Proving Innocence

1

Vanessa's thoughts were interrupted by the crackle of her police scanner. It rested beside her laptop, typically abuzz with the usual small talk of police officers and occasional reports of lots animals. She had bought it only two weeks ago, after the shooting. After there was speculation of what had really happened during what would turn into another tragedy. A voice came from the speaker: "10-24," a male officer's voice reported, "we have a 10-37. North Avenue, green Mercedes, tinted windows." She stared at her screen. Silence. She'd spent days teaching herself and  memorizing the police codes. It was necessary, she had told herself, to know exactly what the police were saying in instances like the one she was writing about. 10-24, emergency back-up. 10-37, suspicious vehicle. She sat in a stretch of silence, still, waiting for an officer to follow up. Her eyes shifted and were fixated on the scanner, begging for somebody to reply. She didn't dare move, her breath was quiet. Nothing. Her heart stopped as she imagined the worst. She continued to write.

But that won't matter. None of it will fucking matter because the police have the final say-so in what the "real story" will be once they corroborate on what that story will be. They'll tell you that he resisted arrest, that he brandished a gun or a knife or anything that they could possibly use to justify shooting a 16-year-old boy — twice in the face, once in his chest, and once in his neck. But arguing those stories won't make a difference because people will believe it. People will believe it because he was in a single-parent household in a low-income area that was predominantly Black — a hood nigga, as I'm sure somebody would try to describe him. They won't tell you about the officer's habit to exclusively haze Black recruits, nor will they expose his habitual violence against Black youth when arresting them for minor offenses like marijuana possession. The media and the police will try to paint a masterpiece of a story to portray this boy as a menace, and I'm fucking tired of it. 

Vanessa stopped, cupping her face in her hands and letting out a heavy sigh. She shook her head. She was sick of these stories, but they would never stop coming in and she knew it. Hot tears fought to escape the corners of her eyes, but Vanessa shut her eyes tight. The quiet buzzing of her police scanner was interrupted by an abrupt cut of noise. She held them closed as tightly as possible and listened to the train rush by her window. She let out a shaky break and sat up straight again, her finger holding down the backspace key until her page was blank once more. After a deep breath, she began typing again:

27 Ways To Spice Up The Bedroom!

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The sun poured into the studio, warming Vanessa's cheek and hand as she slept. Her face lay next to her laptop, screen black, and pressed against the open pages of a notebook littered with unorganized notes. Her hand rested on the opposite side of the laptop, loosely gripping and ink pen. She snored quietly, undisturbed by the natural alarm of impatient drivers and the construction beneath the window of her apartment. 

Martin stood over his sister as she slept, observing, leaned against the desk. He took a sip from his travel mug and set own the coffee he'd brought for Vanessa. "V," he said in a hushed voice, nudging his sister with the back of his hand carefully as to not splash her with the scalding coffee. Vanessa muttered something unintelligible, swatting at him before falling back asleep. "V, get up," he tried again, nudging her harder. When given no response, Martin sighed. He placed the ball of his foot against the leg of Vanessa's wheeled chair and pushed it, forcing his sister to sit upright. Her hand brushed against the pad of her laptop, forcing it to wake up as well, and her notebook and pen slid to the floor. With sleepy bloodshot eyes, she glared at her older brother. Both cheeks were reddened, one from the sun beating through her window and other from being pressed against the notebook, which had left deep indents of the spiral binding. Martin smirked at her, offering her cup of coffee. "Morning," he said. "Three creams, six sugars. Just the way you like it."