“You know what I think?” Officer Morrison said, coming to a stop directly behind Marcus.
“I think we’ve got ourselves someone casing these houses, maybe looking for an open window or an empty home to break into.”
Marcus felt his heart hammering against his ribs, but kept his voice steady. “No, sir, that’s not what’s happening. I really do live in this neighborhood.
If you’d like to escort me home, my father can verify everything.”
Officer Delaney scoffed, his breath hot against Marcus’s face. “Listen to that. ‘Escort me home’ like we’re some kind of chauffeur service.” He reached out suddenly, grabbing Marcus’s gym bag and yanking it from his shoulder. “What have you got in here, huh? Anything we should know about?”
“Just my basketball uniform and some school books,” Marcus replied, fighting every instinct that told him to reach for his property.
As Officer Delaney unzipped the bag and roughly dug through its contents, the officer pulled out a calculus textbook, waving it mockingly.
“Well, well, a real scholar here, Morrison.” He tossed the book carelessly back into the bag before continuing his search, dumping Marcus’s neatly folded uniform onto the sidewalk. “Please be careful with my things,” Marcus said, his voice quieter now, the strain of maintaining his composure evident despite his efforts.
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Officer Morrison moved back into Marcus’s field of vision, his expression hardening. “You want to talk about doing something wrong? How about trespassing?
How about lying to officers? How about that attitude you’re giving us right now?”
“I’m not giving any attitude, sir,” Marcus replied, his gaze locked straight ahead rather than meeting the officer’s eyes. Another lesson from his father’s careful instructions about surviving encounters like this. “And I’m not trespassing. I live here.”
Officer Delaney had finished rifling through the gym bag, finding nothing of interest, and turned his attention to Marcus’s pockets. “Empty them,” he commanded, gesturing impatiently. Marcus slowly reached into his sweatpants pockets, producing only his phone, house key, and some loose change.
Officer Delaney snatched the phone from his hand, examining the lock screen—a photo of Marcus with his father at a law school fundraiser.
“Fancy phone for a kid,” Delaney remarked, turning it over in his hand. “Where’d you get this? Who’d you take it from?”
“It’s my phone,” Marcus said, a note of frustration finally creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. “My father got it for me for my birthday last year.”
Morrison moved closer, crowding Marcus from the other side. “Your father, who works for the state government, right? The one who bought that million-dollar house on Oakwood.
