I sat, parked outside a Jamaican restaurant, looking forward to a curry shrimp dinner with white rice and mixed vegetables.
A young black man walked down the street. He wore discolored blue jeans and a grey sweater. His Afro hair was a mess, nappy and uncombed.
Looking through the rear view mirror I followed him as he walked by the car, pass the restaurant. My phone vibrated. I looked down to see who was calling. When I looked up, he was standing with his legs spread wide apart and his arms lifted high. Two white men – two plainclothes cops – searched his pockets. After he was frisked, the one officer waved his hand, indicating “go.”
On almost every corner I saw police officers pulling over cars. Blue-and-white lights reflected across the neighborhood. Sirens echoed. Like the velocity of the bullet they searched for, the police sped pass cars. They walked down streets using flashlights, looking under cars, alongside dumpsters, certainly looking for shell casings.
I said to my husband, “That is what happens in the city when the sun comes out.” The sunshine’s radiant energy drives the police crazy. It changes the climate of the community.
“Someone is going to get killed today,” I said.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” I replied.
“OFFICERS ARRIVED ON-SCENE AND LOCATED AN 18-YEAR-OLD MALE SUFFERING FROM AN APPARENT GUNSHOT WOUND. DESPITE THE EFFORTS OF BOSTON EMS THE VICTIM WAS PRONOUNCED DEAD-ON-SCENE.”