If Rachel had not stopped.
If she had not recorded.
If Marcus had been alone.
If he had panicked.
If Harlan had decided to use more force.
If Marcus had not been a detective.
That last possibility remained the hardest.
He heard footsteps behind him.
Someone called:
“Detective Reed!”
Marcus turned.
DeAndre Moss jogged toward him.
He wore running shorts and a gray shirt.
Marcus smiled.
“You following me?”
“You’re slow enough.”
They began running together.
For the next mile, neither spoke about Harlan.
They talked about basketball.
DeAndre’s nursing exams.
Marcus’s daughter starting high school.
Ordinary things.
Then DeAndre looked toward him.
“You still carry the badge when you run?”
Marcus tapped the pouch.
“Always did.”
DeAndre nodded.
“You ever think about what would’ve happened if you showed it immediately?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
Marcus considered the question.
“He probably would’ve apologized.”
“That’s it?”
“Probably called me brother.”
DeAndre laughed.
“Maybe offered you a ride.”
Marcus smiled.
Then the smile faded.
“Which is exactly the problem.”
DeAndre understood.
They ran another hundred yards.
A police cruiser passed on the service road.
Neither man reacted.
Then the cruiser slowed.
Marcus noticed.
So did DeAndre.
The window lowered.
A young officer leaned out.
Marcus felt his body tense automatically.
The officer smiled.
“Morning, Detective.”
Marcus recognized him from headquarters.
“Morning.”
The cruiser continued.
DeAndre looked at Marcus.
“See?”
“What?”
“He knew you.”
Marcus nodded.
DeAndre laughed.
“Lucky you.”
Marcus did not laugh.
Later that afternoon, Marcus sat on his apartment balcony.
His badge rested on the table beside him.
His twelve-year-old son, Caleb, came outside carrying two sodas.
Caleb had seen the park video.
Everyone had.
For weeks at school, other children had asked whether his father was the man who “beat up the cop.”
Marcus hated that description.
He had explained the story repeatedly.
Now Caleb sat across from him.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask something?”
“Always.”
“Why didn’t you just show him your badge at the beginning?”
Marcus looked toward the city.
There it was again.
The question everybody asked.
The easy solution.
Show the badge.
Avoid the problem.
Marcus picked it up.
Gold shield.
Name.
Department.
Authority compressed into something smaller than his palm.
“Because I shouldn’t need this.”
Caleb frowned.
“You’re a police officer.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean he would’ve known you’re not a criminal.”
Marcus placed the badge on the table.
“That’s exactly what I don’t want you to learn.”
Caleb waited.
“A badge doesn’t make me innocent.”
Marcus pointed toward himself.
“And being Black doesn’t make me suspicious.”
His son looked at the shield.
Marcus continued.
“The officer had a right to investigate a real crime. Police do that every day. But he didn’t have a right to decide what I was before he knew anything about me.”
