believer’s sake, I hope he’s not another FBI plant.
And then there’s me. I can tell you that walking a sidewalk on this block, alone and white, is not smart. Not Gilbert Court stupid, but close. None of my mistakes will be lost on those here who don’t like the police in general and me in particular.
Ruth Ann’s fifteen feet of sparse yard separates us. I smile sad. The preacher stands, as does the alderman’s flunky at Ruth Ann’s shoulder. This is a good show by the flunky, although Ruth Ann and I know they never seem to be around when the gangsters are ripping the neighborhood apart. Anyone who tells you that the gangs are an essential part of the "fabric" are in sociology class on the Northside. Gangs are a plague, pure and simple. And the politicians, like the one about to brace me with his righteous indignation and thousand-dollar suit, haven’t done shit about it other than swallow money and blame someone else.
From three steps above me the alderman’s flunky says, "You’re not welcome here."
"Ruth Ann. I wanted to stop by…to pay my respects."
She looks past the flunky to me and the preacher who’s now at my shoulder. I can smell the preacher’s spicy lunch and the sweat in his clothes. It’s new sweat, like he’s been working hard at something today. You can’t hate a guy for that.
The preacher adds his opinion. "You’re not learning, are you? Watch the news, the Gaza Strip, the West Bank—the police can’t kill us all."
"Ruth Ann, I’m sorry about Robert. The whole thing. I’m sorry…about it."
She doesn’t invite me up, although I’ve been on her porch several times and in her apartment when she needed help with Robert and his friends. The flunky steps between her and me, then down one step closer. "As the attorney representing Mrs. Parks, I’m directing you to leave her property unless you have a warrant. In which case produce it."
"Ruth Ann, I—"
"Officer Black."
The alderman’s flunky-lawyer drops another step. "Civil rights. Civil procedure. Get-off-the-property."
"Ruth Ann, I—"
Her face is so tired I feel it from here. Then the flunky is on the sidewalk, making the show, too close to me and he knows it. "You are not the occupying army. You will not murder my client’s son and—"
"Stand back, asshole."
He doesn’t and inflates. "You’re threatening me? On Mrs. Parks’s property, in front of all these witnesses?"
"I’m the police." My tone is a mistake, a big one. "
Stand the fuck back
when I tell you."
He does, one step, then another that wasn’t necessary, then raises both hands to block my mythical line-of-fire at Ruth Ann, grieving mother. Instamatic flashbulbs pop. A camcorder appears. It’s like they’ve been waiting for me.
TUESDAY, DAY 2: 5:00 P.M.
Sonny Barrett shakes his head when I finish the story, as does Eric Jackson back from his barber chair and half-day, dislocated-shoulder leave. My afternoon post-up at Ruth Ann’s acts as an icebreaker with Sonny. He’s being distant but not so far away that I feel threatened. Distant doesn’t feel good, but it’s better than where we were at Art’s.
Sonny’s day was all Nation of Islam and he looks more spent than usual. Looking into the Nation of Islam and their temple on Seventy-ninth Street is not as easy as it sounds, if in fact it sounds easy. Sonny’s day had no cameras and/or pickets, so by a degree, his went better than mine.
"You won’t make the six o’clock," says Sonny, "but count on the ten."
Eric Jackson concurs. "Scalps, yours for damn sure, as soon as Chief Jesse hears."
Sonny nods and takes another sip. It leaves the Guinness mustache he thinks adds Richard Harris to his lip. We’re doing the Irish end-of-watch
slainte
at Dell’s, a cop bar on Seventy-ninth Street in the DMZ. I don’t come in here much—first, it’s the drinking thing that I’m not doing as hard as I can, and second, it’s the painted glass window that represents all the armor
And then there’s me. I can tell you that walking a sidewalk on this block, alone and white, is not smart. Not Gilbert Court stupid, but close. None of my mistakes will be lost on those here who don’t like the police in general and me in particular.
Ruth Ann’s fifteen feet of sparse yard separates us. I smile sad. The preacher stands, as does the alderman’s flunky at Ruth Ann’s shoulder. This is a good show by the flunky, although Ruth Ann and I know they never seem to be around when the gangsters are ripping the neighborhood apart. Anyone who tells you that the gangs are an essential part of the "fabric" are in sociology class on the Northside. Gangs are a plague, pure and simple. And the politicians, like the one about to brace me with his righteous indignation and thousand-dollar suit, haven’t done shit about it other than swallow money and blame someone else.
From three steps above me the alderman’s flunky says, "You’re not welcome here."
"Ruth Ann. I wanted to stop by…to pay my respects."
She looks past the flunky to me and the preacher who’s now at my shoulder. I can smell the preacher’s spicy lunch and the sweat in his clothes. It’s new sweat, like he’s been working hard at something today. You can’t hate a guy for that.
The preacher adds his opinion. "You’re not learning, are you? Watch the news, the Gaza Strip, the West Bank—the police can’t kill us all."
"Ruth Ann, I’m sorry about Robert. The whole thing. I’m sorry…about it."
She doesn’t invite me up, although I’ve been on her porch several times and in her apartment when she needed help with Robert and his friends. The flunky steps between her and me, then down one step closer. "As the attorney representing Mrs. Parks, I’m directing you to leave her property unless you have a warrant. In which case produce it."
"Ruth Ann, I—"
"Officer Black."
The alderman’s flunky-lawyer drops another step. "Civil rights. Civil procedure. Get-off-the-property."
"Ruth Ann, I—"
Her face is so tired I feel it from here. Then the flunky is on the sidewalk, making the show, too close to me and he knows it. "You are not the occupying army. You will not murder my client’s son and—"
"Stand back, asshole."
He doesn’t and inflates. "You’re threatening me? On Mrs. Parks’s property, in front of all these witnesses?"
"I’m the police." My tone is a mistake, a big one. "
Stand the fuck back
when I tell you."
He does, one step, then another that wasn’t necessary, then raises both hands to block my mythical line-of-fire at Ruth Ann, grieving mother. Instamatic flashbulbs pop. A camcorder appears. It’s like they’ve been waiting for me.
TUESDAY, DAY 2: 5:00 P.M.
Sonny Barrett shakes his head when I finish the story, as does Eric Jackson back from his barber chair and half-day, dislocated-shoulder leave. My afternoon post-up at Ruth Ann’s acts as an icebreaker with Sonny. He’s being distant but not so far away that I feel threatened. Distant doesn’t feel good, but it’s better than where we were at Art’s.
Sonny’s day was all Nation of Islam and he looks more spent than usual. Looking into the Nation of Islam and their temple on Seventy-ninth Street is not as easy as it sounds, if in fact it sounds easy. Sonny’s day had no cameras and/or pickets, so by a degree, his went better than mine.
"You won’t make the six o’clock," says Sonny, "but count on the ten."
Eric Jackson concurs. "Scalps, yours for damn sure, as soon as Chief Jesse hears."
Sonny nods and takes another sip. It leaves the Guinness mustache he thinks adds Richard Harris to his lip. We’re doing the Irish end-of-watch
slainte
at Dell’s, a cop bar on Seventy-ninth Street in the DMZ. I don’t come in here much—first, it’s the drinking thing that I’m not doing as hard as I can, and second, it’s the painted glass window that represents all the armor
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