This is the sixth preview chapter of my novel, Not to the Swift. You can find the original post describing the novel here, and the novel is available on my Amazon author page.

The Precinct bustled with activity at the start of the workweek. Captain McCullough pulled in every available officer for a morning training session, due to kick off in half an hour. Kaz hit the gym set up on the second floor, leaving Chris on the operations floor alone.

He sat at one of the few available computers filling out a soft-copy document with the details of the Friday patrol and the encounter with Mister Shuttlesworth. The report already reflected the seeming racial bias behind Kazsinski’s methods when conducting a traffic stop. But the main incident description held Chris’s attention.

Intentionally drew weapon on unarmed non-threatening civilian.

Chris deleted “intentionally” and tapped the desk. I need a word with less blame, maybe. I don’t want to crucify the guy. I just want to make sure he learns the lesson.

He highlighted the text for later revision and moved on.

One of the boxes read, ‘Video clip media number.’ Chris paused and looked for a veteran for guidance. “Hey O’Neill, how do I track down a cut of body cam footage?”

O’Neill laughed. “You gotta talk to Hannigan up in Records. If any of the footage is marked to save, he’ll have it.”

“Thanks.” Chris saved the document, pulled his access card, and headed for the second floor. If any of it is saved? What does that mean?

He found Hannigan behind a desk in the Records office, wasting time on his computer until the training session. Cat videos? Are you kidding me?

“Hey man, I need to get a media number for a clip from our patrol on Friday.”

Hannigan glanced at Mason and returned to his computer. “New guy? I don’t take requests from new guys. Tell Kaz to come by himself if he wants something.”

“Come on, this is serious. I need to file an incident report, so I need the footage number.”

“Incident report? What are you talkin’ about? Wasn’t no incidents on Friday.”

I don’t need Hannigan looking into this. Better watch my mouth. “Look, I just need to see what you’ve got off our body cams from Friday morning.” Chris paused. Maybe I can play it off as rookie hazing to get him to cooperate.

“Kaz has me doing a stack of paperwork before we go on patrol today. New cops push papers, he says. I’ve been at it for two hours now,” Chris lied. “It’s killing me.”

Hannigan smiled wide, his sadistic streak apparently satisfied. “In that case, I’ll help you out with something. Kaz sent you on a wild goose chase, kid. He does that with all-a you scrubs. You shoulda seen the crap his first partner gave him when he was a rookie. Oh man, it was good times.” Hannigan chuckled. “Anyway, ain’t no video recordings from Friday.”

What?

Chris didn’t have to fake a look of shock. “So what happens to all the footage from the body cams? What’s the point of them?”

“Every day, end of the day, we purge the previous day’s videos if they ain’t marked to save. Jeez, few dozen officers all wearin’ cameras on patrol, can you imagine the storage space that would fill up on the network drive?”

Hannigan shook his head and added, “If somethin’ bad happens and we really need the video, we’ll know about it before it gets purged, right? No reason to keep a bunch of clips of driving down streets for hours.”

Chris fumbled for a response. I have no proof of what I’m accusing Kaz of doing.

“Besides,” Hannigan said with a shrug, “a lot of the guys, they don’t want someone listening to their conversations. Lots of stuff you share with your partner that you wouldn’t prob’ly share with anyone else, y’know?” He laughed. “Well, you don’t know yet, but one day you will.”

“I see,” Chris said. “I guess I’m done here. Thank you for your time.”

“Yeah, man, you bet.”

Chris wandered down the hall past the gym. Several policemen worked with free weights, watching form in the numerous mirrors. Two guys took turns on the bench press, spotting for each other and adding plates. Kaz sat on an incline bench, pressing two thick dumbbells into the air above his chest. Do I talk to him about what happened? Do I still file the report, without any evidence to back up my claim?

“Quit checkin’ me out, scrub,” Kaz called from inside the gym. “Bad enough the Captain stuck me with a rookie, now I gotta worry my rookie partner’s a homo tryin’ to stick me too.”

The others laughed and sneered at Chris. He shook his head. “Dude, you’re ridiculous.” You’re also the only one who knows about Friday. And I doubt you’re going to help me request an incident review. No one’s going to believe a rookie.

A thought struck Chris. But would they believe a civilian, if a rookie corroborated his account?

Chris strode to the stairwell and checked the time. Five minutes until the training brief. He returned to the computer and brought the incident file back up. Then he looked through the record of traffic stops uploaded from the mobile computer in the police cruiser. He found the entry he needed, and copied details into his report.

Driver: Benjamin Shuttlesworth. 4215 West Garrison Street.

The Captain made an announcement and called everyone to the briefing room. Chris clicked save and logged off. I need to pay you a visit this week, Mister Shuttlesworth.

There was still time to do the right thing.

René waved goodbye and bounded up the sidewalk into Franklin Middle School. George pulled away from the curb and licked his lips, looking for words.

“Dad, I can walk,” Chris complained. “Do we really need to do this?”

“Do what? I’m just dropping you off at school.”

“You only do this when you want to talk,” Chris said. “But you already talked to me last night about Jamal and drugs and gangs and everything else. I’m not doin’ any of that, Dad.”

“I’m concerned, son.” George pulled the car away from Franklin and headed south. “I need to know you’re thinkin’ about what I said, what happened to Clarence, what you wanna do with your life.”

Chris stared out the window. “Jamal’s my friend, Dad. I ain’t gonna lie, he wants to get into some stupid stuff, dealing with the Kings. I told him that’s not me. I’m tryin’ to tell him that ain’t him either. You gotta believe me.”

George stared straight ahead, driving on subconscious autopilot. Hadn’t thought of that, you tryin’ to talk sense to your friend the way I feel like I need to talk to you. I want to believe you. I think I do. But I love you too much to ignore this.

They sat in silence. Say something, George told himself. Tell him you trust him. Tell him you’re proud. Anything.

George forced a joking tone. “Sometimes I think all them superhero stories goin’ to your head, son.” That the best you got? Come on, George, man up. Say somethin’ real.

Chris laughed once, but said nothing.

Pulaski High loomed ahead. You runnin’ out of time. George slowed the car to a stop along the sidewalk. Don’t be distant like Dad was to you. Most of these kids don’t got a father at home—your son does. So make sure that means something.

George parked the car near the corner of the school grounds. “Look, son, I trust you. I do. You got a good head on those shoulders. You’re smarter than I was at your age. You got a future, somethin’ to hope for. But it’s not gonna happen by itself. You need to strive for it. When all your friends cuttin’ class, smokin’ joints or gettin’ drunk or God knows whatever crazy stuff they get up to, you can’t go with them down that path. That path dead-ends right here in the Twenties.”

“I know, Dad,” Chris nodded. “I get it. You don’t have to tell me again. I gotta go.”

“Okay,” George said. He extended a fist toward Chris, but the teenager exited the car without noticing. Chris rushed toward the front door and disappeared into a crowd.

Was that Jamal next to Chris? George couldn’t make out the face among so many others. Then the teens entered the school. No telling now. Just gotta hope he listens.

George sighed and checked the clock on the dash.  Need to get to work at Eastwick before they drop my contract. He left behind a cloud of smoke as he pulled away, headed for the Stapleton suburbs.

Chris glanced back through the crowd and saw the tell-tale fog of his father’s car. Jamal kept talking, and Chris tuned back in to the conversation.

“—three of them asked me to. So this afternoon, I’m gonna meet up with Lamar’s associates and store some of their product at my crib. My gramma’s old, she won’t have any idea what’s goin’ on, even if she find a brick under my bed.”

“This is bad mojo, man,” Chris said. “You come up with some plans over the years, J. Some of ’em been aight, but some of ’em just all the way dumb.”

“Bruh, I got this. No way this one goes wrong. An’ I told Lamar I was bringin’ you along.”

“You crazy, fool. I ain’t gettin’ involved in this.”

Jamal’s face twisted in rage. “Man, I’m lookin’ out for you. Hookin’ you up. I’m not sayin’ you gotta bring their stuff to your place. That’s the dumbest idea. Your mom and dad be all over you. So I’m storin’ all the product. That means I’m takin’ all the risk, stickin’ my neck out for you.”

He really is trying to do this smart, and he’s doing me a huge favor. Chris struggled at the thought of rejecting Jamal’s unexpected kindness. He’s doin’ this as a friend.

“You in or out, man? Or are you in, but you’re gonna choke again?”

If I say no, he’s not gonna listen to anything else I tell him. A small hope bloomed in his mind. Maybe I can still talk him out of this—but that’s only gonna work if I go with him.

“I’m not committing to anything, dawg,” Chris said. “But I’ll come along.”

“Yeah, boy!” Jamal bumped Chris’s fist. “That’s all I’m sayin’, give me a chance.”

“Sure, J. But you need to give me a chance too, listen to some reason. I don’t know what, but somethin’ botherin’ me about this—more than just the drugs and the gang.”

The bell rang, and teachers patrolling the halls started yelling at stragglers to get to class. “Gotta go man,” Chris said. “Can’t afford more detention.”

“Yeah, bruh.” Jamal laughed. “You got an appointment with me this afternoon you don’t want to miss.”

Chris turned and entered his classroom, his fledgling hope choked by dread. Maybe detention—and facing Mom afterward—would’ve been a better choice.

Ms. Stafford, a petite blonde in a business suit, moved about the briefing room, engaging the gathered officers. “If I asked what percentage of Stapleton’s population strongly agrees with the statement ‘I trust my local police force,’ what would you say? You there.” She leaned close to read his nametag. “Bridges.”

Bridges cocked his head and smirked. “I don’t know, twenty? Twenty-five?”

She smiled. “Lower. Who’s next?” The captain raised his hand, and she waved him off. “I can’t let you answer, sir. You’ve read the results of our polling. How about you, Whalen?”

He shrugged. “Sixteen?”

“Close. It’s six. If I lined up sixteen random civilians, odds are only one of them might strongly agree that you all have earned their trust.”

Outbursts of swearing or dismissal erupted throughout the room. Ms. Stafford raised her hands to calm everyone down. “To be fair, a majority of people answered ‘Agree’ on that one. Combine the two positive groups, and you’ve got a trust factor of sixty-four percent.”

Then she pointed to a map on her screen. “What do you think the trust factor is in the Twenties?”

“Who cares,” someone called from the back.

“You should,” Ms. Stafford said. “That’s your area with the highest crime, the highest incidence of drug use, and high rates of both unemployment and recidivism. You’re fighting the same battles there, week after week, and what do you have to show for it? They say doing the same thing and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. So are you guys nuts?”

A light grumbling murmur spread through the crowd.

Ms. Stafford raised her voice. “We tried to get good survey results in the Twenties. Most folk slammed the door in our polling staff’s faces and told them to eff off.” She ignored the muffled laughter and continued. “So the results we have are only from the people who were willing to talk with us about their relationship to the police force. These stats I’m about to tell you? The reality is probably worse.”

She surveyed the room and repeated the question. “What’s the percentage of people in the Twenties who think their police force is fair and balanced in their approach?”

No response.

“The answer is less than thirty percent. You lose more than half of the trust others have earned just by driving past twenty-hundred east. And not one participant answered ‘Strongly Agree.’ Still don’t care?”

More outbursts sprang up throughout the gathered officers. Some blew off the speaker, some told off their peers. “Fair and balanced? We ain’t Fox News,” O’Neill shouted over the din. “We’re there to enforce the law, not to be their friends. They want better lives, they can stop doing illegal things.” Many officers nodded with him.

“I know, I know,” Ms. Stafford said. “Statistics can tell whatever story the speaker wants, right? Maybe I’m spinning all this to make things look worse than they really are. A girl’s gotta get paid, you know.

“But maybe I’m telling the truth, and I’m here to help you all see something easily overlooked about the nature of your relationship with the community.”

Captain McCullough cleared his throat and the murmuring ceased.

Ms. Stafford moved on to a new slide. “We know that an increasing unemployment rate and a surge of crime can sometimes be related. It’s no news that the rail yards shutting down years ago put this city—or at least the downtown part of this city—into a tailspin.”

She pointed at Mason. “You. Give me a guess. What’s the unemployment rate in this precinct?”

Chris fumbled for a number. “Uh… maybe twelve percent?”

“Try thirty to forty on average since the rail yards closed their doors. The numbers on paper look better because after a while, people get written off and no longer factor into the unemployment calculation. The rest of you, do you think it’s relevant that a third to almost one half of the community has no reliable, steady income? People need to eat; they still need clothing for themselves and their kids. That means making money somewhere, wherever they can in some cases. And despite what your teachers taught you, crime does pay.”

She clicked to the next slide. “Do you see how some of this is coming together? What many people are going to see is that it’s your job to stop them from getting money to survive. It’s your job to shut down whatever method they’ve got to put dinner in front of a hungry child. You can understand, perhaps, why you’re not welcomed with open arms on patrol.

“Let’s try one more question. What percentage of your populace in the Twenties have a nuclear family member who has been arrested and sent to jail for any length of time?”

“Not enough,” someone shouted, and laughter exploded in clusters around the room. Not everyone’s laughing, Chris noted. Most of the minority officers sat in silence watching the presentation. Sergeant Bristow, the shift scheduler, watched the reaction of her peers. Though her face remained calm, her eyes trapped a piercing anger behind her glasses. She glanced his way and their eyes met for an instant. She seemed pleased to note he wasn’t amused.

“Stop the wisecracks,” Captain McCullough ordered. “I called Ms. Stafford here because what we’re doing every day isn’t working. We’re fighting the same battles, and we’re not making headway. We break up a drug operation the Kings set up, and then the Disciples start a new one the next week. We seize a stash of guns on the north side, and they shoot each other up on the south side. We gotta do something different.”

Ms. Stafford nodded. “The body camera initiative last year was a step toward the progress your captain is talking about. Research on traffic stops with visible body cameras shows an increase in civility and a decrease in escalation toward violence—both by officers and by those stopped. It forces everyone to play nice.

“Today, we’re talking about why we need to play nice. Back to my question, who’d be willing to believe that one third of the population of the Twenties has had a nuclear relative spend time in jail?”

Several hands raised. Chris shrugged. Sure. Sounds possible. He raised his hand.

“What about one half?”

Most hands fell. Chris followed suit.

Ms. Stafford leaned forward. “It’s sixty eight percent. Two out of every three people have a family member you’ve put in jail for some length of time—or they’ve been there themselves. Do you get why you might be looked at as the enemy? Do you see why these people don’t believe you’re on their side?”

Mason raised his hand, and she paused for the question. “So, how do we change that?”

Ms. Stafford smiled. “Glad you asked. I’m in discussions with your Chief of Police about how best to proceed. My organization started working in New York City ten years ago and saw tremendous results—you can find those online, no need to toot our horn here. We built relationships with families, we started mentoring programs with individual kids. We challenged them to stay in school, or to go back and finish their education—Never too late to educate, that was our slogan. But those steps all involved long-term investment into the community. What I’m doing here right now, that’s how we change things in the short-term.

“In other words, officer, it starts with changing how you see others.”

This is the fifth preview chapter of my novel, Not to the Swift. You can find the original post describing the novel here, and the novel is available on my Amazon author page.

The mirrored glass windows of Stapleton Baptist Community Church gleamed in the morning sun. An usher with white gloves directed Chris Mason’s four-door hybrid to a spot near the front door in a section marked “First Time Visitors.” Laura unbuckled Hailey, who jumped from the edge of the car door with a cheer, unconcerned for Sunday best propriety.

Laura took Chris’s extended arm, holding Hailey’s hand in hers. “Where’d you hear about this place, hon?”

Chris shrugged. “Biggest ad in the phone book—for a Southern Baptist church at least. They have a TV show and post sermons online. Pastor sounded pretty cool. Not sure how I feel about the music.”

A smiling elderly greeter in a long floral dress held the door and shook their hands. She gave them a visitor gift package and showed Hailey a huge grin. “Hello there, pretty!”

The aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the foyer. Two young women served up lattes and mochas behind a counter set up on a patch of tiled floor. Churchgoers carrying iPads occupied the tables and stools provided, laughing and chatting before the service if their eyes weren’t glued to the screen of a smartphone.

Another usher inside led the Masons through the sanctuary’s double wood doors to a comfortable spot in the middle of the rows of padded chairs. Chris took in the church’s massive size, with a balcony level and seating all along the sloping sides of the bright room. A slideshow presentation scrolled on three large screens near the front, informing congregants of upcoming events and opportunities to serve. A countdown ticked two minutes and seven seconds until the start of the service.

Chris received several kind but distant smiles and a couple quick handshakes. A pastor’s wife hugged Laurie and responded in kind to Hailey’s silly face. Apparently this church had several associate pastors, each in charge of some facet of ministry.

The lights faded throughout the sanctuary. Colored flood lights and banks of high-power LEDs flared up front. The drummer started thumping out a driving bass beat, and an electric guitar wailed out a high note. The worship pastor marched out to center stage, clapping his hands, calling out into the mic, “Welcome to Stapleton Baptist! You all ready to praise our King?”

The band launched into a full-instrumental chorus as the congregation found the beat and clapped in time. “What can wash away my sin,” the pastor recited, cuing the first verse. “Nothing—nothing—but the blood of Jesus! Let’s sing it out!”

Words superimposed on smooth background effects flashed across the screens. Chris frowned at the modernized rock version of a sacred hymn. I’d trade all this for Grandma Keating on the organ any day. But at least I know the words.

Then they jumped into an added chorus, and Chris stood silent, hands clasped on the pew in front of him.

Jesus, righteous Lamb of God

I’m purchased through the shedding of Your blood

Now I will make my boast in Christ alone

The sinless Son of God

Oh, how I thank You for the blood.

Chris suppressed a smile. How hard is it to use the same rhyming pair over and over? Stop trying to be new, stick to being true.

At least Laura seemed to be having a good time. She met his gaze and gave him a curious look. He winked and she smiled, returning to the song she picked up easily.

Great. She likes it, so we’re probably stuck.

The band switched to a slower song about the intimate sweetness of God’s love, broken up with a one-line chorus they sang two dozen times or more. Chris checked his watch, frowned at how little time had passed, and stared dutifully into the screen, forcing a smile.

Decked out in an earthy brown suit and a lime green tie, George walked with LaTasha on his arm as the Washington family entered New Hope Tabernacle’s cozy foyer. A thin middle-aged man in long black robes with a maroon mantle laid over white stood at the door to the sanctuary. His horn-rim glasses hung down over a gold cross stitched into the mantle.

“Brother Washington,” he called, his face bright and inviting.

“Bishop Simms,” George replied with an extended hand.

“Welcome to the house of God! Good morning, Sister. Thank you once again for the service you and your children provide. The church was positively gleaming this morning when I unlocked the doors.”

“You’re welcome, Bishop,” LaTasha said, beaming. “Gotta teach these two the value of hard work. We’re glad to help out any time.”

Henry Simms laughed. “How about same time this Saturday?”

LaTasha chuckled. “We’ll be here.”

George suppressed a snort. Like it ain’t already been figured out for months in advance. Every able-bodied member had a month or two on the list in the church office. LaTasha volunteered the kids for two months to keep Elder Henry from throwing out his back scrubbing toilets and sweeping the floor.

Bishop Simms straightened up before Chris. “Good morning, young man. Isn’t it good to be in the house of the Lord?” His deep voice spoke with precision and gravity.

That’s what LaTasha liked best when Bishop took over. No “Lawd” or “Jeezus” or traditional “chu’ch” preaching here. Not for the first time, George longed for the passionate Gospel services he’d grown up in. Messy sometimes, but folk were real.

They found their usual pew, three rows from the front on the left side. LaTasha’s mother already occupied her spot at the outside aisle. With salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a tight bun underneath a sunhat to match her Sunday dress, and a stern glare as hard as oak when needed, Nana’s thin frame showed no signs of frailty. She hadn’t grown weaker over the years, just tougher. “Good mornin’, Nana,” George said.

LaTasha hugged Nana, then the kids followed. Nana snuck René a pink buttermint from a metal case in her purse, and René beamed.

Henry Simms’ wife, First Lady Evonne approached with a notepad. Her long hair had been relaxed then curled into a pristine style that shimmered in the light. She wore a dress splashed with luscious rose reds and maroons to complement her husband’s colors. “LaTasha, my, you’re the picture of beauty. I’m taking down names for our Thanksgiving potluck, and I wondered if you can provide a side dish.”

George tuned out the women’s voices and headed over to lay a hug on JJ—who sat alone—and Thomas, whose wife wrangled their three unruly boys into their pew.

The guys engaged in small talk as the rest of the congregation filed in. Services started at ten, or so the sign said out front. Truth is, fellowship starts at ten, and the service starts whenever. And that’s fine by me.

Then George saw Clarence and Dre slip into the back pew. Dre looked respectable in dark slacks with a bright button-down and matching tie. Probably from his Mama. After the divorce, after Clarence landed in the pen for the second time, Nadine found comfort with a wealthy doctor she met in her job at the hospital.

Clarence wore his best too, such as it was. A loose denim jacket covered a clean monochrome T-shirt hanging loose over the waistline of his slacks. He caught a few disapproving glances from other members. In the small congregation, where everyone knew everyone else, there was nowhere to hide.

I better go give him a greeting, let him know he’s welcome. But the anger from the night before surged back up into George’s chest. His feet stood still.

The choir filed in from the back room, their Sunday best covered in simple black robes. Dottie the choir director took her place near the front and nodded to the Bishop, seated next to the First Lady in the two large chairs behind the pulpit, under the great wooden cross.

Bishop Simms rose and approached the pulpit. “Welcome to New Hope Tabernacle, my brothers and sisters in our Lord Jesus Christ. The Tabernacle—the tent of meeting.”

Damon, the organist, struck some riffs between each phrase as Bishop Simms gave the call to worship. “And we are gathered here on today for that purpose. To meet with the Creator who made us and gave us air to breathe this morning. He didn’t have to do that. He could’ve withheld His breath from us. But He gave us the gift of this day, to give Him praise.”

The choir hummed out their harmony and the organ music shifted to a staccato Gospel number. Aimee brought in a light drum beat with a tap-tap-tap on the crash, laying out a clear beat. Some of the worshipers softly clapped and stepped side to side with the music.

Simms continued in prayer. “Almighty Lord Jesus, all of us as families are gathered into Your one great Family, to meet You here, and to praise You in the light of Your glory.”

Dottie repeated that last phrase, and the choir voices boomed out.

In the light of Your glory, in the light of Your face.

In the light of Your holiness, I am changed.

“In the light of Your goodness,” Dottie prompted. In the light of Your goodness.

“In the light of Your holy face,” she shouted. In the light of Your face.

“You know every trouble that holds me.” Every trouble that holds me fades away.

George clapped and made his way back to his pew, sliding in between Chris and LaTasha, then slipping an arm around his wife and swaying with her to the rhythm of the song.

Dottie continued calling out the next lines and the choir and congregation followed the familiar tunes with ease.

Can’t stop praisin’ His name, I—can’t stop praisin’ His name, I—

“In the light of Your glory!” In the light of Your glory…

René tugged at LaTasha, and she leaned away from George to listen to her daughter. George edged his ear closer so he could make out the words.

“Mama, why Miss Dottie always sing everything twice?”

“Don’t talk like a thug,” LaTasha corrected. “Why does Miss Dottie—”

René sighed. “Why does Miss Dottie always sing everything twice? And why do we have to sing the same lines so often?”

“Probably so they can take root in your thick skull, heathen child.” LaTasha squeezed René’s shoulder. “Or maybe more for your brother’s.”

René giggled and belted out the tune with off-key enthusiasm.

George glanced at Chris and noted for the first time that he could almost look Chris in the eye without turning his head down. The young man stood, hands folded on the pew in front of him, mumble-singing the song. How you have grown, son.

Chris noticed and flashed George a smile that warmed the older man’s heart. George placed his right arm across Chris’s narrow back and rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. His other arm held LaTasha close, and he saw René’s hand in her mother’s. This is not bad, not bad at all. You doin’ good, George.

Nagging doubts picked at his sense of peace, remnants of his conversation with Clarence at Poker Night. But he banished them and joined in the song. “In the light of Your grace, every trouble that holds me fades away.”

“Saints, tell me, if I offer you a plate of food or a glass of water, and I poured poison into it, how much poison would you be okay with? Because that’s what we’re doing when we flirt with sin. Think about that a minute.

“Listen to the words of the Teacher as we work our way through the book of Ecclesiastes.” Bishop Simms held up a black leather King James Bible with gold-edged pages as he read. “Chapter 8, verse 11 and 12 tells us, ‘Because sentence against an evil work is not executed speedily, therefore the heart of the sons of men is fully set in them to do evil. Though a sinner do evil an hundred times, and his days be prolonged, yet surely I know that it shall be well with them that fear God.’

“Poison is deadly serious. You ingest a large dose of it in your food or water, you breathe it in, and you’ll feel the effects real fast. They’ll come carry your body out in a box. No one’s looking to drink a bottle of poison, right?

“And yet, if it’s in small doses, your body adapts. It grows strong, builds up a tolerance. Your body decides this isn’t so bad, I can survive this, I’m all right. Tell me, how do smokers get lung cancer? Is it from one cigarette? Or from years of poison building up? How does an addict develop that craving for drugs? How does the alcoholic come to love the bottle?

“In the same way—think about this, saints—there’s no quickness with spiritual sickness.  Sometimes we do what we know is wrong. But it seems for a time that everything is going all right. So we tell ourselves we can keep doing it.”

Clarence’s comments about Chris pricked at George while the bishop preached. It might seem everything’s goin’ right. But if Chris is hangin’ with someone connected to the Kings, could he get hisself sucked in to the trouble they involved in?

“I’m preaching it straight,” Bishop Simms declared. “If you want to win, you’ve got to keep sin from getting in!”

Several members gave an “Amen” in response.

Bishop Simms lifted a finger in warning. “But if you choose to excuse, you’ll lose.”

Nana and others said a cautionary “Well!”

George found himself nodding. I can’t ignore this. I gotta confront Chris about it. He looked at his son, and found Chris sitting forward, chin resting on his fist. Maybe this is just what he needed to hear. George patted Chris’s shoulder and the young man smiled.

Even so, he’s gonna hear it again from me.

“There was a squad of soldiers in Afghanistan,” the senior pastor began, his keen eyes engaging all sides of the room in turn. The cameras feeding images to the two side screens zoomed in on his face and followed him as he paced the stage. “Their convoy carried vital supplies needed at a Forward Operating Base—or FOB—surrounded by the enemy on all sides. Their mission? To punch through the enemy resistance and get those resources into the hands of their comrades in arms, whose own provisions ran low.”

Pastor Nate kept his hair short, brushed forward, with a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, flecks of silver sprinkled throughout the auburn. Though he wore a suit coat, his unbuttoned polo gave off a casual air.

“Already, the team has taken small arms fire and even an attack with a rocket-propelled grenade. The soldiers are nervous. They haven’t even reached the enemy’s position yet, and somehow they have to advance through it. The convoy hunkers down, sets up a defensive position, and tries to regroup before the final, dangerous push.”

His hands rested on the plexiglass pulpit holding a smart tablet. “Consider that moment,” he said. “They can’t retreat. Their allies need these supplies. But they’re outnumbered and under fire. They can’t stay put for much longer. They’re a stationary target, a sitting duck.

“Do you ever feel that way? When you face your place of work or school, does it feel like you’re walking into a war zone?”

Chris pursed his lips. You don’t even know, pastor.

The incident with Kazsinski drawing his weapon filled Chris’s mind with doubts. He was wrong that time. But is he wrong all the time? Is this something I need to report?

Yet how would it look for a rookie to report his partner on the first day on duty? Who would believe me if I said anything? Who’s going to take my word for it? And how is Kaz going to respond?

Another fear rose in his heart. Is that what working in the projects does to a person? Is that what’s going to happen to me?

Nate went on. “Perhaps the overwhelming odds are the bills, the expenses, the mounting debt that you can’t ever seem to conquer. Or maybe your ‘enemy’ comes in the form of a blessing—the constant needs of small children, always demanding your attention to keep them out of trouble or clean up the mess when they find it despite all your efforts.

“Maybe your emotional convoy has been ambushed, hit with an RPG—the death of a loved one, a pink slip from your job, or bad news from the doctor. Life can be an insurgent sometimes, striking where we feel secure, creating fears where once we were at ease.”

A couple voices called out an “Amen” in agreement.

“But let’s go back to our convoy in Afghanistan,” Nate said, resuming his pace. “One of the soldiers is ready to give up. He looks to the squad leader, asks ‘What are we gonna do, Sarge? This looks hopeless.’

“Hopeless. I think all of us can relate to what that word means. If I asked you all to raise your hand if you’ve ever felt hopeless at some point or another, I’m pretty sure every hand in the room would go up.

“But we’ve learned to project a perfect image, an ‘everything is awesome’ story we tell the world. We act like the pretty life we show on social media tells the whole truth about what’s really going on.”

Chris leaned forward in the seat. That’s what I’m doing with Kaz, isn’t it? If I don’t report reckless drawing of a weapon on a civilian, I’m acting like everything’s okay when it’s not.

“And the sergeant tells his soldiers, ‘This is not hopeless. Be courageous. We are going forward, pushing through to our friends.’ Because what the junior troops don’t know is that the sergeant has the radio. He hears calls and chatter over the net, and he knows that his convoy is not alone out there.

“In minutes, as their vehicles race toward danger, they hear the roar of air support flying overhead. Enemy positions take direct hits. Insurgents scatter and flee. The line breaks. The convoy reaches their destination.”

“That command, ‘Be courageous,’ or some form of it, shows up twenty-six times in Scripture. Mark Twain is credited with saying ‘Courage is not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it.’ Courage is defined as…”

Chris tuned out and thought about Monday morning. I have to file the report so that the body cam footage gets reviewed. If I do nothing, and Kaz does something like that again, the responsibility would be mine too. It might suck, but I’ve got to do the right thing.

Nate continued his sermon, exhorting the believers to do what they deemed right in the face of resistance or fear. But Chris needed no further persuasion. He sat back and smiled, confident and ready for the next day.

This is the third preview chapter of my novel, Not to the Swift. You can find the original post describing the novel here, and the novel is available on my Amazon author page.

With one hand steering the police cruiser, Kazsinski punched Mason on the shoulder. “You awake, scrub?”

“Yeah, man, I’m awake.” Mason shifted in the passenger seat and adjusted his gear. He checked his watch. Only ten o’clock? Feels like we’ve been out all day. “Hailey had a hard time getting to sleep last night, that’s all.”

“Pssh, that’s why me an’ my girlfriend ain’t havin’ no rugrats. Kids steal your energy and drain your money, and for what?” Kazsinski laughed. “Am I right?”

Mason chuckled, hoping it would seem like agreement. Then he thought of Hailey’s tight hugs and the “kiss-on-nose” she gave him each night at bedtime.

Kazsinski turned the car east on Main, keeping his speed slow, rolling toward the Twenties in a show of presence. “Watch the clusters,” he warned. “Guys in the back could be hiding weapons, setting up an ambush for us or for a rival gang. You know the gangs here yet?”

Mason nodded, recalling his briefing the day before. “Mercy Disciples take the north half. Took their name from the hospital. Can’t get into the gang unless you send someone to Mercy’s ER. And the Kings run the south side of the Twenties, give or take.”

“Yeah, those are the main ones. But they got a bunch of little groups workin’ for ’em. Frickin’ splinter cells pop up like terrorists. There’s Pinoy Saints, run by a bunch-a Chinese or Filipinos or somethin’ like that. And the Cholos around Q Street got supply routes linked back to Mexican drug cartels.” He cursed and dropped a racial slur, then continued. “The Kings get their product and their pieces from south of the border.”

Mason frowned. Hope he doesn’t talk like that in public.

“And that ain’t even countin’ all the deadbeats and ex-cons. Since the railyards shut down, a bunch of ’em just lay around all day, doin’ drugs and collectin’ their checks from Uncle Sugar.” Kazsinski slapped Mason on the shoulder in a friendly manner this time. “Good to know your hard-earned tax dollars are well spent, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Mason fixed the chest-mounted body cam that shook loose with Kazsinski’s slap. Then he turned his eyes on the street, watching faces glare at the cruiser or look away. Definitely behind enemy lines here… but why do we have to be the enemy?

No one liked getting pulled over, of course. Kazsinski had issued five tickets that morning, most for speeding on Main Street cutting through the Twenties. They’d stopped a white woman doing fifteen over the limit on her way to work, and she gave them an earful, like her ticket was their fault. Earlier in the morning, they’d spotted a mixed crowd of teens circled around a fight near Pulaski High. The crowd dispersed when Kaz sounded the siren.

Kazsinski’s curbside manner bothered Chris. The vet saw every driver as a threat, and his solution was to dominate the situation—gun holstered but prominently displayed, harsh and direct interrogation, and an assumption of guilt or hostile intent until Mason finished the paperwork and Kaz sent the drivers on their way. I’m the new guy. Maybe that’s how it’s done here—maybe it has to be this way.

Even so, whether Kazsinski’s tough manner showed up full force seemed too dependent on the suspect’s complexion.

Mason eyed Kazsinski as the cruiser slid down side streets. He’s a jerk, sure. But is he really a racist? Or is valuable experience driving him to do it this way? I don’t know.

The academy instructors taught a curriculum that harped on respect and restraint. But the same teachers cracked jokes about the course content and told the rookies they’d learn “how it really is” when they got to their first station. It would be easy to judge Kaz, Mason decided. But his life is on the line to protect and serve, just like mine. Who am I to say his method is off-base?

Mason thought of Laura and Hailey, probably out for a promised morning walk to the park near their new apartment. We have a right to return to our loved ones at night, don’t we? Even Kaz got someone waiting for him at home.

“Check this guy out,” Kazsinski said, and pointed to a shiny black sedan. “Where d’you think some ‘G’ from the Twenties gets the money for a ride like that?” He flipped a switch and the lights and siren came to life.

The sedan slowed and stopped on the side of the four-lane street. Kazsinski pulled behind it at an angle, forcing traffic around the cruiser into the left lane. “Follow my lead,” he said as he opened the door. “And keep your weapon ready, Mason. You don’t know these guys.”

Mason exited the cruiser and surveyed the street. Passersby made a point of ignoring the scene, yet Mason felt a chilly anger from the community. He tried to match Kazsinski’s easy swagger as the burly officer approached the sedan’s driver. No one would mess with a cop as tough as Kaz. But Mason’s posturing felt as fake as he assumed it appeared, so he rested his hand near his holster and took a position on the other side of the vehicle.

The black man in the driver’s seat looked rigid, almost like a mannequin, hands planted firmly on the top of the steering wheel, eyes fixed forward. He couldn’t be more than thirty years old. Is he scared, or is he guilty? Mason watched Kaz for clues, unsure of what to expect. Maybe he’s scared because he’s guilty?

Kaz tapped the glass and Mason watched the driver’s hand move—slowly and in plain sight of both officers—to lower the window. The man’s voice was muffled through the passenger window, but Mason could make it out.

“Is there a problem, officer?” he asked in a calm, crisp tone.

Kazsinski smirked. “Whose car is this, son? Where ya taking it?”

“I’m on my way to work at Our Mother of Mercy, sir.”

Kazsinski leaned closer, his voice quiet but cold. “Don’t lie to me, man. I will find out, and I won’t be happy. Let me see some ID.”

The man lifted his right hand from the steering wheel. He spoke in a careful, almost broken pace. “I am going to reach for my wallet in my back pocket, officer.” His ID flashed in the morning sun as he handed it out the window.

“License and registration too, buddy.” Kazsinski flipped the ID in his hand, checking all the information. He mouthed to Mason, Watch this. “Got any proof of insurance, Mister Shuttlesworth?”

Oh yeah, he said that’s one of the most frequent offenses.

Kaz crossed his arms and waited. He seemed antsy, bouncing around like he couldn’t stand still.

The passenger window lowered, and the man spoke to Mason in that same plodding manner. “Sir, I am going to reach into the glove box now to retrieve paperwork.”

Yeah, man, whatever. Just do it. What’s with the robot impression?

Suddenly Kaz had his Beretta drawn on the driver. Tendons strained in his thick neck and his scream echoed in the street. “Get out of the car! Hands up! Move slowly! Get out the frickin’ car!”

Mason’s hands stretched out toward his partner. “Kaz! What are you doing?”

Mister Shuttlesworth complied, hands in the air in clear view of the entire street. He rose with grace and stared down Kazsinski’s barrel. “Officer, I am complying with your instructions. No need to escalate—”

“Shut up! Turn around, hands on the roof! I’ll tell you what I need, I need you to shut your mouth and do what you’re told, boy!”

Mason’s hand struck like a cobra, locking around Kazsinski’s wrist, shoving the gun aside and holding it down with a rush of adrenaline. Kaz turned wide eyes on his partner, and his muscles tensed like he would strike back.

Mason stood firm. “He was reaching for the glove box—for the paperwork you demanded. I had my eye on him the whole time, and he told me exactly what he was doing.”

Kazsinski’s nostrils flared with each breath as the thought took root. Finally he shoved Mason off. “You finish up then.” He stomped off toward the cruiser.

Mason stood, watching his partner. What the hell just happened?

“Uh, sir?” Mister Shuttlesworth said, his head still lying between his arms on the sedan.

“Sorry, uhm, Mister—you know what, you’re free to go, with my deepest regrets.”

The driver straightened, then tugged out the wrinkles in his ruffled button-down shirt as if the motion would repair the damage done to his dignity. He turned to glare at Kazsinski in the cruiser. “You best get some help for that one, officer. He’s trouble lookin’ for a place to happen.”

Mason apologized again and extended a handshake.

Mister Shuttlesworth ignored the gesture and took his seat behind the wheel.

“Good day, sir.” Mason tried a final, feeble attempt at restoring trust.

“Yeah, man,” Mister Shuttlesworth said as the window raised. “It was, until now.”