The weather was fussy. In a twenty-five-minute span, Tilly had seen lightning bolts, sunlight, hail, and pure sky. It was annoying. More annoying than the ill-fitting Kevlar vest that loosely hung over her body. The custom-fitted vest had once been snug, but she’d lost too much weight, almost all of it from her breasts. Despite living in a city where even the deeply impoverished managed to avoid walking, Houndum demanded that all agents be intensely fit. She’d gone from running an eight-minute mile to a six-minute mile, her Coke-bottle physique melting into a tennis ball canister. She missed her bust, but it was nice to know that her body could still undergo change, could still morph.
Rick’s enthusiasm was unchanged. He drove patiently, accommodating every driver who wanted to merge, pass, honk, or tailgate. The driver’s seat was tilted at an absurd angle, the back of the seat almost touching the passenger seats behind it, but Rick sat arrow-straight, his spine a yardstick.
“How do you feel about Ciara?” Rick asked.
“No opinion,” Tilly sighed. Rick was convinced that everyone cared about music as much as he did. He was wrong.
“But she’s Ciara, child of Missy, mother of Future, ex of Future. She’s like this generation’s Erykah Badu,” he pleaded.
Tilly remained silent.
“She’s her own artist, of course, too,” he added, extending his plea.
“Drive faster, Rick. I have shit to do.”
“Sure thing, partner,” he muttered, turning on his radio.
Tilly was surprised that he’d driven for this long with it off. He must be really excited, she realized. Her fingers grazed her vest. Bland trap music drifted from the speakers; the lead elements were unsubtle bass and a corny, ecstatic organ. The producer was probably from Gothenburg or Toronto, somewhere with health care. Tilly didn’t recognize the rapper, undoubtedly some rando from some mixtape Rick would swear by this week and then condemn next week. She was annoyed that she knew it was trap music. But it was hard not to know when Rick was such a flowing faucet. He had a blog—he’d told her, multiple times, until she finally read it—but she’d only viewed it once, its thousands of posts too much to even consider parsing. There was something repugnant about being too immersed in the moment, too coated in the contemporary. There was also something fearless about drowning in the moment, something brave, but she had bills. Bravery was for college students and dogs.
Tilly’s attention returned to the odd weather unfolding on South Cobb Drive. The sun was back, producing iridescent sparks that danced on the backs of the rain-splashed cars. Moments later, they pulled into a nondescript neighborhood filled with manicured lawns and expensive cars, mostly Escalades. She drove a Cadillac herself, but Escalades had always disgusted her. The name was too militant, upward mobility as siege.
Rick slowed his Lincoln Navigator to a crawl as they approached Theo Santos’s address. The surveillance team had reported that Santos was the only one home, but Tilly didn’t want any surprises. The music seemed to slow as well, but Tilly realized the song was actually just chopped and screwed, another genre she had learned about from Rick.
Rick parked the car in the driveway, and they stepped out slowly, their training and experience and fear muffling their footsteps, heightening their awareness. Tilly was sure that Santos wouldn’t be a threat, but procedure didn’t call for certainty. Since they had acquired the tag numbers for the Civic and the MINI Cooper from surveillance footage, they had been watching Santos and his friends for weeks while their arrest warrant was finalized. Other than their love for graffiti, they seemed normal, but that NSA agent had been right: normal teens didn’t have encrypted emails and scrambled IP addresses. Something was up.
“I’ve always felt like no-knock warrants were made for people in apartment buildings. Everybody else has doorbells,” Rick said as he mashed the doorbell.
“Rick, until about forty years ago, law enforcement never knocked on anything but skulls,” Tilly sighed. “Especially for people of color,” she added obligatorily, her hand on her holster.
The door swung open, Santos eyeing them. His clothing was oddly formal, Tilly noted. Dark slacks and a gray collared shirt clung to him like bedsheets. He looked like he was about to testify.
“Hi,” Theo said politely, his voice cracking. “Are you the FBI?”
Rick laughed and stepped past him, entering a foyer with polished wooden floors. Tilly followed, her hand still resting on her holster. The house was cold.
“Yes, we are, kid. And I must say that’s the friendliest greeting we’ve ever gotten,” Rick answered as Theo closed the door, quietly leading them to the living room. Ornate cushioned chairs filled the room, their wooden backs curved like scorpion tails.
“Are you home alone?” Tilly asked.
“Yes, it’s just me. My dad works late on Thursdays,” Theo confirmed. “I didn’t expect you to be black,” he blurted.
“Now that’s the regular greeting,” Tilly teased.
“Is it really?” Theo asked.
“No, we don’t normally greet people,” Tilly said. “Sit down.”
Theo sat, his hands in his lap, palms flat, supplicant. His compliance was annoying, Tilly decided. “Check his pockets,” she commanded. Rick shuffled through them, extracting keys, a phone, and a portable fan. Theo smiled at her. Satisfied, Tilly cannily began to circle Theo’s chair, Rick stepping in behind her.
Binary stars in orbit, they paced in cadence, steps synchronized. Rick spoke first.
“So, I’m pretty sure you know why we’re here,” he said.
“Yeah, I’ve got some information about the assault on Stone Mountain that happened earlier this summer.”
“Why do you refer to it as an assault?” Rick asked, his pace slowing.
“Because it was done with the intention of hurting the city.”
“Hurting the city,” Tilly echoed, nudging Rick, who had stopped walking. “How do you know this?”
“Because I did it,” Theo stammered.
“Why?” Tilly asked.
“Because I hate that mountain and what it represents.”
“What does it represent?” Rick asked.
“Racism.”
“Racism?” Tilly asked.
“Yeah, it has Confederate generals on it.”
“It’s also the home of a large black community, and the park is an employer of mostly black workers,” Rick said.
“So was slavery,” Theo retorted, his body loosening.
“You did this by yourself?” Tilly asked, ignoring his sarcasm.
“Absolutely.”
“You, a seventeen-year-old tennis player and rap blogger from Anaheim, California, acquired the code-filled operations manual for a secret government satellite, entered a government facility, disabled the satellite’s remote access panel, then entered an abandoned building in which only four people know the location for the server that connects to that satellite, bypassed that server’s military-grade firewall, overrode the satellite’s protocols, and utilized its onboard laser—also a secret—then escaped?” Rick now stood directly in front of Theo, leaning forward over him like a barber scrutinizing a hairline.
“Yes,” Theo murmured.
“Okay,” Rick said, the edges of his small mouth grasping for his ears. “We’re going to have to take you in.”
Theo outstretched his hands as Rick brandished a pair of handcuffs from his jeans. In one motion, Rick pulled Theo to a stand, clasped on the cuffs, a metallic wheeze gasping out as the restraints closed around Theo’s wrists. Theo winced in response, his face collapsing into itself like an alarmed armadillo. Avoiding his pliant eyes, Tilly turned away, waving to Rick from over her shoulder and heading back outside. She paused as she opened the door to the SUV and watched Rick guide Theo in. She’d never arrested a teenager before.
After Rick closed the door, she tugged on his shirt
and led him away from the vehicle. They stood on dry, brittle grass, its blades sharp, eager to prick. The sun was behind her, but Tilly still flicked down her shades before speaking to Rick.
“We both know he didn’t do it alone,” Tilly declared.
“Obviously.”
“Then why are we taking him in?”
“Terrorism.”
“Terrorism?”
“We solved it.”
“We solved it?”
“Closed case.”
“Closed case?”
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”
“Are you just going to act like this case isn’t horseshit?”
“The case is solid. We tie him to Black Lives Matter, say he was radicalized online by WikiLeaks, say he’s an identity extremist and that he loves Dead Prez, The Roots, Chief Keef, bang bang, done deal. Promotions, bigger offices, better cases. We bring this twerp in, and I guarantee we’ll be collecting shitty Netflix documentary checks for life. Never bunt an underhand pitch, Tilly.”
Tilly guffawed, stepping back to gulp down the hot air that was erupting from her throat. Rick was a careerist. Fucking Rick. Rick the Brick, immovable yet aerodynamic, chronic overworker, 93 percent closure rate no matter how minor or major the case, hoarder of vacation days, infrequent bather, online grocery shopper because he didn’t have time to shop in person. Tilly shook her head hard in disbelief. Was this why he’d whiffed when Eric Sims had come by the office? Or worse, had he arranged for Sims to come by the office?
“Cutting corners isn’t closing cases,” she told him, her finger jabbing his shoulder.
“This case wasn’t even meant to be closed. Houndum gave this to us on a broken wing and a whore’s prayer.”
“You’re the whore, Rick, and you’re not even a good one. You can’t even recognize a good john. That kid is in over his head, and you’re willing to exploit his fear because it might pay off. We both know it won’t. A seventeen-year-old kid living in Marietta, Georgia, who graduated from Kennesaw Mountain High School, goes all the way to East Point, Georgia, thirty miles away, to destroy a racist monument thirty-five miles away when there’s one fifteen minutes away? You know Kennesaw Mountain also has a Confederate memorial, right? And even beyond that, that same teenager individually has more coding knowledge than the two former hackers on his trail? Are you out of your fucking mind? That’s the kind of fuckwit case that Dick Wolf wipes his ass with and then throws at the stupid intern who suggested it to him. Houndum sees a case like that, and we’re back on the Eric Sims beat.”
Rick glared at Tilly, a hot wind flicking at his loosened tie. She couldn’t tell exactly what he was thinking. She felt bad. He’d been a model partner all this time, and his sole request for something selfish had been rejected. He was probably excited earlier because he’d had plans tonight. He’d finally figured it all out, put the puzzle pieces together all on his own, not in the way that they came out the box, but at least in a way that plausibly fit together. And she’d just trounced into the room and flipped the damn table.
Tilly was glad she’d brought her shades. She needed their steely cool, their unyielding opacity. He couldn’t know she, too, was acting selfishly. She hated the idea of two black agents putting their names on a weak case.
“This is unnecessary, but okay, let’s bring in the kid’s friends, try to get them to confess, see what really happened, bring in a larger haul. But I reserve the right to change my mind, rein this all in. He lied to us, remember? Deal?” He extended his arm, his hand in a fist. Reaching out with her own fist, Tilly met it. Case closed.
“Did you guys just dap?” Theo asked as they climbed into the Navigator.
“You’ve got much bigger worries, kid. Sit back and shut the fuck up,” Rick said, brandishing his gun for emphasis.
Alarmed, Tilly looked over at Rick. His gun already holstered, he was backing the car out of the driveway. She expected a smile of self-satisfaction, maybe even a grimace of irritation, but his face was emotionless.
Tilly’s eyes settled on an air-conditioning vent as Theo’s quiet neighborhood eased out of view. The road was too much to take in. She needed to keep things moving. The next move would be to call Natalie, the analyst she and Rick had assigned to watch Theo’s friends. Natalie phoned her first, informing her that Theo’s friends had gathered and were on the move, all of them wearing black. Exactly what Tilly didn’t want to hear. Her hand was being forced.
“Rick, the other perps are on the move. We need to catch them while they’re together. Natalie says they look like they’re up to something. They’re all wearing black.”
“Other perps? I acted alone,” Theo bleated from the back seat.
“Kid, cut the shit, we know your friends were at least your accomplices, maybe even the masterminds,” Tilly told him, turning around to face him, raising her shades so Theo could see her irritation.
“My friends have nothing to do with this. They’re probably wearing black because they’re going to do some tags. They’re artists. Artists wear black,” he pleaded.
“Artists wear black. Kid, you are a fucking comedian. Too bad this isn’t a stage. This is serious, okay? We know everything. We’ve been watching you for three weeks, you got that? Kaila, Zadie, Solara, Apollo, we know everything. Now either tell us what your friends are up to, or I will call in a fucking drone!” Tilly barked.
She looked over at Rick, hoping for at least the semblance of a smile. He always loved when they name-checked perps’ friends and associates or threatened to call in a drone, almost always false threats, especially the drone.
Rick was unmoved, his eyes remaining on the road, his face blank. Tilly stared at Theo, eager to be relieved of this new role as an antagonist to teens and coworkers, a boss. There was something disturbing about how good it felt.
Theo mumbled an address, tears rinsing his bronze cheeks. “Thanks,” Tilly said, turning around and entering the address into the Navigator’s GPS, a touch screen installed directly into the console. At least Rick buys himself nice things, Tilly assured herself as the vehicle skated on I-285 South.
Natalie called again, asking for further instructions. “Maintain aerial support, Nat. And tell Houndum we’re gathering up the remaining perps, and we’ll be in later this evening. And be sure to tell him we’re under budget.” Tilly hung up, flinging her shades down over her face despite the fleet of clouds that was beginning to swallow the sun. Her mind was already considering decorations for her new office. Change was good.
Theo sat quietly as his captors drove south down Highway 85. The handcuffs were wound tight, but at least they’d been nice enough to re-cuff him with his hands in front of him when they stopped for gas. Even the slightest movement of his wrists was excruciating. He’d never experienced such unceasing pain. But he’d rather feel that than the numbing panic that was slowly overtaking him as the car drove deeper into Clayton County, south of Atlanta. Pain was localized, but panic was all-encompassing, engulfing. Familiar parking lots and stores and restaurants were already transforming into places where he could concretely envision his death and nothing else, future crime scenes.
Theo only knew three addresses in Clayton County: Kai’s home address, Sol’s grandmother’s address, and Independence Park, the site of his lessons with Coach Anna. He’d given the agents the park address, and in mere minutes, they’d realize it. He shuddered at the thought of how they’d react, the sudden movement further irritating his wrists. That gun-toting maniac in the driver’s seat couldn’t have been bluffing, he thought. If regular citizens could take black life with impunity, and cops could take it with legal sanction and impunity on video, FBI agents could probably slit his throat on live television: impunity, legal sanction, video, and shareholder approval. The holy tetrad.
He’d almost laughed when Tilly Erickson, who he recognized from the news, had mentioned a drone strike
. Atlanta wasn’t Afghanistan, for chrissakes. But still, even that seemed plausible. He’d have to ask Apollo about drones if he ever talked to him again. He used to watch drone strike videos online all the time; he’d probably know what they were all about. If he isn’t dead, he reminded himself. His newfound fatalism was already settling into every thought.
“You lying-ass kid!” Rick shouted as they pulled into Independence Park, parking the vehicle but letting the engine idle. Theo stared ahead, rigid with fear. His favorite Future song played from the speakers. The surrealness of the moment made Theo reflect on the car ride.
Once they’d left his house, after a stretch of angry, reckless driving, Rick had suddenly started chatting with Theo, praising his secret Tumblr, which Theo thought no one knew about, and asking him about West Coast rap. All the while, scattered Atlanta rap had been playing, ranging from deep cuts from Gangsta Grillz mixtapes to Mike-Will-made radio fodder. Theo wasn’t sure whether the guy was in too deep, using advanced interrogation techniques, or spiting Tilly Erickson, who remained silent throughout and seemed to flinch anytime they got too animated. Theo couldn’t see her face, but she seemed irritated, her posture too stiff to be normal.
Familiar sounds began to pierce through Future’s revelry: clicks, swooshes, beeps, eeps, flutters. Someone was going through his phone. How’d they even have his password?
“There’s nothing here. We have to question him,” Tilly sighed.
Theo gulped. One of her words had been a euphemism; he could feel it.
In the Heat of the Light Page 16