Big Jim looked straight at Levon. “Well, that’s why we’ve got a system, right? Get your boys off the street. They’re making us look bad.”
Levon shook his head. “System. Sorry, Reverend. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get my boys off the street. And I’m sorry if they’re making you look bad. See, it turns out, I have some bad cops, too.”
Big Jim grit his teeth. “Fast learner, kid. Fast learner.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the mayor.”
“I’ll come along.”
He shook his head. “No, kid, you won’t. You’ll do what you’re told. Remember, you were nobody before I got here. And I can put you right back there with just a snap. After all, I’m the man who saved Detroit. You said so yourself. But don’t worry. You’ve got spunk. I’ll keep you in the loop, give you a call when we’re done.”
But he didn’t.
As the hours passed, Levon began pacing the hotel conference room. Then he called one of his deputies, took the elevator down to the parking lot, got in his car, and headed back to the barbershop.
It was already packed when he pulled up. In the shop sat a slightly overweight black woman. Regina Malone clutched a handkerchief to her face; her heavy makeup was streaked with tears. She looked like she hadn’t stopped crying since she found out about her son, Kendrick, and the truth was, she hadn’t. Kendrick had been her youngest boy, a good boy, she told the media, shot to death because of police racism. The president had called her, offered his condolences, told her he’d stop at nothing to get to the bottom of the case.
The Wayne County prosecutor hadn’t been as forthcoming. She’d been elected through a fluke—the entire government in Wayne County sprang from the Democratic Party, but Kim Donahue had lucked into her job, running at the same time that the Democratic candidate stumbled into jail over a sex and corruption scandal. She’d effectively been appointed to office with no opposition. A graduate of the University of Michigan Law School, Donahue had thrown her hat into the ring almost as a lark—there was no other reason for a white Republican to run for county prosecutor in a 52 percent black district, where Democrats outnumbered Republicans by near-Cuban-election margins. When she found herself in office, she’d been faced with a massive backlog of unresolved cases, including murder and rape cases. She’d quickly developed a close relationship with the beleaguered police department.
Now the prosecution of Ricky O’Sullivan lay in Kim Donahue’s hands.
Regina Malone, standing next to Big Jim, had called a press conference at which she asked Donahue to recuse herself, given her ties to the police department. Donahue had refused, stating that she would ensure that justice was served, and that if anyone implied her skin color meant she couldn’t be objective, they were racist. The line made national headlines, turned Kim Donahue into one of the most polarizing political figures in America.
Levon got out of his car, and Regina Malone clutched at his arm like a drowning woman clutching at a life jacket. “Levon, you gotta see this.” She dragged him, her grip iron, into the barbershop, where the crowd had gathered around the lone flat-screen television in the place.
There, on the television, stood Kim Donahue. The chyron read: “DA ANNOUNCES NO CHARGES AGAINST POLICE OFFICER RICKY O’SULLIVAN.” She looked directly into the camera, her blonde hair shining softly in the sun. Levon thought he detected a hint of a smirk on her face. “No matter what the media may think, no matter the pressures brought to bear, I have only one agenda: the people’s agenda. And that agenda is not the agenda of the mob. It is the agenda of justice under our state and federal constitutions. Ricky O’Sullivan was entitled to due process. The evidence does not support manslaughter; it does not support murder in the first or second degree. We all grieve with the Malone family. But we must not pile a miscarriage of justice on top of a terrible tragedy.”
Levon grabbed the remote off the counter, hurled it at the screen. The screen cracked. “Bullshit. This is bullshit.”
Through the cracked glass of the television, the picture shifted. Now, the mayor stood next to Big Jim. Mayor Burns spoke first. “We may not all agree with the decision of Prosecutor Donahue,” he said. “I promise you that the Justice Department will engage in its own investigation. But we ask that everyone please remain calm, allow justice to take its course.” Big Jim stood next to him, nodding at every word. Then Big Jim stepped to the microphone. “We will not stop here to ensure that justice is done. Rioting, looting, violence will not help anything. We heard your call, ‘No justice, no peace,’ and I join that call—let us have peace so that we may have justice.”
The black female news anchor appeared in studio, well-coiffed and manicured, tears in her eyes: “Officer Ricky O’Sullivan is due to be released today from prison; the time and location of his release have not yet been given, due to safety concerns.” Then, unable to hold herself back, she muttered, “Awful, just awful.”
Levon turned off the television and turned to face the crowd in his barbershop. For the first time, he noticed the news cameras all around him. And he realized that, suddenly, he had the advantage: Big Jim was standing next to the mayor of the most racist city in America, and he was standing next to the black mother of a black child who had just been shot by a white cop—and that white cop had just been allowed to walk by a white DA.
The camera zoomed in on Levon. He forced himself to cry, just a tear; he looked up at the browning tiles of the ceiling. Then, he exhaled slowly and looked directly into the camera. “Enough dead children. It stops today.” And he silently led the crowd from his barbershop, walking the long miles toward the criminal justice center, picking up stragglers, then groups, then dozens, then hundreds along the way, a sea of faces, a sea of enraged faces, all of them with the pain of centuries written on them, each burning with an ember that Levon fully intended to stoke into an open fire.
Brett
BRETT SURVEYED THE DAMAGE FROM the top of a nearby parking lot. It stretched before him like a diorama: unreal, in miniature, too dramatic for life. Since the attacks, all commercial air travel had been shut down, thanks to warnings from the Department of Homeland Security. The terror chatter had actually elevated after the attack. DHS thought the airlines could be targeted again, given the focus on the destruction of the bridge.
Brett’s homecoming hadn’t been much of one. By the time he landed, his rescue, if you could call it that, had been blown off the front pages by the terror attack. His flight back to Texas had been canceled, and he’d been stashed at a local hotel, with guards on him at nearly all times—the president was obviously worried he’d talk to the media without handlers nearby. Ellen had hinted via phone that some big move was imminent in Texas from the governor, but he hadn’t had time to focus on that: he’d been more focused on helping out Bill Collier. Collier’s wife, Jennifer, had been on the bridge. They still hadn’t dredged up her body.
The day after his arrival, Bill had met Brett at his hotel. He’d dismissed the security for a few minutes. Brett could see that his friend had aged a century in a day—his face looked craggy, his eyes sunken. Bill had been married to Jennifer for a long time. He’d also lost his daughter in the attack, an eight-year-old he’d called his Little Trooper.
But Bill Collier would have no time to grieve until the cleanup was handled. Bill told him that National Guard units from across the country had been activated, ordered to New York to assist with the national crisis. He told him that the president would use the opportunity to call for a massive spending package on infrastructure, urge further cuts to the military to “build up on the home front.”