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think he’d be dead now.”
    Inspector Oliver shrugged. “We don’t know that, and we’ll probably never know that. What I’m saying is, two white cops against a black cop,” he said slowly, counting off on his fingers. He raised his other hand. “A black kid dead.”
    After a moment, Daddy turned and looked over at me again. Something caught in his eyes. We stared at each other without saying anything for a long time, then Daddy shook his head and turned back to the inspector.
    “I believe in the law, Albert,” Daddy said quietly. “I wouldn’t be a cop if I didn’t. My father was a lawyer and his father was a judge. And here I am—a cop. You say it’s in Randall’s and Dennis’s blood—well, it’s in mine, too. They shouldn’t have killed Taylor. I’m going to stand by that.” He looked out into the darkness. When he started talking again, his voice was low and scratchy. “I’m going to stand by that no matter what, because the way I see it, the way I’ve taught my girls to see it—blood’s the same color no matter who it’s flowing through.”
     
     
     
    YOU CAN PAUSE A VIDEO, REWIND IT, PRESS stop and power and make it disappear. Right there, that evening with Inspector Albert Oliver standing on our porch biting on his cuticle, is the point where I’d pause. Then I’d press stop and my father would still be a cop in Denver, his uniform pressed, his shoes shined, his face calm and smiling.

6
    THERE WEREN’T MANY BLACK PEOPLE IN DENVER, but the ones who lived there were angry. There was a protest. And a rally. There was a small riot in downtown Denver. Two black ministers gave sermons about injustice that made the local paper. We weren’t church-going and we didn’t march. But the rage was in the air all around us. And in the center of it, there was Daddy, the only black cop in his precinct, coming home from work after a day with not a single white cop speaking to him. The white cops who had been our friends became strangers. Me and Cameron walked from the bus stop and no cop car slowed down to ask if we were Green’s copper pennies. The white cops made believe they didn’t know us; the black ones from other precincts acknowledged my father but stayed clear of him. At night, my father would sit at the dining room table and tell us of the phone calls he’d gotten—anonymous calls from men who identified themselves as cops. “You’re doing the right thing, Green,” they’d whisper
    “They know what I know,” my father said softly, staring down at his plate without touching his food.“All my life I’ve walked into the precinct as a black cop. But I was a cop first, so when the racist jokes were flying, I let them slap me on the back and sometimes laughed right along with them—even had my own to tell about white folks. It was like that—black, white, we were all cops, that’s all. Cops first.” He balled his hand into a fist and stared at it. Then stared at me, his eyes starting to water. I swallowed, hating Randall and Dennis and every cop that had brought us to this moment. “Cops first. That’s always been the rule. No matter what. When I saw that boy falling, I wasn’t a cop anymore.”
    Seven days after the shooting, the mayor called for a full investigation. A few days after that, Daddy met with the district attorney.
    We can protect you, the D.A. said. But it might mean having to leave here. Ask yourself if it’s worth it.
    That night at dinner, Daddy said I’m a man, I can testify. He walked slowly through every room of the house, touching the walls, picking up pictures and putting them down again, fluffing pillows and pressing them to his face. When he got back to the kitchen, he sat down at the table and said We can leave here. Then he leaned into his fists and cried.
     
     
     
    TWO DAYS AFTER MY FATHER MET WITH THE DISTRICT attorney, he sat me and Cameron down at the kitchen table to tell us we’d be leaving. By then, I had known this was coming. I had been