The Cause

THE CAUSE.

“This was all they offered, I’m really sorry”.

She forcefully bit down her tongue in desperation. Physical pain had always been easier for her to control.

“We have found your niece. Unfortunately, she didn’t survive. She was thought to have matched the description; we didn’t know that she didn’t have a gun…”.

“This was all they offered, I’m really sorry”, the officer repeated, hesitant that she heard him the first time.

She took off her jacket and calmly laid it on the side. She tried her best to not look at him as he’d be able to see what was happening within her and she didn’t want to let that happen. The remaining fragmented pieces of her heart were threatening to give space to the dooming spirit of hate that she for so long buried. How casual was the transaction of a settlement offer against the possible trauma of a lifetime? She shook her head. Her mouth felt numb with disgust, and though she knew the bitter truth so well, she had forgotten how sour it was to taste.

“We know that this is difficult to hear, but we tried our best to save her. We didn’t know. Matched the description, she just matched the description...”.

She snapped back once again from her memories of the night to the present, her emotions blazing with a hatred that she did not know she was able to feel. Injustice is a painful pill to swallow, and it did not settle with her well. The life of a black kid in New York City was settled for $20,000 that day. An amount which she knew was dramatically low considering the facts. An amount which could barely fund a dignified funeral, pay for the hospital bills and take time off work.

And so it was, that the rain started splattering against the dark, tinted window of the police station. The faint sound of thunder was heard from a distance, but the sounds might as well have been the drums of this young woman’s heart, dipping into new dimensions of anger as the darkness set into the station. There were not that many people around, she observed. The officer who presented her with the offer, had left a few minutes ago, visibly confused by her lack of words. The music on the radio hummed a good old 80’s song and the clock ticked away her self-control. Hate became fury.

Singing, she slowly approached the reception desk.

The receptionist looked up whilst typing.

“Is this clock working sir?”

He turned to the clock, and back at her.

“Huh…Yes. Yes, it is”

She laughed at his sarcasm and whilst looking him up and down she nodded:

“So, we’re definitely not in 1965.”

“N-no.”

It could have been her answer or her stance, but either way the receptionist became afraid. “I guess victims of injustice are always seen as just that”, she whispered to him, still in thoughts, "as victims. Their mental health isn’t cared for; they’re just called to confirm and accept the roll of the dice”.

She pranced around the musky offices, beyond the point of customer service and entered the public forbidden places. She would have never done this has the sharp pang of bitterness had not wrapped her mental health around its finger. As she walked through the badly lit corridors, she heard the multiple calls for back-up being made by the officers as she walked by. They were meant to be discreet, but their eagerness to get her arrested took the best of them. She was wearing a long dark jacket, ominously sweeping the floor after her steps, her legs almost dancing as she walked, and her chilling smile plastered across her face in a way that made their blood turn.

“Did you watch the joker?” She asked, having nonchalantly stopped by a female officer, sitting halfway across her desk, and fiddling with a pen.

“Don’t worry I know you’re too worried about me” she whispered after the silent answer the police officer gave, “just was wondering if you’ve ever seen them shoot him”. She laughed some more. The confidence she had as she twirled around made many reach out for their weapons, but she didn’t care. She let items fall.

“HOW MANY MORE OF ME TO BRING THE SYSTEM DOWN?” She screamed at them in defiance.

She knew they did not see her as a threat as long as she acted crazy. But she was not there for a show, she was there to speak and to defend the memory of her niece. She was there to protect the lives of many more. No matter what it cost.

Her tears began to show and she wiped them, laughing :

“What if WE had the guns and offered YOU $20,000 too?”.

It was only then that she could feel the rising indignation in the room. They never liked anyone who had the mental capacity to start a riot. She knew that more than egos had been hit. And so, looking at the door in the distance, knowing that she could not run away, Annie spoke up in a room full of white middle-aged men. For the last time.

“She was innocent, and you were imprudent”

She started walking up and down, mimicking what her niece was doing the night she was shot for them to watch.

The first gunshot at the hand of an officer resounded.

She started shaking.

As her niece did, Annie picked up the pace and said, “I have something to show you”, in a childlike voice.

The second gunshot.

“I loved her” she sobbed, “She was my niece”. She swallowed her tears and put her hand in her pocket.

“You took her from me”.

Another gunshot resounded. This time a lot closer to her right arm.

Knowing she did not have much time; Annie took a deep breath. She then hurriedly took out from her pocket a little black book out and turned to the last drawing that her niece did, which she wanted to show the officer on that night.

With her hand in the hair, her heart racing, her eyes closed, Annie finally uttered:

“If anybody asks why I did this, if anybody wonders if I’m crazy. If anyone thinks there could have been a better way than facing the system who took this young girl away. Please show them this. As this, was the cause”.

A final gunshot. Annie fell down and with her, the diary of her little niece who was wrongly profiled by 5 police officers exactly 2 weeks back. Annie was given the $20,000 even after her passing, which all went to the debts she had put herself in to pay for hospital bills and for her own law school tuition she was paying. This was not enough though, and her debts were passed on to her relatives.

Nevertheless, her relatives were proud as they framed out that little black book, which would forever be remembered in their minds. And as the press wrote the story, and many closed cases of alleged murders were investigated, it was never forgotten that the reason why Annie did this, why Annie risked her life: was for the cause.

Written by Murielle Boa.