Tentatively, I make my way over to the desk chair for a sense of how it might be to sit there for the interview. My phone buzzes. When I pull it out and see the name splashed across the screen, I jerk my head over my shoulder, worried I might find Tamara right behind me, that she might see Jenny’s name. Tupac glares down at me like one of those Renaissance portraits, his eyes following my every move.
It’s a terrifying transgression to read this text, from this person, in this room. But curiosity gets the better of me. I take another look over my shoulder and open the message.
I’m so sad about Justin. I didn’t mean what I said. I feel like we’re fighting. I don’t want to be fighting.
Are we fighting? Not exactly. I’m not mad at Jenny. Or maybe I am. I don’t know. I need to sort out how I feel before I talk to her, but I can’t think about that right now. I need her name gone from my screen. I’ll write her back later, from somewhere else. Anywhere else. I look at Tupac again and pick up the book lying on the desk. I remember reading Of Mice and Men in ninth grade too. I open to the dog-eared page, scan a few paragraphs. George and Lenny have just arrived at the farm filled with dreams. Lenny’s doom hangs over the scene. Tamara startles me when she returns right then. I drop the book in my hands to the floor.
“He was liking that book. I warned him it was a sad story. He didn’t finish it, so he’ll never know about that. That’s good, I guess.” She picks it up possessively and places it just so back on the desk. “I need your help with what to wear, if that’s okay?”
“Sure, you can wear whatever you’re comfortable in.”
She fingers the brim of the hat.
“Was that Justin’s?” I ask.
“Yeah, his favorite one. Can I wear it in the interview?”
“Well, maybe you can hold it in your lap.”
“Okay, come on, let’s go look in my closet.”
Tamara’s dresser is crowded with rows of framed pictures, and I peer at each one. Most are of Justin, as a toddler in an oversize Eagles jersey, an eight-year-old in a white first communion suit. Wes and teenage Justin at a Sixers game mugging for the camera in matching throwback Iverson jerseys, maybe the last picture they ever took together.
There’s also a lot of pictures of her husband. It’s clear where Justin gets his dimples, same exact one, left side. I know from my research his dad was a bike messenger who got struck by a car in Center City during a delivery. When she sees me hovering over the photo she comes closer. “That’s Darrell. My husband. Hard to believe he’s been gone four years now. It used to be the worst thing that ever happened to me. I couldn’t even have imagined something worse. And now here I am. It’s a blessing Dee’s gone though. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. He wouldn’t have survived losing his only son. I never thought I’d be grateful he was gone, but at least he was spared this.”
How much tragedy can one woman bear?
She sits on the double bed that’s so close to the wall the closet door only opens part of the way. “I keep thinking, maybe I should’ve been home more. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened. I was working double shifts at the Amazon warehouse over in Bucks County to save up some money. Justin and I were gonna take a trip to Florida. He’s never been on an airplane. Now he’ll never ride on an airplane.”
I hover over her awkwardly and then decide to take the liberty of sitting next to her on the neatly made bed, even though it feels too close. I wish Wes would come back, but I can hear him talking to someone else in the living room.
“That’s what gets me, what stops me right dead in my tracks when I start to think about everything he wanted to do and how he ain’t gonna get a chance to do it. If he were alive, he would have gone down to that march and made a big sign and screamed the loudest of all his friends. He saw good in the world. He was just a baby, but I know he would have changed things if he’d gotten the chance.”
“Maybe he still can,” I say, as much to Tamara as myself.
Tamara and I busy ourselves rummaging through her closet, both grateful for the temporary distraction of having a mission to focus on. We settle on a pretty navy dress that’s too big for her but looks nice anyway.
Five minutes before the broadcast, we’re in our spots in Justin’s room, facing each other as the bustle of sound checks and lighting adjustments carries on around us. Tamara self-consciously fluffs her hair, which has been covered, until moments ago, by Justin’s hat, which she grips in her lap. Her pixie cut suits her face; she looks a little like Halle Berry, and unintentionally glamorous, even with eyes that are dark pools of sadness.
“I’m nervous,” Tamara admits. “All these people watching, you know?”
“It’s going to be okay. I’m only going to ask you about Justin. All you have to do is talk about Justin, okay?”
“That I can do,” Tamara says, soft but resolute.
The control room beeps into my earpiece to count me into the start of the broadcast. I have a surge of nervous anticipation, like someone’s about to dump a bucket of ice water over my head. I shift my weight forward, wiggle my toes in my damp tights.
Candace’s husky drawl comes through my earpiece, describing the highlights of the day’s march. I picture the b-roll playing along, the footage I watched in my car earlier. There’s a short clip from Pastor Price’s speech, his familiar cadence rousing. It’s laced with the haunting quality of a eulogy. The broadcast returns to Candace, who sets up the KYX exclusive live interview with the victim’s mother.
Then, my cue from the control room: “You’re live.”
Tamara and I lock eyes. I give her the faintest of nods to reassure her. I see you, I got you.
“Thank you for being with us this evening, Mrs. Dwyer. We appreciate you doing it today, so soon after losing Justin. How are you doing?”
“As best as I can be, I guess. It’s a hard day. It helps that so many people marched for Justin today. That makes me feel good, to know people want justice for my son.”
“And justice, what does that look like to you? The statistics and precedents show that cops are rarely prosecuted for these types of incidents.”
“That’s not right. They should be punished. They have to be. My boy did nothing wrong. Nothing. And he was murdered. Something has to be done, or this is gonna happen again and again.”
A vivid image flashes in my mind, of a man hanging by his neck from a tree, surrounded by a jeering mob. I stumble over my next question.
“And… and… what should be done?”
“I want those cops who killed my son locked up. For the rest of their lives. Justin doesn’t get to have a life. Why should they?”
Those cops. Kevin.
“Take me back to the night of the shooting. How did you first learn about what had happened to Justin?”
“The neighborhood kids ran in and told me. They were always just running in without knocking. I made it to him before the ambulance, but they wouldn’t let me near him. But I needed to see my boy. I needed to touch him. I screamed at them to let me be with him, and they ignored me. Wouldn’t even let me ride in the ambulance. I didn’t even know if he was dead or alive.”
The interview is closely timed. I have exactly five and a half minutes. Still, I pause to let that sit with the audience—a mother unable to touch her own son. Tamara holds the hat in her lap so tightly the bill is pressed in half.
“Tell me more about your boy. What was he like?”
“He was a good boy. I know people want him to either be some sort of druggie thug or a perfect kid. Justin was an excellent student and rarely got into trouble. But all this talk about him being on the honor roll—it seems like they mean he was one of the ‘good’ ones when they keep saying that. His death would be just as unfair if he was flunking out of school. Or yeah, if he did smoke weed once or twice, then he’s a bad kid who deserved to die? He did not deserve to die.”
“Well, tell us more about your son beyond him being a good student. What do you want our viewers to know about
Justin?”
Tamara looks like she’s wondering how she could possibly narrow everything she has to say about her son down to a sound bite. Her eyes dart around his room as if trying to absorb everything he was.
“Well, one thing is that he never killed ants. Wouldn’t even step on them. Would go out of his way to let the ants cross in a line on the sidewalk. And chicken tenders were his favorite food. He had these stinky little feet as a baby. I used to put them right in my mouth and kiss his little toes. His first word was ‘duck.’ He called pigeons ducks, and we let him do it. How’d he know any better, growing up in the city the way he did?” She stops to laugh, then turns serious again, as if she’s caught herself doing something wrong. She speaks more softly now, and I hope the mic is able to capture it. “I wasn’t finished with him yet. I had so many things left to teach him, to tell him. I’m never gonna get the chance now.” Her eyes glisten under all the lights.
There’s a pause. I am about to fill it with another question when Tamara suddenly leans over and takes ahold of my hand, squeezes so hard I’m worried I might wince. “Can I pray for him?”
I freeze, caught off guard, mindful we’re on live TV. Tamara starts crying softly and bows her head; her voice is now loud, given she’s speaking right into the mic clipped to her dress. “God, I need mercy in my heart and grace in my soul.”
As she begs God for strength, my own eyes start to water as I reach out and hold on tightly to Tamara’s hand.
“Please, Lord, please help me forgive the men who did this to my son.”
I silently echo Tamara’s prayer: Please help me forgive.
Chapter Six JEN
Shattered glass crunches beneath my sneakers. The storefronts are still boarded up, their owners desperate to escape another night of violence. Someone has spray-painted BLACK LIVES MATTER across the plywood on the windows of a Sephora. The BLACK has been crossed out and replaced with ALL.
It feels like a war zone, a burned-out newsstand, police tape everywhere, mailboxes toppled over. The peaceful march turned into something much uglier after dark. And all because of my husband. My entire city is in pain and on edge, a powder keg that will only be defused once there’s justice, whatever that means. Chants of “Lock them up” from the protests still echo in my ears.
As I dash the few blocks to the doctor’s office like a fugitive, I can’t shake the thought that everyone I pass is staring at me, sizing me up, judging me. Even the short distance from my parking spot to the door leaves me feeling exposed. I’ve barely set foot outside the house in the ten days since the shooting, and this is the first time since the march three days ago, and that interview, that painful interview.
I catch my reflection in the elevator doors—greasy hair, faded sweatshirt beneath a stained puffy coat that I can’t even zip around my belly, worn black leggings that sag around the butt. I look like trash. My appearance at the moment is an actual liability. Someone could see me right now, photograph me, and send the picture to the Daily News: KILLER COP’S TRASHY WIFE. That would be the headline, and the picture would be worth one thousand words. Obviously that cop’s racist, readers would think. Look at his white-trash wife.
The loneliness slams into me as I walk into the crowded waiting room dotted with couples. Meanwhile, my husband is at a therapy appointment this morning. The department required one mandatory session after the shooting but gave him the option to continue seeing Dr. Washington voluntarily.
Matt gave him shit for it. “You’re off to see the Wizard,” he teased. That’s what the cops call shrinks—the Wizard. “Don’t get lost in Oz, Dorothy.”
But Kevin surprised us all by jumping at the offer. Naturally, he doesn’t tell me anything about it. I can only hope that he’s opening up to the doctor. He said he’d try to make it today, but I’m not holding my breath. No one else could come with me either. Annie’s on shift at the hospital, and I’d never dream of asking her to find someone to cover. Cookie is watching Archie because day care is closed for some reason, and Frank volunteers every Tuesday morning at the VA.
The regular receptionist is out. Her replacement is a youngish Black woman with long thick braids and a necklace made of giant stones. Normally I would compliment her jewelry, ask where she got it, tell her about this girl on Etsy who sells rings that look similar. But I don’t do any of that. I barely even look up as I hand over my insurance card and driver’s license. She takes it without smiling and squints as she scrutinizes my ID. I shift from foot to foot as I wait for her to recognize the name, hiss at me, call me the wife of a murderer. She just hands me back my card with a friendly look on her face.
“You don’t look much like your driver’s license picture anymore.”
“I chopped off my hair. And I gained some weight.” I point to my belly.
“Pregnancy suits you. The hair too.”
Her unexpected kindness makes me want to ask her to come into the exam room with me to hold my hand.
I find the most secluded seat possible, far in the corner. I pull my phone out of my bag so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone else. I already have eleven missed calls. All from “Unknown” or unfamiliar numbers. Reporters… or worse. It’s escalated since the interview. In the last twenty-four hours alone, I’ve received multiple messages from crazy strangers saying that Kevin should burn in hell for what he did, or that our baby should be taken away from us. And then there was the woman who’d hissed, “Maybe you’d understand if your own baby was killed.” After that I vowed to never listen again. I delete anything that doesn’t come from a number I recognize.
My forefinger swipes the screen and presses down to pull up the video again. I don’t know why I do it—it’s like a car crash I keep rubbernecking. The counter at the corner says Riley’s interview with Tamara has been viewed 437,322 times since it aired Saturday night. I’m probably at least a dozen of those. Riley’s face, the size of my thumb, is close to the screen. I watch as she nods along when Tamara Dwyer demands that the officers who shot her son get sent to prison “for the rest of their lives.”
I drag my finger along the bottom of the screen, fast-forwarding a few seconds to another close-up of Riley, her glassy eyes, her tight grip on Tamara’s hand. If any other reporter did that, I’d think it was an act, turning it on for the camera, except this is Riley, and I can tell she means it, that’s what makes her so good. She truly cares. Riley looks so genuinely pained, I want to reach through the phone and comfort her, the grieving mother too. Then I remember: The man they’re talking about locking up for the rest of his life is my husband.
And maybe Riley is just doing her job, so why do I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the back every time I watch this video? Why does it feel like Riley is choosing sides?
We’re fine, Riley had written me yesterday, a full two days after I’d texted her that I didn’t want to be fighting, after I’d almost stopped expecting to hear back from her. It’s obviously not true, which is why I haven’t responded. Besides, after that interview, what could I even say? Nice job making the case that my husband is a monster.
As betrayed as I felt watching that one-sided interview, I’d still somehow found myself defending Riley to the Murphys when it aired. “She’s just doing her job,” I offered meekly as we watched it live in the sunken living room on the too-big TV. That I felt the need to stick up for Riley at all only made me more pissed off about the whole thing.
Matt’s voice had thundered through the room, rattling Cookie’s Precious Moments figurines. “Are you kidding me? That Black bitch knows exactly what she’s doing!”
“Do not call her that!” I spat back.
Kevin jumped to his feet, upsetting the empty beer cans on the coffee table. “She’s a traitor. She knows me, Jen. She knows me, and she does this?” He stormed out through the patio doors, into the freezing night. Matt joined him; the two of them paced and passed a vape back and forth for hours, long after I went to bed.
Does Riley know Kevin? Even I don�
��t know my husband right now. Before we were married, when we did our Pre-Cana at St. Matthew (at Cookie’s insistence), Father Mike, who’d christened Kevin as a baby, looked across his massive cherry desk and asked us to tell him about the hardest challenge we’d faced so far as a couple. He was dead serious, but it didn’t stop our nervous giggles. We were all of twenty-five. We’d only been dating for a year. Life was all sex in weird places and dirty texts.
It was hard to imagine a time when Kevin wouldn’t make me happy. I tried to force myself to think of scenarios that would break us and came up blank. Kevin would never cheat, never hit me, never leave me. He had a good job. He’d support our family. I guess everyone goes into their wedding day believing these things, but with Kevin, they were facts, not wishes. I was building a life on the bedrock of these truths.
Father Mike left us with what he claimed was his very best advice. “Try not to stop loving each other on the same day.” He let loose an uncharacteristic chuckle. “Or, rather, try not to hate each other on the same day.”
It sounded ridiculous at the time. I could never hate Kevin. But when I couldn’t get pregnant, Father Mike’s advice took on a whole new meaning. That’s when I became the worst wife in the world, moody, angry, quick to snap for long stretches of time. Sometimes I blamed the hormones; the truth is that I was miserable and scared and took it all out on Kevin because he was there, a sponge to absorb my hostility. He withstood my outbursts like a tree standing in a hurricane. He remained calm, even when we got into the biggest fight of our marriage, last Christmas Eve, when I came home with the check from Riley. I presented it triumphantly, giddily, ready to call the clinic as soon as they opened after the holiday. Kevin had looked at the check with actual disgust and demanded that I return it.
We Are Not Like Them Page 13