“You’re right. That is difficult.”
“It won’t be difficult for long. Things are going to change for the better, Liv.”
At a fundraising gala for the Elita Norwich Foundation for Breast Cancer Research, Elita’s daughter, Maureen, approached the podium. She positioned her reading glasses and unfolded the pages of her speech.
“I am thrilled to bring up to the stage a man who inspires us all: CEO of CAN Create, Charles Greene. CAN Create’s pilot project, the Renovation, is making bold and necessary changes to this city. Facilitated by the help of the skilled—and, may I say, handsome—new special forces, the Boots . . .” Maureen paused for comedic effect. Giggles tickled the audience as their heads nodded in the direction of a lineup of Boots standing at attention in the stage’s right wing. Collectively, the Boots remained still. They did not smile back. “His dream of unity and peace in the face of disaster will put marginalized and vulnerable populations to work while housing and feeding them and their families. And this evening, we are celebrating Charles’s generous donation of two and a half million dollars towards the construction of the Elita Norwich Wing of St. Cecilia’s Hospital, dedicated to the care of breast cancer patients. I truly believe this tremendous individual can add the words ‘philanthropist’ and ‘visionary’ to his title.”
Liv applauded along with the adoring crowd, her new solitaire-cut engagement ring twinkling with each clap. Hundreds of chairs shuffled wide from banquet tables to allow for a standing ovation.
Wearing the newly designed Boots black leather regalia, Charles, with mock modesty, took to the stage where Maureen waited with an oversized cheque. While he posed in various handshakes and embraces, shouting was heard at the back of the hall. Everyone turned to look, curious about the commotion.
“Charles Greene!” screamed a Black man who was making his way past the line of sandbags at the entrance of the reception hall towards the stage. Trails of flood water followed in his wake. He tilted his chin up towards each corner of the room, ensuring his voice carried to the bewildered crowd. “You have blood on your hands, profiting from forced labour and—”
Two security guards hurriedly made their way to the man. He shifted left and right in an attempt to escape.
“CAN Create and its affiliates profit from forced labour!” he managed to say before the guards dragged him past the sweets table, past the line of sandbags, then finally off the premises, kicking and screaming. Venue staff discreetly mopped up the trail of water left behind from the unexpected kerfuffle.
Maintaining a smile, Charles waved and the audience applauded again.
“Can you believe someone would do that? He’s so generous,” a woman at the same table whispered into Liv’s ear while clapping her white evening gloves in rhythm. Others chimed in.
“And then you wonder why Charles is doing all this in the first place.”
“Ungrateful.”
“He’ll be thanking Charles once he gets a job.”
“Doesn’t he look handsome in his Boots uniform?”
“Love a man in uniform.”
Liv nodded in pretend agreement. “What can you do? Can’t please everyone.”
During the taxi ride home, Liv caressed Charles’s cheek. “That was awful. I’m sorry.” Charles grabbed Liv by the wrist.
“The only person who’ll be sorry is him.” He let go of her wrist and looked back at the taxi driver’s concerned face in the rear-view mirror. “What are you looking at, Paki? Drive.”
One week later, that Black man, Leo Ebil Amodo, prison-reform activist, father of two, was found dead, supposedly from suicide.
Liv removed her panties, stuffed them into her purse, hopped onto the examination table and placed her feet in the stirrups. A knock at the door.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
Dr. McKay entered with a file folder under his arm and closed the door. “Let’s take a look,” he said, crisp and professional, his sunburned baldness reflecting the office lighting. He wheeled his chair to Liv’s face and squeezed his hands into the squeak and snap of latex gloves. After switching on a directional floor lamp just beyond Liv’s legs, he shifted to a tender tone. “How you doing, Liv?”
“I’m okay.”
“We’re all thinking about you.”
There were no words. Dr. McKay put a gloved hand on Liv’s forearm and the two shared a knowing look and a forced exhale.
“Shall we get started?” At Liv’s nod, Dr. McKay opened the file. “As you can see here, our boy Charles has been busy.” Liv adjusted herself sideways for a better view, her feet still in the stirrups. Photos of Charles travelling through the city. Charles shaking hands with tough guys. Tough guys who had served prison sentences for what were called hate crimes long before hate crimes became the norm. Tough guys who were done cooking meth and would rather burn the Others alive. Tough guys humiliated by Black women who had put them into the friend zone. Tough guys traumatized after being carjacked by Asian gangs. Tough guys who hated Indigenous boys for getting their teen daughters pregnant.
“Yup. Got it.”
Dr. McKay shuffled through the photos until a series of drone shots of industrial warehouses made it to the top of the pile.
“And here are the workhouses. So far, we’ve counted seven of them in the Greater Toronto Area. According to our sources, some of them are outfitted for garments. Some are outfitted for food production. Some for electronics. Each one is different, depending on their stakeholders. And we’re talking multiple international corporations having some skin in the game.”
Dr. McKay pushed back his wheeled chair to sort through the photos until he arrived at the one he was looking for. “Aha. Here we go.” He dug his heels into the floor to close the gap between him and Liv. “See here?” He adjusted the neck of the lamp to shine on a drone photo. His gloved hand pointed to what looked like a gaping scar opposite a warehouse. From above, what appeared to be several dots of people encircled the scar.
“What is that?” Liv strained her eyes at the pixelated image.
“We asked the same thing. Our drones recorded them digging this ditch over the course of a few days. Other warehouses had them too, of varying sizes, but all located within walking distance of the compounds. Then we got these images from one of our Boots on the inside of the Junction workhouse.”
Dr. McKay filed the drone shot to the back of the pile and looked at the next photo for a brief moment before revealing it to Liv. The lower left corner of the photo was obscured by fabric, perhaps the pocket of the undercover Boot, and the curve of a fingertip.
In the photo, three Brown men sat at the edge of a ditch with their hands interlaced behind their heads, their eyes fixed forward. They were naked, and their clothes were piled beside them. About ten feet from them, in the lower right quadrant of the photo, was their future: a tangle of lifeless legs and arms. How many? It was unclear. What was clear was the outline of a Boot in the upper left quadrant of the photo, aiming a rifle at the head of the first of the three men.
Liv took the photo from Dr. McKay’s hands and looked closely at the men’s eyes, searching for the solace that their souls had already left their bodies, like a sheep that goes still and blank in the face before the kill. But the closer she looked, the more the pixels obscured their legacy cut too short. She stopped herself from bending the edges of the photo with her hands, now shaking and wet with perspiration.