We Are Not Like Them(70)
December 26 11:20 pm
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Back to normal? Jesus, Jenny, an innocent boy is dead. And Kevin and Travis Cameron get to go on with their lives like nothing happened? I don’t know how I can sit down with your husband and eat burgers and act like everything’s a-okay. It’s so not okay. And the fact that you don’t get that…
Chapter Eleven RILEY
That last email to Jen has sat, unsent, in my drafts folder for days. It’s begging to be sent. So are the other ten emails I’ve drafted to her since then, some long rants, some heartfelt, one that was just a sentence: What the hell, Jenny?
But each time I go to press send, I stop myself. I tell myself it’s because an email is a cop-out. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to escalate things. I tell myself it’s because I don’t have time right now to deal with the fallout and it’s easier just to tiptoe. I tell myself I’m being generous in giving her space right now. I tell myself I can just wait and bide my time and all this will go away, somehow things will go back to the way they were or some version of it. Of all these excuses, this last one is the biggest lie. Things can’t go back to the way they were, because I’m too upset. That last message, Jen’s optimistic attitude, like she and Kevin can just put a dead kid behind them and move on, broke something in me. I mean, I get it, of course she doesn’t want her husband to go to prison; she wants her life to return to normal. I want these things for her too. Or I should want them. I want to want them. There’s a part of me though, deep and primal, that keeps returning to the fact that an innocent kid died. It may all be a tragic accident, but there need to be consequences. Wasn’t that one of our earliest lessons at Sunshine Kids? Fairness. Or the blunter version that was drilled into me at Sunday school: an eye for an eye. Someone should pay. Kevin should pay. My breath catches on the betrayal.
But Kevin won’t pay. Likely no one will pay. The facts are right there in front of me on my screen, when I close my email drafts folder. I’ve been working on background research for my story tonight, gathering statistics on cop indictments and convictions. They’re startling and confirm a truth we’ve all seen borne out: cops are almost never charged or convicted for shootings on the job. There’s always a defense, rationale, justification, wall of loyalty, or legal technicality to hide behind. There’s always something. The stat I chose for my story tonight highlights this: Since 2005, 110 police officers have been charged with manslaughter or murder for an on-the-job shooting; only forty-two were convicted, often for lesser charges, the proverbial slap on the wrist. The coils in my stomach wind tighter as I shoot that text over to the graphics department to appear on-screen in my package for tonight’s broadcast.
My work phone rings just as I’m trying to decide if I have time to escape my emails, my research, my feelings and run down to the vending machine before the afternoon news meeting. A bag of Cheetos I don’t need is calling my name. No one ever calls my work phone, just my cell; only like three people even have the number. So somehow I know it’s Gaby before I even pick up, and also that she’s going to be annoyed with me.
“I figured I could finally catch you at work. I mean, damn. What’s a girl gotta do to get a call back? I’ve been blowing up your phone.”
“I know, sorry. It’s just been crazy, Gabs.”
There’s something about just hearing her voice that makes me want to break down. I haven’t spoken to her since right before Gigi’s funeral. She was away on a family cruise for the holidays and I didn’t want to bother her with my shit as she circled distant islands most people won’t ever see.
“How are you? How were the holidays? You got my flowers?”
“Yeah, I did, thank you.” They were literally the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen.
“Are you hanging in there? What are you gonna do for New Year’s?”
“Um, watch a marathon of old episodes of Super Soul Sunday?” The truth is, I volunteered to work tomorrow night, because what else do I have to do, but if I tell Gaby that, she’ll give me another lecture about working too much.
“We can all use a little Oprah fo’ sure, but that still sounds sad. You sound sad.”
“I’m okay, just in my head.”
“Who, you?” Gabrielle laughs.
But I’m in no mood for sarcasm.
“Okay, for real, what’s going on, girl? You’ve been a mess. I’m worried about you.”
I lower my voice, but the newsroom is buzzing along around me and no one is paying me any mind. “I know, Gabs. It’s like… I don’t know, I’m just pissed off at the whole world right now. It’s been building and building… everything that happened to me in Birmingham, more Black men dying in the streets, a president whose dog whistle is so loud you can hear it from space. I’m just so raw and on edge. Like I’m so much more aware than I ever was before about all the ways the world is so unfair. It’s getting harder and harder to let it go or to figure out how not to stay mad all the damn time. I’m even mad at Gigi for dying. Or maybe at God for taking her. I don’t even know.”
I can unload some of this anger on Gaby, like putting down a burden and shaking my arms out before I have to pick it back up again.