“Police officers have a split second to act. Blink your eyes. Can you make a decision that fast?”
“If you keep attacking cops, and claim they’re racist, they’ll stop policing.”
I switch to another station. There’s a man talking about racism against white people, the author of yet another book about why white men are so righteously angry. He’s arguing that anti-white rhetoric is reaching “dangerous levels” and that there’s nothing wrong with having pride in your nationality.
“I know I’m supposed to be ashamed to be a white man in America right now. Well, let me tell you I am not,” he says.
I slam my hand against the control and switch the station again. Beyoncé has never been a more welcome presence in my life.
Rush hour traffic is a beast. I shouldn’t have tried to drive all the way out to St. Mary’s hospital before work, but I just wanted to bring Jen’s shower gift—the Mama Bird T-shirt—so she knew I was thinking of her, especially today, before Sabrina announces the indictment. Sabrina called the press conference last night, right after she leaked the video footage to MSNBC. At least, I suspect it was her, to drum fervor in time for her announcement. She wants as big a stage as possible. And she got one, fifteen full minutes with Joy Reid and an Anderson Cooper appearance, which means she doesn’t need me anymore. I don’t begrudge her this, though I am annoyed that she reneged on an exclusive interview with me and she hasn’t returned my calls the last two days. Her office has been dodging me. The best I can hope for is a few minutes after the press conference today.
The press conference that will change my friend’s life.
I’ve called and texted Jen at least once every day since Chase was born and haven’t received a single response. I tell myself it’s because she’s busy with the baby, especially since he’s probably still in the NICU. I don’t want to stress her out or force myself on her, so I’m just going to drop off the gift at the front desk and hope they’ll get it to her. I’m still waiting for some magical moment when Jen and I can reset, pick up where we left off. Where did we leave off?
The visitor lot is full so I pull into the patient lot, hoping it won’t matter if I take a space for five minutes to run this to the nurse’s station. I haven’t even opened my door when I spot Jen’s beat-up Camry in the row in front of mine. The engine is running, I can tell by the plume of exhaust fanning into the cold, and even through the fogged-up windows I can see Jen’s blond hair, her head slumped down on the steering wheel.
My first instinct is to drive away. We’ve got to talk, yes, but I don’t have the time right now without being late to work, and I hadn’t planned on actually seeing Jenny at all, but I can’t leave her like this.
“Jenny?” I rap on the passenger-side window. Her head jerks up and I see that tears are streaming down her face. I open the door and slide into the front seat. The last time I saw Jen cry was in first grade when Lou shaved her head during a lice outbreak because it was cheaper than buying the expensive shampoo. I rush over to the passenger side and let myself in. Did something happen with Chase?
“I can’t take it, Riley. I can’t take it anymore!” She launches in as if she expected me all along. “It’s just too much. I’m so fucking tired of all these people treating my husband like a villain and a scapegoat.”
These people?
“Kevin’s not a racist, or a bad apple, or a ‘symptom of the systemic ills plaguing the police forces across America.’？” She jabs her finger at the radio. She was clearly listening to the same morning shows I was. “This is such bullshit. And now in a few hours that stupid DA is going to stand in front of a zillion TV cameras and announce she wants Kevin’s head on a platter. Can you believe that, Riley? And on top of everything, I feel like you’ve abandoned me and that’s making all of this even worse.” Her tears escalate to full-blown sobs. “I don’t care, I had to say that. I’m mad, Riley. Really mad.”
I haven’t gotten a word in edgewise, but I stare out the window at the swirling red lights of an idling ambulance and try to figure out how to respond to this tirade.
“Well, Jen, to say I haven’t been there for you… that’s not really fair. I told you, I’ve been trying to cover the story and I’ve been busy—”
“Yeah, yeah, Riley, you’re always busy. I mean, when are you not busy? So whatever.”
Her tone is bruising… and annoying, frankly. Maybe Jen can’t relate to eighty-hour work weeks as a receptionist, but she shouldn’t judge me. I don’t have a chance to defend myself, as she’s already moved on. She turns to face me, shoulders squared, confrontation in her eyes.
“Tell me this, Riley. Do you think Kevin should go to jail? I just need to know.”
So we’re doing this?
“I don’t know, Jen, that’s not really for me to decide.”
“I know that, Riley. I’m just asking what you think. If you think Kevin’s some sort of racist monster, like everyone else seems to. Is that why you’re angry at him? At us? Because that’s not fair.”
“Not fair? First of all, you can’t say my feelings, whatever they are, aren’t fair. Also, if you want to talk about unfair, let’s talk about how unarmed Black men are being shot over and over and over. It’s endless, Jen. Endless! Do you think that’s fair? And most of these killers never face any legal consequences. I have pages of stats for you on that if you’re interested. So yeah, maybe it sucks that Kevin is being put out there as an example when so many police officers have gotten off for doing the exact same thing. But the world isn’t fair, Jenny.”
She’s biting down hard on her bottom lip so at first her words are a little slurry. “But I just don’t think you understand how hard this has all been. I kept trying to explain on email. I’m all alone and people are making all these judgments and they’re treating Kevin like he’s some sort of ‘issue’ to be dealt with. Like we have to be punished on behalf of all white people or something. Which is ridiculous, when Kevin risks his life every day to make sure people—Black people too!—are safe. All the attacks, they’re so personal. This is destroying me and I don’t deserve it. I just don’t.”
A flash of fury jolts my entire body. This was classic Jenny, always self-absorbed, always the victim. Maybe I’ve indulged these tendencies too much. Part of our friendship, of any relationship really, is the tacit agreement to allow a generous latitude for flaws and grievances. A trade-off that goes both ways, glass houses and whatnot—and besides, if you start holding your friends accountable for all their flaws, if you let the annoyances add up on a mental spreadsheet, the whole thing could come toppling down. I think back to our time at the bar the night of the shooting, how comfortable it was, both of us settled in our ways, how much I appreciated it then that one could truly know, and accept, someone the way she and I know and accept each other. It’s a paradox, loving someone precisely because you know them so well, inside and out, and at the same time nursing a tiny fantasy that they can be different in the specific ways you want them to be. Maybe it isn’t fair to expect Jen to change after all these years. But it’s eating at me, her inclination to be aggrieved, to always be so quick to think life has been unfair, that it should be easier for her.