Black and Blue (eBook)

Frank F. Weber (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
432 Seiten
Moon Finder Press (Verlag)
979-8-89074-213-1 (ISBN)

Investigators Zave Williams and Jon Frederick team together to re-examine the murder of 19-year-old Sadie Sullivan. The investigation intensely challenges law enforcement, problematic evidence, and questionable court decisions before justice is finally delivered.

“The greatest lie ever told about

love is that it sets you free.”

—ZADIE SMITH

2013

XAVIER “ZAVE” WILLIAMS

4:25 A.M., FRIDAY, JULY 5,

CUB FOODS, NICOLLET AVE,

WINDOM NEIGHBORHOOD, MINNEAPOLIS

Don’t tell me I speak too white. That comment is like fingernails on a chalkboard to me. Did Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, or Shirley Chisolm speak too white? Do Melvin Carter, Robyne Robinson, or Ilhan Omar speak too white? They have a message for all of America and in 1795, our government decided everyone should speak English. German Americans, who still to this day are the largest ethnic group in the U.S., asked if the laws could also be printed in German, too, so they could understand them. They were denied. English Americans constitute 8% of the U.S. population, with the highest concentrations in Maine and Utah. Still, 96% of the U.S. Presidents are of English ancestry. English is the language of money. If you want to change America, you need to be fluent in English. Former slave, Frederick Douglas, told Black America this back in 1845.

The money game is played in a variety of ways. Let me give you an example: Your English vocabulary is predictive of your intelligence. This research led me to question how we measure intelligence. Intelligence tests are designed to predict your likelihood of success in school—nothing else—with English being one of the main subjects. So, you become “gifted” by being raised in a predominantly English-speaking home, and that success leads to scholarships, jobs, and money.

I don’t speak too white. I speak too “money,” at times. Keep in mind that African Americans, German Americans, Mexican Americans, Scandinavian Americans, Native Americans, Irish Americans, and Asian Americans have all been criticized for the way they talk in America. Like all of these groups, when I’m with my friends, I speak differently—a language I call American. My parents drilled it into my head that, if I wanted to be successful, I had to write and speak in the language of money. In his later years, John Steinbeck wrote how he mourned the loss of dialect he used to enjoy when he traveled the U.S. Well John, the cause was literacy, and we’re all being taught to read and write the same way.

THE FIRST TIME I MET SADIE SULLIVAN WAS after the end of a late-night Independence Day shift with the Minneapolis Police Department. I had just finished patrolling the Freedom from Pants parade. The underwear bike ride began in Northeast Minneapolis and ended at Powderhorn Park, where participants cooled off in the lake. It was the “Minnesota nice” spin to avoiding the naked rides that occurred in over fifty cities. I personally didn’t see any pleasure in riding a bicycle naked. People respected the dress code, and it was a relatively peaceful event.

Tired and hungry, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up eggs for breakfast. As I exited aisle seven and turned to dairy, there knelt a weeping Cub Foods employee. Hopeless tears streamed down the cheeks of a beautiful brunette.

I was tired and honestly, not in the mood to deal with drama, particularly from a teenager. I looked up and down the aisle for someone I could send to help this poor creature. Where were the Tuskagee Airmen when you needed them? Hell, I’d have even settled for the Rescue Rangers. Sigh. I was the only customer in the store.

A white person might have said, “It can’t be that bad.” But as an African American, I knew better, so asked, “How bad is it?”

Her eyes remained glued to the floor. Through her tears, she blathered, “I’m engaged—but I think I’m making a mistake. A big mistake.” She slowly raised her focus from my feet to my eyes, and then remarked, “Oh, crap.”

I helped her to a standing position. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.” With concern, she asked, “You don’t know him, do you?”

There were only 350,000 African Americans in Minnesota; of course, I would know him. “What’s his name?”

“Bobby Long.” She begged, “Please—please don’t say anything.”

I gave her the best smile I could muster. “I don’t know Bobby Long and I promise, if I ever run into him, I’ll never tell him you’re having second thoughts.” Okay, not a crisis; I could move on.

But she wasn’t about to let me. She stepped in front of me and shook my hand, “I’m Sadie.” Her long black hair suggested an Italian gene pool; dark eyebrows highlighted mesmerizing, large hazel eyes.

“I’m Xavier—my friends call me Zave.” While my intentions were altruistic, I initially had that weird sensation black men got when they were alone, talking to a white woman—like I was doing something wrong. I hated that feeling. It immediately brought to conscious the story Dad had told me about his grandfather, Gabriel. One Sunday afternoon, when he was playing with his daughters on a homemade swing in the front yard of his Mississippi home, two white men walked right up on the yard and shot him dead—because he had married a white woman. I closed my eyes for a second. The script racists shove down your throat was, walk away and no trouble. I wasn’t walking away from this distressed young woman.

She clumsily wiped away tears with the sleeve of her red Cub Foods pullover and began rambling in true Minnesota dialect, “Geeze, how do you ever know—ya know? He’s a great provider—treats my daughter well. And it’s not like I bring anything to the table, aside from a pretty awesome wild rice and wild mushroom soup. I think it’s hard for a man to be with a woman who had a child at fifteen.” She sheepishly glanced up, “Did I say that out loud?”

I smiled. I could have said, “I’m sorry, I just need to get some sleep,” and politely continued shopping, but I didn’t. Gut instinct on relationships was what made me the miserable lonely man I was today. Still, there was an innocence about her that made me want to tell her it would all be okay.

Sadie went on, “At times, he’s just so disconnected. Bobby doesn’t get me. And the anger in his eyes…”

My thinking immediately went into cop mode. “Is he abusive?”

She quickly picked up on the change in dynamic and became defensive. “No—never. He’s a good man. Look, I’m sorry for bothering you. Just having a bad morning.”

I had my chance. I could’ve let her scurry away, but I didn’t. I said, “Hey, just give me minute. So, where did you meet the brother?”

Sadie smiled, “He isn’t black—not that it would be an issue.”

Confused, I asked, “Why did you ask if I knew him?”

“He’s a cop.” Chagrined, she added, “I don’t want to humiliate him in front of the entire force. Honestly, he’s a great guy. I’m the problem—second guessing everything.”

“I don’t know that you’re second guessing everything. You seem to be questioning a major decision. One you can’t afford to be wrong about.” It was hard for partners of cops to talk about domestic abuse, as a charge had the potential to cost him his job. I asked, “Is he the jealous type?”

Aware of the direction I was headed, she skirted the question. “He doesn’t hit me, if that’s what you’re asking. Bobby says I send out signals to guys.” She looked around. “Maybe I do.”

Wanting to cheer her up, I teased, “Do you mean like gang signs?” I made some goofy gestures with my hands—not actual gang signs—and she started laughing. I had given her nala, an African word that refers to the first drink of water in a desert. It’s sometimes translated to mean gift.

Her eyes shimmered with mischief, as she added to the levity, “I do use jazz hands whenever he asks me something intimate.” She shook her hands by her face and smiled, “Do you think that might be an issue?”

I could have educated her on the history of jazz hands, but she wasn’t being malicious—another time. I let it go.

After an awkward silence, she said, “You know what? I was just being nice and there’s nothing wrong with that. Bobby’s just going to have to get used to it.” Sadie put her hand on my shoulder for a second and said, “Thank you for your kindness, Zave. Now, I need to get back to work and to let you get about your business,” and she was gone.

I didn’t want her to leave. Some guy named Bobby was coming home to Sadie, who was in trouble for being too nice. I was coming home to graveyard stew. (Three eggs, a half a cup of milk, a couple pickled jalapeno slices and black pepper—nuked for three and a half minutes.) It was what my dad made when he came home from a late night of plowing snow—after Mom stopped getting up for him. And I’d probably fall asleep on the couch before I...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	7.7.2023
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
ISBN-13	979-8-89074-213-1 / 9798890742131

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