Nate laughs sardonically. “Brother, that trial started and is almost over. It has nothing to do with the courtroom. The only court that matters is the court of public opinion. That’s where we need to score a win.”

“You want me to put my niece up there and have her cry for the media’s approval? Is that what you want?”

“No!” Nate says, slamming his fist down on the table. “I want her to look grateful. White folks love when we look grateful, even though they are only giving us the bare minimum. That’s the only way this works.”

“She’s smart, she’s clever, and she’s well read. But none of those things change the fact that she’s just a kid. Her childhood shouldn’t be—”

“Childhood? Man, please! Who the hell told you our kids would get one of those?”

“She has barely gotten out of bed. She’s lost her whole world. I ain’t gonna add to her trauma.”

“There’s no way you can keep her from trauma; she’s a Black girl in America!”

“You need to go, you need to go right now before I forget my good mind and throw you out!”

The two exchange a dangerous glare. The tension in the room clings to the air like grease after a fish fry. Both men stand their ground.

“You heard the things the cops and their lawyers have been saying about Rosalie,” Nate says. “It’s only going to get worse. The only weapon we have is Ayo. Use her or get ready to explain to her why the cops who shot her mom are getting off.”

Nate turns on his heel and walks out of the room. He passes me in the hallway. Our eyes lock.

“Hi, Ayo.”

“Hi, Nate.”

My uncle doesn’t want to discuss what the argument was about, but I threaten not to go to school. He could easily drag me there; he doesn’t play when it comes to stuff like that. But I think he sees in my eyes just how much I need to know what’s going on. I’ve spent so much time below; coming up to the surface means I need to be caught up on everything—no matter how bad.

He tells me that the cops and their families have been doing the morning show circuit. They’re painting my mom as some kind of outlaw who was hell-bent on terrorizing the city. The way they put it, they were saving New York City from an anarchist.

I need to see it for myself. So I check out some of the clips on YouTube. The cops and their families came dressed in their Sunday best. The sadness and regret in their eyes remind me of designer handbags sold on Canal Street. It seems genuine until you look closer. You can see the flaws in the seams.