Aggressive.
Difficult.
Too eager.
There had been complaints.
More than one.
But Harlan understood exactly how to write reports.
Every stop became suspicious behavior.
Every confrontation became officer safety.
Every civilian who questioned him became uncooperative.
Nothing had ever stuck.
That Sunday, Harlan was assigned to patrol the neighborhoods surrounding Jefferson Park after several vehicle break-ins had been reported nearby.
At 8:14 a.m., dispatch broadcast a vague description from a caller who said a man had been looking into parked cars near the east entrance.
Male.
Dark clothing.
Possibly Black.
No age.
No height.
No clear description.
No confirmation that a crime had even occurred.
Harlan drove toward the east entrance.
Then he saw Marcus.
Black athletic shirt.
Black shorts.
Black man.
Running away from the parking lot.
To Harlan, the pieces assembled themselves instantly.
He pulled the cruiser beside the path and lowered the passenger window.
“Hey!”
Marcus heard nothing.
His music was too loud.
Harlan accelerated several yards ahead, stopped the cruiser and got out.
“Hey! Black shirt!”
Marcus continued running.
Harlan stepped directly onto the path.
That finally caught Marcus’s attention.
He slowed and pulled one headphone away from his ear.
“Something wrong?”
“Stop.”
Marcus stopped.
Two women running behind him moved around the pair.
Harlan looked Marcus up and down.
“Where are you coming from?”
Marcus glanced behind himself.
“Running.”
“I asked where you’re coming from.”
Marcus pointed down the path.
“That way.”
Harlan did not smile.
“You think this is funny?”
Marcus studied him.
He had spent enough years in law enforcement to recognize a particular kind of stop.
The officer had already decided there was a problem.
Now he was searching for facts to justify the decision.
Marcus kept his voice neutral.
“No, Officer. I’m trying to understand why you stopped me.”
“Identification.”
“For what?”
“Identification.”
Marcus took the headphones completely off.
“I heard you. I’m asking why.”
Harlan’s jaw tightened.
“We’ve had vehicle burglaries in the area.”
“And?”
“And you match a description.”
Marcus looked at his clothing.
“What’s the description?”
Harlan hesitated.
“Male wearing dark clothes.”
Marcus waited.
“That’s it?”
“Black male wearing dark clothing.”
Marcus almost laughed, but stopped himself.
Across the park, dozens of people were exercising.
Men.
Women.
Teenagers.
At least six wore black shirts.
He looked toward the cruiser.
“Did somebody actually describe the suspect’s height?”
“Give me your ID.”
“Age?”
“ID.”
“Anything besides Black man in dark clothes?”
Harlan stepped closer.
“You want to make this difficult?”
Marcus felt something inside him tighten.
Not fear.
Familiarity.
He had seen officers make this mistake before.
He had investigated officers who made this mistake.
He had also been on the receiving end of it twice before becoming a detective.
