This Is My America(37)

My fingers going numb, I try to ignore the icy grip of fear. It will only paralyze me.



Desperate for safety, I scramble farther into the shadows, even though the space gets tighter and tighter.

I take quick breaths in, trying to make myself small, hoping this hulking contraption will be enough to hide me. I hold back a cough from sucking in old dirt and heat trapped inside the building. The dreadful smell of must suffocates my lungs and tickles the back of my throat.

The door opens, broad daylight streaming in. I lower myself, stretching out to fit under a piece of metal. My fingertips reach for anything to pull on to tuck my body beneath the machinery.

Still, my eyes strain. I’m desperate to catch sight of whoever is here. Peering through a gap, I can barely make out two men walking inside, coming closer.

I’m torn, afraid if I see them, they’ll see me.

I spot something.

On the ground, near the gap I’ve shoved myself through, is a cell phone.

The men turn around and walk toward the door, their mumbled voices talking about “a waste of time” and “what are we looking for?”

They finally leave. I breathe a sigh of relief and wait it out a few more minutes before crawling toward the gap, closer to the phone.

The phone looks like it had been flung on the ground, dropped in a rush. Hearts cover the case.

Angela’s phone.



It has to be. My left pocket has my cell in it already. I decide to tuck Angela’s phone safely next to Jamal’s burner in the secret compartment of my purse.

After ten minutes of silence, I push the door out slowly, then step outside.

“Hey!” a man’s voice yells. “Over there!”

I curse and take off running past the packing building, thrashing my arms around so the grass moves out of my way. Heart in my throat, I press on, hoping if I go around the building, I’ll be able to find the path. Make my way to the car and escape.

A voice yells, “Stop!”

I keep running until their words click together in my brain.

“Police! Stop! Or I’ll shoot.”

My chest screams out. Pounding. I don’t trust what’ll happen if I stop.

My instincts say to flee.

My brain says to stop.

I throw my hands up and turn, but I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see it happen.

I don’t move. I can’t move.

The sickly fear of death snakes up through my body.

They yell again, and I can’t help but force my eyes open.

One white officer keeps his weapon on me as he walks slowly toward me. My muscles tense, trying not to move and holding back from flinching. Even if the police leave me unharmed, a search would get rid of my only way of communicating with Jamal and give them Angela’s phone before I can take a look. Another tall and thin officer with silver hair follows behind the first, his face much younger than his hair indicates. His badge reads DAVIS CLYDE. He puts his hand on the other officer’s shoulder, and they exchange fierce whispers.



“Wait!” a woman’s voice cries out to the officers. “Wait. She’s with me. She called me.”

Beverly passes them, wearing her on-duty cop uniform. She steps between their guns and me. Wrapping one arm around me, she lets out a painful exhale. “She’s with me.”

I grab on to her tight, so she doesn’t let go. I’m too afraid to speak. To move.

“That’s the suspect’s sister.” The officer with the gun on me points with his free hand. “What are you doing at the scene of a crime?”

“Put the gun away,” Officer Clyde says to the other officer.

“Tell them what you’re doing here, Tracy,” Beverly says with wide eyes.

“I came by the dock. I had to see for myself because my brother wouldn’t do what you think he did.”

“She called to ask if this is still a crime scene.” Beverly hands over her phone to show the texts. “I didn’t want her walking around here by herself. I came to check on her. See.”

“Take a look, Clyde,” the other officer says.

Officer Clyde reviews Beverly’s phone, then asks for mine.

I hesitate as I reach in my left pocket. I bite the inside of my cheek, worry building that they’ll search me and find the other phones. I hand my phone over. Four texts from Beverly scroll up.



Cleared. Why?

You’re not there, are you?

Answer me.

I’m coming. Stay put.

“Looks legit,” Officer Clyde says. “This is still a crime scene, though, as we search for more evidence. You shouldn’t be here.”

I watch the other officer with the gun, knowing some of their evidence is in my purse. My stomach swallows itself. Turning and turning.

“Thought we were done collecting evidence,” Beverly says.

“There’s an unaccounted piece of evidence,” Officer Clyde says.

“I’ll walk her out,” Beverly says.

“Think that’s a good idea?” the other officer says. “We should question her. Aren’t you in school? You got something you wanna share with us…?”

“N-no. Um, no, sir,” I stutter.

“We need you to point out everywhere you’ve been, so we can add to the report. You’ve compromised the scene,” Beverly says.