This Is My America(44)

“That sounds like a sucka move. We know a lot of this,” Demarcus says.

“Good. Now, do you know how to do it when you’re late for something and you’re being targeted? Can you control your anger? If so, that’s good. Because then you can memorize their name and badge number. Confirm their number and never consent to a search. State their name and badge number, and request an attorney if they plan to arrest you.”

I put them in groups and ask them what they believe police are allowed to do. Then review.

“They can ask for name, address, date of birth. That’s it. If they believe you have a weapon, they can give you a pat down. Trust this will likely happen. If you resist, the force they use will likely be harder. State you don’t consent to a search, but allow the pat down and confirm you do not have a concealed weapon. Don’t argue.”

Then I dive into what causes escalations and offer some de-escalation tactics, mostly using language that demonstrates that they know the law if they’re interacting with police.

“What about if you are arrested?” I say. “Any of you know what to do?”

“Right to shut the fuck up,” Demarcus says.

“Yes.” I shake my head. “You have the right to remain silent. You also can ask what you’re being arrested for. If you are taken in, who would your first call be?”



“My lawyer,” Cuddy says.

“Yes. You have the right to an attorney; ask for one. But you probably don’t have lawyers on retainer. Who can you call to work on that for you?”

Demarcus raises his hand. “My sister. Ain’t no way I’m calling my parents.”

“Yeah,” Cuddy says. “I’d have to call my mama, ’cause my pops would probably let me sit for a couple of days before I could tell him what happened.”

“Demarcus,” I say. “What’s your sister’s number?”

Demarcus picks up his phone and scrolls.

“Put it down,” I say. “You’re in a holding cell. No phone. You need at least two numbers memorized. Who’s got one?”

Heads shake. Like almost all of my presentations.

“I got one,” Quincy says.

My eyes widen as Quincy recites my cell number.

“You have one number memorized, and you pick mine?”

“Ain’t calling my mama. Beverly would already know. If I called Jamal, he’d call you. Who better than you anyway? You know lawyers, judges, bail bonds, plus how to set up a GoFundMe account to get my ass outta jail.”

“Yo, Quincy,” Demarcus says. “Repeat that number right quick.”

“Yeah, let me put that in my phone, cuz, so I can memorize,” Cuddy says.



“Don’t you dare, Quincy.” I flick my fingers at him. Quincy grins, knowing he caused this stir. Malcolm asks him a question, then he writes down what’s probably my number and Beverly’s.

“Pick somebody you know well, somebody who’ll answer an unknown number.”

“Damn,” Cuddy says. “Only my mama does that.”

I go through a few more rounds of questions and scenarios. As we close, I see Quincy’s getting ready to leave. I pair up the audience and leave the groups with a scenario about an officer at your home. Quincy’s about to leave.

“Hold up,” I say.

Quincy weaves his way to me, probably thinking I’m getting on him about his memorizing my number stunt. He waves Malcolm on to wait outside.

“You’re leaving?” I ask.

“You want me to stay?” Quincy steps a little closer and gives me a cocky smile.

“You are too much. I’m just saying, you make a big scene in my workshop, then bounce? That for show or what?”

“Nah. I gotta get home, you know, especially if I’m going to help you break in to Herron Media.” Quincy drops this last line all clever like.

“How did you—”

“Jamal texted. Thought you might be needing backup.”

“You’re gonna help, huh? You have a genius way in?”



“Swiped keys on my way here.” Quincy smiles, then dangles the keys in front of my face.

“What? Really?”

“We been in touch. Grabbed a phone at the convenience store during lunch.”

I look away. A little frustrated Jamal doesn’t trust I can do it alone.

“Hey, I can also go by myself if you gonna pout about it.”

“Nine p.m., after dark. In the back.”

“Bet.” Quincy whistles at Malcolm and they head toward his Impala, throwing two fingers up before he drives off.

When I get back to the session, they’re all done with the role-plays and ready to bounce. In the back, a clean-shaven Black guy in his mid-twenties enters.

“Welcome.” I wave him in. “We’re about done, but I can give you handouts and a calendar for the upcoming workshops.”

“I’d appreciate that.” He steps closer. “Tracy Beaumont, correct?”

I nod. He doesn’t look like the typical person who joins my sessions. More like a reporter with his white-collared shirt under a dark blue suit jacket.

I gather the last of my handouts and wait until everyone leaves before approaching him. Curiosity building.