This Is My America

by Kim Johnson

  There’s another small drawer.

  I take the corner off, running my fingers along the desk for anything out of the ordinary. I push in the simple lock with the key that swings by the wall.

  Inside, I find Jamal’s small notebook, a photo of my family at a visit with my dad on Christmas…and a micro SD memory card for a phone.

  “Think this is it?” I flash it in front of Quincy. “We use these at school in the newsroom.”

  I take a paper clip and pop out the SD card I have and insert this one into my phone, then wait for it to load in the location folder. Hundreds of files and photos load up.

  I scroll through, searching for something that speaks to what Angela and Jamal might have been looking into.

  “Think he’ll come back to check on us?”

  “Nah. Brian is cool. I caught him smoking weed on the loading dock and never ratted him out. He’s probably just worried he went out for a smoke and didn’t do a full sweep before locking up.”

  I search through hundreds of photos while Quincy paces back and forth, standing guard by the production door. I study snapshots of games, pep rallies, and school-year highlights. Typical newspaper images. Then I see it. Photos off campus.

  The old tattered sign of the South Seafood Packing building in the background. These were taken at the Pike, weeks before Angela was murdered. A group of about fifteen white guys gathered around a firepit, drinking beer. Two of the dates are in April. I check my calendar, both taken on Tuesdays. The photos are mostly hazy, like it was taken from afar. I zoom in closer. A flash of adrenaline hits me. Chris and Scott, along with a couple of guys from school. They don’t seem to notice they’re being watched.

  “Find something?” Quincy leans over my shoulder.

  “Bunch of guys from school at the Pike, near the building where I found Angela’s phone.”

  Quincy takes my phone and zooms in. “Yip. Nothing weird about a bunch of white guys hanging around a firepit near the Pike.”

  I look again. Nod because there’s something to it.

  A tingle runs up my spine. I’m not sure what I’ve found, but it feels important.

  I let Quincy lead me as we go down the steps.

  “Front doors this time?” I ask.

  “We should be good now that we’re leaving with nothing obviously taken.” Quincy leaves the keys on the reception desk, before we walk out the main entrance.

  “What are you gonna do now?” Quincy asks.

  “Ask Dean to keep a lookout for Chris or Scott. Then head home. My mama will be expecting me. I’ve been out way too long and gotta get the car back.”

  “What about getting this to Bev?”

  “Yeah. I should.” I flip my phone in my hand, back and forth. I know I need to get the SD card and Angela’s phone to Beverly, but then she’d know I didn’t listen to her.

  “You should, for real. Doesn’t mean you can’t look into it, but this could help Jamal.”

  I nod.

  Quincy walks me back to the Evanses’ store, where our cars are parked at the end of their parking lot.

  “Next time I’ll ask,” Quincy says when I open the car door. He jogs off to his car without waiting for my response.

  “Next time I’ll be ready,” I whisper.

  TRUTH SERUM

  Dean’s got eyes on Chris. I’m planning to ambush Chris at the worst place possible—Angela’s grave. In texts back and forth with Jamal, it’s clear he wants me to have nothing to do with Chris. I have to know why.

  Before we go, Dean helps me carry boxes of my daddy’s evidence to the loft above the Evanses’ antiques store. The collection will no longer be shoved inside closets and under beds, but with Innocence X.

  The loft space is cleared out except for stacked-up boxes, a table with a laptop, a heavy-duty printer, and a copier. On the walls, several whiteboards with dates, names, and deadlines. What captures my attention is Steve’s master board laid out with Daddy’s case. Motives and suspects are what I’m mostly caught by: Exculpatory Angles written on the side. That’s the holy grail of death penalty appeal cases. Error in the defense or prosecution often has the most success in identifying innocent clients.

  As Steve sorts through boxes, he lets out a low whistle. “I can’t wait to get more familiar with your dad’s case.”

  I check out an accordion file about two inches thick with black ink: James Beaumont. A bubbling excitement builds—I’ll finally be able to discuss everything I’ve wanted to tell Innocence X over the years.

  “I’ll need to review the entire case transcript,” Steve says. “Do you have that?”

  “Our first attorney requested it, but he didn’t leave us with everything. Now, if we want them again, we need to file and pay for it.”

  “I’ll take care of that. Hopefully they’ll be cooperative and not delay us.”

  “They can do that?” I ask.

  “Do you have an hour, Tracy? I can ask a couple of questions to orient myself?” Steve switches topics.

  I look to Dean, worried we might miss our window with Chris, but also torn because Daddy needs my help.

  Steve takes my silence as agreement. “Good.” He pulls out a notebook and a small recorder. “During the Touric interview, you mentioned there are new suspects that Galveston County Police haven’t looked into.”

  “About that.” A pang of guilt hits me. How exactly do I tell Steve the truth?

  Steve studies my face. “No suspects, then. That was for the television?”

  “I wanted to get Innocence X’s attention.” I look down, ashamed.

  “I knew it!” Steve snaps his fingers. “I used it anyway to make my argument to make this case a priority.”

  I blush. He knew I was lying.

  “Who do you think killed the Davidsons? Is there a remote possibility Jackson Ridges was involved? I’ll have to clear that aspect first, question the family so I know where to focus.”

  I rub my forehead. I don’t want to be part of dragging the Ridges family to benefit Daddy. Mrs. Ridges has been torn apart, and Quincy’s life has been much harder than ours. I can’t question them. It would be a betrayal. I turn my back to hide my queasy feeling.

  I look out the window, searching for a distraction. A glint catches my eye, light reflecting off glass. A guy parked in a white SUV across the street watches us through binoculars. He’s in direct line of sight of the loft’s window. Spying on us.

  “Someone’s watching us,” I say.

  Dean moves next to me as Steve drops his file and waves us away from the window.

  “I saw him yesterday, too, when I was heading to your workshop.” Steve closes the blinds. “He could be looking for Jamal—an undercover cop.”

  We head toward the door as Steve takes the exit to the outside stairwell and down to the street. The guy drops his binoculars and peels out, almost sideswiping another car.

  I whip my phone out and snap some shots. The SUV veers toward the highway exit.

  What exactly are we up against? A sinking feeling tugs in my stomach.

  “I snapped some photos, might have caught the plates,” I say when Steve returns.

  “I’ll get someone on these plates.” Steve calls Innocence X headquarters. “If it’s not a cop, it could be one of our organization’s adversaries. In order to get a retrial, we often start by seeing if there was an error made by the prosecution or the defense attorney. Sometimes our investigation finds something beyond an error, something criminal: lies; coercion; a judge with a certain reputation. Locals usually don’t get too worried this early. Some people think we’re martyrs willing to burn down the whole justice system because one person might be innocent. But an outsider—”

  “Sabotage?” I ask.

  “Perhaps an organization dead set on increasing the private prison system. Buildin
g more prisons requires more prisoners, and Texas was the first state to adopt private prisons. Texas continues to have the highest incarceration rate in the United States in those private for-profit prisons. One prisoner can mean twenty thousand dollars a year. Bodies mean dollars. Over three billion dollars a year. Think. It’s big business. Innocence X threatens their profits.”

  “How will we know which one he is?” I ask.

  “They’ll make themselves known. Proving someone’s innocent stirs up trouble.”

  “Like how?” Dean steps closer to me.

  “A crime was committed. Somebody did it. And if it wasn’t your dad…Then there are the prosecutors who don’t want their cases being turned over, the judges, and the police. No one wants to believe they sentenced an innocent man to death.”

  I shake my head. Unable to believe that anyone would try to stop me from saving Daddy, from exposing the truth. But the same might be true for Jamal. Jamal is silent about what happened. He’s only said he didn’t do it, and that I need to stay away from the Pike. Jamal was there; he must know who harmed Angela and left her for dead from a head injury, from what the newspapers are saying. This might be why Jamal is on the run.

  I know what Steve’s getting at. This won’t be a fairy-tale ending. At least not until we pass through the eye of the storm.

  I reach for my purse and grab Angela’s phone, but I keep the micro SD card to myself. Whoever is watching us might be the same person who killed Angela. I hand the phone over to Steve for advice. His eyebrows raise, puzzled.

  “A few days after Angela was murdered, I went out by the Pike. I found Angela’s phone. I didn’t turn it in because I ran into some officers and they threatened to charge me with trespassing. They had me by gunpoint. I froze. I didn’t want them to think I was messing with evidence, so I kept it.”

  Dean stays silent, but the tips of his ears are red. He’s mad I kept this from him. I’ve kept a lot from him lately.

  “You could have been killed. And you keeping it is messing with evidence.” Steve shakes his head.

  I show Steve the texts and videos. As Dean looks over Steve’s shoulder, a confused look is on his face. I know I should give up the micro SD card, but then I’d have to admit I broke in to Herron Media.

  I wait patiently for Steve to give me direction about how to get Angela’s phone in the hands of the police. Maybe take it back to the South Seafood Packing building and give Beverly a tip. Something that keeps me out of it.

  Steve gets up, then passes over today’s newspaper.

  I look at today’s headline: MANHUNT.

  I skim the story for updates, but there’s nothing new. Until I see it. They say they’ve located her cell phone. A lie! I gasp and quickly finish the article.

  Maybe they’ve stopped looking for Angela’s killer and settled on Jamal? There will be no justice for how she was left injured, attacked, and thrown away. Now it’s not just about freeing Jamal, but giving Angela justice.

  AT A CROSSROADS

  Dean gives me the silent treatment as we leave Steve’s new office. He was the first person to show up to the police station when everything went down with Jamal, but I’ve kept him out of the loop. I know it’s not fair, but he’d want to stop me from looking into things. And now I know I can’t tell him I’ve been communicating with Jamal.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t shared everything,” I finally say.

  “That was dangerous to go out to the Pike alone. You should’ve called me.” Dean’s eyebrows knit together. We feel distant and I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed him.

  “It was the day of Angela’s memorial—you know I couldn’t stay. I felt like I needed to do something, so I went to the Pike. Only found her phone on accident.”

  “You go with Quincy?” Jealousy flashes in his eyes. They’ve never really been cool. Only Jamal tied them together, but even then, it was estranged.

  “Why would you think that?” I flick my eyes forward. Hope he didn’t catch me leaving Quincy’s car after Herron Media last night. My chest goes tight, thinking about the kiss that Quincy and I shared. It wasn’t a real one, just a cover to keep us from getting busted. But it put a shock in me, forced me to think about Quincy and me in that way.

  “What if Chris doesn’t show?” Dean changes the subject, and I’m thankful.

  “He’ll have to show up at school sometime. And if he doesn’t, I’ll go to his work.”

  At the station Chris was visibly injured, shaking under the arm of some guy. Each time the image of his face runs through my mind, I can’t help but be more convinced that Chris killed Angela. I run through the approach I need to take with him, and the questions to ask. Thinking in procedures helps silence my fear of confronting him.

  I look over at Dean, who gives me a half smile like he’s over it. He thinks it covers his thoughts, but it doesn’t. Not to me. I see the disappointment—and sadness?—lurking beneath.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “This thing with Angela. It’s got my mom all riled up.”

  His mom always knows how to get under his skin. Mrs. Evans thinks Dean’s on the wrong path. She’s ultra-conservative, praising Christian values while voting in ways that seem to contradict that. I try not to let him see it bothers me.

  “She doesn’t want me spending time with you anymore. It started with the office loft, then she just went off…Tracy, it was…” Dean’s eyes look glazed. “She said so many things about us…Why it never mattered if your dad was arrested…or if Angela was still alive and Jamal home. Our lives are too different.”

  I’m frozen. Dean’s using softer language, thinking he’s protecting me, but I’ve long decoded this meaning. She doesn’t want us to be close because I’m Black and he’s white. That’s what he’s been hiding from me, and this wasn’t their first conversation about this.

  “What happens now? Is this it? I talk to Chris, and then we can’t be friends any longer?”

  “You’re my best friend,” Dean says. “She can’t stop that.”

  “You’re mine, too,” I say, and I mean it. Dean is closer to me even than Tasha.

  I don’t care what his mom says. I’m glad he doesn’t follow everything she believes. We’ve always pushed the boundaries that were set before we had a chance.

  “What if I’m as bad as her?” Dean chokes up. “That everything she’s raised me around is so ingrained in me I won’t even know, and then I do something to mess us up?”

  “Why would you think that?” I touch Dean’s arm. He slowly turns to face me, his arms resting on the wheel.

  “When Jamal’s story came out…my first thought wasn’t he’s innocent. It was wondering, how could he do that? At the table, my mom was going off on how rampant Black crime is, it was only time before something like this would happen again…I didn’t respond. I was still trying to understand, sort through Angela being dead. I went to the police station because I was worried what Jamal being guilty would do to you. Not…not because I thought Jamal was innocent.” Dean looks away.

  My throat aches. How could he? It feels like he punched me in the gut. Betrayal.

  “Then when you got out of the car with your mom, it shook me. I saw how broken you both were, thought about my friendship with Jamal, and felt ashamed. It’s been eating me ever since. How easily I could turn against someone I know so well, and what would I do if it was a stranger’s story on TV. I have these thoughts sometimes that I know are wrong. What if I’m just as bad as my mom?”

  He wants answers I can’t give. I can’t make him feel better. Before hearing this, I wanted to take all Dean’s pain away, and now…There’s so much I don’t know about Dean.

  He breaks down crying in front of me, waiting for me to pick him up, but I can’t. I want him to know how much it hurts. How angry I am that at one point he thought Jamal was guilty.

&nbs
p; The hurt he feels now is something I live through every day. Never knowing what lurks, what kind of ugly, racist bullshit will rear its head and hurt me. How a thing like that can easily shift my day badly. I won’t fix it for him. Not in the way he wants it to be fixed—easy, without vulnerability. It’s never been easy for me.

  “I’m sorry I doubted Jamal.” Dean pulls my hands closer to him. I leave them limp. “I promise I haven’t done that since the police station. I just needed you to know I’ve got some work I need to do, but I’m here for you. Things will be different this time. It’s not going to be like your dad. Not if I can help it.”

  I don’t respond. I’ve seen this before. How the veiled language in news stories and police reports contain coded phrases like suspicious behavior, acted like a monster, and the all-too-common the officer feared for his life that can change how people you thought were your friends act around you. And now I know Dean isn’t immune. Somehow, I thought he was different.

  Dean watched the same news updates I saw and easily believed their portrayal of Jamal, his friend, the one he’s known for years. The one he ran alongside during track. Dean went to the same party and posed for the same photo that made Jamal look like a criminal. He should have known better.

  When I watch the news, I can tell without even looking at the TV if the suspect is white or Black. A “young man who lost his way” or “was afflicted with mental illness” but “had a promising future” = white. A “thug” with “trouble in school” = Black.

  Dean changed his mind only after seeing me. Because he knew my family. Everyone else watching will be like sheep. Unwilling to doubt the nonstop coverage of the hunt for Jamal. Susan Touric failed Jamal by rushing to convict him in the court of public opinion without a full investigation.

  I want to be angry that Jamal ran, but I can’t blame him. What else are you supposed to do when the world treats you like a monster?

  NO DISRESPECT

  Dean and I sit parked in his truck down Buckhead Road, near Angela’s gravesite. Rumor has it Chris was too distraught to go to Angela’s ceremony, but each night he visits her plot here. The graves change from ones a hundred years old to modern ones, with fresh flowers and flags staked near a few shiny marble headstones.