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Maybe I wouldn’t even have blamed the officers if they’d needed to restrain her. Sally was acting scary, like she’d really hurt someone. But they’re treating Sally like… like… like she’s a human being.
Two more officers and a fire ambulance now show up, but the two working officers who have been there from the beginning shake their heads and wave the new guys off.
“It’s all under control,” the female officer says. The few other neighbors who have come out to watch the commotion head back inside their houses. The red light on the ambulance twirls and twirls, adding way too much drama to what ended up being a very undramatic situation.
Sally stands perfectly still. She looks confused, like she doesn’t know where she is.
The officers help Sally into the back of their police car. The male officer says, “Okay, we’re ready. We’re going to get you back safe and sound and into bed.”
They let her take her time getting into the car. The female officer slides in next to old Sally.
The other officer quickly spins around and looks directly at me and Gabe, who had come closer to watch the scene.
“And you two guys. The same advice. Go back home and get to bed. And if you don’t want to walk back home, we’ll give you a ride. I’m sure your parents will be glad to see you getting out of a police car.”
Screaming Sally gives Gabe and me a wide smile and a big wave through the car’s rear window.
As we start the short walk back to our homes, Gabe says, “I definitely thought that was going to end differently. But they were so nice with her. Helping her, getting her calm. Taking her back to the shelter.”
“Yeah, the cops were really great,” I say. “No wonder so many people hate them.”
NANAMAMA GOESto church every Sunday. And we go with her, whether we like it or not.
“Jesus is expecting you,” she always says. And then she adds, “And we certainly are not going to disappoint Him.”
It’s always the eleven o’clock Mass up at St. Anthony’s where Jesus is expecting the Cross family.
If my dad is home—the only reason he can ever miss Mass is if he’s working an emergency—then he and Bree join us. When Mass ends (and it takes a while, what with all the choir songs and preaching and praying and the priest asking for donations) my dad goes over to the church hall and helps out at the soup kitchen. Sometimes he takes me with him, and when he does that he always tells me the same thing: “If someone asks you to do something, just go ahead and do it. It’s always best to be helpful.” Being helpful for me seems to entail the endless unfolding of folding chairs, the occasional mopping of the kitchen floor, and, worst of all, the endless rinsing out and scrubbing of all the pots and pans and cups and plates. Then, of course, there’s always this annoying little thing. People ask me one certain question over and over again: “You’re the detective’s boy, aren’t you?”
Everything at church is the same from week to week. Nana dresses up, sometimes even wearing a hat. We all walk through the center entrance doors and into the church. Nana always insists on walking down the center aisle to get a “good seat up front.” Dad says she’d sit on the altar if they let her.
I hate that walk down the aisle. I know that we’re all being looked at—not necessarily in a rude way, but still, people are watching us.
Nana marches straight ahead like a fast-walking happy bride who can’t wait to get married. Dad and Bree walk a bit slower, and Dad smiles at all the people he knows (and that’s a lot of people). Sometimes he’ll even stop to shake somebody’s hand or give some lady a quick kiss on the cheek.
More than once I’ve heard Nana tell him that he walks through the church “like a man who’s running for mayor.”
His answer is always the same: “Well, maybe someday I will run for mayor. So this is good practice.”
Jannie hates the walk as much as I do, but for different reasons. She is sure that everyone is studying her, judging her. She’ll say later on, “I think everybody hated my salmon-colored hoodie.” I’ll say, “How could you even know that?” She’ll say, “Because I just know. Don’t you understand?” I guess I don’t.
But today, with all the publicity, I know how she feels. It’s not just that I see heads turning as we make our formal entrance, it’s that I can hear people.
“That’s the Cross boy.”
“Look. The father is with them. I know him pretty well. Good man. Good man.”
“That’s the father. I’ve met him. A little too sure of himself if you ask me.”
“That’s the boy who’s arguing for the cop’s side in that school debate.”
On and on. I try to ignore it. Fat chance.
The story sells itself. Dramatic. Dangerous. Local. So everybody in Southeast has strong opinions about the shooting, and the folks in Southeast are not shy about making their opinions heard. Yes, there have been two district council meetings about “The Future of Proper Policing.” Yes, a formal investigation into Officer Hanson’s conduct has been set up. And, unfortunately (in my opinion), news about our middle school debate has really captured the imagination of a lot of people in this part of DC.
It’s become well-known enough that the debate has even been opened to the public. (“It’s apublicschool, okay?” Mateo reminded me a little harshly.) In fact, the whole ridiculous thing has been moved to the auditorium. Okay, it’s not the main stage at the Kennedy Center, but for Ali Cross it is totally frightening.
Anyway, because of all this focus on the debate, I’m hating my life quite a lot as we walk down the main aisle this particular Sunday.
