Restoration
Chapter 63
"I've always gotten my share of hate looks," Nolan notes as he and Harper make a quick stop at a barbecue food truck, "but I'm getting a lot more than usual."
"It's hitting people 24/7, Boot. All they see on T.V., on Twitter, on Facebook, everywhere, is white cops holding a black man down until he dies. You're a cop. You're white. That's enough."
"So what am I supposed to do?" John asks.
"Your job," Harper advises, "but understand that around here, every move you make, every word you say, is going to be scrutinized as a possible threat. And it will be the same for me a few blocks over. But it's always been that way, Boot. Now it's just more out in the open."
John shakes his head. "This is worse than sitting under Sergeant Grey's nose while he waits for my next mistake."
"The worst Grey would do is embarrass you. Given the wrong circumstances, what happens out here can be a lot more dangerous. So keep your hands where everyone around can see them and don't say or do anything threatening. And if you were black, that would sound familiar. It's what every mother or father has to tell a black son. Nolan, are you hearing me? What are you looking for?"
"Do you smell something – besides that incredible sauce, I mean?" John asks.
Harper sniffs. "That's gas!"
"That's the odorant they add to propane," Nolan confirms. "It's the smell I was always alert for when I was putting in barbecues for my clients. The stove in the truck must be leaking. We need to get people away from here, now."
Harper eyes the line of customers, mostly African-American, waiting to order food. "You better let me take the lead. West and Lopez shouldn't be far away. Call for backup and the fire dept. Then try to keep your distance as much as you can."
"Got it," John acknowledges.
Angela pulls up to the curb near the truck. A firetruck's siren screams in the distance, and Jackson jumps out of the car. "What's going on, Nolan?"
"Gas. Harper got the owners to turn off their propane supply and leave the truck. We've been keeping everyone back, mostly she has. We're trying to keep things calm, but I'm not sure a lot of these people believe us."
A fire engine brakes to a halt. A firefighter jumps off with a sensor in his hand and runs to check out the food truck. "The gas level is rising," he reports into his radio.
The engine supervisor signals to Harper and the other cops on the scene. "We still have an active leak. You have to move everyone back as far as you can while we try to shut it down."
Quickly fitting respirators to their faces, the fire crew approaches the food truck as the shockwave hits. Stunned, the firefighters struggle to rise from unforgiving concrete as a fireball forms in front of them, rapidly heating ground and air.
Knocked back but not down, John, Nyla, Angela, and Jackson, charge forward to pull the firefighters out of danger. Stupefied, the crowd, at barely a safe distance, stares at the rising flames and billowing smoke. The stench of burning rubber fills the air as tires catch beneath searing metal.
"Nolan," Harper orders, "call for support, now."
Fighting to suppress a cough, his lips almost touching the radio on his shoulder, Nolan reaches dispatch. A lifetime passes before the rising tone of sirens heralds approaching aid.
Video of the burning truck splits the screen with a reporter doing a standup at the demonstration in Griffith Park. "As images of the explosion fill cellphones, some protestors are raising questions about the cause of the blaze."
A woman charges forward from the assembly. "Damn right, we're asking questions. A truck serving our brothers and sisters explodes today, and we're supposed to think that it's just an accident? No way! It's a plot to make us afraid, silence our voices. But we'll never be silent again. We're going to speak the names of those who came before us. We're going to say them over and over until no one can forget them. Those lives mattered. Our lives matter. And no wonder what happens, no matter what burns, no one will ever be able to forget it again."
As Grey pushes a button on the remote control, the screen at the front of the roll call room goes blank. He moves to the podium. I believe that most if not all of you know by now that the explosion of that truck was an accident, a gas leak. And thanks in great part to the efforts of Harper, Nolan, Lopez, and West, as well as the L.A.F.D., no one was seriously hurt. But to some in the audience of the newscast I just showed you, as well as many others, the explosion was an act of deliberate intimidation. That means that you're going to have to be twice as alert and work twice as hard to keep any disturbances from getting out of hand. You're going to need help with that, so I've brought in Jessica Russo from Homeland Security. You're familiar with her techniques for expressing empathy and building trust. But I think we can all, myself included, use a refresher course. Agent Russo."
As perplexed as John is about how to handle the conflict in his adopted city, he wishes Grey had called in someone else – anyone else. He tries his best to pay attention to Jessica without making eye contact. From what he can tell, she's avoiding his gaze as well. But her presentation is one of the longest half-hours he's ever experienced.
"You've got to put it away, Boot," Harper instructs as Nolan stows their extra gear in the back of their shop.
"I am putting it away," John responds. "I'm securing it under the cargo net."
Harper shakes her head. "Not the equipment. Whatever came back on you seeing Russo, you've got to put it away. The last thing we need out there is for you to be distracted by what-ifs about an old girlfriend."
"Not a problem," John assures her. "I'm past those. The only what-ifs I'm worrying about are the ones about what we'll find on the street."
Harper slides behind the wheel. "They better be."
A text alert dings from Angela Lopez's cellphone, but she keeps her hands on the wheel. "You want me to get that for you?" Jackson asks.
"Angela's fingers clench. "No, if it's something urgent, it will come through dispatch. That can wait until we stop."
"I wouldn't mind stopping," Jackson confesses. "I should have stopped on the way out of the division."
Lopez sighs. "What are you Boot, twelve? All right. You can go at the donut shop up ahead. The owner loves to have cops in there. It makes him feel safe."
Jackson hops out as soon as Angela pulls into Donut Central's parking lot. As soon as he's inside, Angela grabs her phone. The text from Rita Calderone is short and to the point. "You got the tap. Welcome to the club."
"A detective," Angela murmurs. "Not quite," she reminds herself. The tap isn't official. She still has to go through the process. Still, it's been what she's been wanting, what she's been working toward, and it's finally coming her way. She wants to tell Wesley, but he's in court. She'll call him later. She could celebrate with a donut. Hell, she could even buy one for Jackson. He's taking his own sweet time. What the hell is he doing in there?
