At the bottom of the video screen, the words
The video shifted to what appeared to be another demonstration. The camera was positioned behind the demonstrators, facing the speaker addressing them. He spoke in a voice that rose and fell, paused and stretched in the cadences of an old-time preacher. “We have asked for justice. Begged for justice. Pleaded for justice. Cried for justice. Cried so much. Cried so long. Cried bitter tears for justice. But those days are over. The days of asking and begging and pleading—those days are behind us. Today, on this day that the Lord hath made, on this day of days, on this day of reckoning, we DEMAND justice. Here and now, we DEMAND it. I say it again, lest there be deaf ears in high places—we DEMAND justice. For Laxton Jones, murdered on this very street, we DEMAND justice. Standing on this very street, standing in the place anointed by his innocent blood, we DEMAND justice.” He raised both fists high above his head, his voice swelling up into a hoarse roar. “It is his sacred RIGHT in the sight of God. His RIGHT as a child of God. This RIGHT will not be denied. Justice MUST be done. Justice WILL be done.”
As he spoke, his dramatic pauses were filled with loud
The group standing in front of the Gelters’ TV, holding colorful cocktails and little hors d’oeuvre plates, had grown larger and more attentive, reminding Gurney that nothing attracts a crowd like aggressive emotion. In fact, that one nasty truth seemed to be propelling the race to the bottom in the country’s political discourse and news programming.
As the demonstrators began to sing the old civil rights anthem “We Shall Overcome,” the video scene changed again. It showed a crowd outdoors at night, but very little was happening. The people were loosely assembled with their backs to the camera on a grassy area just beyond a treelined sidewalk. The illumination, evidently coming from overhead streetlights, was partly blocked by the trees. From somewhere out of sight came bits and pieces of an amplified speech, its rhythms indistinctly captured by the camera’s microphone. Two patrol officers in modified riot gear were moving back and forth on the sidewalk, as if to continually vary their lines of sight around the trees and through the crowd.
The fact that nothing of significance was happening in a video selected for broadcast could mean only one thing—that something was
WARNING!!!
A VIOLENT EVENT IS ABOUT TO BE SHOWN
IF YOU WOULD PREFER NOT TO WITNESS IT
CLOSE YOUR EYES FOR THE NEXT SIXTY SECONDS
The video continued, with the two officers again moving slowly along the sidewalk, their attention on the crowd. Gurney grimaced, his jaw clenched in anticipation of what he was now sure was coming.
Suddenly the head of one of the officers jerked forward, and he fell facedown onto the concrete, hard, as though an invisible hand had slammed him down.
There were cries of shock and dismay from the guests around the TV. Most continued watching the video—the panicky movements of the second officer as he realized what had happened, his frantic attempts at first aid, his shouting into his cell phone, the spreading awareness of trouble, the confused milling and retreat of many of the nearest onlookers.
Two key facts were clear. The shot had come not from the crowd but from somewhere behind the victim. And either the shooter was far enough away or the weapon was sufficiently silenced for the shot not to be picked up by the camera’s audio system.
Gurney was aware of the bathroom door sliding open behind him, but he remained focused on the video. Three more officers arrived on the run, two with weapons drawn; one of the other officers took off his own protective vest and placed it under the man’s head; more cell phone calls were made; the crowd was breaking apart; a distant siren was growing louder.
“Goddamn animals.”
The voice behind Gurney had a rough scraping quality that sharpened the contempt conveyed by the words.
He turned and came face-to-face with a man of his own height, build, and age. His features were individually normal, even ideal; but they didn’t seem to go together.
“Gurney, right?”
“Right.”
“NYPD detective?”
“Retired.”
A shrewd look entered the eyes that seemed a bit too close together. “Technically, right?”
“A bit more than technically.”
“My point is, being a cop gets in the blood. It never goes away, right?” He smiled, but the effect was chillier than if he hadn’t.
Gurney returned the smile. “How do you know who I am?”
“My wife always lets me know who she’s bringing into the house.”
