by Kim Johnson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Kim Johnson
Cover art copyright © 2020 by Chuck Styles
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Name: Johnson, Kim, author.
Title: This is my America / Kim Johnson.
Description: New York: Random House Children’s Books, [2020] | Summary: While writing letters to Innocence X, a justice-seeking project, asking them to help her father, an innocent black man on death row, teenaged Tracy takes on another case when her brother is accused of killing his white girlfriend.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019024787 (print) | LCCN 2019024788 (ebook) | ISBN 978-0-593-11876-4 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-0-593-11877-1 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-0-593-11878-8 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Racism—Fiction. | Judicial error—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction. | Race relations—Fiction. | Prisoners—Fiction. | Murder—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.J623 Th 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.J623 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780593118788
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Ready. Set. Go.
What Had Happened Was…
The Apple of Our Eye
Mission (Un)Accomplished
The Odd Couple
Flesh and Blood
The Fast and the Furious
Right to Remain Silent
Guilty…Until Proven Innocent
Police State
Family Matters
Past Is Always Present
Gotcha!
Like Father, Like Son
Ruby Bridges Brave
Vigilantes Get Ish Done
Don’t Freeze
Baby Got Back Burners
Snitches Get Stitches
Each One Teach One
Well, I’ll Be Damned
Outlawz
Funny Thing About Firsts
Truth Serum
At a Crossroads
No Disrespect
Receipts
Plus-one
Crash and Burn
We Got a Situation
If It Walks Like a Duck…
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
Amerikkka
Unthinkable
Taking Chances
One Day at a Time
Eagle Has Landed
Let the Saints Say Amen
Will We Ever Be the Same?
Secrets Don’t Stay Hidden Forever
Skeleton in the Closet
Kill Two Birds with One Stone
I Ain’t Never Scared
Pillar of Salt
Coming Home
All Out of Options
It Gets Worse
Relief and Pain
The Truth Shall Set Us Free
X Factor
Two Months Later
Author’s Note
Additional Resources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For those seeking justice and rehabilitation, keep fighting.
Friday, April 23
Stephen Jones, Esq.
Innocence X Headquarters
1111 Justice Road
Birmingham, Alabama 35005
Re: Death Penalty—Intake Department
Dear Mr. Jones,
My dad has precisely 275 days before his execution. You’re the only hope we have because every lawyer we’ve used has failed us. In the last appeal, Judge Williams didn’t take more than five minutes to consider.
We mailed a renewed application since it’s now been seven years.
Please look into James Beaumont’s application (#1756). We have all the court and trial files boxed up and ready to go.
Thank you for your time.
Tracy Beaumont
P.S. Jamal’s going to college. Can you believe it? All that running added up to something. If you have those letters where I say he was wasting his time, please destroy them.
P.S.S. Next Saturday at 10:00 a.m. Jamal’s doing an interview on The Susan Touric Show. You should check it out.
READY. SET. GO.
Time runs my life. A constant measuring of what’s gone and what’s to come. Jamal’s hundred-meter dash is a blazing 10.06 seconds. That’s how my older brother got this monumental interview. I’m not thinking about Jamal’s record, though. I’m thinking about Daddy’s time. Seven years—2,532 days served, to be exact.
This running clock above my head’s been in place since his conviction. That moment branded me. Mama gripped the courtroom bench to keep from collapsing as each juror repeated guilty. I looked to Mama for an explanation. The empty look in her eye cried out the answer: death.
Since then, it’s ticktock.
Here at the TV station, Jamal rocks steadily in the guest chair, watching highlights of his track career with the producer during a commercial break. He glides his hands over his fresh barber cut, his mind more likely on the camera angles that’ll best show his waves.
We’re true opposites, despite our one-year difference.
He’s patient.
Calm.
Thinking.
Living.
Loving.
He’s everything on the outside I wish to be. Bringing people in, when nine out of ten, I’d rather push them out. That’s why I hate that my mission crosses paths with the biggest day of Jamal’s life.
Five minutes and thirty-seven seconds until showtime.
As the commercial nears its end, I don’t have to look up to know Mama’s leaving the makeup room. The click of her heels echoes past a crew of engineers and radiates as she circles around Jamal to the guest seating area on the side of the studio stage. She enters like only a proud Black mother can, hair all pressed and curled, with a sharp black skirt suit that fits her curvy figure.
Mama’s been name-dropping everywhere she can about the news anchor Susan Touric showcasing Jamal as a top athlete. I expected a live audience, but the set is a small studio and crew. I look
out to Susan Touric’s interview desk with a backdrop image of Austin, the state capital. They’ve pulled out a white couch so there’s space for my family to join Jamal at the end.
Mama smiles at Jamal, then at my little sister, Corinne, but I swear she throws some silent shade my way. Her not-so-subtle warnings have been going on for the past month. She knows I want Daddy’s story to seep out, but Mama has made clear there is no room for Daddy on this occasion. Not because she don’t love Daddy, but because she wants Jamal to have a clean slate at college as Jamal, not “Jamal, the son of a murderer.”
If it was a few years ago, I’d understand, but Daddy’s got less than a year. No extensions. No money for more appeals. While time uncoils itself from Daddy’s lifeline, she’s forbidden Susan Touric from mentioning him, too. The show agreed not to talk about Daddy in exchange for Jamal showing up; and if Susan tries anything, Mama says we’ll straight up leave.
Mama stands by me and leans near my ear. “Tracy, ain’t it something to see your big brother’s hard work paying off?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I say, even though I’m still hoping the journalist in Susan can’t help but fling open Pandora’s box—on live television.
Mama won’t be able to stop it then.
Then our truth can breathe free.
The fight for Daddy’s appeal won’t be in vain. People will finally hear the truth. Wake up to the fact that Lady Liberty has failed us. Failed so many others.
Angela Herron floats into the room with a twinkle of excitement in her eye. Her long blond hair bounces with an unstoppable future. Angela’s a new production intern for The Susan Touric Show, even though she’s only a senior in high school, weeks away from graduating with Jamal’s class. It’s no coincidence that her dad owns Herron Media back in Galveston County, where Jamal’s worked the past two years. She’ll always have it easy. I’ve worked my ass off to be in the running for the school newspaper editor next year so just maybe I can get into college internships early. Meanwhile, she’s already advanced to a position most college grads can’t get.
“Nervous?” Angela asks Jamal.
“Nah.” Jamal’s foot taps as he tries to play it cool.
“You got this.” Angela hands Jamal a sheet of paper. “Here are the questions Susan’s asked the other guests.”
“Thanks, Ang.”
All the other interviews have the common thread of compelling American stories: a boy who battled cancer; an almost career-ending torn ACL; a girl hiding her gender at football tryouts. Each story a tearjerker. I’m hard pressed to believe that they’d leave out what’s at the heart of Jamal’s dedication. What he’s had to overcome.
I glance over Jamal’s shoulder and skim the questions, looking for my window of opportunity.
“Tracy,” Mama says. “Give your brother space.”
Hater. I step closer to Mama.
Angela goes over a few pointers. Before I can ear hustle more, Angela’s boyfriend, Chris Brighton, enters with a large box of doughnuts that appear tiny in his hands. Chris is still built out from football season, his strawberry-blond hair tucked under a Texas A&M hat with his jersey number, 27, stitched on the side. He’ll be playing there next year. Just like at school, he barely acknowledges us.
“Excuse me.” Angela goes to meet Chris, and I catch her mouthing, What are you doing here?
Chris places the box of doughnuts on the table. Angela touches his arm, like she’s trying to be sweet, but by the way her mouth is turned down, it’s obvious that she’s irritated at him messing up her work flow.
“Can I have one?” Corinne asks, ogling the doughnuts.
Mama agrees, and Corinne tiptoes past Angela. When she reaches in, the box slips.
“Watch it,” Chris snaps, catching the box. His square jaw is tight, like he can flick Corinne away with a nasty glare.
Jamal jumps up. Chris’s ears get red as Angela shushes him, pointing to the red flashing ON AIR sign.
Sorry, Corinne mouths, then takes a bite.
Jamal joins us, his arm now around Corinne, who’s dressed in a striped yellow church dress. I chose a simple black A-line dress. My hair in an updo, sleek edges, and curls all out like a crown was placed on top of my head.
The camera cuts away from Susan, and they play a video of the four athletes they’ve spotlighted in May.
“It’s starting.” Corinne nudges Jamal before clapping like there’s a live audience. Crumbs flying everywhere.
Jamal chuckles and joins in with Corinne. I can’t help but let a smile slip, and I clap softly because Jamal deserves this.
The last of the footage includes Jamal’s records rolling up the screen. He’s compared to competitive world athletes with Olympic gold medals. Then they show Jamal’s last track meet of the season, where he beat the boys’ high school track record, tying the long-standing 1996 college record. I feel like I’m there again. The crowd cheered so loud it shook the bleachers. You knew something special was about to happen. Jamal dropped to his knees when the scoreboard confirmed the new record.
“You know what you gonna say?” Corinne asks.
“Do I know what I’m gonna say?” Jamal bends down to Corinne so he can whisper. “You got advice for me, baby sis?”
“Don’t say ummm.”
I burst out a laugh, then cover my mouth when Mama nudges me.
“That all you got?”
“You say ummm a lot when you’re nervous.” Corinne shrugs and takes Mama’s hand.
“You hear her, Tracy?” Jamal elbows me. “I don’t say ummm a lot.”
“You kinda do.” I smirk.
“Yoooo. You wrong for saying that right before my interview. You know what’s gonna be stuck in my head now, right?”
“Yip,” I say. “Ummmm.”
“Ummmm,” Corinne joins in. We sound like a chorus at the side of the stage.
“Knock it off now, girls.” Mama wags her finger at us.
Angela cuts between us, gesturing for Jamal to follow her onto the studio’s stage while we take a seat offstage. Jamal gives her a wink when she wishes him good luck. Her cheeks go pink. He can always make someone feel special. Daddy says he’s got a heart of gold. I just wish he wouldn’t throw it around so easily.
I watch Chris in the shadows. White privilege at its finest. Today he’s exhibiting classic toxic masculinity. I can tell Angela doesn’t want him here, but he’s too arrogant to think different. He acts that way in school, too, like he could get away with anything, since his dad is sheriff.
Poised and ready, Susan Touric faces the camera marked NBS ONE. She looks like all the white newscasters they have at this station except the rotating weather girls of color. Susan’s dressed in a white blouse and a gaudy necklace of choice for the day. Her silky black hair is coiffed in a bob around her fake-tanned skin, and pink lipstick matches the color of her glasses.
The crew shifts into movement. The spotlight zooms in. The producer gives her a hand signal near the teleprompter. A green light blinks, and Susan plasters on a smile. On cue, the music begins. My heart now beats at a rapid pace.
“Reporting live here at NBS World News. If you’re just tuning in, we’ve been highlighting top scholar athletes across the country. I have the pleasure of introducing a local star: the number one track athlete in the state of Texas, soon to be high school grad, Jamal Beaumont.”
Jamal’s dark brown skin shines as he flashes a wide smile. He sits lean and tall in a closely tailored dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie he saved up for so Mama wouldn’t worry about the cost.
The camera loves him. My stomach twists because I need the interview to bring attention to Daddy’s case, but it’ll take away from Jamal. I hope he’ll forgive me once he realizes what I’m trying to do.
Bring Daddy home.
Alive.
“When did you fi
rst start running?” Susan leans forward and rests her hand on her chin. The same way she begins every interview.
“You’re going to have to ask my mama, because I swear I came out running.”
Mama laughs, nudging me, then mouths, It’s true. It’s true.
I chuckle. Mama’s loving every second of this.
“When you’re not running, you’re also working at a local radio station and have your own show Thursday evenings.”
“Yes. I love it. I’m planning to major in communications and media.”
“One day you could be interviewing me.”
“That’s my sister’s thing. I’m more behind the scenes. Audio engineering.”
“Brains and brawn, huh?”
He gives her a modest smile. Susan eats it up.
“Do track stars run in the family? There’s usually more than one. Am I right?”
Jamal swallows, stopping for a millisecond, but I’m sure only Mama and I notice.
“The men in the family have those genes for sure.”
Jamal’s talking about Daddy. Before we moved to Texas, Daddy had his own track glory days in New Orleans. His name kept his hometown business afloat in tough times, with customers wanting to help him out. After the flood, all that was lost. People left, and the local history was forgotten. Life was still hard a decade after Hurricane Katrina, so when Hurricane Veronica hit, we also left for good.
We evacuated to Texas, but Daddy never ran again. During his trial, they said it was his speed that got him all the way across town so quick. Daddy’s fast, but he’s not Superman fast.
