That Man killed my brother. That Man, with his sly nose that faints easily into downy pillow. With his pig-pink cheeks that blush when his daughter runs to the monkey bars after school. With his small hands that clutch that coal-dark gun that exploded into my brother, that man, that easy, boring man, killed my best friend.

They let That Man off. The whole process was smooth, whipped butter-soft, a swift trial and the jury said the same thing. My brother, just a kid on his way home from Hawkeye Middle School ready for Spongebob and Hostess Cakes, was the aggressor. He was a kid who was always fast to fight, who would never let anyone push him down. He didn't let That Man push him down either, That Officer who followed him, who thought the fireworks in his pockets were Something Else, who started as the child pulled those fireworks out of his pockets and then came the slap of bullet, the end of my special one.

So what do I do about it? I make my own Law.

***

Officer Wilson is at BuckBeat Jones, the bar on Chambers Road. He's chugging Pabst after Pabst, talking to new friends, white men who are jaunty and smelling spice-laden and fresh from normal work. I see him. I'm wearing the things I know he's into from what he likes on Instagram, curly haired girls in small dresses. I'm wearing a silk red slip, thigh-high, covering me just enough that he can see nothing but imagine it all. My coils descend over my back and I wear scarlet lipstick; I'm ready to be noticed. He notices. He sees me immediately and I wink at him. He talks to his friends then follows me to the seat I take at the bar.

"You're new here?" he says.

"Yes," I say. "I am."

"I go here every day. I've never seen a woman who looks as beautiful as you."

"That's nice," I say, and I see that he really can't place me dressed up, can't make the connection to the make-up-less girl crying in the stands in the trial.

"What do you do?" I say.

"I'm a police officer," he says. "Well, I'm on Paid Administrative Leave. But the rest is none of your business."

"It's my business if you're talking to me."

"I protect the people."

"That's admirable," I say. "Seems like you're a good person." He stares at me for a long time and his eyes glaze with tears. "I am. I wish Black people would see it that way."

I don't feel sorry for him. I'm here for a goal. "I wouldn't worry," I say. "Deep down, they know who you are." He nods and beckons the bartender. He asks me what I want and I say a glass of cabernet. The bartender brings it out quickly and I sip on it as I regard him.

"What are you doing later tonight?" he asks, going for the kill too fast but I don't care, I want this to be over with.

"Hopefully spending time with you," I say in a honeyed voice that makes me want to gag.

"Fuck yeah," he says and he watches me drink. "That would be great. But we have to go to a hotel because I have a wife."

"That's fine," I say. "Show me where to go."

He wastes no time. He leads me to his slinky Chevy and I get in. It's too easy. This plan has fallen together so simply because this man is so stupid and the world is stupid and everything is stupid except for my brother who is deep in the ground and my Mama can't talk anymore or speak love because her lips have been knit shut by all of this. But I'm here.

While we drive, I smell him. He reeks of bad beer, cigarettes, pit stains and leather. He keeps talking about baseball and I zone out. I just want to get to the destination.


He chooses an embarrassing place, Crystal Suites. The roof is sagging, very few cars are parked in the lot and the hotel doors flap open, off their hinges. He wraps an arm around my waist and gets to the desk, rattles off his information and before we know it we're in one of the worst rooms I've ever seen. I count three cockroaches roaming the floors, the bed is punched-in, a picture of a palm tree sags over the armoire. I throw my purse next to the microwave. He starts kissing me and I'm kissing him back, fiercely, furiously, my teeth are banging into his and I bite his tongue and I want to bite the whole thing off but I let the kiss continue and then we are on the mold-lined bed. He's feeling my curves and my stomach turns. He falls onto the bed and I say, "Wait, baby, just a second." I go to Crystal Suites' disgusting kitchen and retrieve my purse. When I come back to the room his shirt is off, his stomach sags over his belt, he's still wearing his boxers, hoping I'll take them off myself and suck him dry, I bet. He's hard. I reach into my purse and pull out my mother's kitchen knife. He's so shocked he can't move and I straddle him and force the knife up to his throat.

"Is this fear," I say, "the fear my brother felt before you murdered him? Before you killed all of us? Here's the thing: we're never dead."

Eyes wide, he says, "Tanisha..." He remembers me then. I force the knife closer to his throat and let it linger there threateningly. I wonder what it would be like to kill him, and I consider it. I want it. I think about it again and again as he lies there.

"Remember," I say. "How you feel right now..."

He says nothing. His mouth is gaping and I leave him. I take his keys and get into his car and drive myself to someplace I enjoy, the bridge by the Mississippi. I look at the wild toss of the black waters and I look up and feel the purple night press on me and I have no idea what's going to happen in the future and I feel alive. I toss That Man's keys into the roiling waters and I Uber back to my home.

For the first time since my brother was killed, I sleep well.




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