An MMA Champion Kicked a Black Man’s Car to Provoke Him — 5 Minutes Later, He Begged for Forgiveness
Chapter 16
Theme:
Font Size:
24px
"You made the call with what you could see," Darius said. "I understand that."She turned to Brent. She didn't say anything to him directly; she said to Devon's back: "I'll be sending documentation of this to the association board today."Devon, still on the phone, raised a hand to indicate he'd heard.Brent was standing at the front of his Charger. The crowd had thinned: most of the casual observers had drifted away once the phones came out and the footage began circulating, taking their content with them. The people who remained were the ones with reasons to stay: Tyler, Devon, Pauline, the volunteer, Darius.Devon finished his call and walked back. He spoke to Brent for two minutes. Darius did not hear the conversation, but he could read the body language: Brent's arms crossed at the start, and uncrossed at the end. Devon pocketed his phone, said something final that made Brent look at the ground, and walked to Pauline for a separate conversation.Brent stood by his car alone for a moment. Then he walked back toward Darius. He stopped further away this time—six feet, not four—a distance that communicated something had changed, even if he hadn't found language for it yet."Tyler and I can cover the door and the gauge," he said. "Whatever the repair costs.""I'll send you an itemized estimate," Darius said. "I can have it to you by tomorrow.""That's fine." Brent was looking at a point somewhere past Darius's left shoulder. "Devon says they're pausing the evaluation."Darius didn't respond to that."You could—" Brent started, and stopped. He tried again: "If you said something to them about how it went, that might help.""What would you want me to say?"Brent looked at him directly for the first time since the footage had played: "That it wasn't as bad as it looks."Darius considered this. He took his time with it, which was not a performance of deliberation, but actual deliberation."It was exactly as bad as it looks," he said. "I'm not going to tell them otherwise."The words were not delivered with satisfaction; they were simply accurate.Brent's hands opened at his sides. Some of the structure went out of his posture—not dramatically, not in a way that would have read clearly from a distance, but visibly to someone standing six feet away. He looked at the dent in the van door. He looked at the cracked gauge sitting on the tool chest lid. He looked at Darius's forearm, where the scrape had dried to a thin brown line.