But when I see his face, ashen and vacant, I can’t say any of those things. I can’t break down, can’t attack him. I have no choice except to be the strong one.
“Tell me everything,” I say as I ease myself down beside him.
Predictably, he doesn’t answer right away. I wait as patiently as I can, rubbing his back in a slow figure eight.
“Cameron and I are on indefinite administrative leave while they investigate.”
“Okay.” I’m not surprised. There has to be an investigation. But what else? I brace myself.
“The union rep told me this was going to be bad, Jen. Like they were going to make an example out of us. He said they had my back and blah, blah, blah, but he just ‘wanted to prepare me.’ And we have to get ready to ‘fight like hell.’ Fuck, Jen. This is not on me. This is on Cameron! He shouldn’t have shot. I mean, the kid didn’t match the description at all! And he just… he just fired on him. He kept saying, ‘The shot was good, the shot was good, right, Kevin?’？” Kevin slumps back on the hard bench.
After a few minutes, he starts talking again, and this time he’s grabbed my hand but still isn’t looking at me: he stares out at the fast-moving current.
“They said to prep you too—it’s all going to start soon: the protests, the media hounding us…”
I don’t have the heart to tell him about the reporters banging down our door. It’s already started.
“They’re even sending over a media rep to talk to us. I can’t believe this is happening.”
When Kevin speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Am I a monster, Jenny? Do you think I’m a monster?”
“Kevin, look at me.” When he turns to me, finally, he has such intense torment across his face, I summon every ounce of my conviction and speak clearly and slowly so that he knows I mean every single word.
“Kevin Murphy. You are not a monster. It sounds like this was an awful mistake. But you are not a monster. And I am going to be here with you every step of the way, and we are going to figure this out. Do you hear me? It’s all going to be okay.”
I’m saying it as much to myself as I am to him. But I’m not sure either of us believes it.
Chapter Three RILEY
If there’s a sound more magical than the Ebenezer AME church choir, I’ve never heard it. They’re opening with an exuberant medley of gospel, funk, and some Broadway-style riffs that feels more like a stadium concert than a church service. A sea of golden robes sways like flags in a brisk wind as the notes of the organ bounce off the stained-glass windows and course through me. The choir calls everyone to their feet, and I rise, limbs loose, eager to abandon myself to the invigorating rhythm. It’s a packed house today, with some three hundred people filling the cavernous space, the energy palpable. There’s nodding and swaying, spontaneous shouts and murmurs. You don’t need an invitation to hug a neighbor, burst into tears, or sing along as loudly and proudly as Mahalia Jackson herself.
It’s been a while since I’ve been to church, but exultation is like muscle memory. For a blissful moment, I don’t feel stressed or self-conscious; I feel rejoiced. One of those rare moments when I understand what people mean when they say they’re filled with the Spirit. The sanctuary of this church is as close as I’ve ever been to feeling God. Back when I was a little girl, my insides wound up so tight I felt like I was suffocating, these gleaming pews on a Sunday morning were a kind of escape, from thinking about tests and grades and the kids who called me “Oreo” and said I talked so white when I used the SAT vocab words Mom had been drilling me on since kindergarten. I need this now, a cocoon from the outside world, even if only for an hour. A respite before I have to return to work, and to covering the story for which I’m now the lead reporter, the one about how my friend’s husband shot an unarmed Black kid.
By the time I arrived at the station Thursday night, after downing two espressos to counteract the vodka, Scotty was already huddled with a crew in his office, desk strewn with Burger King wrappers, the smell of grease and the anticipation of a big story charging the air. As soon as I walked in, his focus shifted to me.
“I want you front and center on this, Riley.”
I must have given him a look, because his next question was, “Is that a problem?”
No, of course it wasn’t. Of all the beat reporters, the rest of them white or Asian, I knew exactly why this was “my story.” I’d take it too; I had to, I wanted to—it was going to be a big one, maybe national. “No, Scotty, no problem at all.”
My first call was to a sergeant in the Twenty-Fifth District whom I’ve been cultivating since I started at KYX.
He finally called me back after midnight and confirmed what the tingles had already told me: “You didn’t get these names from me, but everyone’s gonna have them by morning. Kevin Murphy and Travis Cameron.”
When Jenny called a few minutes after that, I froze. Finally, before the last ring sent her to voice mail, I dashed into a conference room, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say, but I needed to know she was okay.
We only talked for two seconds. But last night, as I reported live in front of the Twenty-Second District—Kevin’s district—I kept picturing her watching, her reaction, her biting furiously on her lip, as I spoke into the camera. “If Justin Dwyer doesn’t wake up from his coma, the officers involved—Kevin Murphy and Travis Cameron from here at the Twenty-Second—could be indicted for murder.”
Jenny was calling again by the time I reached my car to head home after the broadcast. Of course she’d been watching. She said she always watches my broadcasts. I couldn’t bring myself to answer this time. She’d know if I sent it straight to voice mail, so I stared at the phone as it rang and rang and then waited for a message that never came. I spent the rest of the night pacing my apartment.
So when Momma called last night, as she’s done every single Saturday since I’ve been back, to ask if I was finally coming to church, I gave her an answer that surprised both of us.
“Yep, I’ll be there.” I needed church. I needed something.
Momma reaches over and takes my hand in hers, warm and papery. “I’m so glad my baby’s here.” It’s not always this easy to please Momma, and the thrill of it makes me happy. Shaun, though, not so much. I lean over to my brother behind Momma’s back as she sways and swings to the music. Shaun is standing, stiff and sullen, like he’s determined not to let the music get to him.
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be if I had my way. But you know, ‘house rules.’？”
Shaun is always railing against Momma’s ironclad mantra, “In my house, you’ll do as I say;” he hates that he’s a twenty-seven-year-old man living at home, hates everything that’s gone wrong in his life to lead him here.
We’re whispering, but of course she hears. Momma always hears and then has the last word. “Don’t act like God is punishment, boy. God is a gift. And that’s exactly why you’re here. To remember that.” She starts clapping and singing even louder, as if she can channel the spirit to Shaun.