by Kekla Magoon
It never occurred to me to wonder if T was getting them, too. I never knew that his mom had to open the mailbox, every day for weeks, and … God.
I shovel the pile into my backpack. Maybe I’ll throw them away tomorrow, but maybe I won’t.
You sentimental idiot. T’s voice comes crisp and clear like he’s in the room with me.
“Shut up,” I answer, but we both know I don’t mean it.
I tug off my jeans and lie on the bed.
You miss me so much you’re gonna hang on to my junk mail?
“You know I do.”
You’re a mess, Ty. One big hot mess, my brother.
“Fair enough.”
Don’t be stupid. Take care of you. Leave the rest alone.
“And Tina.”
I appreciate you looking out for her. She’s gonna be okay. We grow ’em tough in the Johnson family.
“Like you?”
T scoffs. Tina’s way tougher than me. That should be obvious.
“Shae was her friend.”
Yeah.
I snuggle down beneath the covers. When I close my eyes, it’s easy to pretend he’s mere inches away, down in his sleeping bag on the floor. We used to take turns.
Don’t get too comfortable in my bed, there, you hear?
I smile. “Shut up.”
Maybe, on some level, this is what I wanted all along. To sleep in his room, which I’ve done dozens of times. It was always the safe, happy place in my world. I don’t know what it is now. Still that, sort of. But also the heart of all of this pain. The feeling of being alone in the world is both less and more all at once.
It’s weird. Good weird.
To return to a part of the world we once shared, even if it’s only for a little while. Even if it’s only pretend.
ROBB
Will and his parents leave for school and work. We’re alone in the condo, DeVante and me.
DeVante puts the breakfast plates into the dishwasher. We sip coffee and wait. There’s nothing much on Twitter. No point in heading to the demonstration quite yet, either. There’s nothing to do in the house, though. Will doesn’t even have a video game console. How is that possible? This building is high-class. Obviously they could afford it.
Bo-ring.
“We could have driven down this morning,” I say, flopping onto the living room couch.
“And gone straight to the demonstration? No bacon and grits?” DeVante grins, hauling his backpack onto the rug. He riffles through it, pulling out a notebook. “I don’t know about you but I like a home-cooked meal when I can get one.”
“Why’d we come so early?” I poke the remote control until the TV buzzes on.
DeVante gives me a look. “Some of us don’t like driving in the dark, remember?”
Geez. They’re never going to let me live it down, are they? I’m the insensitive white dude, forever.
“Anyway, getting up before dawn to start driving is no one’s idea of fun.”
“Whatever,” I say. “I’m bored.” DeVante is studying, which is freaky. Who brings homework on a road trip?
We’re watching crap daytime TV when the front door lock snaps and someone enters the foyer. DeVante and I exchange a glance.
Will appears. “What’s up?” He’s wearing a hoodie over his private school vest, like he’s trying to make a point.
“Coming with us?” DeVante asks.
“Of course,” Will says. “Let’s go.”
KIMBERLY
The size of this crowd is incredible. We’ve filled the block and then some. From the steps of the police precinct, I can’t even see the full scope of the thing past the other buildings.
The police precinct is about a third of the way down the block, which is long. The building is set back from the street far enough to allow a series of about a dozen shallow steps rising to the revolving door. The street, which is usually lined with parked police vehicles, has been cleared. The crowd presses forward, up to the barricade at the base of the steps. The series of three-foot concrete pillars has always been there, to protect the precinct from rogue vehicles, but now there are temporary construction barricades filling the gaps between the pillars.
They’ve set up a microphone on the fourth step. Those of us with SCORE leadership passes are allowed to be behind the barricade. Police officers in riot gear line the street. They are above us, around us, beside us, among us. A row of them hovers at the revolving door, a row stands at the bottom of the steps.
Standing on the steps, looking over it all, it is clear—there cannot be violence tonight.
This is where they want us, penned into a narrow street. Spread thin.
We’ve been here for several hours, awaiting the announcement. It is well past the close of business, and we are left to wonder why they’re delaying their announcement. There is going to be one, we’re told. The grand jury decision has come in.
If they think they can wait us out, they’re wrong. It is cold, and getting dark, but we are still here, all the hundreds of us.
We’re down to the last few UNARMED buttons. I’ve been punching them out for days and days. We had hundreds, and still there never seems to be enough. It’s great, in terms of turnout. It’s hard, in terms of impact. The buttons aren’t only a political statement. They might actually save people’s lives.
That really was the last of them, though. None of the boxes at the base of the podium have more. There are a few more boxes on the other side of the steps. I trace the edge of the barricade, headed in search of them.
Behind me, Zeke’s voice breaks out through the microphone. We’ve had speeches and chanting on and off through the afternoon, to keep the momentum going.
“If they’re gonna make us wait, they’re gonna have to listen,” he shouts. “No justice, no peace!”
The crowd is primed and ready. A chorus. No justice, no peace!
I whirl around. NO. We agreed, no.
No justice, no peace!
Zeke stands on the steps like a rock star—arms out, palms up, pumping them like wings. Louder. Louder!
No justice, no peace!
No justice, no peace!
It goes on. And on. And on, and on, and on. Long enough for the people to have a hold of the rhythm on their own. Long enough for Zeke to notice me hovering on the steps, steeped in disappointment. He steps away from the mike and comes toward me.
No justice, no peace!
No justice, no peace!
“What are you doing?” I demand. “We talked about this.”
He pulls back an inch, surprised by my fire. “I know,” he says, reaching toward me. “But—”
His hands touch air. I’m not within reach anymore. I didn’t plan to back away. But here we are.
Zeke comes closer again. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I’m so full of other things, I don’t have room to hold it. “Whatever. Do what you want,” I say. “You always do.”
Zeke pauses. Looks at me, really looks. “This isn’t the time, or the place.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I hate myself for bringing it up. I’m good at keeping a lot inside, but I’ve lost that skill with Zeke. And that was supposed to be a good thing. Now, I don’t know. I don’t know.
The stone steps feel long and high as I try to descend, away from him.
Zeke takes my arm, turns me back. “The chant was Sloan’s idea. He asked for it. How am I supposed to say no?”
No one says no to the Reverend Alabaster Sloan.
“Zeke!” One of our teen volunteers, Lemanuel, bounds across the steps toward us. “The senator’s asking for you.”
“Okay.” Zeke tosses me an apologetic glance, then follows Lemanuel back toward the microphone.
Just like that. The senator calls and he goes running. No regard for the fact that we are in the middle of something.
I knew it already, but now it settles hard in my heart: Senator Sloan is a person who takes. He takes up all the accolades, the affection, the spotlight,
the light in general. Over and over.
My knees meet the concrete steps, followed by my gloved hands. The cold seeps up through me. Just breathe. I stare at the upside-down heart formed between my thumbs and fingers.
Upside-down broken heart, that is.
A policeman looms over me, out of nowhere. “No sitting on the steps,” he orders.
My heart was already pounding and now it is bursting.
“Sorry. I know.” I scramble to my feet, at once rushing to obey and trying not to make any sudden moves. I’m hot and cold, flushed with a sudden icy sweat, trapped inside my winter coat, trapped by the crowd, trapped beneath the cop’s stern gaze. “I know. I know.”
WILL/EMZEE
It feels good to be in it. To open my lungs. I thought I liked being on the sidelines, with a can of paint, but this is a whole other level.
The four of us hang together: me, DeVante, Robb, and Tyrell. It’s a little odd seeing Tyrell. It’s been a long time since we were in school together, but he remembered me. Said my name when we bumped fists. Robb is mostly a white guy trying to act down, but whatever. It’s kinda nice to have a posse for a minute, even if it’s only temporary.
No justice, no peace! I’ve painted it. Shouting it is powerful in a different way.
When the chant switches, DeVante gets nervous. “If this goes bad, we can’t be here,” he shouts in my ear.
I nod, but in my heart, I’m thinking Screw it. We’re here.
Tyrell, too, looks itchy. Glancing around for a way out. Itchy because he knows, like I do, we’re deep in it. Way too deep.
NATIONAL NEWS NETWORK SPECIAL REPORT
Host: We’re awaiting the grand jury decision on Officer Darren Henderson. Joining me is attorney Christine Emory and NNN’s own Bobbi Rockwell.
Emory: It’s clear from their choice of location to announce.
Rockwell: What do you mean?
Emory: It’s customary to make this sort of announcement from the courthouse, where the grand jury is actually impaneled.
Rockwell: Instead they’re announcing from the police precinct in Underhill.
Emory: They know people are going to be unhappy, and they don’t want it spilling over into other neighborhoods.
Host: We’ll know soon enough. The verdict will be announced any minute. Let’s review the facts of the case. The onus is on the prosecution to convince the grand jury that there is enough evidence to take Henderson to trial.
Emory: The district attorney’s office works closely with the police. How invested are they in making that case?
Rockwell: No way to know.
Host: They have a responsibility to the citizens, as much as to the police.
Emory: More so. But if you look at the law, it’s less clear than it seems to a layperson. A trial jury would be tasked to determine whether the police officer’s actions were reasonable, in the moment.
Rockwell: Not in hindsight.
Emory: Exactly. Based on the information he had at the time, did he perceive a credible threat?
Rockwell: Obviously not. She was a small girl.
Emory: We know that now. Is it reasonable to expect that Henderson knew that in the moment?
Rockwell: Is it reasonable for anyone to mistake an unarmed child for a serious threat?
Emory: The issue is bias. A jury—in this country, in this time—may be operating with a similar bias to the one that led Henderson to shoot at Shae Tatum. Consider the mindset that led him to take lethal action against a child: the assumption that anything black that moves is a threat.
Rockwell: You think they will find it objectively reasonable that he thought she was a threat?
Emory: It won’t be objective. Anti-black bias is part of the fabric of our culture.
Rockwell: How do you achieve objectivity in such a case? Isn’t that a core part of the jury’s charge?
Emory: There’s the rub. What do you do when the “random” group of citizens meant to judge the case is incapable of objectivity? They’re asked to imagine whether any other police officer in the same situation, given the same information, would have made the same split-second decision. And given the nature of anti-black bias, the answer is likely yes.
Rockwell: That’s—
Emory: It’s an indictment of something … but not Henderson.
Host: The verdict is coming in. We’re going live to the Underhill police precinct for the announcement.
JENNICA
When the verdict comes down, the diner closes early. Shades drawn, I write the sign for the window myself: Black-Owned Business.
Tape the corners in place. Kiss the paper with a tiny prayer: Let this building survive the night. Let my job be here in the morning.
Walk home. All is quiet, for now.
Too quiet, for me.
No Noodle. No Brick. No Kimberly.
I’ve never felt more alone.
OFFICER YOUNG
We are glued to the flat screen in the break room. We’re on call, as second-wave support. If they need us.
The captain comes in. “Gear up. Verdict’s coming down in our favor.”
Boots.
Mask.
Baton.
Tear gas.
Helmet.
Shield.
Let’s do this thing.
MELODY
I never felt this kinda power. Not since I can remember. We got energy. We got rhythm. We got truth.
No justice, no peace!
No justice, no peace!
The protest is lit. It ain’t even cold now. We jumping. We pumping.
No justice, no peace!
No way to get tired. No way to quit it. We screaming. We furious.
No justice, no peace!
Brick stands beside me, his fist in the air. When it was calm, for a while, he had his arm around me, his hand in my coat pocket, keeping me close.
It ain’t calm now. I can still feel his arm, though. The little things that show me we got something going. It’s fuel. Life-giving fuel.
Zeke, at the podium, says the announcement’s coming soon.
It don’t matter. They gonna let us down. Again. We know it already. Been knowing it.
We scream it, insist it: No justice, no peace!
High up on the steps, the line of officers parts. The revolving door turns. White men in suits come down, followed by white men in uniform.
It’s on. It’s on. Brick’s arm goes around me, pulling me close. The screaming slowly settles around us as one of the suits places himself behind the mike. He introduces himself as the district attorney.
He clears his throat. “The grand jury has determined, in its best judgment, that there is not sufficient evidence to indict Officer Darren Henderson…”
The scream, it’s primal. It’s spontaneous. It’s everyone. No leader at the mike. We’re past that.
If he has more words, we don’t hear them.
No justice, no peace!
No justice, no peace!
Brick speaks softly. Am I meant to hear it? Not sure how I even do, under the shouting. “They’re coming for us. We ain’t going down without a fight.”
That’s right.
No justice, no peace!
We’re energy, rhythm, truth. We’re pumping, jumping. Screaming, furious.
I never felt this kinda power before. Brick by my side: all fueled up. The shield of the crowd: untouchable. The sting of injustice: no consequences.
We got nothing to lose. We gonna die anyway. Let it not be in a dark alley. Let it not go unseen. They coming for us. Let us meet them. Under the lights, in front of the cameras.
We gonna light this motherfucker up.
@KelvinX_: A grand jury will indict “a ham sandwich,” but not a live squealing pig. #JusticeForShaeTatum
@TroubleInRiverCty: You indict or we ignite! #BurnItDown #Underhill
@WhitePowerCord: That’s right. You niggers can’t keep a good cop down. #selfdefense
@UnderhillSCORE: #UnderhillPD, you o
we us answers. #TodayForShae #TomorrowForAll
@Viana_Brown: We are grief. We are rage. The flood of it is never-ending.
@KelvinX_: No justice. No peace. #burnitdown #underhillriot
PEACH STREET
The air is thick and still. Tense, like a coiled spring under pressure.
Curtains flutter, then rest. Shades are drawn. Locks clicked and double-checked. Hand-lettered signs taped to windows: Black-Owned Business. A thin measure of protection. Behind the glass, a feeling of held breath, of hunkering down to ride out the storm.
They march in formation. Boots, batons, rifles, shields. Riot gear. Flanked by tanks and lit by spinning cherries.
They march as a crowd. Signs waving, mouths screaming.
Water and oil, baking soda and vinegar, waves lapping up against stone. Erosion. Eruption. Natural phenomena the city is meant to hold at bay, with its brick and steel and concrete.
These walls are meant to be unmoved.
WITNESS
You’ve seen enough. You don’t want to see more. It’s inexplicable, the decision to leave home. To make your way through the heart of Underhill. Toward the action. Not away.
When tanks roll through the streets of an American city, it makes the most sense to draw the curtains. Their treads will tear up the roads. Their guns are drawn by nature. All ambiguity is lost.
Through the bullhorns, they shout for order. You don’t want to be there when they start shooting for it instead.
The rage of a helpless people tastes like blood in the throat. Enough suffering to make us choke, cough, gargle our way toward breath.
One foot in front of the other. Motherfucking curfews be damned.
You have seen enough, and yet not enough. Enough to live in fear. Not enough to see Shae’s killer indicted and brought to trial. You have failed.
No, the system has failed. You’ve studied the statistics, out of curiosity. You weren’t surprised to learn how few police officers in the United States of America have ever been convicted of a wrongful shooting. Hardly any have even been indicted. Case after case: dismissed.
