After his second drink, Todd rechecked his watch. “Alright, I’d better head out. Promised Sandra I’d be home in time to watch her show with her.”
“Happy wife, happy life,” I said with a smile more genuine than anything I’d managed all day.
“Twenty-two years and counting. You should try it sometime, instead of sleeping with that badge,” Todd replied, standing and straightening his uniform.
“Get out of here.” I chuckled, waving him off.
“See you tomorrow. Try not to stay too late.”
I watched him go and waited until he was out the door before I finally relaxed. My next breath let out not only today’s frustration, but weeks of it. With Todd gone, I didn’t have to juggle being both a boss and a friend.
Tomorrow, protesters would demand justice, with me caught in the middle, serving a system I doubted more every day. Though tonight, in this bar with soft jazz and no one watching,I had to admit the truth: I didn’t know if I was changing the system or if it was changing me.
I sipped my bourbon, thankful for a bit of peace. Most nights, a drink and some quiet were enough, but tonight, I felt restless. Maybe it was Todd’s talk about the department being divided or the upcoming protest.
I wasn’t sure. I glanced around the bar and noticed a woman sitting alone, writing in a notebook. It only took a second to recognize her in the mirror, and my hand tightened on my glass. Dr. Nia Price. She was the voice behindTruth to Power, the podcast that had taken apart my department’s reputation all year.
What were the chances? I’d heard enough of her podcast to know she was based in Atlanta, not Birmingham. Yet here she was, in my usual spot, looking like she was doing research right at the bar.
She stood out, and once I noticed her, I couldn’t look away. She seemed sharp and focused as she wrote in her notebook. Her skin was a deep brown with red undertones. Her locs were pulled back with a few framing her face as she leaned over her notes. Gold earrings caught the light when she tilted her head, thinking about what she’d written.
She hadn’t noticed me yet, which gave me the advantage. I’d never met her in person before; I’d only seen her podcast clips on social media. Her latest episode had taken my community policing initiative apart point by point, using arrest statistics I couldn’t even argue with. “Performance without progress,” she’d called it. The words stuck with me more than I cared to admit.
The bartender approached her with a fresh drink, a brown liquor with ice, and she looked up with a smile, transforming her face entirely. It was strange seeing warmth, knowing it would likely freeze over if she realized I was watching her. I wondered what brought her to Birmingham.
I should have looked away, minded my business, finished my drink, and left without engaging. Something about her focus and the intensity of her concentration held my attention. She wasn’t on her phone scrolling like most people sitting alone at bars. Her notebook was her distraction.
As if sensing my thoughts, she suddenly looked into the mirror before her eyes landed directly on me. The recognition was immediate, mutual. Her eyes—sharp, intelligent, and unflinching—held mine. There was no surprise in her expression, just an assessment so thorough I almost felt it on my skin. No smile softened her lips. No polite nod acknowledged my position, though her steady gaze seemed to say, I see you, Chief Banks, and I know exactly what you are.
I didn’t smile either. I couldn’t have, even if I tried. Being seen by someone who had already judged me made me want to drop the mask I wore for a moment.
The moment dragged on. Neither of us looked away first. It wasn’t really a challenge, more like two opponents who respected the game, even if they didn’t respect each other.
What did she see when she looked at me? The uniform? The badge? The man on billboards talking about community trust? Or did she see past all that to the sleep I’d lost over Jaylen Harris’s death, the fights with the DA about body cam footage, and the thin line I walked every day between my department and my community?
Probably not. To her, I was another cop hiding behind a badge and a handsome face. She looked away first, dropping her eyes to her notebook and writing something down. It was a quiet but clear dismissal. I wasn’t worth more than a glance. I was just another data point in her story.
I took a bigger sip of bourbon than I meant to. The burn in my chest wasn’t anger, exactly, but close. Maybe it wasdefensiveness, or the discomfort of being judged by someone who only saw part of the truth and thought it was enough.
It shouldn’t matter what she thought of me or my department. I’d dealt with tougher critics and harder confrontations. Still, something about Dr. Price being here, her quiet focus, and her refusal to even fake a greeting, bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
I asked the bartender for my check. My safe place had been breached, not by force, but by the presence of a woman. As I signed the credit card slip, I glanced at her one more time. She was back to writing, lost in her work.
What I couldn’t figure out was why her dismissal left an empty feeling in my chest that another bourbon wouldn’t fix.
3
NIA
The next day, people streamed into Linn Park from all directions. Grandmothers with the church fans, college kids wearing Black Lives Matter T-shirts, and fathers carrying babies on their shoulders. Several people held signs like ‘Justice for Jaylen’ or ‘Black youth deserve to grow old.’
I adjusted my press credentials around my neck, though part of me wanted to rip them off and be another person rather than Dr. Nia Price, an academic observer.
Talia appeared by my side, wearing a black bandanna. Today she wore all black, like most of the crowd. Mourning colors for a child Birmingham had failed.
“You made it. I wasn’t sure if Dr. Price would step out of the ivory tower to join us common folks.”
I bumped her shoulder with mine. “Girl, stop. You know I’m always down for the cause. I’m just trying to document it properly, too.” I held up my recorder, already catching the sounds of the gathering crowd, the chanting, and snippets of conversations.
