Kneel

by Candace Buford

  Mr. Samuels paused the video at the moment that Marion squirmed under the force of Officer Reynaud’s grasp.

  “That’s all they have?” I squinted at the screen.

  “I’ve got to tell you. I’ve been a lawyer for over twenty-five years, and I’ve never seen a weaker case.” He knit his fingers together, pursing his lips. He gave Marion a moment to compose himself, but he was slowly becoming unraveled.

  “So, what do I do now? I thought you said the video evidence was going to work.” Marion gripped Mama’s hand tighter. His eyes flitted from his file on the table to Mr. Samuels’s patient eyes. “I can’t plea to something I didn’t do.”

  “Nor would I advise you to. Most criminal cases don’t go to trial, and many people agree to plea agreements, pleading guilty for crimes they didn’t commit. That’s the way the system works, especially for us Black men.”

  “Sorry, sir. We weren’t expecting this.” I wiped my forehead with a clammy hand. My dress shirt stuck to my skin, I was sweating so hard. “We thought Marion would have a shot of returning to the team.”

  “The team...” Marion’s voice trailed off, his lip quivering. “If I plead guilty to resisting arrest, and the other charges are dropped, then I’d be allowed to play, right?”

  I saw the wheels turning in Marion’s eyes. The reason he couldn’t play ball was because of the league rule barring players charged with violent crimes. If those disappeared, then the league might let Marion suit up. But at a significant cost.

  “You can’t plead guilty.” I leaned against the conference table, my palms sweating as I looked at Mr. Samuels. “It would go on his record, right?”

  “That’s correct. So, again, as your lawyer, I advise you not to take the deal.” He shook his head. “You’d have a misdemeanor on your record. They’d put you on probation for years. It’s not a fair deal at all. I suggest we go to trial.”

  “How long will that take?” Marion blinked past his unshed tears, his lips in a tight line. He was trying to hold himself together, but a tear escaped down his cheek. “Will it take longer than football season?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s likely. But we will win.” Mr. Samuels knocked his fist on the table. “I have two associates researching precedent just for you. We may have to wait a while for our day in court, but we’ll stick with you on this. I’m concerned with fairness. It’s what you deserve.”

  * * *

  Marion cried openly in the car—big sopping wet tears that beaded on his thick lashes and soaked his cheeks. It was as if his body was purging all the hope of the past month, slowly closing the door on his dream of going to college on a football scholarship.

  By the end of the car ride, his heavy breathing slowed to shorter pants. His sobs petered out to occasional sputters. And slowly, the creases on his brow softened. His stomach growled, and he looked at me through the rearview mirror.

  “Anyone else hungry?” he asked in a meek whisper.

  “I know just what you need.” Mama got in the right lane, and exited the freeway.

  Marion didn’t make a sound the rest of the car ride. By the time Mama rolled into the parking lot of Rudy’s Diner, the tear streaks on his cheeks had dried. His face was blank, his hard facade slipping back into place.

  “I gotta go pick up some lesson plans from the middle school.” Mama’s eyes tightened with worry as she looked from me to Marion. “You two gonna be okay for a while?”

  We nodded as we discarded our collared shirts in the back seat. I’d wanted to take mine off since we left the lawyer’s office. We walked across the lot to the picnic table behind the diner, where the employees took their lunch breaks. I fanned my undershirt, letting the cool breeze dry the sweat off my skin.

  Before the meeting with Mr. Samuels, I’d thought Marion at least had a chance of coming back to the team, however remote it was. I hadn’t allowed myself to fully envision a whole new world—a world in which Marion and I would never play together again—until I heard him heaving between teary gasps. The realness of it sank in, making me slump against the lip of the table.

  “Is Karim’s brother gonna hook us up?” I asked. Karim’s brother was a line cook and slipped us free stuff from out of the back door.

  “Yeah, I’m texting him right now.” He buried his face instead of looking me in the eyes—probably embarrassed about crying in the car. “What you want?”

  Marion’s fingers flew over his screen as he typed in enough food to feed a village. I only asked for a burger, but he ordered three sandwiches for himself. Maybe he wanted to fill the void with food.

  “I still can’t believe it.” Marion dropped his forehead to his knees, groaning to the ground.

  “Me neither.” I scratched my head, still trying to process the information Mr. Samuels told us. “Is everyone in the criminal justice system fucked?”

  It was an honest question. The officers were responsible for unchecked aggression against the people they were tasked to protect. And the prosecutor was pursuing unwinnable claims in the hopes of getting a plea bargain. The world was backward.

  “They ain’t never gonna let up until I take that plea.” Marion lifted his head and turned to face me. “Mr. Samuels thinks he can win, but he don’t know Monroe.”

  The back door to the diner opened, and Karim’s brother poked his head out. He tugged his hairnet over a chunk of hair that had slipped out.

  “What’s up, blood?” He stepped away from the door and the clatter of the busy kitchen behind him. He held his hand up for a high five.

  “Hey, Hakeem,” Marion mumbled under his breath, barely lifting his head in greeting.

  I didn’t want to leave Hakeem’s hand hanging, so I hopped off the table and slapped it. Better late than never.

  “What’s good? You gonna hook us up?” I lowered my voice, hoping Marion couldn’t hear. “It’s been a rough afternoon. We’re in need of a pick-me-up.”

  “What happened to him?” Hakeem raised an eyebrow, chuckling under his breath. His smile faltered when he saw me shake my head. Then he looked at Marion, who had begun to tear up again. Hakeem got the seriousness of the situation and nodded, the smile wiped off his face. “I feel you. I don’t know if I can slip that much food off the line, but I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be back.”

  “Everybody’s gonna know.” Marion shrugged, biting his lip. “Hakeem’s going to tell Karim he saw me crying in the parking lot. And you know Karim’s going to tell everybody on the team. That nigga can’t keep a secret no kinda way.”

  I didn’t do Marion the disservice of contradicting him. Our chatty team would definitely know Marion LaSalle had been moping in the parking lot by tomorrow morning.

  “So, get in front of it.” I shifted in my seat, gripping the unvarnished wood for support. “Send them the video and tell them the prosecutor is still going forward.”

  “Dang. My boy getting bolder and bolder by the day.”

  “This is exactly why we should be at the protest on Saturday. Aren’t you tired of working with the system and getting nowhere?”

  “I didn’t send the video to anybody because I thought the charges would go away.” Marion sniffled into his sleeve. “I didn’t want to provoke the prosecutor. But you know what? That’s bullshit.”

  “You ain’t taking that plea.” I gripped his shoulders, shaking him until he looked me in the eyes. He nodded and gripped my shoulders too.

  “I ain’t guilty of nothing. And I ain’t going down without a fight.” He howled, making room in his chest for a little kernel of hope. The flicker of his football dream was still alive, no matter how dim it was. “Guess I’ll talk at your rally after all.”

  I wiggled my phone in front of his face. If we were going to Saturday’s event, we were going to need all the help we could get. “Let’s text the guys, see if they’ll come too.”

  26

  M
arion paced in Terrance’s living room, occasionally stopping to look out the window at the gathering protesters. From that corner of the house, he had an almost unobstructed view of the lawn in front of town hall. He rubbed his hands down the front of his crisp dress shirt, the same shirt he’d worn to his meeting with Mr. Samuels. It was his nicest shirt, and if he was going to beg the public to listen to his story, he was going to do it in style, looking like a man. He started pacing again, and Terrance nudged me with his elbow.

  “Is he okay?” He leaned forward, speaking barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  “We already went over this.” I gripped Terrance’s shoulder. “We need the whole town to know what went down. Is everything ready?”

  “Almost!” Gabby yelled from the foyer, where she sat in a pool of wires. She untangled the last wire from the pile and assessed the spread. Looking up, she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Ms. J said they needed another AV cable.”

  “I got one upstairs.” Terrance ran up the stairs two at a time.

  “Marion.” I stepped farther into the living room, intruding on his corner of solitude. He frowned as he peeked through the blinds. “You got this. We’ve played in front of audiences ten times the size of this.”

  “It’s not the same.” He shook his head, looking at me. “I don’t know nothing about this kind of crowd.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I said, and I wanted to believe it. Last time I’d protested publicly, I’d received a largely negative response. But I didn’t want Marion to compare today to that.

  “Found an extra cord,” Terrance said from the foot of the stairs.

  “Any word from the team?” Marion asked. Terrance looked to the floor as he shook his head, causing Marion’s lip to quiver. He sighed and straightened his collared shirt. “Let’s do this.”

  Gabby handed me the box of wires, then threw her megaphone strap over her shoulder. Marion walked with only a crumpled-up piece of paper. The weight of his words was heavy enough. I wished I knew what he’d written, but he wouldn’t let me see it. I would find out soon enough.

  It was a short walk to the town hall lawn. We crossed the street slowly, deliberately. We reached the organizer table, which sat under a square canopy tent that blocked out most of the sun. Ms. J opened her arms to us.

  “There are my fearless students!” She grabbed the box of HDMI and AV cables and gestured to the seating area to the right of the stage. “Some of your teammates are already here.”

  Bobby poked his head out from behind Ms. J, his sly smile growing as Marion walked nearer. It was impossible not to melt under his toothy grin. Marion was no exception.

  “Y’all came!” A laugh escaped his lips as he clasped Bobby’s hand, pulling him forward for a pat on the back. Karim stepped forward, slapping his shoulder.

  “We not going to let you do this alone,” he said, giving Marion’s shoulder a squeeze, then brushing the wrinkles off his shirt.

  “And Darrell?” Marion looked behind them, as if he might pop out from behind Ms. J too. Darrell had alerts set up on his phone so that any news of the Jackson Jackals would hit his inbox first. I knew he was aware of Marion’s speech.

  “Sorry, man.” Karim shrugged, looking toward the grass. “I saw his cousin Gary roll up with a few of his homies, but Darrell wasn’t with him.”

  “Dave! You made it.” Gabby shouted over my shoulder. She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the small tent, but not before I caught Marion’s reaction to our hand-holding. I’d have to fill him in later.

  I liked the hand-holding. I’d like to do other things too, but I was willing to move at Gabby’s pace.

  Gabby’s grasp on my hand was also not lost on Dave. His smile faltered a fraction as he digested the scene, then he pulled Gabby in for a half hug. He had a tendency to linger too long in his hugs with her, so I tugged gently on her arm, breaking their connection. It earned me an annoyed look from Gabby.

  She rolled her eyes and whispered under her breath, “No pissing contests.”

  Right. Dave was just a friend. I knew that, and I’d happily remind him of that fact.

  Someone cleared their throat behind me. I turned around in the small space to find a short man in a navy blazer looking up at me.

  “Afternoon, boys. I’m Chuck Wallace from the New Orleans Herald.” The reporter gave a small, awkward wave. “Would you have time for a few questions?”

  “Hi, Mr. Wallace.” Dave perked up, tearing his gaze away from Gabby to shake the reporter’s hand. I was glad he stepped in. I didn’t want to mingle with any more reporters, not after I’d fielded the unfair questions in front of the Shreveport stadium. Dave’s enthusiasm compensated for my lack thereof. “I’m a huge fan of your work. I’m studying Journalism and Justice over at Central.”

  “Good to meet you. May I?” The reporter gestured to me, and my chest tightened. He wanted to speak with us instead of an overexcited Dave. “You must be Russell Boudreaux and Marion LaSalle. I’d love to sit down with you both. Ask you a couple questions.”

  “Everything we gotta say will be on that stage.” I clenched my teeth. I’d had enough experience with the press lately to know that I wouldn’t be heard.

  “Here’s my card. With my email and phone number on it. Just in case you want to say more.” He handed one to me and Marion. “Our readers are interested in hearing your story. Both of you.” He nodded, then turned his attention to one of the organizers.

  “Wow, you got the attention of Chuck Wallace.” Dave ran his fingers through his light brown hair, a mixture of disbelief and wonder on his face. “I’m impressed.”

  “And all it took was one of us getting unjustly arrested and thrown in jail.” I rolled my eyes, annoyed that he was glorifying the media who’d spent the last few weeks demonizing me and Marion.

  As far as I was concerned, if Chuck wanted to correct the record on the Westmond-Jackson fight, he could start with quoting Marion’s upcoming speech.

  * * *

  “All right, y’all, let’s get started.” Ms. J clapped her hands toward the organizers, snapping everyone’s attention to the stage.

  I poked my head out of the canopy, surprised to see that the crowd had swelled to well over two hundred people. Marion shuddered next to me as he looked over my shoulder.

  “That’s a shit ton of people,” he hissed as he ducked back under the tent.

  Ms. J patted Marion on the back. “You’re the first one up. You ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Marion nodded, although his hands started to shake.

  “You got this.” I playfully punched his shoulder.

  “And we got you.” Bobby gave him a thumbs-up.

  The stage was a wooden platform, set about three feet high. Even for her long legs, it was too high for Ms. J to handle without support. She hitched up one leg and looked to one of us for help. I stepped forward, lending her a hand so that she wouldn’t have to crawl onto the stage. The chatter in the crowd dwindled to a murmur. All eyes were on her.

  “Thank you for coming out on this fine Saturday afternoon! We want to kick this off with a special voice, one of my students and someone many of y’all know as the quarterback for Jackson. Black Lives Matter isn’t just about our fallen brothers and sisters. It’s about standing against the devaluation of Black bodies in all their shapes and forms. Marion’s plight matters.”

  Ms. J paused, letting the importance sink in. Marion’s eyebrows twitched like Ms. J’s words pierced his soul. He didn’t hear enough that his life mattered. He certainly didn’t hear it from his stepdad, and the league had let him down. But he squared his shoulders, seeming empowered by the growing applause from the crowd.

  “Please welcome Marion LaSalle!”

  “Hello. Hi.” He paused to adjust the microphone. He pulled it up about a foot and twisted the knob to tighte
n it into place. “My name is Marion. And...and I’m here because I’m poor and Black. I’m not like Bradley Simmons. I don’t live in a big house or drive a nice car. I don’t even have a car. Sometimes, I don’t have food on the table. The only thing I had was football and dreams. And now I don’t even have that.”

  He took the microphone from the stand and stepped forward, so close to the edge of the stage, the tips of his sneakers hung off.

  “I’m here because a Westmond player called me a nigga and punched me in the face. I’m here because we live in a community where that’s acceptable. I’m here because I was arrested for assaulting that player, even though it was clearly the other way around. Y’all seen the video of the fight. Hell, the prosecutor has seen the video. And every single referee and cop saw Brad swing first. Officer Reynaud saw what happened. He’s not just a murderer, he’s a liar too. So—”

  A screech of tires interrupted Marion’s speech. Protesters on the periphery of the square huddled closer, getting as far away from the street as they could. Bradley hopped out of the tailgate of the truck, as if the mention of his wrongdoing had conjured him from thin air. He was followed by six other Westmond players. I recognized the long blond hair of one of them—Lawrence.

  The guy who’d stood by silently while Marion was dragged off the field in zip ties.

  Another truck pulled up, this time with half a dozen older men. Their faces were shadowed by camo baseball caps, their eyes shielded by sunglasses. I struggled to steady my breath—this was bad. I hoped they weren’t packing, because men like this didn’t ask questions before pulling the trigger.

  They exited the truck slowly, their shoulders broad as they joined the Westmond players in the middle of the road. They weren’t in any rush, and judging by their relaxed stance, they weren’t afraid of repercussions. They didn’t need to be afraid. They were protected simply because of the color of their skin and the size of their wallets.