“You have a good point,” West reasonably replied.

Mama was amazed. Her children were baffled. For a white lady cop to admit such a thing was unheard of and miraculous.

“So you’re agreeing that you were called because we’re black.” Mama wanted to make sure.

“That would be my guess, and it absolutely isn’t fair. But I didn’t know you were black when the call came over the radio,” West went on in the same calm but sure tone. “We didn’t respond because we thought you were black, white, Asian, whatever. We responded because it’s our job, and we wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

Mama tried to be hateful as she wheeled on her way, her brood in her wake. But she was wavering. She felt like she might cry and didn’t know why. The police got back in their shiny new car and drove away.

“Rudof, pull up your pants, son,” Mama complained. “You gonna trip and break your neck. Same with you, Joshua. I swear.” She wheeled ahead in the night, in the direction of their poor apartment.

Brazil and West were quiet as they got back on Wilkinson Boulevard. He was thinking about what she’d said to that family. West had said we several times, when most people would have said I, as if Brazil wasn’t there. It felt really good when she included him, and he was touched by her gentleness with that wounded, hateful family. Brazil wanted to say something to West, to let her know, to somehow show his appreciation. But he was oddly tongue-tied again, just as he had been with Hammer.

West headed back into the city, thinking, and wondering why her ride-along was so quiet. Maybe he was angry with her for avoiding calls, or trying to avoid them, at any rate. She felt bad. How would she like it were the roles reversed? It wasn’t very kind, and he had every right to resent her for it. West was totally ashamed of herself. She turned up the scanner, and picked up the mike.

“700,” she said.

“700,” the dispatcher came back.

“I’m ten-eight.”

Brazil couldn’t believe it. West had just told the radio that she was in service, meaning she wanted to take calls like everyone else on the street. The two of them would actually be assigned situations. They were available for trouble. This wasn’t long in coming. Their first call was to Our Lady of Consolation Catholic Church.

“Check for loud music coming from the club in the shopping center across the street,” came the instruction over the air.

The dispatcher’s nickname was Radar, and there were reasons for this. First, Radar had started his career with the North Carolina Highway Patrol, where he was famous for clocking cars, abutments, buildings, trucks, signs, pedestrians, low-flying planes, helium balloons, trees, and nailing all for exceeding the speed limit. He simply loved the radar gun. He deeply loved being a Smoky out on life’s highways and pulling the unaware outlaws as they hurried to important places or away from them. Radar retired. He bought an RV and began a new career as a dispatcher to pay for it. It was believed by the 911 operators that Radar could sense trouble before it hit. The call at the church, for example, he had a feeling about, a real bad one.