Chapter 3 #2
Genuinely surprised, I raised my recorder, forcing my burning lungs to cooperate. “Chief of police Ronan Banks is in the crowd assisting injured protesters rather than making arrests. He’s directing people away from gas deployment zones and helping people to safety.”
As I documented, my skepticism kicked in, thinking this was a performance to protect his cultivated image.
The cynical part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he positioned himself as the good cop while ordering the attack.
Still, something in his movements was urgent, and his anger didn’t fit the narrative.
The little girl beside me tugged my hand, pointing toward a frantic woman pushing through the crowd. “That’s my mom,” she choked out between coughs.
I guided her toward her mother, handing her off with quick words of reassurance before turning back to observe Chief Banks. He was now at the stage where he was helping organizers caught in the heavy cloud of gas. I recognized Talia among them, doubled over and struggling to breathe.
Before I thought better of it, I headed that way as my lungs begged me to run in the opposite direction. I kept the recorder up to capture the unprovoked attack on peaceful protesters, the military presence at a community memorial, and now the city’s top cop, apparently defying the script.
Chief Banks supported Talia’s arm, guiding her toward clearer air. He said something to her, and Talia nodded weakly, still doubled over but moving.
“This is unacceptable. This was not the plan.” He barked as they got closer, his deep voice carrying through the commotion.
Whatever was happening here was more complicated than the simple narrative I’d arrived with, the story of a police chief, a handsome face for an oppressive system. The truth seemed messier, and as a historian, I lived for the messy truth, even when it complicated my own assumptions.
“Move back. Clear the area.” The mechanical voice through the megaphone competed with screams and coughing as more National Guard troops pushed into the park, creating panic.
My eyes burned, and my throat hurt like I swallowed glass, but I couldn’t stop documenting. I held my recorder higher, my raspy voice forcing out commentary. “National Guard troops now detaining peaceful protesters, without warning or event or announced cause.”
That was when a hand on my shoulder spun me around to a gas mask that erased all humanity from its wearer.
I fumbled with my credentials. “I’m press. Dr. Nia Price, documenting for academic research.”
The soldier barely glanced at my ID. “This area’s restricted.”
“I have a right to observe and document. First Amendment protects—”
I cut my words off as another soldier appeared, this one knocking my recorder out of my hand. My precious evidence flew from my grip before clattering across the concrete.
“My recorder!” I lunged forward automatically, my instinct over self-preservation.
The movement was all they needed. Rough hands grabbed my arms from behind as I tried to retrieve my equipment. My shoulder wrenched painfully as they yanked me upright and forced me forward.
“You’re detaining me for picking up my property? I’m press. This is an illegal detention!” The words scraped my raw throat.
No response came except the cold bite of plastic zip ties cutting into my wrist, pulled so tight my fingertips tingled instantly. The soldier pushed me forward, joining a growing line of detaining protesters being herded toward waiting transport vehicles.
“My recorder. That’s my research, you can’t—”
He shoved me forward. “Keep moving.”
The sister in me who lost her brother to police violence couldn’t stop cataloging violations, First Amendment, Fourth Amendment, basic human dignity.
That was when I spotted Chief Banks standing toe-to-toe with the National Guard commander, gesturing empathetically toward the protesters and being detained.
Even from a distance, his body language was rigid with authority and barely contained fury.
This wasn’t the chief from the billboards. He was raw, unfiltered with anger.
“Stand down. These are peaceful protesters.” His deep commanding tone was impossible to ignore, yet the National Guard officer gave a dismissive hand gesture. Chief Banks’s jurisdiction meant nothing here. This was federal authority now, bypassing local command.
Oddly fascinated, I watched, despite my detention, as Chief Banks shook his head sharply and moved away from the commander, heading directly to where soldiers roughly handled a young protester, a Black boy who couldn’t have been over sixteen.
His face contorted in pain as they wrenched his arms behind him.
What happened next unfolded in slow motion, every detail burning into my memory through the haze of tear gas and adrenaline.
Chief Banks stepped between the soldier and the boy, his hand raised in what looked like both command and warning.
“That’s enough. He’s a minor.” His voice boomed across the park.
For a moment, everyone froze—the soldiers and the boy. Then, like a rubber band snapped, the two National Guard soldiers grabbed Chief Banks from behind. His badge was visible in the emergency lights.
Either they didn’t care that he was the chief of police, or they didn’t believe him. They forced him to the ground, a knee in his back as they secured his hands. The billboard’s perfect face pressed against the ground; his carefully groomed beard scraped against the pavement.
“Oh shit,” I whispered, genuinely shocked.
Federal troops were handcuffing Birmingham’s chief of police in his own jurisdiction. My first reaction, I was ashamed to admit as my heart pounded, struggling against the zip ties, was wanting nothing more than to run to him.
“Let him go!” I shouted, my voice hoarse from the gas and disbelief, but the soldiers moved with cold force, shoving him to the ground. How could they treat him like this? Moments ago, he’d been protecting people, helping, not hurting them.
My thoughts raced with confusion and sudden understanding. Why did I care so much? I came to this protest to reveal his role in the system that failed my brother. Now, seeing him cuffed like any other criminal, I felt a strong, unexpected loyalty to him.
“Stop!” I shouted again, my voice breaking with desperation. It made little sense. I tried to protect myself from people like him, but now, I was ready to risk everything to see him free from this shame.
They hauled him onto his feet, and for a moment, our eyes met across the commotion, mutual recognition that whatever was happening here spiraled beyond either of our control.
His expression wasn’t what I expected. No shame or embarrassment at being caught in his own trap. Instead, he appeared frustrated and angry, the same protective instinct I witnessed in protesters being mistreated. This couldn’t be right. He was the system. He was the problem, wasn’t he?
“Keep moving,” a guard barked, pushing me forward.
The soldier behind me shoved me forward again, breaking our visual connection and bringing me back to my predicament.
The line of detainees moved steadily toward waiting transport vehicles, modified school buses with mesh over the windows and Birmingham Police Department logos on the sides.
“The police department is detaining its own chief? That’s seriously some fucked up irony,” I said out loud, though I knew the soldier wouldn’t answer.
Sure enough, no response, just another nudge forward as we reached the bus.
One by one, protesters loaded the bus, guided roughly up the stairs, and pushed into seats.
When my turn came, I stepped up without resistance, saving my energy for whatever came next.
Inside, it was hot and stuffy with breath and fear of too many bodies in too small a space.
“Back row,” the soldier directed, pointing with his baton.
I made my way down the aisle, carefully navigating with my hands behind me. Faces looked up as I passed. I nodded to them, a small gesture of solidarity. We’d gathered to mourn one victim of state violence, only potentially to become the next.
At the back row, I awkwardly maneuvered myself into the seat, scooting over toward the window. My shoulders already ached from the unnatural position of my bound arms, but I straightened my spine, refusing to show weakness.
Minutes passed before they loaded more detainees. Chief Banks, still in handcuffs, was guided onto the bus, his uniform dirty, but his composure remained straight, even in restraints, with blood visible from his mouth.
The soldiers pointed him toward the back, and I realized he was being seated across from me.
Our eyes met as he lowered himself onto the bench seat, his broader frame making the maneuver more difficult than it had been for me.
For a long moment, we stared at each other, neither speaking. What was there to say?
The heavy doors of the bus slammed shut, and somewhere up front, someone cried.
Chief Banks’s eyes never left mine, dark and unreadable in the dim interior lighting.
I met his gaze, refusing to look away first. Between us, questions were unspoken, and the strange, unsettling knowledge that whatever we both thought we understood about this night had been wrong.
The bus moved forward, carrying us away from the memorial that had become a battlefield.
And toward what I couldn’t begin to imagine.