“Thank you for being with us this evening, Mrs. Dwyer. We appreciate you doing it today, so soon after losing Justin. How are you doing?”
“As best as I can be, I guess. It’s a hard day. It helps that so many people marched for Justin today. That makes me feel good, to know people want justice for my son.”
“And justice, what does that look like to you? The statistics and precedents show that cops are rarely prosecuted for these types of incidents.”
“That’s not right. They should be punished. They have to be. My boy did nothing wrong. Nothing. And he was murdered. Something has to be done, or this is gonna happen again and again.”
A vivid image flashes in my mind, of a man hanging by his neck from a tree, surrounded by a jeering mob. I stumble over my next question.
“And… and… what should be done?”
“I want those cops who killed my son locked up. For the rest of their lives. Justin doesn’t get to have a life. Why should they?”
Those cops. Kevin.
“Take me back to the night of the shooting. How did you first learn about what had happened to Justin?”
“The neighborhood kids ran in and told me. They were always just running in without knocking. I made it to him before the ambulance, but they wouldn’t let me near him. But I needed to see my boy. I needed to touch him. I screamed at them to let me be with him, and they ignored me. Wouldn’t even let me ride in the ambulance. I didn’t even know if he was dead or alive.”
The interview is closely timed. I have exactly five and a half minutes. Still, I pause to let that sit with the audience—a mother unable to touch her own son. Tamara holds the hat in her lap so tightly the bill is pressed in half.
“Tell me more about your boy. What was he like?”
“He was a good boy. I know people want him to either be some sort of druggie thug or a perfect kid. Justin was an excellent student and rarely got into trouble. But all this talk about him being on the honor roll—it seems like they mean he was one of the ‘good’ ones when they keep saying that. His death would be just as unfair if he was flunking out of school. Or yeah, if he did smoke weed once or twice, then he’s a bad kid who deserved to die? He did not deserve to die.”
“Well, tell us more about your son beyond him being a good student. What do you want our viewers to know about Justin?”
Tamara looks like she’s wondering how she could possibly narrow everything she has to say about her son down to a sound bite. Her eyes dart around his room as if trying to absorb everything he was.
“Well, one thing is that he never killed ants. Wouldn’t even step on them. Would go out of his way to let the ants cross in a line on the sidewalk. And chicken tenders were his favorite food. He had these stinky little feet as a baby. I used to put them right in my mouth and kiss his little toes. His first word was ‘duck.’ He called pigeons ducks, and we let him do it. How’d he know any better, growing up in the city the way he did?” She stops to laugh, then turns serious again, as if she’s caught herself doing something wrong. She speaks more softly now, and I hope the mic is able to capture it. “I wasn’t finished with him yet. I had so many things left to teach him, to tell him. I’m never gonna get the chance now.” Her eyes glisten under all the lights.
There’s a pause. I am about to fill it with another question when Tamara suddenly leans over and takes ahold of my hand, squeezes so hard I’m worried I might wince. “Can I pray for him?”
I freeze, caught off guard, mindful we’re on live TV. Tamara starts crying softly and bows her head; her voice is now loud, given she’s speaking right into the mic clipped to her dress. “God, I need mercy in my heart and grace in my soul.”
As she begs God for strength, my own eyes start to water as I reach out and hold on tightly to Tamara’s hand.
“Please, Lord, please help me forgive the men who did this to my son.”
I silently echo Tamara’s prayer: Please help me forgive.
Chapter Six JEN
Shattered glass crunches beneath my sneakers. The storefronts are still boarded up, their owners desperate to escape another night of violence. Someone has spray-painted BLACK LIVES MATTER across the plywood on the windows of a Sephora. The BLACK has been crossed out and replaced with ALL.
It feels like a war zone, a burned-out newsstand, police tape everywhere, mailboxes toppled over. The peaceful march turned into something much uglier after dark. And all because of my husband. My entire city is in pain and on edge, a powder keg that will only be defused once there’s justice, whatever that means. Chants of “Lock them up” from the protests still echo in my ears.
As I dash the few blocks to the doctor’s office like a fugitive, I can’t shake the thought that everyone I pass is staring at me, sizing me up, judging me. Even the short distance from my parking spot to the door leaves me feeling exposed. I’ve barely set foot outside the house in the ten days since the shooting, and this is the first time since the march three days ago, and that interview, that painful interview.
I catch my reflection in the elevator doors—greasy hair, faded sweatshirt beneath a stained puffy coat that I can’t even zip around my belly, worn black leggings that sag around the butt. I look like trash. My appearance at the moment is an actual liability. Someone could see me right now, photograph me, and send the picture to the Daily News: KILLER COP’S TRASHY WIFE. That would be the headline, and the picture would be worth one thousand words. Obviously that cop’s racist, readers would think. Look at his white-trash wife.
The loneliness slams into me as I walk into the crowded waiting room dotted with couples. Meanwhile, my husband is at a therapy appointment this morning. The department required one mandatory session after the shooting but gave him the option to continue seeing Dr. Washington voluntarily.
Matt gave him shit for it. “You’re off to see the Wizard,” he teased. That’s what the cops call shrinks—the Wizard. “Don’t get lost in Oz, Dorothy.”
But Kevin surprised us all by jumping at the offer. Naturally, he doesn’t tell me anything about it. I can only hope that he’s opening up to the doctor. He said he’d try to make it today, but I’m not holding my breath. No one else could come with me either. Annie’s on shift at the hospital, and I’d never dream of asking her to find someone to cover. Cookie is watching Archie because day care is closed for some reason, and Frank volunteers every Tuesday morning at the VA.
The regular receptionist is out. Her replacement is a youngish Black woman with long thick braids and a necklace made of giant stones. Normally I would compliment her jewelry, ask where she got it, tell her about this girl on Etsy who sells rings that look similar. But I don’t do any of that. I barely even look up as I hand over my insurance card and driver’s license. She takes it without smiling and squints as she scrutinizes my ID. I shift from foot to foot as I wait for her to recognize the name, hiss at me, call me the wife of a murderer. She just hands me back my card with a friendly look on her face.
“You don’t look much like your driver’s license picture anymore.”
“I chopped off my hair. And I gained some weight.” I point to my belly.