Jessup sees the curtain move in the living room window. Jewel peeking out. He wants to wave to her, to smile, to signal to her it’s all going to be okay. Is this going to be her life?
Jessup tells the cops he left the party, got in his truck, drove to see his girlfriend, came home.
“You know Corson outside of football?”
“No, sir. Overlapped at a couple of football camps, but different sides of the ball. Enough to say ‘hey,’ but nothing more than that.”
“Any problems in the past? Anything before the party last night?”
Jessup thinks about the parking lot, about Corson jabbing his finger into Jessup’s breastbone. “He came up to me after the game. Said it was a dirty play. Kicked out my taillight.”
The black cop is watching him closely, but behind him, Jessup sees Hawkins squint.
Fuck. He’d told Hawkins last night that he didn’t know how it happened. That he’d come out of the game and just found the taillight shattered.
Hawkins doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t write anything in his paper pad.
“And what did you do?”
“Just drove away, sir.”
“He kicked out your taillight, and you just drove away?” The black cop is baiting him. Scornful. All but calling him a pussy.
“That’s correct, sir. I didn’t want any trouble. I was going to meet my family at Kirby’s. I was hungry and in a hurry. A burger sounded better than a fight.” Jessup risks a smile.
“And last night? At the party? What happened with you and Corson?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Jessup says.
“Because we hear that you two had a scrap.”
“No, sir,” Jessup says. “He yelled at me, accused me of some things, but he didn’t touch me, I didn’t touch him, just a lot of talk.”
“He accused you of things? Like what?”
Jessup stares at the cop. Pegs him at forty-five. Nothing like the fat cop they saw outside of Kirby’s last night. This one—he can read the name tag now, says “Cunningham”—is clearly trying. Got an agenda. He’s gone a bit soft, age creeping up, a small pudge over his belt, but Jessup bets he runs four, five times a week, lifts weights, but none of it enough to fight off the wrong side of forty. He’s got a wedding ring on, so probably kids, too.
Jessup makes a decision.
“Said I wanted to call him a nigger.”
The yard is quiet. There’s the sound of a car heading away from them on the main road, but nothing else other than wind. Hawkins takes a step, his boots squeaking in the snow.
Cunningham narrows his eyes. “You called him the N-word?”
“No, sir,” Jessup says. “I did not. He said I wanted to call him a nigger.”
“Did you?”
Hawkins takes another step, grabs Cunningham’s elbow. “Hey. Come on now, Marcus.”
Jessup doesn’t say anything. Cunningham keeps staring at him, and Jessup stares back, neither one willing to look away.