She got out a Kleenex and dabbed at her tears while I put on my jacket.
“Better?” Bree asked.
“Perfect,” I said, and opened our bedroom door.
The three other bedrooms off the second-floor landing were open and dark. We went downstairs. My family was gathered in the kitchen. Nana Mama, my ninety-something-year-old grandmother. Damon, my oldest child, down from Johns Hopkins. Jannie, my high-school junior and running star. And Ali, my precocious nine-year-old. They were all dressed as if for a funeral.
Ali saw me and broke into tears. He ran over and hugged my legs.
“Hey, hey,” I said, stroking his head.
“It’s not fair.” Ali sobbed. “It’s not true, what they’re saying.”
“Course it’s not,” Nana Mama said. “We’ve just got to ignore them. Sticks and stones.”
“Words can hurt, Nana,” Jannie said. “I know what he’s feeling. You should see the stuff on social media.”
“Ignore it,” Bree said. “We’re standing by your father. Family first.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Let’s do it, then,” I said. “Heads high. Don’t engage.”
Nana Mama picked up her pocketbook, said, “I’d like to engage. I’d like to put a frying pan in my purse here and then clobber one of them with it.”
Ali stopped sniffling and started to laugh. “Want me to get you one, Nana?”
“Next time. And I’d only use it if I was provoked.”
“God help them if you are, Nana,” Damon said, and we all laughed.
Feeling a little better, I checked my watch. Quarter to eight.
“Here we go,” I said, and I went through the house to the front door.
I stopped there, listening to my family lining up behind me.
I took a deep breath, rolled my shoulders back like a Marine at attention, then twisted the knob, swung open the door, and stepped out onto my porch.
“It’s him!” a woman cried.
Klieg lights blazed to life as a roar of shouts erupted from the small mob of media vultures and haters packing the sidewalk in front of our house on Fifth Street in Southeast Washington, DC.
There were fifteen, twenty of them, some carrying cameras and mikes, others carrying signs condemning me, all hurling questions or curses my way. It was such a madhouse I couldn’t hear any of them clearly. Then one guy with a baritone voice bellowed loudly enough to be heard over the din:
“Are you guilty, Dr. Cross?” he shouted. “Did you shoot those people down in cold blood?”
CHAPTER
2
A BLACK SUBURBAN with tinted windows rolled up in front of my house.
“Stay close,” I said, ignoring the shouted questions. I pointed to Damon. “Help Nana Mama, please.”
My oldest came to my grandmother’s side and we all moved as one tight unit down the stairs and onto the sidewalk.
A reporter shoved a microphone in my face, shouted, “Dr. Cross, how many times have you drawn your weapon in the course of duty?”