Blue Blood by Michael Lister

Author:Michael Lister [Lister, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781947606333
Publisher: Pulpwood Press
Published: 2018-11-07T00:00:00+00:00

25

While Merrill accompanies Malia to a book signing, I meet Trevon Fisher at the Panama City Rescue Mission.

The early May morning is bright and clear and already warm.

Downtown is busy, both its streets and sidewalks buzzing with activity that is completely absent at night.

In operation for over forty-five years, the Panama City Rescue Mission started as a place where the many fishermen passing through Panama City’s ports could get a hot meal, fresh clothes, and a warm bed for the night. Now, it is a homeless shelter specializing in an addiction recovery program.

Like me, Trevon Fisher is on administrative leave. He shows up in street clothes in his own vehicle, a silver GMC truck.

He’s meeting me as a favor to a mutual friend of ours. He trusts the friend and the friend trusts me.

“It all happened so fast,” he is saying. “From the time I arrived to Sykes falling to the ground dead was, like, less than two minutes.”

Carmen Sykes was the homeless man he shot on the west side of the mission after chasing him around the block.

“But,” he continues, “that doesn’t mean I’m unclear on what happened. He had a gun, and he fired it at me. It wasn’t a phone or a toy or a figment of my imagination. It was a real gun, and he shot at me with it.”

His mention of a phone makes me think of Boyd Calhoun and his shooting of Antwone Wright.

Boyd’s father, Louden, and three other of his fellow PCB police are in custody after storming our hotel hallway with shotguns last night.

“Do you know Boyd Calhoun?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not really. Know of him. Been around him a few times. Don’t really know him. But the bastard is the bane of my existence, I’ll tell you that.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“I’m getting lumped in with him and what they did out there on the beach,” he says. “This has nothing to do with that. But the timing . . . with his trial going on and everything . . . My case is getting national attention. Everybody acting like we the same. Well, we ain’t. I didn’t shoot an unarmed kid in his grandma’s backyard. I was being shot at by a suspect, and I returned fire. And if it weren’t for Calhoun’s case . . . Got this activist in town stirring everybody up . . . gonna do a march. Gonna get my ass hung is what they gonna do.”

Evidently, he doesn’t know I’m helping with Malia’s security, and my highly developed skills as an observer of people tells me I better keep it that way.

“You mind taking me through what happened?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Sam said you were in a similar situation and you might be able to help.”

“Certainly will if I can,” I say.

“I’m responding to a call that a white male in a prison uniform is waving a gun around and discharging it in the vicinity of the rescue mission,” he says.

I nod.

“When I pull

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