Tyler Johnson Was Here

by Jay Coles

  Mr. Dodson sits and leans forward. “But I was just explaining to Mr. Ross that you no longer have interest in attending MIT—isn’t that right? Especially after your involvement with Mr. Johntae Smith’s party.” Principal Dodson stares coldly, like he’ll hurt me—or worse, murder me—if I don’t agree with him.

  I turn away from him to face Mr. Ross. “I’m still interested, sir.” And then a lie slips in: “I had no involvement, sir—I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time, and my application is coming right along.”

  Mr. Ross perks up and puts his files back in his attaché case. “Excellent, that’s all I wanted to hear. You don’t seem to respond to e-mails.” He sort of laughs, adjusting his blazer.

  “Yeah,” I lie, “broken computer, and my neighborhood barely gets Internet access.” I’ve seen the e-mails—I just haven’t been able to get myself to respond.

  “I do understand, Mr. Johnson,” he says, beaming.

  I catch Dodson rolling his eyes.

  I’m not in Dodson’s office for long. Mr. Ross gives me his business card and an MIT pen, and I leave after the late bell rings.

  I walk into the Lion’s Den, ignoring the stares that follow me, and stop at my usual lunch table with G-mo and Ivy.

  “You missed it,” G-mo says to me, putting down his hot dog drenched in ketchup and mayo. “There was just another fight that broke out. Some freshman beat up Lance Anderson. He got dragged out of here with a bloody nose. Yo, it was awesome!”

  Ivy laughs. “That’s what his ass get, too.”

  She pulls up a chair for me, and I sit down.

  “Him getting kicked in the balls by a freshman was my favorite thing ever,” G-mo says through a mouthful. “That’s probably the highlight of this school year for everybody, yo. Shit, I would’ve done it myself.”

  “You don’t have the balls,” Ivy says, tossing grapes in her mouth.

  “Yo, I have great balls. My balls hang like they don’t have a curfew,” G-mo answers.

  Ivy play-punches him while laughing.

  I shake my head and look around. I honestly would’ve loved to see Lance Anderson get his racist ass kicked. I would love watching that video over and over again, rather than Tyler getting shot. Three times.

  “You okay?” Ivy asks me. “You’re pretty quiet. I mean, rightfully so, but—”

  “I’m a’ight,” I lie.

  “You sure you a’ight?” Ivy presses. “I told you you don’t need to lie to us.” She opens up a bag of Sour Patch Kids and offers me some. I reach in and grab a few, making sure I don’t take any yellow ones.

  “Yeah, is there anything we can do?” G-mo adds.

  I look up and they’ve got these concerned looks on their faces, and G-mo completely stops chewing. But before I can say anything, my phone vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and see an e-mail. An e-mail from Albert Sharp. Instantly, my heart is beating fast and my hands are starting to shake.

  I read the e-mail out loud, my eyes wide.

  Dear Mr. Marvin Johnson,

  Thank you for contacting me. I have been following this case, and I feel I must help you in this fight for justice. I have scheduled a community demonstration for December 25, 2018. I believe in the power of reminding American citizens that black families are grieving while others are celebrating. The details are attached to this e-mail. May your loved one rest in peace and power.

  Albert Sharp

  Director of the National Crisis Foundation

  I gasp.

  And a quick grin appears on my face, and then fades.

  I open the attachment and see that we’re going to have a protest on the entire block by Sojo High, and it’s on the same day as Lance’s protest in defense of the cop because he got arrested for what he did. It’s about a month away. After the hearing.

  “We gotta protest. We gotta protest for Tyler,” I say. I’m so glad Mr. Sharp is willing to help us I could cry.

  Ivy lets out a breath and nods, twisting her Nautica hat backward.

  I squeeze my hands into my pockets and try to slow down my heart, but it doesn’t seem to work. I’m so mad that I feel this weak.

  • 21 •

  A Not-So-Happy Thanksgiving comes and goes—Mama and I having to fill the emptiness at the table with stories about Tyler, like how he’d eat all the dinner rolls up every year and about how he’d remind us how thankful he was for his family. Two weeks later, in early December, the preliminary hearing finally comes around. The grief comes in calmer waves now, though it still wreaks total havoc on my life. I’m numb and broken and it gets physically hard to breathe at times, but I still manage to get dressed in the morning. I put on an old suit and tie—the one and only suit and tie that I’ve ever owned, one that I got when my grandfather passed away. It’s a bit too tight around the cuffs, and the legs are a lot thinner than I am. I squeeze into it and just stare at myself in the mirror.

  “Ready?” Mama kisses me on the forehead, squeezing my arm.

  “As ready as I can be,” I say, my voice quivering.

  Mama and I meet Faith and stand in line on the sidewalk outside the courthouse, a trail of people in front of us waiting for the doors to open. I asked Faith to come because she’s been through this. She knows what to expect. Ivy’s mom brings Ivy and G-mo up to the courthouse, and they take turns hugging me for the longest, and then we wait in silence for what feels like eternity even after the doors open, the line inching forward every few minutes.

  The sky is a mixture of sapphire and sandstone, blazing down on us, and there’s a slow, steady breeze. Once we’re let in, an officer guides us down marble hallways and up a flight of stairs and into a cramped courtroom with white walls and seats made of old mahogany. The first thing I notice is that the room is mostly packed with people. Some spectators shuffle in and whisper, eyes fixed on Mama and me like we’re the causes of every tragedy in the world. Others have looks of sympathy on their faces. And Mama just looks at the floor, fidgeting with a dirty Kleenex.

  I see familiar faces that I recognize from school.

  I see strange faces.

  I see police officers, and this in particular is what gets me to start worrying.

  The bailiff shows me and Mama to the front, where we’ve got designated seats behind the assistant district attorney, a white lady, who turns around to shake Mama’s hand, and then it gets so painfully silent I can hear Mama’s heart beating.

  Mama nudges me in the side, a deep gasp slipping from her mouth. She points to a door. A line of police officers file in, strangely detached looks on their faces, like this is all too familiar for them, like they know that they’ve got nothing to worry about.

  And then I see him. The officer. The one who took my brother away from me. I know his face from the news reports. From at night, when I close my eyes. A swelling rage washes over me, and I have to stop myself from getting to my feet, screaming shit at him, screaming that he took my brother away from me and Mama.

  It’s almost as if he makes an effort not to look our way. He was arrested shortly after the video leaked, but of course he immediately posted bail. He was given the kind of benefit of the doubt that they’d never give to Tyler. Or me. From his seat at the table across the aisle, the cop nods to the other officers.

  I can’t believe how they’re treating him. This man killed my brother, and he got escorted in like he was the victim. This man killed my brother, and his family has the same number of seats in the courtroom as us. This man killed my brother, and we have to go through all this torture just to get justice. All I know is if Tyler were a white kid and the killer were black, things would be going a very different way. I just know it. They always do.

  I draw in a deep breath and turn around and see Faith and Ivy and G-mo sitting, all looking a mix of the nerves and anger and sadness that I’m feeling.

  The bailiff shouts, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Richard Watts!”

  And everyone stands.

  The room stills.

&
nbsp; My heart feels like it’s literally trying to beat, beat, beat its way out of me.

  Mama reaches for my hand, and for a split second I consider pulling away. I don’t want her to know how much I’m shaking right now. But then, as I grab her hand, I’m reminded that I’m not alone in this. That this feeling ripping me apart on the inside is something we share.

  The bailiff continues, spewing words that don’t quite make sense to me, and he stays still—so still, his voice so monotonous. “… the presence of the flag of our nation and the emblem of our Constitution in department forty-seven, we are now in session. Please be seated.”

  The judge clears his throat into the microphone in front of his face. He leans forward, his white, bald head reflecting the square, pale light above him. His glasses rest at the end of his nose as he scans the crowd.

  I think to myself, Here’s the beginning of everything.

  • 22 •

  The room is a stark and startling white, except for the seats. I notice that a lot of people are wearing white, too, and it suddenly feels like I’m allergic to the world. My palms itch. My neck is sweating. My throat is scratchy, and everything blurs in my eyes, like I’m stuck in a pool of poison ivy, drowning in it.

  The ADA is talking about the video now, explaining the last few minutes of Tyler’s life. I squeeze my eyes shut so fucking tight when they play the video, but I can still hear my brother’s voice. Hear the man who murdered him. But they don’t call it that. No one is saying the M word.

  And all I want to scream is: Murder, man! It was fucking murder. Just because a goddamn crooked cop did it doesn’t mean it’s any less than that.

  The defense attorney speaks up. “Objection! Inconclusive. We’ve all reviewed it, and it’s clear that he resisted.”

  The room starts blurring before me.

  Tyler had a mother who loved him to bits—sometimes it felt like she loved him more than she loved me. Tyler had dreams—had the world at his fingertips and a whole life to live. Tyler had me.

  But to them, all they see is his hoodie and baggy pants. All that cop saw was a thug looking for trouble.

  He was just a kid.

  Scratch that. I’m sick of the word just because Tyler wasn’t just anything.

  Tyler was my best friend, my companion all those times when I needed one. He was everything—everything—and just like that, he’s not.

  The world is muffled in my ears, and it sounds like I’m in a glass jar and there are vibrations bouncing off me, not quite clear, like I am floating in a hazy vertigo.

  I’m not gonna cry, I keep reminding myself over and over, until I trick myself into believing it.

  I force myself to block everything out as I replay one of my fondest memories with Tyler, a memory I hold on to tight, like the last hug we shared. It’s a cloudy day, the earth soft, and the world smells like rain will fall soon. It’s just the two of us on the court, and we’re playing a game of one on one.

  Tyler has the ball. He dribbles and dips and crosses me over as I try to play defense, my arms guarding him the best I can.

  But he always finds ways to get around me. He dribbles the ball in between his legs, spins, releases the ball into the air, and then SWOOSH! The ball falls from the hoop and bounces a couple times on the ground before he checks it to me.

  I dribble, breathing in, keeping my eyes on him, knowing his every move—mastering them.

  We’re both just sweat and nothing else, not saying anything, just playing.

  A dark-skinned girl in a tight purple dress steps forward. When she walks to the stand in front of Mama and me, I can see her eyes up close. They aren’t filled with tears, but with rage. She takes the oath, swearing on the Bible to tell the whole truth.

  “State your name into the microphone, please,” the judge says to her.

  The girl runs a hand through her hair, flips it, and then says, “Daphne Haywood. I witnessed what happened the night of Tyler Johnson’s slaughter, when he was stopped and then shot to death.”

  “Objection!”

  “Sustained,” the judge says. “We haven’t come to a conclusion just yet, Ms. Haywood.”

  And I’m shaking so fucking bad right now. My life is not a movie, but most of the time I wish it were, and right now is one of those moments when I just fucking wish that this wasn’t real. That the stories on the news, the stories from Mama, the stories Tupac rapped about had just been that. Stories. Not things that could happen to ordinary people. And I feel this harder, more than ever.

  And I want to shout: He was murdered. He was murdered. But shouting this would be like shouting into a vacuum in space, only to be silenced and suffocated to death in the end.

  The ADA begins questioning Daphne. “For the record, Ms. Haywood, are you a student at Sojourner Truth High School?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “How did you end up at the scene?”

  “I was invited to the party by a friend’s boyfriend.”

  “What did you do when the chaos started?”

  “When I first heard gunshots, I dipped out, taking the back exit. When I got outside, that’s when I saw Tyler. He didn’t see me. The cop didn’t see me either. At least, I don’t think so, because neither of them took their eyes off each other.”

  “What did you see happen between Tyler and Officer Meredith?”

  “The cop told Tyler to put his hands up in the air. Tyler dropped a package as he lifted up his arms. The cop had his gun pointed at Tyler the whole time, taking slow steps forward. I had a feeling that I knew what was going to happen. So I started recording with my phone.”

  “And then?”

  “It was exactly like what is in the video. That’s how I saw it. Tyler said that he just wanted to get home, and he pushed the cop away and started to run, and as soon as I heard three shots, I ran, but I made sure to keep recording.” She stops and turns her head to look at Officer Thomas Meredith, her face angled up in disgust. “That boy didn’t deserve that. Hell, no one does. And I’m sick and tired of these racist cops saying that he was just a thug and had it coming to justify their actions. This has happened in our community too damn much.”

  “Objection!” the defense attorney calls out, adjusting his black tie.

  “Sustained.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Now the defense attorney steps up to cross-examine her, his white face almost as red as his beard.

  “Can you describe the party for the court?”

  “The party was like all the others that I’ve been to, but it turned into everyone’s worst nightmare. Gang fight and police raid all in one night.”

  “Noted. So, you were aware there was the potential for gang violence and police intervention?”

  “Yes. But no one tells you when there’s going to be a gang fight or a police raid.”

  “So, you’re saying that you went to this party oblivious to the consequences?”

  “What?”

  “Objection, relevance!”

  “Sustained.”

  “Withdrawn. When you exited the party, did you see Mr. Johnson handcuffed?”

  “I don’t think I saw handcuffs come out at all. Gun first. It was just the two of them going back and forth before the cop shot him.”

  “They were going back and forth? So, Mr. Johnson was resisting?” They’re trying to get her like bait. And I want to scream.

  “No. He was just asking why he was being targeted, which anyone would do if they were scared. The officer didn’t have to resort to the gun as his first option.”

  “Did he resist? Was he behaving violently toward Officer Meredith?”

  The Tyler Johnson I knew, not the one the world is trying to make him out to be, was not violent. It doesn’t matter if he wore his pants below his waist, had weed, or had all Ds and Fs on his sixth-grade report card—none of that gives a police officer the right to kill a kid.

  And Daphne says it for me: “If in this country we want to justify murder
for white people, for cops, I don’t want to be here.”

  “Let’s back up. Didn’t you say it was dark?”

  “Yes.” She blinks real slow.

  “How do you know what you saw, then?”

  “It wasn’t that dark. There was a streetlight. It’s in the video. You can see for yourself, if you’d just open your damn eyes.”

  “If you’re so sure that what you saw was murder, why did you stay, pull out your phone, and attempt to record what was going on instead of getting help?”

  “I didn’t stay.” Daphne sighs before giving me a sad look. “When I heard the shots, I ran. I told no one about what I saw at first.” And I can’t exactly blame her for recording and not running to get help first. Because what help could she have gotten, if the people we go to for help are the very ones doing the harm? We’re too familiar with shit like this. Tyler wasn’t the first, and all the cases before him ended in the same way: no justice.

  “You didn’t tell anyone?”

  “No,” she says, taking a deep breath, her purple dress expanding at her stomach. “I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to be next.”

  The entire room almost seems to freeze over. It gets so bitterly quiet.

  “How did you know Mr. Tyler Johnson?”

  “I didn’t,” she says. “Not until word got back to me from my friend’s boyfriend about who it was in the video.”

  “Is that why you leaked the video anonymously?”

  “I was scared,” she replies. “And I didn’t know what to do.”

  “So, apparently, you took it upon yourself to keep Mr. Tyler Johnson’s death your little secret.”

  Each time they say his name, my heart beats faster.

  “That’s not what I said,” Daphne goes. She flips her hair and sighs so angrily, so annoyed.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  As Daphne leaves the stand, she turns to Mama and me and mouths the words I’m sorry before going to find her seat.

  I feel like I’m suffocating, taking my final gasp of air over and over again. I just want to scream for the world to listen closely, to listen carefully, to finally hear me. But I shake my head, unable to form any words. Everything in my mind is like a whirlpool, a free-for-all.