally, the National Guard trucks rolled in and sprayed tear gas into the crowd. That broke them up. Seemed like the temperature dropped ten degrees just getting them out of our faces. Liberty City was trashed that night.
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