by Ben Sciacca
“Yet others would say, ‘Yes. It’s not right for the police to kill unarmed citizens, but what about when those same citizens are killing one another? Isn’t it hypocritical to condemn one form of violence and yet say nothing about the other form?’ What do you think?”
There was a silence in the room for a moment until a white kid with a ponytail raised his hand. Professor Thompson acknowledged him with a nod. “Patrick, you have a thought on this?”
The kid squirmed in his seat for a minute and cleared his throat. “Yeah, I guess it bothers me. I mean, I don’t think it’s right that there are police killing unarmed people. It also seems like the majority of people that they’re killing are black people. I don’t think that’s right either. But I don’t understand how people can riot and loot and make a big fuss over police brutality when, statistically speaking, the homicide rates are a lot higher in black communities than they are anywhere else. Police aren’t the only ones killing black people.” Patrick paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “If black lives matter—and they do—then it should matter whether it’s the police taking those lives or another black person. I think you need to have it both ways. I mean—that’s just my opinion, I guess.”
The professor smiled. “Thank you, Patrick. Does anyone else want to chime in?” A slim black girl in the front of the room quickly raised her hand. “Yes, Carolyn?”
“I hear what Patrick is saying,” she started. “I agree—somewhat. I don’t agree with all the rioting and nonsense. Destroying your own neighborhood seems like a child having a tantrum. It’s embarrassing.
“But on the other hand, we aren’t just dealing with some isolated incidents here. I mean, there have been hundreds of years of this type of stuff. It was like, what, fifty or sixty years ago that black boys were lynched just for whistling at a white girl. Police sprayed some of our grandparents with fire hoses and loosed angry dogs on them because they were just trying to vote. I mean, that wasn’t that long ago at all. Seems like we forget that this kinda stuff has been going on for a real long time. Blacks and other minorities are just tired of it.
“So, I’m not saying that the riots and all of that stuff are okay, but I understand that folks are angry. I’m angry too.” Professor Thompson raised his eyebrows, urging her to continue. Carolyn rapped her pen on her desk for a moment and elaborated further. “I mean, I agree with what Patrick said about black-on-black crime. I think it’s disingenuous to hate on the police for killing a black person but say next to nothing about a black person shooting another black person in the same neighborhood. That’s hypocritical. But I’ll say this: I think when people start shooting their own kind it indicates that community is hopeless.
“I mean, didn’t Japanese soldiers kill themselves at the end of World War II when it was pretty much all over? You don’t start killing your own, or killing yourself, until you’ve given up. I think a lot of these communities are looking around them and they see a jacked-up system—a jacked-up world—and they’re just losing all hope.”
“Thank you, Carolyn,” the professor said with a nod. “Anyone else?” Quiet lingered in the lecture hall, aside from the old heat pipes groaning in the walls. “Class is almost over. So I’ll wrap us up with this: As I said earlier, violence is a curious thing, and it requires great scrutiny. On one hand, it is the currency of the powerful, of the bully, of the agitator. We see this with some of our police. But we also see it with the gangbangers and thugs, right? Violence in the hands of either can be used to abuse, to agitate, to coerce, and to kill.
“But violence is also the cry of the dying and of the downtrodden. It’s a last gasp, as Carolyn said, of a community that’s losing—or lost—its hope. As Patrick said, there is a higher rate of murder in our urban black communities. Statistics bear that out. But let me make a few comments about that observation.
“One, there’s a lot of buzz out there about ‘black-on-black’ crime. What we mean by that is ‘blacks hurting or killing or robbing other blacks,’ correct? But almost all crimes are committed against people who look the same. We still live in a predominantly segregated and homogeneous world. Most of us grew up in and still live in communities where people are ethnically the same. This classroom is fairly diverse, but I’m confident most of you don’t live in a neighborhood that looks like this, do you?
“And so, most crimes are committed against people of the same ethnic origin. Most black crimes are against black people. Why? Because most black people live in an all-black neighborhood. But the same is true of white crime. We don’t hear much about white-on-white crime or Korean-on-Korean crime, do we? But white people commit most of the robberies, drug deals, and murders that take place in white neighborhoods. Makes sense, doesn’t it? And statistically, crime rates in black and white neighborhoods are relatively the same per capita. Just as many drugs are sold in the suburbs as are sold in the hood. But violent crime and murder are the categories that tend to stand out in our urban communities.
“Sociologists have done a lot to study these unique statistics. They’ve uncovered some interesting things. There’s one striking corollary with incidents of violence—I don’t suppose you know what it is.” He paused briefly and continued. “The murder rate and incidents of violence tend to spike almost universally in communities that have been devastated by poverty, unemployment, and—as Carolyn pointed out a moment ago—hopelessness.
“A professor at Harvard—Dr. Robert Sampson—calls this phenomenon ‘compounded deprivation.’ The majority of our urban communities are denied access to important lifelines that contribute to thriving communities: namely, jobs, strong schools, healthy food options, valuable property, and a prosperous business sector. In turn, these communities are overwhelmed with poverty, broken families, failing schools, illiteracy, and the mass incarceration of their men.” Professor Thompson held up his arms to add emphasis. “So on one hand, these neighborhoods are under-resourced with basic necessities. On the other hand, they’re saturated with adversities. How can such a community ever survive, let alone thrive?” His question hung in the air for a moment as Professor Thompson stroked his thick beard thoughtfully.
“Perhaps I can illustrate,” he continued. “You probably can’t picture it, but I used to be quite the basketball player. I still hold the all-time rebound record for my old high school. But back in the day there was a kid named James Sanderson. He was six-and-a-half feet tall. James was the smoothest high school player I’ve ever seen. No one could stop him. Literally no one. He used to come into our gym with his team and humiliate us. We’d double-team him and he’d still score over thirty points a game—in our own house, no less. He’d run his mouth, beat his chest, and rile up our fans with his trash talk. But there was no way to stop James. We could only try to slow him down. In the four times I faced him, I fouled out every game before the fourth quarter started. I was completely helpless and hopeless to stop him, and I absolutely dreaded playing him.
“But we had a kid on our team named Isaiah Jenkins. Isaiah couldn’t hoop to save his life, but he wasn’t one to trifle with. It was senior year, and James was having one of his nights—just killin’ us. He received a technical for cussing out our bench. Toward the end of the game, he was on a breakaway for one of his signature dunks. But then ol’ Isaiah took him out with one of the nastiest and most flagrant fouls I’ve ever witnessed. James landed on his back and stayed there for a while. Isaiah had knocked him out cold. Someone asked Isaiah about it later. He said, ‘I decided to stop him the only way I knew how.’” A handful of nervous chuckles echoed in the lecture hall.
“Now,” the professor asked, leaning over his desk. “Is what Isaiah did right?”
A few students shook their heads, but no one spoke.
“Of course it wasn’t right,” Professor Thompson said, answering his own question. “But in a weird kind of way, does it make sense? Isaiah responded the only way he knew how against a superior opponent. So, what about the James Sandersons in some of our
communities? Take poverty, for instance. That’s a real tough opponent, isn’t it? But sometimes poverty teams up with police profiling and brutality. That makes things even tougher. What about if you add joblessness and mass incarceration, or failing schools where fewer than 30 percent of kids even graduate? What if the chief breadwinners in your community are in jail or have gotten out of jail and no one will hire them?
“It’s tough enough to face one James Sanderson—an opponent who beats you every time and humiliates you while doing it. What about if you’re playing a whole team of Sandersons? How long is it before you respond like Isaiah Jenkins and lash out?”
The clock in the back of the room caught the professor’s eye. He winced. Time was almost up.
“Violent crime,” he said, beginning to wrap up quickly, “is impossible to condone. But when it surfaces in certain communities more than others, it’s important to try and diagnose why. Some simply label things quickly and try to connect violence to race rather than to circumstances or context. The reality is that any community—regardless of race—that is facing the James Sandersons of poverty, joblessness, and brokenness tends to use violence in equal measure. In most cases, when violence emerges in a community, it has become the currency of negotiation for people who feel like they have no other option.” He paused for a moment, then slapped his desk with a smile. “I wish we had more time to discuss this! But the class is over—and I need to grab some coffee! Don’t forget to read chapter two in The New Jim Crow. And remember, your essays are due next Monday. Enjoy some turkey and stay safe! Class dismissed.”
The students stood, gathered their things, zipped up their coats, and headed for the exit. Detective Cole waited for the last student to leave before descending the stairs toward the stage. He clapped his hands slowly. The professor looked up from stuffing his papers in his satchel. “Pro-fess-or Keith Thompson!” Detective Cole said with a warm laugh. “That was a riveting lecture, brother.”
Keith squinted over his glasses, until a wide smile curled across his face. “Is that you, MarQuan? What in the world brings you here?”
MarQuan jogged up the steps of the stage and walked toward his old friend. Keith pushed himself away from his desk. MarQuan tried not to stare at the wheelchair. He leaned down and gave his old friend a hug. “How are you, man?” He leaned back up and folded his arms across his chest. “I haven’t seen you in almost ten years.”
“I’ve been better,” Keith replied, with a pained expression. “I suppose you heard about my little accident.”
MarQuan grimaced slightly. “Yeah. I heard. I’m sorry I haven’t come by till now.”
Keith waved his hand. “Everyone is busy—especially a world-famous detective like you.” They both laughed as Keith continued. “I’m glad to see you. But I’m nervous—I always knew that what I did back in sixth grade would come back to haunt me someday . . .” He let out an awkward laugh.
MarQuan responded with a weak smile. “You said you needed a cup of coffee. I do too. Is there somewhere we could go?”
“There’s a pot in my office right now. Want to push me there?”
Moments later, Keith poured a cup for MarQuan, wheeled around slowly, and handed it to him. “So, why are you here?” He blew some steam off the top of his cup before setting it down on his desk.
MarQuan attempted a sip and flinched before setting his cup down on the seat next to him. He took a moment to admire all of the books on the professor’s shelves. On the wall was a purple heart in a frame, next to the doctorate degree Keith had received from Brown. “You’ve read all these books?” MarQuan asked.
“A book doesn’t make it on my shelf unless I’ve read it.”
“Or wrote it, I see.” MarQuan pointed at a few volumes.
“Come on, man. Why are you here?”
MarQuan let out a slight sigh. “It’s your nephew Malik.”
Keith’s eyes widened, and he pulled his glasses from his face. “Did he get arrested? Tell me that boy didn’t do something stupid, MarQuan.”
“He’s missing, Keith.”
“Missing?” Keith replied. “What does that mean?”
MarQuan shook his head. “We don’t really know. Yesterday evening your mom sent him out for some groceries. There was some kind of incident between him and three other boys. One of them jumped the cashier and beat him up pretty badly. An eyewitness in the parking lot saw a kid jump in a black Lexus sedan and drive off. The other three boys disappeared into the community.”
Keith was stunned. He absentmindedly pulled his hand through his thick black beard but said nothing.
“But things get stranger, Keith. A white attorney from Stone Brook has disappeared too.”
“I don’t get it.”
“He and some folks from his church have been delivering groceries to your mom for the last couple of months. He came by yesterday and dropped off some things for Thanksgiving. He never made it home.”
Keith shook his head. “Well, some of the roads had ice on them last night . . .”
“I checked with all the police reports from accidents on the highways and roads from Edgewood to Stone Brook. There was a fair share of accidents last night, but none involving a black Lexus sedan.”
“You don’t think Malik carjacked him or something?” Keith growled. “Malik has done some stupid things, but he wouldn’t do anything like that—no sir!”
“When’s the last time you’ve seen your nephew, Keith?” MarQuan attempted another sip of coffee but gave up again.
Keith stared off for a moment before responding. “Probably about eight months ago. I don’t know—I used to swing by and check up on him once or twice a month before the accident. But since then I’ve done a poor job staying in touch.”
MarQuan interlaced his fingers and twirled his thumbs. He glanced out the window and watched as the bundled students bowed their heads in the cold and crossed the snowy campus lawn. From up in the office, they looked like sheep.
“What have you uncovered so far?” Keith asked.
MarQuan frowned. “Not a whole lot. The boys back at the department have been reviewing the camera footage from the convenience store, but it’s very grainy. It’s tough to tell if the four guys in the store were friends or not. Most of what we’ve got is from the forensic team at the crime scene. One of the guys in the store assaulted the cashier with a beer bottle and beat him pretty badly. Last I heard he’s still unconscious. If he wakes up, I’m sure he can help us understand a little more of what happened. Shortly after the assault, one of the kids tossed a gallon of milk on the floor and took off running. Then the other three ran out as well. There’s a lot of different ways to interpret what happened in there.”
“So,” Keith asked, taking another cautious sip of his coffee. “Are you trying to find a criminal or a missing person?”
“Could be both,” MarQuan replied.
Keith’s voice softened. “Everybody sticks up for his or her family. But I’ve known Malik since the day he was born. His mama, my sister Sobrina, is a lost cause. His dad is a crackhead, and no one’s seen him in about six years. But Malik’s always been different. He used to spend entire summers with me here at the college, attending summer workshops, studying and growing. He’s one of the top kids in his class. He’s learned from the mistakes he made along the way. He’s seen his parents ruin their lives and always tried to be better. He’s a great example for his younger siblings, and I’m proud of him. Sure, he’s capable of stupid, but he’s not a robber and a carjacker.” Keith looked up from his desk and stared his old friend in the eyes. “I can tell you that for certain.”
“I hope you’re right,” MarQuan said, as he retrieved his cup of coffee and stood to his feet. “You mind if I keep this for the road? I don’t have a Harpers College mug.”
“Sure,” Keith replied. “Look, I appreciate you driving out here to see me and to keep me in the loop. Mama will probably call me in another day or two. She’s always kept bad news to herself for as lon
g she can.”
MarQuan grabbed the office door to leave. “Good seeing you, Keith,” he said.
“MarQuan,” Keith said sternly.
MarQuan spun back around. “Yeah. What is it?”
“Find my nephew first,” Keith said. His voice trembled just slightly. “If he’s messed up in this at all—even if he isn’t—I need for you to find him first and bring him in.”
A pained and knowing expression flashed across the detective’s face. He nodded at the professor and closed the door.
18
THE MEAL
10:37 a.m., Tuesday before Thanksgiving
SUNLIGHT FILLED THE CABIN. The snow was no longer falling outside. The trees glistened with ice. Malik stood wide-eyed, admiring the marvelous scene just outside the window.
Jim leaned back in his chair and checked his watch: 10:37. His stomach growled violently.
Malik turned and furrowed his brow. “Dang. Sounded like a grizzly bear.”
Jim clutched his belly and shook his head. “I’m so hungry.”
Malik sighed. “I know, right? Maybe there’s something this redneck left in these cupboards over here?”
Jim shook his head. “I doubt it.”
Malik walked over to the old, dilapidated cupboards and cautiously opened them. His eyes lit up. “Man, homie has some Viennas!”
Jim shot him a quizzical glance. “What’s a Vie-yeena?”
“Come on, man!” Malik pulled the can from the cupboard and held it out. “You’ve never had Viennas before?”