Evelyn Toronto
Evelyn
Toronto
2004
Antony’s body had been in the ground eight days when Evelyn was back on a streetcar. It swayed and jerked as a vision of her surfing boy materialized before her—gap-toothed, proud, laughing. She blinked, and he was gone. Weary with the weight of his absence, she pulled out her compact, checked her hair, her makeup, knowing it was entirely possible she’d forgotten to tend to either before stepping out the door, then dropped it in her bag. Antony appeared again, a young man too cool to surf, sitting across from her, legs spread, body slouched, taking up almost three seats with his sprawl, and grinning.
She turned to the window, though it didn’t matter where she looked. Her son was everywhere and nowhere.
Two weeks, and her bereavement was supposed to be over. Life was supposed to go on as normal. For her. For Kingsley. Both due back to work this morning.
Evelyn pulled the trolley cord for her stop. She stood, catching another glimpse of her boy before he vanished into the ether. She stepped down from the streetcar and was taken back to the funeral, to the throng of people rushing to offer condolences.
“A terrible business,” said one of Kingsley’s colleagues, who’d started five years after him, yet gotten tenure five years ago. “Such a terrible business.” As if that’s all it was. The death of their son. Business. The officers doing their job. A hard, unpleasant job, certainly, but a necessary one.
“It’s awful,” said a neighbor. “Just awful. Now you’ve got to carry on, and we all need to teach our children how to react in these situations. Hands up, following the officers’ directions.”
As if the fault lay with Antony. With Evelyn, for not instructing him better in the ways of the world.
Then that young woman’s voice. “They’re lying.” One hand clasping Evelyn’s hand, the other on her wrist, as if entreating her. “He stood, that was all. Hands raised. He spoke.”
Swept forward with the rush of people on their morning commute, Evelyn heard the words again. They’re lying. She froze. He stood, that was all. He spoke. She turned against the crowd, walking first, then running. Breathless, she burst into Dani’s office. “I need to see Charles.”
“Evelyn.” Dani stood, a nervous smile cast to her office mates, ushering Evelyn out of the room. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to see Charles,” said Evelyn, again. “I need to fight this.”
“Fight…” Dani shook her head and pulled Evelyn into the hall. “I don’t under—”
“The officers are going to get away with it, like they always do. For murder, Dani. This was murder.”
“No, it—”
“Do you think, do you honestly think Antony deserved this? That he was a threat or—”
“Of course not. It was a misunderstanding. And awful.” She led Evelyn toward the fire exit, then closed the door behind them. “A tragedy. But you’ve talked to the police. They thought he was armed. That he was reaching for—”
“No.”
“Evelyn. You’re upset. I understand.”
“You don’t!” Evelyn pulled away. “He wasn’t reaching for anything. A girl at the funeral. She told me. He had his hands raised. He didn’t cower. He didn’t lie on the ground like the others, but he had his arms raised. All he did was speak, take one step forward.”
Dani’s brow narrowed, her lips following suit. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure that’s what she said. And Antony, he’s not stupid. He knows what they’re like. He wouldn’t have reached for anything. And what would he have been reaching for? He was unarmed. The police confirmed that.”
“Well…”
“Dani, I need to speak to a lawyer. When can I see Charles?”
“Tonight.” Dani nodded. “After work. Come over to the house.”
“Thank you.” Evelyn embraced her friend. Taking the officers to court wouldn’t bring Antony back. But it’d be something. It’d continue his work. She’d find that Bahamian professor—who wasn’t there when it happened, but would know more than her about what to do. She’d find the people who were there. She’d do whatever she could to make sure those officers lost their jobs, their lives as they knew it. She’d find justice for her son.
Outside Dani’s office, Evelyn got on a bus heading toward the 52 Division police station. In the precinct, the noise and hustle shook her. She’d expected order. A calm rigidity. The opposite of what she’d seen on late night crime shows. But the shows were more accurate than she’d imagined. Movement. Uniformed men. Some women. People in cuffs.
She stepped slowly, making her way to reception. “Excuse me.” She spoke louder, stepping closer. “Excuse me. Miss!”
A young woman, blond, blue-eyed, looking like she could be Evelyn’s daughter, raised her head. “Sorry, sorry.” She half laughed, half sighed. “Such a hectic morning. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like information,” she said. “On my son’s…case.”
“Is he up for trial?”
“No.”
“You’re probably looking for an incident report, then. Is he here with—”
“No. He’s…” Evelyn had only said the word once. To Kareela. She’d since found other ways when she needed to relay information, but now—
“Dead. He was shot by police. He’s dead.”
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes widened, the words seemingly not what she’d expected—from a woman like Evelyn. “Oh. Well…do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Hmm, well”—the woman looked down, shuffled papers—“you’ll have to put in a request. That’s not here. You’ll need to go to police headquarters, on College Street.”
“But…” Evelyn’s resolve wavered. She should be at work. She shouldn’t have come here, not knowing what she was even looking for. But how many more young men would be killed if she waited? How many boys? She leaned on the desk, and the woman leaned back. “It was two weeks ago. Surely the information is still here. Or accessible, at least. Can I talk to one of the officers? They must be still…uh, assessing the case? Compiling witnesses? Building a—”
The woman shook her head, distaste passing over her features. Of course she knew about Antony. The entire city did. Thought, probably, that Evelyn was what the papers were not saying, exactly, but implying. The mother of a thug. A threat to society. That young Black man, that “political Black man”—as if those words beside each other automatically meant criminal —a Black activist, who got what he deserved. “There’ll be an incident report,” she said, her blue eyes looking at Evelyn with no sympathy. “Witness statements as well. The officers’ accounts, but…you’ll need to go to police headquarters, as I said.”
Evelyn opened her mouth, her limbs tightening. She closed it. Opened again. “Thank you. For your help.” She turned from the woman, anger coursing through her, urging her to turn back, yell, You’re wrong about him! She pushed through the doors. He wasn’t a thug. She turned toward her office, the mental tirade continuing. He was a person. She’d be an hour and a half late, maybe two. He was my son.
She increased her pace, realizing the risk she’d been taking—going to see Dani, to the station. She couldn’t afford to lose this job, so she’d visit the professor during her free time. He worked at City University. She could call reception, figure out his office number. After work she’d go to Charles and Dani’s, figure out the best steps, whether she should make the request for information herself or have Charles do it. She’d find answers, find justice. For Antony.
“I can’t, Evelyn. I’m sorry.”
Evelyn sat across from Dani and Charles in their living room, the sounds of the children’s laughter wafting up the hall. Her head shook. “What do you mean you can’t? This is what you do. Try criminal cases.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what? I’ll find the woman. She said Antony wasn’t aggressive, like they said. There’d be others who could corroborate. He was unarmed.”
“Yes, I know.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Charles sighed. “I’m about to be made partner.”
A bead of sweat trickled down Evelyn’s spine. The three glasses of lemonade Dani had set on the coffee table between them sat untouched, condensation slipping down the edges.
“So I can’t…I just.” Charles looked to Dani, who gave him a tight smile. “I’ve been working toward this for over a decade, Evelyn. I can’t take on a case that…”
“That what?”
“That will take on the Toronto police. It’d be a career killer.”
Evelyn swallowed, the damp heat closing her throat. She reached for the lemonade. Gulped. With her throat opened, Antony’s words poured out. “They’ll get away with it, like they always do, unless we fight.”
“You don’t know what happened.”
“I know my son didn’t deserve to die!”
“You’re right, of course you’re right.” Charles leaned forward, but it was dismissal, not conviction, Evelyn heard in his voice. “You may find someone who’s willing to fight. Request the incident report, the witness accounts, the autopsy. Go to the witnesses themselves. You may find someone.”
Antony’s words, up on that podium, streamed through Evelyn’s mind. They look at me and see drugs. They see violence. Danger. But I’m not violent. I’ve never hurt anyone.
“Do all of that, Evelyn, if you must. But I have to tell you…there’s a reason I’m not helping. A reason it’ll be hard to find someone who will. The police are a force. And that force is supported by the judicial system, the government. They look out for their own. Nine times out of ten, heck, nineteen times out of twenty, maybe more, the police win.”
But they think I’m dangerous. They think my existence, my feet walking along the street, through my own neighborhood, warrants suspicion. They think they can do whatever they want.
Evelyn’s bottom lip trembled. Her eyes burned. She thought back to that first dinner invite. The fact that Dani said they “couldn’t care less” that Evelyn’s husband was Black, that her child was.
“So, what you should do is take that girl of yours home,” said Charles. “Hold Kingsley in your arms. Try to move forward. Try to move on.”
“What if we sued?” said Evelyn. “Not a criminal case, but—”
“The prospects aren’t better. No matter what route you take, it won’t be easy. It’ll be awful, and almost certainly doomed to fail.”
Evelyn shifted her gaze. “Dani?”
Dani licked her lips, bit them, then shook her head. “I think he’s right, Evie. This is horrible. Tragic. It never should have happened. But bringing this upon yourself, trying to fight it—” She turned to Charles. “It could go on years, you said? Years, and in the end, Antony will still be gone.” She turned back to Evelyn. “And most likely, nothing will have come of it. Nothing but more misery, more stress.”
“Charles, please!”
“She’s right, Evelyn.” Charles wiped the sweat from his brow. “These are battles that are fought but not won. The cost, the time. We all know it’s horrible; we all know it shouldn’t have happened, but it’s a fight we won’t win. It’ll make this tragedy stretch out. Putting you, your family through that? I won’t do it.”
“You don’t think it’ll stretch out, anyway? That we won’t be feeling it every minute of every day?”
“Not like that,” said Charles. “Evelyn, believe me, you have no idea what it would be like. No idea what they would be like.”
A hollow made its way into Evelyn’s middle. Her breath caught. “Kareela.” Evelyn raised her voice. “Kareela!”
Footsteps down the hall, her girl, face expectant. Evelyn stood. “We’re leaving.”
“But Mommy .”
“Now!”
“Evelyn!” Dani stood, then stepped toward Evelyn.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me.” Evelyn nodded at Dani, and then Charles. They “couldn’t care less,” but she felt certain that if her son had been white, they, the judicial system, the government, the media, would have cared a lot more. She stepped toward the door, fighting tears, her chest weighted with the expectation that this would be the last time she’d ever step through it. “Good night.”