Local News Bulletin:The El Monte City Planning Committee has recently approved the conversion of a defunct furniture factory—located at 4400 Temple City Blvd, with a floor space of approximately 71,700 square feet—into a medical marijuana cultivation and distribution center. The decision has stirred heated debate among El Monte residents, with some strongly in favor and others firmly opposed. Because the site lies close to Chinese residential neighborhoods in Temple City, a number of Temple City residents joined the protest at the "future marijuana house," and hundreds gathered in front of El Monte City Hall holding placards. Temple City Mayor Vincent Wen, Councilmember Peter Yu, and other local officials attended in opposition to the project. Several Chinese community groups announced they would organize a petition for a public referendum to block the facility's construction, and warned that if the city council proceeded with approval, they would file a lawsuit against El Monte's city government and seek the recall of the current mayor and council members. This paper will continue to follow developments.
Felix was brushing his teeth when the radio announcement ended. He spat out the foam, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Yesterday, he'd been arresting marijuana dealers. Today, the city was announcing plans to grow and sell the stuff itself.
Los Angeles never failed to keep things surreal.
He washed up, grabbed his jacket, and decided to head out for a bit—pick up a few things, get some air. Before leaving, he glanced toward apartment 302. Door closed. Good.
A quiet breath escaped him. Funny how simply refusing a girl's invitation could leave him feeling as if he owed her something.
On the sidewalk, another thought crossed his mind: his car was still at UCLA, left there after the other night. He considered calling Rachel to fetch it, but chose to walk instead. The small shop downstairs in his building didn't appeal—overpriced, limited selection.
Saturday brought more people into the streets. Weekend jobs, weekend moods. Along with them came the bad habits: double-parked sedans, cars nosed into red zones. Felix's professional instincts stirred. A ticket here, another there—he could almost hear the cash register ring.
A sharp horn blast cut across the street.
A blue sedan was surging and braking in short bursts, blocking a white car behind it.
The white car's driver—a Chinese woman—leaned out, shouting, "Hey! What's your problem? You're going to cause an accident!"
Her answer was a beer bottle hurled from the blue sedan's window, smashing against her hood with a dull thud. She gasped, the sound brittle with shock.
Felix was already moving. One hand jabbed toward the blue car's driver, the other swept back his jacket hem to expose the badge on his belt. His palm rested on the grip of his sidearm.
"Out of the car! You've just committed assault. Engine off, step out—now!"
Off duty or not, a badge and a steady hand over a holstered pistol had a language anyone understood. The man inside the blue sedan decided not to test whether Felix was bluffing. He got out slowly, turned, and leaned forward against his car with his hands on his head.
The color above him was gray—no killer, no predator—just a faint reek of marijuana. Recently smoked, not heavily.
Without taking his eyes off the man, Felix called out to the woman. "Ma'am, call the San Gabriel Station, report the incident."
Surprise flickered across her face, but she recovered quickly and pulled out her phone.
"Thank you, officer. If you hadn't stepped in—"
"Half my blood's Chinese. We look out for our own. What set him off? Did you know him?"
She shook her head. "I'm a volunteer with a Chinese civic group. We were gathering signatures against the marijuana facility in El Monte. He started yelling at me in the street, so I got in my car to leave. He followed me and threw the bottle."
The protest had moved from the radio waves to the pavement faster than he'd expected. She even tried to hand him the petition book. Felix told her he'd sign—after they got the blue sedan's driver into a patrol car.
When the responding unit arrived, Felix recognized the officer—Rick, a fellow deputy he'd crossed paths with before. Rick cuffed the suspect. Simple assault, damage to property, possibly more if the woman wanted to press harder.
Felix signed the petition, then stepped back as the woman followed the patrol unit away. The blue sedan would be towed to the city lot, the impound fee teaching its own lesson.
He headed on toward the market. Outside the 99 Ranch, more volunteers were handing out flyers. One of them spotted his name on the petition list and pressed a small red Chinese knot into his hand with a smile.
Inside, Felix loaded a basket—duck neck, shrimp sticks, dried plums, a six-pack beer.
At the register, raised voices drifted in from the entrance. He turned to see several Black men gripping the arms of the petition volunteers, crowding close, spitting words in their faces.
"Hey! Hands off! L.A. County Sheriff!"
The grip loosened. One man shot back, "Officer, they called us the N-word!"
"We didn't! They came looking for trouble!" a volunteer shouted over him.
Felix held up a hand. "Discrimination's serious. Nobody moves. I'll call a unit, we'll sort this out at the station."
The color drained from the men's faces. Street-level guys, all of them—trouble magnets who didn't want a closer look at their records.
One muttered a threat over his shoulder as they backed off. Then they scattered.
Felix checked on the volunteers. "You all right?"
"We're fine, thanks. They just didn't want us collecting signatures. No real harm done."
"Good. Next time, call it in immediately."
He didn't bother asking whether there'd been actual slurs. He knew the undercurrent well enough.
The walk home gave him time to register the scale of the issue. On the radio, it had been just another news item. On the street, the edges were sharper—tempers quick to ignite.
His phone rang. Linda's name lit the screen.
"Hey, Felix. We're changing your shifts—all nights from here on, starting tonight. Mark's in the hospital—bad food at the 626 Night Market. You'll cover until he's back."