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The Philadelphia Story Continued...

    "That's okay, Sir," the Uber driver said. "Take your time. No rush."

    With that, he pushed off again and slowly stood alongside the car. He held the cane in his right hand and put his other hand on the car's roof. He was thin and frail but didn't look her 120 years of life on Earth. And the driver kept his thoughts to himself. Yeah, right, 120 years. He sauntered toward the courthouse. He picked up strength as he walked and glided through the revolving doors. Just inside the courthouse lobby, he stopped and looked around. Soon, a Black female sheriff's officer approached him.

    "Sir, can I help you?"

    "Yes, thank you. I must get to courtroom 306 to see my great-great-grandson, Fletcher Dorsey. He's a good boy, and I'm the only one here for him."

    "Okay, Sir, you have to go to the metal detector line over here. Come on, I'll show you."

    After Charlie followed the officer toward the line for the metal sector, he stopped. "Wait, wait. Is that the line for the Colored people?"

    "Oh no, it's for the families of those charged, the defendants," the officer said."

    "Why is they all Colored?"

    Well, it happens that those accused are Black."

    "Happens, do it? What about that line over there? What's that line for?"

    "That's where the court people enter. Judges, lawyers, and jurors."

    "Thems all white," Charlie replied.

    "Well, not all white, it's usually mixed."

    "Looks all white to me."

    "Well, it may, but most times, it's mixed," the officer said.     

    "I see. I've seen this stuff before," he said. "Whites over there, Colored over there. And made up excuses, like most times it mixed when I see right now that over there is Colored and over there is white. The clothes and faces may change, and the years speed up, but the lines don't change.

     "Well, I'm sorry you feel that way. Would you like to get in line?"

    "Sure, I'll get in the Colored line cause I'm Colored.


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