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. You expect us to believe that?” A car slowed as it passed, the driver watching the scene with visible concern. For a moment, Marcus felt a surge of hope that someone might stop, might witness what was happening. But the vehicle continued on after a warning glare from Officer Morrison. “Look,” Marcus said, trying a different approach. “You can call my father if you want to verify. His number is in my phone, or we can walk to my house. It’s really just a few blocks from here.” Officer Delaney’s hand suddenly shot out, gripping Marcus’s upper arm with bruising force. “You trying to tell us how to do our job now? Sounds like you need to learn some respect.” Marcus winced at the painful grip, but remained still, remembering his father’s most urgent warning: Don’t resist, even when they’re wrong. Even when it’s unfair. “I respect your authority, sir. I’m just trying to explain the situation.”
