I don’t respond. I’ve seen this before. How the veiled language in news stories and police reports contain coded phrases like suspicious behavior, acted like a monster, and the all-too-common the officer feared for his life that can change how people you thought were your friends act around you. And now I know Dean isn’t immune. Somehow, I thought he was different.

Dean watched the same news updates I saw and easily believed their portrayal of Jamal, his friend, the one he’s known for years. The one he ran alongside during track. Dean went to the same party and posed for the same photo that made Jamal look like a criminal. He should have known better.

When I watch the news, I can tell without even looking at the TV if the suspect is white or Black. A “young man who lost his way” or “was afflicted with mental illness” but “had a promising future” = white. A “thug” with “trouble in school” = Black.

Dean changed his mind only after seeing me. Because he knew my family. Everyone else watching will be like sheep. Unwilling to doubt the nonstop coverage of the hunt for Jamal. Susan Touric failed Jamal by rushing to convict him in the court of public opinion without a full investigation.

I want to be angry that Jamal ran, but I can’t blame him. What else are you supposed to do when the world treats you like a monster?

NO DISRESPECT

Dean and I sit parked in his truck down Buckhead Road, near Angela’s gravesite. Rumor has it Chris was too distraught to go to Angela’s ceremony, but each night he visits her plot here. The graves change from ones a hundred years old to modern ones, with fresh flowers and flags staked near a few shiny marble headstones.

A heavy weight of guilt pulls at me because we’re not here to pay respects to Angela. Ten minutes of silence go by between Dean and me, until Chris arrives. I step out, taking a deep breath, and prepare myself for a confrontation.

Dean paces in front of his truck. Even though things are tense between us, Dean was dead set on coming with me. I don’t want to scare Chris off from talking about Angela, so Dean knows he has to stay far enough away that Chris can let his guard down. Say something stupid.

Chris doesn’t hear me coming up behind him. I walk cautiously, posting near the spreading oak by her grave, until I notice he’s so upset he won’t hear me. He hovers over her grave that’s still adorned with flowers, teddy bears, notes, and candles. Her marble headstone reads BELOVED DAUGHTER AND FRIEND.