Choosing Sides by Treasure Hernandez Page B

boy’s face before. Malek Johnson was Flint Central’s starting shooting guard and the biggest thing to hit basketball since LeBron James. What the hell is he doing here? he thought to himself.
    After realizing that Malek wasn’t the average stick-up kid, he figured he could get some money for allowing the reporters to get photographs of Malek while he was locked up. This will be a helluva story, Cornwell thought greedily to himself. He hurriedly processed him into the system and then handed him off to another officer so he could get busy. He picked up the phone and dialed the number to the local news stations. If Malek hadn’t been well-known before, he was about to be now.

Chapter Seven
    M rs. Johnson parked her car in an illegal zone and hopped out as she ran into the police station as fast as she could. As soon as she slammed her door shut, her cell phone rang. “Hello?” she answered in a frantic tone.
    Alex Wilson, Malek’s agent, screamed into the phone, “Denise, what the hell is going on?”
    â€œAlex, I can’t talk to you right now. I’m busy.”
    â€œNot busy doing what you’re supposed to be doing. All I asked you to do is make sure Malek graduates and keeps a clean image until the draft. He’s out here knocking over fucking convenience stores?”
    â€œHow do you know what’s going on?” she commented in confusion. “I’m in front of the police station now, but I don’t even know exactly what’s going on yet.”
    â€œThen obviously you haven’t watched the early-morning news, seven o’clock edition,” Alex told her. “Malek is the golden boy right now. Someone made a phone call and tipped off the news stations. Those vultures are probably on their way down to the station right now.”
    â€œOh, no.” Mrs. Johnson put her hand over her forehead. “Is this going to affect his chances of getting into the league?”
    â€œIf those news cameras get to Malek, there will be no league for him. They don’t take too kindly to players coming out of high school with tarnished images. If the press gets the facts, Malek will be finished before he starts.”
    Mrs. Johnson hung up the phone and rushed into the police station. “I need to see my son,” she stated to the white officer, whose badge identified him as Officer Cornwell. She had no idea that he was the officer who had checked Malek in and sold him out to the press.
    â€œWhat’s his name, ma’am?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
    â€œMalek, uh, Malek Johnson,” she whispered, looking around nervously for prying ears.
    â€œRight this way.” Officer Cornwell led her toward the visitors’ room. He knew that Malek wasn’t supposed to have any visitors, but he figured that the scene would make for some good pictures for the press and a big payday for himself.
    He brought Malek out in handcuffs and sat him in the chair in front of his mother. “You’ve got fifteen minutes, ma’am,” Officer Cornwell told Mrs. Johnson.
    She nodded her head in acknowledgment, and he left the room. “Malek, son, baby,” she cried as she placed his face in her hands and observed his bruises from the beating he had taken from the arresting officer.
    The beating itself had looked more brutal than it actually was, and although right after he was handcuffed and thrown into the back of the squad car Malek felt as if he was about to go unconscious, most of that feeling derived from the fact that he was in shock that everything was going down.
    â€œYou all right?” Mrs. Johnson caressed his bruises and the slight knot on his head. “What happened? Why have they arrested you? What did you do?” The questions poured out of Mrs. Johnson’s mouth one after the other.
    â€œYeah, Ma, I’m fine,” he told her, pulling back his face from her hands. He then proceeded to tell her about the