by James Boice
The concern, Jenny says, is that the story of another black boy killed by a gun in New York City will be turned into a race story, not a gun story, or else buried entirely and they will not have leverage with the authorities for getting information and making sure the investigation is a priority. —You have to push these people. You have to push them very hard. Embarrass them. Shame them. Cost them money. Make them fear for their jobs.
The Justice for Clayton people chant and march. Cops show up in military gear with heavy artillery vehicles, make some arrests. Jenny captures it on her phone, puts it up. There is a hash. It is a trend. (Hashtag, Dad, Clayton would correct him, laughing. Trending.) His wife brings Jenny a photo of Clayton in the park. She took it when they picked him up after his last day of freshman year of high school, to take him out to celebrate. They went to the steak house he likes. Growing Clayton ate a steak as big as he was, then he reached over and finished his mom’s.
I’m gonna be bigger than LeBron, he said, his mouth full.
His wife said, Oh yeah? You take care of us when you’re rich basketball star?
Hell yeah, said Clayton. I’ll buy you a dope house with acres and acres of land.
Your father is a city man, he doesn’t want a farm.
He said, What would I do out there? Who would I talk to?
I don’t know, Clayton said. Your cows.
I don’t want to talk to cows. I want to talk to people.
Why? People can be annoying. Cows just stand there and moo. They gotta listen to you. They don’t interrupt or talk back or disagree with you or nothing.
Disagreeing is okay, he told Clayton. Annoying is okay. You must understand. Pain? Inconvenience? Unpleasant? All that is okay. All that is good. Because it is human. With human? You can never know. Animal? You always know. Human? Never ever ever.
I don’t even know what you talking about right now, Dad. How much you have to drink?
You don’t understand.
Let me try that whiskey and maybe I will.
Sure. Are you twenty-one?
Yeah.
Show me ID. Show me your fake ID.
Clayton smiled and said nothing, ate more of his mom’s steak.
Do you understand what I mean? When I say annoying okay and disagree okay?
I think so.
Tell me what I mean.
You mean life ain’t about just avoiding pain and surviving. Sometimes good things can come from bad things.
What else?
I don’t know. I guess that there ain’t nothing to be afraid of really. Life, people—there ain’t nothing to be afraid of. Don’t try to control it. Because you can’t. You just gotta embrace it.
He laughed and said to Clayton, Nothing to worry about with you. Put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and pulled him toward him, kissed his head.
Jenny’s group puts the photo on their signs and T-shirts. Clayton in the park, proud of his good grades and scholarship, handsome, tall. Jenny says he looks just like his father in it. This is how Clayton should be known to the world, she says. Not the images the media has been using. The media has been using pictures Clayton took goofing around. The pictures show Clayton holding up money he made selling his sneakers and making imaginary gang signs and looking tough. Dangerous, in other words. A rabid animal that should have been better controlled. A thug who had it coming.
Almost told him, at that steak house dinner. Almost told him. Clayton said, Good things come from bad things, right? and he almost said, The best things. The best things come from the worst things. Clayton would have said, What you mean, like what? And he would have looked at her and put his arm around her, and she would have been looking back, wondering if he was really about to say it, and he would have said, Like you. And he would have told him. Clayton would have stood up from the table. What? You ain’t my real father?
He would have grabbed his arm. Sit down, he would have said, very sternly. Maybe he would have yelled it. Not meanly—passionately. To illustrate how deeply he loved Clayton. Sit down. And pulled Clayton down into his seat. And pointed his finger into Clayton’s face. Now understand me: I am your real father and don’t you ever question that again. Understand?
Clayton would have understood. You right, it’s just that it was a shock, you know?
And he would have said, I know. We were waiting for the right time. And this was it. It seems like it might change everything but it does not. You understand that, right?
And Clayton: Yeah, I understand.
And he: And you see the bigger lesson, son? With every reason not to, without even knowing you, we let you in. And it was the best thing we have ever done. The best thing came from the worst thing.
And Clayton: It’s the best lesson I have ever had. I love you both so much for that, for having such guts like that, for waiting until you got to know me to decide about me. For giving me a chance.
And they: We love you.
And Clayton: I love you too. I’m glad you said it. I’m glad you told me now and not later. And he would have gone home with them that night and woken with them in the morning and every morning since, including this one. He would be alive if he had told him then.
He does not understand how or why he once believed that: that the best things come from the worst things. He believes in nothing he once believed in. Being brave, having faith, trusting people—he was wrong. The man who believed that is gone with Clayton. Now what is he? Now what does he believe? He believes nothing. For he is nothing.
Others begin showing up at the city coroner as well, white men in black T-shirts and baggy jeans. Sunglasses, black baseball hats. They smoke cigarettes, strut around. They have signs that say WE ARE LEE FISHER and signs that say SHALL NOT INFRINGE and FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS. —Get! A! Job! they chant at the Justice for Clayton people. —Get! A! Job!
His wife says, —What is their job?
Jenny says, —To be assholes. She seems happy the men have come. She looks very intently at them, scrutinizing their waistbands.
—What are you looking for? he asks her.
—Guns.
—Get out of our country! the men shout.
Police in riot gear form a barricade between the two groups.
—Do you think they shoot? he asks Jenny.
She says, —Yeah, of course they will.
He looks at her. She is crazy.
—Don’t worry, she says, —it won’t be at you. They want me.
She signals to one of her people, an alert young woman named Becky who is wearing a backpack. Becky takes it off, unzips it, pulls out an American flag—it is very large—she unfolds a collapsible pole from the backpack and attaches the flag to it upside down and raises it, waves it back and forth as though signaling to the sky for rescue.
The men boo her and shout, —Fuck you! Respect my country!
Becky does not back down. Cops push one large gun man back and take him to the ground and cuff him. More sirens are arriving in the distance. He watches these men chant USA. The man he used to be would have ventured to understand these men. Find the goodness in their hearts. But now he just hates them. He would like to make them have to grow up in his home country, he would like to see them intimidated and threatened by the monsters who intimidated and threatened him. Would they have resisted, like he did? He would like to put those mercenaries on their doorsteps. Would they have survived it, watching their wives attacked? In the morning after, would they have still wanted to live? Would they have still had faith? Could they have kept living? Would their wives have been as brave as his? Would they have had the courage to flee their homes, would they have made it to the USA they think is theirs because they inherited it? Would they be here if they had not been born here? So who deserves to chant USA? Whose country is this?
Jenny puts a hand on his shoulder. She seems very excited, thrilled. —They don’t even know what an upside-down flag means, she says, —they think it’s an act of disrespect. You guys okay?
He nods and
so does his wife. —It’s cool, don’t escalate it.
She is holding a video camera up and recording them as they shout, —We’re the reason y’all have your damn freedom!
The Justice for Clayton people are chanting louder, to drown them out.
—What do we want?
—Jus-tice!
—When do we want it?
—Now!
It is a beautiful thing. He gets goose bumps. All these people, for Clayton. He holds his wife. She is crying. They shout so loud and there are so many of them that now you cannot hear what the gun men are even saying. You can only see their faces contorted, their mouths twisting and screaming but nothing coming out. Jenny holds her camera with one hand, extends her other arm as much as she can, with her old injury. She gestures toward herself to them. Come on, she seems to be saying to the gun men. Come on. He does not understand.
She puts up the video, hundreds of thousands of people see it in the first few hours. The networks rebroadcast it. We’re the reason y’all have your damn freedom! Donations to Repeal the Second Amendment hit $400,000 overnight. One hundred thousand new memberships in the first twenty-four hours.
They lie in Clayton’s bed, watching the video. He tells her about what Jenny said about them shooting, about the way she gestured with her arm, as if inviting them to shoot. She does not believe him. She says, —Maybe you misunderstood. Why would she do that?
—I don’t know. I think maybe she is trouble. She’s lost her mind. She is using us to get herself martyred.
His wife looks at him like she does not know who he is. He does not know either. He has never said anything so cynical.
—Jenny is good, she says. —She is the only one here for us. We have to trust her. In the worst times, we must keep believing in people, we must keep living with faith. Like you have always said. Remember?
—I remember. I was wrong.
—Do not say that.
—How can we have faith in anything anymore? In anyone?
—I don’t know. The same way we did before. The way we always have. It is what got us through. If not for it, we would not be here.
—Here. Is this what it was all for? To get here? To suffer through this?
—I don’t know.
—I don’t remember now how I did it, how I had faith. That man seems like another lifetime.
—Please. I need that man. I don’t need this one.
—That man is gone. Gone.
—Get him back. Please be that man again. Please.
At the coroner’s office the next day, Jenny says that her organization’s chief attorney, Howard, has finally extracted information from the NYPD.
—What do they say? he says.
—They say Lee Fisher shot your son, and your son died of those gunshot wounds.
He waits for Jenny to continue but she does not.
—Yes, and?
—That’s it.
—But we already know these things.
—I know, it really cracks things open for us, doesn’t it? Aren’t they unbelievable? Just sit tight and stay tuned. Jesus, look at this, she says, pointing to a pickup truck approaching, large speakers on the back, an eagle painted on the side clutching a black assault rifle in its talons. From the speakers plays a white man’s voice, murky with false folksy sincerity. —This hoodie-wearing thug, says the voice, —comes kicking down your door in the middle of the night, dressed like he was, carrying himself in that gangsta kind of way, with that snarling indifference—do you know by the way why they carry themselves like that? Do you? To intimidate you. To show you what a big, dangerous thug they are. They want you to think they might hurt you. That young man—and face it, folks, they use words like boy and child but this was a six-foot-tall male, 170 pounds, that is a man—that young man was completely enthralled to hip-hop culture, a culture which worships crime, which praises murder, which equates casual, out-of-wedlock sex with masculinity and status... Folks, if you hear a noise in your house at two in the morning with your infant asleep in his crib and you find a guy like this standing in your living room, well, what would you have done? What did he expect? To be greeted with open arms? He messed with the wrong guy that night. Lee Fisher is a hero, and don’t forget that. He is a great father and a true American. God bless that man. If everyone were more like Lee Fisher, thugs might start thinking twice about entering our homes, raping our wives. Violent crime in this country, folks, is rampant, it is out of control, and our politicians do nothing to stop it. But if more of us were man enough to be like Lee Fisher, crime would stop tomorrow. It would stop tomorrow. Please stay vigilant out there, patriots. Be ready. We need you now more than ever...
His wife says, —Who is that idiot?
Jenny says, —Biggest talk radio host in the country.
The police are making the truck turn off its speakers but it does not matter.
His wife says, —That’s not what police think too, is it? That Clayton is a thug? That he is a criminal?
Dread overtakes him when she says this. He feels dizzy. Yes, he realizes, that is exactly what they believe. He has to sit down. He sits on the curb. Someone gives him water but it does nothing.
They meet with police in an office. —Clayton is not a thug, he tells them.
The police stare back at him blankly and say, —Our investigation is ongoing.
Jenny says, smiling, —Gentlemen, I know you are doing your work, we respect that, but these folks have suffered so deeply, and any information you might offer to help them understand what happened to their son—what Fisher is saying happened, what you think happened—anything to help them in this terrible, confusing time of unspeakable sorrow...
The police say nothing, do not even look at them.
—Have you received the testimonial letters we sent?
—We don’t conduct our investigations via what kind of letters we receive.
—But you will talk to these people as part of your investigation? she says.
The detectives kind of roll their eyes and look at each other and start to ask them to leave.
She interrupts them, still smiling. —You know, I’m good at using pressure to get what I want. The spotlight is hot now but this is nothing. Want me to turn it up? Or do you want to talk to twenty-seven reliable people standing outside right now about the Clayton they knew, the real Clayton, who was a good kid who did not deserve to die.
The detectives ask them to leave. They leave. On the way out, the desk sergeant stops them to fill out a form. There is a manila folder on the counter.
—What’s that? Jenny says.
Desk sergeant says, —Property of the NYPD. You touch it, you go to jail.
But the cop walks off, leaving the folder. Jenny takes it. They go outside where all their friends and supporters wait. Jenny opens the folder, looks through it. —It’s from the case file. It’s Fisher’s statement.
—What does it say? he says.
Jenny reads it and says, —Piece of shit.
—What.
—He’s claiming self-defense.
—No.
—He says Clayton said he had a gun and that he was there to kill him. She reads it. —This is tight.
—Oh my God. His wife puts her hands to her head.
Jenny says, —Clayton’s last words, according to Fisher, were: I have a gun and I’m going to kill everyone here.
—No, he says, —how can he say it? It’s not true.
—Of course it’s not, Jenny says. —It doesn’t matter if it is, there are no witnesses to contradict it. If I’m La Cuzio, I’m very nervous about taking this to trial. Not with the kind of lawyers Fisher’s got.
Dread fills his belly. His wife says, —I don’t understand.
—He’s going to get away with it, he says.
—Not necessarily, Jenny says. —That’s going to be up to a grand jury. It’ll be up to the people.
—Yes, he says, his voice flat and vacant, —they will let him go.
H
is wife looks at him closely, horrified. —Why? she says.
—Because they do not want Clayton. They want Fisher.
Jenny says, —Fisher knows the law. Of course he does. All these guys do. They’re weasels. He knows what he has to say to escape responsibility. He’s been fantasizing about it for years, killing somebody, shooting a home invader. He has been imagining for years how to handle himself with police in the aftermath, what he has to say to meet the criteria for justifiable homicide. Fantasizing. But look, they have him on the unlicensed gun. No way to weasel out of that. He’ll serve time for that.
—How much?
—Two years at least.
—Two years, he echoes.
Jenny sighs. —I know. Two years for Clayton’s life, right? Unacceptable. That’s why what we do now is crank up the heat on La Cuzio not to let up on homicide. A prosecutor has a lot of sway with a grand jury—little things he does will affect the outcome. Who to call as a witness, whether to blow them up or make them look credible on the stand. So we get everyone who knew Clayton to bury La Cuzio with letters, fill his inbox with e-mails, jack up his voice mail with calls, day and night. His phone will not stop. He will never even consider that what Fisher is saying could be true, that Fisher is anything but a cold-blooded murderer. We need to make La Cuzio and the city and the country see Fisher for what he really is: a scared, mean little idiot whose unfettered access to firearms murdered a boy. Make him fear for his job. Make him see that the people who put him in office demand Lee Fisher be tried for murder.
Jenny moves to a hotel downtown to be closer to the courts and police and prosecutors. There she establishes the headquarters of Justice for Clayton. Phone banks, letter-writing stations, computer terminals. Every morning Jenny and the Justice for Clayton people show up at La Cuzio’s office to dump across the receptionist’s desk a new sack of letters begging him to go whole hog toward bringing Lee Fisher to trial for murder.
I had the pleasure of having Clayton as a student in my freshman history class last year... if I could have a classroom full of boys as well behaved, inquisitive, kind, and bright as Clayton...
Clayton was my best friend since 5th grade & I ain’t NEVER seen him get mad or get in a fight or NOTHIN, hell NAH, there ain’t NO way Clayton woulda had a gun, he wouldn’t even know where to get one in the FIRST place, that dude shot him is LYING, he think just cause he a white dude he get away with it...
