Chapter 2
The sharp wind off Lake Michigan whipped across Hollis’s face like needle pricks; it almost felt personal.
In the few hours during his shift, the temperature had already dropped significantly.
Chicago was brutal in more ways than one, and the bitter cold was a reminder that to survive it, you had to be of sturdy stock.
It made him think of Obama’s cutting his teeth in Chicago politics.
For a Black man to survive in the city’s dog-eat-dog political world, he had to be smart, affable, and tactically adept, and Hollis didn’t doubt that Obama was all those things and more.
He looked forward to the change he was going to bring to the country.
Hollis got inside the SUV, started the engine, and let it warm. After a few minutes, he turned on the defroster and watched as the ice slowly melted from the windshield. The clock on the dash read midnight…. It was a new day in America, and despite the late hour, Hollis felt energized.
He turned the heat to full blast, shifted into reverse, and backed out of the parking stall.
He thought of Rocky waiting for him at home, and of a piece of German chocolate cake he’d stashed away in the refrigerator that he’d planned to eat in commemoration or consolation, depending on the election results.
Once he picked up that sander from Finn, there would be nothing standing in the way of his celebrating with his wife.
Hollis exited the highway, merged onto South Yale Avenue, and turned left on Sixty-third Street. He drove for another two miles and turned right onto South Woodlawn Avenue.
The street was a lot quieter than he expected, considering he’d been hearing gunshots all night.
As if in response to his thoughts, flashing blue lights suddenly appeared in his rearview mirror.
There were no sirens. At first he presumed the cruiser would pass him since he hadn’t done anything to warrant being stopped, but with no other vehicles on the road, it became clear that the police vehicle was pulling him over.
He looked at the dash. It was 12:17 a.m.
Hollis reached into his pocket, where he kept his wallet, so he could be prepared to show the officers his police ID, hoping that would expedite their stop.
“Hands on the wheel!” a voice shouted over the cruiser’s loudspeaker.
Hollis quickly put his hands on the wheel, wallet still in his pocket, and stared into the rearview mirror. Two officers, who looked to be white men, were inside the car.
The cops exited their vehicle and approached the Expedition with their guns drawn and pointed.
Hollis focused on their faces. One was clearly older.
Deep creases had set in around his nose and brow, and his face was locked in a grimace.
The younger cop moved like a daisy-fresh rookie—stilted and robotic as if he had graduated the academy mere months before.
Hollis was five blocks from Finn’s house, near the intersection of South Woodlawn and East Marquette.
He knew the exact streets, because it happened to be right where Joey lived; he’d driven the same route the night he’d picked up and dropped him off at the blue house across the street.
Hollis noticed a light on in the window of the second floor.
He knew Joey lived with his mother but didn’t see a vehicle in the driveway.
Hollis was tired. He hadn’t made any illegal turns, he’d used his blinker during lane changes, and he’d exited the freeway at a moderate speed.
It was by the book, because that’s who Hollis was—as a member of law enforcement, he observed the rule of law just as he’d expect from any other citizen.
But with the flashing lights behind him, he made it a point to observe his surroundings.
That’s when he realized he was on the street in front of Joey’s apartment building.
He prepared for the police encounter, stayed calm, and rehearsed what he’d say in his head: I’m an officer on my way to a friend’s house. I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding…
Hollis lowered the driver’s side window.
“Put your hands out the window!” the older officer yelled as he approached. His partner came around the passenger side of the Expedition, gun still drawn.
Hollis raised his hands and placed them outside the window.
“I’m a police officer with Metra,” he said. “If you permit me, I can show you my badge.”
“Yeah, right,” the older one said. He yanked the door open and pulled Hollis out of the vehicle, forcing him to the ground. His partner moved around the vehicle and trained his weapon on Hollis.
“Lie flat, with your palms on the ground,” the officer said, pressing the heel of his boot into Hollis’s back.
“I’m a police officer,” Hollis repeated. “I can show you my badge and ID. I didn’t do anything.”
“Shut your mouth,” he said, bearing down on his back as the young protégé watched. “Regardless of that boy being in the White House, you’re not in charge here. We are still in charge, and you’ll do what we say.”
Hollis tried to catch his breath. “Please, officer…my wallet is in my back pocket.”
“All you should be doing is listening, boy. Understand?” The officer bore his boot down even more into Hollis’s shoulder blades. “We clocked you weaving back there. Where are you coming from?”
“But I wasn’t weaving.” Hollis gasped for air; he started to experience a shortness of breath. “I can get my wallet and show you my police ID. But please, can you get your foot off of me? I can’t breathe like this.”
“I’ll keep my foot here until I feel it’s safe to remove it. Got it?”
“I don’t want any problems. This is just a misunderstanding. If you give me a chance to explain, I can clear everything up.”
“No misunderstanding on our part, boy. Where’d you get this vehicle?”
“I own it. Paperwork is in the glove compartment.”
“There’ve been robberies in this area. Your vehicle fits the description of one that was seen fleeing the targeted location earlier tonight. Same make, model, and color.”
“It’s a popular model,” Hollis said. “Plenty of people drive what I’ve got.”
“And you fit the description of that suspect,” the officer said. “Two out of two from where I’m standing.”
Hollis coughed hard and gasped for air. The young cop was beginning to look worried but kept his gun aimed at Hollis.
“You’ve got the wrong person,” Hollis said. “I’m just coming from work…”
“If I had a dollar for the number of times I heard that…Face it, big boy, it just ain’t your night.” The officer turned to the rookie and smiled. “Say, partner, how much do you want to bet that if we toss this guy’s vehicle we’ll find stolen goods? Maybe even narcotics?”
“I’m not a thief, and I don’t do drugs,” Hollis said. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
“You like dust? That your thing?” he asked Hollis. “Because, if I’m being honest, you do look like the type. So, be straight with me. Did you celebrate tonight by doing a little PCP?”
“I’ve been a police officer in this city for twenty-five years. I’m just getting off my security guard shift.” His back throbbed. “I work for Metra and Gunderson Security, damn it!”
Another cruiser pulled up. Hollis lifted his chin from the pavement and strained to see as two additional officers exited their car and approached the scene—two more white men.
One was solidly built, mid-twenties maybe, and short in stature.
The other was bloated, his uniform stretched around his gut, and his boots were scuffed.
“Well, well,” the fat officer said with his partner in tow.
“What have we here…?” Both men had their guns drawn.
“Why isn’t anyone listening to me?” Hollis asked. “I’m a police officer. Call my supervisor if you want. There’s no need for all this…”
“You search him yet?” the fat one asked.
“Nope,” the cop said, adjusting his boot on Hollis’s back.
Hollis turned his head enough to see Joey’s apartment. The second-floor light was still on. He thought about screaming out. Maybe if someone was inside, they’d hear him. After all, given the late hour, it was probably the only house on the street that showed any sign that someone was stirring.
Then, he considered the reality that no one was home and someone had left the light on. Since Joey worked late, it was smart to keep a light burning in the house as a deterrent from hot prowlers, would-be burglars, casing the neighborhood.
The backup officers holstered their weapons and began grabbing at Hollis, searching his pockets and along his waistband. Someone grabbed the holstered pistol on Hollis’s waist. “Ah, fuck. He’s got a gun!” the cop shouted, and his voice broke.
“No, no, it’s a service weapon,” Hollis said, wheezing. Gravel had dug into his chin so deep it was beginning to bleed.
The primary officer lifted his boot off Hollis’s back and kicked him in the ribs. Then he repositioned himself, took aim, and shouted, “Don’t fucking move!”
A sharp pain ripped through his torso and Hollis reached up out of reflex to defend the area. He was sure the kick had bruised or broken his ribs.
“He’s making a move for the gun!” the officer said.
There was an explosion of gunfire. Bullets entered Hollis’s body—his shoulder, arms, lower back, and legs. He felt the hot metal tear through his skin, searing his flesh. Too many bullets to count…too many to survive, he thought.
His body writhed on the pavement as the four men stood over him, squeezing the triggers of their firearms.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop…
But Hollis held on, still conscious. For a moment, he saw the night sky through a milky fog.
Shooting stars soared above him, and he wondered if he was going home to be with the Lord.
He longed for rest, worn to the bone like many Black men enduring in America, but he desired to stay with his loving wife, beautiful children, and grandkids…
to live out his days alongside them. It wasn’t fair—none of it was fair.
How could so much be taken from him without provocation?
As if his life held no meaning—inconsequential, like that of an insect caught in a gale, whipped and thrashed until splattering on a car’s windshield.
Was this his fate?
No, Hollis thought, this can’t be the end.
He prayed through the pain, prayed it would stop, that the shooting would stop and that he’d live, but the pain and suffering soon hijacked his mind, and between the immense searing in his chest and back, he asked: Why me, Lord? Why take me now…and like this?
He was bleeding out, quickly fading away. In seconds, he would cease to be. There would be only darkness. He feared the darkness, but as it crept, it coddled him, and the less pain he felt.
He looked toward Joey’s house one last time. The light was off—the last glimmer of hope gone.
Then, everything fell silent. He could no longer hear the gunshots and he felt nothing. The world was going dark before his eyes.
The senior officer then yelled, “I’m separating the gun from the suspect and I’m putting him in handcuffs.”
Even though Hollis Montrose lay there motionless, face down, his body riddled with bullet holes, the senior officer still sought fit to place him in handcuffs. Then, still holding Hollis’s gun, he crouched beside Hollis’s limp body, opened Hollis’s bloody hand, and forced his pistol into his palm.