We Are Not Like Them(82)

But what stands out about the video beyond Justin’s tragic death are two things. Justin doesn’t match the description of the guy they were looking for—Rick Sargent. Even in the black-and-white video it’s clear that Justin is wearing a bright green North Face jacket, not the black coat Rick was reported as wearing. He’s also a good six inches shorter. I know all this from the incident report I finally got from my police source. It underscores that Cameron shouldn’t have shot. And that’s the other thing about the video. You can see Cameron charge around the corner a split second before Kevin. This is why I watched the video the second and third time, in slow motion. Kevin didn’t shoot first. In the video Kevin follows Cameron, sees his partner shooting, raises his gun, and fires. Then, while Cameron just stands there, Kevin runs over, drops down to his knees like he’s whispering something to Justin.

“What the hell did that cop say to the kid after he shot him?” a pundit shouts on WHYY. As I drive, morning talk radio is on fire dissecting the shooting. Everyone and their cousin has an opinion.

“You saw him reach into his pocket. He could have been reaching for a gun. Those officers had a reason to shoot. These youngsters need to listen.”

“That’s what he was trying to do—taking out his headphones. He was dead before he got a chance to listen!”

“That guy who ran across the shot. I bet that’s who they was really after, but we all look alike, right?”

“You shouldn’t be a police officer if you’re that afraid.”

“No one goes to work saying, ‘I’m going to kill someone today.’?”

“Police officers have a split second to act. Blink your eyes. Can you make a decision that fast?”

“If you keep attacking cops, and claim they’re racist, they’ll stop policing.”

I switch to another station. There’s a man talking about racism against white people, the author of yet another book about why white men are so righteously angry. He’s arguing that anti-white rhetoric is reaching “dangerous levels” and that there’s nothing wrong with having pride in your nationality.

“I know I’m supposed to be ashamed to be a white man in America right now. Well, let me tell you I am not,” he says.

I slam my hand against the control and switch the station again. Beyoncé has never been a more welcome presence in my life.

Rush hour traffic is a beast. I shouldn’t have tried to drive all the way out to St. Mary’s hospital before work, but I just wanted to bring Jen’s shower gift—the Mama Bird T-shirt—so she knew I was thinking of her, especially today, before Sabrina announces the indictment. Sabrina called the press conference last night, right after she leaked the video footage to MSNBC. At least, I suspect it was her, to drum fervor in time for her announcement. She wants as big a stage as possible. And she got one, fifteen full minutes with Joy Reid and an Anderson Cooper appearance, which means she doesn’t need me anymore. I don’t begrudge her this, though I am annoyed that she reneged on an exclusive interview with me and she hasn’t returned my calls the last two days. Her office has been dodging me. The best I can hope for is a few minutes after the press conference today.

The press conference that will change my friend’s life.

I’ve called and texted Jen at least once every day since Chase was born and haven’t received a single response. I tell myself it’s because she’s busy with the baby, especially since he’s probably still in the NICU. I don’t want to stress her out or force myself on her, so I’m just going to drop off the gift at the front desk and hope they’ll get it to her. I’m still waiting for some magical moment when Jen and I can reset, pick up where we left off. Where did we leave off?

The visitor lot is full so I pull into the patient lot, hoping it won’t matter if I take a space for five minutes to run this to the nurse’s station. I haven’t even opened my door when I spot Jen’s beat-up Camry in the row in front of mine. The engine is running, I can tell by the plume of exhaust fanning into the cold, and even through the fogged-up windows I can see Jen’s blond hair, her head slumped down on the steering wheel.

My first instinct is to drive away. We’ve got to talk, yes, but I don’t have the time right now without being late to work, and I hadn’t planned on actually seeing Jenny at all, but I can’t leave her like this.

“Jenny?” I rap on the passenger-side window. Her head jerks up and I see that tears are streaming down her face. I open the door and slide into the front seat. The last time I saw Jen cry was in first grade when Lou shaved her head during a lice outbreak because it was cheaper than buying the expensive shampoo. I rush over to the passenger side and let myself in. Did something happen with Chase?

“I can’t take it, Riley. I can’t take it anymore!” She launches in as if she expected me all along. “It’s just too much. I’m so fucking tired of all these people treating my husband like a villain and a scapegoat.”

These people?

“Kevin’s not a racist, or a bad apple, or a ‘symptom of the systemic ills plaguing the police forces across America.’?” She jabs her finger at the radio. She was clearly listening to the same morning shows I was. “This is such bullshit. And now in a few hours that stupid DA is going to stand in front of a zillion TV cameras and announce she wants Kevin’s head on a platter. Can you believe that, Riley? And on top of everything, I feel like you’ve abandoned me and that’s making all of this even worse.” Her tears escalate to full-blown sobs. “I don’t care, I had to say that. I’m mad, Riley. Really mad.”