Where is she now?
The photograph of Torrence Johnson was from the newspaper. Its caption read simply,
Killed by Officer Cardwell.
Socrates stood for a while facing the station. Policemen came in and out without paying him any heed. Now and then a car would slow down but the words on the sign were too small and no one stopped to get out of their cars. A few rare walkers stopped and read the words, avoiding the sandwich man's eyes. But they needn't have worried, Socrates wasn't there to talk.
There was a Pick-an'-Save drugstore on the corner of the block and Brother Joe's Coffee n' Cake across the street from the station. Both of these stores were patronized by black and brown people who did stop to look for a moment before getting on with their day.
Socrates began to pace the block across the street from the station after an hour or so. He walked solemnly and slow as if to the beat of a single military drum. As the day went on, more and more people came to read his sandwich board. Children ran after him laughing, then fleeing gleefully when he turned to walk in their direction. Men passed by seemingly oblivious but reading every word with sideways glances.
By noon the police had noticed him too. Most of the cops went to a small diner next door to the station but one or two black officers got their coffee from Brother Joe. They stopped to read Socrates' sign and then went away to work.
Finally, at a little after twelve, two uniformed cops approached him.
All right now, a burly white sergeant said. You had your fun, now move along.
Socrates kept walking.
The second officer, who was also white and large, stood in front of Socrates pressing the five fingertips of his left hand against the hard sign. It's time for you to leave.
Socrates showed no concern. He took two steps backward and turned to walk in the opposite direction.
Halt!
Socrates stopped. He didn't turn around though.
The policemen flanked him.
It's time for you to leave, the sergeant said again. He had a small purple scar underneath his right eye. Socrates tried to pick out some recognizable shape in the mark but there was none.
If you don't go, the other cop said, you're going to spend some special time with us across the street.
Socrates began walking again. He'd taken two steps when the sergeant's hand tried to close around his right biceps. There weren't many human hands that could encompass Socrates' muscle.
Show me some ID, the policeman said.
It was a direct order. Socrates didn't want to talk to the cops. All he wanted was to stand there in silent testimony to the crimes of the man named Cardwell.
When he reached into his back pocket the officers came out with their guns.
Stop what you're doing, the sergeant commanded.
But you asked for my ID, Socrates said.
Put your hands where I can see them.
Socrates put out his arms like a Christian accepting the cross. There were policemen coming out from the station from across the street. The other cop grabbed Socrates by the wrist. He had a pair of handcuffs in his other hand but he couldn't figure out how to put the big man's wrists together.
Hey, what you doin'? a man complained. It was one of the men who had read Socrates' sign. This is a free country ain't it? A man could tell the truth if he want to.
This isn't any of your business, the police sergeant said. Clear out.
I'ma stay right here! the man yelled. I ain't leavin' my brother for no pig to shit on.
The second policeman, not the sergeant, released Socrates and approached the new man threateningly.
You better get the fuck outta here if you know what's good for you.
But by then men and women had begun to come out of the diner and from out of the Pick-an'-Save down the street. One car full of young men blasting loud music parked at the curb and the men piled out of the black Buick.
What's goin' on? people were asking.
They tryin' to arrest a man just 'cause he wanna protest.
I know that Matthew Cardwell.
He the one murdered that boy.
The police from across the street advanced. They pulled truncheons and canisters of Mace from their belts.
Why you wanna arrest this man? a woman demanded. It's that cop oughtta be arrested. It's him did all them things the sign says.
Socrates felt the handcuff clamp down around his left wrist. Before the policeman could grab the other wrist a man in a lime green shirt and dark green pants ran up from the crowd and pushed the policeman hard in the chest. The cop fell down at his sergeant's feet. The sergeant helped his partner up and they both started moving back toward the precinct.
There were twenty or so black men and women surrounding Socrates and yelling at the cops. There were just as many policemen, most of them white, but there were Mexicans and black men in uniform too.
He just carryin' a sign! yelled the small man who first came to Socrates' aid. Cain't we even say what we thinkin'? Is that what the police supposed to do? Keep a man from speakin' his mind?
The policemen had gathered into a group that stood there in the middle of the street. Their numbers grew only slightly where Socrates' protectors seem to appear from nowhere. Men and women and boys and girls came out of buildings and from around corners as if they had just been waiting for this moment.
It had taken no more than ten minutes. Before that Socrates was alone. Now he was on the front line of a battle.
The policemen moved back toward their headquarters. They were pushed and yelled at and reviled.
Socrates watched them, the chain dangling from his left wrist. All around him men and women were shouting and waving their fists. A glass broke somewhere.
More missiles were hurled and the doors to the station closed. The picture window of the Pick-an'-Save shattered. Three car alarms went off. One of them was a magnified voice that kept repeating Stand away from the vehicle! in a threatening tone.
The street was blocked off with angry women and men. Traffic stopped at the intersections and more and more people came. Socrates was at their center but he didn't wave his fists or shout. He didn't do anything but watch and maybe wonder a little at all those people so ready to break out in violence.
A police car was turned over. A trash can was set on fire at the precinct building's front door. Socrates, who had left home that day ready for death, worried for the first time that he might not die alone.
The police doors flew open after a few minutes of the fire. Cops in plastic-visored helmets and see-through shields came pouring out of those double doors. Three trails of smoke came out over the advancing army's head and the familiar burn of tear gas raked against Socrates' eyes and gouged into his nose and lungs.
Forty-seven policemen plowed into the crowd of hundreds, firing rubber bullets and hurling canisters of gas. They sent nine people to the hospital and arrested twenty-seven more. One policeman had a broken jaw. No one died. The worst injury was Lou Henry, the proprietor of the Pick-an'-Save, who had a heart attack trying to drive a handful of looters from his store.
Socrates saw very little of what happened after that first whiff of gas. He fell back from the fumes and the advancing army of lawmen. Whatever else he saw was on the faces of black people and brown folks who were too angry and tired to be scared.