The hush inside the stately marble lobby is jarring after the chaos outside. Bart and I pass through security and head down the hall to a conference room where other reporters are already milling around. A small dais has been set up at the front of the room, positioned carefully against the backdrop of the city seal. Bart and I edge in, find a place along the press line in the back. He busies himself setting up the camera, while I try to get a handle on the scene and who is already there.
It’s ten past two, and Sabrina is nowhere in sight. I wonder if something went wrong with the indictment. That it’s happening at all is unprecedented and speaks to Sabrina’s single-minded determination, if not public opinion.
Will this bring Tamara peace? Joy? Relief? I tried to call her and Wes at least three times this week, to keep the lines open, to see if I’d be able to get a comment after the press conference. I don’t know why I took it personally that I never heard back from Wes other than to direct me to their new media consultant. I let it hurt my feelings when I knew better. I’m sure they’ve been advised to close down all communications by their new spokesperson and lawyer, Jerome Gardner, who also happens, ironically, to be the partner at Sabrina’s old firm. He’s also tried at least a dozen different cases against the PPD. That’s the incestuous legal world of Philly for you. Sources tell me they’re starting to pull together a wrongful-death lawsuit against the city. Upward of forty million dollars—is that the value of a teenage boy’s life? The money would definitely change things for Tamara—with millions of dollars to spend, she can live anywhere, do anything, buy whatever luxuries her heart desires—but all of it blood money she would no doubt trade in a heartbeat to wrap her arms around her son one more time.
The press corps grows increasingly restless as we wait. Bart starts playing Candy Crush. I take a peek at the calendar on my phone to obsessively check that the conference was supposed to be at 2 p.m. and not two thirty, and another date stands out. February seventh. When I agreed to see Corey. Our date is marked right there, the one we made after three rounds of hyperformal emails. I should cancel. Opening, reopening, this can of worms on top of everything else? It’s too much. I just need to make it through this day first. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, employ a trick I read on some mental health blog. Breathe in a positive mantra and out a negative thought. Inhale: You are strong, Riley. Exhale: Everything is broken. When I open my eyes Sabrina is emerging from a discreet wood-paneled door, all six feet of her, shoulders back, head held high. She ascends the two steps to the elevated platform. Tamara, Wes, Jerome, and a woman I don’t recognize enter right behind her, and take their places solemnly as if it’s been rehearsed, which of course it has been. The woman must be their media consultant, Jackie Snyder, who made a name for herself in a Stand Your Ground shooting in Florida. Now she’s developed quite the niche flying around the country advising people who’ve lost children to gun violence. What a world we live in that that has become a full-time job. There’s some shuffling and settling in the crowd and on the platform. I see Wes reach in his pocket and quickly fiddle with his phone.
Sabrina waits a beat, against the soundtrack of clicking cameras. The buzz of my phone is jarring in the quiet. I peek down to discover Wes had just been texting me. It’s good to see a friendly face here. I know it’s your job, but nice all the same. I try to catch his eye, but he’s focused now on Sabrina, as I am too. Her expansive crown of curls aligns with the arc of the city seal behind her, forming a bronze halo around her hair. Sabrina usually wears a tight French braid for court or media appearances. The fact that she sports a voluminous Afro today feels intentional, bold, defiant, the same tone she uses when she begins to speak.
“By now, I’m sure you have all seen the video of Justin Dwyer murdered a couple of blocks from his home.”
No doubt images from the video are now flickering through everyone’s minds, priming us all for her announcement, exactly as she intended.
“This is a tragic event that could have been avoided. Justin was only fourteen years old when he was killed by police officers Kevin Murphy and Travis Cameron. After a thorough investigation and evaluation of the law, my office presented a case to the grand jury, which returned an indictment for first-degree murder against officers Murphy and Cameron.”
Sabrina lets her words simmer, just like she did at the fundraiser. I think about Jenny, what she’s doing right now as the whole city learns her husband’s fate. Is there a TV in the NICU? Is she watching?
Tamara stares above all of our heads into the middle distance. This poor woman has seen a video of her son being shot, crumpling into a heap in a dark alley. What must it be like for her to have this be one of the last images she has of her only child?
I turn my attention back to Sabrina as she concludes.
“This office has the utmost respect for the police force of Philadelphia and all efforts to protect our citizens and enforce the law. At the same time, no officer is above the law and we cannot allow this kind of state-sanctioned anti-Black violence to continue here in Philadelphia. We have an obligation as citizens and I have an obligation as the chief legal authority in this city to uphold justice. And to my mind justice means that every single person in this city and in this country lives in social conditions and under a social contract that allows them freedom, safety, and fair treatment under the law. We too often violate that contract when it comes to our Black citizens. And the time has beyond passed for that to change—not lip service—real change. And real change comes when people understand there will be consequences for violating that contract; real change comes when everyone pushes back against the status quo. In the past few weeks thousands of people have marched through our streets, all of them demanding an end to that status quo and demanding that I and other leaders relentlessly battle the insidious forces of corruption and racism that poison our police department. That’s just what I intend to do, now and in the future. Our city will not be able to heal until justice is served for the Dwyer family. And, mark my words, justice will be served here.” She pauses again and ends with a curt, “That will be all.”
Reporters immediately rush the platform shouting questions. I elbow my way to the front of the scrum. My height always helps in these situations, as I shoot my mic over a petite woman slightly in front of me. Tamara and her entourage are whisked out of the wood-paneled door before anyone can successfully thrust a microphone in their faces. But Sabrina holds back.
“Will Murphy and Cameron be arrested today?” The question is less surreal when it’s drowned out by a dozen other equally zealous reporters shouting similar inquiries.
Sabrina turns to look directly at me and at the camera perched on Bart’s shoulder.
“We are working with Officers Cameron and Murphy to arrange for them to turn themselves in by the end of the week. This isn’t a witch hunt. My office has no interest in causing any further disruption. As I said, we’re only here to make sure that justice is served for Justin Dwyer and that there is oversight in law enforcement.”
Sabrina scans the press pool, ready for another question. It comes from the CNN legal affairs reporter, whom I’ve always admired.