by Kim Johnson
“Things are fine,” I say. “I’m sure of it.”
I take deep breaths, swallowing up the panic that’s racing to my brain. I try and push down the memories of the time they came for Daddy. Thank God Corinne wasn’t born yet. She didn’t have to see him dragged by his neck through the house by police. I screamed nonstop when Jamal opened the door and the cops pushed him aside. They rushed Daddy, threw him on the ground, and shoved a knee in his back.
Daddy told me he wanted to lie still, but your body does the opposite. Survival. Someone’s holding you down, you want to ask why, yell out in pain. They beat his head down, expecting with each punch he was supposed to take it in silence. Each cry he made, they hit him harder until he shut his mouth and they cuffed him.
Mama was stuck between fighting for Daddy, holding on to her pregnant belly, and keeping me calm. My scream ricocheted in the background as they read his rights, accusing him of murdering Mr. and Mrs. Davidson.
Corinne never held that memory, but I know she feels it in everything we breathe. It’s in the polite nods across the street we have to make, the way our family turns down our music when there are others around. Say yes ma’am and no sir. Leave our jackets and backpacks in the car when we go shopping.
It’s in the way I carry myself that tells our story now. I can’t risk being accused of anything. Because if something goes wrong or missing, I know it’s in the back of someone’s mind that maybe I had something to do with it. And it’s in the way that the voice of the strongest woman I know stumbles when saying, “Hello, Officer” as she walks through the visitation gates to see Daddy.
Only recently has it been cemented in my mind and made clear that acting civil, being deferential, doesn’t matter. It’s like Mama has always said: Black lives don’t matter enough to them. That evidence is live and in color, on every news channel in America.
I’m snapped back to the present as they yell, “Police! Open up!”
Mama goes for the door.
“Mama, no,” I say. “Not until we see they have a warrant.”
“Baby, no. This ain’t a workshop. This is real life. Look at Corinne.”
Corinne is shaking, terrified on the steps.
Mama pushes me behind her, then cinches her robe’s belt and loosens the chain lock, before cracking the door open. A flood of blue and red lights streams through the house, and then a bright light flashes in Mama’s face. She steps back and blocks it with her hand. When she does this, she’s shoved back by the sheriff, John Brighton, pushing the door open more, gun drawn. His face is stern, red-fleshed around his neck. He has the same strawberry-blond hair, like an older version of his son, Chris—shorter, but with a matching body type, more fluff than muscle. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was frightened.
We should be the ones who are afraid, not him.
“We’re here to take in Jamal Beaumont, ma’am.” He shoves a warrant in front of us.
I suck in my teeth. All my training to review the warrant slips my mind as fear snakes up my legs and freezes me from moving. I look up to Jamal’s room. Behind my shoulder, his door slowly opens to a crack. I’m reminded of his odd behavior. Jamal must’ve gotten into a fight. I look to Corinne, praying she won’t cry out for Jamal on the stairs.
With my arms folded, I finally settle my list of what I should be doing as I make eye contact with Jamal. I only see a sliver of him, but it’s like I can read his mind. That thing that siblings always have ingrained in their DNA—never rat on each other—lips sealed. The blood I saw tonight will never be mentioned. They wouldn’t wait for his side of the story.
I step in front of Mama, making sure to only keep the door ajar. Mama digs her nails into my skin accidentally. It helps me focus on staying silent. If I’m calm, Mama will be, too.
“Let me review the warrant, please.” I take the warrant from Sheriff Brighton’s hand, but I’m not fully reading it. I’m stalling.
The house creaks as Jamal scuffles around in his room. The rusty glide of his bedroom window opening sends prickles down my spine. Mostly sounds I’ve gotten used to when he comes home by curfew, only to scoot out the window to stay out later. I’m not sure if I’m thinking it, but I swear there’s another thump outside.
In my head, I imagine Jamal jumping off the roof and sprinting away. I keep my face stone-cold. Because no matter what my brother might’ve done, I’m not gonna let them take him away from us.
With every delay, it’s another second for Jamal to escape. I will him to get to the river trail and up through the hills, running the route he takes every day to train during track season. He knows every nook and cranny in the dark because we’ve played hide-and-seek in the woods for years, and my brother is a master at it. I pray the sheriff doesn’t have tracking dogs and Jamal can cut through the woods to the other side of the highway and catch a bus.
“It’s late, Sheriff,” Mama says behind me. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Get your boy.” Sheriff Brighton’s voice has the same sharp bite to it as his son’s.
Behind the sheriff, a squadful of cars are parked outside our house. Some cops are posted by the cars, others putting protective gear on.
“What the hell,” I whisper under my breath.
Mama’s back is as rigid as a board as Corinne joins us in the entryway. I don’t know what to do, because the warrant looks legit. I want to run to Corinne, to be by her side and block them from Jamal, but I know it won’t make a difference. Corinne’s weight pulls on me. I know it’s more important to keep her away. Keep her safe.
“I said, get your boy,” the sheriff says.
A few more officers draw in closer to the door, like they’re about to rush our entryway.
“Almost done,” I say. “It’s our right to verify a warrant.”
I wonder what it’s like to be someone who’d feel safe in their presence. I try to trick my mind, pretend we called them. It helps me settle more, and I give Mama a squeeze, hoping I can do the same for her. But it doesn’t last long, because the word boy keeps running in my head. A bitter taste flushes in my mouth, the way that word drawls out like just another slur in coded language.
The officers, guns drawn, spread to each entrance of the house.
Mama’s struck with fear, with grief, and it’s like she gave them permission from that moment and it didn’t matter I was planning on reading this warrant over a thousand times. Mama removes the chain lock and opens the door wider. They flood past us, scattering through the house and up the stairs before she can say she’ll bring Jamal down.
As they make their way upstairs, I pray that God led Jamal into the woods and he is doing what he knows best, using his God-given legs to run.
RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT
Mama wraps her arms around us as they search our home. Sheriff Brighton stays back, making sure we don’t touch anything.
“Where is he?” the sheriff asks.
“I have no idea,” Mama says. “I’d be able to help if I knew why you’re here.”
“If you know anything about his whereabouts, you should get him in here before—”
“Before what?” I breathe out heavy, angry.
“What exactly do you want my son for?” Mama tugs my arm back to take over the conversation.
“You’ll hear soon enough, but right now I’m going to ask you to get your daughter in line and bring your boy in.”
“I’ll bring my son in. Don’t worry about that.”
A Black officer tentatively steps inside. Relief shoots through me. It’s Beverly Ridges, Quincy’s older sister. Right after playing college basketball, she went to the police academy. Since joining the force, she’s kept her hair cropped short, so it takes me a second to recognize her. But everything else is the same, tall and fit.
Beverly looks at us, then up the stairs to Jamal’s room. She’s been i
n our house a dozen other times with Quincy. She’s Jamal’s oldest crush. Her senior year, she took Jamal to a dance because her date flaked on her. It was totally innocent, but as a freshman, Jamal couldn’t hide his crush on her. He’s always tried to play it off, but he loses all swagger around her.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Beverly says.
I can’t tell if she’s talking to Sheriff Brighton or us.
“We’re done here,” Sheriff Brighton answers. “Going to place an officer on-site in case he comes home.”
“I can take a shift,” Beverly says. “My mother’s house is on this side of town. Should be convenient enough.”
“I’m aware.” Sheriff Brighton quickly dismisses her.
He leaves the house, officers trailing behind. My shoulders settle once they’re finally gone.
“Mrs. Beaumont.” Beverly’s hands are clasped loosely behind her back.
Mama releases a soft smile before her eyes go dull again.
I know Jamal would feel some type of way that Bev is out here looking for him. We were all shocked when we heard Bev wanted to be on the same force that ruined our lives. Killed her dad.
“Why don’tcha put Corinne to bed, Tracy?” Mama asks.
“I wanna wait up for Jamal.” Corinne rubs at her eyes.
“He won’t be coming back tonight.” I put my arm around her, directing her to bed.
When I come downstairs, I catch Beverly telling Mama why they’re after Jamal.
“They found Angela Herron.” Beverly has a grim twist to her mouth. “Dead by the Pike.”
Nausea rolls through my body.
“Did you say dead?” I have to confirm.
Beverly nods, and my hand cups my mouth in shock. I’m stuck for a moment, eyes welling—I just saw Angela earlier today. Then I recall the blood on Jamal and the scratch on his neck. Fear wraps itself around my body because I don’t know what this means for Jamal.
“Oh my God.” Mama’s posture stiffens. “What happened?”
“She was murdered.”
My throat begins to ache. How is it possible Angela is gone?
“That’s terrible,” Mama says. “But what’s that got to do with my Jamal?”
“Before she died, she called 911. The operator heard Angela cry out Jamal’s name.”
The pieces start pulling together, and I have to hold my thoughts back to keep from screaming them out loud. Jamal and Angela were hooking up today, and before I left him at Herron Media, he wanted me to cover for his late night, something out of the ordinary. Then I think about the blood swirling down the drain, and it hits me. Angela’s been dating Chris, but she was cheating on him with Jamal. Sheriff Brighton brought a whole crew of police to search for his son’s girlfriend’s supposed killer.
“There’s no way Jamal had anything to do with this,” Mama says. “We have to fix this.”
“Where could Jamal be?” Beverly asks.
“This isn’t like Jamal to be out this late without letting me know,” Mama says.
I hold my tongue, wanting to trust Beverly with how strange Jamal was acting tonight. But then I’d have to admit that maybe he was involved, that I caught Jamal and Angela together. That Angela told me this morning she had an exposé she wanted to work on, and not to tell Jamal.
“Have you tried to reach him?” Beverly asks.
“No.” Mama looks away. “Not with all them police here.”
“Try his friends.” Beverly’s voice shakes. “It’s better you reach Jamal first and get him to turn himself in.”
I run up to grab my phone from my room and dial Jamal’s number. It rings and rings, then goes straight to voice mail after the third attempt. I send him frantic texts about what’s happening before I go back downstairs. Mama’s doing the same, so I step to the window to make a call.
I dial Quincy’s number. It goes to voice mail. He answers after my second attempt. “What’s the emergency?”
“Why didn’t you answer the first time?”
“I’m busy. You know how it is.”
A long pause sits between us as I wait to hear anything in the background. But there’s nothing.
“Tell me if you’ve heard from Jamal.”
“Jamal…Nah, I ain’t heard from him.”
“Quincy, I’m serious. The cops were all over the house.” I walk closer to the window so Beverly and Mama won’t hear. “Beverly’s here. I know Jamal was messing with Angela. The cops didn’t tell us, but Beverly told us they found Angela dead by the Pike.”
Quincy’s silent. He already knows.
“Quincy.”
“I heard you. I’ll tell him you called.”
The click of Quincy’s phone rings in my ear. Either he knows something, or he’s going to do his best to get ahold of Jamal.
If anyone would be sympathetic about why Jamal would want to run…it would be Quincy.
After the cops went to arrest Jackson Ridges for the Davidsons’ murder, there was a lot of talk about whether the cops had to kill him. They went in like they had no other option. I saw the way they approached our house with Jamal, with Daddy; it didn’t need to be like that. They didn’t have to kill Mr. Ridges.
My throat tightens, thinking about that time. The news coverage, the rallies. The things people said at school. Everyone in town talked about the shooting. The white community was quick to blame Daddy and Jackson for the Davidsons’ murders.
At school, kids were cruel. Recess was Justin Draper’s favorite time to corner me. Back then he was a pudgy white kid with a mullet. He’s outgrown the mullet now but still has the same jackass attitude and thick, square head. I used to find excuses to help the teachers so I wouldn’t have to go outside, but it didn’t always work. The trial was public, and everyone was talking about it. We got death threats at home, so Mama thought school was the safest place for us.
One day Justin circled me, calling me the N-word. He’d never get away with that if Quincy wasn’t still healing. If Quincy would’ve been there, he’d have handled it. Justin yelled at me and punched me in the stomach. I was down on the ground, my heart hurting more than anything else, and Dean came running at Justin like a linebacker. A fight broke out. That was the incident that pulled Dean and me closer with each day of Quincy’s absence. Quincy and I’ve been distant ever since the shooting. Jamal was able to hold on to him, but my path went elsewhere. I feel our old history in this call. Knowing he’d be the only one to get what this means, but also knowing we aren’t close no more.
When I turn around, Mama’s shaking. She can’t reach anyone who’s seen Jamal, either.
“How did Angela die?” I ask Beverly.
“Autopsy won’t be in yet, but it looks like a blunt force trauma to the head. She was found out on the Pike by the dried-up dock, near the old seafood-packing place.”
“The call doesn’t mean anything,” I say. “She could’ve been asking for help. That doesn’t prove Jamal was there.”
“He was there tonight. And…” Beverly pauses.
“And what?”
“I shouldn’t say. It might not be public.”
“Beverly, you know Jamal—could you see him do anything like this? You’ve seen him at his worst. Nothing riles him up. He’s never hurt me, even when I’d pick fights with him.”
“Jamal was seen fleeing the scene…and his letterman jacket was found by her body.”
My vision goes blurry, and I blink hard until it comes back. This can’t be happening to us again.
“Someone else could’ve been out there with them. What if Jamal’s injured, too?” There has to be a reason. He wouldn’t leave his jacket, and it could explain the blood. Was Jamal attacked? Did someone try to kill him?
“Witnesses identified your vehicle, Mrs. Beaumont. He made it back here. We haven’t been able to lo
cate Angela’s phone yet, but that could help.”
“But if the 911 operator heard her call out for Jamal—”
“Y’all get some sleep. I’m sure we’ll know more tomorrow,” Beverly says. “Tomorrow I’ll do what I can to find Jamal; you do the same. Mrs. Beaumont, try to get more information from Sheriff Brighton so you’ll have legal counsel ready.”
“I’m gonna finish making calls upstairs,” Mama says.
I give her a kiss good night before she takes her time walking upstairs. Slow. Disoriented. She’ll break down when no one’s watching. Then I close the door behind Beverly.
I watch Beverly set up to guard the house, regardless of what the sheriff said. She must have persuaded the other officers to leave, because they drive away, and she takes their post. My heart soars; we have her on our side.
I take this moment to sneak out the back door. Barefoot, I run toward the grass. Warm air whipping around me, I ignore that it’s pitch-black, and chase the path Jamal would’ve taken without being seen. I stop midway into the woods, cup my hands, and yell.
“Jamal!”
I wait for a response. Keep focused on the woods for the slight chance to spot him running back home. I wait and wait. Then yell again.
“Jamal! Jamal!”
I yell until I’m so hoarse it rips my throat to call out again.
I hear my name.
“Jamal.” My voice is strangled. “Come back. Don’t leave us.”
I hear my name again. Turn when I realize it’s coming from behind me, toward the house. Beverly’s arms are wrapped around Mama, watching me cry out for my brother.
I drop to my knees because it wasn’t him. Painful tears spill out my eyes, down onto my chin.
When I’m all dried up with nothing to give, I pick myself up. Prepare myself for the fight.
Wednesday, May 5
Stephen Jones, Esq.
Innocence X Headquarters
1111 Justice Road
Birmingham, Alabama 35005
