True Allegiance

Before them stood an imposing wall, in front of which knelt a statue, the Spirit of Detroit—a twenty-five-foot-tall loincloth-clad man carrying a golden sphere with rays emanating from it in one hand, and a small family in the other hand. Levon had never known what the statue was supposed to mean; it just looked like a constipated Nordic Man to him. On the wall a large inscription from Corinthians read: “NOW THE LORD IS THAT SPIRIT; AND WHERE THE SPIRIT OF THE LORD IS HERE IS LIBERTY.”

Horseshit, thought Levon.

Behind Levon stood a solid three thousand of his fellow Detroiters, mostly young black men. Levon had sent out his boys to round up the crowd, and they’d had an easy time of it after the media coverage. Facing the crowd, protecting the statue and a platform set up just before it, stood about a hundred cops.

Levon noticed a particular lack of weapons. He smiled to himself.

Media members surrounded the crowd, cameras at the ready, interviewing the odd protester here or there. He knew that a few media members would get hurt tonight—that’s the way it had to be. A couple of reporters getting caught in the melee just showed that the mob was serious. If they were too well behaved, the media would dismiss them. A bit of blood got them hot under the collar. A bit of blood made the story hot. The way the media worked, the only way they’d pay attention was if somebody did something extreme—and then they’d defend the action, blame it on overriding anger at an unfair society. Levon knew a few of the journalists from U of M. They’d done the same thing back in their university days. Made them feel good about themselves, less ensconced in white privilege.

Levon had his men ringing the edges of the crowd, ready to prevent any non-approved persons from getting too close to the media members. No footage of fools, he’d promised the reverend.

And he intended to keep his word. Tonight, Levon intended to be the face on the news. Already, he’d done his best Malcolm X impression—early Malcolm, not that late-stage “Islam means peace” pussy shit—for the networks. “If we don’t get what we want,” he said, “if we don’t get justice for Kendrick, this city is going to burn. We’ve been burning silently for too long. Our poverty burns beneath the surface. Our ignorance burns beneath the surface. We’ve been left for dead in this city, just like black boys have been left for dead all over this country. And this country must pay a price, if there is no justice.”

The sexy blonde with the short skirt seemed turned on at that point. Breathily, she asked, “And what will justice look like?”

So he threw in a line just for good measure: “Justice will be done when people like you live in the mud you’ve made for us. Only then can we lift each other up.”

Her eyelashes fluttered. That shit was magic, Levon knew. He’d learned it at the university, too. White coeds majoring in journalism were a cinch. Just drag them off their civilized perch and let them experience life outside their self-proclaimed white privilege, and they let you know that you’d be doing them a favor.

Levon glanced at his watch. 6:34. The mayor and the reverend were four minutes late. Good. Let the crowd get antsy. Let them get nervous and enraged. They’d need that energy. Bored crowds were the ones that turned the most violent when the gun sounded.

For now, they remained ominously silent. No banners. No signs. Just thousands of strong young black men and women—mostly men—ready to stand together against injustice. That’s what the media would see—and the truth was that many of these young black men were ready to do that. All they knew was that they’d dealt with white asshole cops before, that their neighborhoods were full of crack and booze and poverty, and that somebody needed to fix things. And if nobody understood that, well, it was time to make them understand.

That time was now.

From behind the wall, the mayor emerged. Beside him stood Reverend Crawford, looking as solemn as Judgment Day. He spotted Levon in the crowd; Levon gave him an almost imperceptible nod. The reverend looked away.

The mayor was at the lectern now. Behind him sat Nordic Man, awaiting his words along with the rest of the world.

Mayor Jimmy Burns had a history with the city of Detroit. He’d grown up there, worked at one of the local law firms, become alderman, and then taken over for the last mayor after a corruption beef put him in prison for the duration of his term. He’d tried, with minor success, to push some reforms, most controversially staffing up the police department. That reform had failed when the DOJ consent decree came through. Crime had blasted through the roof under his administration, just as it had under his predecessors.

Now, he wiped his pasty white forehead with a handkerchief. He adjusted his glasses. He looked down at his notes.