After by Marita Golden Page B

was a young man who had everything to live for. He was setting an example of the good things it was possible for a young man to do with his life.”
    Carson is identified as the officer who shot and fatally wounded Paul Houston in an incident under investigation. There it is. Everything.
In black-and-white
, the time Carson called in to the dispatcher, saying he was in pursuit of someone driving with no lights and speeding, the name of the mall where he faced Paul Houston in the parking lot. The fact that Houston was unarmed was stated several times in the story. There was no mention of the cell phone.
    He didn’t shoot a gangbanger, a drug dealer, or a suspect who had preyed on others and so in the eyes of most cops had cheapened the value of his own life, Carson thinks as he folds the paper.
    Moments later he calls Matthew Frey.
    “Did you see the article?”
    “I did. But I don’t want you to worry about this. Eventually I’m gonna get a call from the state’s attorney and they’ll invite you to testify before the grand jury. Carson, I’m not recommending this. You wouldn’t have immunity and I can’t be in the room with you. You have a Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination, and I don’t want you to violate that.”
    “But I have nothing to hide,” Carson shouts into the phone.
    “That’s not the point.”
    “I was afraid for my life. Why can’t I testify before the grand jury and make my case?”
    “There’ll be a prosecutor whose job it is to make his case, and from what I know of the evidence so far and because of your state of mind, I don’t want you to testify.”
    “If I could just tell someone my side. What happened.”
    Frey hears the panic in Carson’s voice and tells him, “Carson, it’ll be weeks and maybe months before the grand jury meets and decides anything, whether you testify or not. We need to take one step at a time. After the grand jury makes a decision we’ll know what to do next. I’m confident you’ll come out of this all right, Carson. I know it doesn’t seem now like that’s possible, but I’ve been defending honorable men like you caught in terrible situations for more than twenty years. Right now, Carson, the next best person after me for you to talk to is a mental health professional.”
    “I don’t need that now. I need to know I won’t go to prison for this. Can you tell me that?”
    “Carson, you know I can’t make that kind of statement.”
    Now Frey knows what he could not fathom the night of the shooting. Carson Blake is crumbling. He hears this in the gruff insistence that he needs no help and in the prickly, panicked argument over Carson’s testimony. Frey waits a full minute before he speaks again, hoping Carson will dive into that blank space with a courageous reconsideration of Frey’s advice that he seek help. When he does not, Frey says, “When you’re ready to talk to someone, Carson, let me know. I’ll call you in a few days.”
    When he hangs up the phone, Carson remembers Bunny’s warning this morning when she sat on the side of the bed before leaving for work. “Carson, you can’t go through this alone. We can’t go through this alone. I’m here for you, you know that, but we need help with this. Carson, this is a place we’ve never been before.”
    “I’ll think about it, Bunny, that’s all I can say,” he mumbled, rolling over, responding to her plea with the sight of his back.
    How could he seek counseling for post-traumatic stress disorder? Carson wonders, staring at the phone. Other officers would think he was crazy. He was sure then to lose his job, already in jeopardy. He’d never needed help before. Why couldn’t Bunny’s love be enough? It had been enough before.
    He almost gave her a ticket. That’s how they met. A Saturday night, and Carson was parked off a stretch of Annapolis Road. There was a club called Ecstasy not far from the VFW headquarters, and every weekend he racked up a pile of tickets,