We Are Not Like Them

by Christine Pride

  I can see Jenny’s knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. She looks like she’s trying to focus on her breathing, to calm herself down. She glances at the clock. I know she probably has to get up to Chase and maybe this is enough for now. I’m at the end of my rope.

  “Maybe I should just shut up, then. I’m never going to say the right thing.”

  “That’s not what I want either. The last thing I want is for you to be silent and pretend none of this is happening.”

  “Well, it’s not me that doesn’t want to talk about things, Riley. You’re the one that’s always so closed off. You’ve never said anything like this to me before, and yeah, it totally sucks to hear it, but it sucks even more that we’ve been friends for almost thirty years and suddenly you’re unleashing on me like I’m your enemy. Like you’ve been thinking all this shit and keeping it inside forever.”

  She’s not wrong. “Look, Jen, I’m sorry if you feel this is coming out of nowhere. But put yourself in my shoes. I didn’t want to be the Black girl always talking about race. That’s no fun. And I don’t know what your reaction would be if I told you about all the shit I have to deal with because I’m a Black woman. What if you didn’t have the right reaction?”

  “What’s the right reaction?” She seems genuinely curious and confused, like she truly has no idea.

  “Like showing me you get it, Jen. Or at least that you’re trying to.” I want to reach over and grab her by her ratty sweatshirt and shake her.

  “Well, maybe you need to give me the benefit of the doubt. You never give anyone the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I haven’t been all politically correct and perfect, but maybe I’m scared too. Maybe I’m scared of saying the wrong thing or something stupid and everyone pouncing on me and calling me a racist because I use the wrong words. Even you.”

  I feel a pressure to explain myself, but I also have to get to work and Jen needs to get to Chase; we don’t have enough time. I wonder if we’ll ever have enough time. “I don’t know, Jen—do you really get it? Do you get that my life and experiences as a Black woman have been completely different than yours as a white woman? Do you understand why people are destroyed right now, Jen, destroyed by Justin’s death? And not just the Dwyers. It’s what it signifies—all the ways that Black people, people who look like me, aren’t safe. Everything you’re saying about the shooting makes me question whether you understand any of this. And maybe it’s not fair, but it just brought up a lot of stuff that we never talk about or acknowledge. Like I talk to Gaby about race all the time and I never do with you. And we’re supposed to be best friends—that’s a problem.”

  “I never said I didn’t want to talk about race with you. I just don’t even think of it most of the time; I don’t even think about you being Black.”

  “That’s exactly my point, Jen!” I yell so loud a woman walking by looks over her shoulder. I watch her for a minute and try to summon some perspective and calm. “I need you to think about it, especially with what’s going on. You’re so blindly focused on Kevin, which I get, that you’re not seeing the larger implications or issues. It’s a privilege to never think about race. I don’t have that privilege. I love you, Jenny, but I just need you to, I don’t know, wake up a little more.”

  What I really need is an out. I need out, period. I’m exhausted and I’m going to be so late to work.

  “Look, the reason I stopped by was to bring this for you, and let you know I was thinking of you.” I thrust the bag at her.

  “Thank you,” she says sincerely, but tosses the bag in the back seat without looking inside.

  “How’s Chase?”

  “He’s okay. I’ve gotta get upstairs. The pulmonary team is coming at nine to test his breathing and then more doctors will be there to try to take out his feeding tubes, and then a CAT scan. It’s a busy morning. It’s a terrible day. But I don’t know if I’m allowed to say that.”

  “Of course you can say that, Jenny.”

  Neither of us moves though; neither of us knows how this conversation ends. Or even if it is an end. Maybe, just maybe, as hard as it is, it’s a beginning. Who knows.

  * * *

  I’m so hopped-up on adrenaline from my conversation with Jen that my finger can barely connect with the elevator button as I jab it over and over.

  “Girl, pushing that button isn’t gonna make the elevator come one bit faster.”

  In the corner of the lobby, the octogenarian janitor teeters on a stepladder unwrapping the lights from the towering Christmas tree. I adore Sid; he reminds me of my dad. Both are tall, with thinning salt-and-pepper Afros, the kind of men who exude dignity while doing a job a rung or two below what they would have aspired to had the world been a different place.

  “You need help up there, Sid?” I don’t have time to help, but I have to ask because I was raised right. Besides, I know full well he won’t accept the offer.

  “You think I can’t handle taking some lights off a tree? Get on up to work now.” Sid waves me away playfully.

  I know what he’s going to say next before he opens his mouth.

  “You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart, darn good. It sure is something to see you on TV. Representin’! I tell you.”

  Sid says the same thing every time he sees me. It should get old, though it never does. It’s a reminder that my success is not only mine, but that of everyone who came before and sacrificed so that I could have this unimaginable opportunity. So I pause to say a sincere thank-you, even if I’m not fully here in this moment, but stuck somewhere across time in the parking lot at St. Mary’s.

  No sooner do the elevator doors open into the newsroom than I hear Scotty’s voice thundering. “There you are, Wilson! My office, now!”

  He turns to walk down the hall. I don’t even bother to stop and drop my coat and purse off at my desk before I hurry to catch up with him. He slams his office door behind me and then leans against his desk, glaring, arms crossed.

  “How do you know Jennifer Murphy?”

  A screaming static fills my head. It takes every ounce of strength to remain calm and collected. This was bound to happen. If Sabrina found out, it was only a matter of time before Scotty did too. I was reckless to think it wouldn’t. But today of all days. I need to do damage control; I’m just not sure how, until I know what exactly Scotty knows.

  “We grew up together.” It’s a Herculean effort to keep my voice even.

  “And you were close? Friends?” His tone matches mine, which doesn’t give me a lot to work with—it’s more unsettling than if he were shouting.

  “Yes,” I answer, forcing myself to not look away. At least we were. “But that hasn’t stopped me from being completely professional in my coverage.”

  He makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort and sits in the chair on the other side of his desk. It creaks under the crush of his weight.

  “What did I tell you when I hired you, Riley? What’s the one thing I can’t stand?”

  “Drama and bullshit.” I’d even written it in my notebook that day. No drama. No bullshit. Which is technically two things, but I obviously didn’t point that out.

  He stares hard at me across his absurdly messy desk, takeout wrappers everywhere, like he’s trying to decide what to do with me. Once again, I’m on the brink of losing something I desperately want. If Scotty pulls me from the story, there’s no way I’ll get the anchor chair. I may never get back in his good graces again. My career in Philly could be over before it’s begun, my miracle second chance squandered.

  After what feels like an hour, he speaks. “You should have told me, Riley. I expected better from you.”

  “I’m sorry, Scotty. I am. But I knew that I could be objective. I knew I was the best person for this story, and I didn’t want to give you any reason to doubt me.” I can hear the waver in my voice. I hope he doesn’t. “This is my job, and that’s my personal life. I can keep them separate. I haven’t compromised this story.”

  “Yea
h, yeah. Not so far you haven’t. But Jennifer Murphy had a baby ten days ago. A preemie. I assume you knew that.”

  “I did.” I’m not about to lie now. “But it’s not part of this story, Scotty. The baby isn’t. We’re not TMZ.”

  That’s not true. The baby is a part of the story. Anything related to the Murphys is part of the story. It’s surprising that no one has discovered it until now. Would I have reported it if Jen wasn’t Jen? Probably. I would never do that to her though. There are lines I won’t cross. Which is what I tell Scotty now.

  “I’m covering this case, Scotty. Not Kevin Murphy’s personal life.”

  He drums his fingers on the desk.

  “First of all, you should have told me about the baby. Also, you cover what I tell you to cover.” His voice is cold.

  We’re back to the brink. I wait, steel myself for what happens next, dizzy from anticipation and adrenaline. Am I off the story? Will Scotty send Quinn to cover the press conference to punish me? The thought makes me want to vomit right into my lap.

  “You don’t have much time to get to city hall,” he says, traces of frustration lingering. He nods at the door to dismiss me.

  I’m light-headed with relief and have to fight the sudden desire to walk around the desk and hug him. “I’m ready,” I say.

  I’m in the hall when Scotty calls out to me. “Don’t make me regret this, Wilson. I’m not giving you another chance.”

  I walk back into the newsroom and look for Bart. There he is perched on Quinn’s desk eating a banana. “We gotta head out,” I tell him.

  As soon as we’re in the van, I sink into the passenger seat and feel the full weight of my fear, relief, and embarrassment. Remember, what’s done in the dark always comes to light. Another one of Gigi’s favorite mantras. I probably deserved to be pulled from the story. At this point though, I’ve become the face of it for KYX. Scotty had little choice, or he’d risk curious viewers asking questions. It kills me that I put him in such a position, that he may always doubt if he can trust me. For now, I picture my conversations with Jen and Scotty as words I can put in a box, and then I lock that box away.

  We hear the crowds at city hall before we see them. Bart angles the news van in line with a dozen others in the designated press area. Through the smudgy windows, I see that the swarm of protesters has divided into two groups facing off like regiment soldiers on a battlefield; rather than muskets, they carry signs proclaiming whose lives matter—Black or blue. The burden of keeping these two groups apart so their passions aren’t stoked into violence falls on a grim-faced line of Philadelphia police officers. I spot a young Black mother with her son perched on her shoulders carrying a sign that reads, IS MY BABY NEXT? Across the imaginary dividing line, a group of women stretch a blue vinyl banner between them—BLESS OUR HUSBANDS, THE PEACEMAKERS. BLUE LIVES MATTER.

  Bart, in the driver’s seat, whistles. “This shit is intense.”

  It is. If it wasn’t for my job, I would be out there too, sign in hand. I might even be screaming through a bullhorn at those women with the banner. “Tell your husbands to stop fucking killing us.” But that’s not my part in this.

  As we leave the van and push through the masses, the energy is fervent, almost suffocating. A dangerous charge hovers in the frigid air, a sense of barely contained chaos, water seconds before a boil. I walk past the bronze statue of Frank Rizzo facing city hall and see that someone has defaced the likeness of the former mayor; a shock of red paint covers his pumpkin-shaped head, drips like blood down over the shoulders, onto a pile of old snow. There are still some people in this city who consider Rizzo a hometown hero, a scrappy cop who rose through the ranks of the PPD before serving his two terms as mayor. Others remember him as the guy who famously told Philadelphians to “vote white,” or who was captured in a photo showing up to a race riot in Gray’s Ferry in 1969 wearing a tuxedo with a nightstick tucked in his cummerbund. He looked like all he needed was a water hose or snarling dog. Pastor Price has been leading a charge to have this statue ripped down. The city finally seems to be listening.

  The hush inside the stately marble lobby is jarring after the chaos outside. Bart and I pass through security and head down the hall to a conference room where other reporters are already milling around. A small dais has been set up at the front of the room, positioned carefully against the backdrop of the city seal. Bart and I edge in, find a place along the press line in the back. He busies himself setting up the camera, while I try to get a handle on the scene and who is already there.

  It’s ten past two, and Sabrina is nowhere in sight. I wonder if something went wrong with the indictment. That it’s happening at all is unprecedented and speaks to Sabrina’s single-minded determination, if not public opinion.

  Will this bring Tamara peace? Joy? Relief? I tried to call her and Wes at least three times this week, to keep the lines open, to see if I’d be able to get a comment after the press conference. I don’t know why I took it personally that I never heard back from Wes other than to direct me to their new media consultant. I let it hurt my feelings when I knew better. I’m sure they’ve been advised to close down all communications by their new spokesperson and lawyer, Jerome Gardner, who also happens, ironically, to be the partner at Sabrina’s old firm. He’s also tried at least a dozen different cases against the PPD. That’s the incestuous legal world of Philly for you. Sources tell me they’re starting to pull together a wrongful-death lawsuit against the city. Upward of forty million dollars—is that the value of a teenage boy’s life? The money would definitely change things for Tamara—with millions of dollars to spend, she can live anywhere, do anything, buy whatever luxuries her heart desires—but all of it blood money she would no doubt trade in a heartbeat to wrap her arms around her son one more time.

  The press corps grows increasingly restless as we wait. Bart starts playing Candy Crush. I take a peek at the calendar on my phone to obsessively check that the conference was supposed to be at 2 p.m. and not two thirty, and another date stands out. February seventh. When I agreed to see Corey. Our date is marked right there, the one we made after three rounds of hyperformal emails. I should cancel. Opening, reopening, this can of worms on top of everything else? It’s too much. I just need to make it through this day first. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, employ a trick I read on some mental health blog. Breathe in a positive mantra and out a negative thought. Inhale: You are strong, Riley. Exhale: Everything is broken. When I open my eyes Sabrina is emerging from a discreet wood-paneled door, all six feet of her, shoulders back, head held high. She ascends the two steps to the elevated platform. Tamara, Wes, Jerome, and a woman I don’t recognize enter right behind her, and take their places solemnly as if it’s been rehearsed, which of course it has been. The woman must be their media consultant, Jackie Snyder, who made a name for herself in a Stand Your Ground shooting in Florida. Now she’s developed quite the niche flying around the country advising people who’ve lost children to gun violence. What a world we live in that that has become a full-time job. There’s some shuffling and settling in the crowd and on the platform. I see Wes reach in his pocket and quickly fiddle with his phone.

  Sabrina waits a beat, against the soundtrack of clicking cameras. The buzz of my phone is jarring in the quiet. I peek down to discover Wes had just been texting me. It’s good to see a friendly face here. I know it’s your job, but nice all the same. I try to catch his eye, but he’s focused now on Sabrina, as I am too. Her expansive crown of curls aligns with the arc of the city seal behind her, forming a bronze halo around her hair. Sabrina usually wears a tight French braid for court or media appearances. The fact that she sports a voluminous Afro today feels intentional, bold, defiant, the same tone she uses when she begins to speak.

  “By now, I’m sure you have all seen the video of Justin Dwyer murdered a couple of blocks from his home.”

  No doubt images from the video are now flickering through everyone’s minds, priming us all for her announcement
, exactly as she intended.

  “This is a tragic event that could have been avoided. Justin was only fourteen years old when he was killed by police officers Kevin Murphy and Travis Cameron. After a thorough investigation and evaluation of the law, my office presented a case to the grand jury, which returned an indictment for first-degree murder against officers Murphy and Cameron.”

  Sabrina lets her words simmer, just like she did at the fundraiser. I think about Jenny, what she’s doing right now as the whole city learns her husband’s fate. Is there a TV in the NICU? Is she watching?

  Tamara stares above all of our heads into the middle distance. This poor woman has seen a video of her son being shot, crumpling into a heap in a dark alley. What must it be like for her to have this be one of the last images she has of her only child?

  I turn my attention back to Sabrina as she concludes.

  “This office has the utmost respect for the police force of Philadelphia and all efforts to protect our citizens and enforce the law. At the same time, no officer is above the law and we cannot allow this kind of state-sanctioned anti-Black violence to continue here in Philadelphia. We have an obligation as citizens and I have an obligation as the chief legal authority in this city to uphold justice. And to my mind justice means that every single person in this city and in this country lives in social conditions and under a social contract that allows them freedom, safety, and fair treatment under the law. We too often violate that contract when it comes to our Black citizens. And the time has beyond passed for that to change—not lip service—real change. And real change comes when people understand there will be consequences for violating that contract; real change comes when everyone pushes back against the status quo. In the past few weeks thousands of people have marched through our streets, all of them demanding an end to that status quo and demanding that I and other leaders relentlessly battle the insidious forces of corruption and racism that poison our police department. That’s just what I intend to do, now and in the future. Our city will not be able to heal until justice is served for the Dwyer family. And, mark my words, justice will be served here.” She pauses again and ends with a curt, “That will be all.”