The Charges Were Dropped, but the Damage Was Already Done

D avid Huerta sat on a steel bed too small for his burly frame in a Los Angeles jail last summer and looked out a small rectangular window at Dodger Stadium, where he’d once spent evenings with his two boys.

He was the kid who’d made good, although it hadn’t been easy.

His mother died from breast cancer when he was 4.

He was raised in southeast L.A. by his dad, a veteran of the Korean War turned Teamster, who paid the bills by loading and unloading cargo—and, when he was out of work, took his sons with him to the hiring hall.

Huerta steered clear of gangs and instead went to college, became a union organizer, and worked his way up to become president of the largest labor union in the state, the Service Employees International Union of California.

Yet here he was.

He was sure that he hadn’t done anything illegal.

He had screamed at masked federal agents as they executed search warrants at a downtown apparel business that was suspected of hiring undocumented immigrants.

He had been angry, no question—especially at President Trump.

He had flipped his middle fingers at the masked federal officers.

At one point, he sat down in front of the business’s gate; later, he encouraged other protesters to form a picket circle in front of it.

When an officer warned him he might be arrested, he replied, “I can’t hear you through your fucking mask.” And when a police van tried to enter, he stood with his hands on his hips nearby.

He considered all of that well within the bounds of his First Amendment rights.

But he couldn’t stop second-guessing his decision to show up at such a volatile scene alone.