If last night proves anything, it’s that there is no actual justice. There is only getting lucky, or not.

“It’s not your fault,” Steve says. “Try to get out from under that.”

I can’t. I can’t. “I know. I will.”

“We should blame the system,” Steve says. “This broken justice system. That’s the truth. But I don’t. I blame myself, too.”

“What? How is it your fault? You weren’t even there.”

Steve shakes his head. “For not stopping you from going. For not going with you. I feel like I could have stopped it.”

The car rolls along through the refuse-strewn streets of Underhill. There’s nothing left to say. The system is broken. The scales are tipped. No balance. All the fault slides one way. We are two black men, carrying the weight of the world.

Black men. We are always guilty. Always to blame.

STEVE CONNERS

We park in front of the precinct. “Wait here,” I tell DeVante. I don’t want to complicate matters inside.

My cell vibrates as I’m walking toward the door I was instructed to use. JOHN LANSBURY.

“John.” I answer, against my better judgment.

“The verdict is going to complicate our lives. We expected this, but not the extent of the rioting. We need a meeting.”

“I’m taking half a sick day,” I tell him. “I called into the office this morning.”

“Let’s meet in the conference room at ten,” he suggests.

“I won’t be in until one,” I tell him.

“Today? Why would you make a doctor’s appointment today of all days? We have to turn this plan around ASAP. Anything we can do to counteract the impression that the police department is racist.”

To counteract the impression … I stare up at the cold, grungy facade of the building in front of me. To counteract the impression …

“Steve?” John barks. “We need you.”

“Take me off the account,” I say. “I’m not doing it anymore.”

John starts to respond but I don’t know with what.

I’ve hung up.

ZEKE

“Get off your butt and go talk to the girl, Ezekiel!” My sister busts out my full name for emphasis. I’m curled up on the couch trying to watch reruns of Jeopardy! Except I’m not trying to beat them to answer. I’m not even keeping score. Monae sits in the armchair, eyeing me with annoying perception.

“Leave me alone, Mom,” I grumble.

Monae squeals in outrage. “Oh, no, he didn’t!”

My eyes are closed, but I sense her coming at me. “Oof. Monae…”

She’s sitting on me. Her bony butt right square on top of my hip. She punches me lightly in the stomach. “You. Take. That. Back.” Now she’s tickling me.

“Monae!” I squirm out from under her, but she’s pinned me good. “I’m not in the mood for—ahhh. Ahhh!” We scrabble for control.