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The front doors of the police station open. Four uniformed police officers step out. Two of the officers are Black. The other two are white. I’ve got to think that this is totally deliberate. And one of the white officers is a woman. Not just deliberate planning.Politicalplanning.
WE WANT THE CHIEF!
WE WANT THE CHIEF!
WE WANT THE CHIEF!
Someone in charge inside must have decided that the only way to simmer this crowd down is to give them what they’re screaming for.
Out walks Police Chief Gordon Dean Benton, a very tall, hulking guy who came up through the ranks and is about as well-liked as anybody in that job can be. Benton always enjoys the spotlight, and he seems to be on the local stations every other day. He’s a smooth talker. I suddenly remember my dad saying,Gordy Benton has been running for office since he was in kindergarten.
Chief Benton starts talking, and from the get-go it sounds like he copied his “impromptu remarks” out of a grammar school civics book from a hundred years ago.
“Trying to defend civil liberty and the citizens themselves is a great challenge.”
Man. I can immediately tell this is not going to end well.
“The job that the police have to do and the will of the people must be joined together.”
Someone from the crowd yells, “Kill the cops before they kill more of us.” This sounds a little harsh to me, but so many other people join in with “Yeah” or “Amen” or “Say it.”
Benton just keeps on yapping.
“I appreciate the will of the people, but I also appreciate the task of the police.”
A tall Black man standing next to me holds a megaphone to his mouth and begins yelling.
“Lies. Lies. Lies.” He says it over and over. He’s practically chanting the words. Because of this guy, lots of people in the crowd—and their cameras—turn toward us. Some of them say, “Yessir, brother” and others say, “Let the man talk.” Whatever—they’re looking at the guy with the megaphone. But, of course, they can’t help but notice me.
I scan the faces looking over at me. And I suddenly see a face I absolutely do not want to see.
Yeah, you guessed it.
Detective Alex Cross.
Our eyes meet. I’m scared. I’m nervous. I should be home doing homework. I should be grounded. I should be anywhere but here.
Then my dad nods his head. He nods it twice. Three times.
Okay. I got it.
This place is important. This event is important.
I know I’m right about this. My dad is cool that I’m here.
THE GOOD NEWSis that the demonstration eventually calms down. Not because of the totally weak-ass speech that the police chief gives. Like the woman next to me says, “I sure hope the chief doesn’t hurt himself trying to sit on both sides of the fence at the same time.”
One of the group leaders, a young woman who introduces herself as the author of a book calledPolitics, Peace, and Promise, gives a speech to the crowd. She tells them there’ll be a committee meeting tomorrow at the town recreation center on Holfield Street. When she reminds the group that this is “only the beginning of our story, not the end of it,” everyone seems to calm down a little. Besides, even the most passionate people have chores to do and jobs to get to and suppers to eat.
Like I said, that’s the good news.
The bad news? The bad news only applies to me: I’d broken the rules of my grounding.
My dad says he was happy I got to see the passion that people have about the issue that I’m about to debate. But he also says that he can’t ignore the fact that I had disobeyed him.
His parting words? “Grounded means grounded. It’s as simple as that.”
I think maybe the worst part of being grounded is not just having to stay inside my house all the time but also having to stay inside my housewithout having any of my friends over.Yeah, sure, we text until our thumbs are practically bloody (when I get to use my phone, at least), but it’s not the same as having the guys right there.
