Policed

by Alana Terry

  “Thanks for letting me use your car.” She took the keys out of her pocket and tossed them on Willow’s desk.

  She didn’t look up.

  “What are you doing?” Kennedy asked.

  “Oh, nothing much. Just watching this little video of you beating up a cop.”

  Kennedy sprang out of bed. Hovered behind Willow’s shoulder to stare at the monitor. “What are you talking about?”

  “I got a visit from the police department. They asked what I knew about this video a commuter took of some altercation between a cop, a black man, and white woman. I told them I had no clue what they were talking about, so they said they identified my car by the plates. The same car you and your little platonic boyfriend took out tonight. How was the musical, by the way? Was it good?”

  “We didn’t see it.” As much as she wanted to, Kennedy couldn’t pry her eyes away from the screen. The video was running on some kind of loop. It started when the policeman kicked Reuben and ended with Kennedy jumping on his back.

  “Interesting stuff, isn’t it?” Willow cocked her head to the side and then punched her monitor off. “I already made you a cup of tea. You gonna tell me what happened?”

  Kennedy slunk down on her roommate’s jumbo beanbag. Willow swiveled her chair around to face her and passed her an oversized mug.

  “We got pulled over on the way to the show.” As Kennedy filled in the details, she wondered how many more times she’d have to recount this story before she could move on. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the nagging suspicion that normal pre-med students didn’t go through this sort of stuff. Normal pre-med students didn’t get harassed by police officers on the side of the road.

  Willow was silent while Kennedy talked. As soon as she finished, Kennedy expected her to go on some tirade about police brutality and black oppression and the failed justice system in the United States. Instead, she reached over and squeezed Kennedy’s hand. “I’m really sorry you had to go through all that. It must have been awful.”

  Kennedy sniffed into her mug. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’ve got the name of the policeman who stopped by. He was kind of hot, actually, if you’re into the trim, athletic, middle-aged type.” She pulled a business card out of her pocket. “Here’s his information. I was going to invite him to stay and wait for you, but I wanted to get the juicy details first before I passed on his message.”

  Kennedy stared at the name on the card. Great. Another cop she’d never heard of. Another officer who might be just as bad as Bow Legs, perhaps worse.

  “I didn’t give him your name or anything, by the way.” Willow ran her fingers through her hair. She had cut it short over Christmas break and dyed it just a few weeks ago, so now it was brunette with purple tips. When she was going out, she wore it spiked and gelled, but tonight it hung loose, framing her face like a heart. “I mean, it’s none of my business why a cop was giving you a piggyback ride, but I figured if you didn’t want to be named, I wasn’t going to narc on you. I just told him I’ve got several friends I let borrow my car, and I wasn’t sure whose turn it was to take it out tonight.”

  “Thanks,” Kennedy muttered. Her mind was reeling. So someone had a video. It was short, but the cop’s face was clear. Would that be enough evidence to convict him?

  Willow pouted her lips. “So, what are you gonna do? You gonna call up Mr. Mid-Life Crisis and cry the whole story into his hard, chiseled shoulder?”

  Kennedy stared at her lap. “Reuben doesn’t want me to make a big deal out of it. I think he just wants to pretend it never happened.”

  Willow gestured to her monitor. “It’s already on Channel 2. White cop and black kid? It’s not the kind of story that goes away.”

  The more they talked, the more Kennedy began to understand Reuben’s line of reasoning. Everyone, even Willow, was doing the same thing. Turning it into another instance of white versus black. What about Kennedy? What about all the cop’s chauvinist remarks? His roaming hands? Was it ok to be a sexist pervert as long as you were abusing women of your own race? She was sick of it all. Maybe Reuben had the right idea. Shut the door and pray it’d all disappear.

  “I don’t know,” Kennedy sighed. She knew what Willow and all the other students in Professor Hill’s class would do. March their story in front of every reporter, every news outlet available. Keep shouting until someone listened. Until someone demanded the Boston Police Department make the changes that needed to be made. Until they weeded out Officer Bow Legs and any other corrupt cronies like him.

  Kennedy understood the thirst for justice. But there was also a need for healing. For privacy. Every time she watched the four-second video on Willow’s computer screen, she relived that humiliating attack all over again. Did she have the fortitude to let journalists and politicians and civil rights activists prod through her wounds before the blood even had time to coagulate?

  Willow propped her feet up on her bed. “Well, it’s not gonna take the journalists too long to identify you from that video. And you better be ready, because these police brutality cases are all the same. It’s a media frenzy where everyone sees who can be first to crucify the victim. Like that black kid the cop shot in the back. Died instantly. And guess what? While the black folks held vigil for justice, the white police force and their media buddies were digging up all the dirt they could find to prove the boy had it coming. Even though he was unarmed. Even though several witnesses claimed he wasn’t resisting arrest. But as soon as the media comes out to show this boy was a ‘troubled youth,’ everyone forgets about justice and just assumes a black kid with a few petty crimes in his record deserves to be executed point-blank. That’s America for you. Land of the stinking free.”

  Somewhere in the pit of her gut, Kennedy wondered if her roommate might be right. Would the media try to attack Reuben? Is that why he wanted to remain so secretive? Is that why he begged her to keep the story from the police and the press? He was such a mature, responsible young man. Was it possible he had anything to hide? Or was growing up in Kenya with its corrupt police system enough to make him paranoid of anyone in a uniform?

  “You want some more tea?” Willow held up her electric kettle.

  “No, thanks.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Right now, I just want to rest.”

  Willow gave an encouraging half-smile. “I don’t blame you. Just let me know if you need anything, ok?”

  How about a time machine like what the H. G. Wells inventor made? If she could only start today over. Take the T to the Opera House instead of borrowing Willow’s car. Or drive another route, where her path would have never crossed Bow Legs to begin with.

  She slipped into bed, clothes and all, and pulled the covers over her head. Things could have turned out worse, she reminded herself. But then again, they could have turned out so much better.

  CHAPTER 8

  SHE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN she’d never be able to fall asleep on a night like this. By eleven o’clock, she’d checked half a dozen times to see if Channel 2 had any breaking news. The story was still running at the top of their website, along with the short clip of Kennedy jumping on the policeman’s back while he pummeled Reuben.

  Other outlets had picked up the piece, too. The story was trending all over the internet. Black leaders were already calling for the police department to divulge the name and rank of the officer, citing how suspicious it was that he hadn’t made any arrests and was entirely unavailable for comment. The police department hadn’t released any official statements either, but someone close to the head office hinted that the chief was doing everything in the scope of his authority to figure out the whole truth. The chief also urged anyone to call in with information about the two “suspects,” as she and Reuben were called in certain publications, while others referred to them as victims.

  She kept reloading one webpage after another before she finally flipped on her lamp. Willow was still awake at her desk, the ear buds a
nd flashing lights from the screen proof she had moved back to her blood and gore video games.

  Kennedy still hadn’t decided what she should do. Willow was probably right. If she told the police who she was, gave her side of the story, they’d try to find a way to make the public believe this whole mess was her fault. But if she stayed silent, what would stop the same thing from happening to victims all up and down Boston? Could she feel safe knowing that cops like Bow Legs were out on patrol?

  And what about the race issue? The journalists all treated this as a black and white incident, nothing more and nothing less. On the one hand, she was glad there were watchdog groups ready to protect the rights of minorities, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling that pegging her encounter with Bow Legs as simply a race incident was akin to forcing a triangular stopper into a round lab beaker. Sure, she could cite the slurs Bow Legs spurted out like venom, but he’d called her as many bad names as Reuben. There was more to it than ugly racism — misogyny, bigotry, power hunger for starters.

  She had to do something. But what? If she went to the police now, what would that mean for her and Reuben? Would they be forced to relive their inhumane treatment each time they attempted to prove that the wrongs they suffered really happened? Was it worth subjecting themselves to public scrutiny until their past secrets and public records were exposed for all to see? Was she ready to accept that cost? Was she willing to force Reuben to do the same?

  But the police must already know about her and Reuben. Wasn’t that why they sent Dominic to the hospital? So why did they waste their energy asking the public to help identify them?

  Unless Dominic had kept their identities a secret. Could he do that? Would he?

  Then there was Ian. Kennedy had run into the redheaded journalist a time or two last semester during the peak of her fifteen minutes in the public eye. She had no reason to doubt him, but that certainly wasn’t grounds to trust somebody, either. Didn’t most journalists scurry around trying to break their story first? Was he just waiting for the hype to increase a little more before he told the world who Kennedy really was?

  Would he do that to her? Or maybe the better question was why wouldn’t he?

  This was all too much for Kennedy. She didn’t know about police proceedings other than the tidbits she’d gleaned here and there from the cop dramas she watched with her dad. Besides that and an occasional suspense or detective novel, Kennedy had no idea what she was getting into. She had always assumed that in America, if you were a conscientious citizen and minded your own business, the police would have no reason to bother you. It was like health insurance, important to have around but as long as you were healthy and took care of yourself, and maybe with a little bit of luck, you didn’t expect to need it.

  Now here she was, wondering if she turned herself in to the police if they’d hail her as a hero for exposing a bad cop or if they’d arrest her for assaulting an officer. How would she know what would happen until she made the first move? And if she waited for them to find her — which they could do easily if they really wanted to — would she look guiltier than she would have if she came forth voluntarily?

  “You awake?” Willow asked, taking off her headset. “Sorry. I was trying to be quiet.”

  “It wasn’t you.”

  “Just having a hard time sleeping?”

  “Yeah.”

  Willow gave Kennedy an almost maternal smile. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that Gordon Clarence has taken an interest in your video.”

  “Who?” The name sounded familiar, but Kennedy couldn’t place it.

  “Gordon Clarence. The reverend. Head and founder of the Black Fraternity?”

  Kennedy groaned. She had read some of his speeches in Professor Hill’s class. The last person she wanted championing her case was someone like him.

  Willow clicked her mouse. “Here, listen to this. This is Gordon Clarence in a video address to his congregation about the piggyback attack. That’s what they’re calling what happened. Cute, huh?” She glanced at Kennedy’s face and then ducked back behind her screen. “Anyway, here’s part of the speech.” She unplugged her ear buds, and a booming, rhythmic voice filled the room. “And that’s why I’m asking you tonight, brothers and sisters, that’s why I’m standing here before you wanting to know when will the world see these cops for what they really are — a militarized force intent on occupying the neighborhoods and communities where our brothers and sisters are trying to make a peaceful life for themselves. When will the mayor and people of Boston stand up to defend our brother and sister who were brutalized in full daylight by an officer who clearly sees no value in the lives of black men and women? When will my brothers and sisters of color rise up and declare with one voice, ‘Enough. Enough of the victimization of our women and children. Enough of the ...’”

  A knock on the door interrupted the reverend’s tirade. Willow paused the recording, and both girls glanced nervously at each other.

  “You expecting anyone?” Kennedy asked.

  Willow shook her head.

  Kennedy wished their doors had little peep holes like in hotel rooms. What if it was the police? What if they’d come to arrest her or bring her in for questioning? It was a good thing she hadn’t gotten into her pajamas.

  Willow stood up and was arranging her purple-tipped hair. “I’ll get it. You just ...” She glanced at Kennedy’s bed as if she might find a hiding place. “You just wait there.”

  She cracked the door open. “Yes?”

  “I’m here with the Boston Police Department.”

  Willow adjusted her position so she blocked the policeman’s view into the room. “I already answered a few questions earlier. Is there something else you fellows needed?” Her foot was planted by the door, keeping him from opening it any farther.

  Kennedy’s heart pounded. Her mouth was dry. If they took her in to the station, would they let her make an international call? She would do anything to be back in Yanji with her parents. Anywhere but here.

  “I actually stopped by to check on Kennedy. Is she in?”

  There was something familiar about his voice. Kennedy tried to peek around her roommate to get a look at his face.

  “Kennedy? She likes to stay out late. She sometimes doesn’t come back until ...”

  The policeman nudged the door slightly and pointed. “Isn’t that her in the bed?”

  Willow let out a casual laugh. “Oh, yeah, but you know, she’s been asleep. Came home right after her afternoon classes and just crashed ...”

  The door was wide open now, but the officer didn’t step in. He gave Kennedy an apologetic smile. “Hi, Kennedy.”

  She let out her breath. “Hi, Dominic.”

  Willow turned around, raised one of her penciled eyebrows at Kennedy, and then gave a little shrug.

  “Can I come in?” he asked. “Or would you rather talk out here?”

  Willow was slipping on a colorful shawl. “You know what? I completely spaced out and forgot that our director called a rehearsal tonight. I’m already late, so I better run. Don’t wait up for me,” she called as she hurried out the door. Dominic and Kennedy watched her leave in a wave of colors and patterns.

  “That’s your roommate?” he asked.

  Kennedy nodded. “That’s Willow. You can come in,” she told him when she realized he was still standing on the threshold of her room.

  “I’m sorry to bother you like this.” He looked around awkwardly until Kennedy pointed him to Willow’s swivel desk chair. “I’m glad I found you awake. You doing ok?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.” She couldn’t read him. Was he here on official police business? More questions, maybe? Or was this some sort of social call? She wanted to trust him. Desperately wanted to trust him. With her dad so far away, who else was there to help her navigate through this mess of legal proceedings she’d gotten herself dumped into? But just because Dominic was a Christian, did that mean he was safe to talk to? Just because his prayer had covered he
r with a peace and tranquility she hadn’t experienced in years, maybe in her entire life, did that mean he wouldn’t betray her?

  He scratched his cheek. “So, I guess maybe you heard about the news reports.” It came out as half question, half statement.

  She nodded.

  “And well, the chief, he’s doing what he can to save face. Trying to avoid any sort of scandal.”

  It made sense. That seemed like the sort of thing a chief of police would do after a video leaked of one of his officers kicking an innocent man.

  “We know the officer in question. Got that figured out even before we saw the tape based on your interview and the location of the engagement.”

  Engagement. He was using the same terminology as the characters in Willow’s computer games. Another reminder that, as kind as he appeared, he was still one of them. Part of the same force as the man who’d landed Reuben in the hospital. Who’d groped Kennedy along a busy Boston highway.

  “And obviously, we had your name right away too, but we’re keeping that from the press right now for several reasons.” His shoulders rose as he took in a noisy inhale. “I just got back from talking with your friend. With Reuben.”

  Kennedy tried not to let him see how nervous she was when he said Reuben’s name. She clenched her teeth shut to keep from spewing out the dozens of questions streaming through her consciousness.

  “And after talking with him, I’m even more convinced about what I’m going to say.”

  Kennedy squinted slightly. Studying his face. If she were a card player, she’d have a better feel for whether or not he was bluffing.

  “I know at the hospital I said some good could come out of making a complaint. Might not happen right away, might not result in immediate progress, but if you were willing to jump through the fire, I told you I’d help you start that ball rolling.”