by Kim Johnson
I’m staring at Mrs. Evans with my mouth open. She knew Richard was threatening the Davidsons. All these years acting above us when she knew the truth. Richard had all the motive in the world, not Daddy. And then Richard went after Angela because she got ahold of his gun. The same one Scott used in the mob at the Black Lives Matter rally.
“I called the police station, even let the prosecution know about Richard during James’s trial, but they didn’t call me back. Said they wouldn’t need my testimony. They had evidence that it was James and Jackson.”
Mrs. Evans is distracted. Lost in thought. Like she’s holding back more. “It never went anywhere. When Jackson Ridges faced off with the police, it was clear he was guilty. I let it go.”
“Jackson was scared his family would be hurt,” I blurt out. “You should have told the defense, not the prosecution. How could you do that?”
My hands grip the table. I feel my face go hot as I hold back the pain of betrayal that flashes through my body. A white witness—silent all these years—who could have freed my daddy. Someone I knew and saw all the time.
“Let’s hear the full story,” Officer Clyde says. “She’s making a statement here.”
But I can’t stop. “You knew they were innocent. Why don’t you say it? Tell us the truth! For the first time, say it!”
“I did what I was supposed to do. I saw Richard leave the office after seven-thirty, waited an hour to hear from Cathy, but she wouldn’t answer my calls, so I dialed 911. I did. Got someone to check on them at their office.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Mama finally breaks her silence. She’s holding Corinne now, who’s lying over her, crying.
“Everyone was so convinced the case was closed. I called the police to check on her. I was interviewed and shared my doubts. Wasn’t that enough? If I accused Richard directly, he’d hurt me, threaten to disclose things about my father.”
“But your father’s been dead five years now,” Mr. Evans says.
“I…Things were settled. James had a trial. They found him guilty.” Mrs. Evans rocks in place, sobbing. “My God. What did I do?”
She’s facing reality—the truth she’s always known.
I can’t take it any longer. I stand up. Seven years we suffered because she was afraid to get involved. Passive enough to watch this happen because it wasn’t her responsibility. All this time, Mrs. Evans held the answers to my daddy’s freedom.
And she said nothing.
“I made myself believe that Richard had nothing to do with it. It was easier to think James and Jackson did it. The police already arrested them.” Her eyes are bloodshot. Like she’s cried it all out of her and has nothing left to tell but the truth.
I look away. She’s upset. Scared. Wants to justify her choice, but I can’t accept it.
My father didn’t do anything wrong, and Jackson Ridges paid with his life.
Mama lifts her head, looking at Mrs. Evans with betrayal flitting in her eyes. But triumphant, too. The truth is finally confirmed: Daddy and Jackson were innocent.
X FACTOR
Stephen Jones Sr. enters the police station the following morning. My hand covers my mouth—because it’s not my regular old Steve—it’s the living legend. Tall, with a gray beard, but same bald head, dark skin, and wide smile. A Black woman trails behind, dressed in all black and wearing cop-looking sunglasses. She smiles, but it’s a hard one.
“Mr. Jones,” I croak out from the hallway behind the desk.
“Yes,” his voice booms. He’s got an aura of importance. I can see why he stands out in court.
“I…I’m Tracy Beaumont,” I fumble out.
The desk officer immediately lets him pass through.
Mr. Jones slaps my shoulder. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Beaumont. This is Dom, my lead investigator.”
My hands tremble as I show them to the conference room we’ve taken over since last night. Mama’s home resting after dropping off Corinne at Tasha’s, where she’ll be staying for a few days. My chest swells with pride thinking about the moment Mama will meet the founder of Innocence X.
Steve soon enters, but it’s clear who’s taken over as alpha dog here. Mr. Jones has officers delivering him coffee and getting access to a computer in the conference room.
Over the next hour, we fill them in on everything we know. Including new suspicions that Daddy’s and Jamal’s cases are connected. Stephen Jones writes notes furiously. He makes calls and researches the story about the girl who was killed in the crowd by a gunshot.
“You think the gun is the same one?” Mr. Jones asks Steve.
“Sheriff brought in his son, Chris, last night,” Steve says. “He revised his statement. He was the first to find Angela, not Jamal. Richard is now suspected of attacking Angela, which led to her death. He needed that gun. May be the same one used in the Davidsons’ murder. Chris admitted his uncle knew about the meetup, delayed his arrival. He’s now spilling on the underground hate group and confirms his friend Scott stole his uncle’s gun and shot at the crowd at the Black Lives Matter march in April. Thought it would be funny. Suspects and witnesses have been filing in all morning.”
Mr. Jones lets out a long whistle. “This will be one hell of a story.”
I’ve gone over all the possible headlines in my story, too.
CORRUPTION IN CROWNING and JUSTICE FOR THE BEAUMONTS are my favorites.
“What’s this mean for our young client, Jamal Beaumont?” Mr. Jones looks to me.
“Steve said the charges are dropped.” I touch my hands to my face, still in disbelief.
“A few more official loopholes to go through,” Steve says. “But the DA’s receptive to dropping charges. He may need to serve some community service for running with a warrant.”
“Under these circumstances, I would hope that’s all. And even that feels unnecessary.” Mr. Jones nods at Dom. A secret language between the two. She’s already up and out, calling the district attorney’s office.
“Now, to complicated matters,” Mr. Jones says to me. “Has Steve told you that while we might have evidence to prove your father’s innocence, there are more hoops to go through?”
I hesitate before speaking, fold my hands in my lap.
“How long?”
“I’ve read enough of your letters to know you’re a relentless advocate. That’s why I can’t in good faith give you a date. This will still be a fight, although we have a lot going for us already.”
I rub my hands over my mouth in frustration.
“Gun ballistics have changed over time,” Mr. Jones says. “It’s not exactly a science anymore. I’ve seen things fall apart with this. We don’t know if the gun is tied to the Davidson murders, but we do know there’s a connection to an affiliated member of a hate group and the death of two young women. We’ll need to press hard on the evidence and get more witnesses who might be willing to come forward, or get an admission. Mrs. Evans’s statement will be key, but I want more.”
Dom returns, taking down names of people to interview and asking how we came to certain conclusions. I wait for more questions from Mr. Jones, but he’s done. He jumps on his phone, emailing and texting.
I look up when I hear a familiar voice.
Quincy.
My heart melts. I move to the door, open it, and flash a wide smile. Behind him is Beverly. An overwhelming joy fills me when I see her. She’s moving slow, her shoulder bandaged and her arm in a brace. She winces with each step. There’s a crowd of her fellow officers around, but her focus is on us.
Beverly took a bullet for my brother, risked her life when another officer was quick to take a shot when Richard yelled, “Gun!” She protects and serves.
We’d given Beverly a hard time about trusting the law, but we were mistaken: she is what the law was always supposed to be.
/> I hesitate, then reach out to hold Quincy. I’m worried that somehow if I look him in the eye, he’ll be able to see my guilt about his sister being shot. He doesn’t give me another second to question. He flings his arms around me and lifts me up. I let go of my fear and hold him tight. Quincy puts me down. I reach for Beverly but stop because she looks too fragile.
“You should be resting,” I say.
“Had to see it through, make sure Jamal gets released.” She turns to Mr. Jones. “And shake this man’s hand.”
Mr. Jones opts for a fist bump, then Beverly smiles at Steve. He shakes her hand—the one not in a sling—and I notice how their touch lingers. I look to Quincy to see if he notices. He shakes his head at me, then chuckles.
“I’m assuming you haven’t been watching the news?” Quincy asks.
I shake my head.
“It’s all over,” he says. “Turn on the television.”
I flick it on in the conference room and turn up the volume, flooded by news pouring in. The red BREAKING NEWS headlines scroll across the bottom of the screen:
Breaking News: Innocence X founder Stephen Jones takes high-profile case. Inquiries into Davidson murders and new witnesses.
Breaking News: Jamal Beaumont to be released as suspect in murder of eighteen-year-old Angela Herron.
A Black female reporter stands at the steps of the county jail.
“In a strange turn of events, local white nationalist Richard Brighton will be charged with the murder of Angela Herron. A reliable witness has also come forward with evidence that would connect Brighton to the murders of Mark and Cathy Davidson more than seven years ago, claiming that prosecutors hid the crucial evidence at the time. We’ll be following these cases closely.”
I cover my mouth. I used to dream about this day for Daddy. Replay all the ways that his story would finally be told, but I never thought it would be like this.
“News travels fast.” Mr. Jones turns to Steve. “Good job, son. You went with your gut in taking this case. Tracy, when you get to college, let me know if you’re looking for an internship.”
I nod, still in shock.
“What does this mean now that it’s on the news like this?” I ask.
“It means they can’t hide this story,” Steve says. “It’s on every channel.”
Each moment I’ve held in—twisted up for years of prayer, hope, anguish—all unwind as I let out a cry.
“Daddy’s coming home,” I say. “Daddy’s coming home.” Each time I say the words, they feel more real.
I flick through a few news stations to catch the coverage. All are on Daddy’s case, highlighting Innocence X, who have been working on exoneration cases for decades. Daddy’s story is their most visible case to date.
My fists unclench. How long have I been holding myself ready to fight? I look at the clock on the wall. Time shifting to our side.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Jamal is suited up in the same outfit from The Susan Touric Show. He holds on to Corinne’s hand, who’s shaking next to him. Mama’s got her hand on Jamal’s shoulder. I’m wearing yellow today. A bright-colored dress for what I’m hoping is the best day of my life. My hair blown out, even took the time for makeup.
We take the courthouse steps as a family, fighting through a swarm of news media.
We enter and go through security for the Court of Criminal Appeals, courtroom 8. Judge Vandyne is the presiding judge among the nine judges who have been reviewing Daddy’s appeal. My footsteps make the familiar sound of walking on the marble floors.
As I reach the door, I suck in air to balance the rushing feeling of blood pumping through my body. I’ve learned over time that you have to control yourself in a courtroom. But this one will be like none we’ve faced before. Instead of a row for the jury, it’ll be the judges lined up in two rows. We’ve all been warned not to let it intimidate us. That our focus should be on Daddy. On Judge Vandyne. Jamal, Corinne, and Mama go before me. I wave them ahead as they’re cleared to enter. I need a moment. I’ve dreamed of this day, and I don’t want to forget a second of it.
Once I’m settled, I partially open the left door and slide into the courtroom.
Tasha and her family are seated on the defense side, right behind our row. Daddy Greg’s arms are around Tasha and Monica.
The courtroom is packed. I show my wristband to indicate I’ve got a seat reserved. Near the front of the courtroom, I see the people closest to Daddy’s trial: my family, the Evanses, Mrs. Ridges and Quincy, even Sheriff Brighton and Officer Clyde. It warms my heart to see our community members seated like a shield of protection, with the church members led by Pastor Jenkins and the community center regulars that Dr. Scott gathered. This time we’re not leaving without justice. You can smell it in the air.
This time will be different.
Judge Vandyne’s glasses hang at the tip of his nose; he’s focused on the papers in front of him, not on the eight other judges. He barely looks up at the prosecution or the defense. The courtroom is silent when the side door opens.
Daddy. Not in a white jumper, but in a suit.
Two correction officers at his side, but this time no cuffs. They joke with him, maybe trying to get him to relax, but Daddy is stone-cold serious. His eyes searching for his family. I can see him scanning for me. I slip into the front row behind the defense, where Quincy joins me at the end of the row.
I make sure Daddy knows I’m here before he’s seated. He’s got his long, dark fingers wrapped together to keep from shaking. Stephen Jones Sr. greets him; they shake hands. I watch Daddy glance back every few moments at Mama, then us. He finally lets a smile peek out when Mama mouths, Don’t look so guilty.
The bailiff calls us to rise. It’s starting.
My eyes begin to well as I think about how much time we’ve lost with Daddy. I look back out to the courtroom. Dean catches my eye and he mouths, You got this. I smile. Our friendship took a hit, but we’re strong. Something in me knows it will be able to survive.
The judge calls the attorneys to the front to review the appeal. He and Stephen Jones Sr. talk back and forth, and then the prosecutor answers some questions.
“Your Honor, we’d like to submit an oral argument to go with our appeal,” Mr. Jones says.
“Objection,” the prosecutor says.
“I’ll allow it,” Judge Vandyne says.
The prosecution looks frustrated, but they weren’t expected to object. Especially being under scrutiny for their approach to the first trial since the media made Mrs. Evans’s statement public.
We should’ve known the district attorney’s team would try to pull something; they’ve never been fair to us before.
The room is silent when Stephen Jones Sr. begins to speak. He commands the courtroom with his words.
“A rush to judgment took this innocent man’s freedom from him.” He points to Daddy, and the courtroom hangs on every word. “His family has suffered seven long years knowing that, at the time of the murder, he had the best witnesses you could ask for—his arm around his pregnant wife, children playing at his feet—but their truth was unable to stand in the court of law because their voices were silenced. Overpowered by a desperate attempt to close a case. Now another family suffers. All because the prosecution charged the wrong man, and the real killer was free to murder again. Free to spread hate through racist organizations. Your Honor, let us end this injustice here and now with the Beaumont family and start to heal our community. Grant justice for James Beaumont.”
I watch Judge Vandyne as he takes in the argument, knowing that the other eight judges have already weighed in. They’ve had time to consider. To feel the weight of the personal impact this has had on our family. And front-row seats to the injustices throughout the entire process, all leading to Angela’s murder.
Ultimately, this decision comes down to
whether the judges will affirm Daddy’s conviction or reverse it, forcing us to go to the Supreme Court. We hope it won’t go that way. We want Daddy home. Today.
I’m nervous. My heart is sinking. Judge Vandyne has the same expression Judge Williams had years ago when he confirmed what the jury’s decision would mean for Daddy. Death. His matter-of-fact demeanor always rubbed me the wrong way.
He thought he was being just, but what I’ve learned is you can’t separate humanity from the legal system. That’s what Mrs. Evans did. She didn’t think about our family. The real people affected. She closed that door years ago when the trial started. Now that she’s opened it up again, I wonder if she’ll ever be the same. The guilt eats at her. I hope Judge Williams lies restless at night, thinking about Daddy’s case.
Daddy looks at Mr. Jones, hoping for a sign, then turns to us. Our eyes are misty. The ache inside takes over again. Nothing here that I can control. I squeeze Jamal’s hand.
I just want the prosecution to make this easy, but I look over at them and they appear stubborn as ever. This feels too familiar. Tasha touches my shoulder as I clutch the bench with my free hand. The thought overwhelms me. I’m paralyzed by the realization that if we don’t win today, time might run out before we can even make it to the Supreme Court.
The prosecutor stands to make his oral argument.
“Let me review it,” the judge says.
The prosecutor hesitates, then hands over his brief and argument. He remains standing, waiting.
“Sit.”
“Your Honor?”
“Sit.”
Murmurs take over the crowd. The edge in the judge’s voice is harsh. He hits his gavel, and the court is silent. Mr. Jones puts his hand on Daddy’s to calm him.
