by Kekla Magoon
“How can anything be just words?” She closes her eyes. “Most of the time words are all we have.”
I don’t know if I agree with that, but I also know we shouldn’t be talking about this. Not tonight.
“I think he wanted a riot,” Kimberly says. “I think he was hoping for one.”
“That’s nuts.”
She shrugs. “It’s better press, isn’t it? You notice he didn’t stay for the actual announcement. He knew what would happen.”
My brain swirls and glitches over the coldness in her voice. “That’s unfair.”
“Whatever.”
I pull out my phone. There is much still to do tonight, apart from tending our own wounds. Let us not make new ones.
“We have to work,” I say. “I’ll check in with legal aid, you do social media?”
Kimberly nods. We open all the tech. Between our phones, my tablet, my laptop, and the TV, we can keep tabs on the conversation across platforms.
The coverage on TV is more chilling than usual. Maybe because we were there. One shot they keep returning to is the steps where we stood, which now is lined with people seated in rows with their hands bound.
On the split screen, Senator Sloan, already back in DC somehow, sits in the studio offering commentary. I run the timeline in my mind. He spoke at our event in the late afternoon, hopped a flight home, and got himself on TV from a safe distance. All in a matter of hours.
He knew what would happen. Kimberly’s words float back to me. I push them away. Our cause is being covered on national TV because of Senator Sloan. We have an advocate who people respect. Why doesn’t she see that?
“He sounds good, don’t you think?”
“He always sounds good,” Kimberly says softly. “He seems like a good person, but he’s not.”
“Why are you so down on him?” My voice snaps in my throat. It hurts a little.
She glances at me. “You don’t really want to hear about it,” she says. “You’ve already accepted the job, haven’t you?”
KIMBERLY
“I can’t talk about this now.” Zeke tips his phone toward me. “We have to work.”
“You only care about the work!” I cry. “How did I not see that?”
Zeke sighs. “There’s—I mean, everything is on fire right now. Can we not do this?”
Easy for him to say.
“This is my life, too.”
Zeke’s phone rings. “I can’t hold myself back, just because…”
“Just because of me? I hold you back?” The knives just keep on coming.
I move to gather up my purse, except I don’t have one. No bags allowed at the protest. So I grab for my coat instead.
“You can’t leave,” Zeke says. “It’s not safe.”
“I can leave,” I thunder. “You’re not from around here. I keep forgetting. But this is my neighborhood. I belong here.”
I fling the door open so hard it smacks the wall. My body is shaking and the plan is not well thought out. I rush down the stairs and out into the cold, cold night. I zip my coat, pull on my hat, and walk to the bus stop on the corner. I want to walk it off—standing still is enough to drive me crazy—but it’s far, and it’s dark, and out here by myself it no longer feels like a good idea to have left.
I huddle in the corner of the bus hut with my back against the glass. The street is deserted. Zeke lives far from the action, but not far enough. Sirens wail in the distance. Smoke rises over the buildings. The acrid smell of it comes wafting through now and again.
I’m on alert—a woman alone in the dark. I sense him coming almost as soon as he steps out of the building. His shoulders are hunched, his hands tucked into his jeans. In the split second that passes before I’m sure it’s him, my heart rate doubles. I pull deep breaths to calm down, but knowing it is him isn’t calming at the moment.
He steps into the street lamplight. “If you won’t stay, at least let me drive you home.”
If I stay, won’t I be holding you back? It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I’m out of energy. I can only gaze at him there in the barest glow of light. His cheeks are shiny. He sounds congested. Maybe it is all too much for him, too.
“Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“I don’t want to talk anymore,” I answer. The wounds to my heart are flowing, throbbing. I wish Zeke would put his hands to them, try to stem the damage.
“Me either,” he says. “Just let me drive you. Please.”
JENNICA
Kimberly comes in crying so loud, I can hear it all the way in my bedroom. I throw back the covers, rush to the door. There is no sleeping on a night like this anyway.
She is on her knees on the tile, still in her coat and hat and gloves. Her pink button screams UNARMED!
“Oh, my god.” I kneel in front of her. “Are you hurt? I mean, are you injured?” Obviously she is hurt. We don’t know what it means to not be.
NATIONAL NEWS NETWORK SPECIAL REPORT
Anchor: Kristen Blum is live in Underhill tonight. Let’s return to the live feed. Kristen, how are you doing out there?
Blum: We’ve gotten clear of the tear gas cloud. It’s—well, it’s chaos out here. I’m with—tell me your name?
Black Youth: I gotta?
Blum: I’m here with a young man who’s attending the protest. What’s it about for you tonight?
Black Youth: We here, standing up for all the oppressed people of the world, starting right here in Underhill. We standing up for the people who can’t get justice under this legal system. We standing for all of us who afraid to walk the streets. Today for Shae, Tomorrow for All.
Blum: What’s that liquid you’re pouring on your face?
Black Youth: It’s milk. To help the stinging. We was told to bring it.
Blum: Protestors have been advised to carry milk?
Black Youth: Yeah, man. We knew we was gonna get gassed.
Blum: What does it feel like? How are you feeling?
Black Youth: It burns. My eyes are gonna be okay, right? (pounds his chest) Here, not so much. They gunning for us, man. They coming to kill us all.
Blum: Why are you protesting tonight?
Black Youth: There’s only so much a guy can take, yo. Sh-*beep* like this goes down, you gotta scream out.
Blum: Were you surprised by the verdict?
Black Youth: Hell no. We knew. They always do us like this. When you live in the hood you ain’t expect justice. You expect to have to fight. That’s all we out here trying to—
Black Woman: (appears behind Blum) All you people watching! All you white suburban news junkies. You all complicit! All of you!
Blum: Ma’am, hello. Do you have a comment—
Black Woman: Every last mother-*beep*-ing one of you. Sitting at home, shaking your head. We down here getting gassed, mother-*beep*-ers! When you gonna get off your fat *beep* *beeeeeeeep*—
Anchor: Uh, we’re gonna mute the live feed for a moment. Clearly people are extremely angry surrounding tonight’s grand jury verdict. For those just tuning in, we’re live with Kristen Blum in Underhill, where earlier tonight the grand jury returned no indictment for Officer Darren Henderson in the shooting death of thirteen-year-old Shae Tatum. Let’s just wait until … okay, here we are live on scene again. Kristen?
Blum: Uh, sorry for the interruption, folks. We’re live in Underhill, and the situation is going downhill rapidly.
Black Youth: She ain’t wrong, yo. Tonight we speaking truth and we speaking it loud. No time for bullsh-*beep*.
Blum: (looks at the sky) Police continue to fire tear gas into the crowd, trying to get people to disperse.
Black Youth: (pulls up bandanna over his mouth) Gotta go.
Blum: Thank you. Good luck out there.
We can try to get a little closer to the action … well, here come some more folks. Excuse me, sir. You live in this neighborhood?
Black Man: Born and raised. We seen a lot. We can’t stand for it no more.
Blum: Wha
t brings you out here tonight? Why was it important to be here?
Black Man: This is my neighborhood. I’m here for my neighbors, the Tatums. That’s a good family.
Blum: You live near the Tatums?
Black Man: Same building. They ain’t deserve this. Ain’t nobody deserves this.
Blum: Sir, what can you tell me—
Black Man: I’m out. You be safe, white lady.
Blum: I will. You too.
Black Man: Naw. I can’t. The point is, you already BE safe. You white.
Blum: I don’t think anyone in Underhill feels particularly safe at the moment.
Black Man: (smiles) You the one with the camera. You keep it rolling, you hear?
Blum: We will.
Black Man: If they take us all down, you be the one left standing. You make sure the world knows what they done to us here tonight. You stay safe, white lady.
Blum: Stay safe, black man.
Black Man: (grinning) You wanna lay odds?
*whistling sound overhead*
EVA
Daddy is free! The jury has decided.
“You’re free,” Mommy says. She throws her arms around him, squishing me in between. We are all sitting on the couch, watching the news announcement together.
Daddy holds his head in his hands. “I’ll never be free of it.”
@Momof6: Law and order FTW! Henderson cleared. #SupporttheBoysinBlue
@WhitePowerCord: Life and death, reward and punishment, is the purview of God Almighty. Righteousness has been on our side from day one. #HeroCop
@Viana_Brown: We need a revolution, y’all. Can’t stand for this. Can’t stand for it. #TodayForShae #TomorrowForAll
@WesSteeleStudio: JUSTICE PREVAILS IN UNDERHILL! But the conspiracy against Officer Darren Henderson continues. What they won’t tell you about the grand jury proceedings here. #MakeItKnown #SteeleStudioExclusive
@BrownMamaBear: Have the conversation with your children: How to be safe in the world with #KillerCops on the loose.
@KelvinX_: FIGHT THE POWER #BurnItDown #ToTheGround WE WILL RISE OUT OF YOUR ASHES
THE MORNING AFTER
PEACH STREET
Blood stains the concrete. Refuse drifts. Every item a question: who was wearing this shoe? Who sipped this ginger ale?
Signs flattened by footprints, dampened by dew and human fluids. Tears, sweat, blood, urine. This night has seen it all. The dawn now bears its own witness.
The signs are strewn about the street, and trampled:
BLACK POWER TO BLACK PEOPLE
TODAY FOR SHAE, TOMORROW FOR ALL
#OFFTHEPIGS
PEACE IN OUR TIME
ALL LIVES MATTER ONLY WHEN #BLACKLIVESMATTER TOO
They have been here before. The street stands witness to the wave of rage that hits, decade after decade. Generation after generation. They march here, they shout here, they are beaten here, they light fires here.
Then they pave over the scars to make room for new ones.
WITNESS
The holding cell is crowded but quiet. You have been to this precinct before. The air tastes different on the other side of the bars. Everything is different this time.
You can no longer say you did nothing. You can no longer say you saw nothing.
You can still never admit what you have seen.
TYRELL
The ink on my fingertips is a story I never wanted to tell. They don’t let me wash my hands, so it becomes a part of me. Walls and bars and the scent of everyone’s fear and rage. The salty stink of blood and tears comes at me like a wave, like an ocean.
Or, the way I imagine an ocean might wave. I’ve never seen that. Never walked with my toes in the surf, never felt the rocking lull of the tide. Never wanted to. We dread the ocean because they brought us over on ships, and that kind of terror goes into your bones. Into your DNA. It becomes a part of you. A part of your children and your children’s children, forever and again.
The ink on my fingers feels soft as my skin after a while. Not sticky, not leaving any kind of mark on the wooden bench. My thumbs stroke circles over my finger pads until the sensation all but disappears.
My mind drifts. I think about history. About Birmingham, and courage, and what it means to win. I think about missing class on Monday, and if they’ll ever let me back. If anyone will know I’m here and come for me. My mother’s disappointment and my father’s glaring I-told-you-so. The life cycle of a black man in America—birth, struggle, prison, struggle, death.
I wanted to be different. I wanted my life to matter. I wanted to do a different kind of math—never tick marks on a wall counting down the days. There is an ocean in me.
Can’t help but wonder how Tariq would feel about what I’ve done. What he would say to me now. Can he hear my whispered prayer? Is he listening? Is anyone? I don’t know what I believe anymore. Don’t know what to make of a world without justice, of a God who turns our best intentions into the dark.
The shit of it is, I know what Tariq would have said. He woulda got me on the phone straight off. Ty, don’t even think about coming home for this mess. You got out of Underhill. Stay out. I got you.
My eyes sting for knowing it. Sting, for not listening in the first place. Sting, for the loneliness of this ice-cold wall and the bars I can’t bear to look at, let alone touch.
In all this world, the one person I could ever count on is long gone. For a minute there, I thought I was going to survive it. I thought I was strong enough to survive the world without him.
Tariq, I tried.
I tried to stand up. They shoved me back down.
Are you ashamed of me?
ROBB
“Dad, we can’t leave without Tyrell and DeVante.” He can afford to bail us all out. It’s the least we can do. I mean, Dad’s here now. He must have chartered a flight in order to pick me up from the holding cell personally.
“I’ve already made inquiries,” he says. “Tyrell is remanded.”
I’m confused. “They’re keeping him in custody? No, we have to try again.”
“He’s being charged with assaulting a police officer.”
“What?” Confusion fades and something achy takes its place. “He didn’t assault anyone.”
I rush over to the nearest counter, where a uniformed officer sits. “You’ve made a mistake. Tyrell is innocent.”
The desk officer smirks. “Tell it to the judge.”
Dad grips my shoulders and bustles me outside. “Don’t meddle in someone else’s business.”
“He didn’t assault anyone. It was—” I can’t admit the truth. When push comes to shove, it would be a confession. What is the penalty for assaulting a police officer? Would I go to prison? “It was someone else,” I finish.
“You saw it happen?” Dad says. He pulls out his phone as we stride toward wherever he parked the car. “I’ll find out who Tyrell’s lawyer is.”
“Can you get him a good lawyer? He can’t afford one.”
Dad shrugs. “There are good people in the public defender’s office. This is what they’re there for.”
I grab his arm. “No, seriously, he needs a good lawyer. The best. I—I feel responsible.” I am responsible. “I mean, I was the one who wanted to go to the demonstration.”
“I’m proud of you for standing up,” Dad says. “Though, I wish you could find a way to do it peacefully.”
Peace is for shit. Is what I want to say. What is the penalty for beating an unarmed woman? Wouldn’t anyone have done what I did, seeing that?
“You’ve seen the footage,” I remind him. “The cops are the problem.”
Dad shakes his head. He steps off the curb at his parking space. “They’re doing their jobs.”
“Tell that to Shae Tatum.”
Dad glares at me over the roof of the car. “Not what I meant.”
But isn’t that the heart of it, still? I glance back at the police department building. The flow of people in and out is constant, frenzied.
“I can’t believe this.”
“Get in the car,” Dad says. “We’re going back home.”
Home, maybe. Back, not so much. There’s no going back.
I’m not outside of it anymore. I can’t pretend I’m innocent. That white privilege doesn’t affect me, or that I haven’t done anything to make any of it worse. I’m part of the problem. All the things I didn’t understand made me part of the problem. I will always be part of the problem.
MELODY
Blinking light. Beeping sounds. A mechanical hum. Squeaking, from somewhere. Voices that sound like whispers, but not.
Ow.
Pain. Vibrating through me. My chest, my arm. My shoulder is on fire.
That miserable moaning sound … oh, that’s me.
“Shh. Hang on. Shhh.” Brick is here. “Nurse! We need a nurse in here!”
I suck my tongue, trying to get life back in it. “Brick?”
He’s at my side. “Hey, there.” His hand comes up, strokes my face.
“What are you doing here?” I’m in the hospital. I can tell now. I can feel the thin sheets under my heels. I grip the bed bars with the hand that can move. It’s cool. Brick’s fingers close over mine. They’re warm.
“How come you don’t have proper emergency contacts listed in your phone?” he asks. “They said they called me because I was the last number you dialed.”
“You’re good enough,” I assure him. “You came.” That means something. To rush to someone’s bedside. It means something.
Ow. Breathe.
“Nurse!” Brick shouts. “Someone get in here!”
“I lost you in the crowd,” I murmur. That’s what comes back first, the moment when our hands slipped apart.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what happened. You were there and then you weren’t.” He strokes my cheek. “You’re so damn tiny.”
“I’m tougher than I look.”
“At least you weren’t arrested,” he tells me. Arrested?
