DeVante puts the breakfast plates into the dishwasher. We sip coffee and wait. There’s nothing much on Twitter. No point in heading to the demonstration quite yet, either. There’s nothing to do in the house, though. Will doesn’t even have a video game console. How is that possible? This building is high-class. Obviously they could afford it.

Bo-ring.

“We could have driven down this morning,” I say, flopping onto the living room couch.

“And gone straight to the demonstration? No bacon and grits?” DeVante grins, hauling his backpack onto the rug. He riffles through it, pulling out a notebook. “I don’t know about you but I like a home-cooked meal when I can get one.”

“Why’d we come so early?” I poke the remote control until the TV buzzes on.

DeVante gives me a look. “Some of us don’t like driving in the dark, remember?”

Geez. They’re never going to let me live it down, are they? I’m the insensitive white dude, forever.

“Anyway, getting up before dawn to start driving is no one’s idea of fun.”

“Whatever,” I say. “I’m bored.” DeVante is studying, which is freaky. Who brings homework on a road trip?

We’re watching crap daytime TV when the front door lock snaps and someone enters the foyer. DeVante and I exchange a glance.

Will appears. “What’s up?” He’s wearing a hoodie over his private school vest, like he’s trying to make a point.

“Coming with us?” DeVante asks.

“Of course,” Will says. “Let’s go.”

KIMBERLY

The size of this crowd is incredible. We’ve filled the block and then some. From the steps of the police precinct, I can’t even see the full scope of the thing past the other buildings.

The police precinct is about a third of the way down the block, which is long. The building is set back from the street far enough to allow a series of about a dozen shallow steps rising to the revolving door. The street, which is usually lined with parked police vehicles, has been cleared. The crowd presses forward, up to the barricade at the base of the steps. The series of three-foot concrete pillars has always been there, to protect the precinct from rogue vehicles, but now there are temporary construction barricades filling the gaps between the pillars.

They’ve set up a microphone on the fourth step. Those of us with SCORE leadership passes are allowed to be behind the barricade. Police officers in riot gear line the street. They are above us, around us, beside us, among us. A row of them hovers at the revolving door, a row stands at the bottom of the steps.

Standing on the steps, looking over it all, it is clear—there cannot be violence tonight.

This is where they want us, penned into a narrow street. Spread thin.

We’ve been here for several hours, awaiting the announcement. It is well past the close of business, and we are left to wonder why they’re delaying their announcement. There is going to be one, we’re told. The grand jury decision has come in.