Anger Is a Gift Sneak Peek

by Mark Oshiro

  Moss was just too tired. Even for that.

  He watched Kaisha and Reg sit as still as they could, saw the sweat on Reg’s bloody face, felt his own pulse pounding in his head. Moss needed water, was sure the others did, too. He wanted to sleep. But he kept his eyes open and tried to stay as alert as he could.

  The cop pointed his rifle toward the back of the van. When the doors burst open, light flooded in, and his friends winced. Tears jumped to his eyes, and Moss wished he could wipe them away. A body was tossed inside the van and thudded against the floor. A black woman, her face smeared with blood. She squirmed a few times, then rolled onto her back and gasped for air.

  “Do you need medical attention?” Wanda asked, unmoving.

  “Shut up and stay where you are,” barked the cop at his mother. He reached down and grabbed the hood of the woman’s sweater and dragged her backward, then propped her up next to Moss. He could hear the gurgling, the desperate attempts to breathe, but he didn’t dare move his head to see if she was okay.

  Three more people were shoved inside, and he heard someone gasp. “Moss?” It was Esperanza, but he couldn’t look, wouldn’t look at her.

  He heard her scramble over and she loomed into his sight. “Are you okay?”

  The cop’s reaction was robotic. His foot shot out and he put the sole of his boot on Esperanza’s right shoulder and pushed as hard as he could. She slammed into the side of the van, and Moss heard the air knocked out of her. He looked up. Her glasses had fallen off her face and lay broken on the floor of the van. There was a sniffle. Kaisha was crying. So was Reg.

  It’s over, Moss thought. It’s all over.

  The door slammed shut and Esperanza regained her breath. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t talk,” Moss’s mother said, even and quiet. “Not a word, Esperanza.”

  “I’m sorry I never understood … until now,” she said, and that got Moss to turn his head slightly, and he looked straight at her, saw the rawness and terror in her eyes, and he inclined his head. It was his way of saying: Now you know.

  He watched her gasp for breath, watched her lean her head back, desperate for air, watched her cry openly. This was what it took. This was the line she had to cross. He didn’t know if it was enough.

  38

  Maybe the ride was short, or maybe he was in so much pain that he couldn’t remember it; Moss wasn’t sure. It seemed like a few seconds passed before light filled the van and the cop in the back pushed each of them out, grasping them by their clothing to direct them toward the exit. Moss blinked to adjust his eyes; he was next to a tall gray building, just beyond a chain-link fence with razor wire curled around the top. There were more vans with OPD emblazoned on the side and a couple of cruisers. He saw people being unloaded from a van just like the one he’d been in, but didn’t recognize any of them.

  He walked forward, stumbled. His feet were on fire, his lower back was a mess of knotted muscles and tendons, his fingers throbbed. He said nothing about it; he just trudged on, toward the door that was held open for the line of the arrested. He walked up a ramp to the entryway, then passed down a long hallway of doors and windows into offices. As he moved farther along, he realized he could still hear the chaos: Pops. Bangs. Shouts. The blaring alarms, the echoing of the chopper off the buildings. Wherever they’d been taken, it couldn’t have been far from the location of the protest.

  The same thought repeated in his head: My life is over.

  They were herded to a large room with a high ceiling, and Moss was taken aback by how full it was. Officers buzzed from one desk to another, some helping with the intake of prisoners. He watched a woman roll someone’s fingers in a pad of ink, then turn them from side to side on a form of sorts.

  Enrique was a few feet in front of him, clutching his left arm, his face drooping and tired. He was the only person there without cuffs on, and when Moss saw the unnatural angle at which his arm bent, he understood why. More protestors lined the walls, their hands zip-tied behind them, many of them bleeding or bruised. He saw another Latino kid, one who couldn’t have been much older than himself, hunched over on a bench, blood on his jeans. Martin was next to him, seemingly uninjured, his head held high, defiance and ire on his face. Moss didn’t see Rawiya, and he hoped that meant her getaway was successful. Njemile and Bits were nowhere to be found; had they escaped the cops and made it to Alameda? What about Esperanza? Where had she been taken?

  Someone pushed Moss to the right and he turned, hoping to see his mother behind him, but she was taken to the other side of the room. Their eyes met for a moment, and she looked broken. Incomplete. He couldn’t stop the tears that came then as the fear swept over his whole body. He started to shake as his eyes burned, his head pulsed, his heart broke. “Please don’t separate us,” he said, and he knew he wasn’t supposed to talk, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being away from her.

  A cop came up to him. “Sit here,” she said, gesturing to an open spot on a plain brown bench against the wall. On one side was a short Vietnamese woman, her hair strung over her face, dejection in her eyes. He recognized the man on the other side, but was too tired to feel any surprise. The paramedic whom Moss had seen … how long ago had that been? Why did it feel like an entire lifetime had passed in the past few weeks? He remembered the cold cement of the BART station, the hand grazing his, and he struggled to recall his name.

  “Diego?” Moss said as he approached.

  Diego looked up and smiled, then laughed. “Well, look who it is,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to draw attention to their conversation. “I’d say it’s good to see you, but I think we’d both prefer not to be here.”

  Moss eased himself down onto the bench. “Why are you here?”

  “Heard about you on the radio on my rounds this morning,” he said. “Before this nightmare happened. Got off around seven thirty A.M., thought I’d swing by to give my support.”

  Moss sniffled. “Sorry it turned out so bad. You musta got there just as everything went to hell.”

  “Not your fault,” said Diego. “And I think you did a fine thing with this.”

  “Really?” Heat rushed to his face. “Well … thanks, I guess.” He looked at Diego’s face, saw the blood above his right eyebrow. “How’d you get hurt?”

  “Trying to help a woman who got shot,” said Diego, and his head dropped down. “She took a tear-gas canister to her face after she tried to stop one of the cops from wailin’ on some poor kid. I was showing my identification to another cop when someone tackled me from behind. Claimed I had a gun.”

  Moss didn’t say anything at first. What could he say to that? Diego was a paramedic. His whole purpose was to help people, and even that had been used against him by the police. “I’m sorry,” said Moss. “You know, because it happened to you.”

  Diego didn’t respond for a few moments either. “It was worth it,” he said, then fixed Moss with a stare. “I’d do it all over again.”

  Moss looked away. It overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t look into the man’s face while his own body was overrun with appreciation and shame. He felt Diego nudge him.

  “You come in with anyone?”

  Moss nodded. “My mama,” he replied, then gestured with his head. “She’s the woman over there, with the short hair and…” More words dead in his throat. He heard Diego gasp. He must have figured out which woman was his mother.

  “She needs medical attention,” he said, first to Moss, then with his voice raised. “Hey! That woman over there … I’m a paramedic. Let me look at her.”

  None of the cops in the station looked in their direction, but many of the protestors glanced over at Moss’s mother. Diego leaned forward and stood up, his hands still zip-tied behind his back. “I’m serious,” he said, his deep voice louder than anything else in the station. “Please let me look at her!”

  The reaction was swift this time, and Moss’s heart dropped. A tall and lanky man strode over to Diego, placed his
hand on Diego’s chest, and shoved him—a direct motion, one that was so quick that it stunned Moss how fast the cop’s arm had darted out. Diego slammed into the wall and slumped down, the air rushing out of him just as it had from Esperanza minutes before.

  “Shut up,” the cop said, his face now inches from Diego’s. When he spoke up, he addressed the entire room. “That goes for all of you! Unless you want more charges tacked on, I don’t want any more interruptions.”

  Someone sobbed. Diego gasped for air, and Moss saw a rage settle within him, a fury in his features that sent a chill down Moss. Diego said nothing. He just kept his eyes locked on the white man who had shoved him.

  In another context, in another world, it might have been entertaining for Moss to witness this. But the weight of the night pulled on Moss’s body. He found himself leaning to the side, into Diego’s shoulder, and he promptly fell asleep.

  * * *

  Moss’s eyes darted open, the light too bright and painful, and his mother was there, her face not as swollen as before. He was shaking. “Moss, wake up,” Wanda said. “They’re letting us go.”

  It didn’t register at first. He looked at his mother’s face, so calm and serene, then around her. He was still at the station. Someone stood to his mother’s right. Tall, brown, a thick mustache. Diego was gone, and the bench was empty. “Come on, son,” the man said. “Can you stand up? I’d like to get those cuffs off you.”

  He sucked in air, blinked more, then pushed against the wall, trying to get his legs to work. They were tight and heavy, unwilling to cooperate. The cop put a hand under Moss’s arm and lifted, and he stood. His head spun for a second or two, he heard a snipping behind him, and then his hands were free. He brought them in front of him; they were caked with dried blood from the zip tie that had cut into his wrists.

  “You want to visit the bathroom first, Mr. Jeffries?” The cop gestured behind him. “You can clean up if you want.”

  Moss shook his head. “Just wanna go home,” he said. “Sir,” he added, instinct getting the best of him.

  “Let’s go, honey,” his mother said, wrapping her arm in his.

  The cop reached out and grabbed Moss’s other arm. “Before you go, I just wanted to tell you…” He paused. Moss watched his face, saw his lip tremble. The man let go of Moss, brought a hand to his mouth and covered it for a moment. “I’m really sorry this happened to you.”

  I have to be dreaming, Moss thought. I’m still asleep, aren’t I?

  “It should not have happened,” the man continued, his eyes red and watery. “I’m sorry about what was done to you.”

  “Did you do anything to stop it?” The words fell out of Moss’s mouth before he could even think about what they meant. The cop’s expression changed, morphed into shock and confusion. He had no response, and his mouth dropped open. It stayed that way as Wanda pulled on Moss’s arm and led him away.

  “What time is it?” Moss asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  “After one,” she said. “In the afternoon.”

  He balked at her. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Later, baby,” she said, moving them along. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  They didn’t make it to the exit. A woman stepped in front of them, just feet from the door that would lead them to freedom. It was Johanna, the communications manager from that morning. Moss fought an urge to shove her out of the way, but his body ached too much. He thought of his bed, of the familiarity of their couch and the scratched coffee table, and he wanted to be nowhere else.

  “I wanted to invite you to a special press conference tomorrow,” she said, and that smile, that goddamn smile, crept across her face. “City Hall. Nine A.M. Can you make it?”

  “What for?” Wanda asked, her own voice sluggish.

  “For an apology.”

  Now it was Moss’s turn for shock. “I’m sorry, an apology for what?”

  Johanna pursed her lips. “I can’t say much now, but things did not go as well as we would have liked them to this morning,” she said. “But I can tell you this: Your little protest? It worked.”

  “You already told me that,” Moss said. “Last time. Remember? And look what happened with that.”

  His mother squeezed his arm tightly. “You’re not joking,” she said to Johanna.

  “No, I am not,” said Johanna. “If you’d like, meet us at the south entrance to City Hall at eight thirty A.M. We’ll introduce you to the mayor and the chief of police, then give you an idea of the schedule for the press conference. That all right with you two?”

  They nodded, but neither could find any words. The smirk came back one last time. She left them standing in the hallway, alone.

  “Did that just happen?” Moss asked.

  “Yep,” his mother said.

  He scraped at his face, felt the soreness where his cheek had slammed against the asphalt. It was real. This moment was real.

  “Mama, I don’t think I can deal with another thing happening right now. Can we go?”

  “You bet your ass we’re goin’,” Wanda said, and Moss willingly let his mother drag him out of the station. The light was so bright, and it seemed wrong. In the wrong place in the sky. He blinked, tears in his eyes, and he rubbed at them.

  Martin rushed up to them. “Hurry,” he said, taking them both by the arm. “I’m parked illegally, and the press is around the corner.”

  Moss couldn’t tell where they were at first, but then saw the Tribune building in the distance, heard the traffic from the 880 freeway. They were still downtown. Moss didn’t want to waste anymore time, though. They piled into Martin’s Toyota and then said nothing as he drove them home. Moss appreciated the silence, mostly because his head was full. His heart was weary. He didn’t have the words for how he felt. The numbness throbbed in his body, and he knew he’d be aching the next day when he woke up.

  The next day.

  There was another day ahead. Just hours earlier, he had convinced himself that he was bound for prison. How was he on his way home now? Moss looked out the window, watched as they crossed over the highway, saw downtown Oakland change into West Oakland, a neighborhood that still persisted in the face of too many changes to recount.

  Martin turned down Peralta, and the neighborhood felt familiar, but in a terribly distant sense, as if Moss had been away for years and was only just now returning. He stared out the window as the warehouses and lofts passed by. He saw kids kicking a soccer ball around in one yard. Saw people waiting at a bus stop. Knew that their days had continued as normal. Did they even know what had happened downtown? Did they even care?

  He looked forward, then out the window again, and then he saw it.

  “Stop!” He shouted it louder than he had intended, and he stuck his head out of the window, gaping back at it. “Stop the car!”

  Martin slammed on the brakes and everyone jerked forward. “What is it?” Wanda said, and she turned around and reached out for Moss, but he was already getting out of the car.

  His legs ached, a fierce burning sitting on top of a dull soreness. He ignored it, and he hobbled down the sidewalk, right up to the brick wall, and he ran his hands along it, then backed up, into the street, and a car was honking at him but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t leave.

  Javier’s face looked down on him. He was painted on the side of a warehouse in grand colors, his skin that same golden brown, that black beanie propped to the side, his mouth open in a wide grin as if he was in the midst of a laugh. He was framed with a white border, like a scene in a comic book. A crown of roses circled his head, angelic and pure, and there was a banner curled below his neck, sitting across his chest.

  JUSTICE FOR JAVIER, it said, in that same lettering from all the comics he’d grown up reading. Then, down in the corner, in black, a name in delicate script: Carlos.

  Javier was immortalized, transformed into a something both spiritual and visceral, a reminder of this city’s violence, a reminder of this city’s com
passion. Moss walked forward, and his mama and Martin were there, and Martin had his hands behind his head, tears streaming down his face, and Moss realized he had never seen him cry, not even after Morris died.

  Moss touched the wall again, just at the point where Javier’s blue flannel opened, and he remembered how soft Javier’s skin had been, how he smelled, how his lips felt across his own. The wall was rough. Bumpy. Static.

  Moss didn’t say a word. He got back in the car, his throat constricted with the threat of tears. Martin and Wanda followed behind him, and when she got back into the passenger seat, she reached back and held his hand the entire way home.

  They drove past Njemile’s place, the driveway empty, and Moss hoped it was a sign that her mothers had found her in Alameda. He didn’t want to assume the worst, but then they were on 12th, the market was there on the left, and then Martin turned on Chester, and Moss couldn’t stop himself. He turned around and stared at the market, and he had never willed harder for his father to appear than that moment.

  But Morris didn’t. He was gone. They were both gone. Forever.

  “Oh, damn,” Martin said.

  Moss faced forward again and wanted to expire at the sight that was before the car. He couldn’t even count the news vans; they lined both sides of the street. A reporter stood directly in front of the gate in the chain-link fence, speaking rapidly into his microphone as the cameraperson panned around him. Martin hit the brakes without another word, put the car in reverse, and backed up to the corner.

  “Go,” he said. “Into Dawit’s. Now.”

  Moss’s body wouldn’t move at first, but when he saw the reporters scurrying in his direction, his instinct kicked in. He unbuckled, the seat belt slamming into the side of the car, and then he bolted out the door. He made straight for Dawit’s, heard his mother panting behind him, and then got to the steps and stopped.