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Seriously? It’s The Death of Marat.

The White Wall

It’s Monday evening. Passover. A man sits in his car, accompanied by an assault rifle and his partner. They’re on protest duty today. Local students standing outside of their university causing a stir over some Middle-Eastern conflict the US State Department has heeded its way into. People of all ages, colors, accents, and backgrounds are holding up signs. Some wear Yamakas, others Hijabs, and the occasional ball cap or beanie appears in the crowd. But despite their differences, they all share one thing in common: they’re pissed off. 

“Fucking kids, man. They don’t know how good they got it here.” The partner barks. The officer looks at him for a silent moment. His partner is leaning his arm against the passenger’s door, supporting his head with the rested hand. He looks aged. His ID says twenty-eight, but his greyed hair, bloodshot eyes, and endemic face say forty-eight. 

“Calm down, they’ve got reason to protest. They grew up with this shit, man.” Says the officer. The partner whips his head towards the officer. 

“Yeah? And so did fucking I! You don’t see me bitching and moaning at the university causing a fucking stir!” Says the partner. The officer glares towards him. 

“Calm down, let’s not forget that we’re on the same team here. I’m just saying, that these kids have lived their whole lives around war. It’s not a crime to want peace.” Says the officer. His partner checks his watch. 

“Well, it’s gonna be, here in about fifteen minutes. Captain says we’ve gotta enforce the curfew tonight.” Says the partner, while reaching for his riot shotgun. The officer rubs his eyes in frustration and lets out a steaming sigh. 

“What is your fucking problem, man?! Are you so fucking sad that your wife left, that you’ve gotta take it out on fucking kids?” Shouts the officer. The partner gives a masochistic chuckle and reaches for his radio.

“Hey, we’ve got an issue in car #7. Stevenson is getting a bit emotional.” The officer glares at his partner. 

“Are you fucking serious right now, Parker?” Says Stevenson. Parker lifts his eyebrows and waits for a response. A crackle comes through the radio. 

“10-4. Stevenson, why don’t you go take a breather? Let Parker out of the car, and he’ll join #4.” Says the Captain. Parker holds up his shotgun in a taunting motion and gets out of the squad car. Stevenson begins to drive towards a nearby gas station, on the other side of the campus. 

As he’s driving through the crowded campus, he passes a U-shaped building, with a courtyard jampacked with protestors. He spots a few female students wearing Hijabs on the fringe, seemingly in an argument with a few white males – seeming conspicuously out of place. Stevenson slows down his car to check on the situation. As he approaches a stop, he rolls down his passenger-side window.

“Everything okay here, guys?” Asks Stevenson. The three conspicuous individuals jolt their heads toward the officer and blurt.

“They have guns, officer! They’re terrorists!” The three Hijab-wearing women widen their eyes in fear.

“No! We are unarmed! These men were trying to force us out of the protest!” Says one of the women. Stevenson puts his car in park, rolls up his window, and exits the vehicle. As he walks around the patrol car, he radios in.

“Stevenson here, 10-40, 10-40 we have an altercation at the U-shaped building on U Ave. Possible 10-32, investigating, over.” As he walks up to the six people, Stevenson gets an uneasy feeling. As an officer, he’s always trained to prepare for the worst. Always assume someone is armed, always assume someone has violent intent. Always prepare to defend yourself. 

“All right, so let’s start from the beginning.” Stevenson barks. He looks toward the three white males, pointing to the nearest one. 

“10-4, Stevenson. I’m coming out there with car #4, over.” Interjects Parker over the radio.

“You. Tell me what’s going on here.” Orders Stevenson. The boy steps forward, offers his hand, and smiles. Stevenson shakes it and the boy starts speaking. 

“We were out here counter-protesting all peacefully, and then these ladies come up and start arguing with us. One thing leads to another, and we hear someone say ‘guns.’ ” Says the boy. 

“Yeah an-” One man tries to add his own two cents, but Stevenson interjects.

“Shhh! If I want your input, I will ask.” Barks Stevenson. He points to the young lady who spoke earlier. 

“All right, let’s hear your side of the story. Go ahead.” Stevenson signals for her to come closer. She obeys. 

“Well, these men and their friends were calling us terrorists while we were protesting. They said that America is helping kill terrorists in Gaza, and if we are against that, then we too are terrorists. Someone in the crowd said, ‘We don’t even have guns,’ and the boys started shouting ‘They have guns!’ ” Says the younger woman. Her eyes dart towards the males in fear. She steps away from the officer, and back to her friends. Stevenson sighs. 

“All right, none of you are free to go until backup arrives and we figure this out.” As Stevenson finishes, Parker and the other two officers arrive on scene. Stevenson fills them in on the situation, and Parker radios the Captain for advice. 

“10-4. If there’s suspicion of weapons, then we need to frisk everyone accused, over.” Says the Captain over the radio. Parker gives Stevenson a satisfied look. 

“Sigh, What?” Asks Stevenson. 

“Knew you’d find us some action. Can’t help yourself, can you?” Says Parker. He looks over to the three women and points to a nearby wall. 

“All right, ladies. Hands against the wall, legs spread, scarves off. Let’s make this quick.” Commands Parker. Stevenson glares at him 

“Hijabs. They’re called Hijabs. And they won’t take them off. It’s like asking you to take off your pants in public.” Interjects Stevenson. The women look back, hesitant to follow Parker’s instructions. 

“I don’t give two fucks what it’s ‘like’ for them. If they have weapons, I want to make sure I find them.” Says Parker, with a nasty scowl. He whips his head towards the women.

“Against the fucking wall! Now!” He yells. The women begin to tear up. They walk to the wall, put their hands against the cold, damp concrete, and spread their legs – but they do not remove their Hijabs. 

“I said SCARVES OFF!” Parker screams. One of the women, in a panic, reaches for her Hijab to tear it off. Parker slams her against the wall. 

“Do NOT MOVE unless I SAY SO!” Screams Parker. By now, the scene has attracted dozens of protestors to the area. Stevenson walks up to Parker in an attempt to calm him down. 

“Parker, go take a breather. Things are getting out of hand. I’ll search the girls.” He says, with a hand on Parker’s shoulder. Parker slaps the hand from his shoulder and spreads the woman’s legs. He violently pats her down, and then proceeds to cuff her. 

“Resisting arrest. Take her to the car.” Parker throws the woman in Stevenson’s arms. Stevenson looks back for the other two officers, but they’re preoccupied with the surrounding crowd. He looks at the woman, drenched in tears. He takes her to the car and puts her into the backseat. 

“You three. Get out of here.” Parker says to the three male suspects. They walk off and the crowd begins to roar. 

“Hey! Those hillbillies threatened to kill us!”

“Oh, you can arrest a brown woman, but let the white boys walk!”

“Who’s the terrorist now?!”

Parker begins to frisk the second woman, and once again finds nothing. He tears her Hijab off, checking for hidden weapons within the folds. 

“All right. You can go.” Says Parker, disappointed in finding nothing. He goes to the third and final woman, who is shaking and tears raining from her face, which is buried beneath her shoulders, looking towards the ground. 

“Why so nervous if you didn’t do anything wrong?” Says Parker. Stevenson is watching closely, and his patience is wearing thin. He steps aside from the scene and radios his captain. 

“Captain, over.” He says into his radio.

“10-4, Captain here, over.” The captain responds. 

“Captain, Parker is not handling things well. He’s causing a huge scene, and I can’t get him under control. We need a Sergeant here, over.” He pleas. 

“10-4, we’re a little preoccupied with the protests but I’ll send one ASAP, over and out.” The captain concludes. Stevenson lets out a growl and walks back onto the scene. He’s met with the sight of the third woman pinned to the ground, being handcuffed by Parker. He runs toward the scene. 

“What the fuck is going on now, Parker?!” Stevenson yells. 

“Didn’t find a gun, but I found a gram on her.” Says Parker. He frees up his right hand, keeping the left pinned against the woman on the ground. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bag of Marijuana. 

“That’s not mine! I felt him! He planted it in my Hijab!” The woman pleas. The crowd grows angrier. Stevenson can hear their cries.

“I watched him! He planted it!”

“Stupid fucking pig!”

“He’s a liar!”

“Check the bodycam!”

Stevenson is finally fed up. He puts a firm hand on Parker’s shoulder.

“Parker. You need to step away from the scene. NOW!” Parker slowly raises himself to Stevenson’s level, retaining a cold glare the entire way. He walks away from the scene and into his patrol car. Stevenson lifts the woman to her feet, brushes her off, and takes her to the back of his car with the other woman. He signals toward the other two officers to keep watch and enters the driver’s seat of the patrol car. 

“I’m sorry, ladies. This is not how we operate, I’ll be filing a report on this incident. Parker won’t be let off easily.” Says Stevenson. Suddenly, a knock at the window. He turns his head, and the captain is standing at the window with Parker behind. Stevenson exits the car and begins to fill the captain in. 

“I’ve heard enough. Parker, cuff Stevenson. Kid, you’ve been getting too emotional as of late. I tried to let you off easy, but now you’re actively interfering with a crime scene.” Says the captain. Parker pushes Stevenson against the car and cuffs him. The captain walks away, and Parker leans into Stevenson’s ear. 

“Sorry buddy looks like you’re one of them now.” He shoves Stevenson into the back of the patrol car, next to the other two detainees. But just as the door slams, an object flies into the crowd of protestors from the direction of the counter-protestors. The crowd roars, and Parker bolts around to quell them. Smoke begins to bellow from the heart of the crowd, and the object is thrown back towards the counter-protestors. Parker takes out his mace with one hand, radio in another, and requests backup. 

He peppers the crowd with a canister of bear mace. But to his surprise, many are unphased. Within the coughing and the chaos, counter-protestors from behind Parker begin to throw more canisters of smoke toward the enraged protestors. The Captain steps in, and orders officers to dig in around the cars, but Parker is too far away to hear the commands. 

As the protestors continue to throw back the canisters of smoke from the counter-protestors, one veers off course – hit by another passing canister – which smacks Parker on the side of his head. He pulls out his Glock-43 and points it toward the crowd. Amidst the confusion, someone spots this and screams, “gun!” The protestors break from mass and flood the area – some fleeing, and others attacking. The counter-protestors are soon to follow, meeting in the middle of the police buffer zone. 

Parker’s head begins to spin, his hands shake, and sweat dripping from his face. A dark fog tunnels his vision, clouding any judgment or view beyond his immediacy. Three protestors run directly toward him, shouting, “drop the gun!” As they close their distance, Parker snaps out of his panic and raises his gun. Just as they scream, “No!” He pulls the trigger. 

Each pull feels like an eternity for Parker, and he watches as thirteen of the seventeen rounds hit their intended targets. The first round grazes the cheek skin of the nearest boy, he must have been no older than twenty. His bright, blue eyes made contact with Parker’s just before the second shot. His pupils dilated, and the bloodshot veins of his sclera bulged – as if nearly bursting from his skull. By the second pull, both Parker and the boy knew it was his end. The boy took a gasping breath, and the bullet drifted through the air, meeting him square between the eyes. He takes one more step forward and drops. The backblast of the blood sprays upon the following two protestors, causing the next nearest one to fall. Parker pulls the trigger three times quickly in the direction of where the boy was standing, all missing their intended targets, but hitting protestors in the background. He drops his aim to the ground, where he sees the fallen protestor cowering with his head turned. He fires four times into the protestor’s back, each hit being confirmed by a contorted spasm from his body. Parker then raises his gun to meet the final boy. He stands frozen, witnessing the deletion of his two comrades. His eyes lock with Parker’s; his hands trembling, tears flowing down his face, and his legs buckling. He reaches out a hand toward Parker and says, “Please, don’t shoot.” But Parker remains silent. His face in flames, his eyes bloodshot and strained, and his teeth grinding. 

He pulls the trigger over and over and over again. But by the ninth time, the Glock clicks – signaling an empty magazine. Parker stands frozen, gun still pointing at the phantom target. All three lie dead before him, pouring out the blood and promise of their mortalities. The dark cloud begins to dissipate around him. As his vision clears, he realizes the riot has shifted further down campus. He slides the gun back into its holster, and the captain and a few others rush to the scene, ensuring Parker is unharmed. 

He sheds not a tear nor a drop of blood, his face remains stoic. The captain gives him a pat on the shoulder and tells him he’ll be okay. He orders Parker to go take a seat in the squad car and collect himself while they get a detective on the scene. He promptly follows instructions and goes to the car with Stevenson and the two detained women. Just as he enters the car and sits down, he hears the two women crying, and Stevenson begins to bombard him.

“What the fuck have you done, Parker?!” Yells Stevenson with his hands cuffed behind his back, but his upper body leaning toward Parker. 

“I did what I fucking had to. They attacked me. They attacked me.” Retorts Parker. Stevenson gives him a soured face of disgust. 

“They were trying to disarm you after you pulled a fucking gun! We watched the whole thing.” Yells Stevenson. Before Parker can respond, the Captain comes over the radio. 

“Parker, it’s going to be a while before we get a detective out here for questioning. Why don’t you take those three down to the station, we’ll get you in for an interview later.” Says the captain. 

“10-4, Captain. What do you want me to do with Stevenson?” Asks Parker. 

“Go ahead and let him go at the station. Just confiscate his gun until we can talk to him.” Replies the captain. 

“10-4, Cap.” Says Parker. 

He starts the car and begins to drive towards the station. As he passes through the campus, he comes to a near halt, dozens of students are scattered, running like panicked ants, and knightly agents of the state march towards the few rebels remaining – showing them no mercy until otherwise subdued to their brutal might. Nightsticks, bricks, mace, bean-bag guns, glass bottles – the weapons of civilized warfare being exchanged upon the battlefield. In one instance, three officers swarming a small, young woman, mercilessly beating her with their batons. She cowers, screaming for mercy, but their justice has yet to be served. It is not until she lay in a bloody, nearly unconscious pulp that they handcuff her.

“Get up! Stop resisting!” They scream, simultaneously. Bloodied tears wash down her face, and her limp body incapable of motor function, her head hangs dead. They drag her like an animal carcass behind the now-reformed line of state-sponsored mercenaries. 

Stevenson, whose gaze has been affixed to this brutality is suddenly averted by a camera crew and news anchor positioning their frame before the wall of armored riot police. Lights gleam from the set, but just as they do, the squad car picks up speed and drives off.

Stevenson, positioned closest to the window, looks toward the passenger’s side – realizing that these women sitting next to him had been subject to that same brutality under his watch. He examines the closest woman, her cheek bruised from being slammed against the wall. None of them wearing their hijabs, have their heads bowed down in an attempt to hide their appearance. Stevenson mirrors them, bowing his head down, finally letting gravity take control of his empty vessel. 

Before long, they arrive at the station. Parker pulls the car into the garage slot and closes the overhead door behind them using his remote control. The archaic station, fortified in cold concrete and stone evoked a Bastillian oppression in Stevenson. He had once felt safe working behind the solid, impenetrable palisades. Now, being on the receiving end, he feels the claustrophobic confinement of the dense enclosure surrounding him. Parker exits the car and opens the driver’s side rear door, signaling Stevenson to exit. As he does so, he raises his hand towards the two women and closes the door behind him. He proceeds to uncuff Stevenson, freeing his hands from behind his back. 

“There. Now give me your gun.” Says Parker. Stevenson crosses his arms and takes a step back towards the car. 

“I don’t think so. After what I just saw, I don’t feel comfortable giving you any upper hand here.” Retorts Stevenson. Parker’s face tightens, his eyes narrow, and his hands latch onto his belt – his right, only inches away from the grip of his Glock. 

“The captain ordered-” Starts Parker. 

“I don’t give a fuck what the captain ordered. He’s not here right now. And even if he was, I still wouldn’t give you the fucking gun.” Says Stevenson. Parker gives a twisted, uncomfortable smile. 

“So what’s this about, really? Think you’re gonna get in trouble? Who cares, Stevenson? We know if my cam gets deleted, yours will too. It’s a win-win.” Says Parker. Stevenson moves his hand closer to his holster, toying his finger around the leather strap keeping his Glock from sliding out. 

“That’s the problem. One of us did something wrong, and one of us will be held accountable for it. And without the cam, that’s not going to happen.” Says Stevenson. Parker slides his hand onto the Glock’s handgrip and pulls it out from its holster. He raises the sight to his eye and points it at Stevenson’s center mass. He squeezes the trigger three times, fully committed to his action. 

Click.

Click. 

Click. 

Stevenson pulls out his gun and points it at Parker. He signals the muzzle towards the ground, and Parker gets onto his stomach, placing his hands behind his back. Stevenson cuffs him, throws him into the backseat of the car, and opens the garage door. He uncuffs the two women and sets them free. He opens the backseat of the car once more and rips the body camera off of Parker. He closes and locks the door with the keys inside. 

Stevenson enters the station, gathers his belongings from a locker, and drives home. On the way, his phone blows up with dozens of missed calls. An amber alert rings, regarding a rogue police officer, ‘armed and dangerous.’ He laughs, knowing the only armed and dangerous ones are those in the positions to assign such designations. Once he gets home, he takes the body cameras to his computer, where he uploads and shares them with every independent journalist he can find with a quick Google search. Once he’s finished, he looks out his window to see flashing lights and police officers surrounding the building. Stevenson takes his gun and walks into the living room. He turns on his TV to the local news, where the story from campus is now airing. 

Local antisemitic extremists were stopped during an on-campus protest after having threatened the lives of three young counter-protestors. Riots broke out soon after suspects were found with illegal contraband. Police Captain Robert Louison said on the podium tonight that, ‘violence of any kind will not be tolerated.’ and that, ‘There is a place for peaceful protest, but none for violent outbursts.’ Dana Phelix, Channel 2. 

Stevenson slouching on his couch, mournfully looks at his gun. After all these years of commitment and effort into doing the right thing, he is still a victim of the unjust system he tried to fix. There is no room for his kind here – and in his eyes – justice will never be truly served. He puts the gun into the roof of his mouth and pulls the trigger. Upon hearing the gunshot, police break into his door only to find the lifeless body of a once noble man scattered onto the white, popcorn wall.