In our defense, he began to act erratically when we blinded and beat him and decided to shoot him face-down in the street
In our defense, she was reaching for something in the glovebox, common ground, perhaps, or clarity on conflicting orders, or her belief that no one should die this way
In our defense, he didn’t disclose he had a heart condition after we dragged him to a black site and used everything we know to break him
In our defense, she was a terrorist, or she knew one, maybe, but what we know for sure is she chose the wrong day to make us feel small and afraid
In our defense, our only mistake was murdering someone whose skin color was supposed to keep them safe
In our defense, he threatened us with his complexion, his conviction that his life or death should matter as much as a white martyr’s
In our defense, the autopsy proved this: they all died dreaming of a world without pepper spray and night raids, a world better than the one that killed them
In our defense, it was always about the power to say the quiet part loud, to hurt you, to kill you, to tell you you deserved it, to decide who —whose body, whose skin, whose life, whose story— is worth defending
