I don't have a driver's license yet, just my school ID. He reached slowly for his backpack. Keep your hands where I can see them. Grayson snapped, his hand instinctively moving toward his holster. Jallen froze, his hands visible in front of him.
My school ID is in my backpack, sir. Grayson exited the vehicle, circling around to where Jallen stood on the sidewalk. A few neighbors slowed their cars watching. Others peeked through windows, drawn to the spectacle of the new officer questioning the black teenager. "What's in the bag?
Empty it out." "Just books and school stuff," Jallen said, carefully setting his backpack on the ground and unzipping it. As Jallen removed his textbooks and notebooks, Grayson's demeanor shifted from cautious to contemptuous. The boy's backpack contained nothing but school materials, a water bottle, and basketball shoes. No weapons, no drugs, nothing to justify the stop.
But rather than ending the encounter, Grayson doubled down. "Where do you live exactly?" He demanded. "Cedar Street, sir, number 1742, just three blocks that way." "Parents home?"
"My mom will be home from work soon." "What about your dad? Where's he?" Grayson's tone had changed, becoming almost conversational, but with a mocking edge that made Jallen's skin crawl. "He's away for work."
"What kind of work keeps a man away from his family?" Grace impressed, leaning closer. "You kids never seem to have a man at home, huh?" The implication was clear, and it stung. Jallen could feel heat rising to his face, but he kept his expression neutral, just as his father had taught him.
My dad's in special forces, Jallen replied quietly. The words came out matter of fact, without bravado or challenge. Just the truth, simply stated. Grayson's face split into a wide grin before he burst into laughter. The sound echoing down the quiet suburban street.
Special forces? He repeated loud enough for the gathering onlookers to hear. Your daddy's G.I. Joe, huh? That's rich, kid.
Jallen said nothing. His face, a mask that betrayed none of the anger and humiliation churning inside him. "Hey, Miller," Grayson called to another officer who had pulled up in a second cruiser. "This kid says his daddy's in the special forces. Maybe he works with Chuck Norris."
Officer Miller chuckled uncomfortably, glancing at the growing number of witnesses on the street. Unnoticed by either officer, a girl about Jallen's age, stood half hidden behind a tree across the street. Maya Thompson, a classmate of Jaylen's, had her phone out recording the encounter. Her finger hovered over the stop button several times, but something told her to keep filming. "Listen, GI Joe Jr."
Grayson said, stepping closer to Jallen. Next time you want to make up stories, pick something believable. I was in the military. I know what real soldiers look like. Jallen remained silent, his eyes steady, but not challenging.
He knew better than to talk back to a cop, especially one who seemed determined to provoke him. "Get your stuff and move along," Grayson finally said, apparently bored with the lack of reaction. "And stay out of trouble." Jallen carefully repacked his bag, conscious of the eyes watching him. He placed his headphones back over his ears, though he didn't turn the music on.