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We passed the broken-down shops on Eighth Avenue and were crossing over to the motel side of the street when suddenly I seemed to see police agents all around me. Surely this was just another one of my recurring fits of paranoia. Yet as we walked through the glass doors of the motel, I had a sudden impulse to turn around and race back into the anonymous crowds I had just left. But if my instincts were correct, if all these nondescript white men were in fact policemen surrounding us, then the slightest abrupt move on my part would give them the excuse they needed to shoot ijs down on the spot. I remembered how they had murdered li’l Bobby Hutton, how they shot him in the back after telling him to run. If, on the other hand, my instincts were groundless, my running would only arouse suspicion. I had no choice but to keep on walking. (en) |
