“Boy—” Cop looks like he’s about to blow a gasket. Whatever that is.

The legal aid lawyer clears her throat. “What do you expect to gain from this line of questioning?”

Cop breathes in and out a couple times. Almost makes you laugh. Someone’s been to anger management. You know a little something about that yourself. You’re sitting here hoping they don’t look up those records and use it against you.

“Ma’am, we’re trying to determine an order of events.”

“My client has been clear about his experience of the incident. If there’s nothing further, and there are no charges to level, then he’s free to go.”

You stand up, following her lead.

“On TV they can tell that shit.” Mistake. Too impulsive. You’re baiting a hook, and you’re the only fish in the room.

“Excuse me?” Tall cop wheels around.

Lawyer puts her hand on your arm.

“Forensics, right? You got some lab techs somewhere who can tell if she was shot from the front or from the back.”

Tall cop flinches toward his cuffs, a reflex. “You wanna be charged with impeding an investigation?”

Lawyer sweeps you out the door using the full meat of her arm. “My client has been fully cooperative. If you have further questions, you may direct them to my office.”

You are walking, suddenly and briskly through the precinct, the lawyer’s small arm around you, propelling you.

“Not another word. To anyone, ever, about this. You hear?” Her strength comes from somewhere invisible. The bull inside you paws against her grip. You’re spoiling for a fight. They’ve tipped you past the breaking point. You’d march straight back in there, tell them how it is. You have a daughter, almost thirteen.

The night air is surprisingly chill. It was hot in there. You walk, walk, walk. Stop next to a parked car. The lights come on and the doors click unlocked.

“Tell me you heard me,” the lawyer says.

You stare at her blankly.

“Don’t talk to anyone. No reporters. No one. No matter what.”

“They wanna silence me?”

She sighs. “It’s for your own good. You didn’t actually witness the shooting. There’s nothing good that can come from speaking out.”

You do the sensible thing, nod.

She hands you a card. “I’m dead serious. Not a word.”

Dead. The image has been floating there all along, but the word brings it into full focus. Smooth young cheeks, gone slack. Eyes unfluttering. Sleeping but not sleeping.

“Need a lift?” she offers.

“I’ll walk.”

You need time, and space. To clear your head. You have a daughter, almost thirteen.

TINA

I am the last to know

most things.

Mom crying means there has been

an occurrence

or maybe it is just one of those days.

I don’t ask questions

put on my headphones

and wait.

DEVANTE