I'm probably going to kick the hornet's nest with this, but nonetheless, here it goes.
I am not trying to preach any agenda, rather I am showing the incident from the point-of-view of characters who may have faced marginalization due to their ethnicities in the 1940's. Hence, this piece will hold subjective bias from these characters, though facts remain facts, and the fact is that while this grave mishandling of justice was outrageous, it was not new for the time period, and only led to more violent incidents. From what information I have been able to find, those police men that did partake in the riots used clubs and nightsticks against the men the sailors attacked to further subdue them, as they were ordered to accompany the service men, but not arrest any of the service men. I heavily doubt Stefan would have done that.
As a side note, not all zoot suit wearers that were targeted during the riots were Hispanic, but those of Hispanic ethnicity comprised a majority of the victims. I'm also using the term "young men" loosely, as quite a number of the victims were between the ages of twelve and thirteen.
Prompt: Chaos (can be used as theme or wording)
Words: 482
While they professed otherwise, humans were a violent species. Stefan had seen first-hand evidence of such when a rock broke through his family's tenement window. The glass embedded itself into his hand, raised to erect the final block of a small skyscraper he and his little sister had begun.
Bruised fists swung at Bekowsky as he attempted to bring the zoot suit-clad lad under control. Finding that his strikes did nothing to bring the officer down, the youth clawed at him blindly, tearing off bits of Stefan's uniform and skin. Stefan's blood hit the pavement as he caught the boy's wrist. Panting heavily, he warned, "Stop, I don't want to hurt you!" Sailors, enthralled with the chaos they had conjured around the two, swung blunt objects, scratched, bit, kicked, punched, and hurled insults at civilians they had sworn to protect. An eye for an eye, the sailors believed, if the word of their eleven brothers-in-arms, who claimed to be jumped by these spic sons of bitches, was right.
Young men, beaten, bruised, and stripped, were shackled in handcuffs. Tormented, they had fought back out of sheer terror. They were better off locked up, so those sacks of shit couldn't beat on them again.
Enrique, sweating and panting hard as steam rose from his body, sat slumped in his corner of the boxing ring, his arms draped over the ropes.
"One guy I arrested called me a traitor," he admitted to Stefan, "It wasn't the worst of the insults by far, but it was the most accurate."
Chuckling, Stefan playfully punched Enrique. A sparring match between friends was always fun.
To actually declare that Hispanics and Poles were people too would cause problems. Good cops didn't rock the boat like that. Come to think of it, Stefan didn't consider himself a good cop. The LAPD was corrupt as the sky was blue, but the riots made it utterly shameless. He was disgusted, but the fact was that he held part of the blame by rationalizing his actions as he slapped on the cuffs.
"It's okay, I'm fine. Nobody's gonna hurt you while I'm around," Stefan promised his sister as he soaked his hand, wrapped in a cloth, in warm water.
Shakily, a girl clutched what remained of her blouse to herself, her exposed ripped bra strap dangling uselessly as she watched Enrique lead her disoriented brother away. The boy, who had attempted to intervene when a sailor had roughly grabbed her, sported a hideous gash from a bottle being broken over his head.
Enrique fought in the ring under fair rules. "Nice arm, kid," Stefan praised, clapping him on the back.
Illuminated by flashlights, marquees, and headlights, Gonzales and Bekowsky herded away the bloodied and broken. "Arrested for vagrancy and rioting," the men wearing badges declared, while the antagonistic and adrenaline-overdosed military men laughed at the battered youths before returning to their bases.