White River Burning полностью

The commercial faded out and the video cut back to Stacey Kilbrick, in the center section of the screen. On one side was a thirtysomething, strong-featured black woman with a short Afro. On the other side was a slightly wall-eyed, middle-aged white man with short sandy hair. Kilbrick’s voice projected an artful balance of confidence and concern. “Our subject tonight is the growing crisis in the small city of White River, New York. There are conflicting points of view on what it’s all about.” A bold line of type moved across the bottom of the screen:

WHITE RIVER CRISIS—PERSPECTIVES IN COLLISION

She continued, “On my right is Blaze Lovely Jackson—the woman who was in the car with Laxton Jones one year ago when he was killed in a confrontation with a White River police officer. She’s also a founding member of the Black Defense Alliance and a forceful spokesperson for the BDA point of view. On my left is Garson Pike, founder of ASP, Abolish Special Privileges. ASP is a political action group promoting the repeal of special legal protections for minority groups. My first question is for Ms. Jackson. You’re a founding member of the Black Defense Alliance and an organizer of the demonstrations in White River—demonstrations that have now led to the death of a police officer. My question: Do you have any regrets?”

Since they were evidently in different studios and responding to each other via monitors, each participant was addressing the camera head-on. Gurney studied Blaze Lovely Jackson’s face. Something inside her was radiating an almost frightening determination and implacability.

She bared her teeth in a hostile smile. “No surprise that you have that a little back to front. Nothing new in that, with young black men getting killed all the time. Streets are full of black men’s blood, going back forever. Poison water, rats biting babies, rotten houses full of their blood. Right here in our own little city, there’s the big nasty prison, full of black men’s blood, even back to the blood of slaves. Now one white cop is shot, and that’s the question you have? You ask how much regret I have? You don’t see how you have that all back to front? You don’t think to ask which came first? Was it black men shooting white cops? Or was it white cops shooting black men? Seems to me you have a little sequence problem. See, my question is, where’s the regret for Laxton Jones? Where’s the regret for all them black men shot in the head, shot in the back, beat to death, year after year, forever and ever, hundreds of years, for no good reason on God’s earth? Hundreds of years and no end in sight. Where’s the regret for that?”

“That may be a subject for a larger discussion,” said Kilbrick with a patronizing frown. “Right now, Ms. Jackson, I’m asking a reasonable question raised by the senseless assassination of a community servant trying to maintain public safety at the BDA rally you organized. I’d like to know how you feel about the murder of that man.”

“That one man? You want me push aside hundreds, thousands, of young black men murdered by white men? You want me push them aside so I can fill up with regret about this one white boy? And then tell you all about that regret? And maybe how much I regret being responsible for a shooting I didn’t have nothing to do with? If that’s what you want, lady, I’ll tell you something—you have no idea what world we’re living in. And there’s something else I’ll tell you right here to your pretty face—you have no damn idea how damn crazy you are.”

Along with Stacey Kilbrick’s ongoing frown there was satisfaction in her eyes—perhaps the satisfaction of achieving the RAM goal of maximizing the controversy in every situation. She moved on with a brief smile. “Now, for a different perspective, Mr. Garson Pike. Sir, your viewpoint on the current events in White River?”

Pike responded with a shake of his head and a long-suffering smile. “P-perfectly predictable tragedy. Cause and effect. Chickens coming home to roost. It’s the p-price we all p-pay for years of liberal permissiveness. P-price for political correctness.” His accent was vaguely country. His gray-blue eyes blinked with each small stutter. “These jungle attacks on law and order are the p-price of cowardice.”

Kilbrick urged him on. “Could you elaborate on that?”