I let out a low chuckle.“I was thinking about you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Not worry. I just . . . miss you, I guess. That’s all. Good night, sweet lady.”
“Good night, Ronan. Get some rest.”
“You too. Sweet dreams.”
Sleep finally came, but it wasn’t restful.
The next morning, I arrived early, hoping to get ahead of whatever was unfolding. I nodded to the desk sergeant and greeted officers in the hall. It all felt routine, but my gut told me today was anything but normal.
Todd intercepted me halfway to my office. “Conference room. They’ve been waiting twenty minutes.”
“Who’s they?”
Todd eyed the hallway for listeners. “Peterson and Grant from Internal Affairs and some suit from the Feds. I didn’t catch a name, just that he had the desk sergeant tripping over himself.”
I nodded. Peterson and Grant were bureaucrats with badges, more focused on rules than justice. Though with the Feds involved, this was more than a simple breach; it was an embarrassment for the department.
“Anything else I should know?”
Todd’s face gave nothing away, but his tone lowered. “They’ve pulled incident reports from the protest. And . . . Dr. Price’s public records, academic publications, social media, and the works.”
I kept my face neutral, though something cold knotted in my stomach. “Appreciate the heads up.”
The conference room door might as well have been the entrance to a boxing ring. I squared my shoulders, straightenedmy backbone, and walked in with the measured confidence of a man with nothing to hide. The men looked up from the table as I entered.
“Gentlemen. Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?” I said, closing the door behind me.
Peterson, a balding and perpetually flushed man, motioned toward a chair across from them. “Chief Banks. Thanks for joining us. This is Special Agent Richards from the Department of Homeland Security.”
I nodded to Richards, who assessed me with a cold calculation of a man used to reading people for weaknesses. “Agent Richards. What brings Homeland Security to Birmingham PD?”
“We’re reviewing the Harris Memorial incident. Your department’s handling of it has raised some . . . concerns,” Richards confirmed.
I recognized it for what it was, a fishing expedition masquerading as an official review. “I see. I’d be happy to walk you through our operational decisions.”
Grant, who was younger than Peterson, opened a folder. “Let’s start with your decision to intervene between National Guard troops and protesters physically. That directly violated protocol, didn’t it?”
That started the round of questions meant to trap me or find mistakes. I answered each one calmly and clearly, relying on my years of experience. Yes, I intervened. No, I didn’t check with a higher command first. Yes, I knew I broke protocol. No, I wouldn’t have done anything differently.
“I train my officers to de-escalate. The Guard escalated a situation that could’ve been contained without tear gas or arrests. I made a judgment call based on my assessment of civilian safety.”
Peterson’s mouth thinned. “A judgment call that got Birmingham’s chief of police arrested on national television.”
“Better me than civilians in body bags,” I replied.
Richards, who’d been mostly silent, spoke again. “What can you tell us about the protest organizers, Chief Banks?”
The question was designed to catch me off guard; the topic shift was deliberate, but I didn’t flinch. “Mostly local community groups. First Church congregation and some student activists from the university.”
“Any particular individuals stand out? Particularly Dr. Nia Price?” Richards asked.
“Several community leaders were present. The usual voices in Birmingham’s civil rights community.”
Richards nodded, then reached for a folder that had been sitting closed before him. He flipped it open and slid it across the table toward me. “And what about this woman? Dr. Nia Price. I understand she was in the same holding cell as you after the arrests.”
