A Time to Stand

by Robert Whitlow

  “Watch your mouth,” Stan said.

  “Listen, brother,” the lanky man said with a smile. “Customer service is important.”

  The teenager placed the beef jerky on the counter and backed away. Deshaun moved toward the door.

  “I’m taking off,” Deshaun said to Greg. “Will I see you later at my grandma’s house?”

  “Swing by my place first,” Greg replied. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  “Okay.”

  Stan scanned the package of beef jerky. “That will be $8.29,” he said.

  “What a rip-off,” the stranger replied as he reopened his wallet and placed a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the counter. He picked up the jerky and tossed it to the boy.

  “Get, before I make jerky out of you!” he said to the teenager.

  Greg and the other three young men left. Stan could see them standing in front of the store, where they huddled on the sidewalk before moving away. Stan touched the bottle of malt liquor.

  “Put that back in the cooler where you found it,” he said to the man with the goatee.

  “That’s your job, boss. And make sure you do it soon. It’s no good if it isn’t ice cold. I’ll come back later to pick it up.”

  “With an ID. And leave your attitude in the parking lot,” Stan responded, his temper rising.

  Stan opened the cash register so he could count out the change from the purchase of the beef jerky. He picked up a quarter and reached for the smaller coins he needed.

  “Don’t stop,” the man said. “I want it all.”

  Stan glanced up as the stranger shattered the malt liquor bottle. Amber-colored liquid spewed all over the counter. The man leaned over the counter and slashed the right side of Stan’s neck with the jagged remains of the bottle. Blood spurted from the wound.

  His eyes wide, Stan reached forward to grab the robber with his left arm, but the man slammed the remains of the bottle into the top of the clerk’s hand. Stan cried out in pain and staggered backward. The stranger leaned over the counter and snatched all the twenties, tens, and fives from the drawer. Stan pressed his bleeding hand against the wound on his neck. The room began to spin, and he passed out. As he fell, Stan knocked over a rack of cigarettes behind the counter.

  Officer Luke Nelson slowed to a stop as the traffic light turned red. He glanced down at the picture of Jane that he kept on the console when he patrolled alone. The photograph had been taken on a breezy evening at Hilton Head during their honeymoon. Wearing a peach-colored sundress, Jane stood barefoot in the sand. Her blond hair swirled away from her face, and her blue eyes shone with new love and the promise of future joy. When Luke glanced at the picture it also reminded him that Jane would be praying for him.

  Luke moved the seat of the new police cruiser so that his feet comfortably rested on the gas and brake pedals. The vehicle still had a new-car smell, and Luke took in a deep breath. He was surprised when the chief offered to let him use the car for the night. As the city of Campbellton’s newest officer, Luke usually drove a car whose next destination was the auto auction barn on Highway 29 south of town.

  The state-of-the-art vehicle was equipped with an onboard computer and a dash camera, but Luke hadn’t received the password for the computer, which controlled the camera. When he radioed the third-shift dispatcher for the code, she curtly informed him that she didn’t know it, and he’d have to call the chief at home. Disturbing Chief Lockhart on a Saturday night wasn’t on Luke’s agenda for the evening.

  Five feet ten inches tall and in good physical condition, Luke adjusted the rearview mirror slightly to the right. As he did, he saw the reflection of his closely cut brown hair, brown eyes, and square jaw softened by a dimple to the left side of his mouth. After high school, Luke had attended a community college where he majored in criminal justice. He paid the rent and bought groceries by driving a forklift on third shift at a warehouse. Upon graduation, he worked three years as a private security guard at a shopping mall before landing a job with the Atlanta Police Department. Initially thrilled with a real job in law enforcement, Luke was thrown into a high-stress environment that quickly became an emotionally draining grind. He began looking for a job in a suburban area. Campbellton was a small town, not suburbia, but when a position opened up, Jane encouraged him to accept it. The salary was much less than what Luke had earned in downtown Atlanta, but with their first child on the way, Luke gave in to his pregnant wife’s wishes. Now, after a year and a half on the job, he was glad he’d listened to her.

  Settling in with the Campbellton Police Department, Luke began to thrive. He loved his job. Over the past eighteen months, he’d written more traffic tickets than any other officer on the force. He was never late for work, and before baby Ashley’s arrival, he was always the first man to volunteer for extra duty. His long-term goal was to become a sergeant, and Chief Lockhart had recently authorized Luke’s attendance at a three-week law enforcement management program in Orlando. The voice of the third-shift dispatcher came over the radio, interrupting Luke’s thoughts.

  “All units respond to a possible 211 at the Westside Quik Mart. Fire and medic are in transit.”

  A 211 meant an armed robbery. Armed robberies were an every-week occurrence in Atlanta, but this was the first 211 call Luke had received since moving to Campbellton. His mind flashed back to tense situations he’d experienced in the inner city, and he transitioned into high-alert mode. His heart started beating faster.

  There were three patrol cars on duty. Luke was the farthest away from the convenience store. He turned on his siren and blue lights and pressed down on the accelerator. At this time of night, the few cars in his path pulled over as he sped past. The female dispatcher’s voice again came over the radio.

  “Be advised, primary suspects in the 211 are two young black males, Gregory Ott and Deshaun Hamlin; both live on East Nixon Street.”

  In addition to the city police, two Nash County Sheriff’s Department vehicles were en route to the convenience store location. Luke entered the east part of town. The wind was blowing hard, causing the overhead traffic lights to sway from side to side.

  “This is city police car 304,” Luke said. “Unless needed at the scene of the 211, I’m requesting permission to go to East Nixon Street.”

  The dispatcher was silent for a moment. Luke slowed to normal speed as he approached the best place to turn off the highway if given permission to do so.

  “10–4, car 304,” the dispatcher said. “Proceed to East Nixon Street. Suspects potentially armed and dangerous. Hamlin, age sixteen, is six feet tall and weighs one hundred and sixty-five pounds. No physical description for Ott.”

  “10–4,” Luke replied as his heart rate kicked up even more.

  He hoped both the suspects were teenagers. Luke could wrestle to the ground men who outweighed him by seventy-five to a hundred pounds. With youngsters, words often did the job.

  He turned onto a side street and debated whether to turn off his flashing blue lights to avoid letting Hamlin or Ott know that an officer was in the area. He chose to keep them on. Reaching the intersection for East Nixon Street, he made a right-hand turn. As he did, Luke flipped off the siren but kept the blue lights flashing. He drove slowly for two blocks. Then, just beyond the glow of a distant streetlight, he saw a figure run across the street. Luke pressed down hard on the accelerator, and the car shot forward another three hundred feet. He slammed on the brakes and pulled close to the curb.

  “Dispatch, this is car 304,” he said, keeping his voice calm and professional. “I’m in the 400 block of East Nixon Street with a possible sighting of one of the suspects. Request assistance.”

  “10–4. Will advise.”

  The dispatcher radioed Bruce Alverez, an officer with fifteen years’ prior experience serving on the Miami Police Department. Gruff and prickly, the older officer had moved to Campbellton after going through a nasty divorce. Because he was fluent in Spanish, Alverez was a huge asset in working with
the growing Latino community in the area. Luke left his blue lights flashing and stared intently down the street at the spot where the person had crossed the road.

  Suddenly, a figure wearing dark clothes appeared in the light of a streetlamp. He was wearing a loose-fitting shirt that was pressed against his body by the stiff breeze. Luke turned on the loudspeaker.

  “You! Under the streetlight! Walk forward slowly!”

  The figure beneath the light fit the description of the tall, slender suspect. The young man glanced to his right and began jogging toward the police car. Luke pressed the button for the transmitter.

  “Slower!” he called out. “Put your hands over your head!”

  The teenager put his hands on top of his head but didn’t slow down. Luke tensed. The young man glanced again to the side where several houses were closely packed together. Luke couldn’t see anyone else in the glow cast by the streetlight or the headlamps of the police car. He opened the door of his vehicle and got out. The gusty wind was blowing directly into his face, and he had to squint. He placed one hand on his service weapon, a Glock 17. A flash of light far to the east signaled the approach of a storm.

  “Deshaun Hamlin?” Luke called out when the young man was about 150 feet away.

  “Yeah! I’m Deshaun!” the young man replied.

  “Where’s Ott?” Luke called out.

  The young man slowed and turned sideways for a moment. Then he faced Luke and ran faster toward him.

  “Don’t shoot!” Deshaun cried out.

  “Stop!” Luke commanded.

  Instead of slowing down, Deshaun ran even faster. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Luke pulled his weapon from his holster and held it in front of him as he’d done hundreds of times at the firing range. When the young man was about a hundred feet away, he passed through a deep shadow caused by a large tree that blocked the streetlight. Luke saw the teenager stick his right hand in the front pocket of his pants. Hearing a loud pop, Luke fired four shots in rapid succession. As the sound shattered the silence of the night, the young man fell to the ground in the middle of the roadway.

  Luke began to shake uncontrollably. He managed to return his weapon to his holster. Even patrolling a beat in downtown Atlanta, he’d never had to fire his weapon. The threat of lethal force or the skillful use of his physical skills had always been enough. Hearing the sound of a siren, he turned as a police car, its blue lights flashing, sped around the corner and down the street. Luke’s whole torso was now quivering. The car screeched to a halt, and Officer Alverez jumped out of the vehicle and ran past him. Alverez knelt by the body on the pavement and placed his hand on the man’s neck, feeling for a carotid artery.

  “Did you call for an ambulance?” Alverez yelled.

  “No.”

  “Do it! Now!”

  Luke reached through the door of his car and pressed the button on his radio. “We need an ambulance on East Nixon Street!” he shouted.

  “What’s your status?” the dispatcher demanded.

  “Suspect is wounded.”

  “10–4.”

  Luke dropped the radio transmitter on the seat of the car. “Ambulance on the way!” he called out to Alverez. “Did you cuff him?”

  “Where’s the gun?” Alverez called out, turning his head toward Luke.

  “Check underneath him! He took it from the front pocket of his pants and fired at me,” Luke replied shakily.

  A closer lightning strike released a clap of thunder that made Luke jump. He approached Alverez and the robbery suspect. The young man’s face was turned away from him. The trembling that had threatened to take over Luke’s chest lessened. The teenager made an odd sound. Alverez was applying pressure to a wound on the young man’s chest. Luke took out his flashlight and shined it around on the pavement.

  “He fired at least one shot,” Luke said.

  Something glistened on the pavement on the other side of the wounded man. Luke walked around Alverez and squatted down. It was metal. He started to pick it up.

  “Leave that for later,” Alverez said. “Help me here.”

  Before Luke could join Alverez, an ambulance came careening onto the street. Within seconds, the paramedics were on their knees beside the unconscious young man. Alverez stood and faced Luke.

  “How many shots did you fire?” Alverez asked.

  “Uh, I’m not exactly sure. It happened so fast. Three, four.”

  Luke checked the chamber of his gun. “Four rounds.”

  “You hit him with two of them. Get Detective Maxwell on the radio.”

  Luke returned to the car. “Request the presence of Detective Maxwell on East Nixon Street. Priority one.”

  “10–4. Will reroute him from the convenience store.”

  Luke and Alverez stood beside the stretcher as the medics secured Hamlin. A few angry drops of rain began to fall. Luke caught a glimpse of the right side of the young man’s head and shuddered. Alverez faced him. In the older officer’s hands were a pocketknife, a folded piece of paper, a cell phone, and a half-empty package of beef jerky.

  “Is this what you saw?” Alverez asked, holding up the knife. “It was in the front pocket of his pants.”

  “No, no.” Luke shook his head. “He had a gun. I heard a shot.”

  The medics loaded Hamlin into the ambulance and slammed the doors shut. There was another lightning strike, this one even closer.

  “There isn’t a gun,” Alverez replied over the sound of the approaching storm. He pointed his flashlight at the area on the street where Hamlin had fallen. “The suspect was unarmed.”

  Luke swallowed. Siren blaring and lights flashing, the ambulance sped away.

  “Where’s Detective Maxwell?” Alverez asked.

  “On his way.”

  TWO

  “CALL STATE V. Larimore,” Judge Sidney Boswell said, peering over the top of his half-frame glasses. “The Court will now hear the defendant’s extraordinary motion for new trial.”

  Adisa Johnson stood as her client, wearing an orange jumpsuit and bound with arm and leg shackles, shuffled into the courtroom. Leroy Larimore was forty-eight years old; he had slightly greasy black hair, piercing blue eyes, and rock-hard muscles that had been crafted by fourteen years of pumping iron at the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville. Larimore nodded nervously to Adisa, who leaned over to him.

  “Remember what we went over last night at the jail,” she said in a low voice. “Keep cool. The DNA expert will testify first. When it’s your turn, keep your answers short and to the point. Don’t add what you think might help. It won’t.”

  “Yeah,” Larimore replied and nodded as his eyes darted around the room. “I ain’t gonna make the same mistake twice.”

  Despite multiple coaching sessions, Adisa seriously doubted her client, who had received only an eighth-grade education, would perform well on the witness stand. He looked guilty: refusing to make eye contact when he talked, mumbling instead of speaking clearly, exaggerating when he did speak, and exhibiting a very limited ability to control his temper. If being a poor witness was a crime in the state of Georgia, Leroy Larimore would be sleeping on a cot and washing his hands in a steel sink the size of a mixing bowl for another fifteen years.

  Adisa glanced sideways at Mark Kildare, a senior staff attorney with the Fulton County district attorney’s office. The small courtroom in downtown Atlanta was Kildare’s home turf, not hers.

  As a former prosecutor, Adisa was familiar with criminal law, but postconviction relief cases were a niche within a niche. In representing Larimore, she had drawn on experience obtained in law school when she worked on a special postconviction relief project. During the class, she unraveled the intricacies of the ancient doctrine of habeas corpus and federal court oversight of state court criminal proceedings. A brief she helped write resulted in the reversal of a conviction by the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals.

  The constant confrontations with the dark side of society took a toll on Adisa, and when the oppo
rtunity came to land a position as an associate at Dixon and White, a national law firm with a branch office in Atlanta, she immediately left the Cobb County DA’s office. One key to her receiving the job offer with a big firm was Adisa’s educational background in accounting. She’d also received a stellar recommendation from a law school professor whom she’d assisted in writing a law review article about forensic accounting for mergers and acquisitions. Adisa gladly stopped focusing on violent criminals and shifted to advising corporate executives on multimillion-dollar deals.

  When the Georgia Innocence Project sent out a plea for a private attorney to represent Leroy Larimore pro bono in an appeal based on newly evaluated DNA evidence, Adisa’s prosecutorial and postconviction relief experience caused her name to shoot to the top of the list at Dixon and White. Large law firms welcomed the free positive publicity that came with pro bono work, and the only acceptable answer for Adisa to give when asked to volunteer was yes.

  Adisa’s curly dark hair was uniformly cut about two inches from her head, and she wore a navy-blue skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a simple gold chain around her neck. She’d recently blown up her clothes budget and purchased black leather heels that cost over five hundred dollars. The shoes added three inches to her five-foot-two-inch frame, and even though her feet might be killing her at the end of the day, it was a small price to pay to look her professional best.

  The judge, an overweight man in his late fifties with a thick shock of white hair, was a former major felony prosecutor in the DeKalb County district attorney’s office. His selection to hear the motion was an unlucky draw, but Adisa pushed any negative thoughts from her mind. The judge shuffled some papers on the bench and cleared his throat.

  “I’ve read your prehearing brief, Ms. Johnson,” the judge said. “It was quite lengthy.”

  “I wanted to be as comprehensive as possible.”

  “Did my office let you know that your request to submit expert testimony via deposition was denied?” the judge asked.