Ricky blanched. “What for?”
Titus took off his shades. He pointed at the statue with the temple of his sunglasses. “That statue sits on a square of land that was donated by the Daughters of the Confederacy. The statue technically belongs to them. It’s not public property. That means you have no legal standing to detain anyone for any reason in respect to anything done to that statue. Holding that boy down could be considered unlawful detainment, assault, and/or battery,” Titus said.
“Bullshit,” one of Ricky’s compatriots spat.
“Hey, Denver, have you read the statutes? Because I have. So you might want to watch your mouth. And is that Canadian Mist I smell? I hope you didn’t drive up here,” Titus said.
There it was again. Charon County, raw as the throats of freshly butchered calves, came pouring out of him. Not a litany of threats but a promise of consequences.
The fact that Titus knew Denver Carlyle was a drunk with a CDL license that he was barely holding on to, who nonetheless still decided to drive to and from the Watering Hole in various levels of inebriation, only added to their fear. It was the fear they respected. For Ricky and Denver and their ilk their fear was twofold. They feared him as a man and they feared the invincibility they thought the badge gave him. The idea that the invulnerability their grandfathers had used to brutalize people who looked like Titus could be turned against them was what had chastened them.
“Now, if you want to have that young man, I think that’s William and Renee Dolson’s son, prosecuted for vandalism, go find the nearest Daughters of the Confederacy chapter and have them file a complaint. Other than that, I think y’all should go on home. Now.” Titus heard a few grumbles. He didn’t put his hand on his gun, but he did let it drop to his side.
The grumbling ceased.
He saw how all their faces were contorted into knots of self-righteousness and contempt. He’d gone to school with many of these men. Or with their children. Reggie Wilson had been on that state championship team. Kevin Cross’s daughter, Stephanie, had sat in front of Titus from kindergarten to twelfth grade.
None of that mattered to them now. They wiped all that away until he was just a nigger with a badge. To a few of them even the badge disappeared as they reduced him to a form they felt comfortable disparaging. He felt it in the air between them, like the charge before a lightning strike. It wasn’t surprising, and that in and of itself was tragic.
“Go on, now,” Titus said. He spoke the words to the crowd, but he zeroed in on Ricky Sours.
“Our permit is still good for Fall Fest,” Ricky said as he turned away. He hurled the words at Titus, flecks of spittle flying from his thin lips. Titus didn’t acknowledge him. Ricky was trying to save face in front of his fellow reenactors. It wasn’t Titus’s job to assist him. He noticed Royce, with the TEXACO trucker hat, walking with Ricky back across the courthouse green. He knew Royce drove one of Charon’s school buses. He was also apparently a Confederate apologist.
Once he saw them get in their trucks and cars (noting that Denver Carlyle got in Ricky Sours’s truck instead of his own late-model Buick), he walked across the road to the library.
“I was just telling Mr. Trevor Dolson if he wanted to press charges he could come by the sheriff’s office,” Carla said.
“Is that something you want to do, Trevor?” Titus asked. Trevor shrugged.
“I think you should. Evil wins when good men do nothing,” Jamal said. The crowd surrounding him rumbled with agreement.
“Am I in trouble?” Trevor asked. Titus looked over his shoulder at the statue of a Charon County Confederate soldier with the black line of paint across the base.
“I don’t know. If you did it, then the people who own the statue would have to file a complaint. That would be the Daughters of the Confederacy. Seeing as there hasn’t been a chapter here since the thirties, I’d guess you’ll be okay. That’s if you did it,” Titus said.
“I … I just wanna go home,” Trevor said.
“How old are you, Trevor?” Titus asked.
“I’m eighteen … sir.”
“Okay. Well, seeing as you’re eighteen, I’m not legally bound to tell your parents. But I’d let them know, if I was you,” Titus said. He turned to the rest of the crowd. It was a mixture of New Wave members and young white men and women who adopted an aesthetic similar to Trevor’s. Titus recognized them as members of Charon’s small but vibrant art scene. He recognized some of them from the flea market in the parking lot of the high school every third Saturday of the month. A few more were members of a band that played the Tuesday night open mic at the Watering Hole.
“The rest of y’all head on home, now. Nothing else to be done here,” Titus said. A few people started to amble down the sidewalk. The majority didn’t move. Their adrenaline was still surging like electricity in their veins. His father would say their blood was up. He recognized it and he knew he needed to dissipate it.
Titus crossed his arms. “Unless y’all want to get arrested for disturbing the peace.” More promises, more threats. The words PROTECT AND SERVE were inscribed on his badge, but in moments like this, it felt like INTIMIDATE AND FRIGHTEN should replace them.
Part of the job, he thought. On the heels of that thought was another one, from a place in the cellar of his mind: If this is a part of the job, is this the job you were meant to do?
Titus pushed it away and spoke to the crowd again. “Y’all get on, now.” The crowd dispersed with whispered insults and vague mumblings. Jamal was the last one to leave.
“‘This is what the Lord says: Do what is just and right. Rescue from the hand of the oppressor the one who has been robbed,’” Jamal said.
“Jeremiah, twenty-second chapter, third verse,” Titus said.
“You did what was right for Trevor. Wish you could have done that for Latrell,” Jamal said.
Titus checked his watch. It was a little after 10:00 A.M. “There is going to be a press conference today around four. You should listen to it.”
Jamal continued to speak as if he hadn’t heard him. “I can’t believe you gonna let them wannabe Nazis have a white power parade during Fall Fest. Ain’t you the sheriff? What good was it us getting you elected if you can’t stop Ricky Sours and the Confeda-idiots from marching through town?” Jamal said. Titus bit down on the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to see Ricky Sours and his cosplaying rebels walking down the street any more than the good reverend did.
“The Parks and Rec Committee approved the permit. I don’t like it, but I can’t stop it. But they’ve whined and cried about being protected, so I’ll be there. Trust and believe if they get out of pocket we will handle it.”
Jamal shook his head. “You the last person I thought would turn coon. Your mama used to teach us in Sunday school that the righteous are never forsaken, and here is her son letting these damn demons walk all over God’s people,” Jamal said.
“Carla, why don’t you go write up this report?” Titus said.
“Yes, sir,” she said. She walked back across the road to her cruiser.
Titus took off his shades. He took off his badge and put it in his pocket. The sharp edges of the star dug into his thigh. He stepped closer to Jamal.
“You stand there and you quote Bible verses to me about the oppressed, and then have the nerve to accuse me of tap-dancing for these motherfuckers. Like I stopped being Black when I put on that star. Watching them boys march down Main Street waving Confederate flags and wearing T-shirts extolling the honor of Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee makes me sick to my stomach. But unless they break the law there’s nothing I can do.” Titus leaned closer to Jamal until his mouth was inches from his ear. “This is Titus talking now, not the sheriff. You ever say anything about Helen Crown again, you gonna wake up with your teeth down your throat. You feel me?” Titus said. He stepped back and replaced his sunglasses and his badge.
“Come to the press conference, Reverend. You need to hear what I have to say.” He turned and headed back to his own SUV cruiser. He got in and started the engine. He watched as Jamal shook his head and walked back to his own vehicle. Titus caught his own image in the rearview mirror. The man staring back at him kept finding himself tossing hard words out to the folks he was sworn to defend.
Titus put the SUV in gear.
It made him ask himself, who was at fault here? The man or the folks?
NINE