THE GOOD COP. » DENZEL WASHINGTON

Four

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THERE WAS A riot emerging in the neighborhood of Queensbridge homes. Trash cans began to be thrown and the beyond angry civilians stood atop of cars as words of protest spewed from their mouths. It had not even been two hours since the incident occurred but the town had run rampant. . . the scene looked as if it were a protest from the 1960s- and it might as well had been. The year was 1990 and it was beyond apparent that times had barely changed and it took the death of a black teenager to once again open the topic of discussion that is none other than hate towards the black man. A hunger had developed for the youth of the neighborhood as they had realized their friend had been ripped away from them- as it was mostly the youth amongst other adults that were raving and ravaging the saddened area. Just as it was declared- the children will lead the pack.

As this went on, Tommie neared the neighborhood in her small black Honda Accord and her heart skipped a beat as she acknowledged the outrage in the small community. She pulled over and hastily hopped out of her car as she adjusted her bubble coat. She yearned to know what was goin on although she had originally came to grab something from her Aunts house but she quickly placed that idea into the back of her head. Before closing her car door she grabbed her notepad, her pencil and recorder and she was off into the growing crowd, blending right in due to her youthfulness and not to mention her blackness.

"Can someone tell me what's going on! What's going on!" She shouted aimlessly until she had finally gained the attention of an older man who had been standing beside her in his own bubble coat accompanied by his construction worker Timbalands, apparently combatting the brisk February weather.

"They killed a boy! They killed an unarmed boy!" The male yelped in response thus causing Tommie to turn on her recording device.

"Who is they?" She questioned over the ruckus just before she moved the recording device closer to him in order to catch his anticipated response. He furrowed his eyebrows as one part of him wondered how is it that she couldn't have known and as the other part of him wondered if she happened to be a reporter.

"Those damn cops! He ain't have no gun! I knew the kid! I know he didn't have one, he was like a son to me, man! He wasn't a bad kid, he was always busy doing something, man! He wasn't in the streets or anything. . . he didn't deserve this! He didn't!" The man who looked to be pushing forty-five exclaimed as he tried his best to not let a tear drop- for he had knew Pharaoh wouldn't want him to cry. Pharaoh had always hated to see people cry. . .

"May I ask what was the victims name?"

"you one of those reporters or something? You could kiss my ass if you from one of those stations that make my neighborhood look like hell!" He went off amidst the undying havoc. What he had said certainty did have a point seeing as though multiple news stations depict Queensbridge as hell on earth due to gang activity and the increase in violence- it was disgusting. Don't get them wrong, some days or worse than others but even in the darkest of days, light could be found. From the teenagers honing their skills on the basketball courts, to the old heads blasting their jazz music as they sat outside, to the young children playing tag- their was always some sort of beauty and peace found in the "ugly" and "boisterous" neighborhood that plenty called home.

"N-no! I write for  Columbia University's paper! I go to school there!" She yelped referring to the prestigious school she attended in Manhattan.

"Then what the hell are you doing here? You don't wanna be here! Raoh-Raoh died here! The things you see on tv are about to be a reality! Get back to your fancy school! I'm tellin' you, you don't wanna be here!"