Not to the Swift

Chapter 24

The muffled sound of shouts and chants carried through the windows of Precinct One Twelve's headquarters. Candida no longer needed the body camera feeds to monitor the riots. The security cameras covering the sides of the building are doing the job just fine.

She grabbed a handheld radio. "Who's watching our east side?"

"Harrison here," came one response. "We got southeast corner. We're just trying to maintain a cordon on the protests."

"Okay, thanks, but who's got east? I see signs of a disturbance coming from—wait, can anyone account for that vehicle working its way into the crowd?"

A reply came in. "This is Bristow. East side is holding our line. I authorized the vehicle."

"Really?" Candida squinted at the screen. "You've permitted a van to push its way into a hostile crowd, all the way up to the front steps. Something you wanna tell me?"

George Washington stepped out of the van, and Candida frowned. "What is he—"

Then George pulled Chris Mason out, in front of the rioting crowd.

* * * * *

George looked over the protesters, his left hand holding Chris's arms tight behind his back. All the media attention been good for somethin' at least. They know exactly who I am, and they know exactly who I've got standin' here in cuffs.

The presence of Officer Mason incited cries of "Murderer!" and "Black lives matter!" The crowd took on an overwhelming hostile energy, yet they held back.

George smiled at the oddity. They'd probably string him up—rip him apart, even—if it wasn't me holding him.

No one deserved a shot at Chris Mason more than the father of the boy he murdered. No one could steal George's opportunity to take vengeance on the man who slew his son. And so the rage-contorted faces shouted angry epithets and accusations, but the rioters did nothing more than that.

The grip of Mason's Beretta showed prominently from George's waistband. He raised his right hand into the air, demanding silence. He got it.

"You all know my name and face," he said. "You know this man's name and face. You know he's responsible for killin' my son. And it seems pretty obvious to all of us that he shot someone without cause."

George paused, giving the crowd a moment of awkward silence. He scanned the faces near the front and saw a wide mixture of emotions. You all want to start chanting your slogans, but you don't know what I'm going to say or do.

"Let's show 'em what happens!" George yelled over the gathered throng. "Let's show Stapleton and Precinct One Twelve how we deal with those who stand accused of racial injustice! Show 'em how we handle cops who abuse or misuse their power and position!"

The crowd erupted with cheers for George and jeers for Mason. Some uttered threats, some called for blood, others shouted for justice to be done. Feels like they're all meanin' the same thing, just sayin' different words.

Then George turned around and marched Chris to the door of the Precinct Headquarters. Captain McCullough stood with two officers inside the locked glass doors. He flipped a latch and removed a crossbeam, then opened the door.

The crowd fell silent.

George pushed Chris into the open doorway and let the police pull their handcuffed officer to safety. Then George turned back to the protests.

"We fought and bled and died for the rule of law to win out in this country over the rule of skin color. And yes, dammit, we ain't all the way there yet. We got a long ways to go, it seems. Sometimes I know Lady Justice pays a little too much attention to shades of brown.

"But I look back at how far we come. And I will not have my family's loss turned into some BS excuse for people to tear this community down and rip apart the progress we've made toward harmony in this city and in this nation. My son didn't die for you to loot and burn and pillage your own damn people. Grow up and make somethin' of yourselves."

George waved them off and looked for a way through the silent crowd.

"Mister Washington," one lady called out. "What we supposed to do now?"

He paused on the steps and thought for a second. "I don't give a rat's ass what you all do—'specially those of you come from out of town to stir the pot. You folk can go to hell. We don't need you. Me? I've got my wife and my baby girl waitin' for me. I'm going home. I suggest any of you who call yourself peace-loving ought to do the same."

He marched down the steps and ignored the questions, comments, and insults. The sea of bodies parted for him even if many disagreed.

An uneasy quiet enveloped the scene around Precinct One Twelve, the fury and impetus of the rioters deflated.

From her vantage point on the operations floor, Candida watched the monitors, amazed at the dampening effect on the crowd.

She keyed her radio. "Good call, Bristow. Well done."