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and—
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    BLACK DETECTIVE: Where were you headed?
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    CHARLIE SCAT: Over by Spaghetti, just to chill. Then these three guys we don’t know—
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    WHITE DETECTIVE: Three black guys?
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    CHARLIE SCAT: Yeah. You know, African Americans.
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    BLACK DETECTIVE: It was pretty dark out. Did you see their faces or just their smiles?
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    CHARLIE SCAT: Look. It’s not like that. I swear.
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    WHITE DETECTIVE: Go on, Charlie.
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    CHARLIE SCAT: So these guys see Joey’s gold chain—it’s a real nice one, thick. I even told him, “Joey, you gotta be careful the places you wear that.” I mean, but this is our ( Taps his chest .) neighborhood for Christ’s sake. Then one of them says loud, “Look at the white nigger—thinks he can hold down that chain!” They pulled a screwdriver on us. But we just fought ’em off, and they ran. Then we got into my car and tried to find them.
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    BLACK DETECTIVE: You didn’t call 911?
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    CHARLIE SCAT: Honestly, we were so pissed, we weren’t thinkin’ straight.
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    WHITE DETECTIVE: And the bat? Where’d that come from?
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    CHARLIE SCAT: That’s always in the car. For protection. You need it these days. Sometimes I drive my mother to get her hair done just on the other side of Decatur.
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    BLACK DETECTIVE: So you found them and fractured Noah Jackson’s skull with that bat?
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    CHARLIE SCAT:No. No. He musta did that when he tripped. He probably hit his head on the sidewalk or something.
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    WHITE DETECTIVE: How’d he lose his sneakers and earring?
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    CHARLIE SCAT: I think they just came off while we was tryin’ to hold him down. Then we kept them to give to the cops, while we chased those other two.
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    BLACK DETECTIVE: Did you use any epithets?
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    CHARLIE SCAT: Any what?
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    WHITE DETECTIVE: Did you call them names?
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    CHARLIE SCAT: Just “nigger.” There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s what they call each other all the time. You ever hear their music? It’s all “nigger” this, and “nigger” that.
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    BLACK DETECTIVE: So how come you don’t call me a nigger, Charlie?
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    CHARLIE SCAT: You know. ( Fights back a grin .) ’Cause I want to get outta here and go home.

Chapter THREE
    THAT SATURDAY, WHILE I WAS STILL IN THE hospital, there was a big march through Hillsboro. Black leaders showed up from all over the city, and there were even two busloads of brothers from out of town. The TV news said there were over six hundred protesters, with more than a hundred white folks mixed in. They started out on Decatur Avenue where Michael Sheffield died. Then they marched past the spot where I got beat down, and all the way to Spaghetti Park.
    Dad and Mom were at the head of the line, walking hand in hand with those leaders. People had done the same thing when Sheffield got killed. Thousands of marchers showed up back then. Only Michael Sheffield wasn’t there to steal a car, and I knew there wouldn’t be any petition to name a street after me.
    â€œThe last time we were here, nearly two decades ago, they lined up to throw watermelon rinds at us. Now some of the store owners are offering us bottled water to drink as we march,” a gray-haired black city councilman told the TV reporter. “I guess that’s progress for this community. But that hasn’t solved the tensions and intolerable crime of racial violence.”
    I watched the screen with Grandma. We were both hyped to see that many black people rolling through Hillsboro, and with a police escort, too. The news showed how Spaghetti Park was packed with white people protesting right back. Somebody even took a bedsheet and painted the words BATS AND CAR THIEVES inside a big circle with a strike mark through it.
    â€œWe don’t want to be known for this kind of thing anymore,” said a lady being interviewed. “Good people live here.