True Allegiance

“No, boy, they come along once every three weeks or so. I know. I’ve mapped it out.” He stood, then put his heavy hand on Levon’s shoulder. “Now, Levon, if you think I’m gonna leave you hanging like this, that’s where you’re wrong. See, I’ve got a proposition. Here’s what I’m gonna propose. The mayor needs a community group to give him the green light for his activities, lend him political cover. I’m not going to be in town long enough to carry that forward. But you can. You’ll be a big man in this city, Levon. Go mainstream.”

Levon stood up, peered down at Big Jim. “There’s only one issue, Reverend. You said that the white cop might be indicted. What if he isn’t?”

Big Jim looked straight at Levon. “Well, that’s why we’ve got a system, right? Get your boys off the street. They’re making us look bad.”

Levon shook his head. “System. Sorry, Reverend. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get my boys off the street. And I’m sorry if they’re making you look bad. See, it turns out, I have some bad cops, too.”

Big Jim grit his teeth. “Fast learner, kid. Fast learner.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the mayor.”

“I’ll come along.”

He shook his head. “No, kid, you won’t. You’ll do what you’re told. Remember, you were nobody before I got here. And I can put you right back there with just a snap. After all, I’m the man who saved Detroit. You said so yourself. But don’t worry. You’ve got spunk. I’ll keep you in the loop, give you a call when we’re done.”

But he didn’t.

As the hours passed, Levon began pacing the hotel conference room. Then he called one of his deputies, took the elevator down to the parking lot, got in his car, and headed back to the barbershop.

It was already packed when he pulled up. In the shop sat a slightly overweight black woman. Regina Malone clutched a handkerchief to her face; her heavy makeup was streaked with tears. She looked like she hadn’t stopped crying since she found out about her son, Kendrick, and the truth was, she hadn’t. Kendrick had been her youngest boy, a good boy, she told the media, shot to death because of police racism. The president had called her, offered his condolences, told her he’d stop at nothing to get to the bottom of the case.

The Wayne County prosecutor hadn’t been as forthcoming. She’d been elected through a fluke—the entire government in Wayne County sprang from the Democratic Party, but Kim Donahue had lucked into her job, running at the same time that the Democratic candidate stumbled into jail over a sex and corruption scandal. She’d effectively been appointed to office with no opposition. A graduate of the University of Michigan Law School, Donahue had thrown her hat into the ring almost as a lark—there was no other reason for a white Republican to run for county prosecutor in a 52 percent black district, where Democrats outnumbered Republicans by near-Cuban-election margins. When she found herself in office, she’d been faced with a massive backlog of unresolved cases, including murder and rape cases. She’d quickly developed a close relationship with the beleaguered police department.

Now the prosecution of Ricky O’Sullivan lay in Kim Donahue’s hands.

Regina Malone, standing next to Big Jim, had called a press conference at which she asked Donahue to recuse herself, given her ties to the police department. Donahue had refused, stating that she would ensure that justice was served, and that if anyone implied her skin color meant she couldn’t be objective, they were racist. The line made national headlines, turned Kim Donahue into one of the most polarizing political figures in America.

Levon got out of his car, and Regina Malone clutched at his arm like a drowning woman clutching at a life jacket. “Levon, you gotta see this.” She dragged him, her grip iron, into the barbershop, where the crowd had gathered around the lone flat-screen television in the place.

There, on the television, stood Kim Donahue. The chyron read: “DA ANNOUNCES NO CHARGES AGAINST POLICE OFFICER RICKY O’SULLIVAN.” She looked directly into the camera, her blonde hair shining softly in the sun. Levon thought he detected a hint of a smirk on her face. “No matter what the media may think, no matter the pressures brought to bear, I have only one agenda: the people’s agenda. And that agenda is not the agenda of the mob. It is the agenda of justice under our state and federal constitutions. Ricky O’Sullivan was entitled to due process. The evidence does not support manslaughter; it does not support murder in the first or second degree. We all grieve with the Malone family. But we must not pile a miscarriage of justice on top of a terrible tragedy.”

Levon grabbed the remote off the counter, hurled it at the screen. The screen cracked. “Bullshit. This is bullshit.”