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“I hate them,” Jannie said as we pulled away.
“It’s like they’re feeding on Dad,” Ali said.
“Bloodsuckers,” the driver said.
All too soon we arrived in front of the DC District Court at 500 Indiana Avenue. It’s a two-wing, smooth-limestone structure with a steel-and-glass atrium over the lobby and a large plaza flanked by raised gardens out front. If there’d been twenty vultures at my house, there were sixty jackals there for my rendezvous with cold justice.
Anita Marley, my attorney, was also there, waiting at the curb.
Tall and athletically built, with auburn hair, freckled skin, and sharp emerald eyes, Marley once played volleyball for and studied acting at the University of Texas before graduating near the top of her law school class at Rice University. She was also classy, and brassy, and hilarious, as well as certifiably badass in the courtroom, which is why we hired her.
Marley opened my door.
“I do the talking from here on out, Alex,” she said in a commanding drawl before the roar of accusation and ridicule hit me from behind her, far worse than what I’d been subjected to at home.
I’d seen this kind of thing before from much different angles: a big-time trial mob, with local and national news broadcasters preparing to feed raw meat to the twenty-four-hour cable news monster. I’d just never been the raw meat before.
“Talk to us, Cross!” they shouted. “Are you the problem? Are you and your cowboy ways what the police have become in America? Above the law?”
I couldn’t take it and said, “No one is above the law.”
“Don’t talk,” Marley whispered loudly and took me by the elbow, moving me across the plaza toward the front doors of the courthouse.
The swarm went with us, still buzzing, still stinging.
From the crowd beyond the reporters, a man shouted in a terrified voice, “Don’t shoot me, Cross! Don’t shoot!”
Others started to chant with him in that same tone. “Don’t shoot me, Cross! Don’t shoot!”
Despite my best efforts, I could not help turning my head to look at them, seeing some carrying placards that featured a red X over my face. Beneath one it read: END POLICE VIOLENCE! Beneath another it said: GUILTY AS CHARGED!
In front of the bulletproof courthouse doors, Marley stopped to turn me toward the lights, microphones, and cameras. I threw my shoulders back and lifted my chin.
My attorney held up her hand and said in a loud and firm voice, “Dr. Cross is an innocent man and an innocent police officer. We are very happy that at long last he’ll have the opportunity to clear his good name.”
The police officers manning the security checkpoint watched me as I entered the courthouse, the media still boiling behind me.
Sergeant Doug Kenny, chief of court security and an old friend, said, “We’re with you, Alex. Good shoot from what I hear. Damn good shoot.”
The other three all nodded and smiled at me as I went through the metal detectors. Outside, the horde descended on my family as they fought toward the court entrance.
Nana Mama, Damon, and Jannie made it inside first, looking shaken. Ali and Bree entered a few moments later. As the door swung shut, Ali faced the reporters peering in. Then he raised his middle finger in the universal salute.
“Ali!” Nana Mama cried, grabbing him by the collar. “That is unacceptable behavior!”
But with the security team chuckling at him, and me smiling, Ali didn’t show a bit of remorse.
“Tough kid,” Anita said, steering me toward the elevators.
“Smart kid,” said a younger African American woman who appeared beside me. “Always has been.”
I put my arm around her shoulder, hugged her, and kissed her head.
“Thank you for being here, Naomi,” I said.
“You’ve always had my back, Uncle Alex,” she said.
Naomi Cross, my late brother Aaron’s daughter, is a respected criminal defense attorney in her own right, and she’d jumped at the chance to help me and to work with the renowned Anita Marley on my case.
