Fifteen-year-old Jalen Brooks had been sitting outside Briarwood Galleria for eleven minutes when the police officer stopped in front of him.
Jalen knew the exact time because his mother had texted at 2:08.
ONE MORE STORE. STAY BY THE FOUNTAIN. I’LL COME GET YOU.
It was now 2:19.
He sat on a wooden bench near the outdoor entrance to Nordstrom with a scratched green skateboard resting vertically against his right knee. Black headphones hung around his neck. His phone was in both hands, although the game he had opened five minutes earlier had been paused since he noticed the officer watching him from across the plaza.
The officer was white, perhaps forty, with short blond hair and the thick shoulders of a man who still trained like he expected somebody to test him physically. His black uniform carried the Briarwood Police patch rather than mall security markings.
The nameplate over his right pocket read BRENNER.
Officer Scott Brenner looked down at Jalen.
“You waiting on somebody?”
Jalen removed one earbud even though neither was actually in his ears.
“My mom.”
“Where is she?”
“Inside.”
Brenner looked through the glass entrance behind Jalen.
“Inside where?”
“The mall.”
The officer stared.
Jalen immediately regretted the answer.
Not because it was disrespectful.
Because adults who had already decided a teenager was being difficult could make almost any sentence sound difficult.
“Which store?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You don’t know where your mother is?”
“She was shopping.”
Brenner looked at the skateboard.
“You been riding that around here?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“Outside, before.”
“This property doesn’t allow skateboarding.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you have it?”
Jalen looked at him.
“Because it’s mine.”
Brenner’s jaw shifted slightly.
Jalen heard his father’s voice in his head.
Watch the second answer.
The first answer is information.
The second answer is where people decide how they feel about your tone.
Andre Brooks had said that when Jalen was eleven and old enough to start walking to the neighborhood convenience store alone.
Andre had been dead for nineteen months.
Some instructions stayed annoyingly alive.
Jalen softened his voice.
“I rode here from my friend’s house. Mom met me here.”
Brenner looked toward the street.
“You ride that all the way from where?”
“West Lake.”
“That’s almost four miles.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sir came automatically.
Jalen hated that it did.
Brenner stared at him.
“Stand up.”
Jalen frowned.
“Why?”
The officer’s expression changed.
There.
Second answer.
“What did I just say?”
Jalen’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“You said stand up.”
“So?”
Jalen stood.
The skateboard nearly fell.
He caught it.
Brenner glanced toward two women walking past with shopping bags. Neither stopped. One looked toward Jalen, then quickly away.
“You have ID?”
“No.”
“You’re fifteen and walking around without identification?”
Jalen looked confused.
“I don't have a driver’s license.”
“School ID?”
“In my backpack.”
“Where’s the backpack?”
“Mom has it.”
Brenner exhaled through his nose.
“You don’t know which store she’s in, she has your bag, and you have no ID.”
Jalen stared at him.
“Yes.”
“That sound smart to you?”
Jalen almost asked what part required intelligence.
Andre’s voice again.
Second answer.
He swallowed it.
“My mom told me to wait here.”
“Name?”
“Jalen Brooks.”
“Date of birth?”
“August ninth, 2011.”
Brenner looked toward the phone.
“Whose phone is that?”
Jalen stopped.
“Mine.”
“Unlock it.”
His heart began beating faster.
“Why?”