I walked up to the door and knocked, hearing a television on inside. I waited, then rang the doorbell when nobody came.
I was about to knock again when I heard some movement from behind the door. Then the door cracked open a few inches, still secured by a chain.
It was a heavyset woman, but I couldn’t tell her age. Most of her face remained hidden behind the door. “One question,” she said. Her visible eyeball looked me up and down. “Cop, bill collector, or preacher?”
“None of the above,” I said. “Justin Glass.” I hoped she’d recognize the last name, but she didn’t. “I’m a lawyer. Got an office over on Fourteenth.”
Her suspicion remained, so I told her about my client and her missing brother. “I think he was dating your daughter. At least, that’s what Tanisha told me.”
The woman closed the door in my face. I wondered whether that was the end of the conversation, whether she was going to return to her television show; but then I heard the chain fall away. I had passed the test—at least enough for her to open the door wide, if not to ask me in.
“Kids don’t date no more. Always runnin’. And I ain’t never heard of no Devon Walker, neither.”
“Maybe a photo.” I took one out of my pocket. Tanisha had brought it to our meeting. “He’s the one on the right.”
The woman leaned in, squinting at the photograph. After a few seconds, she nodded. “I seen him around plenty a while ago . . . not lately.” She shook her head. “Didn’t know who he was. Couldn’t tell you where he is.”
“When would you say was the last time you saw him?”
“Don’t know.” She glanced behind her. The commercial had ended and she longed to return to her television. Then she came back at me. “Maybe last winter. Christmastime.” She raised her eyebrows and put her hands on her ample hips. “Anything else?”
I knew from her expression and tone that our time had run out. “Well thank you,” I said. “You know when your daughter’s gonna be back?”
The woman shook her head. “No idea.”
I gave her my card, told her to ask her daughter to call me, and thanked her again for her time.
Walking away, I heard the front door close behind me, followed by the chain.
I had no expectation that her daughter would ever call. I doubted that she would even get the message.
The second girlfriend lived five blocks over from the first. Her house looked the same as the other, except it was lit and hopping. Every light was on. There were cars parked in front, people lingered in the street, and other groups gathered on the corner. Music came from somewhere, and three guys were on the porch smoking weed. More people were inside.
I wondered whether this was a party or just a regular night on the block—or maybe a little bit of both.
The palms of my hands started to sweat. My heart beat faster, and my adrenaline rose the closer I got to the front stoop. I wondered how I should start the conversation, but the boys on the front stoop made that decision for me.
“Fuck you want?” A tall kid with sagging pants and no shirt stood a step above me, looking down like he was ready to pounce. He was lean, with prison muscles—the kind you get when you work out in a cage, not a gym. “Come to arrest us?”
“Nope, not a cop.”
“You look like a cop.”
“Well,” I said, trying to keep it friendly, “I’m a lawyer. Tanisha Walker sent me over here. She’s looking for her big brother.”
“Fuckin’ lawyer drivin’ that sad-ass ride?” The tall kid laughed and pointed at my Honda, and the other thugs on the porch joined in, all smirks and eye rolls. Once upon a time, there was an inherent respect for the older black men in the community, but not here. There wasn’t anybody left to teach it.
“Is BeeBee here?” I thought it best to get to the point. “Tanisha told me that I should talk to BeeBee about her brother Devon.”
“Well she ain’t here.” His words slurred together. “Nobody’s here; ain’t nobody knows nothing about D.” He waved me off. “When D wantacomeback, hecomeback. So get the fuck in your shitty-ass car, negro, and get the fuck outta here.” The tall kid took a step forward, and the others stood. They circled behind in support of whatever he wanted to do.
Getting into my “shitty-ass car” was an excellent idea. “Fine.” As I took my business card out of my wallet, a few more curious people emerged from the house, and others looked out the windows to see what was going on. “If you see BeeBee, just give her this.” I held out the business card, but the tall kid wouldn’t take it. “Please.”
Then the tall kid took my card. I had a small moment of hope, but that quickly went away.
“What I just say? You deaf?” The tall kid let the card fall out of his hand and down to the sidewalk. “Ain’t nobody talking to you.” He stared at me as he stepped on the card, grinding it beneath his foot. “Now get, ’fore I beat yo’ ass.”
I managed to avoid getting killed at BeeBee’s house. That, in hindsight, was a major success. I should have quit while I was ahead. A saner man would have gone home, but I made the unfortunate decision to stop by my office. That was when my luck ran out.
By the time I got over there, it was dark.
I found a parking space in front, because there was never a demand for parking in front of my office, day or night. I pulled into the spot, turned off the engine, and opened my car door. As soon as it was open, I heard yelling coming from the alley that ran behind the Fourteenth Street buildings.
Glass broke. Somebody screamed.
There was a narrow path to the alley between my office and the building next door. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911 as I ran toward the noise. When the operator answered, I slowed a little, telling her who and where I was, but kept going forward.
She wanted me to stop and wait, but I didn’t.
Three kids stood over Hermes’s brother in the back of the Northside Roastery.
Nikolas was on the ground. A broken computer monitor sat nearby. One arm was bent. His other arm tried to protect his head from another blow as he struggled to crawl away.
I didn’t think anything through. No plan. I just had to stop it. “Police, get your hands up in the air.” I held up my cell phone like it was a badge and put my hand on my hip like I was about to pull a gun. In the darkness and shadows of the back alley, I hoped that nobody could tell that none of it was real. I kept barking orders at them as I moved closer.
They didn’t stick around. The trio took off down the alley, and within seconds they were gone.
“Nikolas.” I crouched next to him, but anticipating another strike, he whimpered and tried to get away. “It’s Justin Glass. You’re going to be OK. Lie still.” I lowered my voice, calm. “Lie still, Nik; help is coming.”
I put my hand out. I tried to provide a gentle touch to reassure Nikolas that I wasn’t a threat, but as I reached for him the alley flooded with flashing lights and sirens. I turned and was blinded.
Somebody yelled at me, but I didn’t understand. “What?” I asked to a jumble of commands. Then a sickening flash of clarity as two police officers rushed toward me with their guns drawn: I was a black man, crouched over a downed white man in a dark alley. This was how it ends.
“I’m Justin Gl—” I managed before a thick white cop drove me into the pavement. He rolled off as the other drove his steel-toed boot into my side. Pain shot through me. I screamed and tried to turn away. “I’m the one who called—”
“I said freeze.” Another kick to the side, harder and even more painful than the first. The bone cracked, and it felt like I’d never be able to force another breath inside me. Then a knee drove into my back as someone got on top. I thought my spine was going to snap in two. My face was pressed hard into the asphalt. I tasted blood as my arms were pulled back. Handcuffs were put on my wrists.
“I’m Justin Glass.”
The officer leaned in close, still on top of me, breathing hard. “Don’t care who the fuck you are, ho
mey,” he said. “You’re under arrest.” Then he grabbed my head, pulled it back a few inches, and slammed it down.
CHAPTER NINE
I was released from jail and into the custody of my father, United States congressman Arthur Glass. Buster, my father’s chief of staff, and Lincoln were also there in the otherwise empty reception area.
Lincoln winced as he looked me over. “You look like shit, man.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious.” I walked toward them, limping. Fire shot up my side with every step. My lip was swollen, and my forehead was cut.
I knew that I had blacked out, but I wasn’t sure for how long. When I woke up, the cops were in the process of pushing me into the back of a squad car. The trip to the jail was dizzying, and even now my head was in a fog. “Nikolas OK?”
“Probably saved his life,” my father said.
“You’re a certified hero.” Lincoln smiled.
Buster, a short man who was built like a wrestler, took my arm and guided me to a row of seats along the wall. “Best if we all talk before we go out there.” He nodded toward the exit, always handling the situation and playing the angles. “Every news outlet in the area is outside, waiting for you to say something.”
I shook my head as I sat down. “I don’t want to say anything.” My throat was dry. “I want to go home, see Sammy, and get some sleep.”
“Can’t do that,” Lincoln protested. “We got an opportunity here. We can introduce you to the people, create your brand, and lay the groundwork to make public safety and police accountability a big part of your campaign.” He pumped his fist. “People have been waiting for this.”
“My campaign?” I looked at my father for clarification, but he just rolled his eyes.
In addition to being a state senator, Lincoln had also taken it upon himself to lead and grow the Glass family’s political machine. He cultivated family members and relatives to occupy various elected positions throughout Saint Louis and Saint Louis County. No position was too small or insignificant to get his full attention and support.
Every year, neighborhoods were filled with lawn signs touting the candidacy of somebody named Glass. The signs were all the same color, same font, and same logo. He had an army of volunteers ready to lit-drop, phone-bank, and work the polling places. It was meant to be intimidating, and it was. Saint Louis was a land of political dynasties, and ours was one of them.
“This is solid.” Lincoln pointed at me. “People need to see what the police did to you, all banged up. Tomorrow you’ll be clean and rested, and that’s no good.” He nodded, agreeing with his own plan. “Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Alton Sterling, Philando Castille, and now you.”
“Hardly.” I raised my hand, anger rising, but I wasn’t sure whether I was angry at Lincoln or the police—or both. “All those guys are gone.” I closed my eyes, trying to focus through the pain. “I’m lucky I wasn’t shot tonight, but . . .” I faded. My breathing slowed. Every breath hurt. “I’m not doing the politics thing tonight or tomorrow or the next day. What part of that don’t you seem to understand?”
“When we were little, you talked about it all the time.” Lincoln put his hands on his hips. “You and me, just a darker shade of JFK and Bobby.”
I shook my head. “That was a long time ago.” I looked at my father for support. He provided none. He sat silently, a mixture of pride and sadness. He was proud that I was a survivor, but sad that even the son of a United States congressman couldn’t just live. More than fifty years after the Freedom Rides and the March on Washington, his son had to fight to survive, just like he had to.
I turned my attention back to Lincoln. “Since Monica died, you’ve tried to recruit me for everything from school board to dog catcher, and every time I say no.” I was frustrated now, lashing out. “They’re just games. I can’t do the games right now, maybe never.”
At that moment, I realized how odd it was that my dad and Buster were actually there with me instead of in DC. I hadn’t seen or personally talked to my father in about six months. When my foggy brain couldn’t put any pieces together, I turned back to him. Quietly, I asked, “What are you doing here, Dad?”
He offered a restrained smile. “Retiring.” My father looked at Lincoln and Buster, and then Lincoln jumped in to explain.
“Buster works for me now,” Lincoln said. “We’re transitioning, and I—”
“We’ve been waiting at the Judge’s house for you to get home all night.” My father looked at Lincoln with annoyance. “Nothing is set. We needed to discuss, plan for the future. I was about to give up and go to bed when we got the call. Your mother’s been worried sick.”
I clenched my jaw as I took a painful breath, remembering Lincoln’s phone calls and my mother encouraging me to talk with him. Then I thought of my daughter.
“Does Sammy know?”
My dad’s expression softened. “About my retirement, or you gettin’ whupped?” A reserved smile came through, but his eyes remained sad. “Neither,” he said. “Sammy’s asleep.” Then as an aside, he added, “She’s such a good girl.”
“I know.” I thought about how much I wanted to hold her, feeling guilty. What if I’d been killed? Then I closed my eyes and centered myself. A migraine had started to form. The pain was now coming from my side and my head, forcing me even more off track. There was too much going on.
After a pause, I circled back. “So you’re really doing it?” He’d threatened to retire numerous times over the past ten years, but he’d never done it. “You’re not going to run again?”
“True.” My dad looked up at the ceiling. “Forty years and I couldn’t solve the world’s problems. Time for somebody else to give it a try.” Then my dad turned back to me, looking me over. “Lincoln is right, however. You do look like shit.”
Then my father stood up, taking control. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” It was clear that there wouldn’t be any debate. “My son wants to go home and see his beautiful daughter, my beautiful granddaughter.” He looked at Buster. “Go tell the cops that Justin is going to go out the back way—no cameras. The police chief will appreciate that, and he’ll owe us. We also need them to find a nice car to take him home and a doctor to meet us at the house. And tell the chief that they shouldn’t even think about transporting my son home in a squad car or some paddy wagon.”
My father then turned to Lincoln. “Write up a statement, something like, ‘We appreciate the community’s concern, and we know that the police will conduct a full review regarding the incident tonight.’” He took a moment to compose the next part of the statement in his head and then continued. “Tell them Justin Glass was returning to his law office, heard noises in the alley, and went to help a neighbor in need after calling 911. We have no further comment at this time other than the Glass family is proud of his bravery.”
My father looked at me and then turned and pointed at Lincoln. “And I mean that last part about no further comment. No ad libs. No off-the-record stuff about injuries or suggestions of racism. Nothing beyond the statement.”
“But it was racism.” Lincoln shook his head and pointed at me. “Look at him. It wouldn’t have happened to a white guy.”
“Of course I see what they did to him.” My father’s voice trembled. “Of course I know that, but I’ve been at this a lot longer than you. It doesn’t matter. People will find the ambiguity, because they need to find the ambiguity. It won’t get us anywhere.”
“Especially if we don’t try.” Lincoln looked to Buster for support, and Buster looked at his old boss and his new, torn.
To Lincoln, Buster said, “Don’t want to look like we’re exploiting it.” He searched for a compromise that Lincoln would accept. “And you don’t want to light a fire that we can’t put out.”
Lincoln stared at Buster, obviously frustrated. “I thought that was your job.” He shook his head and walked away. “You better get on the right page.”
CHAPTER TEN
When I woke up,
my mother was sitting in a chair by the window. She was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, waiting. I closed my eyes again and let my head fall back into the pillow. My brain ground out a question. “What time is it?”
“About eleven o’clock.” I heard her fold the newspaper. “Been asleep a long time,” she said. “Buster’s cocktail of painkillers and sleeping aids certainly did the trick.”
I started to laugh, but it hurt too bad. “Not sure how he was able to acquire that stuff in the middle of the night.”
I heard my mother stand and walk over to me. “You don’t want to know how Buster does his job.”
I opened my eyes and made an effort to push myself into an upright position, even though every muscle in my body resisted the movement. I grunted through it. The pain only stopped when I stopped.
I watched my mother lift a silver pot from my nightstand and pour coffee into an empty cup. “Cream?”
I nodded. A shot of fire raced up my side. “And if you could add a few more of Buster’s narcotics into that coffee, that sure would be nice.”
My mother smiled. “Absolutely.” She brought the delicate china cup and saucer to me. “Here you are.” Then she went to my dresser and picked up a pill bottle. She removed two and brought the pills back.
I took them from her. “You know I was just kidding about the narcotics.” Then I put the pills into my mouth and swallowed. “But I’m also not going to turn them down.” I looked at her. She was still a beautiful, sharp woman who could’ve done anything, but gave it all up for her children. I could tell that she was worried about me. “It’ll be fine, Mom. Just wanted to do something stupid to let you know that you’re still needed.”
She laughed gently. “Boys always need their mothers, no matter how old they may get.” She took a breath. “I think Sammy and your father would like to see you now.”
My mother returned to her chair for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch that she’d been reading and brought it to me. “I’ll send Sammy in first. She’s concerned, although doing a pretty good job of hiding it.”
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