The slap came so suddenly that the young man never had a chance to protect himself.
One moment, twenty-three-year-old Black college graduate Marcus Bennett was standing beside a bright-red lawnmower on the front lawn of his father's suburban home. The next, a white sheriff's deputy had swung his open hand across Marcus's face hard enough to send him stumbling sideways.
“GET ON THE GROUND! I DON'T CARE WHOSE HOUSE THIS IS!”
Marcus stared at the deputy in disbelief.
His left cheek burned. His ears rang, and for several seconds, the world seemed to move strangely around him. Behind the deputy, a black-and-white sheriff's SUV sat beside the curb with its blue emergency lights flashing against the beautiful houses lining the quiet suburban street.
Marcus hadn't been speeding. He hadn't been involved in an argument, and he certainly hadn't threatened anyone. He had been mowing his father's lawn on a bright Saturday afternoon, wearing a white sleeveless tank top, light-gray sweatpants, and ordinary sneakers.
The mower's red engine cover was still warm from the work he'd been doing. Freshly cut grass lay scattered across the driveway, and the neat green stripes he'd already made stretched toward the sidewalk.
“Officer, what did I do?” Marcus demanded.
The deputy stepped closer.
“Don't question me!”
Before Marcus could respond, the deputy planted both hands against his chest and shoved him backward. Marcus lost his balance, caught himself briefly on one foot, and stumbled toward the grass.
“I'm standing on my father's property!” he shouted.
The deputy rushed forward.
He grabbed Marcus by the shoulder, twisted him away from the lawnmower, and drove him down onto the ground. Marcus hit the grass with a heavy thud, his breath leaving his lungs as the deputy pressed a knee against his back.
“Stop resisting!”
“I'm not resisting!”
Marcus tried to turn his face away from the dirt.
His right arm was trapped beneath his chest. Every time he attempted to move it into a position where the deputy could reach it, the man above him shouted another command.
“Give me your hands!”
“My arm is underneath me!”
“Now!”
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut.
The deputy grabbed his left wrist and pulled it behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulder, and Marcus cried out.
A screen door slammed somewhere across the street.
A dog began barking.
Then a woman's voice shouted from a neighboring driveway.
“HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HIM?”
The deputy ignored her.
Marcus's face pressed into the freshly cut lawn. He could smell grass, warm soil, and the faint gasoline scent drifting from the mower.