The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross #25)(24)

“Dad?” Ali said, jogging beside me. “Did you know that running for more than thirty minutes promotes brain-cell regeneration?”

I glanced down at him, in wonder again that a nine-year-old, my nine-year-old, could know about brain-cell regeneration.

“Can’t say that I did,” I said, puffing along. “I mean, I know it’s good for your heart.”

“And good for your brain,” he said. “I saw a thing about it online. That’s why I told Jannie I wanted to start running with her.”

“So you could regenerate your brain cells?” I said. “C’mon, bud, you’re nine. You’re still growing brain cells and will be for a long time.”

Ali looked at me with mild indignation. “I’ll grow more by running.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “I’ll trust you on this.”

He smiled and said, “But not too much running, otherwise my brain will get too big, and my head will explode, won’t it, Dad?”

There was my nine-year-old boy.

“Dad?”

“No, your brain won’t explode from running too much.”

“You’re sure?”

“You think Jannie’s head’s going to explode?”

I glanced over and saw he was alarmed by that idea. “No one’s head is exploding from being fit,” I said as we neared the arboretum. “Next subject.”

Ali didn’t say anything until we’d reached the park, reversed direction toward home, and were jogging down South Carolina Avenue.

Then he said, “Dad, do some police in our country hate some people so much they’ll just shoot them for no reason?”





CHAPTER


28


THAT ONE SHOCKED me, and I slowed to a stop, hands on my hips and sweat dripping down my nose. “Why would you say that, son?”

Ali heard the tone of my voice, looked uncertain, and said, “I saw some people on TV say that black kids get shot just ’cause they’re black and that you shot those Soneji people just because you hated that dead guy they worship.”

My stomach felt hollow. A caustic taste came up my throat and made the back of my tongue burn.

At last, I said, “Let’s start with the first part. Are you scared a police officer might shoot you because of the color of your skin?”

“Should I be scared?” Ali asked, crossing his arms. “They said it happens all the time.”

“First off, being a police officer is a very difficult job. You understand that, right?”

“I guess. Yes.”

“Second, too many black men are getting shot,” I said. “And some of them by racists. But, on the whole, I think it’s more a question of police officers who aren’t trained correctly, who don’t follow the rules and the most up-to-date methods of law enforcement.”

Rather than getting calmer, Ali became more upset and started to run away. I ran after him, stopped him, and saw he was in tears.

Before I could ask him what the matter was, he blubbered, “You don’t follow the rules, Dad. That’s what the people on TV said. They said you were out of control and represented everything wrong with the police in America today.”

That felt like a kick to the head. “Do you think that?”

Wiping at his tears, Ali sniffled. “But that’s what people are saying, Dad. Even at school.”

I put one knee down on the sidewalk and looked up at my son, who was searching my face for answers.

“I wasn’t out of control that night, Ali,” I said. “I shot those people because they were trying to shoot me.”

“But they said—”

“I know what they’ve said,” I said, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “All I can say is it’s not true, son. Your dad is not a cold-blooded killer. It was self-defense. You have to believe me. You do believe me, don’t you?”

Ali studied my face for so long I thought I’d lost him, but then he nodded and hugged me so tight that tears welled up in my eyes and love choked my throat.

“Thank you, little buddy,” I said hoarsely. “I don’t think I can do this without you watching my back.”





CHAPTER


29


TWO HOURS LATER and sitting in my basement office, I was feeling depressed by my conversation with Ali. I suppose it’s always a blue day when your nine-year-old questions your personal and professional integrity.

I tried to get my mind off it by thinking about the things Neal Parks had told us the night before. The pimp said he’d seen a fully downloaded video from— There was a sharp knock at the outer door to the basement. I glanced at my watch. My new client was five minutes early.

When I opened the outer door, I found a wrung-out, sandy-haired man with sad, sunken blue eyes and weathered looks that made it hard to judge his age. He was dressed in pressed jeans, a starched white shirt, and polished boat moccasins with no socks, and he wore a hammered-gold wedding ring, a Rolex watch, and a tiny gold crucifix on a chain around his neck.

“Mr. Lindel?” I said, holding out my hand.

“Alden Lindel,” he said, shaking my hand and training those sunken eyes on me. “So glad you could make time to see me, Dr. Cross.”