How It Went Down: Chapters 7–9

Someone help him, I thought. Through the flailing fists and legs, I could see the man, struggling and small.

We hunkered down in the clearing, sitting cross-legged, knees to knees.

Shocking, the things you do when you're sure you'll never see someone again. I seized what I thought was a fleeting moment, only to have it prolonged.

The room is calm and quiet, and Sloan looms large in the center.

"My assistant had to remain in DC since this trip was so spontaneous," he says.

"Kimberly, thank you for coming by. And for the briefcase. I truly appreciate your diligence."

She gazes up at me with admiring awe. It leaves me heady.

I feel it rising in me. A fierce, churning ball in my gut. A building on fire. "Nah," I lie.

Through the window screens, from eight floors up and a couple blocks away, under the jam that's playing, you can still hear the sounds of singing. Some low, sad thing that's meant to conjure angels out of the concrete.

"Sure." Noodle sounds a little wary.

I got several murals up, but most of them have been tagged by other people, which is whack. I tag, but I don't tag other people's art. It's just disrespectful.

"The right to self-defense is protected under local and federal law. The tragic loss of one so young to violence renews our resolve to quell gang activity in Underhill."

People will talk, but I figure not much has really changed. There's always been cops hanging around, looking askance at everyone. I mean, that's just how it is.

Sheila's typically very happy. Unflappably so.

A day felt like a lengthy endeavor; a year, unfathomably long.

A day felt like a lengthy endeavor; a year, unfathomably long.

I sit on the kitchen floor, feeling the hum of the refrigerator on my back, and eat six vanilla puddings, sucking them straight out of the containers, scraping the opaque plastic with my fingers to get every last drop.

I can't deny I'm hooked on the story. It's the closest I've ever come to having a foot in something important. It's fascinating to see the incident morph and fester.

Look at what's happening around town. A photo montage of angry protestors with placards outside police headquarters. Another crowd gathered on the steps of City Hall.

Look at what's happening around town. A photo montage of angry protestors with placards outside police headquarters. Another crowd gathered on the steps of City Hall.

If it wasn't happening to me, I'd be home, eating chips or something straight out of the bag and hating Jack Franklin. Relishing how much I hated him from afar, for putting out his hands and ending that poor black boy's life.

Cameras and mikes hover around us like flies. She stands stiffly, facing the flashes and the jostling cacophony.

They saunter away.

We sit with the Kings contingent in the second-to-last row.

Some of the TV people want to hail me as a local hero for standing up to Tariq Johnson; the rest want to throw questions at me, like they're trying to catch me in a lie.

The pastor's anteroom, behind the nave of the sanctuary, is both cool and stuffy. A strange mix of fresh-blown air and dusty old tapestry.

The pastor's anteroom, behind the nave of the sanctuary, is both cool and stuffy. A strange mix of fresh-blown air and dusty old tapestry.

The pastor's anteroom, behind the nave of the sanctuary, is both cool and stuffy. A strange mix of fresh-blown air and dusty old tapestry.

"Hi, Tyrell," someone says. I flinch at the sound of my own name. The conversation with Brick left me skittish.

There are all kinds of power—gang-type violent authority, sports-type physical prowess and social prestige, material wealth and economic dominance, power that comes from leadership, intellect, scholarship, knowledge.

There are all kinds of power—gang-type violent authority, sports-type physical prowess and social prestige, material wealth and economic dominance, power that comes from leadership, intellect, scholarship, knowledge.

When I was young, I knew I could be anything. My skin wasn't going to hold me back. Will doesn't have that feeling, and all I've been trying to do is instill it in him.

I scoff. "Nobody steals from Rocky, man. He takes care of this 'hood. Nothing but respect."

The whole thing is surreal. Not just the fact that Tariq is gone, but the fact that the story is all over the news every night. This melee.

Tina's screams die down to whimpers once there's no one left to impress.