You don't belong here. Filthy black rat. Tyler Anderson laughed as he poured a
bottle of water over Whitney Williams' head. You're just a weak black woman, too
frail to fight.
Then he turned to the 600 spectators, spreading his arms wide. Look everyone, the
little rat is in the ring. Whitney was speechless. Two fighters held her arms behind
her back.
Let me teach you gutters how to punch. You crossed the line. His face flushed red.
He snatched the hat from her head and threw it onto the carpet.
Are you scared, little rat? He stomped on it three times, laughing loudly with delight.
But Tyler didn't know one thing. What was revealed from beneath the sleeves of the
black woman would be etched into his memory for the rest of his life.
Coral Bay, California, a small coastal town two hours north of San Diego. The kind of
place where everybody knows everybody and nobody asks too many questions.
Whitney Williams lived in a one-bedroom rental above the laundromat on Magnolia