The Confession of Copeland Cane

by Keenan Norris

  I pushed my way back thru the people and out the crowd. I lit out across the boulevard, swerving in between traffic. I made my way into Ravenscourt’s ruins and searched the rubble, kicking away ce-ment slabs and shards of stucco. I got down in the dirt and dug around, finding screws and bolts and plastic cups and paper plates and anything and everything you might think would be there but that gun. I couldn’t find it. I looked some more. Every damn ditch in that mug was an empty grave, a grave without no body. Desperate than a motherfucker, I kept at it, kicking up dust in all di-rections. I’m sure my fingerprints is on aye’thing down there and that don’t look good for me. But the reason I was rootin’ around like that for that gun was outta my total, two-souled desire to find it and take it apart piece by piece and free all that love and courage up on that boulevard from the one threat of further violence that I could control, and at the same time to hold that tool in my hands, fully assembled, to place it on my shoulder, Jacq, and sight that thing like I meant it and hold one of them boy’s, one of them officer’s, life in my hands just like they hold our lives so careless and often in contempt every single day. I confess that I wanted that choice.

  But I couldn’t find the rifle.

  A few walls still halfway stood in that massive lot. But only one apartment building wall still stood to its full height, undemolished. I had noticed it the night before, but it jutted out different in the daylight. It’s probably twenty feet tall, like somethin’ you might see in a schoolbook about World War II and what little still stayed standing after the war was over. On the backside of the wall, facing away from the boulevard, is the skeleton of a stairwell. The railing is gone, but the stair steps is still there linked by a ce-ment base below each step. I didn’t know if the steps could support my weight. It looked like a fifty-fifty, maybe so, maybe no. I wondered if I should climb them and find out. I wondered if DeMichael had put the rifle up there—I had no idea.

  I went up, my feet touching light on each unsteady stair step. The final step was set just below a window. The window was already blown out, had no pane, no screen, no nothin’. It looked out on that sky and that scene below. I looked into the heavens. It was the most frightening and beautiful thing I ever seen, Jacq. I cain’t even explain that vision, the way the sun shone like the sky, taking in its colors, and how such darkness overwhelmed the daylight. And below it, the protestors and the po-lice still waiting each other out, facing each other down like opposing armies, with one side having all the weapons, of course—ain’t no fair fights in America, after all. And I could see Mr. America and his crew. I could see the altar beside him and the banners our people had draped across the gates:

  INVESTIGATE THE COPS

  SHOW THE BODY CAM FOOTAGE

  JUSTICIA!

  LAND, BREAD & HOUSING

  NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE, ABOLISH THE POLICE

  THERE’S MANY A MILLION GONE

  OUR LIVES MATTER

  Insurgency Alert Desk, Third Bureau

  In the wake of the killing of an officer of the law during a political rally that itself was ostensibly held in protest of a shooting of an Oakland civilian, numerous persons fled the scene. The protest organizers have been sought as suspects in the shooting of Officer Colt Bergen: DeMichael Bradley, 20, of Oakland, arrested in the ruins of a recently razed housing project adjacent to the Redwood Homes; Keisha Manigault, 18, also of Oakland, arrested the following day in the basement of a nearby Baptist church, where authorities were able to trace her by her cell phone GPS satellite positioning; Ayesha Ali, street name “Free,” 18, also of Oakland, boarded a flight at the nearby Oakland International Airport, according to authorities. Ali landed in Detroit and from there made her way to the home of a family friend in Dearborn, Michigan. She was finally captured several days after the shooting because of a tip given to police by the spouse of a family member. The final protest organizer and suspect in the shooting of Officer Bergen, Copeland Cane V, also of Oakland, remains a fugitive. Law enforcement says that Cane is likely armed and very dangerous.

  Others detained at the rally include prominent local businessman Douglas Deadrich and Piedmontagne Prep School principal Anthony Kennedy. Both Deadrich and Kennedy were released without charge. Piedmontagne released the following statement via its social media accounts:

  We at Piedmontagne Prep grieve the deaths of both Officer Colt Bergen and Miguel Ngata. It is our understanding that the protest action where Officer Bergen so tragically lost his life was organized with the intention of peaceful protest against police brutality. Our principal joined the protest in this spirit and we support his peaceful protest. It has been determined by law enforcement officials that he did nothing wrong. Piedmontagne Prep upholds the American right to freedom of speech and freedom of assembly. Piedmontagne Prep also values deeply and has extensive ties to California’s law enforcement community. Copeland Cane V is currently enrolled as a student at our high school. We have no further comment upon this matter.

  The time and place for the public memorial to the fallen Officer Bergen has been set: 8:00 A.M., tomorrow, First Congregational Church of Alameda.

  The arrests mark the culmination of a series of events that suggest the depth of Oakland’s problems with lawlessness and leftist violence. According to multiple police reports, on the night of May 17, Redwoods security officer and Oakland Police Department policeman Abel Enriquez was executing a routine investigation of a complaint of unlicensed solicitation and drug trafficking outside the Redwood Homes in East Oakland. Miguel Ngata, 19, of Oakland, was detained for questioning by Officer Enriquez. Under Freedom of Interrogation legislation, the right of officers to detain and question in public space is protected. However, Ngata became uncooperative and refused to reply to standard questioning. Officer Enriquez tried to take the teen into custody, at which point the teen, according to reports, cursed at the officer and charged toward him. Officer Enriquez, acting in self-defense, discharged his weapon. The teen died at the scene. The Oakland Police Department has ruled the incident a justifiable homicide. No charges have been brought against Enriquez, who is currently on paid leave.

  Social unrest swiftly ensued, leading to the shooting death of Officer Bergen.

  Insurgency Alert Desk, Third Bureau

  It has been reported by CNN and MSNBC that prior to her arrest, Ayesha Ali placed a request for information related to ballistics and forensic data taken at the Ngata homicide scene under the recently repealed Freedom of Information Act.*

  Insurgency Alert Desk, Third Bureau

  Authorities have recovered a rifle that they believe was used in the murder of Officer Bergen.

  Jacqueline:

  No, Cope.

  Cope:

  No, what?

  Jacqueline:

  No, you didn’t. You didn’t shoot that cop. You didn’t play any role in the shooting. Not any active, creative role, anyway. Those forensics don’t mean anything. They don’t even start to tell your story. Every piece of your story points to DeMichael’s involvement, not yours. I know it and you know it. By your own admission, you’ve only fired a gun once, at DeMichael’s direction—other than that, all you got were a couple pointers from that white boy in the juvenile facility, whatever it’s called.

  Cope:

  The Youth Control. If you think it was just a couple convos, you’re underestimating how many times two intellectually limited, locked-up muhfuckas can discuss the same exact shit.

  Jacqueline:

  Only an intellectually limited person would think you’re intellectually limited. We both know who did this. Admit it, Cope.

  I’ll tell you what I believe happened. Let me enter the following into evidence: DeMichael is highly susceptible to law enforcement influence. If the police were looking for someone to disrupt the protest and shift focus from Miguel’s murder to the murder of one of their own, then there was no actor better equipped for sabotage than a compromised person like DeMichael Bradley, an individual whom they may have trained themselves. D
eMichael’s been in and out of various incarcerating institutions since he was all of nine or ten years old. That’s more than enough time to have been turned, especially considering the concerns you yourself mentioned around his relationships with authorities that date all the way back to the Youth Control.

  The evidence is there, Cope: DeMichael never formed bonds with anyone in the Youth Control except for his childhood friends, whom he already knew. Everyone else rejected him, or he rejected them. He was most closely aligned with the authorities and received certain perks, which is why he was not there in the cafeteria that day when you fought Shawn Barnes, a fight which resulted in the first attempt at your recruitment—well before your days in prep school. You came home from your incarceration and transferred to Piedmontagne. DeMichael bopped back and forth between Oakland and the Youth Control, always unable to keep himself out of trouble. That’s a lot of arrests, a lot of charges, and maybe a few deals along the way. Don’t you find it unusual that a twenty-year-old black male with such a long juvenile and adult criminal history could even legally possess a firearm and take it with him to hunt? And who do you think taught him how to shoot that weapon? His absent father? His dead grandfather? His half-gone grandmother?

  In a sense, the whole purpose and motive force of law enforcement is reactionary, but I would argue that all it would have taken was one reactionary individual to make DeMichael not just another informant in the black community but something much worse. Law enforcement had all the incentive in the world to use him to divert attention from them. The better question might not be if he did it, but whether it was vengeance or under orders.

  Cope:

  DeMichael ain’t do all that complicated shit—

  Jacqueline:

  I don’t know why you’re protecting him.

  Cope:

  Cuz he protected me.

  Jacqueline:

  That’s just a story you tell yourself, Cope. Not every story you tell yourself is true.

  Cope:

  So what do you want me to do? Roll on a brother who had my back from knee-high, who taught me how to handle myself, who’s been thru the same shit I done came thru? And all that when I cain’t say what he did or didn’t do? You’re trippin’.

  Jacqueline:

  I’m tripping? You’re a fugitive on principle. Who’s tripping? I swear, you black boys, black men, whatever you are, you will protect each other no matter what—way more than you’d ever protect me or Keisha or any other black girl, or black woman. So, I get that, you’re not going to go against your guy based on some sort of misplaced loyalty. Whatever. The only question I have for you is why you want to involve yourself in all this, when you can probably get out of it and get back into some kind of a normal life if you just take it to court? Shit, Cope, is this even about the policeman’s murder for you? Why am I even asking you that question?

  Cope:

  OK, you win, boss. One year you’ve been in college and I couldn’t debate you if I tried. I’m not tryna argue with you, though. I don’t have nothin’ to argue, nothin’ to hide. I bounced, plain as that. Got my ass up outta Ravenscourt and out that whole piece. Ain’t seen East Oakland since. As far as where the gun mighta gone to and who pulled the trigger and all that, I ain’t said shit and ain’t fittin’ to say shit about it.

  Jacqueline:

  So you are hiding something?

  Cope:

  Nothin’ that’s mines to hold. You know what I mean? I ain’t seen that shit and don’t know shit but what I’ve seen. And I done said all that I’ve seen.

  Jacqueline:

  OK, I respect that. But if it wasn’t you who did the crime, then what are you running from?

  Cope:

  A fucked-up, biased-ass jury for one. And friends who’ll start flippin’ on each other for another.

  Jacqueline:

  So take the Fifth and don’t snitch. The evidence is on your side. I know it and so do you. There’s really no reason for you to keep running—is there?

  Cope:

  It’s so much more to it, though. It ain’t even about that man gettin’ got, may he rest in peace. I don’t wanna rent no room in a burning house, Jacq. And this house we call America, either it’s on fire, or it’s just hotter’n a mug where we stay at. You know what I mean? I’m not tryna argue. I don’t have to exonerate myself. I’ma be free. You feel me? Let me finish the story—then maybe it’ll make some sense.

  Jacqueline:

  Go ahead. No one is stopping you from speaking—yet.

  Cope:

  OK, the end: in Antioch, under a blood-orange sun, I made my way from the train station to the home Momma and Daddy is renting.

  When I hugged my momma and told her how much I loved her, she became the first person on record to smile and keep a straight face at the same time. Ain’t seen her wake up to joy in a long while. Really, she looked the same as ever, not happy, not too sad, not a pound lost or gained to stress, still thin, with her short hair, her pretty light brown eyes. We hugged and she held me close for a minute, gripping me by the shoulders so I stood suspended in her grasp. I looked her in her eyes and seen how complicated it was up in her soul behind her mask. Then she let me go and I seen the old man. He looked not just old but aged all of a sudden. His face and hands had turnt into the desert floor, light brown skin full of fault lines and depressions and the occasional canyon where his eyebrows fell away and his eyes sat back in the dark cave of his face. He worked his hands in that tense way that I remember from every tense moment in time, the ball of muscle between thumb and forefinger rising like a sudden tumor in his hand.

  “I cain’t stay here,” I said. “I just had to see y’all.”

  “Did you do it?” Momma asked. “Did you have that man shot? Tell me the truth.”

  “Nah,” I said. “But that don’t matter. I don’t see how I’ma get a jury of my peers right now. They wanna make it so I won’t have no peers.”

  The old man shook his head. “Gotdamn it!” he thundered, hustling up from his chair in a burst of energy that almost laid him flat, cuz in a moment he sank back into his seat lookin’ worse for the energy spent. He didn’t look good. He had always been a thin man, but where before he had had so much free energy, now he looked frail and tired and caged by time.

  “You couldn’t save me,” I said. It was the opposite of what I had come there to say to him. I wanted to talk about my accomplishments, but my heart was hurting in deep ways.

  “I’m sorry, Cope,” the old man said, his voice falling. He looked me in my eyes.

  I looked at him without anger. “I wanted to be like you—like you wanted to be. I wanted to save our neighborhood. I wanted to make some ends at the same time. I did do that—the ends—but you ain’t even ask how much I made. I worked so hard at that school and y’all wadn’t even there for it.”

  “You know how I feel about all that.”

  “And you’re right to feel it! But the thing of it is, I passed my classes, I won the races, and was all but handed my diploma. But it didn’t mean a thing to the hood, it didn’t help nobody who needed it but myself, so I tried to make it mean somethin’ to someone—to you. But you wadn’t having it. And that’s the problem: it’s no way to work this system and have it mean anything for anybody but me.” I held his gaze.

  “Cope, the only system I know is gettin’ it how a brother was living.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He seemed to weigh with his rigid jaw the risk of what he would say next. Then he spoke and, Jacq, he said a whole life to me right there. He put it to me like this, that he was from that ’80s generation, which musta been the most confused bunch of Negroes in history. His words. He said, like, that he came of age under the shadow of complicated men, men who survived a war that they own government lied them into, and that lie was why when them brothers came home half of them went and turnt to the Panthers, only to see that dream infiltrated and they close partners knocked off by this same government that ca
lls itself our protector. Jacq, he told me how them old heads turnt to they very enemy and got hooked on government heroin and government cocaine. And how the young sahabs, him and his boys and a million others like them, seen those troubled souls and sold them the drugs, not knowin’ but a dollar. They wadn’t tryna build no community, they was hustling the community, they was harming the community. He told me all this, how he used to hustle up in the Tenderloin in the city and in Ravenscourt in the town.

  “I moved to L.A. a hustler cold-blooded,” he said. “Money-minded. Criminality-minded. Met the wrong woman (and I for damn sure was the wrong man), so I stumbled into my family responsibilities, and then I had no choice but to hustle. Got locked up eventually and had to defend myself once I was in that mother. Caught another charge, which is why won’t no employer hire me now. My record’s got records—a few rent strike protests is mixed in there, too, but mostly it’s dirt I did. Cope, I had to give my life up to find a new one. I came back home, met me a better woman (and made myself a better man), and we had our own son. I wanted to lead you better’n I did my first children when I was young and stupid and wadn’t fit to lead no one. I wanted to teach you to make yo’ own and have yo’ own so it won’t even matter if these fools who run these businesses don’t wanna hire no one darker complected than theyself. I wanted everything for you—I still do. I had dreams. I had plans. I wanted to save the Rock, or at least do somethin’ for it. I wanted to use what I had learnt to teach you how to help somebody. I wanted you to be yo’ own man and I wanted to show you what that looked like by my example. But we cain’t teach what we don’t know. That’s black folks’ problem: we don’t know shit. I was the wrong messenger, just a old hustler not even knowin’ how to turn over a dollar in this changing world. I failed you and I apologize from the bottom of my heart, Cope. You already outdid me by a mile, boy. Ain’t nothin’ left for me to teach you.”