"Who signed off?"
"Captain Morrison. Reports directly to the chief."
Tanya sits in her dark kitchen processing this: the department she oversees, the budget she approves, they deliberately denied her request for footage involving her own children.
Saturday morning, Jordan sits at breakfast, doesn't eat, pushes cereal around his bowl.
"You okay?" Tanya asks.
He shrugs. "Kids at school saw the videos, asked me about it."
"What did you say?"
"I said it was a misunderstanding. But it wasn't." He looks up, eyes wet. "That lady watched us for thirty minutes, saw us come out of our house. She called anyway. That's not a misunderstanding; that's on purpose."
Tanya has no counter. He's right.
Julian appears in the doorway, still in pajamas, 10:00 a.m. Normally, he's up by 7:00; now, he just stays in bed.
"Baby, you need to eat something," Tanya says.
"I'm not hungry."
"You didn't eat dinner last night, either."
"I said I'm not hungry!" His voice cracks. He turns, goes back to his room, the door closes.
Tanya follows, knocks. "Julian, can I come in?"
No answer. She opens anyway. Julian is curled up on his bed, face to the wall. She sits on the edge, hand on his shoulder. "Talk to me."
"I don't want to go outside anymore."
"It's okay to go outside. It's your yard."
"But people are watching! What if she calls again? What if next time they don't believe you? What if they take us away?"
"Nobody's taking you away."
"You don't know that!" He rolls over, looks at her—10 years old with eyes that hold too much fear. "You're important. You have a big job. They still didn't believe you. If they don't believe you, they won't believe us."
Then he asks about it—the question that breaks her completely: "Mom, can I be white? If I was white, she would have believed me. The police would have believed me. I hate being Black. I hate that people look at me and think I'm bad."