Stand Your Ground: A Novel

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  I couldn’t move, but I looked up; I didn’t even realize I was standing, with my hand clasped over my mouth, until I saw my reflection in Marquis’s mirror.

  And I saw my tears. But this time, I wasn’t crying from sadness.

  Now, I was pissed.

  This man had just told lie after lie about my son, lies that had been broadcasted across the nation. And now, who was going to speak up for my son?

  Before I even answered that question, I ran out of Marquis’s bedroom and into my own. By the time I was in front of the bathtub, I was already naked. Under the heat of the water, I remembered that man’s lies.

  “Marquis Johnson was a known thug.”

  I scrubbed harder.

  “If you find yourself face-to-face in the middle of the night, with a known thug holding a baseball bat, what would you do?”

  I was trembling when I jumped out of the tub. There was no way for me to move fast enough. I tore into my closet, slipped on a black shell and black pants. I would’ve put on a black veil if I’d had one.

  I wanted America to see me in my black.

  Dressed, I dashed down the stairs, then paused only to grab my purse and keys from the table before I raced through the door.

  This was not a fight that I wanted, but I would fight to the end now. That man had spoken my son’s name in vain.

  Now he would have to deal with me.

  Inside the car, I bobbed and weaved through the streets and then took I-76, but once I exited and hit Main Street, I was stuck in traffic.

  What was all of this on a Tuesday morning?

  I circled the streets of the courthouse in search of a parking space. But there was not one available—except for the five or six spots in front of fire hydrants.

  “If you find yourself face-to-face in the middle of the night, with a known thug holding a baseball bat, what would you do?”

  I parked in front of the hydrant that was closet to the courthouse. Let them tow me away!

  I locked the car after I jumped out, then ran down Main Street. But the crowd thickened as I crossed Cherry, and when I got to Swede, it was hard to press forward. I could see the Montgomery County courthouse in front of me. An old building that always reminded me of the Supreme Court in Washington, DC.

  But though I could see the building, I couldn’t get there, not through the thick crowd.

  Was this all for Marquis? It couldn’t be. Just an hour ago, the news cameras showed empty courthouse steps. But now there were throngs of folks. Mostly black, but a lot of white people, too.

  “Excuse me,” I said taking baby steps forward. “Excuse me,” I said as I inched through.

  I clawed my way to the front of the steps, but now the people were packed so close together there was no way that I was going to make it any farther, no matter how many times I excused myself.

  But then behind me, I felt the gentle hand of someone touch my elbow. Turning around, I faced a man in a brown beret and brown fatigues.

  I’d never seen this man before, but from his eyes, I could tell that he knew me. Without a word, he cupped my arm in one hand, and then with his other, he cut through the crowd.

  “Coming through.”

  It was like he was a “crowd whisperer,” making the masses part. It was more than that, though. Whenever anyone looked up and saw the uniform he wore, they stepped aside.

  With this man by my side, I climbed the stairs, and even once I could see the top, where Tyrone stood, my Guardian escort did not let me go. I was about halfway up when Tyrone looked down.

  His expression was not what I expected; I’d been sure that my husband would bust out in a grin. But as he trotted down the steps, his eyes filled with tears.

  I understood.

  And I grinned at him.

  I was handed off to my husband, who grabbed me into the tightest embrace. Then, as Raj’s voice boomed through the speakers that were all around, Tyrone held my hand and we climbed to the top together.

  The first one to greet me was Delores, and after her hug, she passed me to Syreeta. Even Raj gave me a nod, though he didn’t miss a beat as he delivered his speech about justice for all.

  “We’ve had enough of this!” he shouted. “Enough!”

  And the crowd chanted back, “Enough!”

  I stood next to Tyrone and looked down at all the people. It was more massive than what I’d seen below.

  Tyrone whispered, “They’re all here for Marquis, baby. This is all about our son.”

  “We want justice for my nephew,” Raj kept on. “And justice is more than an arrest; we have to put an end to this law that allows murderers to hide. We have to get rid of this law that is not about giving people a chance to protect themselves; this is about giving people a license to kill!”

  “Enough!” the crowd shouted.

  Raj said, “Think about it. This law isn’t asking adults to use reason; our country is saying go ahead and act on the emotion of the moment. We’re saying, ‘Go ahead and shoot to kill! Ask questions later.’ This is legal murder!”

  “Enough!”

  “We’ve had too many murders, too many of our boys dying in the streets. And so this is the time. Wyatt Spencer must be put on trial for murder and this law must be repealed.”

  The steps beneath my feet felt like they were vibrating with the way the crowd stomped and cheered.

  Then Raj raised his fist in the air, and the hundreds that had gathered did the same.

  “Enough,” they chanted. “Justice for Marquis.”

  After taking the deepest of breaths, I raised my fist. And I chanted, “Enough!”

  I chanted that over and over, even as I cried.

  PART TWO

  Meredith Spencer

  I WISH . . .

  I COULD

  HAVE BEEN THERE . . .

  TO STOP HIM

  MAY 20, 2014

  Chapter 17

  Say the T-word,” Newt shouted as he punched his cigar through the air, emphasizing each word he spoke. “Come on, the T-word.”

  I wiggled a bit, more from the discomfort of Newt’s words than the hard cushion of the hotel’s chair.

  But even as my husband’s attorney roared as he bounced on the edge of the sofa, my eyes stayed locked on the television screen.

  “Come on, Wally,” Newt shouted as if my brother-in-law could hear him through the TV. “Say the T-word.”

  Then . . .

  “Marquis Johnson was a known thug . . . If you find yourself face-to-face in the middle of the night, with a known thug holding a baseball bat, what would you do?”

  Wyatt and Newt sprang up from the sofa, knocking over the chessboard that was on the table in front of them. But neither seemed to notice. They high-fived and cheered the way I’d watched them do many times on a Sunday afternoon when the Eagles scored a touchdown.

  Only this wasn’t Sunday. And this wasn’t football.

  “He did it,” Newt said as he grabbed my husband in a bear hug. “Wally came through.”

  “So it was really that important for him to say ‘thug,’ huh?” Wyatt asked as he muted the television.

  Newt nodded, his head wobbling on his shoulders like a bobblehead. “That’s the new N-word. All the white people will know what Wally meant. In their minds, they’ll see that big black boy in a hoodie with his pants sagging and music blasting from a cell phone that’s more expensive than theirs and probably stolen.” Newt laughed. “Wally just scared every white person sitting in front of their TV. And probably a few black ones, too.”

  I wanted to throw up.

  “So what do you think, Meredith?” my husband asked.

  It was a reflex the way that once I heard my name, I arched my back, sat straighter, crossed my ankles, and blinked a couple of times. Then I passed them both the smile that had become my signature.

  “If that’s what Newt thinks, then—”

  “Okay, so we won this first round, huh?” Wyatt said, turning away from me that fast.

 
; Newt nodded. “And I’m hoping that we won’t have too many more rounds to go.” Wyatt’s attorney flopped onto the sofa next to my husband. “I don’t have the connections up here that I have in Texas,” he said, referring to the state where he now lived. “But I’ve put out some feelers and I don’t think you’ll be charged. They don’t have a case.”

  Wyatt released a long breath of relief.

  I wanted to throw up.

  My husband said, “I can’t believe they gave out my name like that, though.”

  “That’s part of the law, dude,” Newt said, stubbing out his cigar. “You oughta pay me double for how long I was able to stall them. But it’s good. Your name’s out, and now so is your story.”

  The sound of barking filled the room and Wyatt laughed and shook his head the way he did every time an incoming call sounded on Newt’s phone.

  Newt glanced at the screen. “Let me take this.” He pushed his massive frame from the sofa, then ambled toward the small kitchen in the suite.

  Wyatt stood and for the first time gave me more than just a second of attention. “How ya doing, sweetheart?”

  I waited a moment to see if he really wanted an answer. When his eyes were still on mine, I said, “Fine.” I couldn’t maintain eye contact with him, though, so I let my gaze roam around what this hotel called the living room section of the two-bedroom suite.

  “Wally did a great job, didn’t he?”

  I caressed the back of my neck, twisting a bit to relieve the stiffness. But I didn’t say a word.

  “Maybe now we’ll be able to go home,” Wyatt said, not noticing that I hadn’t answered him. Then, “Where’s Billy?”

  “He’s asleep,” I said, so glad that my son had slept through that press conference. Even at three years old, I didn’t want him to see the way his father and godfather behaved. “I’ll check on him in a minute.”

  Wyatt smiled, leaned over, kissed me, and then patted the top of my head just as Newt ended his call.

  “It seems your house is still safe.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Wyatt said. “I’m paying a fortune for security.”

  “I’m not talking about security. I’m saying that no one is there. No one has even come close to your house. There’s nothing. No protests, none of those stupid memorials with those teddy bears and plastic flowers. Nothing.”

  “Really?” Wyatt’s eyes were filled with the same surprise that I felt. “What’s that about?”

  Newt shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Whatever it’s about, it’s good. I’m not saying it’s safe to go home, but you might not have to stay here much longer.”

  Wyatt glanced around the room the way I’d done just minutes before. “Well, no matter what’s going on, we’re not staying here.” His face was marked with disgust. “I’ve worked too hard to be staying in a two-bit hotel like this.”

  “Two-bit hotels don’t have suites,” Newt said. “And you’re not on vacation. But like I said, you might not have to be hiding out much longer.”

  “Well, either we go home in a day or two or you need to upgrade us to the type of place my wife has become accustomed to.”

  The two of them glanced at me, then laughed as if I was the butt of their joke. Again I smiled, said nothing.

  The banging on the door took all smiles away, and we were silent as Newt placed his hand on his waist. Even though his jacket covered him, I knew he’d reached for his gun, holstered to his waist. Without even thinking about it, I stood and moved to the door that led to the bedroom where my son slept.

  Newt glanced through the peephole, then he inched the door open. But his hand was still on his gun until Wally walked in alone.

  We released a collective breath, and just like he’d done to Wyatt minutes before, Newt grabbed Wyatt’s brother into a hug. “You did it, dude.”

  “Yeah?” Wally asked.

  “Yeah.” Wyatt responded this time. “Thanks for handling that.”

  “It was fun,” Wally said with a whole-face grin. “All those people waiting to hear what I had to say.”

  “How do you think they received it?” Newt asked. “You think they believed you?”

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t they? I was telling the truth.”

  “Well, except for the busted-nose part,” Wyatt said as he touched his nose.

  They all laughed as if the lie was funny.

  Newt ran his hands through his white hair that was as much a function of his DNA as his age. I’d only met Newt eight years ago, right before Wyatt and I were married. But even in their high school pictures, Newt’s hair was already turning some shade of silver.

  “One thing everyone in this room needs to know is that the truth has little to do with anything. It’s all about strategy if we want to keep you”—Newt pointed to Wyatt—“from having a mug shot on record.”

  Wyatt and Wally nodded as they sat on the sofa and I returned to the chair.

  “So, what now?” Wyatt asked. “Maybe I should make a statement.”

  “No!” Newt exclaimed, practically cutting him off. “I already told you, not only will you remain silent, but you’re going to pretend you’re Casper the Friendly Ghost.”

  “But I was just thinking, maybe if the world saw me and my beautiful wife”—they all turned to look at me once again—“maybe that would help. That would show everyone that I’m not a killer.”

  But you are! I said inside. And my stomach rumbled.

  “What happened,” my husband continued, “was that thug’s fault.”

  “You’re not going to make a statement. There’s—” Newt’s words were interrupted when Wally picked up the remote and turned the television’s volume back on.

  “All I can tell you is that Marquis did nothing wrong,” a black man was saying. “The police know this, so now it’s time to do what’s right. Wyatt Spencer must be arrested and brought to trial just like any American who takes the life of another for no reason.”

  “I had a reason,” my husband shouted, though none of us gave our attention to him.

  Cheers erupted from the crowd, and I moved to the edge of my seat.

  To this point, all I’d seen on television were pictures of the Brown Guardians, a herd of angry black men who took away my breath even though we were dozens of miles away from our home.

  Over the years, I’d heard little things about that group. They always talked about justice, but many in our circle called them homegrown terrorists who kidnapped and murdered, and who terrified me.

  But this man who spoke, he couldn’t have been part of them . . . I could hear his heart in his tone.

  “Marquis Johnson was our son.”

  I pressed my hand across my chest. Marquis’s father! Then my eyes moved to the woman standing beside him. Was that Marquis’s mother?

  “Marquis was on his way to college . . .”

  “Turn that off!” Wyatt shouted at Wally, although he didn’t give his brother a chance to make a move. He grabbed the remote, turned the screen black, then threw the remote, which crashed into the wall. “That man is lying!”

  Newt’s eyes followed the now cracked remote, then he turned back to his friend. “Well,” he began, his voice was just as calm as it was before, “we don’t know that any of that is a lie. All that man said was that his son was on his way to college.”

  “I’m telling you,” Wyatt said, pointing his finger at Newt, “the boy who came at me Monday night was not a college kid. He was a thug, I’m telling you.”

  “Okay. All right. Calm down. I agree with you,” Newt said as if he were a therapist reeling in an off-balance patient. “I know why you shot that boy. All I’m saying is that he might have been on his way to college. Some technical school that his father is calling a college or maybe some barber college. You know they’ll make up anything to make their son look good.

  “But whatever it is, and whatever he says, we have to ride it out until the police confirm your story, and then you’ll be able to get back to your life. And the way everyt
hing looks, that’s going to be soon.”

  Wyatt sat back and took a deep breath. “I want all of this to be over.”

  “Well, it’s only been a week, and frankly, it’s been a good week for you. Like I said, you may be able to go home in a couple of days. We just want to make sure it’s safe for you, Meredith, and Billy.”

  He nodded just as Newt’s cell barked again and I rose, taking the moment to escape into the bedroom. Neither Wyatt nor his brother noticed that I had moved, and just as I put my hand on the doorknob, Newt clicked off his phone and let out a long whistle.

  I paused as my husband said, “What?”

  “That was Detective Ferguson.”

  Wyatt lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “What does that nigger cop want?”

  I wanted to throw up.

  Newt jabbed a finger at Wyatt. “Dude, that is one thing you’re not gonna do. You’re not gonna use that word.”

  “What?” Wyatt looked around as if he were innocent. “There’s no one here but us.”

  “I don’t care,” Newt snapped. “You never know who’s listening or where a tape recorder is hidden and I don’t want you to get so used to saying that word that it slips out at an inopportune time.” He paused. “Do you hear me?” When my husband didn’t budge, Newt said, “Do you hear what I’m saying, Wyatt!” It wasn’t a question; it was a demand.

  Even though my husband looked like he wanted to punch Newt in his eye, he said, “I hear you!”

  “Good. Make sure you really hear me.” Newt straightened his jacket. “Now, what Detective Ferguson wants is to speak with you one last time.”

  “How many times are they going to question me?”

  “This is standard operating procedure. They take several statements just to see if you’re consistent. There’s nothing to worry about; in fact, from his tone, I’d say that this is Ferguson’s final act.”

  “The last time?” Wyatt asked.

  “I think so, but it doesn’t matter. As long as your story stays straight, it won’t matter how many times he talks to you.”

  “My story is straight,” Wyatt said. “Because it’s the truth.”

  Then my husband glanced at me. A long look, a knowing look. And I broke away, almost running through the bedroom door. If I could have locked it, I would have. Not that a lock could bolt the thoughts out of my mind.