On the southeastern fringe of Los Angeles, the Negro ghetto of Watts was a smoldering ruin. Wisps of smoke still curled from the skeletons of charred buildings. Wrecked cars lay around the streets like swatted beetles. Sidewalks were buried under huge shards of glass and chunks of concrete that had filled the air at the riots' height. The glint of sunlight on thousands of brass cartridge casings gave the eerie look of an abandoned battlefield−which it was. "This is just a quietness," said a Negro minister. "The riot is not over."
That after-image haunted all...
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