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Here’s what happens: by seven o’clock, there are about one hundred people standing and shouting and singing and carrying signs, andall of that is happening outside our house! They’re standing on the street, on the sidewalk, on our little patch of front lawn. Mostly grown-ups. A few kids. Two or three old people sitting on folding chairs.
Jannie and I stand a few feet away from our dining room window. But we sure have no trouble hearing the crowd outside. And of course we can see the banners and posters. Plus, even from inside our house I can see the anger in the protesters’ eyes and the words on the hand-scrawled signs waving in the air.
COPS GET AWAY WITH MURDER!
is the one sign I can’t look away from. I’m thinking,Wait, you guys. This time, nobody was murdered.But I get the point. At least I sort of do.
I guess you can hear the shouting from everywhere inside our house. Because all of a sudden Nana Mama comes bustling into the dining room. Bree is right behind her.
“Do you think we should be worried, Nana?” asks Jannie.
“No,” says Bree. “As long as they stay peaceful.”
“Good luck with that,” I say.
“No need for sarcasm,” says Nana. Then she says to Bree, “Have you talked to Alex yet?”
“I texted him. He’s down at the precinct. He’s coming home right now.”
“Good,” I say.
Just then Jannie says, “Hey, everyone, look on over to the left. They’ve even got a sign about the cop who—”
“The word is notcop. The correct word isofficer,” Bree says.
Respect. In my house, so much is about respect.
“Okay, theofficerwho did the shooting,” says Jannie.
ARREST JEREMY HANSON!
Maybe Bree has no trouble staying calm, but I’m getting scared as hell. Some weird rock music is blaring from somewhere in the crowd. Signs are waving in the air. The street is filled with loud voices, harsh music, and people wearing T-shirts that say things like:
TOO MANY COPS
TOO LITTLE JUSTICE
Yeah, I’ve got to admit it: I’m scared as a little baby.
One group chants “FIRE THE COPS—WHEN?” Another loud group answers, “FIRE THE COPS NOW!”
(I guess no one told ’em that you’re supposed to call them “officers.”)
These two groups go back and forth with their chanting, over and over and over again. Meanwhile Nana Mama walks right up close to the dining room window and carefully surveys the scene. Her nose is almost touching the glass.
Okay, I know you can’t have lived in Southeast and not seen demonstrations and protests and screaming crowds. But it’s something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. And right now, with this crowd, I’m scared for Nana Mama. I’m scared for all of us Crosses.
Nana Mama looks away from the angry crowd. She turns and speaks to Bree.
“Did Alex tell us what we should do?”
“He only said not to worry, and that all of us should stay inside until he gets home.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, that’s one opinion,” says Nana. Then she unties her apron, folds it neatly, and places it on the dining table.
She walks from the dining room to our little front hall. She opens the front door and steps out on the brick stoop and stands facing the crowd.
“Fire the cops!”
