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The Minority Report

Cigarettes. The pungent smell made you wince once—no twice. Your sneeze fills the quiet office. Aaron, no Andrew? His return from the main office breaks your inner monologue.

“You can go right in, Miss.” He pauses you watch his eyes scan for an answer. You say your name with an assertiveness that contradicts the flutter in your stomach. The glass nameplate that spells Thomas Shelby takes your eye. A portrait and a name emblem, arrogant, eh? Still, you plaster a smile onto your lips.

“Mr. Shelby. (Y/n) (L/n) with the minority report,” He ignores your hand, walking around his desk to his chair. A mixture between a scoff and laugh left you. The well-lit room gave you a full scope of the man before you. Lovely clothes, a minimally decorated room, and maybe one family photo.

“What do I owe the pleasure?” No attempts to fake any care for the meetings. Squaring your shoulders, your smile fell as you tapped at your notepad. You fan yourself with your hand, your eyes dancing around his office. His eyes focus on you, the stone wall expression being the center of it all. Above his head, a portrait of a white horse lingered. Death.

“I bet you know a lot about white horses, eh?” Your eyes stare above him. The portrait is beautiful. The center of the room, had Thomas not been in the office, was likely the first thing to demand your eyes. “Once, in Small Heath, you were burning photographs of the King.”

“The minority report. I hear it’s growing into something large, rather political actually,” How can any man be so dejected? You force a sickeningly sweet smile on your face, the falsity of good that rots away at your teeth.

“Basic human rights is no Political matter, Mr. Shelby. It is a morality matter, but yes, it is growing to be quite successful. As have you. Back before your success when you and your Brummie boys burned pictures of the King. I sent you a list of questions to which you never responded.”

“My apologies. I must have misplaced them,” His composure still holds as firm as your smile. A chuckle leaves your lip as you shuffle through your belongings with ease.

“No worries. It has been a busy time for you, Mr. Shelby,” He broke his gaze on you as he readjusts his place on his chair. When his eyes fell on you again, a glint shone in his eyes before a chuckle left his lips.

“I remember your questions. You were a nervous one, out there around all those Peaky boys, you kept your hood up. As if some gypsies ever meant a colored girl harm,” Though not much time passed, his words were genuine. Your smile does not falter as your cheeks ache from holding them tighter in place. That night, your coworker had offered to cover the story, but you could imagine the horror if a black man was alone in that part of town.

“That is the thing, Mr. Shelby. It does not matter what I may think. Some Gypsies, eh? You may be considered white, but you have no idea what it is like to truly be the outside, Mr. Shelby. Now I digress; I must return task at hand,” Your smile fell for just a few seconds before it returned. You keep your arms carefully pressed against your thighs to keep them from shaking. “Anyhow, Mr. Shelby traditionally in this country print journalists take no interest in the private lives of politicians.”

“Private lives?” He lights a cigarette as you look between him and the questions in your lap.

“But in these modern times, especially in America, journalists are beginning to look further. There is more interest in the men who represent groups of people,” The look on his face is indiscernible. He rephrases your question with a mocking tone to match his cold exterior. “During my time in Birmingham, it was impossible to not know your name. You were everywhere, are everywhere, Mr. Shelby. Now you are elected as a Socialist.”

“Miss (L/n), you sit here in my office as proof anyone can change their lives for more, for better. Even wrote a paper on it. If I recall properly saying things like channel their abilities in new directions. Something that stuck with me from all those years ago, you said discover new methods and then better ones in a paper. You have some famous quotes in my book Miss (L/n). Dream of better days and aim for better outcomes. Are you writing this down?” You cannot help but wonder if it is he interviewing you instead. The tensions in his shoulders and the slight aggravation in his voice revealing his emotions.

“I only write direct quotes. I organize my thoughts and the interview afterward. Easier to listen to that way. The question I have for you, Mr. Shelby, is this. Was your conversion from bookmaker to socialist politician a gradual thing, or has this always been on your radar?” For the first time in all your glimpses of Thomas Shelby, you saw him genuinely smile. His breathy laugh filling the room, and his smile painting a different portrait that was already painted.

“Yes, Miss (L/n), a gradual change. You know what I remember, Miss (L/n). I remember my brother Arthur telling me about a colored girl at our first Racetrack. You wore these dark pants and this white long-sleeved shirt for someone dressed to not draw attention. No one bothered you; I made sure of it. I presume you were coming to ask me questions, but then the races started, and you stared in awe,” You can remember the day as if it was yesterday. Before your departure, a massive fight between yourself and your family occurred. Your mother was confident you would hang for your adventurous nature of stumbling into events not made for people like yourself or your family. Thomas was who you had shown up for, but when the gun went off, the sight of the horses enraptured you.

“You steer the conversation off of yourself and onto me. Why is that?” Your question is met with silence as he inhales his cigarette. His eyes fall on the picture frame on his desk for a second before it lands back onto you.

“I gained a license in 1919 for on-track betting, but since 1923, I’ve made my fortune in the manufacture, sale, and export of motorcars,” You add his recent hobby is making Gin to the list verbally. Then, noting the way he only nods as he continues his list of legal excursions, “and lately, three new homes for orphaned children. You can write all this down, Miss (L/n).”

“None of this information is new to me, Mr. Shelby. Shall I write down about the little black girl who took her life due to the treatment in one of your orphaned homes? Shall I write down about a certain Major Campbell? He was found dead, and your Aunt Elizabeth Gray nearly hung for it?” The smile on your lips appears venomous at this point, but still, Thomas chuckles at you. His cigarette burning lower and lower by the second.

“You are good at what you do. A little black girl on Watery Lane. You would hide out by the canal. When you were near Charlie’s yard, he would leave food out for you. Two older brothers, both of them serving in the war with your father. Your mother, a mixed woman raising her family on the outskirts of Birmingham. None of this information is new to me, Miss (L/n),” You are many things, but a fool is not one. Sitting up straighter, you glance at your notes, blinking profusely. Your throat burns as you recall all your mother’s fear of your ambitions; you will bring death to us all.

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Shelby?” First, you do not meet his eyes as your question enters the room. Then, when he says nothing, you look up at him to find his eyes on you.

“No, Miss (L/n). Private lives should stay private. I want that for myself and for you. We are more alike than we think,” A dry chuckle leaves your lips as your rise from your seat. You now look down at him, and you are sure your eyes hold fear, but you take a deep breath.

“That is where you are wrong, Mr. Shelby. We are not the same, Mr. Shelby. You look like them. You’re a man. In a world like this, the whites look past your gypsy blood and allow you to parade around like them. You dress us and pretend to be one of them in your nice house and your offices. When someone who looks like you pulls strings, I must dance. People like me are hung for even trying to be considered a person. Tell Mr. Shelby, what part of that do you understand?” He only stares at you. You cannot decipher his expression. Your formal goodbye includes a thank you for the meeting and a reminder of the dangers that traveling late holds. Thomas does not rise from his seat, no handshake, not even actual words. He only offers an absent nod as if he is not consciously present.