by Kim Johnson
“I wish,” I say. “I thought today would be hard, but not like this. All this media, you’d think they’d respect minors’ privacy.”
“You didn’t hear?” Tasha pauses. “There’s gonna be an assembly first and second period to memorialize Angela. They’re doing attendance in homeroom, then heading out in groups by class.”
My jaw drops. If I knew, I wouldn’t have come today. Maybe that’s what had Quincy ready to bounce; he was too loyal to want to hear slander about Jamal. He faced the same with his dad.
“I’m sure you can skip out. The office is open, and counselors are making themselves available.”
“All right.” I shut my locker. Tasha looks at her watch and I wave her off. She’s been struggling in science, and late attendance will knock her grade more.
I look around the school as I walk through the hallway, deciding between going to class and lining up for assembly or hiding out in a classroom.
Hard stares meet me as I walk. Inside, I’m regretting I didn’t push back with Mama more.
There’s a fissure in the school, and you can feel the divide. I’m clearly on one side, so I know I have my answer about the assembly. I drop into the newspaper room to escape.
It’s only been a few days since I’ve been here; usually there’s a buzz of energy that the room always gives me. But the last time I was here was with Angela. Sadness takes up the space. I’m expecting her to be working away at the student assistant desk next to Mr. Kaine’s. I’ve barely had time to mourn for her, to feel the shock and pain of losing someone so suddenly. Being here, I can’t hide from that. Angela is gone forever. I know the paper will memorialize her, so I want to take a look at what they’ve done. Sad I couldn’t be a part of helping tell how much she meant to our team, but also knowing there’s no way I could be included in that discussion. Not with my brother as the number one suspect.
I weave my way to where we last spoke. Usually Monday mornings I come in early, get a sneak peek at the layout, and see how “Tracy’s Corner” looks in print.
The front page has one large photo of Angela, her name, birth and death years below the picture. I flip through the print layout, page after page, looking for her write-up. Then I note that “Tracy’s Corner” is missing. The heading was supposed to be “Social Justice’s New Generation.” I spent hours on interviews and turned it in early.
“Tracy.” Mr. Kaine steps into the classroom. He’s always been one of the cooler white teachers at school. He makes the newsroom come alive. Walls plastered with blown-up photos of banned books and iconic images like the Tiananmen Square protester facing off tanks and the 1968 Black Power salute at the Olympics.
“What are you doing in here? The assembly is about to begin.”
I give him a blank stare, until he can put two and two together and realize what a ridiculous statement that is for the sister of Jamal Beaumont.
“My piece is gone. I met the deadline.” I touch the paper and lift it up. I don’t know how to say what I really want to ask. Was it intentional to place Angela’s story instead of mine as a way to shame me and my brother? It aches that anyone could think Jamal killed Angela. That they might have decided on the placement of the article because it would show what side they’re on.
“The editorial board decided to go with a different feature.”
I look closer at the article.
Tragic Loss of One of Our Own: Saying Goodbye to Angela
By Natalie Haynes
One of their own.
As strange as this might sound, I think Angela was probably the closest to understanding me. I should be allowed to mourn for her, too.
This was the one place that kept me surviving in school. A place I could use my voice. Maybe one that everyone didn’t agree with, but I had a space for it, and Angela always advocated for me. She had my back.
“The last paper of the year is designed by the new editor,” Mr. Kaine says. “There’s been a shift.”
I shake my head. New editor? The vote is supposed to be this coming Wednesday.
“When was the vote?”
“Friday.” Mr. Kaine looks down, avoiding my gaze. He could have stopped it if he thought things were unfair, but he didn’t.
“You allowed this? What about my vote?” This is unbelievable. I thought next year would be different. I could play a more prominent role. Now that hope is gone.
“If there had been a tie, I would have let you vote.”
“What was the vote?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What was the vote?” My heart beats fast.
“Unanimous. I’m sorry. You’ll have to pitch ‘Tracy’s Corner’ to Natalie and the executive board next year.”
In one breath, he confirms that Natalie will be editor and I didn’t even get enough votes to be on the executive board, after three years of putting in the work.
“We should go.” Mr. Kaine says. “I’m speaking about Angela.”
“I just need a moment.”
Mr. Kaine looks like he’s about to ask me to leave, but instead he closes the door behind him. I’m conflicted with thoughts. Loss is all I can form. Loss of Jamal. Loss of Angela. Loss of my dream to become editor. Each has a different impact, but they each mean so much to me.
My head is spinning. I loved my corner. The newsroom. And it’s gone. I take a seat, head down, crying.
Seconds later, the door opens. Mandy Peters enters with a backpack gripped in her hand. She jumps at the sight of me; she is Angela’s best friend, after all. My throat constricts. What can I say? I haven’t thought this through, hadn’t pushed Mama enough about all the reasons why I shouldn’t come back this week.
Mandy seems shell-shocked. Her face is pale white, eyes puffy, and brown hair tumbled into one large messy bun. She stands in the doorway, not speaking. She almost backs up, eyes skirting around the room.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I won’t be here long.”
Mandy steps into the classroom, hesitant. “Angela’s desk? Where she kept her things, do you know?”
I point toward the student assistant desk.
“Anywhere else she used…stored things?” Mandy pauses, her hands shaking. “I told her parents I’d pick up her things.” She doesn’t move, just stares at me. I can’t tell if she’s another person who blames Jamal or if she’s just in a state of grieving disbelief. I know I should get up and go, that maybe she’s waiting for me to leave, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. Nowhere else has been a place of comfort for me at school.
I shake my head, then look away, out the windows, to give her privacy. I can hear Mandy finally move to Angela’s desk. I sneak a peek. She carefully places Angela’s things in a backpack. First a book, some notebooks, photos, then she throws away some papers. My eyes well.
As Mandy goes through Angela’s things, I think about the exposé Angela wanted to include me in. I wish I could go back and ask her more about it.
The announcement speaker comes on to say the assembly is beginning. Mandy jumps and then leaves without a backward glance.
I stand, praying no one else enters. A few minutes go by and I make my way to Angela’s desk. I don’t know what I’m looking for, just something to help me sort out what could’ve happened to Angela. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the garbage bin where Mandy tossed some of her crumpled papers. I pull the bin out and grab the papers. Most are draft copies of older articles, but mixed among them are a few pages from Angela’s calendar. Last Tuesday is circled.
Tuesday: PIKE—underground rally
Wednesday: Meet w/ Tracy: Exposé!!!
Underground rally? There’s something here. At ten, I’ll try to reach Jamal and ask him about this. Something had to be going down at the Pike related to her exposé. This might be something the police are keeping from the public, because the n
ews stories are portraying Jamal as having lured Angela there and attacked her. But this shows she already had it on her calendar.
I have to go to the Pike. See it for myself.
Monday, May 10
Stephen Jones, Esq.
Innocence X Headquarters
1111 Justice Road
Birmingham, Alabama 35005
Re: Death Penalty—Intake Department
Dear Mr. Jones,
Four percent of defendants sent to death row are supposedly innocent. Do you think my daddy could be among them? What are the chances for my brother?
It doesn’t look like I’m going to get any help from you. I’m going to keep taking things into my own hands, looking for my brother, searching for Angela’s killer. I can keep sitting around waiting and writing letters, but that hasn’t done much. I’ve got to do this myself. Prove my brother didn’t do it and find out what happened to Angela. I’m going to start my own investigation and I’ll start at the location she was found.
The day she died, she wanted me to work on an exposé with her. Now I’m not on the newspaper anymore, but I’m going to find out what she was working on. Maybe it’s nothing; maybe it can explain what really happened to her.
I’m hoping you’ll take my daddy’s case, so I can focus on this, but I’m thinking you won’t. I wish you the best. I hope whatever cases you’re working on come out with a positive result. Bring back someone’s daddy for me. Tell them you couldn’t take my case, but I’m happy Innocence X took theirs.
Respectfully,
Tracy Beaumont
VIGILANTES GET ISH DONE
I ditch the assembly and head fifteen miles east toward the Pike. The isolated drive sends alarm bells ringing in my head. I ignore them.
I pull into a deserted parking lot and leave my car away from the main entrance so I can explore. As I step out, it’s eerie, only the sound of birds flying above.
The dry grass stands tall around me, except a path twenty feet away where it’s been trampled flat, a clear sign that cars and teens have come here and traipsed all over. The hallowed ground of parties. Past this space are the wetlands that go out to Galveston Bay, where the loading dock stands.
On the other side of the parking lot, about a hundred feet away, there’s an abandoned warehouse with a weathered sign: SOUTH SEAFOOD PACKING. The dock and the immediate surrounding grass still have yellow crime-scene tape. No other cars in sight, no lingering officers. Angela was found on that dock, strewn out, helpless.
My stomach swirls, uneasy. Most of my reporting is opinion based from the safety of my computer. I’ve never been to a murder scene. Never imagined I ever would.
I note how from here you’d only be able to see Angela from the dock if you got past the brush. I know I’ve got to get closer, but my body is rigid, wanting to wait safely in the car and watch from there. I swallow hard. Jamal needs my help, and stopping isn’t an option.
My heart races as I approach. I study all the access points to the dock. Three locations stand out: the parking lot; the walking trails; and the path leading to the South Seafood Packing building.
When I move in a little closer, I have a better view of the old building. On the other side is a small parking lot that’s so overgrown you almost can’t tell it used to be a lot. I scan to see if there’s anyone else around me. It’s a ghost town so early in the morning.
If someone attacked Angela, there’s not many ways to get in and out of the Pike. This gives me hope other witnesses could come forward to tell the full story. New suspects to interview.
At the edge of the dock, I shiver at the thought that this is where Angela’s body was found. I stay well behind the police tape. On the dock I can see stains of what’s now dark-colored spots and one puddle. Must be from Angela. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I shouldn’t be here.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to Angela, knowing she’s beyond hearing me, but needing to say it anyway.
It’s a relief to turn away and study the parking lot. It would’ve been pitch-black. I struggle to find a reason that would draw her out to the dock alone. She must have been meeting someone. I just hope that it wasn’t Jamal and that there’s an explanation to his letterman jacket being left behind.
I’m struck by the police tape only marking around and near the dock, but nowhere past the grass or up toward the seafood packing building.
A few steps farther, hidden past the grass, is a footpath. There’s something…off about it. I move closer and realize the long grass is splattered with red marks, but no police tape. The murder happened less than a week ago.
The blood is easy to miss unless you step deep into the brush. If the police were certain Jamal killed Angela on the dock, then perhaps they got sloppy and didn’t search far enough? I take a few photos with my cell, then skirt around the area to avoid touching anything.
Squatting low, I notice two grooves, leading to more scuff marks by the building. Like someone was dragged. Fought and couldn’t get away. I blink quickly to take away the image of Angela. How scared she must have been, trying to fight for her life.
I want to say it’s my imagination, but I can’t—not with the dried blood. I should call Sheriff Brighton so he can send a team over here again. I move to make the call, but lack of trust stops me.
I believed so much in Daddy being found innocent during the trial, but hope wasn’t enough to go against the story the police wanted the jury to believe.
Sheriff Brighton came to arrest Jamal. And Chris’s black eye continues to strike me as odd. The sheriff has more than one reason to want this murder solved quickly.
Either way, Chris knows something, and if the police won’t disclose this detail of Angela’s investigation, a surprise confrontation with Chris might be a solution. If he was caught off guard, he could blow up and reveal what happened. I can only imagine what he’d do if he knew about Jamal and Angela. This could be what he was arguing with her about on Tuesday morning before first period.
Quincy said Jamal got a text from Angela to meet him. If Jamal came searching for Angela and didn’t see her, he could’ve ventured past the parking lot, then saw her at the dock. Maybe he even saw who hurt Angela.
The crime started by the South Seafood Packing building. Then Angela was dragged and carried to the dock.
Her life ended at the dock.
But Angela was alive at some point and free enough to text Jamal, call for help. Something happened between her texts and calling 911, leaving Jamal’s name dangled as a suspect. But did she say his name as a warning? Or as a cry for help?
At ten, I take Jamal’s phone from the secret compartment of my small purse and send a text to trigger a response.
Quincy gave me the phone. What happened between you and Angela at the Pike?
Jamal will be pissed when he reads this, but he’ll answer. Beverly should be my next call. When I look up at the seafood packing building, I want to check it out first. I don’t trust the cops won’t bury evidence just to make this an open-and-shut case.
The warehouse door takes only a twist and hard shove to get open from what looks like a broken lock. When I enter, I expect to see a fully stocked building with equipment and supplies, but it’s stripped down, almost cleared out. Dust gathers over an old broken-down forklift and a production line the length of the building.
The phone beeps with a text from Jamal.
All you need to know is I didn’t do it.
Tell Quincy he sucks as a friend.
I gotta ditch my phone now.
Wait! I’ll only message you once a day. Promise.
I’m at the Pike. What happened?
Go home. It’s not safe out there. No more texting. Delete. I’m out!
I wait for Jamal to share more, but when he says, I’m out! he usually
means it. I delete the texts. As much as I want to take Jamal’s warning, I also want him home. Free.
Quincy said Jamal wouldn’t run too far from home. Maybe he’s near here, but that feels too dangerous.
I gulp down my fear of involving the police and text Beverly, asking if the crime scene at the Pike is cleared. Pretending I haven’t already searched it.
That’s when I hear voices in the distance.
DON’T FREEZE
Alarm bells sound in my head. My stomach drops. I turn and see the tall grass flicking back and forth. The same motion the grass made when I waded through and found the crime scene path to the building. Someone’s coming.
There’s more rustling, getting closer. I realize I’m caught totally out in the open. The panic rumbling inside me climbs up my throat while I hold back a scream.
The warehouse is dim, except where the sun shines through the layers of dust on windows. I step back, scanning the space for a place to hide. There’s a small opening between the wall and the warehouse conveyer belt.
I push through the narrow gap.
My fingers going numb, I try to ignore the icy grip of fear. It will only paralyze me.
Desperate for safety, I scramble farther into the shadows, even though the space gets tighter and tighter.
I take quick breaths in, trying to make myself small, hoping this hulking contraption will be enough to hide me. I hold back a cough from sucking in old dirt and heat trapped inside the building. The dreadful smell of must suffocates my lungs and tickles the back of my throat.
The door opens, broad daylight streaming in. I lower myself, stretching out to fit under a piece of metal. My fingertips reach for anything to pull on to tuck my body beneath the machinery.
Still, my eyes strain. I’m desperate to catch sight of whoever is here. Peering through a gap, I can barely make out two men walking inside, coming closer.
I’m torn, afraid if I see them, they’ll see me.
