by Kim Johnson
“If you’re filming, and they tell you to put the phone down, state you have a right via Texas law, even state you’re filming live.”
“Yeah, ’cause if they confiscate your phone, you know it’s not going public,” Todd says. “Sandra Bland’s videos didn’t get out for years.”
“It took ten years for video to go public to prove that BART cop lied about Oscar Grant,” Demarcus says.
“Filming is powerful. The app makes it fast, so you don’t have to think about filming, then getting deleted. What other scenarios do you have?” I ask the group.
“What about in your car?” Todd says. “Music bumping, you’re stopped, and your wallet’s in your pocket or something?”
“As you pull over, turn off your music. Don’t reach. Ever. Keep your wallet in your drink console. ID and insurance inside. Hands out in front, ten and two on the steering wheel. If a gun’s drawn, only move your hands to put them on top of the dashboard. Say ‘Yes, sir. No, sir. Officer.’ The deference brings down their alarm. So you can move on to having a conversation. Always ask the officer for permission if you’re reaching for something. If they look jumpy, don’t move until they’re calm.”
“That sounds like a sucka move. We know a lot of this,” Demarcus says.
“Good. Now, do you know how to do it when you’re late for something and you’re being targeted? Can you control your anger? If so, that’s good. Because then you can memorize their name and badge number. Confirm their number and never consent to a search. State their name and badge number, and request an attorney if they plan to arrest you.”
I put them in groups and ask them what they believe police are allowed to do. Then review.
“They can ask for name, address, date of birth. That’s it. If they believe you have a weapon, they can give you a pat down. Trust this will likely happen. If you resist, the force they use will likely be harder. State you don’t consent to a search, but allow the pat down and confirm you do not have a concealed weapon. Don’t argue.”
Then I dive into what causes escalations and offer some de-escalation tactics, mostly using language that demonstrates that they know the law if they’re interacting with police.
“What about if you are arrested?” I say. “Any of you know what to do?”
“Right to shut the fuck up,” Demarcus says.
“Yes.” I shake my head. “You have the right to remain silent. You also can ask what you’re being arrested for. If you are taken in, who would your first call be?”
“My lawyer,” Cuddy says.
“Yes. You have the right to an attorney; ask for one. But you probably don’t have lawyers on retainer. Who can you call to work on that for you?”
Demarcus raises his hand. “My sister. Ain’t no way I’m calling my parents.”
“Yeah,” Cuddy says. “I’d have to call my mama, ’cause my pops would probably let me sit for a couple of days before I could tell him what happened.”
“Demarcus,” I say. “What’s your sister’s number?”
Demarcus picks up his phone and scrolls.
“Put it down,” I say. “You’re in a holding cell. No phone. You need at least two numbers memorized. Who’s got one?”
Heads shake. Like almost all of my presentations.
“I got one,” Quincy says.
My eyes widen as Quincy recites my cell number.
“You have one number memorized, and you pick mine?”
“Ain’t calling my mama. Beverly would already know. If I called Jamal, he’d call you. Who better than you anyway? You know lawyers, judges, bail bonds, plus how to set up a GoFundMe account to get my ass outta jail.”
“Yo, Quincy,” Demarcus says. “Repeat that number right quick.”
“Yeah, let me put that in my phone, cuz, so I can memorize,” Cuddy says.
“Don’t you dare, Quincy.” I flick my fingers at him. Quincy grins, knowing he caused this stir. Malcolm asks him a question, then he writes down what’s probably my number and Beverly’s.
“Pick somebody you know well, somebody who’ll answer an unknown number.”
“Damn,” Cuddy says. “Only my mama does that.”
I go through a few more rounds of questions and scenarios. As we close, I see Quincy’s getting ready to leave. I pair up the audience and leave the groups with a scenario about an officer at your home. Quincy’s about to leave.
“Hold up,” I say.
Quincy weaves his way to me, probably thinking I’m getting on him about his memorizing my number stunt. He waves Malcolm on to wait outside.
“You’re leaving?” I ask.
“You want me to stay?” Quincy steps a little closer and gives me a cocky smile.
“You are too much. I’m just saying, you make a big scene in my workshop, then bounce? That for show or what?”
“Nah. I gotta get home, you know, especially if I’m going to help you break in to Herron Media.” Quincy drops this last line all clever like.
“How did you—”
“Jamal texted. Thought you might be needing backup.”
“You’re gonna help, huh? You have a genius way in?”
“Swiped keys on my way here.” Quincy smiles, then dangles the keys in front of my face.
“What? Really?”
“We been in touch. Grabbed a phone at the convenience store during lunch.”
I look away. A little frustrated Jamal doesn’t trust I can do it alone.
“Hey, I can also go by myself if you gonna pout about it.”
“Nine p.m., after dark. In the back.”
“Bet.” Quincy whistles at Malcolm and they head toward his Impala, throwing two fingers up before he drives off.
When I get back to the session, they’re all done with the role-plays and ready to bounce. In the back, a clean-shaven Black guy in his mid-twenties enters.
“Welcome.” I wave him in. “We’re about done, but I can give you handouts and a calendar for the upcoming workshops.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He steps closer. “Tracy Beaumont, correct?”
I nod. He doesn’t look like the typical person who joins my sessions. More like a reporter with his white-collared shirt under a dark blue suit jacket.
I gather the last of my handouts and wait until everyone leaves before approaching him. Curiosity building.
“I’m going to cut right to it.” He leans forward. His face looks serious, and he nods as he speaks. “I’m taking your dad’s case.”
“What do you mean, you’re taking my dad’s case?” I touch my temple, shaking my head. “Who are you?” I repeat his words, but they’re not pulling together to make sense. Did he just say what I think he said?
“Let’s start over.” He clears his throat. “I’m Steve Jones from Innocence X.” Steve sticks his hand out. “I’ll be representing your father.”
WELL, I’LL BE DAMNED
“You’re Steve Jones?” I squint my eyes at him.
“Yes.”
“From Innocence X?”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
“I—” Steve pauses. “My dad is Stephen Jones, founder of Innocence X. I’m his son.”
“Oh.” It finally clicks. I couldn’t put his young face together with the man I’ve been writing letters to for the past seven years.
“Innocence X is taking his case?” My mouth hangs open. I have to repeat what he said, over and over again. This is impossible. Years of writing, believing, sometimes it felt like I was writing a journal to myself instead of letters to Innocence X.
I’m heaving in and out, crying in joy. Steve pats my shoulder, and I throw my arms around him in a hug. He fumbles around like he don’t know what to do, either. When he realizes I finally get it, he hugs me back.
“Does my mama k
now?”
“After all your letters, I thought you deserved to know first—well, after your dad, of course.”
I pause to catch my breath.
“You’ve met with my dad?”
“A few exploratory phone calls. Met with him in person this morning. He agreed you should hear directly from me. Then I’ll contact your mother.”
“Can I call her?”
“Yes.” Steve laughs. “Let’s do that.”
When Mama answers, I put her on speaker and blurt everything out, ending with “He’s taking Daddy’s case.”
Mama wails on the other side of the phone.
“What’s happening, Mama?” Corinne’s excitement bounces through the phone.
I wish I was there to see my little sister. I know she always feels left out because she wasn’t born when things turned bad. Her present is tied to a past that she was never a part of.
“Daddy’s got a good lawyer, baby,” Mama says.
“Daddy’s coming home? Jamal too?” Corinne’s voice cries out. The pain rocks me because this doesn’t mean much for Jamal’s situation.
“What about Jamal?” I ask Steve, hoping Corinne’s questions can be answered with a yes.
“I’ve been following what’s going on with Jamal. We might be able to lend some research, although he’ll need to have his own attorney. We focus on conviction repeal cases, not ongoing—”
“But Jamal.” My voice goes weak.
“Get him to come home. It doesn’t help your father’s case if he has a missing son as a suspect in another crime.”
“How long before my husband is free?” Mama doesn’t even touch getting Jamal home. We want him back, but not if it means they’ll take him away from us.
“This is a long process, ma’am. I won’t lie to you, one in forty of our cases ends up in exoneration. It’s a big commitment to take on a case, so we maximize as many as we can in the area. I’ll be positioned here for a year, focusing on a handful of cases.” Steve pulls the phone closer to him. “James is my first priority. I have a small budget, and I’ll need to fund-raise to get everything set up for an investigation and find an office space to work out of.”
“I have a few ideas for office space.” I hide my own doubt. I can persuade Mr. Evans to rent out the loft space above the antiques store, but Mrs. Evans…I’m not sure.
Every ounce of hope that Daddy would be freed was riding on Innocence X. With Jamal gone, I dug deep to keep that belief. Inside, I feared I wouldn’t have the stamina. I wouldn’t have enough to give Daddy and Jamal. Now I no longer have that fear. No longer have that burden of doing it alone. I stand straighter. My ancestors’ strength pouring into me, fully armored so I can fight to prove their innocence.
OUTLAWZ
I leave the Evanses’ store happy to have gotten Mr. Evans to rent the loft space above the antiques store as a temporary office for Steve. I dip out as Mr. Evans shows Steve around the space, a convenient alibi for Mama that I can use as I sneak out to meet up with Quincy at Herron Media.
I finally feel like we’re catching a break. I text Jamal before I meet Quincy.
Innocence X came through.
They can help you too.
Going to HM with Quincy.
Come home.
I weave my way through the streets; evenings are fairly quiet, as storefronts close early. When I reach the store before Herron Media, I zip a right to walk down the alley.
I turn the corner, and a low whistle rings. I almost take off running when I see someone by the back door. Then I realize it’s Quincy, in all black. He lifts up his hood, whistling “The Farmer in the Dell” like Omar from The Wire.
“Seriously,” I whisper.
“I didn’t want to shout your name.”
“You scared me. And look at you. It’s hot as hell out here still.”
“I’m not doing jail time because I got caught.”
I huff. “Do you have a way into this place or what?”
“This is your show. How were you planning on getting in if I couldn’t swipe keys?”
I shrug. “I hadn’t thought that through yet.”
“No plan whatsoever, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Come on.” Quincy waves me over.
We walk farther, around the back of Herron Media. We’re now shielded between two fences and the next building that’s farthest away from the employee entrance. It looks like the loading area for deliveries.
I sweep my eyes to the top of the building, looking for a camera. Seeing none, I tap Quincy to let him know I think we’re good.
Quincy takes out a ring of keys, messes with a few until he finds the one that fits the service door.
“Have you done this before?” I whisper.
Quincy doesn’t answer, then takes my hand, and I follow him into the building. I take in quiet, measured breaths, so I don’t miss a sound in case we’re not alone. I take slow steps as he guides me near the wall. He points to the only location of a camera that could catch a sliver of us if we’re not careful. I lean my back against the wall, our fingers touching as we extend them out, scooting until we turn the corner.
Although we’re out of view from the camera, we don’t speak. Just fumble our way through hallways, passing closed offices. Quincy said we gotta watch out for one or two people that stay late.
The only thing we see in the hallways are the blink of small red and green lights above when we pass smoke detectors. We reach the front of the building where the glass windows are near the reception desk, then turn the corner to slowly climb up the stairs.
Upstairs is quiet. I take the lead now that I know where we’re going. Quincy hangs back, looking out to see if anyone’s in the hallway.
I pull down on the door handle to the main media room that Jamal used—the last place I saw Angela and Jamal together. It’s unlocked, so I wave Quincy over.
“Where do we start?” Quincy asks, shutting the door behind him.
“There.” I point to the cabinets near the audio recording controllers. We each take a side of the cabinets and go through them slowly.
Fumbling through books, files, supplies. Nothing looks like a personal place to keep something private. We spend more time going through each one until there’s nothing left. I walk to the middle of the room, turning, looking for a place to store the memory card. Whoever trashed the school newsroom could be looking for it, too.
“Did he say more than ‘near the controller desk’?” Quincy asks.
“Nope,” I say. “He kept it short. ‘Hidden compartment, near controller desk’ is all he said. Maybe it’s gone?”
I sit on the flat, open space that’s to the side of the controller desk. I kick my leg up to rest it on the other side of the desk, and the corner tumbles, causing the phone and schedule board to fall. A loud crash sounds.
“Damn. You always this subtle.” Quincy shakes his head, but he’s still grinning. I let out a nervous laugh, holding my hand over my mouth. Then his face freezes. He puts his finger to his lips.
I stop.
Then I hear it. The sound of someone coming down the hall. Under the door the hallway light flickers on.
“Someone’s here,” I whisper.
Quincy whispers, “No shit.”
My mind racing as the person goes door to door. The click of the door. Footsteps. Then the closing of each one. Getting closer and closer. Click. Footsteps. Close. Click. Footsteps. Close.
Quincy and I lock eyes when we know our door is next. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. Even if we shut off the lights, the second the door opens, the light from the hallway will showcase us in plain sight.
I whisper to Quincy, “We’re screwed,” and push away the fallen items slowly with my foot so they’re not in view.
“Trust m
e.” Quincy takes my hand, pulls me close.
The door opens.
FUNNY THING
ABOUT FIRSTS
Quincy wraps his arms around me, then kisses me softly.
“Oh! Excuse me,” a guy says. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”
“Dang. Sorry, B. I lost track of time.” Quincy turns to the man in the doorway, blocking me as he answers.
I hide my face, acting embarrassed, unsure who’s at the door. I might not know them, but they certainly would know me. My heart’s still beating fast with fear and with the shock of Quincy kissing me. His lips rushed to mine so fast, I didn’t know if I should push him off, pull him in, or slap him from trying to get in a kiss before we go to jail. Still, I touch my lips, the memory of his soft lips lingering there.
The door shuts. I’m still in shock that Quincy’s plan worked.
“Warning next time.”
“I’m sorry. No time.” He swings around and gives me a tentative look. “I couldn’t think of anything else.”
“Was that your secret backup plan?” I try to play it off and catch my breath.
“I just thought about Jamal the last time we were here. How you caught him. So my brain just went there as a cover.” He looks regretful. “But that was a last resort.”
I pull my hair back and let it settle around my burning-hot face.
“Sorry. I should’ve…They opened the door. I acted quickly.”
“It’s fine.” I put my hand up, so he knows there’s no need to talk about it.
Quincy gives an embarrassed chuckle. I’m surprised by his bashfulness. I didn’t think he was capable of being shy about anything.
“Thanks, Quincy.” I look away, now not wanting him to catch that I’m still thinking about his kiss.
I pick up the part of the desk that broke. When I put the frame back on, I feel under the desk. My finger catches on a broken edge that’s not fitting easily.
