This Is My America

by Kim Johnson

  A virtual image of a clock above both of us. The one that’s been looming since the day Daddy was sentenced. Jamal isn’t thinking about himself, just Daddy.

  I don’t know what else to say, so I ask what I’ve been waiting to hear. “What happened with Angela?”

  Jamal runs his hands over his face. “We’d been seeing each other since after homecoming. Wasn’t serious…until it was. She was going to break up with Chris, but then she suspected something strange when his uncle started spending more time with him. She’d gone a few times to the Pike to see what Chris was doing there.”

  “Richard Brighton. He’s been watching Daddy’s lawyer. Ran into him just yesterday, found flyers in his car about a white hate group he’s recruiting.”

  “Damn. You doing too much.” Jamal runs his hands over his scruffy half beard that’s grown in.

  “We have to find out who killed Angela.”

  “Still. I don’t like it.”

  “This goes with my theory, though. Explains why she was there that night,” I say. “The SD card is in Beverly’s hands now.”

  Jamal gives me a hard look.

  “I downloaded everything onto my phone first.” I put my hands up in defense to explain I didn’t just give everything away.

  I tell him more about my suspicions around Chris and Scott not wanting people to know they were at the rally where the girl was shot in the crowd.

  “Chris didn’t like that Angela supported your stories in ‘Tracy’s Corner,’ ” Jamal says. “He thought your articles were anti-police. When I got my Susan Touric interview, he wanted Angela to stop it because he thought I’d play the sympathy card about Dad and blame the police for a botched investigation.”

  “That the real reason you both were upset after the show?” The pieces I’d been trying to put together are starting to line up.

  Jamal doesn’t meet my eyes. My throat constricts. My lie about having suspects was tangled up with Jamal and Angela’s strategy to find the truth about what might be an underground hate group. I don’t know if I can forgive myself. Jamal turns away until his emotions settle and he can speak again. He clenches his fist in front of his mouth.

  “Angela was supposed to meet me after work. She never showed. She was like that. I thought she was mad you walked in on us together, so I didn’t worry at first. I waited at Quincy’s.”

  My heart races. Finally I’m hearing more about what happened that night.

  “Angela called me to meet her out by the Pike. When I got there, Chris was down by the dock. That’s when I saw Angela on the ground.”

  Jamal’s voice is shaky. I can see how much that night messed him up to see Angela, and maybe nothing he could do about it.

  “Chris yelled at me like I did something. He was freaking out. I was trying to get past him to Angela and he was freaking out, so I decked him. We started fighting.” Jamal chokes on his words. “I got past Chris. That’s when I saw it—blood seeping from the back of her head. Chris kept saying it was my fault. Angela’s eyes were open, but she was gone. I yelled at Chris to get help. He ran to his truck. I laid my jacket over her. Then I realized he was driving away. I could hear a car coming off the highway.”

  Jamal faces me, his eyes clouding and guilt washing over him.

  “Why did you run instead of wait for the police?”

  “She was already…gone. I was out of my mind, not thinking about my jacket. Just knowing I didn’t want to leave her like that, but also knowing I had to get outta there. They weren’t going to believe me…Chris left. And he’d been saying it was my fault. I realized he probably killed her, and him leaving meant I’d be the main suspect once he got to his dad.” Tears fill his eyes. “Sometimes I feel like we’re cursed.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, even though I know the feeling. We’ve never caught a break. All those years praying, going to church, looking over our shoulders when we didn’t do anything wrong.

  “Nah, you don’t hear me. See all these books.” Jamal points around to the scattered books I hadn’t noticed are from the collections we’ve rotated in and out to Daddy. W. E. B. Du Bois, James Baldwin, Thurgood Marshall, Michelle Alexander, Ta-Nehisi Coates. Then a week’s worth of newspapers.

  “They all say the same thing over and over again—it doesn’t matter when they were written. The laws might change, the systems might look different. All these books say what the problem is. Working ten times harder to get half. Seems to me, all the blood that’s been spilled ain’t our debt. But we paying it over and over again. And the world acts like there’s something wrong with us. They hate us so damn much.”

  Jamal’s voice is cracking, desperate words that have been suffocating him.

  “Four hundred years, and we still ain’t American to them, T. All that blood. We built America. Black labor built the greatest nation in the world for free. They ripped us from our family then, and they do it again with new laws disguised as change. I’ll be in prison doing that labor for free.”

  “But we have a superweapon: Innocence X. A real chance. Not like before.”

  “If I turn myself in, I’m getting the death penalty. Unless what, I plead? Unless I say I did it, I killed Angela? Then I get what, life without parole?”

  “It won’t be like Daddy.”

  “It will be!” Jamal’s hand grazes over the newspapers and they whoosh, floating to the floor. “Them cops weren’t ever going to think I didn’t kill…Angela.” Jamal gets choked up. “Not when the sheriff’s son says different. Not when I ran. Not with Angela gone.”

  “But you had to know…leaving your jacket…they’d come after you.”

  “I was in shock, seeing Angela.” Jamal chokes up again. “When I got home, I cleaned myself and was planning to call in like I was worried about Angela, that she’d gone to the Pike. Then they’d find her. If they asked about the jacket, I was gonna say I left it in her car. It was a stupid idea, but it was a plan. But all that fell apart when the police showed up before I could get my story out. And the first to arrive was the sheriff. I knew Chris must’ve pinned it on me, and I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  A hot flush creeps up my face. I touch my neck like I can stop it. My questions being answered, terrifying to think Jamal went through all of that. No wonder he ran.

  “We need to get you to meet with Steve Jones from Innocence X. He’ll know what to do.”

  “I can’t risk it. If the police find me, I’m done. And if they even think you might know, you’re in danger.”

  Jamal doesn’t budge; he’s not going to stop hiding when we don’t have any evidence yet to prove his innocence.

  “I’ll call Steve—he’ll know what to do. Then we go from there.”

  “Then what, I walk home? If they find out you know where I am, they’ll be all over looking for me.”

  “What, then?”

  “Can you get hold of Mandy? She’s the only one I can think of that Angela would’ve told about what she was doing.”

  I swallow hard. Angela was going to let me in on her exposé but never got to it. Mandy knew a little, but I don’t think she knows as much as Jamal’s hoping for.

  “I’ll talk to Mandy again. I got a little bit from her before. She was scared, but she doesn’t think you did it, Jamal.”

  Jamal’s eyes soften.

  “We got a community meeting this evening about the cross burning. Then I’ll track down Mandy. If she speaks out, saying you wouldn’t hurt Angela, maybe we can get Beverly to safely bring you in for questioning. They can’t do anything in front of a whole station. The entire police force can’t be crooked.”

  “Oh, they can’t?” Jamal huffs out.

  “They can’t.” I look away because I honestly don’t know who to trust. I just know Jamal can’t keep hiding out here. He’s gonna get caught.

  Jamal’s eyes
settle like he’s thinking hard. Then he tightens the laces in his shoes, knotting them up like he always did before a big race. He must know as much as I do, that he’s got few options other than running the rest of his life if he doesn’t try to find out the truth. Jamal can’t run forever.

  You can’t outrun the inevitable.

  LET THE SAINTS SAY AMEN

  The community center is bustling. Every seat taken, looking like Easter Sunday at church. I take a glance around the room. In the middle sit Tasha and her younger sister, Monica. Tasha smiles. I quickly text her, since it’s hard to reach her seat.

  Thank you for coming

  Pastor Jenkins stands in front, next to Lucinda Scott, the community director. Seeing Pastor Jenkins takes me back to times Mama tried to describe what court would be like.

  Ten-year-old me didn’t know what to expect until she explained that court was gonna be like church. I felt better because I knew church. Sunday was all-day dedication. Monday, you drop off dishes from Sunday service. Tuesday, Bible study. Wednesday, choir. Thursday, the good choir. Friday, Savior’s night. Saturday, cleanup.

  And court was supposed to be like a sinner’s testimony: truth on a throne.

  The way God’s message reaches the pastor and spreads like wildfire until it touches someone’s soul at the altar for prayer circles or getting saved. Then you’d have as long as your truth-telling was gonna be.

  I kept waiting for the judge to catch the Holy Ghost. Get all swept up like the hurricane that took everything away from us. Then we could pretend we never stepped foot on that evacuation bus to Texas, and Daddy wouldn’t have met Mark and Cathy Davidson.

  But court didn’t resemble church. No one riddled with guilt came bursting into the courtroom asking for forgiveness. And after, we didn’t have a church home anymore. Not the same, anyway. After the sentencing, we were pushed to the margins. Whispered about. It took a long time to grab that place again for Mama. I never fully did. Not again. Not the same. Instead, I ran to the community center for my workshops a few years later. Never as full, but at least filled with purpose.

  Lucinda waves us to reserved seats in the front. I follow Steve and Mama, passing Quincy, who gently reaches for my arm, stopping me.

  “You okay?”

  “I think so.” I give him a half hug.

  “Let me know if you need anything.” Quincy squeezes my hand.

  “Jamal can’t keep hiding in that shack,” I whisper to Quincy. He’s the only one I trusted to share I’ve seen Jamal. “It’s not safe. We gotta find a way to clear him, get his side of the story out.”

  “I came by. Last night. I was thinking I would stay there, you know, in Jamal’s room. Watch out for y’all.”

  “Why didn’t you come in?” I think about last night, my kissing Dean.

  “I felt weird about it. Didn’t want to just pop up, you know. I stuck around with Bev.” Quincy looks away. Dean didn’t say anything about seeing Quincy when he left. Maybe he was gone by then.

  Quincy leans in. “How Jamal look?”

  “Tired. Hungry. Needs a shave, but good. I dropped him off more supplies, but he can’t stay there long. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been caught yet.”

  “Did he tell you anything?”

  “Everything points to Chris and the meetings at the Pike. I haven’t heard from Mandy. Maybe we confront Chris again, or his uncle?”

  “That’s dangerous, T. You gotta step back.”

  “Someone’s already after my family.”

  “Right now, they’re giving you warnings. If they think you know what Angela knew, you might be next.”

  My phone beeps.

  It’s Dean.

  Can we talk later? I’m back row.

  I look out to Dean, who gives me a small wave. I nod, face getting hot. Embarrassed about last night now that I see him.

  Ok.

  I glance at Quincy, who has a twinkle of mischief in his eye. I put my phone down, wiping any expression off my face. It doesn’t work. Quincy’s all up in my business.

  “He’s in love with you. Did you know that?”

  “Who?”

  “Who? It’s obvious.” Quincy shifts his head toward Dean.

  “You watching me?” I look away to play it off.

  “You showcasing your business everywhere.” Quincy shoves his hands in his pocket.

  “We’re friends,” I say.

  “Uh-huh, right.”

  “We are.” I punch his arm playfully.

  “Poor guy doesn’t even know what he got himself into, does he?”

  “Okay, stop. I know you ain’t talking. Your dating calendar stays packed.”

  “You know I be out there.”

  “Oh.” I make quotation marks with my fingers. “ ‘You be out there.’ Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Quincy bites at his lip, and I swear he’s embarrassed.

  “Nothing serious. Too many expectations. Always forgetting birthdays, Valentine’s, the things good boyfriends are supposed to do. Bet Dean never forgot your birthday.”

  “You damn right,” I say. “But that’s because I don’t let him.”

  “You’re such a pain in the ass.” Quincy laughs.

  I chuckle. Then Mama catches my eye—she’s waving me to my seat.

  “Come with me if I hear from Mandy?”

  “Bet.” Quincy walks to the side of the room, closer to Beverly.

  More people continue to filter in, so extra seats are pulled out from the storage closet. Officer Clyde and Beverly stand next to each other, surveying the room. They position themselves on opposite sides when the doors close, and Dr. Scott goes on the stage. I take my seat with Mama.

  “Welcome,” Dr. Scott says. “There’s room, keep coming. Raise your hand if you have a seat next to you. Before we begin, let’s hear from Pastor Jenkins from the First Ebenezer Baptist Church.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Scott. We here today because our brothers and sisters need us, Lord.” Pastor Jenkins prays over my family.

  My eyes flutter, tempted between listening to opening prayer and keeping watch.

  Pastor Jenkins finishes, and Beverly takes the mic at the front of the room. She’s greeted warmly because she was raised in Ebenezer Church.

  Beverly shares the state of things, what happened last night and that although it probably won’t happen again, we should be keeping an eye out. Lots of heads nod while she talks, until she mentions that the Galveston County police force is asking residents to be careful as they conduct their investigation. She opens up the floor.

  An older Black man with a Kangol cap stands up. “We can’t live like this.”

  A man speaks from the other side of the room. “First it’s a cross, then what?”

  “Yes!” More shouts from the crowd.

  “Why aren’t there arrests already?”

  “We’ve begun an investigation.” Officer Clyde steps in, standing next to Beverly. The crowd grows uneasy. Energy shifting.

  “An investigation?” the man who spoke first repeats. “Then what are you going to do when you don’t find anyone? They said they’d burn a body.”

  “We believe it’s an empty threat,” Officer Clyde says.

  The crowd erupts. Angry. It’s chaotic. Parents hug their children close, some pacing in the back. I’m glad I’m not the only one upset by his words. Too often I’ve felt like we’ve just been fighting this battle ourselves.

  “Is this a threat to all of us or someone looking for the boy?” An older woman in the middle of the room raises her arm while she speaks.

  That stings. I knew there’d be some blame on our family, but I wasn’t ready for this today. This just adds more reasons Jamal should stay in hiding.

  Beverly taps Officer Clyde on t
he shoulder, relieving him at the mic.

  “I know you all are scared,” Beverly says. “I was, too. That’s why I’m here today. Me and Officer Clyde. We don’t want anyone scared, but we need your help to be vigilant. Contact the police if you see something suspicious.”

  “Call the police?” Murmurs rise, hesitant voices repeating the same sentiment.

  “Call. Me,” Beverly says. “Cross burning has no place here. It’s possible someone’s angry over the death of Angela Herron, placing the blame on the Beaumonts. Regardless, we can’t take chances it won’t happen again.”

  “Or something worse,” Quincy calls out.

  “Or something worse,” Beverly says.

  Officer Clyde looks like he wants to address the room, but Beverly has it more in control than he could, so he must know it’s better to stay in the background.

  Beverly fields more questions. Community members sharing their stories, speculations. Some angry. Some see it as an isolated incident. Translation: It’s Daddy’s fault. Jamal’s fault.

  It burns inside to hear a crowd filled with confusion and putting the blame on my family.

  Beverly points to me; it’s time to address the crowd. I have my comments folded in my hand, but I don’t open them when I get to the microphone. I speak from the heart.

  “I know you’re all scared. I’m real scared, too. My mama—” I point to Mama. She’s gripping her purse tight. “My mama’s scared. Even though she don’t let y’all know. But someone’s out there who might know more about what’s going on with my brother, Jamal, and my daddy, James Beaumont. Some of you even testified as an alibi for him, so you know my daddy wasn’t where they say he was.”

  There’s a hush in the room. Each person hanging on to my words. My breath is labored, emotional, but I’m trying to hold it in because Daddy’s bigger than life to me. Bigger than anything in our house, our family. He takes up so much space, and he’s not even here. The way they watch, I know it’s because they feel bad for me. For Mama. But the room is filled with those who also don’t know how to feel about my daddy.