Black Bastard

The thing about these weird criminals is that they're a dime a dozen here in Gotham City. A new high-tech or highly deranged criminal appears every other day, and it's impossible to keep track of them all. Some guy in a weaponized tutu claiming to be sent by God could blow up an entire building and kill everyone inside, but two months later, no one would be able to tell you his name or what he looked like. I'd tried for years to figure out what it was that makes some of these guys so infamous, but I don't know. I'm still trying to figure it out.

Now, Minstrel? That was a different story. Or at least, it was for me. The minute I saw his first video, I knew the exact word for him: fake. He put on his makeup and talked like Steppin Fetchit so he could shock everybody, but then he'd switch. The jokes would fall away, and he'd hold himself and speak like he was some kind of high, refined scholar. First time I saw Minstrel, only one thought went through my head.

"Calvin," I commented to my wife.

She looked away from the television and raised an eyebrow, "What you bringing up him for?"

I pointed at the screen, "He don't remind you of Calvin? Really?"

My wife looked at the screen, then shook her head disapprovingly. Side from side it swung until it found it's way back to me, with a disapproving frown on it's face. "Why you gotta make my ex be the crazy, psycho man on the news?"

"That is Calvin! He has that exact same, arrogant, pretentious look in his eye!"

My wife still didn't believe me, so I grabbed the remote out of her hands and rewound the broadcast. I took some steps towards the screen and felt the heat of four thousand pixels hitting the back of my corneas. I struggled not to blink as the television slowly crawled along. In an instant, I saw it, and in a quicker instant, I slammed my thumb down on the pause button, then pointed at the screen in triumphant validation.

"Look at that! Right there! Tell me I'm lying!"

Minstrel's frozen face filled the center of the screen. I'd stopped him right at the end of his banjo solo, just before he got into the more blatant parts of his monologue. I'd captured him right in the middle of a micro-expression—a slight, quick positioning of his face that revealed the thoughts he was keeping locked up in the back of his head, hoping none of us would notice. In that frozen window of time, his head was cocked slightly back and to the side. His grin was crooked, with the right corner of his mouth stretching higher and building a larger dimple than his left. His eyebrows weren't furrowed, and his lids were slightly drooped. Minstrel didn't look at the camera as if he were looking at the dumbest person in the world, Minstrel looked at the camera as if he himself were the smartest person in the world, and he was amused at the idea that us regular people could ever compare to him. It was the exact type of bullshit that Calvin used to pull.

My wife shook her head and chastised me between fits of laughter, "You leave Calvin alone! He's a perfectly nice man!"

I rolled my eyes, "He's an asshole and you're the only person that refuses to see it. I was in undergrad with you both, remember? No one liked Calvin once his mouth started running, but once he finally did shut up, it was even worse. Cuz he looked at everyone the same way that this asshole is looking at our whole city!"

My wife laughed again, "You're wrong for that! You know Calvin is—he just—he doesn't try to be like that!"

I shook my head, "Girl, I told that nigga 'what's up?' last week, and he looked back at me and said 'the pollen count', with a wide ass, Eddie Murphy grin like he'd just said the funniest shit in the world!"

"He's awkward!" She defended again.

"No, Steve Urkel is awkward. Calvin is just a jackass, and you know it. Why you always dating jackasses, Reina?"

She rolled her eyes and ignored me.

I shook my head and went back to watching the television. But as I looked at Minstrel, I only shook my head more. I found myself wondering what kind of narcissist someone would have to be to do something like that. Why would someone debase themself—and in so doing, debase their whole people—while speaking on the horrors that we experienced in the past? And how could anyone do something so hypocritical while smiling at a damn camera like they were a genius for it?

I didn't like Minstrel. I didn't fuck with Minstrel. I didn't even fuck with the people that did fuck with Minstrel. And believe me, there was a lot of them...

"That Minstrel, he's one bad mother fucker!" Clarence shouted with a raised fist in the air.

I shook my head and frowned. It was the same day of the attack at the mall, and damn near ever nigga I met was singing Minstrel's praises. My whole reason for hitting Clarence up on my day off was to get away from all that, but the minute we walked into the bar, he brought up that old topic again.

Around the room went nods of approval and cries of, "hell yeah" and "what up!" I sipped my beer silently and shook my head at Vicky Vale on the T.V. screen hanging in the corner. I hope Ms. Vale didn't take that too personally, though; it wasn't her that I was really upset with.

"I'm glad Minstrel's out here," Paul, the bartender said as he wiped down a glass. The older man shook his greying head approvingly, "These white kids really gotta learn to stop fuckin' with us!"

"They learned today!" Clarence said.

On the other end of the bar, a kid that looked a little too young and a little too tipsy to be there slammed his hand on the table, "Minstrel came in like bap! Fuck with Black folk again!"

Now, I've never been the type to stay silent when I felt strong about something, but I also wasn't the type to pick arguments with people. I kept my voice calm and didn't let my emotions get the better of me as I said, "Minstrel ain't that different from them, though."

Clarence rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand at me. Paul just shook his head and scoffed, "Aww shit, Officer Winslow's all in his feelings again!"

"For real?" The boy at the edge of the bar said, "You a cop? Bruh, why you hating on Minstrel! He doing more than ya'll do about Namzmirren!"

Namzmirren. That was another uncomfortable subject for me, and my second reason for trying to get away. It wouldn't take long for a verdict to come out, and I knew that it wouldn't be a point of celebration for me and my people. I empathized with my brothers, Lord knows I did, and I felt pity for that poor young man that lost his life, and his sister that was battling for her own. But I also knew the case and knew Namzmirren, and there was no doubt in my mind that the shooting was legal. Justified? I didn't believe so, I personally wouldn't have drawn my gun in that situation. But I couldn't fault Namzmirren for that. I couldn't fault any cop for being too cautious and trying to protect their own life.

I pushed the thoughts out of my head. I wasn't really trying to debate Minstrel, but I damn sure wasn't trying to hold the police brutality debate—especially not in a bar where I was outnumbered.

"Let's face facts here." I said in a cool voice, "Minstrel may do stuff that we wish we could do, but he is not a role model or a hero to our people. Anyone that denigrates Black people in any way is ineligible of being a hero to our community. I simply cannot believe for one second that Minstrel cares for our collective well-being, because I can't imagine a single Black person that doesn't get sick just from looking at him, or the racist depictions that he draws his inspiration from."

Two men playing pool shook their heads, affirming my perspective. That made me feel more confident.

Clarence nodded his head to the side, "I mean, I see your point. But we ain't never said the nigga was sane!"

Paul nodded his head, "If you ask me, I think Minstrel might be a lil sweet. Got a nephew like that, he remind me of him."

"All these young cats either sweet or crazy these days," Clarence agreed. "Stands to reason that there's going to be some niggas that's both."

"Hey, don't put that shit on me!" The boy at the edge of the bar said as he held up two hands, "I'm a strict pussy-tarian!"

"We all pussy-tarians out here!" Said a large man that was squeezed into one of the booths opposite the bar. I looked at him and felt my soul get heavier. As he laughed at his own joke, I couldn't help but wonder what pains he was carrying, being all alone at a table full of empty bottles.

Paul spoke again, "Look here, Julius, I know that you're a cop and I know that you're all about peace. But this nonviolence shit will get you killed. We tried non-violence to death! A hit dog will holler, and a man can only take so much. Even you gotta agree with that."

I shook my head and took a sip of my beer, "Sure, I agree with that. I'm not against Black men fighting against slavery in the Civil War. But we're not in the Civil War. I'm not against the Deacons for Defense and Justice driving around, looking for klansmen and trying to prevent lynchings, but we are not being lynched anymore. I'm not even against the Black Panthers driving around California and trying to stop those gangs with badges from killing our people indiscriminately. But this isn't California and it damn sure isn't LA County, we're not going to be infested with those same kinds of cop gangs."

"Hell yeah, instead, ya'll got cops in the Two-Face gang!" The kid said. He raised a glass in salute of no one in particular, then swallowed all it's contents.

"My point," I said, feeling the frustration growing in the back of my mind, "is that we are not in the same situations we were before. We still have our problems, yes, but that's why there's cops like me on the force. That's why we have community activists working with our people and the government to make life better for all of us. We are not at the point where we need to be violent like that."

"Bullshit!" The kid said.

He jumped off his barstool and stumbled towards me. My body seized up as my eyes watched his hands, feeling my pulse and hearing it all around me. I didn't reach for my gun, I knew better than that. He was being rude and aggressive, but he hadn't actually threatened me or anyone else in the bar. If I responded like he had, then I'd only validate every cop that brutalized every sober and well-behaved, young, Black man.

He came closer to me. I was worried for a moment that he was going to get up in my face, but he was smarter than that. He stopped just short of five or so feet past me—so close that I got ready for a fight, but not so close that I made the first move. In just a few seconds, I studied him.

He looked young, like I said before, but not in the same way that he looked young at the edge of the bar. He looked African young, that was the only way I could describe it. I know it's not politically correct, but those Africans really do be aging different from us, just like we age different from White people. Calvin would probably wax poetic about how it was caused by being closer to the Motherland, but I knew it was probably something like diet or sun-exposure. For whatever reason, the boy looked young like that; he looked young in a way that told me he probably wasn't the age I thought he was, but I still wasn't convinced that he was twenty-one.

His eyes were redder than any I'd ever seen before, and I could tell that it was from all the drinking that he'd done. Nasty, alcoholic sweat dripped down his brow and made him look like he'd just jumped straight out of a pool of vodka. His body was emaciated, with long, skeletal limbs that looked like he'd stolen them off another man. If he was a little fatter, I'd call him an averaged sized young man, but with so little body fat on him, it felt like I was looking at a 5-foot-8-inch Munchkin.

"Niggas ain't getting killed by cops?" he said, spraying flammable spittle at my face. "Niggas ain't getting lynched? Niggas ain't going around picking cotton for a white man! Fuck you been, Training Day?"

He jumped onto the bar, and I felt a huge gust of wind from every eyelid widening and every jaw dropping. The kid had to be some kind of Olympic-level sports prodigy to get onto the bar without bracing himself or getting a running start. One minute, he was standing in front of me, then he hopped up and towered over us all.

"The only way to defeat violence is with violence!" He said as he shot a fist into the air.

"Alright, Bobby Seale, I think you've had enough," Paul said as he tugged on the kid's leg. The kid didn't budge, so Paul tried a different approach. He folded his arms, scowled at the boy and said, "Nigga you got five seconds to get off my fucking bar!"

The boy didn't listen. He picked up the bottle of beer from in front of me, swallowed it all down and started singing, "Rally round the flag! Rally round the Red, Gold, Black and Green! Marcus say, Sir Marcus Say—"

Before he could make it to the end of his song, I stood up and flashed my badge and handcuffs.

"Okay, kid, get down, now! And show me your ID!"

The kid stopped his song and stuck his tongue out at me. For a minute, I thought things would have to get uncomfortable for both of us, and I'd have to force him down against his will. But the kid was surprisingly smarter than that. He climbed down of his own accord and stood in front of me with his hands up.

"Do! Not! Shoot!" He shouted, "I! Am! Reaching! For! My! Wallet!"

I felt my head grow hot again. If I were any other cop on the force, I probably would have had my gun out, or at least my tazer. But I was trying to help the kid. I wasn't even planning on arresting him, I just wanted to find out where he lived so I could drive him back home to his parents. It made no sense to me to see the kid hauled off to jail for being a public nuisance. But the more annoying he was, the more I reconsidered that stance.

"I don't even have my goddamn gun out. ID, now! Or are we going to have to go to the station so I can run a background check on you?"

The kid rolled his eyes and slowly reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a bright, yellow wallet with a plastic window on the front, then handed it to me.

I grabbed the wallet and looked at the ID. Then I blinked and looked at it again. I still wasn't convinced, though, so I pulled it out of the wallet, and held it up to the light. I ran a black light over it and—shook my head. If it was a fake, it was a convincing fake.

"I already did all that, Julius," Paul said. "You know I don't just let kids in here."

I shook my head. The kid, despite how he looked, was over 21. In fact, he was INSERT WHATEVER BULLSHIT AGE DC CLAIMS DICK GRAYSON IS HERE, AND SUBTRACT 4 YEARS

"See? I'm perfectly legal," he said.

I handed the wallet and the ID back to him. "So it seems, Mr. Byrd. Now get the hell out of here before I haul your ass in for drunk and disorderly conduct!"

The kid snatched the wallet and ID out of my hands. Then he gave me that same look I always see on Calvin's face, the same look I saw on Minstrel's when he first announced his presence to the world. Arrogant, self-inflated, narcissistic and all around rude, it was the type of face that made my ghetto side start screaming with the voice of Charlie Murphy's ghost, "Stomp this motherfucker out right here!" But I took a deep breath and dialed it back. I knew that if I was going to be the type of cop that proved this kid wrong and showed everyone that our community had nothing to fear from an honest police force, then I couldn't just beat his ass cuz he pissed me off. I'd have to let him go out in the world and get his ass beat by someone that didn't have a badge.

"Better remember who team you on!" The boy taunted as he backed his way out of the bar.

That event stuck with me more than anything else I'd ever experienced. It made me think about Minstrel and the type of people that supported him. I recall spending the rest of the night checking in at the station and hospitals, seeing if anyone picked up a James Byrd, or even an unidentified John Doe matching his description. No news ever came, but I couldn't get it out of my head.

Anytime someone mentioned Minstrel, I thought of the kid.

Anytime his face was plastered on the news, I thought of the kid.

When Minstrel went on national television and mutilated two people, I thought of that kid. I asked myself if he'd still support Minstrel after seeing him do that. I told myself that he wouldn't, that even someone as angry and drunk as him could plainly see how torturing people was wrong, no matter what he accused his victims of doing. But I was wrong, and I realized as much the minute I pulled up my phone and started scrolling through my various social media apps. Once again, the Black community of Gotham City was debating Minstrel, and once again, more people than I would have hoped were singing his praises.

I won't repeat the posts that I read. I don't want to think about them. I turned my phone off and tossed it away from me. It wasn't a rough throw of anger, and I didn't intend to break it. I just wanted it away from me.

I looked at my wife, and I shook my head. My muscles felt heavier than ever before, and I nearly broke down in tears.

"It's just people on the internet, you know they don't mean it." She assured me.

I shook my head, "You're wrong, baby. It won't be long till there's rioting in the streets, just trust me on that."

A few days later, I was proven right. Namzmirren was found innocent just as we all knew he would be. Understandably, people were tired, and so they wanted to go out and show how tired they were. But it wasn't the right time, there weren't enough leaders making sure everyone was safe, and they made no efforts to coordinate their movements with the GCPD. I don't blame the reporter that started the whole thing, or the countless innocent and peaceful people that just wanted to feel heard. But I do blame the rioters and agitators, the people that threw bricks and bottles at cops and counter-protestors. And most of all, I blamed Minstrel.

"He wasn't even there!" Clarence argued.

I shook my head, "It doesn't matter! And you know it doesn't! It's just like Lucius Fox said, this happened because we let his way of thinking go unchecked. Our community has not taken a hard stance against Minstrel, and that validates him in some people's minds. Remember that kid at the bar? I bet you ten to one that he was out there, too, causing as much chaos as he could."

Clarence blinked at me, then widened his eyes and searched my face. "What kid at the bar?"

I just shook my head at him. It made sense that he didn't remember. Clarence was a good guy, but he never had a head for anything important. It's why I stayed friends with him, he was so easily distracted from the horrors of everyday that I always knew he could take my mind off things.

I won't lie, being a Black cop is torture. I'm caught between a sense of duty between two different communities that are integral to my identity. I see kids say all the time that Black lives are different from blue lives, because blue lives can stop being blue whenever they want. But I stand as testament to how untrue that is. Being an officer of the law, protecting people from every sinister and crazy person that would do them harm, that's buried deep in my soul. It affects me in all areas of life, just as being Black does. My race is important to me, but it's a physical description of my skin. Being a cop goes deeper than that, it describes the very nature of my soul.

I'm a protector. I believe in law and order. I want to help not just Black people, but all people get to the end of the day. That's all I want, for everyone to get to the end of the day. In Gotham City, people don't get that. They wind up with bullets in their bodies, blades in their backs, or hallucinogenic gas in their lungs. We all had to live in fear of fucking South American dictators on steroids coming into the city and trying to destroy it for no apparent reason. Batman and the other masks like to think they help, they think they protect justice without the influence of corruption, but all they do is exercise power without responsibility and accountability. I carry both on my shoulders every day as I go into a sick, sad world that needs my protection.

It is saddening to me that I'm so hated by my people. I want for them the very things they want for themselves: safety. The chance to live a life free of brutalization by racist forces. Neighborhoods free of drugs and guns, where women can walk around without fear of assault or harassment from rapists and pimps, and children can play without being snatched away to cruel and unknown sickness. I fought in a war I didn't believe in to achieve that dream. I studied forensic science to achieve that dream. I spent hundreds of hours in firing ranges and martial art dojos and criminology seminars to achieve that dream. I spent years as a beat cop fighting for justice on the street and in my own precinct. I spent years of my life sculpting myself into the type of person that I knew could fight the sickness permeating through our communities, but that wasn't enough. If Black people weren't calling for me to be defunded, they were calling for me to be abolished, based on the whims of twenty-somethings in t-shirts who thought the answer to every crime was destigmatizing mental health resources.

I was broken after the riot. It dismayed me to know that despite having the best interest of my community at heart, they still saw me as the enemy. Sure, my wife and friends tried to tell me otherwise, that people were just upset over the discrimination that they felt, that the police just needed better relationships and open conversations with the Black community. But I didn't believe any of that shit, I couldn't. Especially not when Namzmiren was killed.

I wasn't scheduled to work then. I was actually about to begin a much-needed vacation away from my job. As my wife packed our bags, I stared at the news on my phone, and listened intently to the token negro news anchor that the station pulled out of nowhere to present the story.

"GCPD officers received notice of the home invasion late this afternoon and immediately rushed into action. Neighbors in surrounding homes were quickly evacuated as SWAT teams and hostage negotiators rolled in. Officer Namzmiren, who was enjoying his first day back at work since his acquittal, entered the home unarmed, but wearing a bullet-proof vest, and confronted Minstrel directly. Details are still unclear about what precisely transpired inside the home, but after some minutes, a shot rang out. Batman appeared on-scene a moment later, restrained then released Minstrel into police custody, then confirmed to Gotham Police Commissioner Gordon that Namzmirren was dead upon arrival. Upon confirming this, and the health and safety of the late officer's wife and daughter with on-scene paramedics, the police Commissioner released this information in a formal statement to our on-field press agents."

The anchor, a young, Black woman who I'd never seen in all my years of watching Channel 8, sat her stack of papers to the side, placed her hands within each other and looked directly into the camera.

"Channel 8 would like to extend our sympathies to the Namzmirren family and Gotham's law enforcement community during this tough time. Out of respect for the family and the ongoing investigation, our station held off reporting this news until police successfully secured the scene."

"Good for his a$$!" A comment read. The entire time that she'd been speaking, comments scrolled across the far left margin of the screen, as bubble-shaped reactions floated from the bottom up, then out of the screen's range entirely. Most were positive—there were expressions of 'thoughts and prayers', questions of 'when will this violence stop?' and tagging '#bluelivesmatter' as prayer emojis and weeping faces floated across the screen. But not all comments were so positive.

"This the same Channel 8 that called the slain protestors 'rioters?' This the same Channel 8 that showed video of Eric Sumpter being shot with no content warning? This the same Channel 8 that's owned by Joseph Grant?"

"When the fuck did we start sending sympathies to CHILD MURDERERS????"

"FuckThaPolice, and Fuck Batman too for taking in Minstrel!"

"Man, if I'd been on that jury we would have had Namzmirren swinging from a rope!"

The comments were angry and political. They were so disconnected from the reality and severity of the situation. Minstrel waited until an innocent verdict was delivered, took a defenseless woman and child hostage, then took the law into his own hands. A thorough investigation and a jury of his peers found Namzmirren innocent, but Minstrel found him guilty and shot him. And people were applauding this person? It made me sick to read those comments, but it made me even sicker to read one particular brand of negative comment that seemed to pop up in between every other message.

"LOL!"

"LMAO"

"XD"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

People were laughing. A man was killed, his wife and daughter traumatized, and people were laughing. I wanted to throw my phone across the room, but I just kept staring at it, frozen. I couldn't understand why people were acting like this, why my community was acting like this. Had we just forgotten common human decency? I didn't cheer when Eric Sumpter died, I didn't say he deserved it, and I especially didn't laugh. Why, then, was the thought of a cop losing his life so damn laughable to my own people?

A green bar appeared at the top of my screen, and my device began to buzz. It slowly drew me out of the sea of depressing thoughts. As my conscious mind breached the surface, I read the name of the caller. I didn't need to ask why Jim Gordon was calling me. If they really had Minstrel in custody, there was only one explanation.

"Julius?" Gordon asked from the other line, "I hate to interrupt you, but I truly hope you haven't gotten on that plane yet. Have you seen the news?"

I nodded my head before I answered, "Yeah, I was just watching it. Don't read the comments."

"I prefer print anyway." He said.

There was a brief pause, so I decided to break it, "You got our boy in custody?"

"Yeah," Jim answered. His voice kind of curved at the end, like he was uncertain. If I didn't know better, I'd have assumed he was being unclear about having Minstrel, but I did know better. Jim was uncertain about how I'd respond, and so he was trying desperately to pick his words carefully.

"He talking?" I asked.

"No."

I nodded my head again and sighed, "It's fine, Jim, it's alright. This is important. I want to be there."

"I'm sorry, Julius."

I chuckled, "You want to make up for it? Let me put my wife on, so you can tell her that we're postponing the vacation."

#

Bullock handed me the file, brusquely. I didn't take it too personal, because I'd worked with Bullock long enough to know that he was only ever that abrupt with people he considered his friends. I just shrugged it off as Bullock being Bullock and began to leaf through the folder.

The first paper surprised me. It was Minstrel's mugshot, not anyone else's. I imagined that Bullock would hand me a file with some Black or even a white man with a name like "Jacob Johnson" or "Ryan Sanchez" or maybe even something like "Kunta Kinte Ali-Bey." I expected that the arrest form would have this person's name and fingerprints listed, along with a physical description, his home address, license number, and any known aliases listed. I expected to get a copy of any other important records we'd been able to uncover along with that, all telling the life story of Jacob Ryan Ali-Bey or whatever the fuck his name was. But I didn't receive that, I received Minstrel's file.

"What the hell is this?" I said when I saw the inky black face and ruby red lips smiling back at me while holding up a placard that said "Minstrel" in all-capital letters.

Bullock scoffed, "Paint wouldn't come off. Even the Bat didn't know how to get it off. Just like with Joker and Harley. Shit, for all we know, that really is the color of his skin now."

It was a ridiculous notion, but I couldn't dismiss the possibility entirely. I thought that a man permanently dying his skin the color of coal was insane, but this was Gotham, where insane was just quirky. I pushed past it and continued my thinly veiled criticism of Bullock and my fellow detectives.

"Did you run his fingerprints?"

Bullock gave me a stink-eye, "Do I look like the fucking Scooby-Doo gang to you? Hell yeah we tried running his finger prints! The motherfucker burned them off like he's in a goddamn spy movie!"

I scratched my head for a moment, trying to come up with some other way to identify him. In an instant, it occurred to me, and I celebrated the thought with a snap. "Facial recognition! We've used it before and—"

Bullock shook his head, "We tried our system, it couldn't read the guy. We tried Batman's system, it couldn't read the guy! Eggheads over in Forensics think it's because of whatever's going on with his skin—it's so dark that the camera can't get a read off his face. Usually when that happens with you guys, we just stick you under a brighter light and it all starts working good enough. But it made no difference with him; no matter how much light you shine on the guy he's just this big, black spot so dark you can't even really make out it's shape."

"I get it, Harvey!" I snapped. I didn't think Harvey was intending to sound like a racist jackass, but I also didn't love how careless he was being with his words.

He rolled his eyes, "Well sorry, chief!"

I shook my head and pushed past him. I grabbed the door knob to the interrogation room and took in a deep breath. I let my heart harden, felt my body tense up a bit, and let my mind begin to overheat as it's motor began to run faster than before. I was ready.

I opened the door and sat down at the table. Minstrel was already there. It felt odd to see him without his hat on—I never would have imagined that he was completely bald under there. I looked at him with disgust in my heart, but he only looked up back at me with a that same, cocky smile that I'd seen on the news.

"What's your name?" I asked, as I grabbed the pen and pad waiting for me on the table.

"Minstrel," he responded.

I shook my head, "Your real name."

"What's yours?" He asked, with a soft rumble in the back of his throat that sounded like either a laugh or a growl.

I didn't want to answer, but I was a cop and he was being detained, I knew that I had to identify myself. I showed him my badge and held it up to his face long enough to read my name and badge number, then spoke it aloud for him, "I am Detective Julius Washington of the Gotham City Police Department."

"Your name is Julia?" He asked with a cocky smile and an even cockier turn of his head.

"Julius!" I snapped, "And I would prefer it if you called me Detective. I'm fine with calling you Minstrel, but we need your real name for our forms. And it's in your best interest that you provide it to us."

Minstrel thought for a moment. He put a finger to his cheek and began to tap it. I thought he was weighing whether or not he would cooperate, so I was surprised when he snapped and said, "I got it! You're the one they call the Golden Lasso!"

I was aware of my nickname, and it was a point of pride for me. It's why neither I nor my wife were too upset or surprised when Gordon called me in. A little-known secret of the Gotham PD was that we had two people skilled in the art of interrogation, and of those two, only I carried a badge.

"So you know me, but I don't know you. Care to rectify that? Cuz I'm feeling a little socially disadvantaged here."

Minstrel chuckled. Then, he leaned forward in his chair. His voice took on a new cadence—each word he spoke shot out of his mouth like he was doing spoken word poetry. He sounded like Lance from The Cosby Show—he turned into every Black man I'd encountered in my life that tried to sell me a bean pie and convince me that the government flooded Black communities with crack.

"Well now you know, my brothah! Now you know what it means to be disadvantaged from one of your own people. I was worried you'd forgotten from all those years of waving a badge around!"

As soon as he was done, he leaned his head back and laughed.

"I'm not impressed," I told him.

"Oh, come on, I'm just having a little fun shooting the shit with you my man!" He awkwardly extended a fist, expecting me to pound it. When I didn't, he pulled his arm back and shrugged, "Okay, okay, I see. This isn't that kind of hang."

I was starting to get annoyed, "Minstrel, have you been instructed that you can have a lawyer present during this process?"

He shook his head.

"Did you call one?"

He shook his head, but in a different direction that time.

"I would highly recommend that you do, because you aren't making the best choices here, and you're facing serious charges."

Minstrel smirked, shook his head, and tapped his temple. "How they gonna put a nigga on trial if they don't even know his name?"

I didn't comment on that, because I knew he was smart enough to know that the process wasn't nearly that simple. I only crossed my arms at him. I was beginning to learn Minstrel's game. He was the guy that liked to talk. All I had to do was sit back and let him.

Minstrel rolled his eyes, "Well, well, Porky, you went to a lot of trouble to get me here. What do you want to know?"

I exercised my right to remain silent. I had a list of questions I wanted him to answer, of course, but I had a hunch that I wouldn't even need to ask half of them.

Minstrel chuckled, smiled, and pointed at me with a knowing look, "I know, I know. I know what you want. You want to hear about Namzmirren, right? What, is that a kink for you? Does the idea of one man lying on top of another, bloodier man help you get your rocks off?"

Minstrel mimed jerking himself and laughed at his own joke again. When I didn't laugh back, he frowned.

"Am I wrong? You don't have secret, gay feelings for Namzmirren? I won't judge you if you do, I go both ways, as long as there's abs in both ways, nah'm saiyan? Nah'm saiyan? NAHM SAYING? KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING!"

He started screeching those same words over and over, like he was possessed. From my right ear, I heard a tap on the one-sided window to the observation room. I held up a hand to let them know I was okay and not to come in, but otherwise didn't react.

Minstrel kept screeching until he suddenly coughed. He pounded a fist on his chest and tried to clear his throat, eventually spitting a glob of mucus and saliva into the far corner of the room. He gave me a sheepish grin in apology, then continued his performance.

"Okay so what is it? Why do you care about Namzmirren? Don't tell me..."

He leaned in closer.

"Did you hate him too?" His eyes lit up in sick ecstasy.

"Are you going to actually say something useful or are you going to keep playing this game?" I asked.

Minstrel sat back in his original position and giggled, "You did! You did hate him! My brotha, I cannot tell you how good it is to hear that! I was worried you'd gone Carlton on us. Don't worry, I'm not mad at you, I know your hands are tied working here. I'm happy that I got rid of him for you, and you are absolutely welcome."

I felt my pulse quicken as my face grew hot. "Let's get one thing clear, Minstrel. I do not condone, endorse, or agree with anything that you do!"

I knew that I responded well enough, given the circumstances. Not responding would have been better, but I was too busy using all my self-control not to reach across the table and strangle him.

Minstrel frowned, "Don't tell me I was right about you. You really wept for that guy? Damn, and I thought I had issues."

I sucked in a deep breath and tried not to let him get to me. "Why don't you tell me more about that? Am I correct that this was a politically motivated shooting?"

Minstrel shook his head. "No, you'd be wrong. It was a racially motivated shooting! Just like when he picked off Eric Sumpter. I didn't want the ol' albinos to have a score over us, so I had to tie the game back up, you know?"

He mimed taking a sip of coffee and commented, "Course, even with taking him out, we're still lagging far, far behind. Someone should really call a Mercy Rule on this game already."

That comment answered one of my questions, but it wasn't enough, I had to get him to say it in clearer terms.

"Are you saying that you planned to commit more murders?"

Minstrel put his imaginary cup down, folded his hands on top of each other, and smiled politely, "Planned?"

"So you've already committed other murders?" I asked. I was technically leading him, but I didn't care. As much as the number of people singing his praises worried me, I knew that there was no jury that wasn't going to convict this psychopath.

Minstrel must have seen through my trap, because he didn't respond to that. He turned his head away from me and looked at the window.

From this side, it was just a mirror. Minstrel primped his imaginary hair and smiled big to check his teeth. Seeing the stark white contrast against the red of his mouth and the black of his skin gave me an idea, and I inscribed in my notebook, "Subpoena dental records." If my hunch was correct, Minstrel was a local, and that meant his movie-star perfect teeth had to come from another local.

"Hey, Boy on the Side of Babylon Tryna Front Like You're Down with Mount Zion," Minstrel said to me, though his head was still turned.

I rolled my eyes, "Don't act cute. That comes from somewhere, but I can't remember what."

Minstrel turned to me with an incredulous look and shook his head, "Well, thanks for confirming one stereotype, fake nigga! You really don't know Fugees? Really, nigga? Ol'-Not-Listening-To-Fugees-Ass-Nigga!"

I didn't appreciate being called that word from people sitting on that side of the table, even if they were Black. I especially didn't love hearing it phrased as an insult from a man who seemed to have permanently dyed his skin black.

Minstrel continued with his original line of thought, "Anyway, you see what I see, right? Other than the fine piece of ass in the mirror. I mean, you get why they asked you to deal with me, yes?"

I raised an eyebrow, "Oh really, and why do you think that is?"

He pointed to himself in the mirror, then pointed to my own reflection. Then he pointed to himself again, then me again. He did this a total of thirteen times before he said, "Isn't it obvious? We're both Tauruses. Did your mom dream about fish before you were born?"

I wasn't an idiot, I knew what he was implying, and I didn't like it. "I was selected because I'm a capable detective. No more, no less."

Minstrel shot back a condescending glare, "Oh, come on! You can't seriously believe that, my good man! If Gordon wants a capable detective to question someone...well, we both know that search light on the roof isn't for you."

I won't lie, my pride was shot. I hadn't been deflecting his taunts and jeers for very long, but they were really starting to get to me. I was the best damn detective in the precinct, and everyone knew that; it's how I got the nickname 'Golden Lasso'. Jim Gordon recognized my skills as a detective and interrogator, he knew that out of every cop in the precinct, I was the only one that could keep a clear head with Minstrel. Yes, he and I were both Black (presumably), but that was only an added bonus; Gordon picked me because he knew I could handle myself!

And just as I was about to tell all of that to Minstrel, he stopped me, "I want a glass of water. My throat's getting scratchy."

"It's cuz of all that cackling you're doing," I scolded.

He shook his head, "Nah, it's cuz of all the dicks I've been sucking. But you know how that is."

I felt a vein in my forehead pop.

Minstrel held up two hands, defensively, "Alright, alright, I get it, no homo! I'm sorry, Lil Boosie. Now can a nigga get a glass of water?"

I wanted to say no, but I reasoned that giving him a drink would be a good way to get a DNA sample. I knew he probably wouldn't be in the system, but even in that case, it was still a good idea. If I let Minstrel think he was in control of the situation, let him believe that he was just as clever and important as he convinced himself, there was a chance that he'd slip up, and when that happened, I'd pounce.

I rose from my chair and was sure to grab my writing pad and Minstrel's file in the process. With a silent glare towards him, I exited the room, and nearly slammed the door behind me. But I didn't walk immediately to the water cooler. Nor did I walk over to Forensics and tell them to hand me an evidence bag and get ready to receive a sample. I needed a moment, so I leaned against the wall and just breathed.

Jim came out of the observation room. I was only a little surprised to see a man in a bat costume trailing behind him.

"Commissioner," I said as I straightened up and put on a more professional face. "I was slipping in there, I know, and I'm sorry. I promise, we'll get something out of him. In fact—"

Before I could position my writing pad better so I could see my notes, Jim cut me off.

"It's alright, Julius, you're doing great. Better than I would have even expected." He said with a pat on my back and a kind, reassuring smile.

I scoffed, "That kid in there called me every name in the book and gave us nothing we didn't already know!"

"He's talking to you, that's all that matters." Batman said. I nearly grimaced at his voice, it was deeper than any choir baritone I'd ever heard.

I shrugged, "Come on, that's hardly any kind of feat. Anyone could have—"

"I couldn't," Batman confessed.

And suddenly, the world grew hazy. It felt like someone plucked a corner of the room and made it start spinning. I tried to align the thoughts in my head into something cohesive.

"You already talked to him?" I asked. I knew the answer would be 'yes.' I expected it to be 'yes.' He was Batman after all, I knew that Gordon let him question Minstrel before he let anyone else even think of trying. That wasn't what shocked me, though.

"I did. But he wouldn't say a word."

Gordon nodded, "Minstrel's been playing it all close to his chest since he first came in. But I knew that if anyone could get him to talk, it would be the Golden Lasso."

He said it approvingly, and I almost believed it. In fact, I did believe it; Gordon really did think I was the only one that could get Minstrel to talk. What I distrusted was his implication. He was acting like he saw me as an interrogator on par with Batman, but that wasn't the truth. Gordon didn't call me in because he thought I could out-question Batman and win Minstrel over using my intellect and experience. He called me in because I was a Black detective—worse he called me in because I was the Black detective. I was his 'in' with the Black community, and activating me was no different from when the government called in Black Dynamite.

"Thank you, Commissioner," I said, awkwardly. No other words would come to mind. I excused myself to go get Minstrel's water, but the entire time my mind reeled. I walked to the water cooler astounded. That smug bastard was actually right! I was just their blaxpert, their concierge nigga, their on-call ghetto translator! If I had put my foot down and told Jim that I would not postpone my vacation, they could have just picked out the next Black uniformed officer to do the interrogation and get the same results.

I looked down at my notes to review what I'd learned. I felt even less sure about them now than I had before. One line was the reminder to check Minstrel's dental records, the other was just the word, "gay" underlined. That's all I had on him. I was getting nowhere, but Gordon and Batman didn't care. As far as they were concerned, if the nigga was talking then everything was going great.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I won't lie, my heart rate quickened for just a moment. I whipped my head around like someone had popped a gun, then slowly let myself relax when I saw who was there.

"Whoa, there, man!" Hollywood said. His hands raised up, his palms open, he signaled that he wasn't a threat. I knew that the truth was a bit more complicated than that, though, and didn't let my guard completely fall away.

"Sorry, just a little spooked." I said. I shook my head and added, "Sick of these nutjobs, I'll never get why you left L.A."

He scoffed, "You're forgetting we have our own share of these nuts out there. We've got the Teen Titans, though."

"And that helps?" I asked.

He shook his head, "Hell no! If anything, those kids make shit worse half the time! Don't forget, it's the Bat's kids that usually wind up leading those teams."

I shook my head, "You deal with some shit out there. Not as bad as here, still, but you deal with some shit. I can acknowledge that."

He smiled. He tried to hide it, but I saw the twitch in the corner of his mouth, the slight narrow of his eyes, and the slightest change in the pink of his face. Hollywood thought that his plan was working, that he was right about to hook me, but he didn't realize that I'd already hooked him. I didn't know why Hollywood wanted me, but I knew that it couldn't be for anything good.

"We did deal with some shit out there, but the badge always took care of it's own, you know what I mean?"

I did.

"No," I said, and took a slight step closer to the cooler and reached for a cup, so that it'd look like I was trying to end the conversation.

He grabbed my arm, "Look, I know you've heard the rumors about me—I have too. But I know you're not the type to believe baseless rumors. I wasn't in the LA County Sheriffs, I was strictly California State, man!"

"That don't mean much," I said.

He nodded, "You're right, it doesn't. Look, the brotherhoods get a bad and unfair rep, just like everything our kind does, you know? A few guys act out and it tarnishes the whole brand. My kid went to school with the Thin-Blue-Line on a Mickey Mouse logo and got the snot kicked out of her by some girls that've probably been drifting in and out of this station since you were rocking the uniform."

"She alright?" I asked.

Hollywood sighed, "Yeah, she's fine. I went down to the school, yelled at the principal, told her I wanted to press charges. Those girls are going to go to trial in a couple weeks. If this were liberal LA though? Who knows, they might've said that the gender-neutral bathroom is a safe space for them and the school was in a sanctuary city."

He laughed at the joke. I understood it, and I didn't disagree with the underlying message entirely, but I didn't laugh back. I just didn't think it was funny.

"There was a time when people supported the police." I commented.

He slapped me lightly on my chest the way that white boys do when they want to establish a connection with someone. "See? I knew you'd understand. Times aren't like they used to be. Everyone's adoring masks and race-baiters, forgetting that neither would be nearly as successful without guys like us."

He was taking too long to get to his point, so I rushed him along, "For real. I saw the comments on the news reporting Namzmiren's death, it was just sick."

He shook his head, "Man, never read the comments! A psychopath rushes a cop with a knife and they declare a national day of mourning and want to change street names to shit like Black Lives Matter and Defund the Police. A cop dies and people celebrate. The world's sick, man. And guys like Minstrel are only making it worse."

I nodded, "Well, we got him now. And I suspect that if we get forensics to look into local dental records, we might finally ID him."

Hollywood's eyes narrowed again, but in a frown. His tone changed and he asked, "You really think this place is going to be able to hold him?"

I shrugged, "We've been holding Harley here without a problem for—"

"He's gonna bust out! If not out of here, then out of Arkham—which is where they'll take him rather than Iron Heights or Belle Reve, where he needs to be. Come on, man, you know that there's no justice in Gotham for guys like Minstrel. Not unless we make it happen."

I looked at him silently for a minute before asking, "What are you proposing, exactly?"

Hollywood got a little paranoid, then. He looked to his left, then to his right to make sure that no one was spying on us. He leaned in a little closer and his voice got real low, "Tell me, honestly, what you think should happen to Minstrel."

"I think he should face justice for everything he's done," I said, without hesitation.

Hollywood's eyes narrowed, "And you're committed to that? You're with us, and not him?"

I knew the implication behind his words. Hollywood wanted to know if I was Black or if I was blue. Truth of the matter is that I was both, and I'd never ignore that fact, which was why I was going to report him and whatever bullshit plan he was plotting as soon as I had a chance. But I knew telling a lie wouldn't be in my best interest, not when I needed to gain his trust.

"My skin is Black, and my soul is blue. Before anything else, I'm a defender of the law and my community. Minstrel endangers both."

Hollywood shook his head at me approvingly, and slapped me on the back, "I knew you'd be the guy we could count on. Stick around after the interrogation's done. I'll introduce you to the rest of the brothers."

With that, he walked away. I turned back to the water cooler, and let the water fall into the cup. When it was done, I just looked at it. Didn't grab it, didn't walk back to the cell, I just looked at it.

It was funny in a way I couldn't explain. The fact that Hollywood, Gordon, and even Batman all saw value in me cuz I was Black. They assumed that I'd have some kind of in, some wise insight to deliver, some way of connecting to that madman in the room. The second that they needed to understand us, they saw men like me as psychics, they hung on to our every word like it was gospel. That night was my first night really meeting Batman, just like it was my fist night really talking to Hollywood. They were both acting like we'd always been cool, but I saw through that shit. And Gordon wasn't all that different; even though I was the Golden Lasso, everyone knew that his main guys were Montoya and Bullock.

I thought I had value to them. I thought I was the Golden Lasso, the top interrogator in the station. I thought maybe one day I'd take over from Gordon. I thought that these people saw me as something more than just the Black guy. Why couldn't I be more than just the Black guy? I didn't want to just be the Black guy my whole life-I never chose to be a nigga in the first damn place! Why did I have to be saddled with this identity, this life that I never wanted?

I walked back to the interrogation room with heavy feet and limbs. Every pound of my shoe against the tiles only echoed with the memories of other interrogations that I'd had in the past. I wondered, then, if I'd been chosen for those cases because I was a good detective, or because I was Black? The answer that I was edging towards didn't placate me.

"Tea time?" Minstrel said when I opened the door again.

I silently pushed the cup of water to him. He took one look down at it, then looked back up at me without even reaching for it.

"I requested a glass of water," he demanded

"We don't have glasses, and I especially wouldn't give one to you." I said, my voice gruffer and more forced than before. I was losing my patience with him, and worse, I didn't even try to hide it.

"I'm not going to drink that," he said as he frowned, folded his arms, and looked away.

"I really don't care." I placed the writing pad down and put my pen in position. "I helped you, now you help me. What is your name?"

He stayed silent.

I rolled my eyes, "We'll come back to that one. Let's try another—How did you get the Joker gas?"

He remained silent.

"How did you learn sensitive details about Oliver Walcztloh and Rebecca Walters?"

He turned his head to me, stuck his tongue out, then looked away. My blood temperature began to rise and I took a deep breath.

"Do you know anything about the disappearance of Joseph Grant?"

Minstrel turned to me again, then gave me a smug, silent look.

I slammed my hands on the table, "Dammit, Minstrel, I'm tired of this game! I want answers!"

"And I want a mother fucking glass of water! Why is that so hard for you to get through your thick, porch monkey brain!?"

Before I could react, he picked up his cup and tossed it at the mirror. Water splashed on me, and even though I knew his lips hadn't touched it, I still felt sick and disgusted. Minstrel ranted and raved at the mirror, asking Gordon why he couldn't find more competent staff. And sometime after Minstrel used the word "house nigger" I finally lost my temper.

I slammed my hands on the table again before I rose from my chair, rushed Minstrel, and pinned him against the wall. My mind was full of angry, violent thoughts, and I felt myself mumbling nonsense syllables as I pressed my arm into his neck.

I was still aware of Jim and Batman on the other side of the mirror. I knew that they were watching and judging me. I found myself wondering if they were disappointed in me. I wondered if Hollywood would feel the same. They wanted me to be the calm, measured Black guy that they could trust to handle the situation, and there I was blowing everything. Then, I grew angry for even thinking like that, for caring about anything that they thought about me. Just a minute ago I was insulted that they were using me, and suddenly I was worried about them being disappointed in me?

I looked at Minstrel, still just as angry as I had been, but now that anger was more focused. The thoughts began to align in my mind and I was starting to see reason. I was worried about disappointing Gordon and Batman and Hollywood because of Minstrel—he taunted me and called me a slave, a nigger, a coon. He put the idea in my head that I was there to serve them. He was the one that made me question whether I'd been recruited to the case based on merit or my skin color. Minstrel was the reason I had to cancel my vacation. Minstrel was the reason I couldn't read the comments on the news. All of it was Minstrel's fault!

Pushing my forearm even deeper into his neck, I shouted, "Why do you hate me?!"

Don't ask me why I said that, specifically. For the life of me, I'm not entirely sure what response I expected from him. All I knew then was that I was pissed, nothing was going right, and Minstrel was at the center of it. He seemed larger than life almost, like a Machiavellian demigod that I could never hope to defeat. Everything that had been going wrong had to be Minstrel's fault, it only seemed natural.

Minstrel just laughed—a strained, weak laugh that choked it's way out of his throat—and he replied, "For the same reason you hate me!"

Those words did something to me. I hadn't expected them. I stopped restraining him and let him fall to the floor. It couldn't be true. I didn't hate him, not like that. I didn't like him, sure, but I didn't hate him either. And so what if I did hate him? He was a cop killer, he attacked people, he was a criminal. He wore fucking blackface! I was justified in hating him!

I pushed those thoughts out of my head and let reason enter my mind again. What I'd done was crazy. It was rash, dangerous, and a blatant example of police brutality. So why the hell wasn't Gordon storming the room, demanding that I go home?

"Gordon?" I asked as I turned towards the mirror. He didn't respond, and suddenly I found it difficult to imagine him and Batman looking in on us. I took a nervous step towards the mirror, then another nervous step, and soon my nose was touching the glass. I couldn't see inside the observation room, but I felt like I could. I felt like I could have at least seen the vague, shadowy outlines of people watching us if anyone was really there. But I didn't see that.

And in an instant, I saw nothing at all.

The lights went out, and before I could even register that, I heard screams and gunshots echoing from the halls. I reached for my gun, but then remembered that I'd walked into the interrogation room without it, thinking that I wouldn't need one since I was in a secure location in my own department. I felt alone then—and I'd like to say that I felt alone even though I was with Minstrel, but really, I felt alone because I was with Minstrel. I knew that somehow, he had something to do with this.

The emergency generators cut on, and the room quickly filled with red, emergency lighting. In the mirror, I saw myself, sweaty and dazed, and I saw Minstrel standing behind me, just over my shoulder.

I won't lie, I yelped like a little girl. I jumped backwards and inched myself into a corner of the room, terrified of what he was about to do to me. His eyes were big and buggy, his lips so bulbous and bloody, I felt like Minstrel was going to pounce on me like a cat, sink his teeth into me and tear me to shreds as he devoured my flesh. He was crazy enough, he could have done it, but he didn't make any move to harm me at all.

Minstrel held out a hand to me and spoke in a different voice. It was deeper and leveled, unlike any voice I'd heard him use before. It felt like I was hearing his real voice for the very first time, and that thought calmed me in an odd way.

"You're good, bruh," Minstrel said. He nodded his head slightly to reassure me, and just repeated again, "You're good, bruh. You're good."

Confused, my eyes locked with his as I shook my head. I didn't want to believe him, but I found myself relaxing.

"You're good, bruh. I promise you, okay? You're good."

His hand was still extended out to me, and I just stared at it forever. Minstrel kept repeating the same reassuring message, but he didn't try to force me to accept it. He kept his distance, kept his face calm, and kept his arm extended to me the entire time my brain was trapped in that fearful daze.

Finally, I felt my arm begin to extend towards his. It was a slow, uncertain movement, and I fought the urge to pull my arm back at every instant. But I kept extending, and soon enough, my hand was in Minstrel's. He smiled, shook his head, and pulled me up to my feet. And we just stood there for a moment with joined hands, staring at each other. I was still puzzled, unsure if this was really happening, but Minstrel just nodded his head to assure me that yes, yes it was.

The main power came back on, but I hardly registered that. The door to the room was kicked in, but I barely noticed that, too. Harley Quinn burst through the door, rose petals falling from her head, and all of a sudden, Minstrel was back to normal.

"Happy Kwanzaa, Jimmy!" Harley cried as she handed Minstrel his hat.

He unclasped my hand, grinned, and turned to Harley, "Happy Hannukah, Dr. Qunizel!"

Minstrel took his hat back, put it on his head, and began to walk out the room. In that moment, the cop inside of me began to wake up.

I took a step towards Minstrel and Harley, puffed up my chest, and called out in a much weaker voice than I expected, "Hey! Get back here!"

Minstrel turned his head back to me, and he put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Then, his face changed. His voice changed. He grew smug again, but there was a slight hint of anger behind his smugness.

"Better remember who team you on!" The boy shouted as he left the interrogation room.