Stand Your Ground: A Novel

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  “So how long do you think it will take to present our case?” Wyatt asked as we all once again sat in his office.

  “Really, I’m thinking we’ll just need tomorrow.”

  “And then it’ll be over, and all of this nonsense will go away?” my mother asked.

  Newt chuckled. “We hope so. We’ve decided that we only need three witnesses. Two who will negate that perfect picture that his mother and his teachers tried to portray. The first is a kid who had a fight with Marquis. He said Marquis pulled out a knife on him.”

  Wyatt let out a long whistle, my mother gasped, but all I did was frown. Because if there was one thing that I’d learned, it was that with Newt, what started as a fact ended in a lie.

  “A knife,” Wyatt said. “That’s good.”

  “Yeah.” Newt nodded. “It was really a box cutter, but the kid is gonna call it a knife.”

  That revelation didn’t bother my husband or my mother. Because she laughed and Wyatt just said, “Okay, good. And who’s next?”

  “The next one is a great one. A girl. A white girl. From their school.”

  Wyatt’s frown was as deep as mine. “How’s that gonna help? We already know that he liked white girls. That didn’t seem to bother anyone.”

  “Well, this girl is gonna say that she was afraid of Marquis.”

  When he stopped, Wyatt said what I was thinking in my head. “And?”

  “She was afraid,” Newt said, putting extra emphasis on the last word. “Afraid, like she thought he was gonna rape her.”

  Even Wyatt’s eyes got big with that one.

  “He raped somebody?” my mother asked.

  “No, but she’s going to say that she was afraid that it might have come to that one time when they were at a party. And that’s all that has to happen. We don’t need an actual rape; we just need to put it in the jurors’ mind—a strong black boy, a frightened white girl, and rape. That’s the white woman’s greatest fear, and let’s be honest . . . white men think black men eat white virgins for lunch.”

  My mother laughed again. While these men were talking about destroying a young man’s reputation with innuendos, my mother was behaving like she was at a comedy show.

  Newt said, “We’ll have all of those white jurors shaking. You’ll never be convicted.”

  Wyatt nodded slowly, and when he said nothing, I knew he approved.

  I wanted to throw up.

  “You said three,” Wyatt reminded Newt. “Who’s the third?”

  That’s when Newt turned to look at me. Then Wyatt and my mother did, too.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  And I watched my mother take a deep breath. There was nothing funny to her about this.

  Newt said, “We’re thinking that after the girl testifies, we need you to get on the stand, Meredith, and say what a wonderful man, what a wonderful husband, Wyatt is.”

  “No,” I said, speaking in a voice that I never had used before with Wyatt. Even though I wasn’t talking directly to him, my response was for him.

  Wyatt frowned at me, but didn’t say a word.

  Newt continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Plus, it will give the jurors a chance to see you a little bit closer. Everyone knows that you’re pregnant, but I want them to see you pregnant.”

  Newt may not have been paying attention, but for once, Wyatt was. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of me and I hadn’t turned my eyes away from him.

  There was no doubt about it; I was still afraid of my husband. But after what they’d done and what they planned to do tomorrow, this was the only way that I could fight back. I may not have had the guts to stand up and tell the truth, but I could stop them from using me.

  So I said, “No,” again.

  And there must have been something in my voice. Or maybe it was in the way I sat. With my shoulders high and my chin up. And my eyes clear.

  I sat, I spoke, the way Janice Johnson did.

  It must have been all of that because with his eyes still on me, Wyatt said, “No. I don’t want Meredith to testify.” He said it as if it were his idea. Turning to Newt, he added, “This has been a lot on Meredith. And I’m concerned about her.”

  I didn’t believe that.

  “I’m concerned about the baby,” he added.

  I did believe that.

  “Let’s just go with the two witnesses,” Wyatt said as if that would be the final word. “From what you said, that will be enough.”

  Newt had agreed, and now we were on our way to court; the routine was the same. We pulled up to the courthouse, Wyatt played the overly attentive husband, holding me, guiding me with every step, and we rushed past the people who flanked the narrow pathway—those on the right were holding signs and cheering for us. And on the left were the Marquis supporters with their signs and with their chant, “Enough! Enough! Enough!”

  And we made our way into the courtroom.

  I was already sitting when Janice and her husband and the other people there to support them entered. And once again, she and I made eye contact, but only because of me, and only for a moment. Because like always, she never gave me the privilege of more than a couple of seconds.

  Not even ten minutes later, we were on our feet after the bailiff commanded, “All rise.”

  As the judge came in and sat behind the bench, I was already a couple of degrees past queasy. My stomach was rumbling and tumbling and the first witness hadn’t even been called.

  I prayed to God that I would somehow be able to handle it without spilling my emotions all over this courtroom.

  The first witness had been bad enough. The boy was only seventeen, and though I knew that Newt didn’t believe in witness tampering, I would have sworn that kid had been paid. It was the way that he spewed off his story, sounding just like a mini-Newt. I knew they prepared the witnesses, but his testimony sounded like more than preparation, it sounded like a performance.

  But then the girl got on the stand. And she was crying before anyone said a word to her.

  My stomach rumbled.

  “State your name.”

  “Winona Rumsfeld.” She sniffed.

  My stomach grumbled.

  “Ms. Rumsfeld, did you know Marquis Johnson?”

  She nodded and a tear fell from her eye.

  My stomach tumbled.

  “He was my classmate and he . . . he . . .”

  I jumped up and rushed from the courtroom. I already knew where the bathroom was—just a few steps to the right. I tore in there knowing that I just had seconds as I pushed my way past the women, noticing none, focusing only on finding the first empty stall.

  I didn’t even have time to close the door, just time to assume the position—seat up, head down. And I gagged, and gagged and gagged.

  While I was still on my knees, a woman behind me asked, “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, though I wasn’t sure she could see me with the way my head was halfway down the toilet bowl. It took a few more moments, but I was finally able to gather strength. And when I had enough energy, I mumbled, “I’m fine, I’m pregnant.” Pushing myself up, I steadied myself before I turned around.

  And faced her—Janice Johnson.

  She gave me a long moment’s stare, then turned away. I wanted to yell for her to come back because there was something I wanted to say.

  But I got another chance when she didn’t walk out of the restroom. Instead, she pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser, dampened them, then returned and handed them to me.

  “Here,” she said, giving me half of what she held in her hand. “Wipe your mouth.”

  I did as she told me, patting my face with the damp paper. But I kept my eyes on her. Before, I’d admired the way she carried herself, but now I loved her voice. It was the way she spoke. Even in the middle of this, she was so calm, so caring. A nurturing voice.

  A mother’s voice.

  I had to say something. Tell her everything that I’d been thinking about her. Maybe even tell her the
truth, the whole truth.

  “I’m so . . . I’ve been praying for you” was what came out. “Every day.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and I felt like I was under a microscope until she took one of the towels and pressed it against my forehead. It was just three taps, gentle taps, kind taps, and then she handed the paper towels to me.

  Without saying a single word, she turned away, and this time, she did move toward the door.

  She had never responded to the revelation of my prayers, but I hoped that she would accept my next words.

  I took a few steps forward. “I’m so sorry,” I said right as she put her hand on the doorknob.

  She paused—a beat—turned—another beat—and looked me in my eye. In the seconds that passed, I put myself in her place and thought of all the things that I would’ve said to the wife of the man who’d taken away my Billy.

  She said, “Thank you,” before she walked out of the door.

  I stood there and let myself smile. Those were the two best words I’d heard in a long, long time.

  Chapter 35

  Janice

  The defense had rested. And the closing arguments had been given. The closings were just like the openings.

  “Wyatt Spencer is nothing more than a cold-blooded murderer,” the prosecution said. “Don’t let this killer claim self-defense. Don’t allow him to hide his crime behind Stand Your Ground.”

  The defense responded, “What would you do if you came face-to-face with a bat-carrying thug in the middle of the night? Wyatt Spencer was defending himself. Wyatt Spencer was standing his ground.”

  The cold-blooded murderer.

  The bat-carrying thug.

  Who was the jury going to believe?

  After the closings, the judge gave the jury the instructions. He’d spoken for about twenty minutes when he added, “Self-defense means that Mr. Wyatt had a right to stand his ground with no duty to retreat.” When the judge said that, he sounded an awful lot like the defense attorneys and I wondered, whose side was the judge on? Was he going to add anything about my son’s rights?

  When he didn’t, when the judge only spoke up for the defense, I stopped listening and my eyes wandered to the other side of the well. To where Meredith sat behind her husband.

  She was a beautiful woman, at least in the way that Americans described beautiful. But it was more than the way she looked. It was her eyes. I could see it in her eyes . . . She was kind. But she was also sad.

  I wondered where that came from? I guess if my husband was on trial for murder, I’d be sad, too. But what I saw felt like it was . . . deeply embedded. Like it was a sadness she’d been carrying for a long time.

  Whatever it was, I wondered how she felt being married to a murderer, though she probably didn’t see him that way. She probably saw him as a loving, wonderful husband who showered her with attention and expensive clothes and jewelry.

  Oh, and with children. I knew that she had one son and another child on the way.

  He’d given her a new life right about the time that he’d taken away mine.

  I wondered if she could live with that.

  My attention came back to where it was supposed to be when the judge pounded his gavel for a final time, and we all stood until His Honor exited the courtroom.

  Then I breathed. I mean, really breathed for the first time in weeks. Maybe even months. Maybe for the first time since May 12.

  Tyrone pulled me into his arms and held me, letting me know, without a single word spoken, that we had made it. One hundred and twenty-eight days after our son was murdered, his murderer was now faced with the possibility of spending 128 days times 50, times 60, times 70 and beyond in prison. That was my hope; that was my prayer.

  Tyrone shook the prosecutor’s hand. “How long do you think it will take?” he asked the man who had fought for our son.

  The baby-faced prosecutor shrugged. “I’ve done this for more than twenty years,” he said, though that was hard for me to believe. “It’s like reading tea leaves. There’s just no way to know.”

  “But the fact that the jury is sequestered, doesn’t that normally mean they’ll come back faster?” I asked. Of course, it was the OJ trial that was on my mind. I didn’t remember a lot about that since I was only thirteen at the time. But I did remember the uproar with how fast the jury had come back with a verdict.

  “That’s what many believe,” the prosecutor said. “But it’s not necessarily true. Again, there is just no way to tell.”

  “Well, thank you,” Tyrone said, giving him another handshake before I reached over and hugged him.

  “We’ll be in touch. Stand by,” he told us before we left the courtroom.

  Right outside, Delores and Pastor Davis stood, and after we exchanged more hugs, she said, “Come over to my house. I ordered some food and we can have a little celebration.”

  “Celebration?” Tyrone said. “Isn’t it a little too early for that?” Then he chuckled. “Unless the Man Upstairs has told you something that He hasn’t told us.”

  I took my husband’s hand and said, “We’ll be there,” because I understood exactly what Delores meant.

  We did have a reason to celebrate. So many of these cases never even made it to court. But we’d pushed, we’d crossed that hurdle, and we’d put a man and a law on trial. It was already a victory that many parents in our situation didn’t get the chance to experience.

  So after the driver dropped us home, we changed clothes, then jumped into our car for the ride to Delores’s.

  I was never quite sure how my mother-in-law did it, but at times like these, she made a few calls and always packed the house. We’d been out of court for less than two hours, yet there was standing room only in her home by the time Tyrone and I arrived.

  But once we arrived, it was like we were the guests of honor and I felt so different today than I had during those days right after Marquis had been murdered.

  Today, I was grateful for their hugs, and I thanked them for their support. Today, I ate with them and drank with them and chatted with them about so much more than the trial. Last time, we’d only talked about death. But today, we talked about life.

  I had settled in, chatting with women from Delores’s church, when Raj showed up along with five other Brown Guardians. I was the first person they saw when they walked through the door.

  They looked down at me and nodded. I looked up at them, laid my plate down on the side table, stood, and hugged each of them.

  I’m sure it was a bit surprising since I’d never hidden my feelings about the Guardians. The whole time, I remained wary of the group that I still saw as little more than a motorcycle gang.

  But how could I hate when they had abided by my wishes, and had not caused any kind of trouble for Wyatt Spencer and his family? And how could I hate now that I knew that they had protected me and Tyrone when I didn’t even know that I needed protection?

  I thanked them for all of that.

  Raj spoke as the others stood behind him like soldiers. “We got what you wanted, Janice. We got our day in court for Marquis, so whatever happens from here, we’re good.”

  “Thank you,” I said again. “Thank you for understanding how I wanted it done, and thank you for making sure that it was done that way.”

  Behind Raj, one of the Guardians spoke up. “We control these streets, Mrs. Johnson. You didn’t want any trouble, so we made sure of that.”

  I’d known that they controlled the streets, and before, that disgusted me. But with the way they had handled all of this, maybe there was a place for this kind of group. Maybe our neighborhoods needed them.

  We didn’t leave Delores’s until almost midnight, and when Tyrone and I got home and climbed into bed, we were both asleep before we could even say good night.

  It was probably the most restful night that we had shared, but the night ended early because we were both up before dawn, ready for day one of the verdict watch.

  We knew that the jury didn’t begin
deliberations until nine. But I was thinking that we needed to be tuned in early, just in case they’d met in the middle of the night, taken a vote, and at 9:02 this morning, they’d announce that they had a verdict.

  But though I stayed pasted to my Twitter account and we had every television in our home turned to a news station, there was nothing about a verdict. Just dozens of talking heads pontificating much about nothing.

  The day passed, and even when the clock rolled past six, which was when the deliberations were supposed to end, we kept the televisions on, watching, waiting, hoping that there would be a surprise and this would be over.

  But day one ended with Tyrone and me posted up in the family room with me stretched out and my head resting on his lap. And that’s where we stayed, that’s where we slept all night.

  When we woke up on Thursday, I knew there was no way that I could stand a repeat of yesterday.

  But when I said to Tyrone, “Let’s go out,” he wasn’t feeling that idea.

  “Suppose we miss something?”

  “How?” I held up my cell. “We have this new invention. It’s a telephone that has no cord and rings anywhere.”

  He twisted his lips like he thought my joke was only kind of funny.

  “Look,” I said. “We have our phones, and the news comes fastest across Twitter. We will be in touch. Let’s just go out and pretend that we’re tourists. And do things that we would never do rather than sitting here and watching every second of the clock go by.”

  He acquiesced, I guess because the thought of sitting at home was torturous. There was only one problem: I hadn’t considered that our images had been everywhere—on television, in the newspaper, on the Internet.

  So when we got to Love Park, which was a place I enjoyed going to since it was where I met Delores, it was surprising when people started snapping our photos. And then we were asked for our autographs. Just a couple of minutes after that, three Brown Guardians stepped to us, and escorted us out of the park and brought us home.

  We were back in front of the television and the clock in less than an hour from when we left.

  We didn’t even try to leave the house on day three. We just watched TV and paced. Checked social media and paced. Responded to e-mails and paced.