Crooked Smile

“Silence!” Screamed the judge pounding his hammer.

The hum in the courtroom died down to pin-drop silence. 

“He killed my baby. He killed my seven-year-old grand baby, my lord… an innocent child… That police officer…” A piercing voice shrilled. The elderly Black lady on the podium in salt and pepper curls screamed at the top of her lungs pointing to a police officer. The tall, blond officer in uniform, Anthony Winker, looked at the judge, then to the audience in the courtroom.

“Your police shot my baby, sir. He tells lies...and you...you held his trials for months and months...You held his freaking trial for two entire years....Why? And now you ask me to be silent?” She took off her glasses to wipe tears and continued,

“I can’t sleep, your honor. She comes in my dreams… that crooked smile… my baby.” The old lady’s last words dissolved in a terrible moan. She tried to gasp for air and in a whining sob repeated, “You all kill us...He killed my baby...and you ask me to be silent?”

Someone offered her a tissue to handle the snorts and tears. She brushed away and used her sleeves bending down, breaking into uncontrollable wails.

The judge pounded the hammer again. “Silence! Court dismissed.” He roared, eyeing the escorts. Two guards with polished metal plates shining on their shoulders held the old lady’s arms and steered her out of the courtroom.

***

A year later the pending case surfaced, and this time the County Prosecutor dismissed the case. He released officer Antony Winker with no penalty, no fines. He returned to active duty the next day.

***

It was an early summer evening in May when seven-year-old Ariana and her grandma, Martis, were having a lovely time. Dim lights from the humble home cast a long shadow on Lilypad street, where they lived. The breeze coming from the open window was cooling off the heat, bellowing the light curtains. Ariana was supposed to be in bed at that hour, but that night instead of listening to bedtime stories she was the one telling a story to her grandmother. 

“The dragon is usually tame and cool…” She started, “but a dragon in school?” Her voice went high. “It didn know no better… you’re not s’pposed to fly in the yard when you are playing tag, right?” She looked at Martis with her face down, eyes wide open, “And, boy, when it burped YAWWAWO… at the lunch table…!” Ariana burst into a belly laugh. “What could a poor dragon do, right? It’s a dragon after all?” She shrugged and smiled. Minutes later she pulled a serious face, 

“But sometimes it got mad. Really mad. Fire came out of its nostrils and mouth.” Ariana took her tongue out all the way and wiggled her fingers, bringing her face too close to the old lady, staring at her with round, enormous eyes.

“Oh, my! That’s ferocious.” Grandma backed off. “You better write this story.” She chuckled.

“I did, Gramma. But..” Ariana lowered her eyes, scratching the floor with her big toe.

“But?” Grandma raised the child’s chin up.

“Ms. Blanche didn’t like it. Said it’s no good English… poor grammar.” 

“Huh! Nobody can write no better your story!” She looked at Ariana.

“Nah, I rather tell you.” 

“Well, it’s getting late. You better get some sleep.” She pulled the blanket on the child.

Ariana sat up, with a mysterious crooked smile on her face, shaking her head. Her crinkly dark braids swung back and forth. Beads at each end jingled rat-a-tat-tat.

Martis smiled back -- "You go, girl.” Squeezing her chocolate cheeks she mumbled,

“What goes in this head?” She pulled the blanket again and ambled towards the window to close that she had left open for the breeze.

***

BANG! A deafening noise and dazzling light perplexed her. She felt dizzy, off balance. Martis held the windowsill for support. 

BOOM! Another shot. And Ariana’s cry --” Momma!” Martis felt the ground shaking. She grabbed the side of the sofa. 

Blood gushed through Ariana’s forehead. She collapsed. The blanket was on fire. Right in front of her, Martis found a police officer, a gun in his hand. 

“Oh my God!” She shook. “Why did you shoot her?” Martis cried dusting the blanket to put off the fire, trying to reach the child. 

“Back off!” Blared the officer. “You killed her. You triggered my gun. It’s an accident. I didn’t come here to kill her.” He barked. “I came to look for Owens. Where is he? He is a suspect in killing the teenager last weekend.” 

“There is no Owens here. It’s only me with my baby, you can see. How come you enter…” The old woman screamed, “Never mind, now please call 911. Call an ambulance, for heaven’s sake.” The old lady broke down. “My granddaughter is dying.” 

A lady with long blond hair rushed in, a video recorder in hand. She was taping everything from outside. “I’ll stop the recording now,” she whispered to the officer, swaying her waist-long hair, and stopped the video. “I better go now, Tony.” She tapped the officer’s shoulder. 

“Who are you? What the hell..” Martis yelled. 

Neighbors started gathering from all over. More policemen came and then an ambulance with a blaring siren and swirling rainbow lights. Paramedic people in fluorescent green coats carried the child on a gurney. A police officer took the old lady into custody. “We gotta check her blood for drug content. And fingerprints.” Another officer answered to the crowd in the room. 

***

The next day, the television anchorman announced at the end of the evening news in a nonchalant tone, “A seven-year-old black girl, Ariana Simpson died in an accidental shot of a policeman in the south side neighborhood of Detroit.. Officer Anthony Winker is under investigation with an involuntary manslaughter case.”

Several days later the local Everyday Newspaper published an article that the house was a target for a swat style operation designed to arrest Ariana’s uncle who was living in the same apartment, upstairs. The man was suspect of a teenage murder two days before.

Mr.Willis, a neighbor read the article aloud to her wife:

 “Anthony Winker was the first officer to enter the house seconds after a flash bang grenade that disoriented with a blinking flash and temporary deafening noise. His gun shot accidentally killed the child.  Martis, the grandmother was released as there was no evidence of drug or alcohol in her blood, nor any fingerprints found.” He folded the paper with a sigh.

“But can police just barge in like that and shoot people because you suspect something?” Mrs. Willis asked, raising her head from shelling peas.

“Apparently yes. This proves so.” Mr. Willis nodded, rolling his eyes. 

***

When the old lady came home everything was over. Martis found the house hollow. Empty. Filled with Ariana’s memory everywhere but she was nowhere to be found.  

Smells of bubble gum in her clothes, stuffed animals scattered on her bed, a white barbie doll with blue eyes staring from the toy box, tiny fingerprints on the wall, her smiling portrait on the mantel… drove Martis crazy. 

She kept on repeating, “She was only a baby, man. And I told you all I want is to go to my granddaughter. You didn’t give me a chance. Why? Why? Why?” as if the policeman was right in front of her.   

***

A month later the case was up in the court. Officer Winker was charged with involuntary manslaughter and reckless use of a weapon. 

The case revealed that Officer Winker was a member of a reality television show named ‘Next 72’, that documented veritable crime scenes and the effect of murders on people for the next seventy-two hours. That’s why the name - ‘Next 72.’ This highly entertaining crime series captured many such scenes from various neighborhoods. Ms. Alicia Boyd was engaged in videotaping.

They sentenced the videographer for a year of probation and a thousand dollar fine for giving false testimony and encroaching privacy.

But Winker’s case moved further and further away until three years later that day when the old grandmother Martis had a nervous breakdown in the court.

*** 

“He killed my granddaughter, you know? All I asked was to go to her. He didn’t let me. Why?” Martis would ask this to random strangers. One of them responded, “Who are you talking about, Ma’am?” Martis pointed to invisible someone. The neighbor turned his head this way and that in the void, looked at her funny and moved away. 

One day Mrs.Willis took her to lunch, but Martis lost her temper. “He killed my baby for no reason. And the judge set him free! And you ask me to be sober, silent?” She wiped all the things off the table in a jerk with her elbow. Threw cups and bowls. They shattered on the ground. Mrs. Willis grabbed Martis to leave the cafe.

Martis was admitted to a mental hospital. Since then she was silent. The helpers in the facility begged her to talk, but Martis remained silent. 

***

Five years have passed. Another spring evening arrived in 2020.

The window was open, and the breeze bellowed the beige organza curtains in Martis’ little room in the hospital. A volunteer girl, Ava, entered with a mask on her face.

“How are you, Ms.Martis? She greeted her. There was no way to see her smile through the mask she was wearing for the Covid 19 rule. There was no way to feel her touch through the disposable gloves. Ava tied a cotton fabric mask over Martis’ mouth. 

“See, I made it for you.” She showed a dozen calico handmade masks.

The girl turned on the television, “See what’s happening.” She moved the chair further from Martis’ sofa, to maintain the six feet distance. Martis didn’t show much interest in watching the current Covid news.” She turned her face away. 

Ava knew that. “It’s not about Covid, Ms. Martis. Look, how many people all over the world are protesting for the killing of George Floyd — not just in our nation, Ms. Martis, all over the world. Here, they are showing Paris, now. See!” 

Martis saw a bird's-eye view of people like tiny dots moving through high-rise buildings and bridges. Hundreds and thousands of people marching with masks on their face, placards in hand, with the message - ‘Black Lives Matter.’

Martis couldn’t believe her eyes. She could see the image of her baby dragon girl with a crooked smile floating, her braids jingling rat-a-tat-tat. After a long time she felt something inside that had been numb, paralyzed. A tear rolled down her face.

“Amen!” She whispered under the mask.  

THE END