Angry at how mostly white prison officials jeopardized the lives of mostly black inmates during the pandemic, inmate families, friends and concerned citizens marched on the front gate. They needed to do something, to take a stand now or never.
Malcolm X best explained the need for a new American revolution.
That’s not a chip on my shoulder, he said, that’s a boot on my neck.
Or a knee.
Same difference.
Ask the ghost of George Floyd.
By failing to supply inmate masks, hand sanitizer and adequate medical care for coronavirus and COVID-19 patients, prison officials created a riot and a poisonous petri dish of disease that could infect and kill everybody. So protestors marched for justice. Several black inmates had already died and nobody knew how many more were infected. The mostly black protestors behaved peacefully until two white off-duty prison guards pushed their way into the middle of the small crowd to lead a protest chant of their own. Inspired by a Tweet Donald Trump leveled at protesters in Minneapolis who took the good fight against the bad system, the guards easily provoked the people.
Capt. Jones started screaming an incendiary mantra.
When the looting starts, the shooting starts!
When the looting starts, the shooting starts!
Lt. Smith chimed in like Phil Everly singing a perfect harmony of “Wake Up Little Susie” with brother Don. The two white supremacist guards drowned out the protestors’ subdued chorus of “no justice, no peace.”
Distracted and getting carried away, Lt. Smith now screamed a new chant he decided was even more appropriate for a penitentiary scene.
Attica, Attica, he said.
Stop, stop, Capt. Jones said.
Lt. Smith looked hurt.
That’s from an old movie where Al Pacino lived on the wrong side of the law, Capt. Jones said.
Quickly throwing back his head, Lt. Smith changed his tune, wailing like a redneck rockabilly singer entertaining the Klan with an encore at a July 4 grits cook-off.
Blue lives matter!
Blue lives matter!
Our uniforms are gray, Capt. Jones said.
But he joined the chant.
Blue lives matter!
Blue lives matter!
Stunned, the crowd closed in, straining to hear the mockery, inadvertently catching the two cracker corrections officers in a blanket of color. One overzealous white state trooper spotted the minor movement and charged with a war cry and a raised riot stick. When a timid black activist got scared and started to run, other white troopers took his sudden flight as evidence of a felony. They opened fire with rubber bullets. Tear gas rose above the scene. Black protestors collapsed as fast as murder verdicts against police.
Emboldened with power and ego, Lt. Smith screamed even louder.
Blue lives matter!
Blue lives matter!
With nowhere to run, unarmed black demonstrators continued to drop. Trying to crawl to safety, they felt the wrath of brutality and injustice beneath a phalanx of baton blows riot cops beat on their heads, shoulders and backs. White police fired more rubber bullets, aiming for the head and face rather than the street where the hard rounds are supposed to ricochet and strike somewhere around knee-level. A black great-grandmother took a rubber bullet to the chin that immediately knocked her out. We shall overcome, sang a passive black senior citizen when a young white cop slammed his knee into the old man’s groin.
A gang of white state police had earlier that morning locked down the prison, ending the insurrection inside without killing or seriously injuring anybody. Outside, more white cops handcuffed non-violent black protestors behind their backs and dragged them into a blue bus with black windows that would transport them to a processing center and then to jail.
Black lives didn’t matter. Ask any white cop on duty. He’d tell you. Where were the black cops? Where were the women cops? Where were the black women cops? How about Latinos and Latinas or the occasional Asian officer to help unite people of color? Where was humanity in these United States? Somebody upstairs had decided to make a point. We’re not talking about God, either. Indeed, blue lives mattered, but all white male lives mattered most. Snarling white alpha males always matter most in the home of the knave.
Capt. Jones and Lt. Smith moved slowly to a hill above the prison that overlooked the exercise yard.
On an adjacent hill, a stalker sighted in Capt. Jones through the cross hairs of a rifle. Lying on his belly, he settled in, waiting to mark the exact spot right between the guard’s eyes and fire. This exercise in discipline always thrilled him. Sighting in his prey, waiting for the right moment to slowly squeeze, he applied precise pressure. He consciously breathed. He became one with the path of the projectile. The wait excited his passion and dedication to the hunt.
Patience defined the victor.
Capt. Jones turned his head left. He turned his head right. He looked up. He looked down.
The assassin removed his finger from the trigger.
Not today, he said.
Not today.