A few years ago, when we were driving through a local mall, my wife Rachel saw a man beating his girlfriend right in front of what was then the Nike Store in Westlake Village, California. It was broad daylight, about 6 p.m. in the summer. Before I could say anything, she ordered me to stop the car, and she was out of the car like a flash, dressing down the assailant and pulling his girlfriend away. I barely had time to park the car and rush over, but it was not even like I was needed at that point, other than to advise calling the police. I did this over the protests of the woman’s companion, and within moments they arrived. There was a female cop and a male cop, with the female officer taking the lead. It was soon discovered that this was not any kind of longtime “boyfriend” but a date gone horribly wrong. When she had asked to go home, the “gentleman” became physical and started to hit her. This sleazeball began apologizing and wanted to take her home, but it was no longer his call. She had to get home somehow—she lived all the way in East LA—but we gladly paid for the Uber to send her home. The cops took this guy away for questioning.
This was not a cinematic rescue as we see on Netflix these days, with no swelling music and no female superheroes. Just a concerned woman citizen getting involved. There were no medals and no press releases. Just another woman who refused to drive past her and “mind her own business,” and then dealt with the modest practical question of how she would get home.
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