They both disappeared through the front door.
Titus wanted them nearby but he didn’t want them standing guard outside. If things went sideways, they were only a few steps away, but he didn’t want Jamal and his people to feel like they were in a standoff.
“Sheriff Crown, can we have a moment of your time?” Jamal said. He was a handsome young brother with a booming voice. He had the tone and mannerisms of an old-school pastor but the vison and passion of a millennial activist. A lot of the older Black folks in the county didn’t cotton to his long braids or his casual attire. Jeans, brown Timberland boots, and throwback football jerseys weren’t how they expected a minister to dress. Titus thought Jamal’s wardrobe was a welcome change. He actually preferred that to the pimp/prophet outfits some pastors wore these days.
“Reverend Addison. What can I do for you?”
Titus had noticed that Jamal stopped referring to him by his first name around six months after he’d been elected. Titus decided he should probably do the same. If a man decides you aren’t his friend, then you look like a fool trying to hang on to that title.
Jamal put his hands together as if he were going to pray. He took a moment to gather his thoughts.
“Sheriff, we’ve been told there was a shooting today at the high school. Calvin Macdonald called me crying and said your department had killed his son. Now I’m hearing that he is suspected of shooting Mr. Spearman, and I’m also hearing that he was about to surrender when he was shot down like a dog,” Jamal said. He spoke slowly and with such deliberate pronunciation Titus knew he was enraged.
“Reverend, the shooting is still under investigation. The two deputies involved will be placed on administrative leave pending an internal review. I’ll be making an official statement tomorrow. But I can assure you that every effort to resolve the situation peacefully was made,” Titus said. He hated the way that sounded. It was like he was code-switching with another Black person.
Jamal put his fingertips to his lips.
“Sheriff, I’m sorry, but frankly that’s not good enough. Can you assure us right here and right now that the state police will be called in to investigate this shooting? I mean no offense, but if you catch a fox in a henhouse, you don’t get other foxes to investigate his intentions,” Jamal said. A gentle murmur of agreement rolled through the crowd.
“As of this time I don’t feel it’s necessary to have the state police carry out the review. I give you my word we will employ complete transparency in regards to—”
“Your word ain’t shit, Oreo.” Titus recognized the young man standing next to Jamal who said it. The name on his driver’s license was Ervin Jameson but everyone called him Top Cat. Until six months ago he was one of the main recreational pharmaceutical reps in Charon County. Then he’d overdosed on his own product. When he came back to this side of the veil after a week in a coma, he pronounced himself saved. He’d seen the other side and he’d glimpsed where he was going. He joined up with Addison’s church not long after that proclamation. Titus didn’t doubt the veracity of his conversion. He knew from firsthand experience how coming within kissing distance of the Grim Reaper can change you. What annoyed him about Top Cat was the overabundance of self-righteousness he now possessed. It was a trait common to the recently saved. Especially if one suffered from some form of dependency in their previous unsaved life. It was like they traded a secular addiction for a sanctified one.
“I don’t think I heard you right. Say that again,” Titus said. He was tired and stressed and his mind was reeling from all he’d seen this morning. One of his best friends’ sons was killed in front of him. A teacher who had written a letter of recommendation for him to attend UVA had his brains blown out the back of his head. And now his Blackness, a thing that was as intrinsic a part of him as his arms and legs, was being challenged by a man who six months ago was selling more Oxy and molly to his own people than he sold to the Tylers and Madisons of the county.
The audacity was palatable. The hypocrisy was infuriating.
“Say it again,” Titus said. He didn’t use his cop intonation this time. It was all back-road Charon County in his voice now. Moonshine and cornbread. Fistfights and honeysuckle.
“You heard me,” Top Cat said, but this time with the volume turned way down.
“Ervin, it’s okay. Sheriff Crown, I hear you, but do I have to really explain to you why we might be a little doubtful?” Jamal said. Titus cocked his head to the side just a bit. In many ways what Jamal was saying was worse than Top Cat’s insult. Of course he understood why Jamal was doubtful. Of course he was aware of the long history of bias and bigotry that persisted, not only in the Charon County Sheriff’s Office but in many police departments across the country. Of course he’d grown up seeing Ward Bennings wielding his badge like a mace that he pressed on the neck of every Black man, woman, and child in the county. Titus wanted to grab Jamal by the collar of his old-school Houston Oilers jersey and yell at him, “Why the fuck do you think I ran for sheriff?”
But that wasn’t the only reason, was it? Red DeCrain’s voice whispered in his mind.
“Reverend, I understand your concerns. But that’s all I can say right now,” Titus said.
Jamal shrugged his shoulders. “All right. But I want you to know this. We are going to be watching how you handle this review. And if it looks like you’re trying to sweep the murder of another Black man under the rug, then we are going to make our voices heard, no matter how long it takes. The truth is never out of season, Sheriff.”
Titus remembered when Jamal was leading a rally to get out the vote for him last year. He wondered when exactly he’d lost the pastor’s trust. He understood why he wouldn’t trust the police in general, but it bothered him that Jamal and his church didn’t trust him specifically.
“I give you my word we are going to do a thorough review,” Titus said.
“I guess that’s going to have to be good enough for Calvin and Dorothy and their living son right now,” Jamal said.
“Lavon,” Titus said.
“What?” Jamal said.
“Their other son. His name is Lavon. I was home visiting when he was born. I was the fifth person to hold him after his mama and his daddy and his two grandparents. They were afraid for him because he was born with a slight heart defect. Doctors went in and fixed it. Now he’s a twelve-year-old ball of fire. Likes to draw. Before I was sheriff, I was over at Calvin’s for a cookout. Lavon drew me a picture of me and his daddy. I know it won’t be good enough for Calvin right now. His oldest boy is dead. Nothing is going to change that. Not my promises and not your preaching. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Titus said. He brushed past Jamal and his congregants and went into the sheriff’s office.
* * *
Carla and Davy were standing near the entrance to the holding cell. Roger was positioned near the evidence room with his back to him. He had one hand against the wall with his head down. The only sound in the office was Cam’s deep voice as he answered the phone.
His other deputies were as solemn as mourners at a funeral.
One would think this was because they had killed a native son of Charon. And while that may have impacted their demeanor, Titus could tell that wasn’t the primary reason for their sorrowful expressions. That native son had killed Jeff Spearman. Geography teacher, coach of the debate team, and sponsor of the Drama Club. Jeff Spearman, who always seemed to side with the students whenever there was a confrontation between the administration of the high school and the student body. Titus remembered during his tenure at Jefferson Davis High School when the principal had tried to cancel the Ring Dance. Ostensibly it was because of a mono outbreak, but everyone knew it was because too many interracial couples had made it known they’d be attending the dance together. Jeff Spearman had stood with the students. He’d even threatened to organize a backup dance at the Ruritan Club if the principal canceled the one at the high school.
When Titus had shared that anecdote with his college roommate, the kid, who was from Trenton, New Jersey, had asked whether or not Charon was stuck in a time loop from 1958.
“I mean, it’s the year 2000, man, and principals are still trying to protect the virtue of little white girls from the big bad scary Black penis monster?” Malik, his roommate, had said.
“Yeah, but Mr. Spearman had our back,” Titus had said.
“Him having your back shouldn’t have been necessary,” Malik had said. Titus remembered feeling foolish for praising Mr. Spearman. Not because Mr. Spearman didn’t deserve it but because the whole situation had been a sad, pitiful anachronism.