Color of Justice

by Gary Hardwick

  “You’re not alone,” said Gordon. “A lot of young white males are heavily into black culture.”

  Danny snorted and leaned back in the chair. “I know what you mean, Doc,” he said. “I ain’t no wigger. I don’t idolize black rappers and athletes. My love ain’t tied to black men performing for me. These guys who ride around blasting rap music will be Republicans living behind a six-foot fence when they turn thirty. It’s one thing to admire black people from across the street, it’s another to have one as your best friend, the only person that you absolutely trust. To live with them, eat with them, and love and have sex with a black woman. And most of all, to see them as human, as people, and not what their image is in the world.”

  “I seem to have hit a sore spot with you,” said Gordon.

  “Sorry, Doc,” said Danny. “But because of where I come from, I see everything about black and white people, all the truth, lies, secrets, and evil they each try to hide. Here in Detroit, there’s a lot of that to go around.”

  “Then maybe your anger came from this truth, your truth,” said Gordon, getting back to his point.

  Danny thought about this for a moment. Gordon was frustrating, but he was smart. Danny knew that his upbringing, his father’s alcoholism, and his family’s hard times had had some effect on him.

  “Maybe,” said Danny. “The truth can be jacked up if you ain’t ready for it.”

  “Do you have any white friends?” asked Gordon.

  “Not really.”

  “Do you find that strange?”

  “I stick to the people I’m used to, like everyone else,” said Danny.

  “But most black people have white friends,” said Gordon. “Why not you?”

  “I don’t got a lot in common with them,” said Danny.

  “Do white cops try to hang out with you?”

  “Yeah, but they want to go to them square-ass bars in the suburbs. The shit is so exclusionary. The brothers go to better places. All kinds of people there. Better music, better food, better everything.”

  Gordon took another moment and Danny could feel it coming again.

  “Do you think you were scarred by being put in that black school?”

  “Scarred? Like how?”

  “Changed in a bad way,” said Gordon.

  “No,” said Danny. “I was changed, but in a good way.”

  “But something like that can alter a child. Scars never heal, they just stop bleeding.”

  “I certainly would have been different if I had grown up somewhere else,” said Danny, “somewhere white. But growing up in a black neighborhood didn’t make me crazy or nothing.”

  Gordon took another moment, then: “Do you like white people, Danny?”

  Danny waited a long time to answer. He was not afraid of the question. It was just that he didn’t really know what the answer was. He resented the establishment, but any working stiff felt that way. He’d never really thought about it.

  “I don’t hate nobody, Doc,” he said finally.

  Gordon folded his fingers together for a second. Danny had the sense that Gordon didn’t like his answer or didn’t believe it.

  “We’ll resume here next time,” said Gordon.

  Danny got up, shook hands with Gordon, and left. He walked out of the professional building and hurried back to work. All the way, he thought about Gordon’s terrible insinuated question as to whether or not he hated himself.

  4

  THE BADY BROTHERS

  The clerk looked at the twenty-dollar bill he’d been handed and frowned. The money was covered with a big bloodstain. The blood had turned brown from age and cut off half of President Jackson’s face.

  The clerk checked out the kid who’d given it to him. He was about thirteen or so, and dressed in the normal style, baggy pants, big coat, and skull cap pulled low over his baby face. He’d come to the counter with a shitload of goods, mostly junk food. The clerk wanted to make the sale, but he didn’t like the bloody money. It disturbed him. He’d seen defaced money before, but this was disrespectful.

  “I can’t take this,” said the clerk, a black man about thirty-five named Deion.

  “It’s money, ain’t it?” said the kid. His voice was high-pitched but coarse from smoking, a man’s voice coming from a kid’s face. It also had a Southern accent to it, which made him sound as if he were pulling the words from his throat.

  “Come on, man, I got some place to be,” said a skinny man behind the kid. He held two six-packs in his hands.

  “Shut da fuck up,” said the kid. “You wait till I’m finished up in here.”

  The kid turned and looked at the skinny man, who was about to say something but stopped when he saw the face of the kid, the angry snarl of his lips and emptiness of his eyes. That was a look he’d seen in the city before. It was a look you didn’t mess with.

  “This money’s got blood on it,” said Deion. “What am I supposed to do with it?” The clerk slipped the bill back under the bulletproof glass. “Give me another one.”

  The party store was one of the few black-owned stores in the inner city. Most of the black businessmen had sold their small businesses out to foreigners, moving on to the green pastures of the suburbs. But this store was owned and operated by blacks, servicing the neighborhood. Like all party stores, the prices were inflated and most of what was sold was alcoholic beverages, the staple of the hopeless.

  “What kinda muthafuckin’ bullshit you dealin’ in, nigga?” asked the kid. “You better take dat money.” The kid shoved the bill back under the glass.

  “Who do you think you are?” asked Deion. “I’m supposed to be scared of you? A hundred bad-asses come in here every day.”

  “They ain’t me,” said the kid. “They ain’t Akema Bady.”

  “Take the damned money, Deion!” said the skinny man to the clerk. “Don’t be fuckin’ around. I gosta go.”

  “Be cool, Keith,” Deion said to the skinny man. To Akema, he said, “Just give me a different bill. I ain’t got time for this shit.”

  Keith groaned. Now it was a dick-measuring contest and those could go on forever.

  “Fuck it,” said Akema. “I’ll just take the shit then.” Akema grabbed the goods and walked away from the counter, leaving the bloody bill on the tray. He grabbed the goods as best he could in his arms and headed to the door.

  Deion cursed loudly and hit a big black button on the underside of the counter.

  Akema had gotten to the door, when the distinct sound of a pump-action shotgun sounded behind him. Akema turned and saw the clerk standing next to a guard, who held the weapon.

  “Put that shit down,” said the clerk.

  “Fuck!” said Keith. He moved out of the line of fire, going into an aisle with his beer.

  Akema dropped the potato chips, soda pop, and other things he had on the floor. The plastic soda bottle bounced and popped open. The strawberry soda spilled, foaming red on the hardwood floor.

  “You just bought that,” said Deion.

  “Get yo’ ass out,” said the guard. He motioned with the weapon.

  Akema just stared at the barrel of the weapon, looking at it with a tiny smile playing around his lips.

  “You want me to shoot yo’ little ass?” asked the guard.

  There was no sign of fear on Akema’s face. The guard shifted his feet, unsettled by the kid’s lack of fear. Suddenly, Akema opened the door and stepped out.

  Deion sighed in relief, then moved forward to clean up the mess. “Damned fool,” said Deion.

  “Crazy,” said the guard, who lowered his shotgun and walked toward Deion. On his way, he saw Keith, still cowering in the aisle next to his beer.

  “You can come on out now,” said the guard to Keith. “He gone.”

  “What you doin’, man?” asked Keith. “There was more of them outside. I saw them—”

  Akema burst through the door, knocking Deion back. Next to Akema was his brother, Rimba. Rimba was much bigger than Akema, his long dreadl
ocks swinging over his face. In his ears were headphones. The cord trailed off into his big jacket. Rimba recited the rap tune he was listening to.

  “…Niggas don’t cry, niggas can’t fly, niggas why? Niggas die…” Rimba rapped melodically. He had the same Southern lilt as his brother. Rimba’s eyes darted to the men in the room as he rapped and scanned them at the same time.

  Then Rimba coughed hard, a wet cough that bespoke a chest cold. He never took his eyes off Deion. He and Akema knocked Deion to the floor, and began to stomp on his face and kick him in the ribs. Deion yelled and tried to roll away, but Akema stomped on the bridge of Deion’s nose, breaking it. Blood poured from his nostrils and through his covering fingers. Rimba rapped louder as he saw the blood and heard the screams.

  The guard raised the big shotgun and took a step toward the attacking brothers. He was going to fire at Rimba, on whom he had the clearest shot. Suddenly, the guard sensed movement to his left side. Before he could turn his head, he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel being placed against his temple, and the last sound he heard on earth was the weapon’s discharge.

  The guard fell to the side, his body losing all of its coordination as the bullet tore through his brain. The gun in his big hands discharged, blowing up a shelf with breakfast cereal on it. Boxes lifted into the air and nuggets and flakes of cereal rained down on the scene. The guard’s big body fell forward and landed with a resounding thud.

  Akema locked the front door, turning the CLOSED sign outward. Then he ran quickly behind the counter and expertly emptied the cash register, also taking the security camera tape, which had recorded everything that had happened.

  Rimba continued to rap to his tune and kick Deion, whose pleas fell on deaf ears. Deion’s face and hands were covered in blood as he feebly tried to fight off the attack. Then Rimba stopped his attack. He quickly pulled out a small lead pipe and brought it down with all his might onto Deion’s head. Deion’s body jerked once, then he was still.

  Keith shook uncontrollably as he kneeled next to his beer in the aisle. He’d wet himself, and the stain was still spreading on his gray pants. A shadow fell on him and he looked up at Muhammad Bady, the eldest brother, who had come in the back of the store and shot the guard.

  Muhammad’s face had several scars that had healed badly and were made more noticeable because of his shiny, bald head. He stood over Keith, who was crying and muttering something about how he should have left when he had the chance and how he hated Detroit.

  The Bady brothers had reached their final destination. They’d been on a long and fateful journey since their mother was killed in Texas.

  Sherindah Bady had been a good mother to the boys. She was a former black Muslim, a strong woman whose one weakness was the mind-altering effect of drugs. This failing was supported by her husband Herman, a petty criminal and part-time dealer.

  The couple struggled with their addiction and codependency. Herman was a day-to-day dealer in crack, heroin, and anything else that would get you high. But he was a bad businessman. Herman used his own product, often owing thousands to his supplier. And he couldn’t resist the advance of any young girl, so he was constantly fighting with Sherindah about his sexual indiscretions. It had always struck Muhammad as strange that their mother could shoot a speedball into her veins, but still cared if her good-for-nothing husband screwed some prostitute for a nickel bag.

  When Akema was still in diapers, Rimba was about ten, and Muhammad was just starting to like girls, Herman murdered their mother. Sherindah had followed him out late one night and caught him with a girl in a local park. Muhammad would later hear that Sherindah waited until they were done, then confronted Herman, who beat her in a blind, drugged-out rage and dumped her body into a man-made lake. Sherindah was found a week later, dead, bloated, with all traces of evidence washed away. Herman had disappeared and was never seen again.

  Muhammad and his brothers were split up and put into foster homes. The next years were hellish by all accounts. The brothers were beaten, abused, and shuffled from one uncaring home to another. And there in the midst of America’s unwanted lives, they had all gone a little insane. Rimba turned to music as a refuge, shutting out the world. Akema was short-tempered and quick to violence, and Muhammad was calculating and devoid of pity and remorse. This was what their father had made them, according to Muhammad, and it was nothing to be ashamed of.

  Muhammad ended up in juvenile detention at fifteen. He’d cut up a rival gang member and copped to it to get a light sentence. He lost touch with Rimba and Akema for the first time and it drove him crazy not knowing what had become of his brothers. When Muhammad got out at eighteen, he took custody of his brothers. He could not afford to go through the proper channels, so he just tracked them down and took them out of whatever home they were in. The foster parents never objected.

  From there, Muhammad took his reunited family from one crime to the next, careful not to leave a trail. They’d burglarize a home, then steal a car, rob at gunpoint, then carjack another, never leaving a witness or a clue. They did this while moving steadily north, on a mission that had been started by Muhammad in prison. They were going to find their father and kill him.

  For the last ten years, Muhammad had been tracking Herman Bady through sources in prison and the criminal underworld. He’d spent a lot of money and favors, but he’d finally come to the conclusion that Herman was in Detroit under a new identity.

  Muhammad was the only one with any memory of their father. He could barely remember his face. But if he was not using drugs anymore, he would have put on weight in the last ten years, aged a little. In that regard, he could be anybody.

  Detroit might be their last, final destination, Muhammad thought, but it was as good a place as any to die. Maybe it was even better than most. So Muhammad was happy this day. They had finally stopped running.

  During their crime spree, Muhammad had turned his brothers into the family he’d always wanted. They were close, loyal, and committed to their goal. All they had to do now was kill their father and they’d be whole again.

  Muhammad knelt next to Keith, who was shaking with fear. “Not your day,” he said to Keith in a voice that was soft and surprisingly pleasant.

  “I didn’t see nothin’,” said Keith. “I swear.”

  “I know,” said Muhammad.

  “Deion is stupid!” cried Keith. “I told him to take the damned money. Nigga always tryin’ to be tough.”

  Muhammad regarded the man cowering on the floor. He’d seen men like Keith many times. In prison, they were the first ones turned out by the bull fags and lifers. In life, they were turned out by the demands of responsibility and strength put on a man. Keith was here in the morning buying beer, setting up for another day of drinking, lying around, and pretending that his pathetic life was not his own fault.

  “You gonna keep our little secret?” asked Muhammad.

  “Hell yeah!” said Keith. “I ain’t never gonna talk about this shit.”

  Muhammad asked Keith to get up, and as he did, Muhammad raised his gun to Keith’s chest and fired. Keith flew back into the aisle, still holding a six-pack in one hand.

  Rimba and Akema grabbed beer and food from the store as Muhammad walked over to them and kissed Akema on the head.

  “Don’t never take shit from nobody,” he said to Akema. “I don’t know what’s wrong with these muthafuckas in Detroit. A man can’t even buy a little food without some shit jumping off.”

  “Word,” said Rimba, who never spoke much, a result of living in the homes of strangers. Rimba coughed loudly again as he continued his rapping.

  Muhammad looked at his brother with concern. “Take some of that cold medicine, Rimba. You sound like shit.”

  Rimba went off dutifully and grabbed the medicine from the shelf as Muhammad looked after his brother, worried that he’d catch pneumonia or something awful.

  Akema continued to plow through the store, knocking over boxes and cans and taking anything that loo
ked good, then stuffing all of the items into a big plastic bag.

  Muhammad glanced out of the store window for a moment. Somewhere out there was the man he’d come for, the man who’d caused so much misery and pain. He’d find him and his death would be the worst thing they’d seen in this town in a hundred years. Then Muhammad casually walked over to the counter, took back his brother’s bloodstained money, and shoved it into his pocket.

  5

  THIRTEEN HUNNET

  Detroit police headquarters is located at 1300 Beaubien Street in Detroit. The building is called simply “thirteen hundred” by the city dwellers. In the proper vernacular, the correct pronunciation is “thirteen hunnet.”

  Danny worked on the sixth floor in the SCU, or Special Crimes Unit. It was called the Sewer, the place where all the shit goes. The worst crimes in the city ended up there. Danny didn’t like to think about why he’d ended up there as well.

  Danny did his best hunting and pecking as he completed the reports on the incident the night before. The papers were stacked in a thick pile on his desk as he struggled to complete them. Erik sat across from him reading the morning paper.

  The Sewer was a cramped room full of furniture older than time. The air had a feel to it, heavy, like something just wasn’t right. The desks were placed close together and facing each other so you could talk to your partner. In the far corner was the boss’s office, with its door that was almost never closed.

  The division was small, only about eight cops in all. The SCU used to be bigger, but it was downsized after a corruption scandal a few years back. There was Danny and Erik, Lisa Meadows, who had been the only woman in the unit until her partner, Gretchen Taylor, joined right before Danny. No one wanted them to partner, but they requested it. Danny guessed that neither of them wanted to deal with the shit you get from having a male partner. Brian Lane and Joe Canelli were veteran detectives, both survivors of a corruption probe, and Reuben Mitchell and his partner, a young black kid named Wendel Hamilton, rounded out the group.