You got kidnapped, Mel! Aren’t you pissed?
Melissa smiled. Mad as fuck, but how does protesting help?
I went on a march last year in Toronto, remember? Against high tuition fees.
Yeah I was sick so I missed it.
And how did you feel?
Bummed. I wanted to go. I regret not going.
Yeah, and now you have another opportunity to make a statement about something even more important.
Melissa got the point.
Thanks Shan! Love ya!
Be awesome gal!
“I’m a Virginia State Senator. Of course I have enemies.”
Agent Clark clicked his tongue in a manner that was already becoming irritating to Tim Barns.
“Your… sarcasm is not helpful,” he said in that slow drone of his. Tim felt uncomfortable whenever he spoke, like an angry wasp had landed on his face and he couldn’t move but he couldn’t relax either.
These two FBI agents, Clark and Ortega, arrived at Tim’s door about ten minutes ago, and since then had demanded he tell the whole story of Melissa Jones’s kidnapping twice. There wasn’t that much to tell, so they’d switched to asking him who might be motivated to frame him.
“Senator Barns,” Agent Ortega began. She smiled at him in an attempt to put him at ease. She was clearly used to people’s reaction to her partner’s manner. “Obviously a man in your position has made enemies, but not all of those enemies are willing to kidnap someone and tie them up in your basement in an attempt to frame you. Is there anyone you can think of who you recently made an enemy of ?”
Tim wasn’t an idiot. These agents might well operate at a level well above Lionel Granger’s sphere of influence, but any attempt on Tim’s part to implicate the old fucker was not going to be met with a reasoned, measured response. What came next, a dead hooker in his bed? Threats against his ex-wife? An accidental electrical fire in his home? Tim was no coward, but he wasn’t an idiot either. He wasn’t about to let Granger intimidate him into capitulation, but neither was he going to do anything so obvious it would immediately bring about retribution. Tim knew now what Granger was capable of. He was a dangerous man to be sure, and not one to piss off unless one was absolutely sure it wasn’t going to backfire.
“There’s nobody I can think of, no.”
“What was your… relationship with Miss Jones prior to the… incident in your basement?”
Why did everyone assume he already knew this woman?
“We’d never met before. I had seen her on the news regarding her boyfriend’s shooting, but we’d never crossed paths before.”
Clark didn’t seem satisfied with this, but Tim didn’t care. He wanted these two out of his house before they blundered into this situation and caused him more problems.
Ortega gave that smile again, half apologetic and half placating.
“Have you spoken to Miss Jones since the incident?” she asked.
“Nope. She went her way and I went mine. I don’t know why she’s gotten caught up in this. I feel terrible about everything that’s happened to her over the past couple of days, but beyond that we’ve not had any contact.”
“The man that… was in your basement. Can you… describe him to us?”
Tim stared at Clark for a moment. “I already gave my description to the police.”
“I know but… we’d like to hear it.”
Tim sighed. “Fine. Well, he was big, over two hundred pounds for sure. He had a mask on, and gloves, but I think he was a white guy. Very strong. He was dressed all in black. That’s about all I can tell you.”
Ortega stood up. “Well we won’t take any more of your time, Senator Barns.”
Clark seemed reluctant to leave, but Ortega pressed ahead anyway.
Tim saw them out and then returned to his TV. Watching the news, he saw that the protestors were out on the streets again. He reached for his jacket and keys. He should be out there marching with them. Then one of the demonstrators caught his eye. It was Melissa, marching arm in arm with Howie’s brother, Wilson, and other members of Black Lives Matter, right at the head of the protest. If Tim was going to try to build a case against Granger, it would be smart to understand Melissa’s side of the story. Perhaps he should talk to her.
He switched off the TV, grabbed his backpack and headed out to join the protest.
Melissa Jones felt empowered. She felt alive. For the first time since Howie’s death, she was in the right place, doing the right thing, with the right people. She and Wilson had been ushered to the front of the march, where they now held Justice For Howie signs that someone handed to them. Leading a couple of thousand people along Franklin Street was something Melissa planned to tell her grandchildren all about one day. She had seen images of protests in Washington, Dallas, Charlotte, Chicago, from all over the country – she knew she was part of something nationwide, and she knew that this round of protests followed Richmond’s lead, and she was at the head of the march. She knew full well the sad truth that before long they’d add Howie’s death to the national statistics, mentioned only as part of a list of names in the reporting of the latest tragedy. She knew that at any moment, an innocent, unarmed black man on his way to the convenience store might be gunned down by police convinced he posed some sort of threat, and that some other city would become the de facto protest leader, with Richmond merely a follower, a supporter, a sympathizer.
But for tonight, right now, the world’s eyes were on Richmond. Melissa saw a surprising mix of people protesting: parents with small children, the predominantly black members of the BLM movement, but also many white people and Asian people marching with their black brothers and sisters. She saw old people, one guy in a wheelchair, and so many young people, people her own age who held up makeshift signs, Howie’s vinyl album covers, or simply marched with fists in the air. These were not just lefty students who always tried to get in on a good old civil rights march. Many of these young adults were fans in mourning, people with no idea how to express their grief over the loss of such a promising and talented artist taken from them so cruelly. They would never again get to hear new work from Howie Do, and it had galvanized them to get involved—to not just voice their pain, but also to shout out against injustice and police brutality.
It was life affirming. Melissa did not smile, she did not whoop; this was not a moment of celebration. The pain of Howie’s loss and the agony of a community under siege all across the most powerful nation on Earth – it could not fail to move her. As a black woman, even in Canada, being in public and feeling in a position of strength, unity and acceptance was something she was not overly familiar with. Here she felt like she marched with her people, regardless of their nationality, age, race or gender.
Wilson had told her when they reached Monument Avenue, the protestors would gather to hear from various speakers. He asked her if she would like to speak.
To her surprise, she had said yes.
She hadn’t even hesitated. And now, despite the adrenalin and the tidal wave of support behind her, at the back of her mind she wondered what she would say. Her YouTube channel was one thing: she was used to talking without a script about being Canadian, about being a woman, about being black, about being a young adult, about politics, about fashion, about whatever came to her that day that she felt opinionated