Page 23 of Frosty Felicity
“I never said that. I never said that at all. I’m tellin’ you that both sides of the situation have a longer story than what is shown on a twenty-one-second bodycam. If the guy had a gun and was running away, then he was a danger to the community.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
“You’re playing both sides, Tim. First, you say something that sounds like you’re blaming the police officer. Then, you say something that sounds like you’re blaming the man who got shot. Regardless, I will say it again. I don’t know all the ins and outs of this, but I am tryin’ to explain to you that until we have more information, we can’t say someone is guilty, and we can’t exonerate the other, either.”
“Well, I’m just glad the guy he shot wasn’t Black. Ya know that would’ve led to a bunch of looting and bullshit.”
“Don’t…”
“Don’t what? Tell me it’s not true. Tell me every time an officer has to shoot and kill someone, if it’s a Black guy, suddenly there’s marches, protests, and looting. Never mind if the guy was a bad dude. If he robbed a million stores. Was a murderer, or fucking drug addict. It’s unbelievable.”
“You know it’s deeper than that. You know damn well it’s more complicated than how you are making it sound. Don’t do this, Tim. Jesus. The point is, we as police officers have to make fast choices under a lot of pressure sometimes, and not everyone is going to be happy with the results. We can’t change up because someone we like is upset, and contrary to what some people think, some of us still believe in right and wrong. I’m not going to back another cop if they killed someone in cold blood or acted too hastily. How we handle cases like this should not be driven by public perception, politics, or emotion. As far as I’m concerned, he’s innocent until the investigation says otherwise, and the guy he killed is innocent, too. No matter how you cut it, there are no winners here. What I think personally is not even important. An opinion isn’t a fact.”
“Well, listen to you.” Tim shoved the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and snarled. “All fancy talking like you’re delivering a press conference. You act more brotherly towards the fraternal order of police than ya do me!” Tim laughed, though Brett knew the guy wasn’t really amused. He meant those words.
But Brett was in no mood to argue with the son of a bitch. He suspected he’d been drinking too much that night, too. Rolling his eyes, he maneuvered past his brother, cola in hand.
He heard him hot on his heels as he entered Dad’s small home office where the old man liked to putz around on the computer, read, do puzzles and the like. Pieces of corrugated board sat on the floor, along with a hammer, other tools, and some screws. Brett grabbed the diagram which wasn’t much help—it was written in Swedish. Tossing it aside, he began working again.
“Mom said she was leaving me some money, Brett.”
“Not this shit again. Why are you telling me this right now? You think my story as I told it the first dozen times has changed?”
“You know why I’m asking.” Tim’s eyes narrowed on him. “She left you some money, and the bulk went to Dad, but he won’t give me any. That’s not right.”
“She didn’t leave me any damn money, Tim! She didn’t even know she was dyin’. No one did. It was a heart attack. There was no inheritance to be had, man, and the money she gave me back after she passed was repayment for a loan I had given her a long time ago when she was tryna get Dad that bike as a surprise. Since their money was tied together, she didn’t want him to suspect anything by making a big bank withdrawal. Anyway, for some reason, even though I told her to forget about it, she put that in her will. Dad has the money because he’s the one still living. Neither of us are owed a damn dime. I can’t believe you’d bring this up again, and right now, of all times!”
“What’s wrong with right now? I’m not asking Dad about it. I just don’t believe his story. Mom told me specifically that if anything happened to her, I’d have some money coming. I could use that money, Brett. My hours got cut at the shop, I still have court fees, and child support is kickin’ my ass.”
Tim was a mechanic for a chain of oil change shops across the city. He was a bit lazy, a bit entitled, and a bit unreliable, too, but talented with cars, all the same.
Brett kept working on the bookshelf, ignoring the man as he ranted and raved about his ex-wife, about an asshole at his job, and some lady he was dating on and off. He heard the toilet flush in the distance, then Dad using the morning breeze scented air freshener. Slow but steady footsteps approached from down the hall, and then, their father materialized outside the office door. He stood there for a while in his white pajamas, a rolled magazine in his hand, before turning and walking away.
“I better get going.” Tim yawned.
“I know you’ve been spending the night here sometimes. You can stop pretending.” Brett picked up the instructions, referred to the diagram, then tossed the paper aside once again. “You got evicted, didn’t you?”
“No. Not that you really care.”
Just then, Brett’s phone rang. He snatched it, welcoming the distraction.
“FRAAAAP! PFFT!!!”
“Jesus Christ! Don’t you ever take a day off?! After the first hundred times, it’s no longer funny! I meant what I said last time! When I find out who this is, I’m going to rip your head off and use your neck like a basketball hoop!” This time, he heard someone snickering before they hung up. He tossed his phone down and had all but forgotten that Tim was standing there, until he noisily cleared his throat.
“You havin’ woman problems? You got a lady that’s driving you crazy?”
“Woman problems? Oh… no.” He shook his head. “Some jackass keeps calling me and farting into the phone. It’s been going on for weeks.”
He was certain Tim would relish this tidbit, laugh his ass off, but instead, he looked serious. In fact, he appeared a bit concerned.
“Ya think it’s a kid or something?”
“I don’t know.” He inserted one of the screws and continued with the other side of the bookshelf. “They keep calling from different numbers, which basically means they’re able to spoof their number. I might just get mine changed and be done with it. That’s a pain in the ass, but so is getting daily calls of someone passing’ gas.”
“They must know you. Or, maybe it’s just someone who doesn’t like cops.” He shrugged.
“Why would you say that? Go straight to someone not liking cops?”
