“Starr, we were thinking we could get shots of you and Diane walking and talking around the courtyard,” John says. “Then we’ll go up to the suite and do the conversations between you and Diane; you, Diane, and Ms. Ofrah; and finally you and your parents. After that, we’ll be all set.”
One of the production people mics me up as John gives me a rundown of this walk and talk thing. “It’s only a transitional shot,” he says. “Simple stuff.”
Simple my ass. The first time, I practically power-walk. The second time, I walk like I’m in a funeral processional and can’t answer Mrs. Carey’s questions. I never realized walking and talking required so much coordination.
Once we get that right, we take an elevator to the top floor. John leads us to a huge suite—seriously, it looks like a penthouse—overlooking downtown. About a dozen people are setting up cameras and lighting. Ms. Ofrah’s there in one of her Khalil shirts and a skirt. John says they’re ready for me.
I sit in the loveseat across from Mrs. Carey. I’ve never been able to cross my legs, for whatever reason, so that’s out the question. They check my mic, and Mrs. Carey tells me to relax. Soon, the cameras are rolling.
“Millions of people around the world have heard the name Khalil Harris,” she says, “and they’ve developed their own ideas of who he was. Who was he to you?”
More than he may have ever realized. “One of my best friends,” I say. “We knew each other since we were babies. If he were here, he’d point out that he was five months, two weeks, and three days older than me.” We both chuckle at that. “But that’s who Khalil is—was.”
Damn. It hurts to correct myself.
“He was a jokester. Even when things were hard, he’d somehow find some light in it. And he . . .” My voice cracks.
I know it’s corny, but I think he’s here. His nosy ass would show up to make sure I say the right things. Probably calling me his number one fan or some annoying title that only Khalil can think of.
I miss that boy.
“He had a big heart,” I say. “I know that some people call him a thug, but if you knew him, you’d know that wasn’t the case at all. I’m not saying he was an angel or anything, but he wasn’t a bad person. He was a . . .” I shrug. “He was a kid.”
She nods. “He was a kid.”
“He was a kid.”
“What do you think about people who focus on the not-so-good aspect of him?” she asks. “The fact that he may have sold drugs?”
Ms. Ofrah once said that this is how I fight, with my voice.
So I fight.
“I hate it,” I say. “If people knew why he sold drugs, they wouldn’t talk about him that way.”
Mrs. Carey sits up a little. “Why did he sell them?”
I glance at Ms. Ofrah, and she shakes her head. During all our prep meetings, she advised me not to go into details about Khalil selling drugs. She said the public doesn’t have to know about that.
But then I look at the camera, suddenly aware that millions of people will watch this in a few days. King may be one of them. Although his threat is loud in my head, it’s not nearly as loud as what Kenya said that day in the store.
Khalil would defend me. I should defend him.
So I gear up to throw a punch.
“Khalil’s mom is a drug addict,” I tell Mrs. Carey. “Anybody who knew him knew how much that bothered him and how much he hated drugs. He only sold them to help her out of a situation with the biggest drug dealer and gang leader in the neighborhood.”
Ms. Ofrah noticeably sighs. My parents have wide eyes.
It’s dry snitching, but it’s snitching. Anybody who knows anything about Garden Heights will know exactly who I’m talking about. Hell, if they watch Mr. Lewis’s interview they can figure it out.
But hey, since King wants to go around the neighborhood lying and saying Khalil repped his set, I can let the world know Khalil was forced to sell drugs for him. “His mom’s life was in danger,” I say. “That’s the only reason he’d ever do something like that. And he wasn’t a gang member—”
“He wasn’t?”
“No, ma’am. He never wanted to fall into that type of life. But I guess—” I think about DeVante for some reason. “I don’t understand how everyone can make it seem like it’s okay he got killed if he was a drug dealer and a gangbanger.”
A hook straight to the jaw.
“The media?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. It seems like they always talk about what he may have said, what he may have done, what he may not have done. I didn’t know a dead person could be charged in his own murder, you know?”
The moment I say it, I know it’s my jab to the mouth.
Mrs. Carey asks for my account of that night. I can’t go into a lot of details—Ms. Ofrah told me not to—but I tell her we did everything One-Fifteen asked and never once cussed at him like his father claims. I tell her how afraid I was, how Khalil was so concerned about me that he opened the door and asked if I was okay.
“So he didn’t make a threat on Officer Cruise’s life?” she questions.
“No, ma’am. His exact words were, ‘Starr, are you okay?’ That was the last thing he said, and—”
I’m ugly crying, describing the moment when the shots rang out and Khalil looked at me for the last time; how I held him in the street and saw his eyes gloss over. I tell her One-Fifteen pointed his gun at me.
“He pointed his gun at you?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. He kept it on me until the other officers arrived.”
Behind the cameras, Momma puts her hand over her mouth. Fury sparks in Daddy’s eyes. Ms. Ofrah looks stunned.
It’s another jab.
See, I only told Uncle Carlos that part.
Mrs. Carey gives me Kleenex and a moment to get myself together. “Has this situation made you fearful of cops?” she eventually asks.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “My uncle’s a cop. I know not all cops are bad. And they risk their lives, you know? I’m always scared for my uncle. But I’m tired of them assuming. Especially when it comes to black people.”
“You wish that more cops wouldn’t make assumptions about black people?” she clarifies.
“Right. This all happened because he”—I can’t say his name—“assumed that we were up to no good. Because we’re black and because of where we live. We were just two kids, minding our business, you know? His assumption killed Khalil. It could’ve killed me.”
A kick straight to the ribs.
“If Officer Cruise were sitting here,” Mrs. Carey says, “what would you say to him?”
I blink several times. My mouth waters, but I swallow. No way I’m gonna let myself cry or throw up from thinking about that man.
If he were sitting here, I don’t have enough Black Jesus in me to tell him I forgive him. Instead I’d probably punch him. Straight up.
But Ms. Ofrah says this interview is the way I fight. When you fight, you put yourself out there, not caring who you hurt or if you’ll get hurt.
So I throw one more blow, right at One-Fifteen.
“I’d ask him if he wished he shot me too.”
SEVENTEEN
My interview aired yesterday on Diane Carey’s Friday Night News Special. This morning, John the producer called and said it’s one of the most-watched interviews in the network’s history.
A millionaire, who wishes to remain anonymous, offered to pay my college tuition. John said the offer was made right after the interview aired. I think it’s Oprah, but that’s just me because I’ve always imagined she’s my fairy godmother and one day she’ll come to my house saying, “You get a car!”
The network’s already got a bunch of emails in support of me. I haven’t seen any of them, but I received the best message in a text from Kenya.
Bout time you spoke out.
Don’t let this fame go to your head tho.
The interview trended online. When I looked this morning, people were still talking about it. Black Twitter and Tumblr have my back. Some assholes want me dead.
King’s not too happy either. Kenya told me he’s heated that I dry snitched.
The Saturday news programs discussed the interview too, dissecting my words like I’m the president or something. This one network is outraged by my “disregard for cops.” I’m not sure how they got that out the interview. It’s not like I was on some NWA “Fuck the Police” type shit. I simply said I’d ask the man if he wished he shot me too.