“This was the scene, ten years ago tomorrow, at Johnny on the Spot gas station.”

The deep male voice spoke over grainy security video, showing an officer pointing a gun at someone unseen, standing below the camera.

“Ma, this isn’t”

“Shush!”

Jonas and Leticia looked at each other, rolling their eyes. Once their mother was engrossed in the current news story, everything else faded away.

“A case of mistaken identity, and a split reaction of an officer in fear of his life, brought tragedy to one young man, and forever changed the life of another.”

The view changed to another security camera in the same store, this one behind the officer. The image was cropped so that you couldn’t see the person the officer was firing at, but you could see the glass front of a drink case shatter, a single hand rising up from the floor for a moment before crashing back down.

“ABT-67’s own Karen Larson spoke earlier today to that man, Pierce Hawkins, at the corporate headquarters of his drone and security tech company here in Gryphon. Karen?”

The image changed to a young woman standing in front of a desk, mic in hand. Her bright red hair was a sudden contrast to the black and white camera footage, and she beamed out of the TV at them. “Thank you Bob! I’m here talking to Pierce Hawkins, owner of Fourth Feather. Pierce, the last few years have been a bit of a renaissance for your company in regards to drones, and that's created quite a few local jobs. What can you tell us about it?”

She turned to the figure next to her as the camera panned out. She held the microphone at the level of his head, and looked down on him, but barely stopped herself from leaning down to get closer to his level. The man looked up at her from the lower position in his wheelchair, a touch of scorn on his face, at least the parts that could be seen past the large glasses he wore, wide bands blocking off a portion of his upper face.

“Please, Ms. Larson. You’re not here to talk about drones. The tenth anniversary of the day I was shot is tomorrow. You want a piece about how, despite the tragedy, a hardworking citizen moved past being collateral damage in the murder of a young man. Hell, I bet you’re even going to show the footage again like your station did last year. Just as long as they don’t show him dying. That was crass.”

Karen stood stock still a moment before training and self preservation kicked in. “Mr. Hawkins, I don’t, I mean, no, I’m just hear to talk about your drone business. I…”

Pierce looked straight at the camera. “Tell you what, air the whole interview, including the next minute, and I’ll play nice. GOT THAT BOB!? I bet they didn’t even say his name. Just something like, ‘young boy taken before his time’. Well I’ll say it. Everyone, remember the name Freddie McManus. Shot for the crime of holding a push pop.”

He turned to look back at Karen. “Everyone talks about me, because I survived. No one talks about Freddie. He would have turned twenty one a few weeks ago.”

Jonas and Leticia glanced at each other, and back at their mother, leaning forward in spite of herself, glued to the tv. She chortled a little. “Well damn. This guy ain’t half bad. For a white man.”

On screen, Karen was regrouping. “Well, as tragic as it was, that day did lead to quite a lot of reforms in our Police Department, many spearheaded by initiatives you helped fund.”

Pierce stopped for a moment, his lip raising in a half smile. “Oh, you’d like to think that. How many unarmed people were shot in the last year alone? Or beaten, or tased. Cuffed and choked unconscious AFTER being cuffed? With no proof due to those wonderful body cameras not catching anything.”

Karen rallied gamely, “Well, the department has been reporting numerous malfunctions with the cameras in the last couple of years.”

“Lies.”

“Mr. Hawkins, I think thats a bit unfair to insist on without”

“LIES!” Karen froze as he raised his voice a moment. He looked at her and sat further back in his chair. “Sorry, but, they are lies. Ms. Larson…” He pointed a forefinger at her, then waved a circle, pointing at the world around them. “We MAKE those cameras. Final assembly and testing is right here in this building.”

“You.. make the body cameras used by GPD?”

Pierce nodded. “That’s right, we won the contract two years ago when the new oversight law added requirements for them that their previous vendor couldn’t commit too. And I’ll be honest, we’re taking a loss on them. But I know its done right. The thing is, Ms. Larson, we use the same cameras we use in our highest end drones. They are shock proof, water proof, dust proof, and EMP resistant. We’ve tested them on drones that run through a demolition derby, and we’ve tested them near active firearms, to make sure they can stand the flash and pressure wave.”

He looked up at Karen, motioning her to come closer. She leaned down unconsciously. “GPD reports a failure rate of about 10 percent. The cameras fail 10 percent of the time they are supposed to be recording. Do you know what our failure rate is in testing, under conditions vastly more arduous than the average cop faces?”

“Less than ten?”

“Less than one one-thousandth. And when we ask the GPD to send us the faulty units so we can test them and figure out what went wrong? Well, they haven’t sent us one back yet.”

On that pronouncement, the image switched back to the studio. A blonde, well defined man sat in a suit, a sheen of sweat clear on his brow. The ticker underneath identified him as Bob Barder, Lead Anchor. “Well, with that interesting assertion, we head into a quick commercial break. When we get back, Karen gets a look deeper inside the Fourth Feather operation. And later tonight, Could mold be growing in YOUR pipes?”

Commercials began, and a large beef stick, a white W emblazoned on the wrapper, floated over a colorful background. “Waszkiewicz Beef Sticks. Now in pepperoni, teriyaki, and bold barbecue. It doesn’t matter how you say our name, with our meat in your mouth, it all sounds the same.” A large bite vanished from the floating stick with a crisp biting noise, and the voice over continued, garbled. “Waszkiewicz”

The trio stared at each other in amazement. Jonas was the first to speak up. “How the HELL did they let that get on the air?”

****

Earlier that day.

“CUT!” Karen made a chopping motion to her cameraman while looking at Pierce. “How the hell do you expect the station to let that on the air?”

Pierce chuckled as an older man ducked into the office through a doorway behind him. He called out, still looking at Karen, “Robert, just the man I was hoping to see.” Robert stepped towards them, a small device held out in front of him. Pierce reached behind himself, still staring at Karen, and plucked it out of Robert’s hands, bringing it forward to present to her. The device proved to be a small phone or tablet, and the screen lit up, replaying their conversation from a dozen angles.

“I daresay our cameras,” with that, Pierce tapped his glasses, two places on his chair, and pointed to three locations around the room. Karen whipped her head around looking at them, but was unable to spot any of the cameras. “Are better than yours. If your channel DOESN’T play that, along with the tour I am about to give you which is what they DO want for their ratings and message, we’ll release this footage on YouTube.”

Karen, forgetting the propriety that she had held onto, bent at her knees, nearing kneeling, while bunching her skirt in one hand to prevent it riding up. She looked Pierce dead in the eyes, voice lowering in volume and timbre. “ARE… are you trying to BLACKMAIL the news station?”

Robert answered for him, his voice impeccably controlled and measured. “Ms. Larson, you’re making a spectacle of yourself. We aren’t DOING anything, other than ensuring that our company and Mr. Hawkins himself are seen by the public in the appropriate light.”

While Karen tried to find a response, Pierce folded his hands roughly under his chin, beaming an innocent smile at her. Then, with a quirk of his face that looked almost like a wink, the wheelchair whirred into life, turning around her, and moving past. Without looking back, Pierce called, “Well, if you want that full tour and interview, come along.” She motioned to her cameraman to follow, and rising, smoothed out her skirt before starting to follow. He came to a sudden stop, and, still not looking back at her, motioned to the desk she was standing in front of. As he did, a device mounted on the wall lit up and spun, shining a small spotlight on the desk. “Don’t forget your notepad.” Turning back, she saw, spotlighted by the device, her notepad and pen, nearly forgotten on the desk in her haste.

Picking it up, she hurried after him, the chair leading a quick pace out of the room and down a long hall. “How… how did you?”