by Kekla Magoon
I shrug. Something like that.
Steve sips his coffee. “You can’t compare the sixties to now. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Whatever.”
“Know the history and know it right. We’re not trying to repeat it.”
“Because things are so much better now? Because we’re all equal and we just have to work hard?” I glare at him. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“Look at this house,” he says. “You and I have opportunities we never would have had in the sixties. Don’t discount the progress.”
“Tell that to my friends who live on Peach Street.”
“You want this to be a simple conversation.” Steve sighs. He pours a fresh cup of coffee. “It’s a very complicated issue.”
“I know that. Geez.”
The carafe clatters back into place. Steve leans against the counter, weighing his words. I don’t care what he thinks. He doesn’t know what it’s like in the old neighborhood.
“You think they’ll shoot? At nonviolent protestors?”
“Everyone has a cell phone,” he says. “And the police are trigger-happy.”
“Exactly,” I say. “We have to take a stand.”
“I work with these people,” Steve says. “They don’t see anything wrong with what has happened.”
“But it’s wrong.” That sounds stupid and whiny. But it’s all I can think to say.
Steve looks out the window. Maybe he can’t face me while he says it. “I think they’ve moved past a segregation mentality. They’re back to a slavery mentality.”
“What?” In spite of myself, I’m interested in what he’s saying. This part of it anyway.
“You’ve seen other White Out events on the news, right? They’re carrying torches and talking about taking ‘their’ country back. They’re not talking separate but equal.”
“Duh. They’re white supremacists.”
“They’re speaking for a lot of prejudiced people who are afraid to come into the light.”
“That’s why we gotta take a stand!”
“Will—” Steve pauses. “Your mom and I don’t want you participating in these protests.”
“You don’t want me standing up for what’s right?”
“We want you to understand what all is at stake. For your future.”
“I do.”
“They hate us.” Steve’s voice chokes up. “It’s not enough anymore to push us to the side and pretend we don’t exist. We’ve proven we won’t stand for that. So they want to eliminate us.”
“I know. And I don’t want to let them get away with that.” My voice rises in response to his emotion. “I don’t want to grow up in a world that hates me and not be able to do anything about it.”
“I want you safe,” Steve says. “I love you.”
There are a few things that scare me more than anything else. Grown-up tears are one of them. I grab my backpack, ready to flee.
At the doorway, I turn around. Steve is at the counter. The coffee cup looks small in his hands and he looks small against the kitchen.
“I love you, too,” I tell him. Because I don’t know if I’ve ever said it before. And we don’t know what will happen. “But I have things I have to do.”
EVA
The plump envelope sits in the center of the table. It is the ugliest thing we have ever seen.
We eat dinner around its edges, because to move it means putting it somewhere. And it’s not clear where it needs to go.
So it sits there, right where I left it.
I am the one who checks the mail. I always do, after school. I like to sort it into piles. Things for Mommy, things for Daddy. Things for “Current Resident,” which is me.
I save all the catalogs and coupons to make my collages.
The white bubble package is thick and bulky and heavy. It would not fit in the mailbox, instead it was leaning against the post, all slumped against the grass like a mail-order T-shirt. It had no return label, but it was addressed to “The family of Darren Henderson,” which is me.
There was a manila envelope inside, one so worn and overstuffed that it was tearing at the edges. Poking out the seams, there were rolls and wads of bills. Cash money.
I rushed inside, plopped it on the table. Tore it open. So much cash money, rubber banded in small bundles. I wanted to unwrap it, toss it in the air, roll around in it like a lottery winner.
The note fluttered from the envelope. The note was typed on a piece of off-white paper and signed with a blood cross stamp:
ONE DOWN, ONE MILLION TO GO.
I wonder if it is a million dollars, but Daddy says no.
“It’s probably fifty thousand.”
Still enough to make my eyes bug out. Still the most money we have ever seen in one place.
But Mommy says the blood cross logo is a symbol of white supremacists. We’ve been sent money by the Ku Klux Klan.
More money than Daddy even makes in a year.
KIMBERLY
When it’s just the two of us in the office now, it’s different. We stay longer than we mean to. It is easy to get lost in the work, to get lost in each other.
“Did you call the local affiliates?” Zeke says.
We’re sitting side by side at his desk. Our knees might be touching, but we pretend they aren’t. Sometimes, when he takes a call, his hand drifts to my knee. I like it there. It is interesting, how different the world becomes when there is someone you can touch.
“Yeah,” I answer. “They’ll be there in the morning.”
We are sorting through the various flyers and materials for the White Out counterprotest tomorrow. In a minute I will get up and go make more photocopies on bright-colored paper.
Zeke’s hand finds my knee again. I will get up. Really. In a minute.
I put my hand on top of his. He leans in and nuzzles my neck. “You smell so good,” he says. “What is that?”
“Should I go back to my desk?” I grin. “I think I’m distracting you.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Zeke kisses me again. “Everything else in the world is a mere distraction from you.”
It is hard to believe this is my life.
Minutes pass and we are mostly kissing. Maybe this is why the work is taking longer than usual. Maybe I don’t care. We will be here for hours. We will be here forever, and it will be all I could ever hope for.
Someone knocks on the door. Luckily. Zeke pulls back, sits up all straight and official.
“Yeah, come in,” he calls.
I grab the flyers and stand up, as if I was already headed to the copy machine.
The door opens. A girl a few years younger than me pokes her head around it. I know her, from ages ago, from school.
“Hi,” she says. “Do you have a minute?”
Zeke nods. “How can we help you?”
“Melody?” Her name comes back to me in time. “Hey, what’s up?”
She approaches me, looking a bit nervous. “I remembered that you work here. Something happened—” she pauses, glances at Zeke. “I think you should know…”
“Should I step out?” Zeke offers. “Do you want to talk to Kimberly alone?”
He’s so considerate. It makes my skin flush, even as I’m focused on Melody and whatever she’s brought to us. I don’t really think of her as the organizing type, but honestly, who among us was before Tariq died?
Melody squares her shoulders. “No, I just need to say this, so that you know.”
“What’s going on?” With a hand on her arm and the other in the air, I invite her to sit in a chair across the desk from Zeke. I pull my own chair away from his side and closer to Melody. We lean in to listen.
“It’s Brick,” she says. “You know Brick, right?”
“Yeah,” Zeke says. He glances at me. He doesn’t know the history there, either. Not even a little bit. There are things we haven’t discussed, but he knows I know pretty much everyone who’s anyone around Underhill.
&n
bsp; “We know Brick,” I confirm. I’ve known him since grade school, when he used to pull my pigtails, so to speak. Except worse.
“I was up at his place last night,” Melody says. “His boys are pissed about what’s going down, and they want to fight back. They’re talking about taking it to the streets.”
“The Kings have been breaking curfew,” I say. “They’re out there every night.” I’ve been surprised, but it’s happening.
“And getting arrested,” Melody says. “Now they’re talking armed resistance.”
“Not a great idea,” I say.
“Unless they’re looking to get gunned down,” Zeke agrees.
Melody shrugs. “He’s talking it. I’m only telling it. Panther-level action, taking guns against the cops.”
“That’s suicide.”
“It’s also not what the Panthers were about,” Zeke adds.
Melody nods. “We’re dying anyway. We take some of them out with us. That’s how we get ourselves on the map, Brick was saying.”
“Damn,” Zeke says, drumming his fingers on the desk. “We can’t have that kind of thinking in play. It’ll undermine the whole movement.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Melody says. “If you hit up Brick before he goes off, maybe you can get him in on what’s already up.”
Zeke laughs. “You think I’m a miracle worker?” He glances at me.
“Brick is not one-dimensional,” I say. This much I know is true. “He’s smart, and he’s strategic.”
“And pissed as hell.” Melody holds up her hands. “I’m just telling it.”
“Maybe there’s a benefit to working with him,” I add. “He has guns. And lots of manpower.”
Zeke looks thoughtful. “The whole point of a movement like this is to underscore the fact that we’re not all violent, not all drug dealers and gang members.”
“We need people to come together,” I say. “We don’t need to start a fight.”
“Brick’s looking for a fight,” Melody says.
“So are we.” Zeke rubs the back of his neck. His mind is agitated, I can tell by his sudden restlessness. “I just don’t know what that alliance would look like.”
Melody stands up. “Me either. All I know is, if you don’t get to him, it’s going off.”
JENNICA
Thursday is pizza night. Kimberly always picks it up on her way home from the salon. We pull the blankets up and watch old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy or Project Runway on her laptop. The screen is small, so we have to sit close together. It’s okay if I rest my head on her shoulder. Sometimes, the best times, she wraps her arms around me. It’s the only time I feel okay. It’s the only time I can get clear on what it really felt like to be with Noodle. When I have someone there to lean on who’s better. Kimberly is solid, warm. Noodle is like smoke or vapor. Fleeting.
He hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not since the other night. I stare at my phone. Nothing. And I hate myself for wanting it, when everything is wrong.
I’m already on the couch when Kimberly breezes in.
She plops her purse on the counter. Her purse … and nothing else.
“Hey, Jennica.” She swoops on down the hallway.
I sit up. Where is the sweet-hot scent of crust and cooked tomatoes?
A few minutes later, she’s back, dressed in boot-cut jeans and a flowy, belted top. Clothes to go out in.
“No pizza?”
She smooths down the belt, glances at her reflection in the microwave door. “Sorry. I can’t tonight.”
“No big deal.” I think the words sound light enough, even though my throat is closing.
Kimberly pops some lip gloss out of her purse. “No, you’re right. I should have called. It’s our standing date.” She smiles and it is warm. Still, the apology is not the blanket I was hoping for.
“No big deal,” I say again. “You look great. Have fun with Zeke.”
“It’s not a date. It’s sort of a work thing. We have to go to this party.”
Sounds like a date. “Well, have fun.”
Kimberly sighs. “I’d invite you, but it’s not a party you want to be at, you know?”
So it’s like that. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “Don’t worry about it.”
“See you,” she says. The door closes behind her.
I curl up under the blanket, alone.
OFFICER YOUNG
It doesn’t make sense that they would keep coming like this. They know what’s going to happen. We have no choice. Curfew hits, and we go in. Like clockwork. But they just keep coming. Haven’t they made the point? Nothing is changing.
As the seconds tick toward midnight, I stare into my locker. Every piece of equipment in there is designed to make me strong. Strong is not how I feel tonight, suiting up.
It feels like going to war, which I have done once. Stateside, when you walk around in your army fatigues, people clap. It happened to me in an Applebee’s once, right after my tour. I was with my wife and my brother. We walked in, and someone—his kid was still actively serving, I think he said later—started up this round of applause for me. We got seated and all through the meal people kept coming over to say “thank you for your service.” Most of those people have no idea about long, quiet nights in the desert. Or how bad it gets when the nights are not so quiet.
I’m home now. I’m going to work, and more and more it feels like going to war. Police officers are supposed to be tough, like soldiers. I’ve been a soldier. That’s how I know there’s no such thing as tough. It’s all an act. There’s too much to fear out there.
“Come on, rook,” O’Donnell says, clapping my shoulder. “Saddle up.”
NATIONAL NEWS NETWORK SPECIAL REPORT
Host: Tonight, we’re in conversation with Senator Alabaster Sloan and law enforcement expert Garrison Hobart, here to discuss the legal case of Darren Henderson, and the shooting of thirteen-year-old Shae Tatum. Protests continue in Underhill.
Sloan: Qualified immunity shouldn’t be a get-out-of-jail-free card. There has to be accountability for law enforcement.
Hobart: Of course, but police can’t be in fear of being arrested for actions performed while on duty.
Sloan: Why not? If it makes them exercise force more responsibly …
Hobart: They’re well trained to react with professionalism.
Sloan: Should their first priority be their own safety at all cost?
Hobart: Yes.
Sloan: At all cost? Really?
Hobart: The point is, no one would ever become a police officer if they didn’t have this immunity.
Sloan: So, you’re saying people join the force to use violence without consequence?
Hobart: Of course not. The point is, using violence is often a necessary part of policing effectively. They can’t do their jobs if they’re afraid of being charged with a crime every time they discharge their service weapon.
Sloan: Why not? Wouldn’t it lead to more responsible policing?
Hobart: No. It would lead to chaos.
Sloan: It would save lives.
Hobart: For example, often during an arrest, if the suspect isn’t cooperating, you have to get physical in order to restrain them. Police officers can’t be counter-charged with assault every time they bring someone in. That’s qualified immunity.
Sloan: There has to be a line—
Hobart: There’s absolutely a line. It’s called “excessive use of force” and …
Sloan: AKA, police brutality. And yet—
Hobart:… and officers can be brought up on charges.
Sloan: Shooting an unarmed child is a far cry from putting someone into a wall a little too hard.
Hobart: There are shades to resisting arrest.
Sloan: “Resisting arrest?” You’re talking about Shae Tatum?
Hobart: Many cases—
Sloan: I don’t agree that a police officer’s first duty is to protect his own life. They want to be celebrated for nobly putting their lives on the li
ne, but also to have carte blanche to engage in self-protective action? You can’t have it both ways.
Hobart: That’s far too simplistic.
Sloan: This was an unarmed child who, at worst, was attempting to flee.
Hobart: Resisting arrest.
Sloan: Is not a capital crime!
Hobart: First responders are trained to protect themselves first.
Sloan: Firefighters run into burning buildings. Risk is inherent in the job.
Hobart: They perform a risk assessment first. There are times they don’t run in, if it isn’t reasonable or safe.
Sloan: Henderson shot her in the back. Where was the threat?
Hobart: It’s akin to putting on your own oxygen mask before assisting others, in the event of a loss of cabin pressure while flying. A police officer’s first duty is to his own safety, because he can’t help anybody if he’s injured or compromised.
Sloan: Why become a police officer, then? The safest thing would be to stay home. We should be policed by a group of people willing to genuinely put themselves on the line for public safety. Not just their own safety.
Hobart: For any officer to discharge a weapon, they must perceive a credible threat. You think officers should be willing to die on the off chance that the suspect who appears armed actually isn’t?
Sloan: Credible threat. Which brings us back to the question you tried to dodge a moment ago. Where was the credible threat Shae Tatum posed to Officer Henderson? Innocent until proven guilty is the backbone of the criminal justice system. Why should police get to circumvent due process when they fire their service weapon?
Hobart: If their life is at risk, there’s no time to impanel a jury to determine guilt or innocence.
Sloan: Their decisions are based on snap judgments, and they routinely snap to the negative in black communities. If this was happening in race-blind ways across the country, you better believe we’d be looking closer at police procedures and practices.
Hobart: Probably true. Systemic bias is a reality, one that exists high above the actions of a single officer on the street.
