Another lost case

We're on the fire escape, dressed in our semi-casual Friday bests. In my second-favorite spring dress and absolute favorite pair of heels, I smoke my first joint of the weekend. I haven't slept since Wednesday, but I'm feeling good. I look good. I had bartended (mildly) after I got off of work and met up with some people for dinner in the city; I left them when they got too drunk. I wasn't in the mood for alcohol, so I needed a change of scene.

I'd wandered to a bar closeby and joined the bouncers outside, inquiring about their kids, their lady friends, their weeks. They all looked exhausted, but they were still happy it was Friday. An hour later, I'm catching up with a friend of mine on a shady fire escape. It's been a while since I'd seen him last, and he looks like shit. He is dressed in a leather jacket, beat up converses, a fashionable cap, and a fitted shirt. He teaches ESL to students at a nearby college. He is normally smiling, or indifferent. Today he has bags under his eyes.

"How have you been?" I ask, searching his face. His smile is weary, but he never tells me when he is stressed. I haven't known him long enough to be able to pry correctly.

"Good," he says. "Same old." I nod, we smoke in a heavier silence. "I got arrested on Monday," he laughs.

My brow lifts. "Wow. What? You?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

He sighs. "I was playing handball at the park. They planted a bag of weed on me."

"What?" Eventually more information is thrown in, and I can piece the full story together. The cop kept pushing his face into the wall as my friend, baffled, continued to ask what he did. His anger peaked once he realized what was going on and his mouth just let go some venomous shit, causing the man to handle him rougher. In the van, the cop turns around and leers at him. "I hate niggers," he says. "So fucking much."

Handcuffed, my boy spits back, "Ohh, so that's it. A nigger fucked your mom." The cop proceeds to "flip the fuck out."

"I never carry weed with me," he says gently, passing the joint back to me. "I never carry it outside with me. I can always get it when I need it. It's such bullshit."

I ask him a few questions, watching as he stumbles through his answers. Then I shrug, grimace. "You don't have a case, babe. It's your word against his."

"I know," he sighs. "But I have the lawyers working on it."

While publicizing this would add fire to the Bell flame, I knew it was a bad idea. The trial is this summer. They could do a hair test and confirm that he does indeed smoke weed. How could he prove that the bag was planted? How could he prove that the cop said "nigger"? How could he prove that this wasn't just another black boy trying to pull the race card? What proof could he possibly show? He would lose the case, and quite possibly his job.

I put my hand on his shoulder on the way out. "Good luck," I say.

He sighs again.