The Case for a Creator - Lee Strobel [4]
This was my chance. I decided to infiltrate the rally to get an unvarnished look at what was really going on. At the time, it seemed like a good idea.
I rendezvoused with Charlie, a top-notch photojournalist dispatched by the Tribune to capture the textbook war on film. We decided that we would sneak into the rural school where hundreds of agitated protesters were expected to pack the bleachers. I’d scribble my notes surreptitiously; Charlie would see whether he could snap a few discreet photos. We figured if we could just blend into the crowd, we’d get away with it.
We figured wrong.
Our shiny new rental car stood in sharp contrast with the dusty pick-up trucks and well-used cars that were hastily left at all angles on the gravel parking lot. We tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as we walked nonchalantly beside the stragglers who were streaming toward the gymnasium. Charlie kept his Nikons hidden beneath his waist-length denim jacket, but there was no way he could conceal his long black hair.
At first, I thought we’d gotten away with it. We flowed with the crowd through a side door of the gym. Inside, the noise was deafening. Two large bleachers were packed with animated and agitated people who all seemed to be talking at once. Someone was setting up a small speaker on the floor of the gym. Charlie and I were milling around with people who were standing by the door, unable to find a seat. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to us.
A beefy man in a white short-sleeve shirt and dark, narrow tie took the handheld microphone and blew into it to see if it was working. “Let me have your attention,” he shouted over the din. “Let’s get started.”
People began to settle down. But as they did, I got the uncomfortable feeling that a lot of eyes were starting to bore in on us. “Wait a minute,” the guy at the microphone said. “We’ve got some intruders here!” With that, he turned and glared at Charlie and me. People around us pivoted to confront the two of us. The room fell silent.
“C’mon out here!” the man demanded, gesturing for both of us to come onto the gym floor. “Who are you? You’re not welcome here!”
With that, the crowd erupted into catcalls and jeers. Unsure what to do, Charlie and I stepped hesitantly toward the man with the microphone. It seemed like all of the anger in the room was suddenly focused on the two of us.
My first thought was that I didn’t like becoming part of the story. My second thought was that this mob was going to throw us out of the place—and we were going to get roughed up along the way. My third thought was that nothing in journalism school had prepared me for this.
“What should we do with these two boys?” the man asked, baiting the crowd. Now the folks were really riled! I felt like I was being put on trial. When I used to hear the phrase my knees were shaking, I thought it was just a figure of speech. But my knees were shaking!
“Let’s get rid of them!” he declared.
The door was blocked. There was nowhere to run. But just as some men were surging forward to grab us, a part-time truck driver, part-time preacher stepped up and wrested away the microphone. He raised his hand to stop them.
“Hold on!” he shouted. “Just a minute! Settle down!” Obviously, he was someone the crowd respected. The noise subsided. “Now listen to me,” he continued. “I’ve seen this reporter around town the last few days, interviewing both sides of this thing. I think he wants to tell the story like it is. I think he wants to be fair. I say we give him a chance. I say we let him stay!”
The crowd was uncertain. There was some grumbling. The preacher turned toward me. “You’re gonna be fair, aren’t you?” he asked.
I nodded as reassuringly as I could.
The preacher turned to the crowd.