Blink

says de Becker, imagining what flashed through their minds.
“He’s out there alone. At twelve-thirty in the morning. In this
lousy neighborhood. Alone. A black guy. He’s got a gun;
otherwise he wouldn’t there. And he’s little, to boot. Where’s he
getting the balls to stand out there in the middle of the night?
He’s got a gun. That’s the story you tell yourself.” They back
the car up. Carroll said later he was “amazed” that Diallo was
still standing there. Don’t bad guys run at the sight of a car full
of police officers? Carroll and McMellon get out of the car.
McMellon calls out, “Police. Can we have a word?” Diallo
pauses. He is terrified, of course, and his terror is written all
over his face. Two towering white men, utterly out of place in
that neighborhood and at that time of night, have confronted
him. But the mind-reading moment is lost because Diallo turns
and runs backs into the building. Now it’s a pursuit, and Carroll
and McMellon are not experienced officers like the officer who
watched the pearl-handled revolver rise toward him. They are
raw. They are new to the Bronx and new to the Street Crime
Unit and new to the unimaginable stresses of chasing what they
think is an armed man down a darkened hallway. Their heart
rates soar. Their attention narrows. Wheeler Avenue is an old
part of the Bronx. The sidewalk is flush with the curb, and