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Chapter Nine

Melissa Jones felt empowered. She felt alive. For the first time since Howie’s death, she was in the right place, doing the right thing, with the right people. She and Wilson had been ushered to the front of the march, where they now held Justice For Howie signs that someone handed to them. Leading a couple of thousand people along Franklin Street was something Melissa planned to tell her grandchildren all about one day. She had seen images of protests in Washington, Dallas, Charlotte, Chicago, from all over the country – she knew she was part of something nationwide, and she knew that this round of protests followed Richmond’s lead, and she was at the head of the march. She knew full well the sad truth that before long they’d add Howie’s death to the national statistics, mentioned only as part of a list of names in the reporting of the latest tragedy. She knew that at any moment, an innocent, unarmed black man on his way to the convenience store might be gunned down by police convinced he posed some sort of threat, and that some other city would become the de facto protest leader, with Richmond merely a follower, a supporter, a sympathizer.

But for tonight, right now, the world’s eyes were on Richmond. Melissa saw a surprising mix of people protesting: parents with small children, the predominantly black members of the BLM movement, but also many white people and Asian people marching with their black brothers and sisters. She saw old people, one guy in a wheelchair, and so many young people, people her own age who held up makeshift signs, Howie’s vinyl album covers, or simply marched with fists in the air. These were not just lefty students who always tried to get in on a good old civil rights march. Many of these young adults were fans in mourning, people with no idea how to express their grief over the loss of such a promising and talented artist taken from them so cruelly. They would never again get to hear new work from Howie Do, and it had galvanized them to get involved—to not just voice their pain, but also to shout out against injustice and police brutality.

It was life affirming. Melissa did not smile, she did not whoop; this was not a moment of celebration. The pain of Howie’s loss and the agony of a community under siege all across the most powerful nation on Earth – it could not fail to move her. As a black woman, even in Canada, being in public and feeling in a position of strength, unity and acceptance was something she was not overly familiar with. Here she felt like she marched with her people, regardless of their nationality, age, race or gender.

Wilson had told her when they reached Monument Avenue, the protestors would gather to hear from various speakers. He asked her if she would like to speak.

To her surprise, she had said yes.

She hadn’t even hesitated. And now, despite the adrenalin and the tidal wave of support behind her, at the back of her mind she wondered what she would say. Her YouTube channel was one thing: she was used to talking without a script about being Canadian, about being a woman, about being black, about being a young adult, about politics, about fashion, about whatever came to her that day that she felt opinionated about. But public speaking? The last time she’d spoken in front of people was at a school presentation a year ago. It had gone okay, but she’d spoken to a quiet room of three hundred people. This was significantly more, and they would be loud and vocal, and the media would be watching. What if she said something to upset them? What if she accidentally said something un-American without even realizing it? What if they turned on her?

She forced herself to relax, to experience the moment as it happened rather than dwell on mistakes she had not even made yet. The chanting of, “Justice For Howie!” and “Black Lives Matter” rang in her ears. She would speak from her heart, she would not try to plan what she would say. She did not have to speak for long. She would tell them about Howie, who he was in private, and what he meant to her, and maybe about a Canadian’s observation of America’s struggle, and how she too faced a similar – but usually less brutal – struggle in her own country. And that would be enough.

The police presence was surprisingly low key. She had seen a few officers, likely those already on patrol of the city when the marching began. This struck her as odd, given that this was not the first night of protests. She had not heard of significant violence from the previous night’s demonstration, so perhaps the police did not feel a large presence was necessary.

And then she saw them.

At the front of the march, Melissa could see what many behind her could not. They were still a couple of intersections away, but even at this distant the sight of them made her nervous. Instinctively she stopped, but Howie took her arm and gently moved her forward, not wanting her to be trampled by the mass of people walking behind her. The BLM members, a hundred strong at the front of the march, did not falter. Melissa admired their courage.

They weren’t close yet, but the unmistakable bulk of something like a tank but with no gun turret blocked the road ahead. Row upon row of armed police stood in ranks ahead of it. They carried batons, shields and guns slung over their shoulders. They stood silently, waiting for the marchers to approach. Police cars and vans lined the street beyond them, their lights flashing, illuminating the silent army in blue and red.

Someone had decided that this protest wasn’t going to continue along Franklin Street.

Wilson was consulting with other leaders of the march now, still heading towards the wall of armed resistance. For a moment, he and the others dropped back a little so Melissa was alone, at the head of the march, stuck out on her own like the figurehead of a massive ship. The tide of support and security melted instantly. The atmosphere had shifted and, for a moment, she walked alone towards the horde of oppressors, marching to her certain doom in the name of justice and civil disobedience.

Wilson was back at her side in a moment and the isolation evaporated. Still it left Melissa rattled. She was sweating and her breathing had quickened. Her pulse was racing and she was light-headed. She allowed Wilson to steer her to the right, heading north onto a side street, away from the police lines.

They followed a wide arc, and without question the masses behind them followed. As the protest turned, people on the western edge of the march started to see Franklin Street ahead and the imposing sight of the police lines. There were gasps and cries from marchers on the left behind Melissa. She glanced back and saw some people break off from the main group, running south to get away from the police and the protestors. Some of them carried small children, and Melissa could hardly blame them. She resisted the urge to run after them. Suppressing her instincts, she knew that if she ran too it would incite chaos. The front of the march breaking off in different directions would cause a stampede, and panicked people would get hurt.

So she stayed the course, lockstep with Wilson and his allies. The leaders of the march had now fully turned the corner, and the police lines slipped out of Melissa’s view. Not before she saw them mobilize, however. If they were on the move, that meant they might engage the protestors in the middle of the pack as the march slowly turned the corner. She glanced at Wilson who had clearly seen the same thing, because he was furiously discussing options with the other march leaders as they continued to walk. She had noticed a distinct quickening of their pace, and a drop off in the number of protestors around her still chanting slogans. Everyone around her had sensed that the mood had changed and the situation was now potentially dangerous. It terrified her; she wanted to be anywhere but here. What had been life affirming now had become life threatening. She wondered how long it would take for the survival instincts of the protest leaders to filter back through the throng behind them. She saw Wilson and others on their phones, texting messages presumably to other BLM members escorting protestors further back, the majority of them still marching on Franklin Street in the direction of the police lines now closing in.

Melissa turned her attention to the road ahead. This street was narrower than Franklin but there was still plenty of space for the protestors. They were heading north to the next major east-west street – Melissa didn’t know Richmond well enough to identify the street names – presumably to lead the protestors to a wide open space, perhaps a park, where they could amass and organize a peaceful dispersal. Melissa was just guessing, but that’s what she would do.

To her horror, from around the next corner, at least a hundred police officers in full riot gear appeared. They ran in coordinated fashion, quickly forming a blockade across the exit from this street they were marching on. More officers moved in behind them to reinforce the line. The sound of something large rumbling into position signaled yet more heavy-police presence on the way.

Now it was Wilson’s turn to halt. Other leaders raised their bullhorns and commanded the people behind to stop. They had no place to go.

Suddenly a group of protestors pushed forward from behind Melissa and surged out ahead of the stopped protest. These men were different from anyone else Melissa had noticed thus far. They wore masks over their faces, and carried sticks and other makeshift weapons.

Wilson and the other BLM leaders reacted immediately, rushing forwards to try to stop these newcomers surging forward. They didn’t move fast enough. Instead the police saw a few armed demonstrators rushing them, backed by dozens more potential assailants.

The response was immediate. Police rushed forwards to engage the masked men. Tear gas canisters landed at the feet of the protestors, causing panic and mayhem. Officers with bullhorns shouted warning. They beat down any and all opposition.

Melissa stood in the middle of it all, unsure where to run or what to do. An officer brutally attacked a young black man to her right, and she looked on in horror as his blood ran in the street. She didn’t know what to do. She was utterly powerless.

Her eyes streamed with tears. The gas was taking hold of her. She coughed, then wretched, doubling over. Her whole face and throat burned with an intensity she had never felt before, like she’d eaten the hottest chili pepper on Earth and then rubbed it in her eyes for good measure. She couldn’t breathe, she could barely stand. She couldn’t see what was going on through the clouds of gas and the tears in her eyes. She screwed her eyes shut and rubbed at them to try to stop the burning, all the while coughing up her lungs onto the asphalt.

She crashed into someone and sprawled to the ground. Her exposed skin prickled in the poisonous air, but this was nothing compared to her throat, nose, lungs and eyes. Mucus, tears and sweat poured from her, more fluids than she thought she could possibly produce. And the coughing was so intense she couldn’t stand up. She rubbed her face but this seemed to make it worse, though it was hard to tell if the rubbing was the cause or prolonged exposure. She couldn’t see and she couldn’t escape the gas. She crawled on her hands and knees, bumping into other people despite trying to avoid them by the sounds of their coughing. Her own retching made it almost impossible to hear where others were located, and of course she couldn’t see anything at all. The pain was beyond anything she could cope with and she started screaming, except that no sound issued from her searing throat. She couldn’t breathe. Was she dying? Could tear gas kill?

She was aware of hands beneath her armpits, scooping her up and dragging her away. Were they arresting her? She didn’t care. Anything was better than this. They lowered her to the ground, sitting up with her back against a wall. She wanted to die, for it to end. Instead there was suddenly a bottle of water in her hands and a cool breeze on her face. It was like seeing sunlight after years of living underground. She fumbled with the lid of the bottle, desperate to get to the water. Her rescuer – she assumed – helped her remove the lid and she drank greedily. Meanwhile, her rescuer poured more water over her face and into her eyes. The pain and the burning didn’t go away, but they abated slightly. She finished the bottle and let it drop from her fingers. Someone was speaking to her. Saying something about moving further away, not being safe yet.

She allowed her rescuer to pull her to her feet. Shakily, she half-stumbled, half-lurched along beside her rescuer, leaning heavily on him or her. Screams and crying and coughing surrounded her, assaulting her ears and disorienting her more, if that was possible.

She felt far from normal, but the pain had subsided enough for her to croak some words and open her eyes. She tried to speak but the blurry face before her made shushing noises and handed her another bottle of water. She removed the lid of this one without a struggle and drank more. Her breathing was improving now, and she no longer felt like she wanted to die.

Slowly, through the haze of tears, a concerned face swam into view. He alternated between examining Melissa and looking up and down the street.

He turned back to her and took off the scarf he had wrapped around his face to lessen the effects of the gas. His eyes were swollen and tears covered his cheeks, but he seemed to have avoided the worst of the gas attack.

Melissa had never been gladder to see a friendly face.

Senator Tim Barns coughed twice and smiled at her.