“You sure about that?” the younger white one asks. “It didn’t seem that way to us.”
“We were just talking, officers,” Mr. Lewis says, much softer than he was minutes ago. His hands are at his sides too. His parents must’ve had the talk with him when he was twelve.
“To me it looks like this young man was harassing you, sir,” the black one says, still looking at Daddy. He hasn’t looked at Mr. Lewis yet. I wonder if it’s because Mr. Lewis isn’t wearing an NWA T-shirt. Or because there aren’t tattoos all on his arms. Or because he’s not wearing somewhat baggy jeans and a backwards cap.
“You got some ID on you?” the black cop asks Daddy.
“Sir, I was about to go back to my store—”
“I said do you have some ID on you?”
My hands shake. Breakfast, lunch, and everything else churns in my stomach, ready to come back up my throat. They’re gonna take Daddy from me.
“What’s going on?”
I turn around. Tim, Mr. Reuben’s nephew, walks over to us. People have stopped on the sidewalk across the street.
“I’m gonna reach for my ID,” Daddy says. “It’s in my back pocket. A’ight?”
“Daddy—” I say.
Daddy keeps his eyes on the officer. “Y’all, go in the store, a’ight? It’s okay.”
We don’t move though.
Daddy’s hand slowly goes to his back pocket, and I look from his hands to theirs, watching to see if they’re gonna make a move for their guns.
Daddy removes his wallet, the leather one I bought him for Father’s Day with his initials embossed on it. He shows it to them.
“See? My ID is in here.”
His voice has never sounded so small.
The black officer takes the wallet and opens it. “Oh,” he says. “Maverick Carter.”
He exchanges a look with his partner.
Both of them look at me.
My heart stops.
They’ve realized I’m the witness.
There must be a file that lists my parents’ names on it. Or the detectives blabbed, and now everyone at the station knows our names. Or they could’ve gotten it from Uncle Carlos somehow. I don’t know how it happened, but it happened. And if something happens to Daddy . . .
The black officer looks at him. “Get on the ground, hands behind your back.”
“But—”
“On the ground, face-down!” he yells. “Now!”
Daddy looks at us. His expression apologizes for the fact that we have to see this.
He gets down on one knee and lowers himself to the ground, face-down. His hands go behind his back, and his fingers interlock.
Where’s that camera operator now? Why can’t this be on the news?
“Now, wait a minute, Officer,” Mr. Lewis says. “Me and him were just talking.”
“Sir, go inside,” the white cop tells him.
“But he didn’t do anything!” Seven says.
“Boy, go inside!” the black cop says.
“No! That’s my father, and—”
“Seven!” Daddy yells.
Even though he’s lying on the concrete, there’s enough authority in his voice to make Seven shut up.
The black officer checks Daddy while his partner glances around at all of the onlookers. There’s quite a few of us now. Ms. Yvette and a couple of her clients stand in her doorway, towels around the clients’ shoulders. A car has stopped in the street.
“Everyone, go about your own business,” the white one says.
“No, sir,” says Tim. “This is our business.”
The black cop keeps his knee on Daddy’s back as he searches him. He pats him down once, twice, three times, just like One-Fifteen did Khalil. Nothing.
“Larry,” the white cop says.
The black one, who must be Larry, looks up at him, then at all the people who have gathered around.
Larry takes his knee off Daddy’s back and stands. “Get up,” he says.
Slowly, Daddy gets to his feet.
Larry glances at me. Bile pools in my mouth. He turns to Daddy and says, “I’m keeping an eye on you, boy. Remember that.”
Daddy’s jaw looks rock hard.
The cops drive off. The car that had stopped in the street leaves, and all of the onlookers go on about their business. One person hollers out, “It’s all right, Maverick.”
Daddy looks at the sky and blinks the way I do when I don’t wanna cry. He clenches and unclenches his hands.
Mr. Lewis touches his back. “C’mon, son.”
He guides Daddy our way, but they pass us and go into the store. Tim follows them.
“Why did they do Daddy like that?” Sekani asks softly. He looks at me and Seven with tears in his eyes.
Seven wraps an arm around him. “I don’t know, man.”
I know.
I go in the store.
DeVante leans against a broom near the cash register, wearing one of those ugly green aprons Daddy tries to make me and Seven wear when we work in the store.
There’s a pang in my chest. Khalil wore one too.
DeVante’s talking to Kenya as she holds a basket full of groceries. When the bell on the door clangs behind me, both of them look my way.
“Yo, what happened?” DeVante asks.
“Was that the cops outside?” says Kenya.
From here I see Mr. Lewis and Tim standing in the doorway of Daddy’s office. He must be in there.
“Yeah,” I answer Kenya, heading toward the back. Kenya and DeVante follow me, asking about fifty million questions that I don’t have time to answer.
Papers are scattered all on the office floor. Daddy’s hunched over his desk, his back moving up and down with each heavy breath.
He pounds the desk. “Fuck!”
Daddy once told me there’s a rage passed down to every black man from his ancestors, born the moment they couldn’t stop the slave masters from hurting their families. Daddy also said there’s nothing more dangerous than when that rage is activated.
“Let it out, son,” Mr. Lewis tells him.
“Fuck them pigs, man,” Tim says. “They only did that shit ’cause they know ’bout Starr.”
Wait. What?
Daddy glances over his shoulder. His eyes are puffy and wet, like he’s been crying. “The hell you talking ’bout, Tim?”
“One of the homeboys saw you, Lisa, and your baby girl getting out an ambulance at the crime scene that night,” Tim says. “Word spread around the neighborhood, and folks think she’s the witness they been talking ’bout on the news.”
Oh.
Shit.
“Starr, go ring Kenya up,” Daddy says. “Vante, finish them floors.”
I head for the cash register, passing Seven and Sekani.
The neighborhood knows.
I ring Kenya up, my stomach knotted the whole time. If the neighborhood knows, it won’t be long until people outside of Garden Heights know. And then what?
“You rang that up twice,” Kenya says.
“Huh?”
“The milk. You rang it up twice, Starr.”
“Oh.”
I cancel one of the milks and put the carton into a bag. Kenya’s probably cooking for herself and Lyric tonight. She does that sometimes. I ring up the rest of her stuff, take her money, and hand her the change.
She stares at me a second, then says, “Were you really the one with him?”
My throat is thick. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it matters. Why you keeping quiet ’bout it? Like you hiding or something.”
“Don’t say it that way.”
“But it is that way. Right?”
I sigh. “Kenya, stop. You don’t understand, all right?”
Kenya folds her arms. “What’s to understand?”
“A lot!” I don’t mean to yell, but damn. “I can’t go around telling people that shit.”
“Why not?”
“Because! You ain’t see what the cops just did to my dad ’cause they know I’m the witness.”
“So you gon’ let the police stop you from speaking out for Khalil? I thought you cared about him way more than that.”
“I do.” I care more than she may ever know. “I already talked to the cops, Kenya. Nothing happened. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Go on TV or something, I don’t know,” she says. “Tell everybody what really happened that night. They’re not even giving his side of the story. You’re letting them trash-talk him—”
“Excuse— How the hell am I letting them do anything?”
“You hear all the stuff they’re saying ’bout him on the news, calling him a thug and stuff, and you know that ain’t Khalil. I bet if he was one of your private school friends, you’d be all on TV, defending him and shit.”