Betrayal in Black

by Mark M Bello

  “I don’t think very many people feel that way, Randy. I agree there may be some problems with the black community and police officers right now, white and black, but those things have been going on for a long time. It didn’t start with you, honey.”

  “But I wanted to be different. I wanted to make a difference. You know how some people think all cops are dicks? Well, I wanted to buck that stereotype. I wanted to be that one good cop people respected.”

  He gazes into his wife’s eyes, looking for compassion and understanding.

  “You are that one good cop, honey. One incident doesn’t define a whole career. You’ll see. We’ll get through this.” She smiles and pats his hand.

  “I love you, sweetheart, but you don’t know shit about these things. One incident can, absolutely, define a whole career, Brenda, my dear, sweet Brenda. And this is that incident.

  “I will never recover from this. I will never be a cop again. I’ll be lucky to stay out of prison. I know what’s going on. I’ve talked to my lawyer and my union rep. The department is scapegoating me. I’m the racist cop, don’t you know? I’m the sacrificial lamb on this new altar of political correctness.

  “There is no blue wall anymore. The brass wants me gone so they can say ‘see—we got rid of that racist cop. Aren’t we grand?’ They’re up at city hall, right now, plotting to make me look like shit without it rubbing off on the department. Charges are a foregone conclusion.”

  “Come on, Randy. Lighten up. You don’t know whether or not you’re going to be charged,” Brenda consoles.

  Randy’s eyes steel.

  “Look, Brenda, I love you for what you’re trying to do. But criminal charges are a foregone conclusion. In the meantime, I have to find a way to make a living in a community that’s going to hate Randy Jones with a passion while more news breaks and the case develops. We have to face reality. Watch, you’ll see. Our friends won’t be inviting you to the next community event. And wait until you see the looks we get from these so-called friends. It’s so damned unfair, Brenda.”

  “If you say so, Randy. I’m in your corner, no matter what.”

  “I know you are, and I appreciate it, honey. I honestly do.”

  They sit together in anguished silence. Brenda attempts to change the subject, lighten the mood.

  “Do you want anything to eat?”

  Randy ignores her. He’s deep in thought. Brenda’s not sure he’s heard her.

  “Randy?”

  “Being a cop is a hard job,” he continues, staring into outer space.

  “When people ask kids, ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’ Most kids used to say ‘policeman’ or ‘fireman.’

  “Today, why would any kid want to be a cop? People disobey the law, and I’m the terrible guy who hands them their well-deserved tickets.

  “I pick up some under-aged kids who’ve been drinking, and they say ‘come on officer, give us a break, huh? You were a kid once. We’re just trying to have a good time.’

  “Or worse, try dealing with a chronic drunk driver. ‘Yeah, officer, I’ve had, maybe a couple of beers.’ His Breathalyzer reads 0.18! Or, how about arresting that same drunk at the scene of a fatal accident where he doesn’t have a scratch on him, and the other guy is wrapped around a tree? ‘What did I do? What did I do?’ And people think the cops are the bad guys?” Randy is suddenly furious.

  “Not all citizens feel that way, Randy—you know that honey,” Brenda coos, attempting to assuage his growing rage.

  “Do I? Do I really? How do you feel when I leave the house at night, Brenda? How do the kids feel when they wake up in the morning and I’m not home yet?”

  “Scared.” She admits.

  “Scared why?” He probes.

  “Scared that this will be the last time we see you alive, scared that the kids will grow up without a father,” she whispers.

  Tears begin to trickle down her cheeks.

  “Exactly. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I see on the street. Fatal auto accidents with people who are so mangled they are unrecognizable. Drug busts where dealers are employing children to sell for them, shootouts with dealers, robbers, and murderers.

  “I ask myself the same questions every time I leave the house. ‘Will I ever see my family again? Will I make it through the day without being hurt, without being killed?’ This is the life of a cop. Most of us are husbands and fathers with wives and children at home asking that same question: ‘Will I ever see him alive again?’”

  “So, maybe it is time to move on to something else.” She resumes eye contact.

  “As long as it isn’t prison,” he wails.

  Brenda explodes.

  “Stop that, Randy Jones, you stop that! You are not going to prison!”

  “Do you think I’m a bigot, Brenda? For Christ’s sake, I’m part Hispanic! Some people consider me a minority! I try to treat everyone the same. A colored guy threatens me with a gun! Do I care what color he is? I’m going to defend myself!

  “I pull over a colored guy who’s driving, probably stoned, with his kids in the car! I smell marijuana! Out of the blue, this scumbag tells me he’s got a gun and a license to carry. Why does he tell me that? Does he plan to shoot me?

  “Show me your hands, I tell him. He ignores me, Brenda! He reaches down into his pocket. Is he reaching for the gun? Why won’t he show me his hands? He’s not ‘the black guy’ or ‘the white guy,’ dammit! He’s the guy with the fucking gun!” Randy Jones bellows in anguish.

  “Why can’t anyone understand that? What was I supposed to do, let him get off the first shot? I keep replaying the whole thing in my head. It’s driving me crazy. How did it go so wrong?”

  Randy pounds his fists on the table, rests his head on his arms and sobs. Brenda can do nothing to console him. She grasps his forearm and holds on for dear life. How will we get through this?

  Chapter Eleven

  Rochelle Lynch parks her car around the block and approaches the front entrance. A storm of protestors greets her as she turns the corner toward the building. It’s Thursday morning. The grand jury inquiry into the death of Marcus Hayes is about to reconvene for another round of testimony.

  The last thing any of them need is an encounter or confrontation with a protestor on either side of the debate. Obviously, and unfortunately, someone has leaked the location and subject matter of the grand jury.

  There are multiple television cameras and reporters present, broadcasting live reports on location. A television reporter from Fox2 News sees Lynch round the corner and approaches her. A camera light flashes in her eyes; suddenly, she is the subject of a live broadcast.

  “Ms. Lynch . . . Ms. Lynch . . . Rochelle, what are you doing here? Is it true the grand jury is in this building to hear evidence in the Jones-Hayes shooting?”

  The aggressive reporter sticks a microphone in her face.

  “I have no comment,” Rochelle huffs.

  She avoids eye contact with the camera lens, pushes aside the microphone, and attempts to brush by the reporter and cameraman.

  “Will Mrs. Hayes be testifying?”

  “No comment.”

  She continues to move forward, followed, step-for-step, by reporter and cameraman. The latter struggles to keep pace.

  “Will Officer Jones be testifying?”

  “No comment.”

  “What do you think of the evidence in the case?”

  “No comment.”

  “Is there any truth to the rumor that the county wants Jones indicted as soon as possible? Where are you in the process? The public has a right to know. The people are demanding information.”

  “No comment.”

  Rochelle tries to keep walking, but the cameraman steps directly in front of her and blocks her path. He moves the camera in and settles it inches from her face. Lynch glares into the camera.

  “This looks like an expensive piece of equipment, sir. You would be wise to get it out of my face.”

  The expe
rienced cameraman holds his ground.

  “Come on, Rochelle, give a girl a break. Is there anything you can tell us?” The reporter pleads.

  Rochelle adopts a calmer demeanor. “No comment. Looks like a nice rally, though. I’d like to watch. Thanks very much.”

  She turns away from the reporter and the camera and watches the show of unity and counter-unity. From what Rochelle knows of the official position on Randy Jones, the reporter is correct. Wayne County wants a quick indictment. Rochelle is surprised at the number of police officers on the front lines of this counter-protest. They are demonstrating in support of the officer, providing stern opposition to the protestors. But who leaked the focus of this grand jury?

  Black Lives Matter is present in full force. A black man stands on the building steps. He holds a portable microphone and is riling up an already raucous crowd of protesters. Crowd size is increasing by the minute. Pedestrians, curious about what’s going on, are joining in, looking to get themselves on television.

  Oddly, on-duty police officers have been tasked with the responsibility of keeping counter-protestors, including off-duty police officers, at a reasonable distance from protestors, to avoid confrontation. Their goal is to promote a civil exercise of First Amendment rights and crowd control.

  The black man taps the microphone head and begins his speech. The crowd settles and quiets down to listen.

  “I am an American citizen. Marcus Hayes was an American citizen, born and raised right here in Detroit. Mr. Hayes lived and worked in his community as a master computer technician. He could fix whatever was wrong. Mr. Hayes was a devoted husband and father. He helped out at local churches and schools. He was a fixture at the YMCA and a soccer coach for local kids. He was, by all accounts, a very nice guy and a community asset. However, even this master computer technician, this man who fixed things for a living, was powerless to fix the scourge of systemic racism that cost him his life!”

  The crowd boos and jeers. Protestors push forward straining temporary chains that separate them from counter-protesters.

  “But what happened on that evening in Cedar Ridge? Marcus Hayes was not simply a man who was shot to death during a routine traffic stop. He was a man who legally owned a gun. He was a man who was driving through town at lower-than-posted speeds. Had he committed a crime?” The man holds the microphone out to the crowd. The crowd shouts out an emphatic, “NO!”

  “Marcus Hayes was lawfully armed. According to most reports, this was the reason he was shot and killed. So, my brothers and sisters, I ask you, where is the outrage from the group that usually protests situations like this one? Am I referring to Black Lives Matter? Is that what you think?” He again points the microphone toward the crowd. Again, the people shout, “NO!”

  “Am I referring to the ACLU?” Again, he points the microphone. Again, the crowd shouted an exuberant, “NO!”

  “Where is outrage from the National Rifle Association? Where’s the damned NRA?” The crowd boos and chants. ‘Where’s the NRA?’

  The speaker holds out both arms for quiet.

  “Why are these faux gun advocates silent in the face of a senseless shooting of a legally armed man who was shot solely because he was a legally armed man?

  “Isn’t this the NRA’s thing? Isn’t this an issue they always scream about? So, where the hell are they? Why aren’t they fired up about this? We know why brothers and sisters! This was a legally armed black man!

  “The NRA claims to believe the Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States grants all of our citizens the right to survive and protect their families with any gun they want. I guess that’s only true when those citizens are Caucasian! Does the Second Amendment apply if you’re a black man driving through a white neighborhood?”

  Again, the speaker directs the microphone toward the crowd. This time the rowdy crowd not only shouts “NO,” they begin to boo. They effectively drown out the speaker. He lays down the microphone and waits for quiet.

  “The NRA has found some other constitutional amendments that they roll out for special occasions, like when a black man is holding the gun. When a black man holds the gun, they exercise their Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. When a black man is holding the gun, they exercise their right to remain silent. Hell, they sure have maintained silence in this case!”

  The crowd erupts with its most prolonged cheer of the morning. The speaker pauses until quiet is restored.

  “Brothers and sisters, the beauty of America is that when we see something is broken, we have the power to fix it. All we need is the resolve to do the heavy lifting. One person doesn’t need to do all the work himself. In fact, one person is rarely enough. A few people aren’t enough. We, the people, all of us, need to mobilize to repair what is wrong in America.

  “Why do we need a group called Black Lives Matter? Why not ‘all lives matter?’ The answer is crystal clear if you’re willing to come into the light.

  “You see, brothers and sisters, in America today, a police officer can pull over a law-abiding citizen for no damn reason, ask for identification, and shoot that citizen when he or she reaches for it.

  “Why was Marcus Hayes pulled over? We know the answer. He was a black man driving through a white community. He was a black man with an Afro. An officer alleged he resembled a teenaged fast-food restaurant robber.

  “His shooting prompted little outrage in Cedar Ridge and other parts of Ronald John’s America. We need to address routine injustice to minorities in America.”

  Protestors begin to chant “Black Lives Matter” in unison, followed by less enthusiastic chants of “all lives matter” from counter-protesters.

  “Black Lives Matter has nothing against good, hard-working police officers. But we are vehemently opposed to corrupt cops, racist cops, cops who shoot innocent men in cold blood in front of their wives and small children. Why is this cop policing citizens on the streets of our cities? Why wasn’t he fired long ago? The word on the street is that this cop had a history, but he wasn’t fired after the first incident or even the second.

  “Would we tolerate a bad doctor? No, we’d fire him and hire someone else. Would we tolerate a bad lawyer? No, we’d fire him and hire someone else. A bad electrician, a bad plumber or a bad carpenter?”

  He holds out the microphone, and the crowd shouts emphatically, “NO, we’d fire them and hire someone else.”

  “And what should we do with a bad congressman or a bad president?”

  The speaker holds out the mic, and the crowd goes wild. ‘We should fire them and hire someone else! We should fire them and hire someone else!’

  The crowd repeats this mantra until the speaker puts his finger to his lips and whispers for silence.

  “We aren’t asking for any more rights than anyone else in this country. We’re not trying to take anything or anyone’s rights away. We’re not looking for a handout unless it is a handout in friendship. We are looking for our full rights under the Constitution of the United States of America, our full and equal rights to freedom and life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

  The counter-protestors shout, “All lives matter, all lives matter.” The speaker decides to address that element of the crowd.

  “You are absolutely right, brothers and sisters. All lives do matter. But when a white person’s life is lost, white people almost always get justice for their loss. When a black life is lost, justice is delayed or denied. I am a proud American. I care deeply about this country. And if we truly want to be a great country, the land of the free and the home of the brave, we must rise up together and demand liberty and justice for all Americans, regardless of race!”

  “Justice, justice, justice,” chants the crowd on both sides of the barriers.

  Many begin to sing, “We shall overcome.”

  Amidst the cheers and the singing, protestors climb over barriers to approach their counterparts with hands extended in brotherhood. The stunned law enforcement counter-protestors
take their hands and shake them. The two groups begin to pat each other on the back vigorously.

  Some embrace, others snap photographs. Different cultures and perspectives do whatever is necessary to immortalize this amazing moment. Two sides of people who never listen to the other’s point of view, men and women who are blind and deaf to the others’ protest, actually come together for a moment of peace and solidarity. Community progress is made in front of a high-rise in Detroit, Michigan.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rochelle Lynch is surprised and awed by what she is witnessing. As angry as she is about the leak, Rochelle realizes that she is witnessing a “never before-never again” moment in Detroit history. A multi-cultural crowd of protesters and counter-protesters, cops and citizens, embraced in brotherhood on the streets of Detroit. This moment isn’t likely to repeat itself in my lifetime.

  Rochelle climbs the front steps of the building, enters the building, and approaches the security screening area.

  “Hey Roger,” she addresses the head of security.

  “And how are you this fine morning?”

  She rolls her eyes and glances back at the scene in front of the building.

  “I’ll be great when this is all over. Who spilled the beans?”

  “I don’t know, but if I find out that person is going to jail.”

  Rochelle surrenders her purse, cell phone, and any other objects that might cause an X-ray machine blast. She passes quietly through the machine, collects her belongings, and tells Roger and his assistants to have a nice day.

  She takes the elevator to twelve, passes through an empty courtroom, and greets grand jurors in the break room. The jurors have entered through a private entrance arranged by Roger to avoid the crowd.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Ready to go?” Rochelle scans the room.