Policed

by Alana Terry

  She tested his speech, mulling over each phrase. Like one of Willow’s gluten-free, sugar-free, chia seed muffins, his words looked appealing at first glance. Looked like words spoken by a friend. A confidante. But the more she analyzed them, the more mistrustful she grew.

  He clasped his hands on his knees. “Now that I’ve seen the way the department’s scurrying to handle this particular PR mess, I’m not convinced that coming forward right now is going to be in your best interest. Or your friend’s.” He put special emphasis on that last part, so much so that it came out sounding like a threat.

  She didn’t know what to say. She wished Willow were here. Anyone she knew. Anyone she could trust.

  “Listen, I know I’m contradicting everything I told you earlier, and you gotta believe me, it’s eating me up inside. But not everyone’s called to be a David. And you don’t want to make the same mistake as others and underestimate Goliath, either.”

  Kennedy’s headache had eased up when she was resting in bed but now returned with even more cruelty. What others was he talking about?

  He spread his hands out. “I know I’m being cryptic, and part of that’s because I’m in a delicate situation myself.”

  She didn’t care about his delicate situation, about his David and Goliath metaphors or anything else he was talking about. She didn’t even care so much about vengeance as she cared about people believing her side of the story. What happened to her was wrong. If the chief of police called her on the phone, told her he believed every word she said, and asked her to accept his apology, Kennedy could live with that.

  Almost.

  It would sure beat sitting here listening to Dominic pretend to care about her and her feelings while trying at the same time to convince her to shut up and accept tonight’s harassment as a normal East Coast occurrence.

  She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

  “So here’s what’s happened so far,” he continued. “The chief has a press release set to deliver first thing Friday morning. He’s going to explain how one of our cops pulled two people over for speeding. During their encounter, he had enough evidence to suspect the couple of drug possession.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Kennedy couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice. “He didn’t even have a reason to pull us over in the first place. It was rush hour. I couldn’t have been speeding if I wanted to.”

  Dominic nodded. “I know that.” Kennedy couldn’t figure out if that should make her feel relieved or even angrier now that he was telling her to give up any hope for justice.

  “At that point the chief is going to admit our man made a mistake.”

  “Good.”

  Dominic held up his hand before Kennedy could say anything else. “The mistake was that even though he had suspected you of drug possession, he failed to call for backup. And if you hear the chief’s side of the story, he’s going to be all over it as an example of how the city needs to put more resources into the police force. The reason our man didn’t call for backup, at least as the public is going to hear it tomorrow morning, is because we’re short-staffed. Budget cuts, lay-offs, the whole enchilada.”

  “But he attacked us.”

  Dominic shrugged. “The chief already got the public believing you two are druggies at this point. And based on that video I saw, he won’t have a hard time arguing you assaulted him first. There’s a reason it’s being called the piggyback attack, you know.”

  Rage boiled in Kennedy’s brain, making it impossible to put any rational thought into a cohesive sentence.

  The worst part about this whole encounter was how shaken up Dominic was pretending to be over it all. “That’s what I mean when I’m telling you not to underestimate Goliath.”

  “He grabbed me.” Kennedy blinked back tears, no longer of shame or fear but of blind fury. “He had his hands all over me.” She shut her eyes so she wouldn’t have to watch Dominic shrug another time.

  “Cops search suspects. It’s what they do.” Did Dominic really believe any of this? Did he really believe she and Reuben were drug pushers?

  “You can search the baggie. All it had was tea.”

  Dominic frowned. “Do you have any idea how many drug busts we see a week? How hard do you think it would be for someone in the force to sprinkle your roommate’s tea leaves with a little weed, huh?”

  “They can’t do that.” Kennedy hadn’t realized how childish her argument sounded until she heard it come out of her mouth.

  “But they do. It’s not right. I’m not making any excuses. That cop, based on what you told me at Providence, he had no business pulling you over, making you get out of the car, restraining your friend, none of it. But it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what the chief thinks, and all he’s thinking about is how he’s gonna protect his own. It’s an unwritten code.”

  Unwritten code. That phrase was like fingernails on a chalkboard. So this was it? This was the Goliath she had dreamed of going up against? What chance did she have?

  She would never look at a policeman the same way again.

  There had to be some other option. This was America. It wasn’t China or Kenya or some other country riddled with corruption.

  Things like this didn’t happen here.

  Did they?

  A memory tugged at the back of her brain. Something Pastor Carl said in one of his recent sermons. A Bible verse from Proverbs. Or was it Psalms? A verse about God bringing justice to light like the noonday sun. A verse about Christians waiting patiently for God’s truth to prevail.

  But why should she have to wait for it? She wanted it now. Everything Dominic said made sense. Of course, that’s how the chief would slant the issue — an officer going about his business, risking his life to make the streets of Boston safer, when all of a sudden he’s attacked by two suspects, and the force is so overworked and underpaid that he fails to call for backup. It was a flawlessly logical argument, however wrong it was. Like a bilayer of phospholipids surrounding a cell’s organelles — perfectly watertight.

  How could she stand against a Goliath like this?

  The truth was she couldn’t.

  “Wait a minute.” A seed of doubt had germinated in Kennedy’s mind. It was taking root now. Sprouting. “If he was so convinced we were criminals, why did he just drive off? Why did he leave Reuben there bleeding on the pavement?”

  She had him now. This was her slingshot. This was how she’d defeat the Philistine giant.

  Dominic’s frown did nothing to bolster her newfound encouragement. “The PR guys already thought of that. Between you and me, the fact that he did run off is the only reason the chief hasn’t pulled you both in and arrested you for assaulting an officer. He won’t admit it, not even to us, but we can all sniff out a rotten egg. If our man believed half of what the chief’s saying — that you were carrying drugs or attacked him unprovoked or anything like that — he would have thrown every citation in the book at you. But he didn’t. He ran off, and I’m speaking strictly off the record here, but that’s the biggest reason I believed your story to begin with.” His expression softened for a moment.

  She was too busy formulating her next argument to let his words sink in. “But that means that we can’t have really done all those things, or else he wouldn’t have just left us there like that. So there must be some way to prove to the public ...”

  “You’re not understanding something here,” Dominic interrupted. “The chief doesn’t want the public to know the truth. He doesn’t want the protesters, the marchers, the Gordon Clarences all taking to our streets. He’d rather throw the media a bone and bury the truth in the backyard. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying it’s the way things are done.”

  “So that’s all?” She hadn’t meant to sound so accusatory. She just couldn’t understand how someone like Dominic, someone with a powerful faith who obviously loved the Lord, could sit there and tell her that lies and gross abuses of justice were normal, just as much a part of Boston life a
s the swan boats in the Common or a strong nor’easter in the winter. Kennedy refused to believe it. “Can’t you do something?”

  “I am doing something.” He pointed to his badge. “I’m getting up every day, begging God to make me a salt and a light to those other officers. I’m putting on this uniform. I’m not the kind of guy who rolls over and watches corruption. Not usually. So when I say it’s time to let it go, I really mean it. If not for your own sake, at least for your friend’s.”

  The mention of Reuben was enough to make Kennedy’s whole body tense. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I saw Reuben earlier. He has his reasons — very personal reasons — for keeping this quiet. Let me tell you how the chief sees it. You two stay out of the public eye, don’t come forward, we keep your identity secret ...” He held up his hand to stop Kennedy from interrupting. “We keep your identity secret,” he repeated, “and we don’t charge you with assault or possession.”

  He leaned forward in Willow’s chair as if he were about to stand up. “But if you go to the press, if you start broadcasting your side of the story ...” He shook his head. “The chief is willing to do whatever it takes to keep his own guy covered. I need you to remember that. You shout police brutality, I guarantee you they’ll find marijuana in that tea-leaf baggie, no matter what was in it when he took it out of your car. You accuse his guy, the chief accuses you. Not just possession. Not just battery. But your past, too. Any mistake you ever made, any ...”

  “I don’t have anything to hide.” She sounded braver than she felt.

  Dominic stood. “Maybe not. But what if Reuben does? Out of respect for him, and because I gave him my word, that’s all I’m gonna say. But if he’s your friend like you claim, you really should let this case drop.”

  His shoulders sagged as he opened the door. “I’m sorry.” He let himself out. As he pulled the door shut behind him, he looked back once and added, “I really, really wanted tonight to end differently for you.”

  Kennedy didn’t reply. She was feeling the exact same thing.

  CHAPTER 9

  KENNEDY HAD JUST FINISHED brushing her teeth when Willow barged into their room. “You decent?” she called out. “I brought a friend with me.” She led in a tall student Kennedy recognized from Willow’s theater troupe.

  She tried not to groan. It was almost midnight. What was Willow thinking?

  “I’m really tired.” Kennedy reached over to turn her desk lamp off. “Could you two go somewhere else to hang out?”

  Willow tossed her bag onto her desk. “Oh, we’re not here for that.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I couldn’t get Othello to go to bed with me even if I wanted to.”

  Kennedy was left wondering what was so humorous. “Your name’s really Othello?” she asked, but the two of them were too busy chuckling to answer.

  “So anyway ...” Willow plopped down in her purple bean bag chair, and Othello sank in beside her. He crossed his leg and draped his arm around her shoulder. All he needed was a beanie cap to look like some sort of African-American beatnik poet.

  Willow arched her penciled eyebrows and got that artificial look she adopted whenever she was around her theater friends. “I told Othello about your little encounter tonight, you and your pseudo-boyfriend.”

  Kennedy was about to ask how much he knew, but as if taking a cue from somewhere offstage, Othello shook his head and muttered, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about. It’s that sort of warfare, that type of dictatorial oppression that’s been plaguing our country since the days of slavery.”

  He paused for a moment to sigh. It was no wonder he was in the theater department.

  “For centuries, my people have been the victims of a coordinated assault, a cultural genocide, not with bombs but with racial profiling. The ghettoization of our homes. The methodical incarceration of our young men. The rape of our women. The abduction of our children by welfare workers backed up by policemen armed with guns who know nothing of our way of life, our culture.”

  Kennedy didn’t know how to answer. It was as if Othello had opened his mouth, and Reverend Clarence came spewing out.

  “I just want you to know how grateful we are to you,” he told her, meeting her eyes for the first time. “Sometimes it takes a tragedy like this for people to pay attention. Black men are brutalized, terrorized every day, and nobody cares. But you, a white woman who gets harassed — now that’s something the hypnotized majority of this nation will pay attention to. And I just want to tell you that I’m honored you’re here to stand side by side with us to speak out against the racism that’s poisoned our schools, polluted our judiciary system, and plagued our inner cities.”

  He ended his words with a flourish, and Kennedy wondered if he was expecting applause or something of the sort. She’d heard all those arguments before in Reverend Clarence’s speeches and Professor Hill’s classroom. But this was the first time it’d come addressed directly to her. She wasn’t sure if she should give Othello an ovation or apologize to him on behalf of every single white American, past, present, and future.

  It couldn’t be that bad, could it? And if it was, how would she know? How could she — a white American who’d lived in China since the third grade — know what it was like for minorities in the inner cities? How would she know if it was as bad as Othello said if she’d never seen it, never experienced it firsthand?

  From the beanbag chair where Willow was running her fingers through his short curly hair, Othello nodded sagely. “It’s hard to find kindred spirits in our light-skinned counterparts.”

  Kennedy was too tired to tell if he was giving her a compliment or insulting her, but she knew she had to correct his assumptions. “Actually, I haven’t decided whether I’m going to file a complaint or not.” All she wanted was to go to sleep. She could make up her mind later.

  Othello turned to Willow. “You said she was going to take her story to the news outlets.”

  Willow fidgeted with her scarf. “I said I thought she was going to. There’s a big difference.”

  “I haven’t decided yet.” Kennedy’s voice came out harsher than she intended, but she didn’t care.

  Othello scowled. “If you keep quiet, it’s just as bad as if you let that cop murder your friend. You know that, don’t you?”

  Willow put her hand on his shoulder. “Hey, all she said was she needed more time to make up her mind. I think it’s only fair ...”

  He wasn’t paying any attention. “So you’re just like everyone else. You don’t care what happens to us. You’ll leave it up to the Reverend Clarences of the world to plan their protests and marches, and you’ll just sit cozy, swimming in your white privilege ...”

  Willow nudged him in the ribs. “I told you to leave her alone.”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “Sure. The cops are out exterminating our race one traffic stop at a time, but hey, I wouldn’t want you two pretty porcelains losing sleep over it or anything.”

  He could say whatever he wanted. He had no idea what he was talking about. He could harp and rail about police brutality and violence against blacks. She was too tired to listen. Willow followed him out of the room, their ensuing argument loud enough to wake up anybody lucky enough to have fallen asleep already. It didn’t matter. Kennedy didn’t have the energy to think about it, let alone let his words discourage her.

  She just needed rest. Without even bothering to turn off the light, she covered her head with her blanket and squeezed her eyes shut. Her brain soaked up the comfort of her bed like parched roots drinking up rainfall.

  Sleep. That’s all she wanted to do. Everything would be clearer in the morning.

  CHAPTER 10

  KENNEDY WOKE UP FRIDAY with the sun pouring in through her dorm room window. An uneasy feeling sloshed around in her empty gut. Even her sleep had failed to provide the reprieve she’d hoped for. She wasn’t any more rested than she’d been last night.

  She glanced at Willow’s bed. Empty. Her roommate never wo
ke up early. Did that mean she’d stayed out? Had she spent the night at Othello’s?

  Kennedy scratched her head, grimacing when she felt how slimy and gross her hair was. She hadn’t even taken a shower last night. At least the thought of washing off all of Bow Legs’ lingering filth was enough motivation to get her out of bed. As she was gathering her toiletries together, her phone beeped. She glanced at the text message from Willow.

  Headed to the protest. Want a ride?

  Protest?

  Did Kennedy even want to know?

  She was tempted to ignore the message and take an impossibly long shower until her skin was lobster red and her mind washed of all the defiling memories from yesterday. She wasn’t due to meet Reuben for breakfast for another hour, and then their only class was children’s literature. After that, the weekend. She couldn’t remember if she had anything else scheduled, but she wasn’t going to worry about that right now.

  One day at a time.

  Pastor Carl’s wife Sandy had once encouraged Kennedy to meditate on the Sermon on the Mount, let the words sink in and minister to her soul. Kennedy was such a speed reader — the only way she could keep up with her courses and still have time to enjoy a few classics or mystery novels on the side — that it was hard for her to slow down to make her Scripture reading very contemplative. As a countermeasure, Sandy encouraged her to memorize certain passages that stood out the most to her, so Kennedy had started with Jesus’s admonition to stop worrying about tomorrow.

  So far, she was only a couple verses in, but it was a start. This morning though, Kennedy didn’t have time to spend in the Bible. She had to clean herself up. She’d pray while she was in the shower. God wouldn’t mind, would he?

  She grabbed her towel and had just slipped on her germ-proof flip-flops when her phone beeped once more. Willow again, sending nothing but a series of question marks.