“Because we know you don’t. You’re under the blue wall of silence. Once you took that job, you stopped giving a shit about your people because you think you’re safe and one of them. You ain’t shit either, and as soon as you take off that uniform, they’ll treat your ass just like the rest of us.”
She didn’t know about the community service I’d done and still did on a regular basis. I fought day in and day out when I was a kid against racist cops like O’Sullivan and manipulative drug dealers that corrupted young boys the way Drastic corrupted my brother growing up. She didn’t know that the purpose of me being a cop was to help make a change for the better in our communities. To her, I was just a sellout with a badge.
“You don’t know me or what I’m about. You’re judging me the same way you say the cops judge the community,” I fired back.
“Oh, please,” she said. “Once you put on that uniform, you’re just as fucked-up and corrupt as the rest of them. You’re no exception. All of you cops need to apologize for the shit y’all put communities through.”
I ground my teeth. I was angry about her comments and was cold, hungry, and wet from the rain. Then, on top of being yelled at for hours for an incident I had no involvement in, it was all starting to bubble my anger to the top.
“Would you apologize for all black people if a black person you didn’t know committed a violent crime toward a white victim?” I asked her.
“Nope. Shit ain’t have nothing to do with me.”
“So why should I, a black female cop who isn’t guilty of anything, be treated like a villain because some other cop that I don’t know, in a state I’ve never been to, shot someone? You wouldn’t expect or want everyone to hate, distrust, or mentally condemn all black people because of the actions of a few. So why do you feel I should apologize on behalf of all cops because of a situation I wasn’t involved in?”
The woman waved me off, dismissing my comments.
“Using the guilty-by-association argument is hypocritical when you protest day in and day out and cry foul when it’s done against minorities,” I said. “You’re doing the same thing to me, and I’m as black as you.”
“You’re black, but you’ll never be black like me. I’m not a sellout who preys on her own people,” she fired back.
I felt myself getting ready to scream at this woman when I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Take a minute to cool off. Sit in the car for a while and study your flashcards for the lieutenants’ test. I’ll take it from here,” Morgan said.
He was right. I didn’t argue. I got in my patrol car, closed the door, and leaned my head back on the headrest. I took a deep breath and studied my test material. While being around protestors was discouraging, I couldn’t lose focus. I needed to keep my mind on my goal of rising in the ranks. Once I calmed down and did a good amount of studying, I went back out to my post with Rashida.
Morgan wrapped his arm around me. “You good now, Williams?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m cool.”
“As sexy as you look when you’re mad, I didn’t want you to lose your temper on one of these protestors.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I got to look out for my girl. I’ll be around. Text me if you need another break.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
I watched his firm, muscular ass as he walked away.
“Boss, you need to be careful,” Rashida said.
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s obvious he’s feeling you, and it looks like you’re feeling him too. Playas recognize playas, and, boss, I’m tellin’ you, he wants to fuck you.”
“I won’t become a statistic. Trust me.”
I didn’t know who I was trying to convince, her or me. I felt guilty. In my heart, I could never cheat on Billy, but I feared what would happen if I were ever in a situation where I was alone with Morgan.
Was it that obvious that I was attracted to him? If she could see it, could other cops I worked with see it too? Was this just an innocent crush, or was there something deeper? I put those thoughts aside and focused on the protestors.
Chapter 16
Bill
The Truth
“Nope, not like that. Let’s try it again,” I said.
I was in my office trying my best to hide my frustration as I prepared Johnny for what the prosecution could ask him on trial. I needed this prep to be perfect so he’d be ready for the questions the prosecution would throw at him if we had to put him on the witness stand.
His answers were decent, but after years of experience dealing with shady clients, my gut was telling me there was more to his story.
“So, this is your lady, huh?” Johnny said, holding a picture of Ebony and me he picked up from my credenza.
“Uh, yeah, that’s my girlfriend.”
“Yo, I knew you and I were cut from the same cloth.”
I didn’t respond. I just let him talk.
“I love fucking black bitches.”
I tried to keep my face expressionless. Everything about him pissed me off. He wasn’t from the street, but he pretended to be. I also didn’t appreciate him referring to my woman as a “black bitch” or thinking he and I were anything alike. I thought about what winning this case would do for my mom and Ebony and calmed myself down.
“C’mon, stop frontin’ like you don’t got a black-girl fetish too,” he said.
“Let’s focus on our trial prep. You gotta answer the questions exactly how we rehearsed, and you seriously need to stop smiling when you answer them too. You don’t want the jury to think you’re some pompous asshole. Now, did you rape Sophia?”
He chuckled. “Nope.”
“Johnny, be serious.”
“How you want me to answer it ... like this?” He put on a nasal voice and said, “No, sir, I did not forcefully have sexual relations with that woman.”
“If you say it like that, they’ll know you’re being condescending.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it rape. At least, I paid the bitch.”
I held up a hand to stop him. “That won’t fly with the jury in the courtroom. What do you mean by that, anyway?”
“Well, I did rough her up a bit to convince her to let me fuck, but it’s not like she didn’t get paid.”
“You can’t say that on the witness stand.”
“I’m tired of prepping for this shit, yo,” he said. “I’m ready to go.”
“No, you’re not. Now stop avoiding the question. Did you rape Sophia?”
“Nah.”
“You’re smiling again.”
“Look, between me and you, blacks are beneath us anyway, so fucking them only feels right. I know you feel the same way when you fuck your girl.” He laughed.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying to keep my composure. I was insulted. This asshole really believed our views were the same, and he wouldn’t stop talking.
“Black bitches will do any nasty thing you want when you got money. They’ll let you fuck them any kind of way, and even if they don’t want it—fuck it. No one will believe them anyway.”
“Wait, what did you just say?” I asked.
“No one in their right mind would take some black stripper bitch’s word over a successful white dude. We can do whatever we want to them.”
“You’re making it sound like you actually raped that girl.”
“Well, I paid her, but I knew she definitely didn’t want it.” He laughed. “I took what I wanted, and I’m sure she spent the good money I gave her on drugs or some other bullshit.”
I stood up from my chair, charged Johnny, and shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled back. I grabbed him by his collar and slammed him against my office door.
“You son of a bitch. You swore to me that you didn’t rape that girl. Now, you’re telling me you did.”
“Get your fucking hands off me. Are you crazy?”
I let him go, realizing what I had just done.
“You
wanna hear me say it, fine. I fucking raped her, and I’m not sorry about it, either.”
There it was—the truth—and I wasn’t ready for it. When I was in law school, I knew there’d be times that, as a criminal defense lawyer, I’d have to represent guilty clients, but I figured I’d deal with it when the time came. The time was here, and I didn’t want to handle it. Under attorney-client privilege, I still had to defend him despite now knowing he was guilty.
Johnny continued, “That bitch has been fucking for money for years. I wasn’t gonna let her turn me down. I’m not payin’ you to judge me. After I got some ass, I paid her just like I’m payin’ you. I’m paying you to get me off. I thought we saw the world the same, but you’re actin’ all boujie. I’m just gonna have to treat you like I treated that bitch. She got me off sexually, and you’ll get me off legally. I’m out.”
Johnny walked out of my office. I sat back in my chair for a few minutes and thought about how I should handle this situation. I decided to talk to Francis to hear his opinion, so I walked to his office and knocked lightly on his closed door.
“Come in,” he yelled.
He was on the phone. He held his index finger up to stop me from interrupting and listened as the person on the phone spoke to him.
“It’s not a problem. I’ll talk to him. This won’t happen again. I promise you that. Goodbye, sir.”
Francis slammed the phone down.
“What happened in your office with Alfieri?” he asked.
I told him what went down, and he didn’t give a shit.
“So what? A good criminal defense lawyer doesn’t ask, ‘What did my client do?’ He asks, ‘What can the prosecutors prove he did?’ You shouldn’t care about what your client did. He’s not legally guilty until the prosecutor has enough evidence to convince the jury to convict him. Come on, Billy, this is basic stuff. You’re better than that. Tactically, for trial, your arguments should be focused on the prosecution’s failure to prove Johnny raped the stripper. You need to get your shit together if you’re going to win this case.”
The hardest question I was having trouble answering was: If I did something morally wrong to accomplish something good, did that make me a bad person? Morally, representing Johnny was wrong, but winning this case would make me a partner, and I could take care of my mom and comfortably marry Ebony. Did that make me selfish, wanting those things for myself, even though it meant getting Johnny off?
I couldn’t dwell on that. I needed to win this case. I’d feel bad about it after my mom was taken care of and I was married to Ebony.
Chapter 17
Ben
Answers
I needed answers. The trial was quickly approaching, and I needed more ammo to defend Reggie. I went back to Rikers to talk to him and see what he could tell me.
“Who is Kuwuan Mitchell to you?” I asked.
“Hello to you, too,” Reggie said.
“I don’t . . . We don’t have time to be polite right now. The clock is ticking, and Kuwuan Mitchell’s fingerprints were found on the magazine of the gun you were holding that night.”
“I don’t know him.”
“What did the guy look like?”
“I dunno. Dark-skinned guy, around my height. He had a red and black Chicago Bulls hat on and matching Air Jordans.”
“And you don’t know him?” I asked. “You never saw him before?”
“Did I stutter?”
“You’re sure you weren’t wearing a hat that night?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
I rubbed my hand down my face.
“You look worried. You all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine. I’m not going to lose this case.”
“So, you believe I’m innocent?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
That caught me off guard. “Your story is always consistent. It never changed.”
“Because I didn’t do it. You’re different from all the other lawyers I’ve had. You got this corny Wayne Brady demeanor going for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“White people love sellout brothas like you. I think it’ll help convince the jury that I didn’t do it.”
Reggie was good at touching that sore spot with me. Every day I’d been questioning myself, wondering if I were considered black enough, or if people viewed me as authentic since I’d started defending him.
I took some more notes and headed back to the office.
* * *
On the drive back to the office, I saw a cop car in my rearview mirror. The car had been following me for a while. I tried to play it cool, but I accidentally made eye contact with the cop in the mirror. I knew I was going to get pulled over. Like clockwork, his lights and siren went on, and I pulled over.
I rolled down my windows and turned my radio down. Tensions were high with cops, since two were just killed in my case. I was nervous when I saw those lights come on. I quickly fished in my glove compartment and had my license, registration, and insurance in my hands with both of them placed on top of my steering wheel by the time the officer came to my window.
“License and registration,” the officer said.
His hand was on his weapon. His eyes darted around my car, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
I handed him everything in my hand and placed them back on the steering wheel. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
“A lot of these BMWs have been getting stolen lately in this area. Is this your car?”
“Yes, sir, it is. I have all the proper documents and paperwork if you would like to see them.”
He laughed. “You don’t speak like you’re black. What do you do for work?”
You don’t speak like you’re black. This dumbass statement was meant to be a compliment to say I was articulate, but it was demeaning to me and my race.
I gave him a fake grin to mask my irritation. It wasn’t any of his business to know what I did for work, but I wanted to get out of this car stop without any problems, so I answered.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Well, that explains it. Have a good day, sir.”
I got out of the car stop without a problem, but Reggie’s comment was still in the back of my mind after hearing the cop tell me that I didn’t speak like I was black. I hated feeling like I was a sellout.
Chapter 18
Becky
Rejection
“Mr. Simonetti will see you now, Ms. Preston,” the receptionist at Gotham Publishing said.
She walked me to his office, and he greeted me at the door.
“I’m glad you could make it. We have a lot to discuss,” he said, smiling.
That sounded like a good sign.
“I’ll cut right to the chase. Your story is witty, sexy, and well written, but it’s also a bit dark, and I don’t know if I can sell an interracial story. I’m sure with your fan base from your articles with Cosmo, my company would break even, but I don’t know if we’d see much of a profit the way the story is now.”
I frowned. “What do you feel is missing to make it marketable?” I asked.
“Do yourself a favor. Take the interracial element out. Keep it a love story between two white people, and that would definitely increase the book’s profitability. I’ve seen you at events, and I know your boyfriend is black. I know you probably wanted to use this story to profess your love to the world, but interracial books between a black man and white woman just don’t sell.”
“The book is called Black and White,” I said. “The basis is to show the trials and tribulations of being in a relationship that society shuns. Without the interracial part, the book wouldn’t even make sense.”
“White people don’t have trials and tribulations in their relationships? Don’t some Italians and Irish people believe they should stick with their own? We can spin this in a million ways that would be more marketable. Realize this: Fifty Shades of Grey started out as Twilight fan fiction. E. L. James wasn’t ma
king money with her story until she took out the vampire element. If you change the black-and-white relationship, we have a deal. If you can’t do that, I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
I couldn’t control the disappointment on my face. I stood up but couldn’t look Mr. Simonetti in the eyes. “I appreciate that you took the time to talk to me in person, but I put my heart and soul into this book. While it might be a simple fix to you to change the interracial part, I couldn’t live with myself, no matter how popular the book would be, if I didn’t publish it the way I want it.”
Mr. Simonetti shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. Look, I know your father. I’ve been to a couple of investment seminars he’s done. He has a lot of connections. I’m sure he could pull some strings with another publisher that could put your book out there the way you intend it to be, but book sales have been on the decline lately, and I can’t make that type of risky business move. I’m sorry.”
I nodded. “I understand. Thanks for taking the time to meet with me.”
“It’s no problem. Look, here’s my card.” Mr. Simonetti handed me a thick business card. “If you decide to change that little part of your book, I’ll publish it with no problem. Take some time and consider it.”
I smiled and said, “Thank you.”
I walked out of the building, depressed. I texted Ben. I knew he wasn’t too far from here, and I needed him to make me feel better.
* * *
“Two venti caramel lattes and one Frappuccino for Ben,” the barista called.
I nodded. Ben and I walked to the counter and grabbed the drinks. I’d told Ben a little fib that I was in the neighborhood because of an interview with the Village Voice to write a column for them on a regular basis. I didn’t feel like telling him the truth—that I’d met with another publishing company for my book and got rejected because of the concept.
After being turned down again, I decided to crash his usual Starbucks coffee date with Gabby.
“Do you always buy drinks for Gabby?” I asked.
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