by Kekla Magoon
It might never happen, me and Jennica. Maybe it shouldn’t, either.
Ten cruisers on Peach. Paddy wagon rolling in.
Get clear of it, I instruct him. What is he thinking messing around with this? He’s reckless. Dives headfirst into a mess and expects to come up clean.
Can’t, he says. We’re throwing down.
Sigh. Sometimes I wonder what Jennica ever saw in Noodle in the first place. He has only two settings: pissed off about everything or high enough not to care about anything. She deserves better. He’s my boy, but come on. She’s too smart for him. She deserves some nuance. Some sweet. I have more to offer her than Noodle ever could.
I’m biding my time. I could close this deal anytime I want, though. I know what to say to make it happen. She moves like a frightened rabbit. She would fall into my arms, like she keeps falling back into Noodle’s. I could save her.
If it was any other girl, I might go on and get it done. See how it all shook out. We’d run fast and hot like a struck match, then flame out just as easily. But Jennica’s not just any girl.
She’s gotta know, she’s safe with me. However long that takes. Slow burn. Something Noodle could never comprehend.
I tell him again, We don’t need trouble. Get out.
Can’t, bro. Everyone’s here.
Goddammit. All right. Tuck my collar, glide toward the scene. My ride’s parked between Peach and the diner anyway. Easy enough to swing past and see what’s up. At least long enough to smack Noodle upside the head and bring him home.
Moments like this, I miss Tariq Johnson more than ever. I need a second with a better head on his shoulders. Noodle’s loyal, and tough. He takes his marching orders without pushback—usually—and he knows how to keep the rank and file in line. But I need someone to bounce ideas off of. I used to have these conversations with T, before he got shot. And Jennica, too, when she was on the inside. Now I’m on my own. Juggling the big decisions without a sounding board ain’t easy. Can’t take Noodle’s word for what’s going down. Gotta see it for myself.
The shouting reaches me two blocks out. What the actual …
OFFICER YOUNG
Crowd control is usually a bullshit assignment. Boring as hell. We stand on a street corner during a march for breast cancer awareness, or whatever, and watch the chattering ladies stroll by, carrying their signs and balloons. We stare at pink shirts, hats so long the color loses meaning. We try not to think about breasts, even though they are all around us and the word is everywhere, too.
There is something musical about the shouting and chanting; we are lulled by it. There is energy pouring out of the comparatively small bodies in front of us. There is something powerful about the passion and anger directed at this disease, something moving about the idea of people coming together to make change.
We stand there, vigilance level set to automatic. Our eyes flick here and there occasionally. We admonish people for sneaking through the barricades. Sometimes they cross them anyway. We’re part of the fabric backdrop. Everyone moves through us.
We get our toes run over by strollers a couple of times. Sometimes we get an apology. We give directions to the porta-potties. We stand with our thumbs hooked over our belts because we think it looks cooler than letting our arms dangle, plus the department discourages crossed arms because some captain took a course in nonverbal communication and determined that the messaging is unfriendly.
That’s what it’s supposed to be. Tonight it’s not that.
Tonight, the only splash of pink has great meaning.
Tonight we stand with our arms crossed.
We put on our most menacing stares. If anyone steps on our feet, we can respond with appropriate force. If anyone has to pee, it’s their own damn problem to solve.
There is something menacing about the shouting and chanting; we are disturbed by it. There is energy pouring out of the comparatively dark bodies in front of us. There is something unsettling about the passion and anger directed at us, something terrifying about the idea of people coming together to tear our blue line down.
We stand there, vigilance level set to the max. Our eyes flick here and there constantly. We threaten people for leaning over the barricades. Our batons are at the ready, and so are our guns. No one moves through us.
We’re each handed a Plexiglas shield to carry in front of us. It makes us feel better and worse at the same time. We have fleeting thoughts about nonverbal messaging, but we do what we’re told. We stand in a line, ready to serve and protect.
WILL/EMZEE
The best time to tag is the middle of the night, but after school is when I’m free. I’ve made my peace with it.
The best time to mural is at dusk. Early enough that you still got some light, late enough that you can hide your face if you need to.
It’s not unusual for me to see a big police hoopla. SWAT teams enjoy moving around dusk as well. No rhyme or reason. You’d think they’d prefer full daylight. All the better to shoot you by, my dear. I picture them cackling like cartoon villains, dressed in their strange new urban camo.
I guess we should have known they were coming for us when someone went out and made fabric. Urban insurgency.
It is unusual to see such a big gathering of onlookers. That’s what really holds me up.
I’m supposed to be heading home. Long before now, actually.
It should be dark, but it doesn’t look it, with all the floodlights. It should be cold, but it doesn’t feel it.
The crowd is getting heated.
The body, people keep saying. Move the body. The ambulance is down the end of the block. Only vehicle on the street with its lights off.
But they don’t move the body. They don’t move her for hours. The sun goes down. They roll in lights. Walk around her like some set dressing. She is out of sight of the crowd, but the cops circle like vultures.
People gather, watching. Shouting. Cops come stand at the edge of us, with bullhorns. They order us to disperse.
We are not to wonder. We are not to feel. We are not to question the things we see before us.
We surge against the police line tape. It is not a wall. We are held in place because we let ourselves be … for how much longer? How much longer?
I slip from the crowd. Pull my spray cans from my satchel. Black. Gray. Red. White. Pause a second … Blue.
Shake. Listen to the telltale ball-bearing rattle.
Speak. My arms arc over my head.
I write the words in big letters on the side of a brick building. This space, I’ve been saving. It deserves something huge and beautiful. Something that would take more than a night to complete.
I don’t know why, but I do it. Tell myself I can paint over it later.
Write the words: BLACK POWER.
NATIONAL NEWS NETWORK SPECIAL REPORT
Host: We’re here with special guest Professor Xavier Charles of Columbia University, monitoring the escalating tensions in Underhill tonight. Professor, what’s your take on the situation?
Prof. Charles: Tragedy all around. The authorities are going to need to proceed with greater caution than they’ve displayed so far tonight.
Host: Are we looking at a possible riot?
Prof. Charles: We’re looking at a community being actively disenfranchised, and targeted by law enforcement. You want to talk about tensions running high, don’t look at the people on the street. They have reasons to be angry.
Host: So, in your view, rioting in Underhill is a real possibility tonight?
Prof. Charles: The police are not treating the citizens with respect. Bad policing results in unnecessary violence. Case in point, a thirteen-year-old girl was murdered tonight.
Host: Allegedly … The investigation hasn’t returned any results yet.
Prof. Charles: An unarmed child was shot to death by a police officer. The police department already publicly confirmed the basic facts of the case. Let’s be clear—we’re talking about a murder.
Host: We
’re talking about the actions of a police officer on duty. It’s irresponsible journalism to throw around criminal accusations—
Prof. Charles: I’m not a journalist. I’m a political science and African American history professor.
Host: To say murdered suggests—
Prof. Charles: I’m aware of what it suggests. The historical legacy of police violence against black citizens bears it up.
Host: History isn’t at issue here.
Prof. Charles: Look at Watts in ’65, look at LA after Rodney King, Ferguson after Michael Brown, Baltimore after Freddie Gray.
Host: Riots.
Prof. Charles: You want to call it “riots” because you want the focus to be on so-called black violence and so-called black criminality. You want to do anything possible to justify the reality of police officers acting with lethal force on a community.
Host: That’s not—
Prof. Charles: You want to say it’s okay for a police officer to respond with knee-jerk lethal anger at the mere idea of a threat against his person, and at the same time you want to say it’s wrong for a community to rise up in peaceful anger in response to repeated, systematic abuses at the hands of the power structure. That logic doesn’t hold.
Host: Peaceful anger? A riot?
Prof. Charles: Look at the live feed. I see a group of people exercising their First Amendment rights to free speech and to assemble peaceably. You’ve had the camera focused on the crowd this whole time. Who there is breaking the law? Yet you’re already calling it a riot.
Host: A potential riot.
Prof. Charles: You see a public gathering of the black community as a potential riot—
Host: Look at them!
Prof. Charles: —and they see every police officer as a potential murderer.
Host: That’s unfair.
Prof. Charles: Yes. But it’s a parallel, and a racist double standard that news media and law enforcement perpetually ignore.
Host: You’re saying there’s bias on both sides?
Prof. Charles: I’m saying you have the cameras turned the wrong way. The whole time we’re talking here, the live feed playing on the split screen is focused on the crowd of angry blacks. The scroll bar says “escalating tensions threaten to spill over.” If you want to talk about responsible journalism, you should also show what they’re protesting. How many hours later, and that child’s body is still in the street?
Host: The police are surely following an investigative protocol. We can get more information—
Prof. Charles: They’re making choices about what to prioritize.
Host: The crowd is growing and they don’t have a permit to demonstrate.
Prof. Charles: Did they have a permit at the Boston Tea Party?
Host: You can’t compare—
Prof. Charles: No matter what they tell you about the First Amendment, this country will never grant us a permit to tear down the establishment.
Host: That sounds dangerously close to treason, Professor.
Prof. Charles: On the contrary. It’s a deeply American idea. The fundamental right to oppose tyranny is the entire basis for the Declaration of Independence, which we widely regard as a foundational document of the United States. But it wasn’t at the time. It was, in fact, a document of resistance against the Crown, after which the newly independent states created their unified government under a new flag. The US Constitution, the actual foundational American document, establishes law for this new nation, in which black Americans, then enslaved, were counted as three-fifths of a person and denied basic human rights and citizenship. You can call it treason, but it is a deeply American idea for the disenfranchised to rise up against the power structure, in an effort to secure actual equality and the benefits of liberty on their own terms.
Host: You’re calling for a revolution.
Prof. Charles: I’m calling for systemic social change. There are myriad ways that change could happen peacefully. We might still be British subjects if the Crown had responded to the colonists’ desire for self-government with compassion and forethought. In this nation today, we still have leaders who stubbornly pursue their own self-interest. Instead of investing in social services, we have militarized policing.
Host: We need to take a break. Last thoughts, Professor Charles?
Prof. Charles: You have the cameras turned the wrong way. Even through this discussion, the feed hasn’t shifted. You want to blame poor black communities, but violence begets violence. The problem begins with the police and the politicians who deploy them. I’ll remind your viewing audience that there are students in the streets of Underhill right now, filming the police from within the crowd and posting the footage online. We should all be looking in all directions. The revolution—
Host: Thank you, Professor. We’ll be—
Prof. Charles: —may not be televised, but it will be YouTubed.
Host: —right back with an update regarding Underhill Police Department procedures.
@KelvinX_: Light it up, ya’ll. #underhill #riseup
@Viana_Brown: We wait no longer. We stand still no longer. #standupspeakout
@Momof6: Kids today. SMH.
@BrownMamaBear: My thoughts and prayers are with Underhill!
@WesSteeleStudio: The mainstream media will tell you LIES about what happened tonight in Underhill. Wes Steele makes the real story known: click for video. #HeroCop #MakeItKnown
@WhitePowerCord: Self-defense is a human right. #BlueLivesMatter
@WhitePowerCord: One less criminal on the streets. Hoo-rah. #HeroCop
@BrownMamaBear: Will there be peace in our time? Praying for all the little brown babies tonite. #blessings
@Usual_Suspect_911: Why r u up here talkin bout blessings? Aint no GOD in this mess.
@BrownMamaBear: My prayers are with you, young brother. #blessings
@Usual_Suspect_911: You trippin. Prayers aint enough. #WalkingWhileBlack
NIGHT ONE:
THE FALLOUT
PEACH STREET
The opposite of calm is a frenzied feeling. It is the scratch of wool mittens, necessary to stay warm. It is the foam that spills out from the hole of a beer can, the pop-rush-damp, a first careful sip, then a chug.
The opposite of calm is concentric circles, the ripple effects of a stone in a pool. One smooth black stone—plop, rush, shimmer, and the stillness is broken.
The opposite of calm is the skitter of pebbles. When the people are distressed, so is the surface of the street. Every crack in the sidewalk echoes their scream.
WITNESS
“Man, nothing.” How many ways can you say it? “I was walking home. Turned the corner, came upon the cop and the dead kid. That’s it.”
“What did you see?” the officer asks again. The room is small and growing smaller by the minute. You wonder if people are watching you through the dark window in the wall. You assume you’re being recorded. “Describe exactly what you saw.”
“Cop and the dead kid.”
“The officer and the suspect. Did you witness the shooting?”
“Naw, man. It was over already. Kid was on the ground, cop was kneeling over her.”
“The suspect was on the ground?”
“Yes. Lying there dead.”
Cop nods. “The suspect was on the ground. Was the suspect lying face-up or face-down?”
“Face-up. He turned her over to check for a pulse.”
Cop’s voice sharpens. “Did you see him do that?”
“Naw, you could tell by the way the body was turned.”
“I’ll ask you not to speculate, then. Was the suspect lying face-up?”
“Yes.”
“So, the suspect was facing the officer at the time of the shooting?”
Steam fills you up. You let it slide out your nose, like a bull. Let it slide out your ears, like a cartoon. “How you gonna call a thirteen-year-old girl a suspect?”
“Answer the question. The suspect was facing the officer at the time of the shooti
ng?”
“I told you, I ain’t see it.”
Cop sighs. “I expect your cooperation in this matter.”
Cooperation? As in, lying to support the cops? Screw that. “Now you want me to speculate?”
“Boy—” Cop looks like he’s about to blow a gasket. Whatever that is.
The legal aid lawyer clears her throat. “What do you expect to gain from this line of questioning?”
Cop breathes in and out a couple times. Almost makes you laugh. Someone’s been to anger management. You know a little something about that yourself. You’re sitting here hoping they don’t look up those records and use it against you.
“Ma’am, we’re trying to determine an order of events.”
“My client has been clear about his experience of the incident. If there’s nothing further, and there are no charges to level, then he’s free to go.”
You stand up, following her lead.
“On TV they can tell that shit.” Mistake. Too impulsive. You’re baiting a hook, and you’re the only fish in the room.
“Excuse me?” Tall cop wheels around.
Lawyer puts her hand on your arm.
“Forensics, right? You got some lab techs somewhere who can tell if she was shot from the front or from the back.”
Tall cop flinches toward his cuffs, a reflex. “You wanna be charged with impeding an investigation?”
Lawyer sweeps you out the door using the full meat of her arm. “My client has been fully cooperative. If you have further questions, you may direct them to my office.”
You are walking, suddenly and briskly through the precinct, the lawyer’s small arm around you, propelling you.
“Not another word. To anyone, ever, about this. You hear?” Her strength comes from somewhere invisible. The bull inside you paws against her grip. You’re spoiling for a fight. They’ve tipped you past the breaking point. You’d march straight back in there, tell them how it is. You have a daughter, almost thirteen.
The night air is surprisingly chill. It was hot in there. You walk, walk, walk. Stop next to a parked car. The lights come on and the doors click unlocked.
