by Kim Johnson
I couldn’t think of where else to go, so I went to see Quincy. Quincy and I don’t say a word as he goes through the box of Klan artifacts. His face is stern, but his hands tremble.
“Unbelievable.” Quincy flips through the last few pages of what must be an attendance sheet or membership roster.
“Why do you think they kept all this stuff?” I ask. “Mr. Evans said he’d find out names, but he hasn’t followed up since. Do you think this is why?”
“Don’t try and figure it out,” Quincy says. “People get nostalgic about weird shit like this. Look at the Confederate flag. The South lost, representing slavery. And they still try to play it off like it’s just pride for the South. The Klan weren’t a threat to them. The Klan were just the people they knew, even walked their kids to school to keep them safe.”
“All I see is hate.”
“He could’ve been planning to talk with Dean first.”
“I’d bury it.”
“Maybe boxing everything up was his version of burying it,” Quincy says. “All you need to know is if the Klan knew you had this, it’s dangerous.”
When I first saw the box, I felt sick with an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Quincy’s words got me terrified. Klan aren’t to be taken lightly. And for what? Daddy’s appeal? Because of Jamal?
“What do we do with it?”
“Let’s focus on keeping you away from any trouble.”
“Trouble already found me. You think you can stop me from looking for answers now?”
“I’m not qualified to do that.” Quincy lifts an eyebrow and laughs.
I chuckle.
“What’s this mean for you and Dean?” Quincy pauses. “You good still?”
“I think he was shaken, too,” I say. “And I for sure didn’t know how to process his family history. This is a lot.”
“You came here. If you were feeling him, you would’ve stayed.”
“How could I go on looking at this stuff, with him there?”
“You here because we fit.” Quincy sits closer to me. “You can’t deny that. As much as I’ve tried to keep myself away from you, I’m always falling right back here. And you know that magnet that pulls us together is the same one that pushes you away from Dean. Won’t ever change until you flip that switch and make that decision. He’s had all these years to show you what he’s about, while I waited for you. Tried to not be a reminder, haunting you with our dads’ memories.”
“You’ve never brought bad memories,” I whisper, tears forming in my eyes. I made myself think Quincy was trying to live a separate life from me. I told myself that because it was easy to believe. “I thought you wanted out. Dean and I…He was good to me. A friend. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“I had Jamal. We were young, but I don’t like feeling like I’m supposed to stay on the sidelines anymore. I’m not stepping back unless you ask me to.”
I let a small smile slip, face flushed. Quincy takes my hand. It’s like we were ripped from each other, our friendship splitting when our families’ lives got torn apart. We had to survive through it. It was already too hard to face our community as children tainted because of our fathers. I think I was too weak to try to face my history with Quincy. But now, with his hands holding mine, I feel us melding back together. Becoming stronger. Becoming something bigger together than apart. It’s all so much to take in. I can see it in his eyes. We need time to let our lives fall back in place. There’s one thing I know now: I won’t let anything pull us apart again.
* * *
I know I’ve overstayed my welcome the way Mrs. Ridges keeps passing Quincy’s room. We’re hip to hip together. Bonded again, like we were as kids, but this time grown. I’m not ready to leave Quincy, so we search online for anything about the Klan and white nationalists in Texas. They’ve erased this from their history. But the burden is on our backs like whips cracking our skin and leaving us to bleed out.
I search for articles about a Black man lynched, using the date on the back of the photo. Nothing pops up. I grow frustrated until I find a story about an FBI raid in Crowning Heights, a short article on the second page of the local newspaper. Illegal guns, racketeering. Then I see Richard Brighton’s name as charged but not convicted. Richard was one of the few men who weren’t sentenced.
The thought makes me sick, but I need to see that photo again. The one with Judy Evans as a little girl. I look at the online scan, blow it up on my screen, and cover the body of the man who was lynched, focusing instead on Mrs. Evans looking up at her dad, another girl, slightly older, with her hand on Mrs. Evans’s shoulder.
I go back to my search engine, this time looking for a murder in the weeks following the date of the photo. A shiver runs down my spine when I notice something about a missing Vietnamese shrimp packer. Curious, I click on it. The article says his family had been looking for him for weeks. The last day he was seen was the same day as the lynching photo.
“It can’t be,” I whisper.
“What is it?” Quincy comes up behind me and looks over my shoulder.
I compare the article’s photo with the lynching picture. The man’s white shirt peeks out underneath a work apron. A shrimp-hook design on the corner of the apron, white pants with stains. When I saw the white hoods and people gathered around the body by the cross, I’d assumed the man was Black. Now I see he could be the Vietnamese man, with brown skin darkened by long, hot days outside. The apron isn’t on him, but his clothing is almost exactly the same.
“You see this?” I point at the photo and the image online, then shut my eyes tight.
“Is that…? Can’t be…Is that the same guy?”
The missing man in the article must be the same as in the photo. I search his name, Minh Nguyen. The only thing that comes up is that he went missing, possibly ran away from his family to move to New Orleans or another location near the Gulf for better work conditions. No mention of him being found.
They got away with murder. I count sixteen people who witnessed his death and never said a word.
People who can keep a secret like this are capable of anything.
I go over the details with Quincy. He keeps a calm face, but he’s tapping his foot hard.
“You should stop looking into all this. Give this to Steve Jones! Stay out of it.” The crease in his brow is getting tighter.
I know he’s trying to protect me, but I’m already smack-dab in the middle of it. Somehow, I feel like I’m still chasing my daddy’s secrets. Jamal has Daddy’s case on his back—like father, like son. I know I should focus on helping Jamal, not get lost in old skeletons that, if woken, could be ghosts I’d regret waking up.
KILL TWO BIRDS
WITH ONE STONE
Wednesday afternoon, Mandy steps out of the Pearl Coffee and Tea shop a few blocks from school. Her hair is in a messy bun again, and a black apron’s still tied around her waist. I wait in the parking lot for her.
“I don’t have a lot of time. I’m on a break.” Mandy’s dark circles under her eyes share all too much of her pain.
“We both want the truth,” I say. “I know Angela went out to the Pike, but she went alone. Without Jamal. Why?”
She scans the lot, a nervous look bouncing in her eye.
I lean on the driver’s side of my car until Mandy gets the courage to speak.
“Chris caught her in a lie, and she was trying to backtrack what Scott was saying about her messing with Jamal.”
“But the Pike, alone?”
“The first time Angela went to the Pike, it was back in April. Angela thought Chris was up to something out there because he was saying some real wild stuff and hanging with a new crowd.”
“Like racist things?” I say.
Mandy nods. “Chris kept going out to the Pike all secret-like. Hushed conversations and cryptic texts. She de
cided to go out there, see for herself what was going on.”
The photos on the SD were back in April; the timeline matches up.
“Angela realized Chris was part of some new hate group. She didn’t know exactly what but called it a bunch of angry white boys.”
A shiver runs down my spine thinking about the flyers in Richard Brighton’s SUV.
“A few weeks later, Chris demanded Scott give back a gun of his. Chris had let him mess around with it after he found it in his uncle’s storage. Scott gave it back, but before Chris could get a chance to return it, it went missing from his truck.”
“What happened to it?” I jump in.
“Angela. I told her to mind her business, but when Angela was determined about something, there was no stopping her. Scott suspected it was her, so he told Chris about the rumors going around that Angela was seeing Jamal. And…and it sounds like you already know Chris confronted her the same day she died at the Pike.” Mandy’s voice cracks, her hands shaking.
“I saw them arguing that morning,” I say.
“She told him she was worried that he was planning on doing something dangerous. That he’d changed since he’d been hanging with a new crowd by the Pike. She’d seen the gun in his glove compartment and took it. Chris wanted to prove to her they were ‘good guys.’ That they were just pushing back on ‘liberal PC bullshit.’ That there was ‘nothing wrong with wanting to protect their own.’ ”
I shift uncomfortably.
“His words. Not mine,” Mandy says. “She told him she’d return the gun if what they were doing at the Pike was harmless.”
“They killed her instead?” I rub my head trying to make sense.
“I wanted to go to the police, but they are the police. Who were they going to believe?”
I’m realizing it’s not just us who are skeptical of going against the sheriff’s family. Mandy is, too.
“My grabbing her things was a last-ditch effort to look for something to prove it. I had nothing. Especially after the newsroom got trashed. Her small purse she always carried was never found, either.” Her lower lip trembles. “Then after the party, Chris, Scott, and Justin stuck around asking if I knew about the gun. I kept denying it, but they threatened me until they believed I knew nothing.” Mandy looks away.
“What?” I ask.
“By the way they were acting, they weren’t being friendly with each other. They were arguing, like it was only the gun drawing them together.”
“Wait.” I put my hands on my head. “The gun is still missing?”
“I searched everywhere. Her house. Car. Locker. School. The Susan Touric Show studio. It’s nowhere.”
“Did she say where she’d been hiding it?”
“She was bringing it with her to the Pike. She figured the closer she got to their circle, the more information she could have for her story. Giving back the gun was supposed to prove she was on their side. I think she was going to work with you to get the truth into ‘Tracy’s Corner.’ ”
Mandy looks down at her watch. “I’m sorry. I gotta go. If I knew anything more, I’d tell you.”
“Mandy.” I pause. “Be careful.”
Mandy looks over her shoulder, nods, and then returns to the coffee shop. I text Jamal’s new burner, the one I provided in the backpack full of supplies I took to him after Mama left this morning.
Then I call Quincy; he picks up on the first ring. I don’t wait for him to ask. Jump into everything Mandy told me.
“We’ve got to find that gun,” I say.
“How’s a gun supposed to help us?” A car door slams. I know Quincy’s already getting in his car. He knows me too well. I’m not gonna sit back and wait for answers.
I think about that box of things that Mr. Evans pulled out after the cross burning at the house. Quincy said people like to keep memorabilia. It’s also evidence. And the gun might be evidence of something Richard is hiding.
“What if that gun was used to shoot the girl’s car the night of the rally? If the gun is found and ties Richard to it, that’s not good for his hate group, and the larger organization he represents, Liberty Heritage.”
“Maybe,” Quincy says. “Or it’s even deeper than that.”
I swallow hard. The same thought crosses my mind. Maybe the gun isn’t about Jamal but about Daddy.
Richard Brighton’s been scoping out Steve’s office. He has no reason to care about my daddy’s case—unless his gun makes him a suspect.
I AIN’T NEVER SCARED
I don’t know how, but I persuade Quincy to join me at the Pike. This time, it’s closer to dusk. He parks his car farther away than I did, near some large brush so it’s hidden from view. Quincy is shaking his head when we walk across the grass. As much as Quincy doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t leave a gap between us.
“Where we looking?” Quincy says.
“The path. The building. Until we cover every inch.”
We take slow, methodical steps. I retrace my route where I found the splatters of blood and flattened path in the tall grass. This time it’s darker inside the building, with less light coming through the dusty windows.
We stop in front of the warehouse doors. I look to the parking lot that’s completely empty, hoping it stays that way.
“Let’s walk the perimeter of the building. Maybe Angela got around here first before she got caught up in trouble.”
“Bet.”
We pace around the building, kicking the tall grass down and stepping over it to make sure we don’t miss a gun tossed in the grass.
“Wouldn’t the police already comb through this area again after Beverly turned in Angela’s phone?” Quincy asks.
“They don’t know to look for a gun.”
“They weren’t not looking for a gun.”
“I didn’t know you scared so easily.” I chuckle, and Quincy gives me a side-eye.
“This would be much easier if it was daytime,” he says. “It’ll be pitch-black out here in a few hours.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’ve tried morning—I was held at gunpoint by Galveston’s finest.”
“I notice how you remind me of that after we’re already out here.”
Once we search around the building, we enter through the wooden doors.
“Over there.” I point to the small opening I crawled through the first time. “That’s where I found her phone.”
“You fit through that?” Quincy asks.
The space looks smaller, but I was so desperate at the time. I shoved myself through, had the bruises the next day to prove it. Angela could’ve been in a worse situation. She made herself fit.
Quincy scans the building. “This would be the only space to be unseen. Spy on someone.”
“That’s true. She wanted an exposé, doing everything she could to get something on them. Maybe she was planning on taking photos from here. Documenting this meeting? But she dropped her phone.”
“Think you can fit through again?”
I walk closer to the narrow gap that’s sandwiched between the conveyer belt and the wall.
Before I get down to crawl, Quincy tugs me closer to him. Our foreheads touch. Our lips close for the first time since Herron Media, where our kiss was for cover, not the real thing.
“Be careful,” Quincy says.
I give a shy grin and nod.
I use the flashlight on my phone as a light. I crouch down, eyeing the gap, not looking forward to shoving myself through. I scratch my neck as I try to catch my breath. I look to Quincy, then take another breath. Quincy lifts the bottom of the conveyer and moves it a few inches out. It makes a difference. I crawl on my hands and knees, scooting myself slowly along the ground.
Even though Quincy’s here, he can’t help me if I truly get stuck in the machine. Each breath is a strugg
le as the space becomes more and more restricted. No clear way out except behind me. Panic rises in me when I realize I probably can’t turn around.
I can hear my heart pounding. My skin goes clammy. Small lights dance across my vision.
How can I move forward?
“You okay?” Quincy calls out. “You’re quiet.”
His voice snaps me back. I have to get control. I take another deep breath. “I will be when this is done.”
Sweat drips from my forehead, and I scan the floor with my flashlight. Inch my way closer. Then I see the marks of dust wiped away when someone did the same.
“She came from under here,” I yell. “There’s a bigger gap farther along. It looks like it opens up…I think I can fit.”
I scooch in like I’m crab walking. My arms are exhausted from dragging myself through the narrowest, most difficult part. Sweat and dust blending together, my eyes start to burn. But I don’t stop. I can feel that it’s getting easier the farther I go.
I swing my light around and see wooden panels that are busted, possible openings. Then glide my body over and feel along the wall.
“What do you see?” Quincy asks.
My voice quivers. Chest squeezing tighter, freaking out because I’m so deep below the conveyer I’d be cornered if we’re caught. But I keep reaching, going farther. I feel something, then stretch my fingers until I have a good hold to pull it to me.
My eyes well because I’m touching something of Angela’s.
“Angela’s interview bag,” I say. “She’d keep her phone, notepads, and pens in there for quick write-ups on the go.”
“Her phone must’ve fell out,” Quincy says.
I rest my head against the wall and feel cold metal instead.
“I think I found something,” I say. “Can you get through?”
I rub my eyes, the dust getting to me. I take my shirt and wipe my face. Then I scoot closer, swinging my light back and forth, looking along the wall and in little crannies as Quincy pushes the belt more so I can go deeper and he’ll have room to crouch under.
