You do that, you paint targets on yourselves. Castellano won't just discredit you, he'll destroy you. He's already trying, Kesha says quietly. Might as well make it mean something.
Preacher pulls out a USB drive. I've made five copies of the body-cam footage hidden in five locations. My ex-wife has one. She doesn't know what's on it, just instructions to release it if something happens to me. The safe-deposit box has another.
Richards has one. Reaper has one. And I buried one. Richards nods. Good.
Redundancy keeps us alive. Detective Hang, are you willing to testify? Hang's jaw tightens. If I testify, my career is over. Yes.
Long silence. Then Hang nods. Jamal Brooks was 16. I read the report. Unarmed suspect shot fleeing.
I knew it was wrong. I didn't say anything. I've lived with that for 3 months. So, yes, I'll testify.
Richards makes a note. We need Nia Brooks, Jamal's mother. She deserves to know what happened, and her testimony will humanize this. I'll reach out, Preacher says. It should come from me.
When do we go public? Reaper asks. Richards checks his calendar. Castellano is receiving a medal of valor next week. Tuesday 2 p.m.
Police headquarters. Press will be there. Politicians, cameras everywhere. We hijack it. How?
Tommy asks. We show up. All of us. Zara presents the evidence. Detective Hang testifies.
Nia Brooks speaks. The Hells Angels provide security and witness presence. We turn his celebration into his arraignment.
They'll arrest us, Kesha says. Maybe, but by then the evidence will be uploaded everywhere simultaneously. Arrest us? It looks like retaliation. Reaper looks at Zara.
Kid, you understand what this means? You'll be on camera. Your face is everywhere. People will know your name. You'll never be invisible again.
Zara thinks about Claudette Colvin, about being erased, about the 30 men who would be dead if she'd stayed silent. I don't want to be invisible, she says. I want to be heard. Richard smiles. Then let's make some noise.
The meeting breaks up an hour later. Pastor Williams watches them file out this unlikely coalition. You think they have a chance? His wife asks. David had a sling and a stone.
They've got the truth. Sometimes that's enough. Outside, Reaper walks Kesha and Zara to Tommy's truck. The streets are dark, dangerous, but for the first time in weeks, Kesha doesn't feel afraid. Tuesday, she says, we end this Tuesday.
Tuesday arrives cold and clear. The kind of Chicago morning where your breath ghosts in the air and the wind cuts through your jacket like a blade. Chicago police headquarters is dressed for celebration. Red carpet leading to the entrance. Banners announcing the Medal of Valor ceremony.
News vans line the street. Satellite dishes pointed skyward. Security checkpoints. Metal detectors. Uniforms everywhere.
Inside the auditorium, 300 people filled the seats. Police officers in dress blues, city council members, the mayor in the front row, reporters with cameras and notebooks. This is the kind of event that makes careers replayed on evening news with patriotic music and slow motion flags.
Lieutenant Owen Castellano stands backstage in his dress uniform. Every brass button is polished. Every crease is perfect. His wife straightened his tie this morning, kissed his cheek, told him she was proud. His daughter texted a heart emoji.
He's 45 years old, about to receive the highest honor the department can give. He should feel triumphant. Instead, unease hums low in his chest. The Williams girl is still out there. The Hells Angels are still protecting her.
Preacher is still alive. Variables he hasn't eliminated. But today is his day. Tomorrow he'll finish what he started.
The ceremony begins at 2 p.m. sharp. The police chief takes the podium, begins the introduction. Castellano's record is impressive, even without the lies. 16 years on the force, 42 arrests, three officer-involved shootings, all ruled justified. Leader of the special task force that dismantled drug operations and a trafficking ring.
The crowd applauds. Cameras flash. And now, please welcome Lieutenant Owen Castellano. He walks on stage, shakes the chief's hand, stands at the podium. The medal is heavy and cold against his chest.
Thank you. He begins. This honor belongs not to me, but to every officer who puts on the uniform each day, who walks into danger so others can walk in safety. We are the thin blue line between chaos and order. We are outside.
The sound begins. Low at first, a rumble, then louder, deeper. The unmistakable roar of 30 motorcycles. The building vibrates. People turn toward windows.