Nia shifted, tucking her legs beneath her on the bench with her body angled toward mine.
“What about your mother? What is she like?” I asked, curious about the woman who’d raised someone like Nia, someone full of fire and compassion.
“She was a librarian at the elementary school. She believed books could save souls better than any church. Our house was full of them, novels and books about Black history.”
“She sounds remarkable.”
“She was. Is. Taught me to question everything, especially the official story. Said history belongs to the people who lived it.”
I nodded. “Ah, that explains things.”
“What things?”
“Your thoroughness. The way you document everything. I saw you recording at the protest.”
“Mama always said if you don’t tell your own story, someone else will tell it for you. And they’ll get it wrong.”
A guard walked past, and we fell silent until his footsteps faded.
“You know you’re not completely terrible at conversation for a cop.”
I smiled. “High praise coming from you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
We found some unexpected common ground in our memories of Alabama. When the conversation faded, I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes.
“I had a brother, Devon.”
The shift in her tone made me open my eyes and sit up straight. It was something about the way she said ‘had’ that was heavy with meaning.
“He was four years older than me. Smart as hell, on a full scholarship to Howard. He came home on break during my sophomore year of college. Devon was visiting a friend in the wrong apartment complex at the wrong time.”
My throat tightened as I realized where her story was going. I’d heard too many stories like this, from both sides of the badge.
“Devon was sitting on the couch when the raid happened. The DEA and local police claimed they had intel about a dealer in the building, but they kicked in the wrong door. They said he moved suddenly and reached for something.”
I didn’t need her to finish to know what came next.
“Three shots. Devon was dead before the ambulance arrived. Body cam wasn’t a thing back then. No witnesses except the officers involved, all who gave identical statements. They never found the gun they claimed he reached for.”
My jaw clenched so hard it ached up to my temple. I wanted to pull away from a truth that hit too close to home.
“No one was charged, and the case was buried. That’s why I do what I do.”
It hurt deeply to know I was part of the system that took her brother and denied her family justice.
“Seven years ago, it still feels like yesterday.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, though the words felt pathetically inadequate when they left my mouth.
Nia shook her head. “I don’t need sorry. Sorry doesn’t fix the broken system or bring Devon back.”
“You’re right.”
Nia looked surprised that I agreed so easily. She must have expected me to argue. The anger in her face faded a little.
“I couldn’t eat or sleep after it happened. I kept thinking about how the police controlled the narrative. The case was closed, and all we received was an official police statement, telling us to move on. Devon became a cautionary tale about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s why I document these stories and create records that can’t be minimized or erased. To make sure my brother’s death meant something. My mama called it channeling grief into purpose.”
