“We have received reports this morning that Gabriel Turner, the leader of the radical Black People’s Party, lies in a coma at Cook County Hospital after having been shot by Chicago police last night. The State’s Attorney’s office said the officers were attempting to execute a search warrant when Mr. Turner pulled a weapon from his bag. A leader of the radical Puerto Rican People’s Party, also reportedly armed, was killed in the exchange of gunfire. And a member of the Bricks, the criminal South Side street gang, was wounded and remains in critical condition. A young British exchange student, Lisbeth Beckert, was also shot dead as she sat in a taxicab near the scene. Commander Bronson, who led the police team, issued the following statement: ‘Police are testing the gun found on Gabriel Turner. We believe the British student was killed by bullets fired from that weapon. Lisbeth Beckert was an innocent bystander. Our condolences go out to her family.’”
Prez got up from the floor of the hospital waiting room and stretched his legs. He didn’t bother to ask anyone if they minded him turning off the TV. He just walked over and turned it off. He had come straight to the hospital after being released by the police that morning. He wanted to be there with Gabe’s family. They were very dignified people who handled the situation with a painful stoicism. They still had not been allowed to see Gabe and the only word about his condition was from a little African-American nurse who behaved as if she had to sneak around each time she came into the waiting room.
Strangely, Prez wasn’t tired or hungry. He was too lethargic to feel his anger. He sat on the hard floor in a corner trying to hide from himself. A deep chill had set into his bones. His breathing was so loud in his own head that he felt deaf to the outside world. He wanted to scream but could not find his voice. He wanted to stand but could not find his legs, until Professor Mackey walked in with Jenny and Percy. The three of them looked so fresh and clean. But then they had not spent the night curled up on a cold, filthy jail floor contemplating the meaning of life through the lens of their anticipated mortality like he had. Nor had they spent nervous hours sequestered in a hospital room like Gabe’s family worrying about whether he would live or die.
“Professor Mackey, the news reports on television are lies. I was there. JB and Percy were there. We can testify.”
“Have any idea where Fitzgerald is now?” asked the professor.
“He’s over at the courthouse,” said Gabe’s brother. “He’s got between twelve and sixteen cases.”
“This is Gabe’s family,” said Prez and he began to introduce them.
“I really need to speak to Fitzgerald,” said the professor. “He says he is obtaining a court order to prevent my students here from boarding a plane to go home. We’re being told they can’t leave because they are needed as material witnesses.”
“That sounds about right,” said Gabe’s brother, who was in the midst of studying for his bar exam. “But you do want to stay, don’t you?” Gabe’s brother looked at Percy and Jenny. “Your testimony before the coroner and the grand jury would be very important, perhaps vital.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said the professor. “They are exchange students and should be allowed to go home!”
Gabe’s family looked at the professor with dismay.
“I just told you a few minutes ago,” said Prez, “that we—me, JB and Percy—we need to testify about what happened. They can’t leave.”
The waiting room door opened, and in a whoosh of air Fitzgerald came through the door with a doctor in tow.
The doctor, a tall man with a mop of shaggy graying hair that hung about his face, said to Mr. and Mrs. Turner, “Your son is resting. We removed a total of four bullets from his body. Miraculously, none struck a vital organ. He’ll need time to fully recover, but I am confident he will.”
“The good doctor and I go way back,” said Fitzgerald. “As soon as they brought Gabriel in, paraffin tests were run on Gabriel’s hands and sleeves. I’ve got a copy of the results right here.” Fitzgerald tapped his briefcase. “He never fired a weapon.”
“None of us did,” said Prez. “None of us had weapons.”
Fitzgerald pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “The police are going to claim that they found a weapon in a bag belonging to Gabriel Turner. This single entry from their police report will be enough for a grand jury to issue an indictment. That’s what this is about. They are trying to deplete Mr. Turner’s family’s, organization’s and supporters’ energy and resources by entangling them in expensive and lengthy legal actions and litigation. This same single sheet of paper will lead to the acquittal of my client. They were too hasty. A serial number is recorded for the gun.”
“And what does that mean, about the serial number?” asked Professor Mackey.
“It means the history of manufacture and ownership of the weapon is discoverable. There is a single significant caveat that I have already accounted for. I filed an inquiry as to whether the number has ever been recorded as stolen.” He pulled another sheet of paper from his briefcase and held it up. “It had not. It therefore has a live, unbroken history that you can bet your bottom dollar will lead straight back to the police.”
“Maybe if the Black People’s Party wasn’t running around spreading their nonsense about socialism and revolution, none of this would have happened,” blurted the professor.
Gabriel’s mother walked right up to Professor Mackey and looked up at him. “The police murdered a lot of youngsters last night. And you want to place the blame on my son? Let me tell you something, Professor Jambon, yes, I know what they call you. And I don’t care. You can fuck whoever you want, but you cannot—you will not—fuck over my son’s reputation. You will not impugn his integrity. You should be ashamed. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
And that was the question that had long been lodged in Prez’s mind like a pesky, painful, barely visible splinter stuck under his fingernail.