Mama's Boy

by ReShonda Tate Billingsley

  Camille was joking, or at least Kay thought she was, but knowing her quick-tempered friend, Kay wouldn’t want to test her.

  “What did you tell, what did you say her name was?” Kay asked, referring to the other woman.

  “Misty. Sounding like a two-dollar stripper,” Camille replied. “I told that trick not to ever call my house again. She can post all the Instagram photos she wants. I’m too old for that mess.”

  “For real, who does that?” Kay replied. “You post lovebird photos of the guy you’re cheating with on social media?”

  “Twenty-two-year-olds do that, that’s who,” Camille snapped. “But it’s cool. I told her karma would deal with her. Then I hung up on her.”

  Kay said a silent thankful prayer for Phillip. While she would never say never, she just couldn’t imagine ever going through some mess like that with him.

  “Okay, I have to go. I’m here,” Kay said, pulling up to the Acres Home Community Center, where the mentoring luncheon was being held.

  Kay made it a point to visit with Phillip’s mentees at least once a year. She saw enough of the juvenile delinquents in the courtroom, but this was something that meant a lot to Phillip, so she came to this event each year.

  “All right, girl. Thanks for letting me vent.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Kay asked, pulling into a parking space.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Or I will be. You just make sure you lock up your purse,” Camille said. “You know those little deviants will see that Jimmy Choo and start calculating how much they can get for it.”

  “I doubt they even know who Jimmy Choo is,” Kay replied. “Speaking of calculating. How much will you be donating to the Community Center for their annual fund-raiser?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Camille said.

  Kay gasped. She had no idea the bail bonds business was doing that well.

  “And I’m gonna give you a pair of Jordan’s, too, so that you can play with that bounced check I write,” Camille added.

  Kay cracked up laughing. “Girl, I thought you were serious.”

  “Child, all these felons jumping bail. And now this divorce; I need to hold on to every nickel I have.”

  “You need anything?” Kay asked.

  “Seriously, I’m good. You just go in there and get your pin for sainthood and I’ll talk to you later,” Camille said.

  Kay hung up and made her way inside. The program was just getting started, so she waved to her husband and slid into her seat at the front table.

  She watched with pride as Phillip gave a brief introduction, then proceeded to talk about his reasons for working with the center.

  It was moments like this that Kay understood why Phillip did what he did, why he would leave his cushy corporate job to provide defense to indigent young men. His passion for these young men was evident in every word he uttered.

  As Kay looked around at the sea of black and brown faces, she felt a small tug at her heart. Being a prosecutor had taught her to automatically think the worst when she saw boys who looked like this, the baggy pants, the tattoos, the backward hats. But seeing these young boys here, she wondered, if they had been like Ryan and given half a chance, would their circumstances have been different?

  The second speaker in the youth empowerment seminar wrapped up. A former gang member, he had held the group’s attention by talking about life behind bars. At first Kay balked when her husband asked her to be one of the speakers for this event. But because he didn’t pull that card very often, she gave in. Now she was glad she did. A police officer had gone first and now it was her turn and these young boys seemed poised and ready to ask questions.

  “Okay, boys,” Phillip said as he came up to the podium, “let’s give Officer Robinson another round of applause and, hopefully, you all learned something valuable from him.” Phillip turned and smiled at Kay. “Our last speaker this afternoon is actually my wife.”

  Several of the kids started oohing and aahing. One little boy yelled, “Mr. Christiansen, your wife is hot!”

  Phillip looked at him and grinned. “I know.” He turned back to the crowd. “Please join me in welcoming my wife, Harris County prosecutor and the next mayor of Houston, Kay Christiansen.”

  The boys clapped. Kay could tell it was them being polite and not because they were really interested in what she had to say. She took a few minutes and told them about her job. That part was easy. But on the next part she knew she was going to catch it.

  “Okay, anybody have questions?” she asked. Several hands went up.

  She pointed to a teenage boy with cornrows sitting in front. “My cousin got caught up on a case,” the boy said, “and he was supposed to have a jury of his peers, but it wasn’t but a bunch of old white men and women on the jury. That ain’t his peers. What’s up with that?”

  Kay flashed a sympathetic smile. “Unfortunately, our jury rolls are chosen from people who are registered to vote and in the African American and Latino communities, many people don’t register. They don’t realize that decision has far-reaching effects.”

  “I don’t get it,” another boy said.

  “It simply means that if you don’t register to vote, you’ll never be called to be on a jury,” Kay said.

  “So, you mean if I don’t turn in that voter registration card Mr. Christiansen had me fill out, I won’t ever get called for jury duty?”

  “You can’t vote,” the little boy sitting next to him said.

  “Yes, I can. I’m eighteen.”

  “Eighteen and in the ninth grade,” a boy sitting next to him said, laughing. “Dumbo.” The guy swung at him, but the smart-mouth kid ducked.

  “Settle down,” one of the mentors standing near them said.

  “He’s right. He can vote,” Kay continued. “He’s eighteen. And yes, if you don’t register to vote, you’ll never be called for jury duty.”

  “I don’t know why y’all waste your time with trials anyway,” another teenage boy said. “Y’all just gonna find the black man guilty.”

  “Shoot, least y’all get a trial,” a young Hispanic boy chimed in. “They threatened to deport everybody in my family if my cousin Oscar didn’t plead guilty to something he didn’t do.” The boy scowled in Kay’s direction.

  “No,” Kay countered, shifting under his unwavering glare. “There really isn’t a conspiracy to throw black and Hispanic boys in jail. We like to think that everyone who comes through our courts will have a proper defense. Although we know that’s not always the case.”

  “Especially when you’re giving them the janky public defenders,” the boy said.

  “Unfortunately our public defenders are overworked and underpaid,” Kay said, “so you might not always get the best defense. But most of them are good people who are committed to their jobs.”

  “The system sucks. All the prisons are filled with minorities. We ain’t the only ones committing crimes. So you can’t tell me it ain’t something jacked up about it,” he argued.

  “Yes, the system has its flaws,” she said, “but it’s the only one we have.”

  Several of them moaned.

  “Why the cops always harassing us?” someone from the back asked her.

  “Yeah,” another boy added. “Like that dude out of Jasper. Five-O messing with him when he wasn’t bothering nobody.”

  Kay didn’t want to touch that one, so she stepped back and looked at the officer who spoke first. “Maybe you can answer that.”

  He stepped up, answered the question, and fielded a few more. When they were done, Kay couldn’t help but feel that she hadn’t made any inroads with these young men. Phillip must have known she was feeling down because he came up to her afterward.

  “They’re a hard group,” he said, rubbing her arm. “But believe it or not, some of what you said will stick.”

  “You
think so?” Kay said. “Because it sure doesn’t seem like it.”

  Phillip nodded. “We do just have some straight-up bad kids. But for the most part, everybody here wants better. Many of them just become victims of their circumstances. If they’re not in a ­single-parent home, they’re following in the footsteps of brothers and uncles who are in prison. We’re trying to change that by showing them positive role models. You know I was even thinking of bringing Ryan over here. Let him hang out. See them.”

  Kay’s eyes bucked. “They would eat our son alive.”

  Phillip glanced around the room. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

  “No, Ryan is just fine in our little world. We can ready him for the real world.”

  She saw a fight almost erupt in a corner of the room. Two of the organizers quickly broke it up.

  “And this,” she whispered to her husband, “is not his world.”

  Phillip’s lips brushed hers. “Okay, I get it. Ryan is privileged. We are blessed to be able to give him a better life. I just hope that when you become mayor, you’ll reinstate city funding for our program. These kids need it.”

  “I will,” Kay promised. She planned to honor her commitment, and not just for Phillip. Something about these boys made her wonder if he was right. Maybe all they needed was a chance.

  13

  * * *

  * * *

  Gloria groaned at the sight of Detective Martin at her front door. The scowl on his face told her that this was not likely to be a pleasant visit. And since he hadn’t tackled her to the floor, she could only assume that they didn’t know that she knew where Jamal was.

  Elton had been furious all night. He’d even gone as far as calling her a liar. She didn’t dispute that, but she wasn’t about to make apologies for it now. In fact, she almost let him know that she was sorry she even told him about Jamal in the first place. But no need in making an already tense situation worse.

  Elton was on edge and wouldn’t stand for them hiding Jamal for long. They’d spent a little more time with Jamal, then left with the promise to return tonight. Although Elton had finally settled down, Gloria knew the only thing he would support would be for Jamal to turn himself in.

  Elton had gone to the church with an attitude this morning and told her they would have a serious discussion when he got home.

  “Good afternoon, Detective Martin, may I help you?” Gloria asked.

  “Yeah, by telling me where your son is,” he snapped.

  “I told you, I don’t know.” She wiped her hands on the dish towel that she’d been holding when she opened the door. Not that her hands were wet, but she didn’t want Detective Martin to see them trembling.

  “Cut the act, Mrs. Jones. We know you’ve been in contact with your son.”

  “You know no such thing,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I told you what I know.” If he knew more, he wouldn’t be at your door chitchatting, Gloria kept telling herself. “I will not have you coming to my house and harassing me.”

  He jumped in her face. “You do know that I will throw you in jail along with your murdering son.”

  Gloria was shaken but she didn’t move. “I don’t know what you want me to do,” she said, not taking her eyes off of him.

  He slammed an open palm on the door. “I want you to tell me the truth. Where is he?”

  The rage in Detective Martin’s eyes sent a wave of fear throughout her body.

  “I. Don’t. Know,” Gloria said. “I told you that if we hear from him, we’ll let you know.”

  “I just want to be very clear,” he growled. “If I find out you had anything to do with hiding or harboring him, you and your husband are going down.”

  “If you don’t get off my front porch and stop threatening my wife . . .”

  Gloria had never felt so relieved to see her husband. She hadn’t even heard him pull up. Detective Martin turned and sneered in Elton’s direction.

  “What? You gon’ shoot me like your son shot Officer Wilkins?”

  “Detective Martin,” Elton said, his voice calm, “we are trying to be cooperative, but you will not harass my wife.”

  Detective Martin stood erect, trying to compose himself. He glared at both of them. “You’d better hope I don’t find your son first. And that right there is a threat.”

  He stomped off the front porch.

  Gloria sobbed as soon as he was gone. Elton moved in, closed and locked the door, then took her into his arms.

  “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. I know you’re scared. Shoot, I’m scared, but God will work all of this out,” he said. “But we can’t do this, have these people harassing us. We have to get Jamal to turn himself in.”

  “He’s not going to do it,” Gloria replied. She’d gotten Naomi to check on Jamal this morning. Of course, Naomi’s main concern was when he was leaving. But she loved Jamal, and the desperation in Gloria’s voice must’ve been enough to convince her to help. Naomi had reported back to Gloria that it had taken everything she had to convince him to keep waiting.

  “Then we have to turn him in,” Elton said, snapping her out of her thoughts.

  “Turn in our own son? To these people? Are you crazy? Did you see the look in Detective Martin’s eyes?”

  “What other choice do we have? Jamal killed a man. A policeman.”

  “Jamal is not a murderer,” she found herself saying.

  “And the court will see that.”

  Gloria broke free and paced across the living room floor. “Really? You think with this high-profile case, our boy stands a chance?” The local media had been covering the case nonstop. TV and newspaper reporters from Houston and other Texas cities had been calling around the clock. Yesterday, they got a call from a CNN producer, which meant the story was about to go national.

  “We have to stay prayerful,” Elton said.

  Gloria had the faith of a mustard seed. But she also knew God gave people free will. And that will was running rampant in the Jasper Police Department, which was hell-bent on stringing up her son. “I can’t turn in my son,” she said with finality.

  “Do you really want Detective Martin to get a hold of him? At least if we turn him in, it’ll be on record. We can even call, what’s that activist’s name in Houston that helps people turn themselves in?” He thought for a minute. “Tyriq X. That’s him. We can get him to escort Jamal in. You know the cameras follow him everywhere. That way, they’ll be less likely to harm him. But Jamal has to turn himself in.”

  “I know,” Gloria said, her heart breaking. “But I can’t do it. I can’t just hand my son over to them.”

  Elton stomped away. “There you go babying him again. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s crossed over into grown folks’ territory now. What are you planning to do? Help him run off so we can never hear from him again? Are we supposed to let the police harass us forever, showing up at our door and at church?”

  “I don’t know,” Gloria cried.

  Elton removed his wallet from his pants pocket and tossed it on the counter with his keys. “I’m going to change. Then I’m going back up to the church. Then, this evening, we’re going to get our son and turn him in.”

  Gloria let him leave. The look in her husband’s eyes told her he meant what he just said—it was over. He would no longer support anything other than Jamal turning himself in. And she wasn’t ready to do that—yet.

  It wasn’t just a motherly connection, but she knew Jamal didn’t mean to kill that police officer. And she bore some guilt at how it all went down. Maybe if she had kept a tight rein like Elton wanted . . .

  I just need some money.

  Jamal’s words rang in her head. Maybe if she got the money, he could disappear and let the anger die down. If he just went away for a while, police would calm down and they could turn Jamal in. The more she thought
about it, the more she felt that was her answer.

  Gloria tiptoed to the safe in the back closet and opened it, careful not to make any noise. There was two thousand dollars there that Elton kept in case of an emergency. She would pay for this later, but Elton’s wrath was a price she was willing to endure to help her son. Gloria took all the money, then closed the safe and eased out of the room.

  14

  * * *

  * * *

  It was official. She was a criminal. Not just for harboring a fugitive, but for drugging a police officer. Well, Gloria hadn’t actually drugged anyone, but she had taken the officer parked outside her house for the past hour a cup of coffee. She’d done it once before, so it’s not like it was anything unusual. But this time, she’d been praying he’d take it because the sleeping pill she’d crushed up in the coffee was the only way she’d be able to get out of the house and get to her son. It had taken less than thirty minutes, but the minute she saw the officer dozed off in front of her house, Gloria grabbed the duffle bag full of supplies and darted to her car, which was parked in the garage. Elton had been gone an hour and she needed to act fast before he got back.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gloria pulled into the same spot in the alley behind Naomi’s house. She reached in the back and grabbed the duffle. As soon as her hand touched the bag, a wave hit her consciousness. Was she really about to help her son run?

  “It’s only temporary,” she muttered to herself. If Detective Martin hadn’t threatened her, all but told her he would kill Jamal if he ever got his hands on him, maybe she’d have some faith in the system. But right now, they didn’t even have an attorney. Perry wouldn’t be back in town until tomorrow and Jamal was right. The only option he had right now was to run.