by Ben Shapiro
That shooting had worked out precisely according to the plan.
Levon had one of his boys give little Kendrick a $20 bill to go and harass the cop. Kendrick, of course, thought it was just a piece of good, clean fun—messing with white cops was a rare joy, made you feel like more of a man. And with all the big boys telling him how he’d be a boss in the neighborhood if he baited the cop, he’d been enthusiastic. He probably looked forward to coming home and telling his buddies how he’d told that cracker ass pig to go to hell—stared right at him and cursed him to his face, made the pig back down. Kendrick knew he was supposed to go for his toy gun. They told him it would be a joke, that the cop wouldn’t do anything, that the cop would pussy out.
Of course, Levon knew better. No cop could sit still when somebody went for the waistband. Police procedure dictated what happened next.
Levon made sure of one other thing, too: the only working camera at the gas station had the right angle. No sound. Stark spotlight on the two main characters. The blood, black in the black-and-white footage, seeping from the poor black boy. O’Sullivan sitting down, stunned. The other cameras, he’d had smashed or deactivated. One angle, one tape, one million replays on nightly news.
The headline writers couldn’t help themselves. “8-YEAR-OLD UNARMED BLACK BOY SHOT DEAD BY WHITE COP,” blared the Free Press. “MURDERER!” screamed the headline on the New York Daily News. CNN headlined the case the entire day, and the next one as well. Over on MSNBC, the talking heads could barely conceal their excitement. On Fox News, a few anchors urged caution while others talked of the legacy of racist policing across the country.
The president of the United States quickly sounded off on the case. He couldn’t help himself; Mark Prescott hijacked his White House press secretary’s gaggle, took to the podium, and told Americans that “the time has come for a great racial conversation in this country. Too many black boys have been murdered merely for the color of their skin. This must end.” He announced that he would be sending his attorney general to Detroit to ensure that the local investigation proceeded according to law. “We’ll ensure that justice is done for the family of Kendrick Malone. This is America, where there’s justice enough for everybody, if we have the bravery to pursue it.”
And now Levon waited.
He waited outside Coleman A. Young Municipal Center, named after the former mayor of the city—a man who’d been a racial pro in his own right. Fitting that old Coleman could make one more sacrifice in the name of racial justice. He’d be doing that tonight, if all went according to plan.
Before them stood an imposing wall, in front of which knelt a statue, the Spirit of Detroit—a twenty-five-foot-tall loincloth-clad man carrying a golden sphere with rays emanating from it in one hand, and a small family in the other hand. Levon had never known what the statue was supposed to mean; it just looked like a constipated Nordic Man to him. On the wall a large inscription from Corinthians read: “NOW THE LORD IS THAT SPIRIT; AND WHERE THE SPIRIT OF THE LORD IS HERE IS LIBERTY.”
Horseshit, thought Levon.
Behind Levon stood a solid three thousand of his fellow Detroiters, mostly young black men. Levon had sent out his boys to round up the crowd, and they’d had an easy time of it after the media coverage. Facing the crowd, protecting the statue and a platform set up just before it, stood about a hundred cops.
Levon noticed a particular lack of weapons. He smiled to himself.
Media members surrounded the crowd, cameras at the ready, interviewing the odd protester here or there. He knew that a few media members would get hurt tonight—that’s the way it had to be. A couple of reporters getting caught in the melee just showed that the mob was serious. If they were too well behaved, the media would dismiss them. A bit of blood got them hot under the collar. A bit of blood made the story hot. The way the media worked, the only way they’d pay attention was if somebody did something extreme—and then they’d defend the action, blame it on overriding anger at an unfair society. Levon knew a few of the journalists from U of M. They’d done the same thing back in their university days. Made them feel good about themselves, less ensconced in white privilege.
Levon had his men ringing the edges of the crowd, ready to prevent any non-approved persons from getting too close to the media members. No footage of fools, he’d promised the reverend.
And he intended to keep his word. Tonight, Levon intended to be the face on the news. Already, he’d done his best Malcolm X impression—early Malcolm, not that late-stage “Islam means peace” pussy shit—for the networks. “If we don’t get what we want,” he said, “if we don’t get justice for Kendrick, this city is going to burn. We’ve been burning silently for too long. Our poverty burns beneath the surface. Our ignorance burns beneath the surface. We’ve been left for dead in this city, just like black boys have been left for dead all over this country. And this country must pay a price, if there is no justice.”
The sexy blonde with the short skirt seemed turned on at that point. Breathily, she asked, “And what will justice look like?”
So he threw in a line just for good measure: “Justice will be done when people like you live in the mud you’ve made for us. Only then can we lift each other up.”
Her eyelashes fluttered. That shit was magic, Levon knew. He’d learned it at the university, too. White coeds majoring in journalism were a cinch. Just drag them off their civilized perch and let them experience life outside their self-proclaimed white privilege, and they let you know that you’d be doing them a favor.
Levon glanced at his watch. 6:34. The mayor and the reverend were four minutes late. Good. Let the crowd get antsy. Let them get nervous and enraged. They’d need that energy. Bored crowds were the ones that turned the most violent when the gun sounded.
For now, they remained ominously silent. No banners. No signs. Just thousands of strong young black men and women—mostly men—ready to stand together against injustice. That’s what the media would see—and the truth was that many of these young black men were ready to do that. All they knew was that they’d dealt with white asshole cops before, that their neighborhoods were full of crack and booze and poverty, and that somebody needed to fix things. And if nobody understood that, well, it was time to make them understand.
That time was now.
From behind the wall, the mayor emerged. Beside him stood Reverend Crawford, looking as solemn as Judgment Day. He spotted Levon in the crowd; Levon gave him an almost imperceptible nod. The reverend looked away.
The mayor was at the lectern now. Behind him sat Nordic Man, awaiting his words along with the rest of the world.
Mayor Jimmy Burns had a history with the city of Detroit. He’d grown up there, worked at one of the local law firms, become alderman, and then taken over for the last mayor after a corruption beef put him in prison for the duration of his term. He’d tried, with minor success, to push some reforms, most controversially staffing up the police department. That reform had failed when the DOJ consent decree came through. Crime had blasted through the roof under his administration, just as it had under his predecessors.
Now, he wiped his pasty white forehead with a handkerchief. He adjusted his glasses. He looked down at his notes.
“I…” his voice broke. “I have just met with area leaders as well as civil rights leaders across the country. And I can say to all of you that our investigation will be full and fair, and that justice will be done…”
“WHAT JUSTICE?” Levon shouted at the top of his lungs. The shout rang out like a gun report in the cold night air.
“Justice will be done,” the mayor continued. “Officer Ricky O’Sullivan has been suspended from duty pending a full investigation. This deeply troubling incident has stirred the consciences of Americans from border to border. But I promise you, justice will not rest until the tragedy of Kendrick Malone…”
“WHAT JUSTICE? WHAT JUSTICE?” Levon wa
s chanting now, at the top of his lungs. A few scattered voices joined in. Mayor Burns, momentarily flustered, clutched at the pages of his prepared remarks. The voices grew. Pounding. Angry. Steady. “WHAT JUSTICE? WHAT JUSTICE? WHAT JUSTICE?”
Trying to be heard over the chant, the mayor continued now. Reverend Crawford began nodding softly. “Until the tragedy of Kendrick Malone is answered with truth. We must uncover all the facts…”
Burns suddenly stumbled backwards as a rock struck him in the scalp. Almost in slow motion, his arms stretched for air, circling in a nearly comic pinwheel. He teetered on his heels for just a moment, hung in midair, then fell directly on his ample posterior. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead, his shattered glasses draped over his nose. He looked as though he was about to cry.
A pause.
Now Levon nodded.
One bottle, trailing flame, soared through the air from the middle of the crowd. Glass, filled with an opaque brown liquid, a rag stuffed into its mouth, burning. Its flight path formed a graceful parabola, sailed over the mayor’s head and, with pinpoint accuracy, smashed into the face of the Nordic Man, setting loose the gasoline within and setting the head of the statue into spontaneous flame.
Flames everywhere, flying toward the officers; canisters of tear gas; smoke filling the street; Levon screaming, his men ducking, throwing stones, charging toward the officers; random gunshots in the crowd; media members jabbering madly into their microphones, ducking, playing war correspondent; punches thrown, punches received, men lying on the ground, bleeding…
And then Reverend Jim Crawford, standing tall and proud in his immaculately tailored suit, at the mayor’s podium. Shouting into the microphone: “STOP THIS! STOP THIS NOW! WE WILL HAVE JUSTICE! I PROMISE YOU! JUSTICE! JUSTICE!”
And the street gradually went quiet. The young men stopped rioting and screaming, and turned their heads to watch Reverend Jim Crawford.
The cameras focused in on Reverend Jim Crawford, friend to the street, community leader. Big Jim Crawford. The man who just saved Detroit.
Levon smiled.
Tehran, Iran
“America has fallen. The transformation from dar al-Harb to dar al-Islam has begun.”
Mohammed watched, transfixed.
Ibrahim Ashammi’s eyes glowed brightly, as they always did when he was excited. It was a peculiar quality that attracted many of his followers—they saw in that glow a fiery hope, warm and consuming. Hope for a new world. The Teacher, they said, brought hope.
“Today’s attack has ensured that the crippled and weakened infidel giant that was the United States will never rise again. The emptiness and degradation of that perverse country has been wiped away, and the glorious reign of Allah has begun. Those that rejected Allah followed vanities, and Allah has destroyed them.
“Today, America has seen that those who reject Allah and hinder men from the path of Allah—their deeds will Allah render astray. Those who supported the Zionist entity have seen the consequences of their evil, and we will rain blow after blow upon them until they are utterly demolished.”
A drop of sweat rolled down Ashammi’s craggy face and embedded itself in his scraggly beard. Ashammi had lost weight in his three years in the mountains of Tora Bora, but he was finally putting it back on now that he was ensconced in his complex in Tehran. The government had granted it to him out of gratitude for his prior efforts against the Great Satan, with a yearly stipend that enabled him to live comfortably. In return, he had assured them that any efforts he put forth would be directed at non-Shia targets. It was a minor concession from him—his chief enemies resided in the West.
Ashammi wiped away the sweat. The flag behind him, green with white lines of Arabic, wafted gently to and fro as the rasp of the rusted electric fan pushed a breeze through its folds. Then his expression changed, just barely but noticeably—he was no longer the ardent zealot. Now he was the welcoming benefactor.
Mohammed was always amazed by Ashammi’s total command of his emotions. Ashammi as benefactor—that persona had drawn Mohammed to him in the first place. He wasn’t the only one; many of those who believed in him had come to him because of his outstretched hand. He looked into the camera and continued.
“But now I offer you the chance to meet your destiny under the one true religion by clinging fast to the word of the prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. For those who believe and work deeds of righteousness and believe in the revelation sent down to Mohammed—for it is the truth from the Lord—He will remove from them their ills and improve their condition.
“Together we will dance in the gardens and rejoice in the fields. The word from merciful Allah is peace, and together, we must embrace peace.”
Ashammi pointed at the camera. Mohammed, his youngest recruit—an attractive boy of seventeen, struggling to grow a scraggly beard—hit the stop button on the camera. Ashammi walked behind the camera, and Mohammed replayed the segment. After watching it again, Ashammi smiled. “Mohammed,” he said, “it will be a great day. A glorious day. The weapons we got from the infidels in Iraq will be deployed.”
Mohammed bit his lip. Ashammi saw it. “I see you are worried,” he said. “Do not fear. Does not the Koran say, ‘Those who have said, “Our Lord is Allah,” and then remained on a right course—the angels will descend upon them, saying, “Do not fear and do not grieve but receive good tidings of Paradise” ’?”
Ashammi walked to the window of the compound and threw it open. The sound of the afternoon muezzin wafted into the room. He took a deep breath. Then he pulled out a disposable cell phone and dialed.
A man’s voice answered at the other end. He spoke with a thick Russian accent. “Yes?”
“Tomorrow,” Ashammi said, then hung up abruptly. He turned to Mohammed. “Go, Mohammed,” he said, “and Allah will go with you.”
As Mohammed left, Ashammi knelt on his prayer rug.
When he got up, he turned to the door and smiled. There, standing before him, was a large American man in a military uniform. He wore a blindfold.
“Welcome, General Hawthorne,” Ashammi said.
Mohammed glanced nervously around Café Naderi as he sipped his nana tea. It was a classy joint, and everyone wore a suit—it was a business café, located in the lower level of a hotel. It wasn’t the kind of place that would kick up any sort of fuss in a Western city, but in Tehran, it was a rarity. In fact, it bragged that it was the last non-Islamic café in the city.
Which is why it was perfect for the meeting. It was crowded, so Mohammed wouldn’t draw any suspicion; there were many non-Iranians, too, so Andrei would fit in. It also had the benefit of maintaining a solidly anti-regime reputation, so there would be no connections to any officials who had approved the operation. Intellectuals and writers hung out in packs and talked treason. For that reason, regime informers populated the place.
It was the last location the Western intelligence agencies would watch. After all, it was their home territory. If somebody was going to plan something, it wouldn’t be at this café.
At least, that’s what Ashammi was counting on. And Mohammed had complete faith in Ashammi. Ashammi was the man who had taught him the emptiness of secularism, the beauty of belief. He was a master strategist who had launched several substantial attacks on targets ranging from embassies to hotels to restaurants in America, Europe, and Israel. He is with Allah, and I am with him, Mohammed thought.
He just wished that Andrei would show up already. Even if this was a safe spot, he was getting sick of listening to the Western-style sinful music blaring over the speakers. What, he asked himself, does it mean to “hit me baby, one more time”?
Beneath the table where he sat was a small satchel. He had bought it at a local market along with a shaving kit so as not to draw suspicion. He tossed the shaving kit immediately, of course—it had taken him long enough to cultivate the beard—and kept the bag. This mo
rning, Ashammi had crammed it full of euros (Iranian rials were far too inflated for this kind of payment) and handed it to Mohammed. “Good luck, my son,” he said. “Stay for half an hour. No more. If he does not show up, leave.” Then he stood up and hugged Mohammed tightly. “Take care, my son. You go on Allah’s mission, and He will guide you. I promise you.”
Mohammed looked down at his cheap Casio watch. Andrei was already twenty minutes late. Wild thoughts ran through Mohammed’s head. Had Andrei been followed by the Americans? Had he been taken out of play by the Israelis? What if every minute he stayed here, the Zionists were drawing closer? He had heard the stories about the Jewish devils, about how they had blown the heads off of nuclear scientists with their headrest bombs, about how their computer specialists had stifled the Iranian nuclear program. If they knew what he was planning, the sons of pigs and monkeys would surely take him out of play.
Even as the panicked thoughts played with Mohammed’s mind, a short, balding man in khaki pants and a white button-down shirt walked into the café. He was sweating profusely, and his shirt was stained through already. In his right hand, he rolled a small suitcase. He was struggling with its weight, cursing softly as he rolled it over his own feet.
A waiter approached him and asked if he wanted to store his bag. “No,” the man said in fluent Persian. “I have just checked out of the hotel, and I wish to keep it with me. But I do have a bad back. Could you wheel it to my table?”
The waiter bowed, smiled, scraped—good tips were hard to come by. He ushered the man to Mohammed’s table; the short man handed him a five-euro note and waved him away. He sat down across from Mohammed silently. Mohammed looked him up and down. “You’re Andrei?”
