Not to the Swift

Chapter 13

Candida slid to the back of the captain's chair and leaned in to make sense of the grainy footage. "Mason's car, Kazsinski on the ground, yeah, I can make some of this out."

"Sure. Not perfect, but it's better than nothing."

Two blurry figures rushed along a balcony on the second floor of the warehouse. The first dropped down the ladder and fell to the ground. The form rose and thrust his arms out before slumping to the ground.

Captain McCullough watched Candida's reaction.

She shrugged. "It's nearly impossible to what's going on there."

"Right. Not much we can do without clear footage. We still took a screen capture and tried to amplify it. Take a look."

The video dissolved in a pixel sea, and a picture of the victim faded in. A dark splotch indicated an object in his right hand.

Candida rocked back on her heels. "So, there's that." A slightly adjusted angle to the kid's arms, a better grip on the cellphone... any number of little factors could have made the difference and saved his life. "This could do a lot to exonerate Mason."

"Stafford came back down," the captain said. "Took a peek at the footage. She thinks so too, though I think she was disappointed at the turn of events. She's got a bunch of stats and figures showing how officers' perception can be affected by race."

"I don't understand. Wouldn't that make the accidental death Mason's fault?"

"Sort of. You can't fight social conditioning ingrained in your head your whole life."

"Ahh," Candida said. "But you can blame it."

"Exactly." The captain sighed. "It's a weak option, but right now it's one of very few in the playbook."

Candida curled a finger around her lips in thought. "So where does this leave us? We've got some past history that needs at least an explanation. And we've got a fuzzy picture that seems to tell Mason's side. We could bring in the parents, show them everything we've got so far, let them see this video on our terms before someone leaks it. Do you think that will help?"

The captain gave Candida a sidelong look with a sarcastic frown. "Not one damn bit."

* * * * *

Wind whipped through the on-scene reporter's long brown hair, causing occasional distortion through her microphone. Snow streaked across the camera view, catching the bright light shining on the reporter's features. Behind her, two dozen people marched and chanted in the night.

The newscaster's voice carried over on the television. "And now to Maria Melendez for an update on the Stapleton situation."

A graphic reading "Tragedy in the Twenties" flashed across the bottom of the screen.

"Thank you, Sam," Maria said. "I'm here for Channel Five Live standing on Eighteenth and Madison at the site of the suspected gangland shootout which led to the killing of unarmed young teen Chris Washington by responding police officers.

"As you can see behind me, despite the inclement weather, there are still protestors calling for justice on behalf of Chris. I spoke with this group's organizer, Bishop Henry Simms of the New Hope Tabernacle church where Chris's family attends and his funeral was held two days ago. He had this to say."

The feed cut to a video previously recorded, with the marchers in the background waving signs and Bishop Simms in the foreground under a dusk gray sky streaked with purple and orange hues. Bishop Simms addressed the cameras. "We aren't here to stir up trouble or violence. We don't need to stir up anything. Violence and tension are already a daily part of life in this community.