Officer Morrison grunted in response. “Turn around,” he ordered. Marcus complied slowly, careful to keep his movements deliberate and non-threatening. The officer’s face was flushed with what seemed like a building anger, as though Marcus’s lack of contraband was somehow a personal affront. “So, you still sticking with that story about living in Oakwood? About your daddy being the big-shot attorney general?” “It’s the truth,” Marcus replied, keeping his voice level despite the churning in his stomach. “My father is William Johnson. We live at 347 Oakwood Drive. You can verify.” Morrison’s hand shot out, shoving Marcus hard against the cruiser. “I told you to cut that crap. You think we’re stupid? You think we don’t know who the attorney general is?” Marcus felt his back slam into the vehicle, the impact sending a jolt of pain up his spine. He swallowed hard, fighting to maintain his composure even as his heart hammered against his ribs. “I’m not lying. Please, just call the number in my phone or drive me home. It’s less than five minutes from here.”
“You hear this kid, Delaney?” Morrison turned to his partner with an exaggerated expression of disbelief. “Still running his mouth about living in Oakwood like some baller or something.” Delaney shook his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, and I’m the damn governor. Look, kid, drop the act. Tell us where you really live, where you really got that fancy phone from, and maybe we can work something out.” “I’ve told you the truth,” Marcus insisted, feeling a rare flash of frustration breaking through his carefully maintained calm. “This is my neighborhood. I’m just trying to get home.” Morrison leaned in close, his breath hot against Marcus’s face. “You calling us liars, boy? You think we don’t know who belongs in this neighborhood and who doesn’t?” The word “boy” hit Marcus like a physical blow, laden with centuries of history and degradation that he’d been taught about since he was old enough to understand. He bit the inside of his cheek, forcing back the words that threatened to spill out.
“Nothing to say now?” Delaney taunted, circling around to flank him from the other side. “Cat got your tongue?” Marcus took a deep breath. “I’d like to call my father,” he said, his voice quieter now, but steady. “I have the right to make a phone call.” Morrison’s laugh was harsh and without humor. “You watch too much TV, kid. You’re not under arrest yet, so you don’t get a phone call. Right now, you’re just a suspicious person being questioned. And so far, all you’ve done is lie to officers and give us attitude.” “I haven’t lied about anything,” Marcus responded, his patience beginning to fray despite his best efforts. He glanced at Morrison’s badge number, trying to memorize it in the dim light. “Officer Morrison, please just—” “So now you’re staring at my badge?” Morrison cut him off, voice rising. “You planning to make a complaint? Is that your game?” “No, sir. I just—” “Hands behind your back,” Morrison barked suddenly, reaching for his handcuffs. “You’re being detained for further questioning.”
