A/N: Next month's chapter will be posted closer to the end of the month. I will be on vacation for a few weeks. Yay! Enjoy the chapter.
Chapter 11. The Domino Effect
At once, the blast shakes the city and the automated message is posted to social media platforms. The command is direct: Go Shopping. Now!
Charmed by the notion of accessing luxuries unattainable in their daily lives, hundreds of the sorcerer's minions swarm Newbury Street, one of the most expensive shopping districts in the world. They are unaware that they are pawns in a grander scheme. That the anonymous puppet master is in jail and awaiting deportation back to Russia. None of that would have mattered anyway; they are on a feeding frenzy. Loud and boisterous, the plunderers rove from one exclusive boutique to the next, smashing glass cases filled with diamonds and gold jewelry that sparkle under the overhead lights. They snatch designer fashions and handbags from racks and shelves, leaving behind discarded merchandise on highly polished marble floors.
Citizen reporters laugh raucously as they livestream a portly police officer chasing a teenager with shoe boxes tucked under his right arm. The teenager is running at top speed, the officer is clearly no match for the young man's long strides. The chase provides bystanders comedic relief to an otherwise chaotic day. The crowd spurs the young man on, chanting: "Run Usain, Run!" a nod to Usain Bolt, the Jamaican sprinter and eight-time Olympic gold medalist. Just as the sprinter is about to turn the corner, the red-faced police officer suddenly halts the chase. Huffing and puffing, he crouches down, pulls his service revolver from its holster, and squeezes the trigger. The runner drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes; shoe boxes splatter every which way. The video of the runner lying amidst sneakers spilling from Nike shoe boxes goes viral.
XXX
An aide leans close to Mayor Keegan and whispers into his ear. Eyes aghast, the blood immediately drains from the mayor's face; he looks like a bowl of ashes. He unceremoniously leaves the two-thousand-dollar-a-plate, black-tie fundraiser for his re-election campaign and hurries to City Hall. He orders the police commissioner and his leadership team to the executives' conference room. He wants answers.
Police Commissioner Freeley and his team sit around the oversized, rectangular-shaped conference table. Edison scans the faces in the room, thinking too many times he has sat in meetings with mostly white men trying to figure out how to handle another case of police abuse. As a Black man and a Black policeman, he's always torn between which side to take.
The mayor stops pacing around the room long enough to hurl a chair, which sends the television monitor mounted on a wall, crashing to the floor. The consequences of the shooting are clear: his re-election is at risk. Florid faced, Keegan glares at the incumbent police commissioner.
"John, what the hell happened out there today? Why the fuck did that idiot cop think it a good idea to shoot— of all people— a Black kid for stealing a goddamn pair of sneakers? Aren't your people trained to de-escalate situations like this?"
"We're just beginning the investigation," Commissioner Freeley says dully.
"I don't have time for a goddamn investigation. The NAACP— the Black clergy— Black Council members are calling my office every goddamn minute. They want answers."
"Too be fair, sir, our men and women are exhausted— nerves are frayed. They haven't had time to recover from the events of the past few weeks," Freeley replies glumly.
"Are you an idiot, too? Do you think the NAACP and the Bible-thumping clergy give a damn that your people are tired? The demands of this police force continue whether they're tired or not. This city survives by you keeping ahead of those demands."
"Sir — "
"Get my streets under control, John! Sacrifice that damn cop if you have to!"
The mayor storms from the conference room and Edison leaves next. On the way out, he says to no one in particular, "If that kid dies, this city will burn."
Cyrus leans over to Fitz and whispers, "Davis just became the next police commissioner."
Fitz whispers back in annoyance, "Do you think that kid's mother gives a damn that another white guy won't be the police commissioner? Her son could be dying, Cy."
XXX
Later that evening, the three Superintendents huddle in the BPD's large conference room located on the fifth floor of the West Tower. They work late into the night, reviewing and updating the department's emergency response plans. They need to be ready for whatever might happen tomorrow.
Edison chuckles lightly as he fills his cup with coffee from the industrial-sized urn situated on the credenza.
"What's so funny?" Mike asks, staring at Edison curiously.
"The FBI scanned Nikola's computers; they say she's behind everything that happened today. You gotta give the kid credit— her plan was brilliant."
"She's not a damn kid, she's an adult," Fitz says bluntly.
"Whatever," Edison says.
"Are you condoning the chaos she created today?" Mike says incredulously.
"Of course not. But think about it. She distracted the entire city with an explosion and a bunch of two-bit looters. If the FBI hadn't tracked her to the hotel she might've gotten away with the Ming diamond."
Mike says, "She obviously didn't want to harm anyone. She detonated the bomb at one of the most desolate sections of the waterfront— a place nobody ever goes." Fitz closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He thinks about Matty. He hasn't seen his brother in a while.
XXX
By noon the next day, tensions are high in the sweltering city. Grassroots activists, human rights activists, members of the Black clergy, and everyday citizens who are sick and tired of being sick and tired, gather at Boston Common to peacefully protest the shooting of sixteen-year-old Kyree Turner. They want justice for the teen, but they also want police reforms. For years they have called for policy changes within the police department to address cases of abuse. For years, their requests have gone unheeded.
Two hours later, Police Commissioner John Freeley issues the following statement, written by Communications Director Cyrus Beene:
"The Boston Police Department is reviewing an officer-involved shooting that occurred yesterday evening in Back Bay. The BPD takes all shooting incidents involving our police officers seriously. In accordance with BPD policy, the shooting incident is under review by the BPD's Inspection Division. As this is an ongoing matter, we have no further details to provide."
The tone-deaf statement is the tipping point, enraging the protesters. The canned statement proves the department doesn't care about the Black and brown people of Boston. The protesters ratchet up their demonstrations.
On Tuesday morning, Fitz stands at the kitchen counter filling his mug with coffee. He thinks about Mrs. Warren's domino effect comment. She said, 'One bad act grows out of another, setting off a chain reaction.' Edison is right, if Kyree Turner dies, the next domino will fall, and each successive fall will test the department's resources.
"I want everyone to stay home until things calm down out there," he says, spooning sugar into his coffee.
"When will that be?" Karen asks anxiously.
"I don't know. Maybe not for a while," Fitz says.
"A while? Does that mean on Thursday, too? That's the first day of rehearsal for summer theater. We're doing Hair this year," Karen retorts.
"You'll just have to miss rehearsal." Karen flops back against her chair, crosses her arms, and sulks.
"Fitz, I can't stay home. I need to get to the center. The women need me," Mellie says.
"Enough! It's going to be a madhouse out there. It's my job to protect the people I care about— so everybody, stay home!" He takes a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. Like everyone else at the BPD, his nerves are frayed, too.
"If I can't go to rehearsal then I want to join the protesters," Karen says defiantly.
"Me too," Jerry says. "A kid shouldn't get shot for stealing a pair of sneakers. Nobody wears Nikes anymore anyway," Jerry says petulantly.
"Do you two think this is a game?" Fitz says, looking back and forth at his children as if they have lost their minds. "No one in this house is going anywhere and no one is protesting."
"Dad, did that police officer have to shoot that kid?" Karen asks sadly.
"We're not sure of the details, sweetheart." He turns and looks at Jerry. "Son, I'll be working late until this is over. I need you to take care of your mother and sister while I'm gone."
"Does that mean Karen has to do whatever I say?" Jerry says eagerly. Fitz puts one hand on the nape of Jerry's neck and stares directly into his eyes.
"This is serious. Do you understand?" Jerry slowly nods his head with understanding, reluctantly ceding his brief taste of power. "Call me immediately if you need me. I'll come right home." Fitz pecks Mellie on the cheek before walking out of the kitchen. Karen runs after him.
"Be careful, Dad," she says, her eyes full of concern. Fitz kisses the top of her head and then walks outside to the waiting SUV.
XXX
As the sun starts to set over the skyline, the BPD is on high alert. Police officers are positioned throughout the city in cars, motorcycles and bicycles, and some are on horseback. The department's helicopter unit patrols from the sky. The priority is to protect historical buildings along The Freedom Trail like Faneuil Hall and businesses in the downtown area. The Superintendents work in the war room they set up in the conference room. This is where they will meet to monitor and make decisions about the unfolding crisis. This will be their home until the protests end.
"The footage from the officer's body camera speaks for itself. He actually crouched down and shot that kid," Mike says, staring out of the conference room window.
"He's a twelve-year BPD veteran. If someone with that much experience does something so stupid, what can we expect from our rookies?" Fitz says.
"A crowd attracts a crowd," Mike says, watching the throng of protesters swell to the dozens. "These situations can go either way. The protesters can disperse without anyone getting hurt, or they can erupt into a full-blown riot."
Fitz says, "I've been in law enforcement for over twenty years and I've been through civil least it's not a riot yet, any more than a flame is a forest fire. It will simmer like this all night."
Edison adds, "That asinine statement Freeley released didn't help our position. The slightest move— an inappropriate word, could set the whole thing off."
Rumors abound that professional protesters seeking only violence and destruction of property have infiltrated the ranks of the peaceful protesters. No one knows who's who any longer. Frightened citizens bolt their doors and douse all interior and exterior lights. They arm themselves with guns and anything they can use as a weapon. By nine o' clock, pandemonium erupts across the boiling city and a few surrounding suburbs. Hundreds of protesters and looters march through the streets. The police are outnumbered. They pepper spray, mace, and shoot protesters with rubber bullets in an attempt to regain control of the city. By the end of the night, four officers are injured and dozens of protesters are arrested. Mayor Keegan deems the protests a major public safety problem. He requests that the governor send in the Massachusetts National Guard soldiers to help restore order.
The city now looks like a war zone. Soldiers dressed in military fatigues with rifles slung over their shoulders patrol the streets on foot. Military tanks roll through the streets of the financial district. The looting has been quashed and the protesters have been pushed to a small section of Boston Common.
XXX
Five days after he was shot, Kyree Turner opened his eyes. He is conscious. The doctors at Mass General say that he has a long road to recovery ahead of him. Never one to let a crisis go to waste, Cyrus convinces the mayor to throw the protesters a bone; announce at a public news conference that Kyree is conscious. That the boy will survive. It will also be an opportunity for the BPD to show those thugs who's really in control. He told Keegan that Freeley and his superintendents should join him on stage. That the lawmen should wear their full-dress uniform; appear militaristic— look bad ass.
The next day, police officers dressed in riot gear flank the police commissioner and superintendents as they each arrive at Boston Common, the site of the news conference. Wearing a protective vest under his uniform jacket, Fitz adjusts the brim of the cap low on his forehead then steps out the back of the SUV. With police officers and Cyrus in tow, he slowly traverses the lines of barricades that strain to hold back the protesters. He scans the twisted and gnarled faces through the dark, mirrored aviator sunglasses. A protester spots him walking toward the stage. The shouting and jeering intensify. They know his lineage.
"Grant's here!"
"The blue-eyed devil is here!"
"More Black people are gonna die today!"
The crowd breaks into spontaneous chants of "hands up, don't shoot," the rallying cry and a mantra for demonstrations following the shooting death of eighteen-year-old Michael Brown by a white police officer in Ferguson, Missouri. Brown's hands were raised in the air in surrender when he was shot and killed.
In a show of contempt, a female protester spits on Fitz' gold badge. The officer standing next to him immediately jabs her in the gut with the butt of his baton. Unfazed by the act of disrespect, Fitz pulls a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and wipes the spit from his badge.
XXX
Standing behind the barricades, Olivia is jostled back and forth and from side to side by angry elbows and knees. She struggles to stay upright and keep her trembling hands raised high in the air. Cyrus sees her first; he gives Fitz a side-long glance.
"Keep walking, sir. Just. Keep. Walking," Cyrus whispers in an anxious tone.
Fitz' face hardens when he sees Olivia standing behind the barricade with her hands splayed high in the air. Their eyes find each other's for the briefest second, long enough for him to see the fright in her eyes.
"Get her the fuck out of here, Cyrus," he growls angrily.
"She's not our problem, sir. She's with her people." A loud bang, then a large plume of smoke billows over the heads of the protesters. Someone shot a flamethrower in the sky. Olivia coughs but her hands stay raised high.
"I said get her the hell out of here!" Fitz demands through clenched teeth. Protesters hurl a string of profanities at him as he joins the mayor and fellow lawmen on the stage.
XXX
From the stage, Fitz scans the angry crowd thinking the little trust formed between the residents and police over the past few years has been erased. There isn't anything that Mayor Keegan can say to restore it. The crowd boos as the mayor steps to the microphone. They are not interested in hearing another boilerplate speech.
"This past week has been challenging for our city. But today, I am here to share some news. Ms. Turner has given me permission to share the good news that her son, Kyree, is awake and talking. She says he even asked for his favorite flavor of ice cream. Strawberry."
He chuckles lightly as Cyrus scripted. The crowd is unmoved.
"Let us all continue to keep Kyree and his family in our prayers. Now, what has been happening to our city is criminal. The rioting and looting cannot resume. We will use every legal and constitutional tool to bring this unrest to a peaceful end. Anyone attempting to harm our police officers and destroy property will be arrested and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."
The jeers reverberate throughout the park. The disconnected and uncaring Communications Director wrote another speech that rings hollow with the affected community. The activists-protesters aren't interested in having looters prosecuted. While they are happy that Kyree is awake and talking, they want bigger issues to be addressed. They want the police department to weed out bad cops. They want police reforms. They want cops to stop shooting and killing Black people. The protesting continues into the night.
With knees drawn up to her chest, Olivia rocks back and forth on the sofa in her apartment. She has been shaking since the police officer drove her home a few hours ago. Frightened, she whips her head around when she hears the knock on the door. Are the protesters coming into peoples' homes? Maybe it's Mrs. Shoffener. She's probably scared. Olivia hurries over to the door and yanks it open. Her eyes widen. With his policeman's cap tucked under his left arm, Fitz flashes a slight smile.
"May I come in?" he says. Too tired to argue, she turns and walks into the apartment.
"Why are you here?"
"You should use the peephole," he says, closing the door behind him. "Are you all right?"
"I didn't need your guys to drag me home," she says with a hint of irritation, but not enough to sound mean. He sets his cap on the coffee table then shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the sofa. "Why are you wearing that?" she asks, staring at the black protective vest in disbelief.
"Police officers have been injured by the protesters. An officer was shot in the hand. A sergeant was knocked to the ground and kicked in the back. Men and women who work for me— who put their lives on the line every day to protect the people of this city are being shot, Olivia."
"Are they going to be all right?" she asks with genuine concern in her voice.
"I just came from the hospital; they're going to be fine."
In spite of her best efforts to suppress the tears, the water seeps from her eyes. He opens his arms and after a moment she steps into his embrace.
"I was so scared," she mumbles against his vest-covered chest.
"I know," he says, holding her tight. She holds him tighter.
"One minute I was… the next …"
He tips her chin up with his index finger and stares into her water-filled eyes. "You're safe now. Okay?" he says reassuringly. She nods her head, noticing the evidence of the long day on his jawline.
"Why were you down there protesting?" he asks wearily.
"I wasn't."
"Olivia, I saw your hands up in the air. Were you chanting that crap that the protesters were saying?" Annoyed by what feels like a veiled criticism of her and the Michael Brown mantra, she wrenches away from him.
"I'd just left the Athenaeum. I was there all afternoon— in a reading room— doing research. I got caught up in the crowds on my way home. My hands were up because before you got there— that officer standing behind you— the one with the stupid grin on his face— yelled at me to get behind the barricades. He kept yelling that he would blow my fucking brains out if I didn't put my hands up. His words, not mine."
Fitz' face blooms red. "Who the fuck was he? Did you see his name tag? Get his badge number?"
"No. I was too busy trying not to get my fuckin brains splattered all over Tremont Street." She shudders, realizing how close she came to getting shot, if not worse.
Fitz places both palms on her cheeks and stares into her eyes. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that," he says earnestly. She sees the warmth in his eyes.
"I know the police have a tough job to do. I respect that. I do. But that officer could have killed me because he wears a cheap piece of metal called a badge. All he has to say is he felt threatened."
"Look at me. Look at me. You're safe now."
He wraps his arms around her again and she slides her arms around his waist. They stand like that in silence for a while; he feels the tension slowly leaving her body. Then, she steps back quickly, as if she just remembered that she mistrusts him. She stares at him icily through narrowed eyes.
"I know you are skeptical— that you don't trust me," he says with a look of penitence on his face. "I know my behavior lately has been confusing. I'll explain everything. I promise." He glances down at his dinging phone and frowns. "I need to get back to headquarters. I can't come back tonight, but I would like for us to talk. Soon."
She stares into his tired and pleading eyes for a moment then slowly nods her head. He grabs his jacket and cap.
"The National Guard is still helping to patrol the streets. Lock your doors and turn off all the lights. Promise me that you won't go outside."
"I won't, but I — "
"Olivia, promise me. I can't worry about you and do my job." She's surprised, even a bit touched by his concern for her.
"I have to check on Mrs. Shoffener," she insists. He purses his lips in frustration and irritation.
"What part of stay in your apartment don't you understand?"
"She's elderly, Fitz. She's alone down there. She'll be scared." He sighs softly and shakes his head from side to side.
"I'll check on her on my way out."
"She will know who you are."
"Don't you think she already knows who I am?"
"Be careful," she says quickly. A faint smile passes across his lips as he leaves the apartment.
With the door cracked open slightly, Olivia watches him jog down the stairs, knock on Mrs. Shoffener's door, and tell her something. Mrs. Shoffener points to the street-floor door and he nods before leaving. The landlady looks up the stairs and Olivia slowly closes her door.
XXX
A week later, Mayor Keegan stands at the podium in City Hall's media room with Ms. Turner, her other three children, the police commissioner and superintendents, the district attorney, and Cyrus Beene. Ms. Turner wants the public to hear her voice concerning the shooting of her son. She looks squarely at the news cameras and gives Bostonians the latest update on her sixteen-year-old son's condition.
"I want to thank everyone for supporting my family, especially Kyree during this difficult time. Kyree has a lot of physical therapy ahead of him, but the wonderful doctors at Mass General say he will be physically better in time.
"I don't know what happened on Newbury Street that day. I was told that a police officer shot my son because of some sneakers. Sneakers? Really? Is a Black boy's life worth less than a pair of sneakers?"
She turns and speaks directly to the lawmen who are standing behind her.
"I'm a nurse at Mass General. I work with sick and dying people every day— of all races. I help everyone. Daily suffering can sometimes make you forget that patients are real people with real families that love them.
"You have a difficult job, too. I'm sure it can be pretty scary out in those streets. But you all have to do better. The senseless shootings of Black people by those who are supposed to serve and protect all of us must end. Now! How many more of our children must we lose at the hands of a trigger-happy police officer? How many more mothers who look like me must stand here begging for our children's lives? To let us have them a little longer."
The shame-faced law enforcement officers cast their eyes down at the floor.
"This is my seven-year-old son, Keon," she says, smiling down at the wide-eyed boy who is clinging to his mother's hand. "I have dreams for him— for all my children— like you have for your children. I want him to grow up and do good in this world. Will you let that happen? Please."
Except for an emotionless Cyrus, there isn't a dry eye among the people standing behind or in front of Rita Turner. She turns back to the cameras and delivers a message to the looters and protesters.
"Finally, please stop the looting and rioting. We're only destroying our own communities and the businesses we need. Thank you."
Ms. Turner swiftly walks away from the podium without taking any questions from the clambering reporters. Her distraught children follow behind her. Seven-year-old Keon looks over at the law enforcement officers wearing the shiny badges that he has always liked. He holds his mother's hand a little tighter. He no longer wants to be a policeman.
XXX
For days, Cyrus dragged his feet before grudgingly producing the surveillance video from the day that Olivia was escorted from the protest site by a police officer. With his office door closed, Fitz repeatedly reviews the footage from the scene. He recognizes some of the police officers but can't believe that any of them would ever do what Olivia said happened. He closes the tablet and stands from his chair.
Casually strolling down the long hallway, Fitz winds his way around the corner, then crosses the skybridge that links the West Tower to the East Tower. He nods his head at the astonished faces along the way. He's worked at the BPD for almost two decades and has never been to the East Tower. As he walks past the office supplies room, he sees Mrs. Warren standing in the hall talking to a muscular young man.
"Superintendent Grant, this is the first time that I've seen you over here," Mrs. Warren says with a hint of surprise in her voice.
"How are you doing, Mrs. Warren?" he says, genuinely happy to see his former assistant.
"I'm wonderful. Thank you for the flowers. They are absolutely beautiful. The girls in the office are so jealous."
"I appreciate all of your help," he says.
"We solved the Djokovic case," Mrs. Warren says with pride. Fitz smiles at the elderly woman's enthusiasm. "Do you know Lawrence? He helps to keep this place running efficiently."
"Good to meet you, Lawrence," Fitz says, extending a handshake. Lawrence reluctantly accepts the gesture. The white shirts from the West Tower never acknowledge him.
"You, too," Lawrence says nervously.
"Have a good day," Fitz says, flashing Mrs. Warren a smile as he turns to leave.
"I wonder what he's doing over here," Lawrence says. "Superintendent Davis is the only white shirt that comes to this side of the building.
XXX
Olivia's head snaps up from her laptop when she hears the knock on the door. Her brow crinkles slightly when she sees Fitz standing in the doorway. She hasn't seen him since he showed up at her apartment during the protests.
"Superintendent Grant, what are you doing in the East Tower?"
"Hi," he says casually, trying to mask his delight.
"Hello," Olivia replies coolly.
"I wasn't quite sure where you sit. May I come in?" he asks, standing half in and half out of the doorway.
"Of course," she says, eyeing him curiously. He breathes in the air that is scented with the same fragrance that fills her apartment. The images of their night together flood his mind.
"Wow. This is so — "
"Small. It used to be a storage closet, hence no windows," she says.
"You've done a terrific job decorating."
"I had a lot of help from some wonderful angels," she says. He nods his head, not sure how to interpret her statement.
"How are you doing? I haven't seen you since— "
"I'm fine," she says, cutting off his sentence. She doesn't want to think about the day he came to her apartment.
"I'm glad," he says. "It'll be a while before the city fully recovers from the protests and riots."
Olivia rubs her forehead as if fighting off a headache, then says, "Dr. King said a riot is the language of the unheard."
"Excuse me?" his eyebrows bunched in confusion.
"Your police officers incited the situation. An overzealous police officer shot Kyree Turner. Protesters were pepper-sprayed and maced."
"That's the kind of anti-police rhetoric that puts police officers at risk every day," he says defensively.
"I'm hardly anti police. But it does annoy me when the police violate protesters' First Amendment rights."
"No one has the right to hurt law enforcement officers or damage property. Those so-called peaceful protesters threw milkshakes at the police. Do you know what a milkshake is? It's a liquid concoction that sometimes contains chemicals. It can blind you. Did you know that the officers found handcuff keys and razor blades on some of the people they arrested? Anyone who brings violence against any police officer should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."
Olivia rolls her eyes, thinking she's heard that line before.
"Don't roll your eyes. Police officers want to return home to their families, too, Olivia."
"And the people who live in predominantly Black neighborhoods like Roxbury, Dorchester, and Mattapanwanted police protection during the riots. People who work in this building— in this tower— were not protected by the police they serve. They were left to their own devices."
"We had limited resources. We had to make decisions until we got help from the National Guard. It's hard to combat something you can't really control."
"Of course," she says, folding her arms across her chest. "What can I do for you, Superintendent? You didn't come over here to discuss the perpetually underserved and over-policed." He sighs softly when he hears the edge in her voice, then walks around the desk.
"I have video footage from the day you got caught up in the protest. I want you to watch it— tell me if you see the officer who threatened you." He shoves the tablet close to her face and her head jerks back.
"Too close," she says, taking the tablet from his hand. Fitz leans over her shoulder and stares at the screen as she studies the images from the video.
"Do you see him? Can you identify him?" he asks anxiously.
"That's him," she says, tapping the screen with her manicured index fingernail, "the one standing behind your left shoulder. I'll never forget that stupid grin on his face. Is that how he was trained to treat citizens? No one should have to go through that, Fitz."
"I know," he says in an apologetic tone. He takes the tablet from her hand and enlarges the image. His eyes widen and his cheeks burn.
Brendan McDevitt.
"Do you know him?" she asks, examining the expression on his face.
"I haven't forgotten that we need to talk," he says, swiftly walking from the office.
XXX
With face scrunched, Cyrus stomps into Fitz' office without knocking. His beady eyes dart around the space, settling on the desk where a few musty files remain. Fitz doesn't bother to look up from the document that he's been reading for the past hour.
"I hear you've been talking to Freeley about firing a cop," Cyrus says sourly.
"I don't want anyone fired. I want that officer off the streets— on administrative duty," Fitz says, as he scribbles a note on the page.
"The kid was doing his job. You know what it was like out there. We were outnumbered. So what if he had to use a little extra force to keep them in line."
Fitz tosses the ink pen on the desk, leans back in his chair, and glares at Cyrus. "A white police officer shot a Black kid. Don't you think that was enough force? I have children who are Kyree's age, Cy."
"Brady won't stand for you sitting down one of his people. As the president of the police union, he prides himself on protecting his men and women."
"I don't give a fuck about Brady. We know his history of defending bad officers."
"Don't ever say those words outside of this room if you want to become police commissioner," Cyrus says sternly. "Davis has taken the lead since this whole shooting mess started."
"I want that officer sitting behind a desk until he learns how to do his job properly," Fitz growls.
"Whatever you're getting involved in you need to be very careful. You're going to need Brady and his union."
"I'm not asking for your permission or Brady's," Fitz says, glaring at the older man.
"Fine. Fine," Cyrus says, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'll talk to Brady; he owes me a favor. On another note, I need to know if something's going on between you and that historian person."
"Excuse me?"
"I need to know if I should start damage control." Fitz' eyes bore into Cyrus' face.
"Dr. Pope is a guest in our city and of this department. She's connected to some very influential people. We were in the middle of a high-profile protest— the likes of which this city hasn't seen in years. How do you think it would have looked if we left her standing out there with that crowd?"
With guile and deception, Cyrus eases the irritation from his face and replies in a fake, genial voice. "Smart. Performative. Enjoy the rest of your day, sir."
Pensive and slow, Cyrus ambles down the halls of the West Tower. His suspicious mind considers Fitz smooth explanation; he didn't deny a relationship with Olivia Pope. Cyrus turns into the men's room thinking he needs to keep a strict eye on both of them. He won't let that woman disrupt everything that he has designed.