This Is My America

by Kim Johnson

  Jamal unwraps Corinne’s arms from gripping him and hands her to Mama.

  “So, this how you want it to go down?”

  “You gotta go in,” Beverly says.

  “Or what? You gonna shoot me? Drag me? I can’t believe you’d be the one to do that, too.”

  In the distance is the faint sound of police cars. They reach closer, overwhelming, pulsing loud and echoing across the fields. I can feel Jamal panicking inside.

  Because I’m panicking, too.

  IT GETS WORSE

  Beverly steps outside to talk to the officers. When she comes back, her face looks drained. Officer Clyde follows her, stepping cautiously inside our home. He has his hand by his gun. Beverly motions for him to ease up, and he relaxes his hand.

  “Sheriff Brighton’s here now, Jamal,” Beverly says. “Let’s bring you in before things get complicated.”

  “I’m not going in,” Jamal says.

  “I’ll be representing Jamal.” Steve cuts between Jamal and Officer Clyde. “Give me and my client a minute.”

  Quincy’s body shakes next to mine. I touch his arm and he’s ice-cold. I see him reliving the trauma he went through as a child. I clutch his hand, but it’s like I’m not here.

  “He’s going to need to make a decision,” Officer Clyde says. “Sheriff’s not going to let him get away again.”

  “We have to go. The sooner we can get you in the car, Jamal, the better,” Beverly says.

  Steve goes to Jamal. “Come on, trust me, let’s go together. I’m your legal representation getting out of here.”

  Jamal nods, but his eyes are wide, his mouth a thin line. He’s scared to death. Just like me.

  Sheriff Brighton approaches the house, his eyes steady on Jamal when he sees him. My stomach sinks because I don’t know what this means for Jamal. Guilt that I made Jamal come home to talk to Steve takes over.

  “We got things under control, Sheriff,” Beverly says.

  “Is that true?” Sheriff Brighton looks to Officer Clyde.

  “We’ll be out shortly,” Officer Clyde says.

  Steve whispers to Beverly.

  “He’d like his interview to happen here,” Beverly says.

  I look to Steve and hope this is possible.

  “We don’t need to manage it that way.” Officer Clyde intercedes. “I’ll bring him in.”

  “We need to get him on the record right away,” Beverly says.

  “That’s what the station is for,” Sheriff Brighton says. “We’re following protocol on this. We can’t allow your family connection to rule how we do this.”

  “Your son was at the scene of the crime,” Beverly says. “And there are claims your brother’s gun was the one we found. A gun that Angela was allegedly returning to your son that may have been used in the death of that girl at the march two months back.”

  My chest swells at Beverly holding her ground. Sheriff Brighton takes a step back, his face contorted, puzzled. This is new information to him.

  “Let’s do this right on both accounts so we won’t have issues charging,” Officer Clyde intervenes.

  “I’ll secure the perimeter. We do this by the book.” Sheriff Brighton nods and folds his arms across his chest, eventually turning toward the police cars.

  The officers spread around the house. No option for Jamal to run away now.

  A white SUV pulls up to the field. The lighting is poor, but I can tell this is no cop car. My stomach twists as I wait to see who it is. The car slows when it reaches our driveway and stops behind the police cars. A man gets out; the flashing blue and red lights bounce off his pale skin.

  Richard Brighton.

  My throat catches, and Quincy locks eyes with me. I can see his body going weak. Like the lights are giving him flashbacks to the night he was shot. Sweat beads on his face, and his eyes look glassy. He’s going to pass out if more cops follow. He leans on me; I help him take a seat. My chest is tight and my head is spinning. Quincy has always looked out for us, and I don’t want him near any of this, but I have to focus on family first.

  I go to Jamal.

  “Jamal.” I point to Quincy, who’s struggling. “We know what happens next. We’ve lived through it. We don’t have options. The best way to de-escalate is to not put up a fight. They’re ready for battle out there. Don’t let their fear grow so all they see is war.”

  I don’t know if that’s the right answer, but I also know I can’t control police responses. I can only follow what I’ve been preaching in Know Your Rights workshops.

  Jamal’s biting his lip, trying to hold it together. I wrap my arms around him. “They gotta take you in. Walk out with Beverly and a lawyer—that’s the best we gonna get.”

  Jamal holds on to me. His fingers dig into my shoulders. My throat aches. I got him back, and now I’m losing him. It hurts to be the one to convince Jamal to step out that door into a situation I know I can’t control.

  Jamal hugs Mama, then lifts up Corinne and gives her a kiss. She clings to his neck, won’t let go. He has to pry her off, because he would never use her as a shield, as much as she’s trying to make that happen. She’s sobbing.

  “Let’s go.” Jamal closes his eyes.

  Steve joins him; Beverly flanks the other side.

  “I gotta cuff you, Jamal,” she says. “I won’t do it tight. It’s just to settle the officers outside so they can relax, okay? Take a breath now.”

  Jamal takes a long breath. A tear slides down his cheek. When he squares his shoulders, my heart bursts with pride. He won’t let them break him.

  Officer Clyde leads all of us out of the house, leaving Jamal, Beverly, and Steve inside.

  Eventually, Beverly walks out with Jamal and Steve. My throat constricts because I want Jamal to be seen clear as day. Unarmed. Not a threat. Jackson’s death replays in my mind as if it’s all happening again.

  As soon as I think about the past repeating, Quincy puts his hand on my shoulder and holds me tight. He shook himself out of his fear and is now looking at me to calm down. I don’t have the words to speak. I hate that I have this thought that history is going to replay itself. It paralyzes me.

  I swallow hard and focus on watching Jamal. He walks out in a T-shirt and pants, leaving his thin hoodie inside. He’s so hesitant, moving slowly. He makes his way down the steps. Sheriff Brighton approaches Beverly, but she waves him off. Jamal’s not going to be calm if he thinks the sheriff won’t listen. We all watch helplessly because we know once Jamal’s in the police car, there’s little we can do.

  I glance at Steve, trying to keep Jamal calm.

  “Tracy.” Quincy takes my attention away. “Jamal will be okay.” His eyes are sure. He’s convinced. I try to nod, but I notice a movement beyond the police line.

  Richard Brighton is edging forward. No one seems concerned as he approaches his brother.

  I look over at Jamal, then at Richard. This isn’t good.

  Sheriff Brighton sees his brother, and his face turns firm. I’m stuck between running closer and fear that if I cause a distraction, it will create an aggressive response.

  I can’t hear what Sheriff Brighton says, but he seems to be trying to control the situation, explaining to Richard what’s going on. Richard goes from excited to furious. He must have been asked about the gun.

  Sheriff Brighton is now talking sternly; he puts his hand on his brother, directing him to his car, but Richard’s not listening. He’s getting more and more agitated.

  “He killed a white girl—my nephew’s girlfriend,” Richard yells. “I have a right to be here.”

  Beverly notices the commotion and hurries to move Jamal into the police car. Richard pivots around the sheriff and steps toward Jamal, like he’s going to tackle him.

  Jamal shifts; he’s getting ready to run with hands cuffed behi
nd his back. Anything to protect himself from Richard.

  Richard yells, “Gun!”

  I hear it before I see it.

  A gun goes off.

  Someone is screaming.

  Beverly and Jamal drop to the ground. Steve crouches, hands over his head. Mama’s wail freezes my blood.

  Sheriff Brighton tackles his brother.

  Beverly is lying over Jamal’s body.

  Officer Clyde yells, “Halt!”

  The chaos is a cacophony in my ears. I’m the one screaming.

  Jamal’s been shot.

  RELIEF AND PAIN

  I can’t stay frozen any longer. I have to move closer.

  “Jamal!” I scream, pushing my way toward him.

  “He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.” Quincy got there first and rushes back to my side to stop me.

  I have to see for myself. Because all I see is black on the ground, in the darkness.

  When I get closer, Jamal is sitting up. Steve’s next to him. He’s reaching for Beverly, who’s slumped over.

  No, no, no, no.

  “Call a bus!” Officer Clyde waves wildly for everyone to put their weapons away. “Officer down! Officer down!”

  He immediately begins to administer aid to Beverly. I realize I’m rocking in place, mumbling “no” over and over again and yet feeling relief at seeing Jamal unhurt at the same time. It’s all too much. Beverly is one of the best of us.

  “She was taking him in,” Officer Clyde shouts at no one in particular.

  There’s chaos among the officers, guns drawn, but I can’t tell who fired the shot.

  Sheriff Brighton has cuffed Richard and is waving another officer to take him into a police car. Then the sheriff orders everyone, “Weapons down! Weapons down!”

  Quincy is frozen, watching Beverly. I hold him while Officer Clyde continues to administer aid, trying to stop the bleeding.

  Officers join in helping Beverly and clear out space for when the ambulance arrives. Jamal’s been placed in the back of a police car, cuffed, leaning on the glass, watching them help her. Our gazes meet. What does this mean?

  An officer moves out of the way, and I can finally make out Beverly talking while she lies on the ground.

  “It’s her shoulder,” I say to Quincy. He steps closer, but an officer pushes him back. Mama and Corinne join us. I pull Corinne close. Curve my body over hers like a protective shell. Mama puts her hand over Quincy, who’s at my side.

  Pain pushes out of my chest and up through my throat, like rocks are filling me up until I can’t breathe. Helpless watching Beverly.

  I expect to see relief in Sheriff Brighton’s face now that Jamal is under arrest, but he’s frantically looking between Beverly on the ground and his brother in another police car. He barely seems to register when an officer drives away with Jamal. His face looks anything but relieved.

  THE TRUTH SHALL

  SET US FREE

  Mama, Corinne, and I are huddled in a cold conference room. Across the way is Jamal in a smaller interview room. He’s still handcuffed, but at least not in a holding cell. I feel like I’m turning sideways.

  I had the same disoriented feeling seeing Quincy ride in the ambulance with Beverly: the ground pulling at me, so I don’t know what’s up or down. It didn’t help that the officers seemed just as confused.

  Sheriff Brighton walks down the hallway, stopping at Jamal’s door. I stand, until I see he’s stopped by a man in a gray suit who isn’t dressed like the rest of the Galveston County police force. The sheriff insists on speaking with Jamal. He’s turned away. My body shakes with relief, hoping this is one step closer to clearing Jamal’s name.

  Steve enters our conference room. Mama clutches her shirt and stands.

  “Sit.” Steve gestures with his hand. “This is going to be a while.”

  “Are they gonna let us talk to Jamal?” I ask.

  “No.” Steve points to Jamal’s room. “Once they complete his paperwork, they’ll let me join him.”

  I clear my throat. “What’s next?” I sip lukewarm water from a Styrofoam cup.

  “Outside investigators have been called in. They’ve given approval for the ballistics on the gun found at the Pike to be done by an external unit.”

  I exhale. My biggest fear was that Jamal’s fingerprints would be planted on the gun or they’d use it against him without any real evidence.

  Corinne smiles, even though I know she doesn’t know what that means to us. She just knows we’re happy about it.

  The plainclothes officer in gray, I realize, is from internal affairs. Not Galveston County police. I still don’t know who to trust. What kind of involvement Sheriff Brighton had. Did he know? Was he part of a cover-up? Or just couldn’t—didn’t want to—see the truth?

  I rub my temples, then glance down at my phone for an update from Quincy. I want to be at the hospital for him and Beverly. As usual, I’m pulled in two places at once.

  No news yet.

  Mama brushes her forehead, the strain showing in her red eyes.

  “You got any answers?” Corinne whispers to me.

  “Jamal’s safe.” I squeeze Corinne’s arm, gentle. “That’s all that matters now.”

  Corinne rests her head on Mama and fidgets with her shirt.

  I take a long breath. Jamal’s under arrest, but Richard’s actions might have put the focus on his guilt. I only hope Beverly won’t have long-term injuries. By the time the ambulance pulled away, she was alert. Talking. Her shoulder was hit, but the other cops said she’d survive.

  Out the window, I see Dean enter the police station with his parents. Mama glances at me, and I shrug. I didn’t contact him.

  A few minutes later, Officer Clyde appears from the back of the station, his face ashen. He’s changed his uniform, the blood on his shirt now gone. I’m relieved. The front-desk officer points toward Mrs. Evans, and Officer Clyde meets her. They talk close, in hushed words. Dean and I catch glances, but he doesn’t move toward me.

  Officer Clyde enters our conference room. His silver hair is disheveled, stress on his face.

  “Mrs. Evans is here to make a statement, and she’d like your family to be there. It’s unusual, but we’ll allow it if you agree.”

  Mama and I exchange glances. Lost at what she could possibly say to us when we got bigger things going on. Mama nods at Officer Clyde.

  Steve motions for Officer Clyde to step out to talk to him before the Evanses enter.

  Mr. Evans holds one arm around a rigid Mrs. Evans, whispering what must be words of comfort when they finally enter with Officer Clyde and another plainclothes officer. Dean doesn’t meet my eyes and takes a seat next to his dad.

  Mrs. Evans puts down a photo. The photo. The one from the lynching. She closes her eyes as tears form. A coldness settles in my chest.

  I study Dean’s mom. Whatever she’s been through has been ingrained in her since she was a kid. Her father left imprints of his beliefs on her. How much she’s held on to is a mystery. Still, it’s a choice.

  “When I was ten years old, I witnessed a murder. One that my father, Charles Greene, Grand Wizard of the Galveston County chapter of the Ku Klux Klan, was involved in. They murdered a man named Minh Nguyen.”

  I expect her to stop, but she chokes through several more names from the photo that she thinks we should know about, those who witnessed the murder like her. Two names jump out. “Cathy Marcom Davidson. Richard Brighton.”

  “Wait. As in Cathy Davidson, Mark Davidson’s wife?” I ask.

  Steve hushes me. I bite my cheek, holding back questions I’m dying to get answered.

  Mrs. Evans stares down at the table, as if looking at us will make her stop talking. She begins with the night of the lynching.

  “I couldn’t sleep after what I saw. It was so
brutal. My father said that the man was nothing. Not to be so upset. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him…hanging there…wondering if his family knew…In the middle of the night, I snuck to the phone and called the police to leave a tip about the body. I didn’t think they’d trace the phone and show up at our house like they did.”

  Mrs. Evans had called about the lynching, but the story on the news was only about Minh Nguyen disappearing. Not about a body being found. The cops did nothing.

  “The officers arrived.” Mrs. Evans’s voice is strangled. “My dad joked with them. He knew them all. It’s no secret most probably knew who he was. Some were members. He told them I had a nightmare, and they believed him. I had defied my dad, and they left me there. Left me to suffer his wrath. After that night, I knew I could never speak a word about it again.”

  Her admission strikes hard. The moment I saw the photo of the body, the way they posed around it. Proud. They all kept that secret. And as a girl Mrs. Evans reported it, but she was shut down by the police. Her father was protected. I’m still confused about why she wants us to hear this.

  “Cathy Marcom and I became close friends years later. The secret we kept—that terrible secret—tormented us both. Cathy had dated Richard until he became abusive, too, so she left him for Mark Davidson.”

  Mrs. Evans gulps hard, then looks to Mr. Evans. He strokes her arm, and she refocuses on the center of the table. She rubs her fingers over a scar on her arm. She paid physically for going against her father. That fear to speak out beaten into her. Dean’s face is red; he’s gulping for air to keep from breaking. I look away. I need to focus on the truth she’s finally speaking.

  “In the weeks before the night of the Davidsons’ murder, I’d been speaking to Cathy often. Our store is just a few blocks away. Cathy was scared because Richard kept threatening Mark, telling him not to work with James or Jackson.”

  I do a double take at Mrs. Evans. Mama takes my hand under the table, and we hold on for the truth that must be coming. Her legs are quivering next to me.

  “Mark wasn’t having it. He refused to be threatened like that. He…he was a good man. Mark called Richard to let him know he was a businessman, and he wasn’t getting caught up in Richard’s personal beliefs. Cathy grew up with Richard. She knew he was violent. That he wouldn’t let it go. That’s why I stayed late that night at the store, to keep an eye on Cathy. In case she wanted to ride back with me.”