A Time to Stand

by Robert Whitlow

  Even if the DA presented the case to the grand jury, there was no guarantee an indictment would be issued. The grand jury was supposed to be representative of the racial profile of the overall population. Within the city limits of Campbellton, slightly more than thirty percent of the residents were black. That percentage fell to twenty percent when including everyone who lived in Nash County. And for the past 150 years, the twenty to thirty percent of the population classified as African American had never effectively flexed its political muscle beyond the election of an occasional city council member. Adisa couldn’t remember a black sheriff or district attorney and didn’t know if any black officers served on the police force.

  She turned to the crossword puzzle and began filling it in. At an early age she’d shown a knack for identifying the right words, and Aunt Josie saved the puzzles for her. Adisa found the puzzles relaxing. Thirty minutes later, she wrote in the last word and glanced up at her aunt.

  “Done,” she said. “It’s a lot easier than the one in the New York Times.”

  Aunt Josie remained in a deep sleep. There was a knock on the door, and Adisa turned sideways in her chair as someone entered. It was Dr. Dewberry.

  “Glad you’re here,” the neurologist said. “I spoke with Dr. Steiner. She doesn’t think your aunt is going to need surgery.”

  “Great,” Adisa said with relief, reaching over to pat Aunt Josie on the hand.

  “Not necessarily,” Dr. Dewberry replied. “It’s more a case of the hemorrhage being in a place we can’t get to without running the risk of making Ms. Adams worse, not better.”

  “Oh,” Adisa replied, her relief evaporating. “What does that mean as to her recovery?”

  “A longer recuperation period before we know what she’ll regain and what she’s lost.”

  “How long?”

  “I can’t say. All I can give now are possible scenarios.”

  “Please, give me your honest opinion.”

  Dr. Dewberry pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. “We’ll keep your aunt here in the hospital for a few more days, and if she improves, transition her to a skilled nursing facility. Medicare will authorize up to ninety days of care that will include physical and occupational therapy. If she doesn’t progress, you and your sister will need to find a bed for her in a long-term-care nursing home.”

  Adisa glanced sadly at Aunt Josie. The thought that the formerly vibrant woman might spend her last days strapped into a wheelchair or lying inert in a bed was too painful to consider.

  “We just don’t know right now how she’ll recover,” Dr. Dewberry continued. “If she does well, she may not need an entire ninety days of skilled care and could go home. Who lives with her now?”

  “No one. She’s lived alone for over ten years.”

  “It’s likely she’ll need home health assistance. A social worker here at the hospital or the one who works at the skilled nursing facility can let you know the options. For now, we’re going to monitor her here. As she regains cognitive function, she’ll probably benefit from visitors. I wrote the order for her to be moved from the quarantine area by tomorrow morning, which will make access to her easier for friends and other family members.”

  “Okay,” Adisa said and nodded. “I know tons of people from her church will want to come by, but I don’t want that to happen until she can enjoy them.”

  “Yes, it will be a good idea to limit visitors at first.” The doctor paused for a moment. “Caring for a loved one who’s had this type of brain hemorrhage is an unknown journey. There will be twists and turns you can’t plan for.”

  After the doctor left, Adisa looked at Aunt Josie, leaned over, and gently kissed her aunt’s wrinkled hand.

  “We’re in this together,” she whispered.

  Adisa stepped out of the room and walked down the hallway to call Shanika. She gave her sister an update.

  “Or they don’t want to operate because of her age,” Shanika interjected when Adisa mentioned Dr. Steiner’s recommendation against surgery. “This is worse than I thought. I’ve been imagining all afternoon that by the time you arrived she’d have been making sure every corner of her hospital room was scrubbed clean and the toilet bowl was as sanitary as a baby’s bottle.”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s going to be a while before she’s going to notice details like that.” Adisa paused. “Maybe never.”

  “The thought of her lying there alone and confused makes me want to cry. At least you’ll be with her in case she has a lucid moment. We’ll talk more when I get there tomorrow. Can you try to set up a meeting with the neurologist? I think it would be good if we talked with him together.”

  “I’m going back to Atlanta in the morning,” Adisa said. “It was tough enough to sneak away for the afternoon. Failing to show up tomorrow would be an unexcused absence.”

  “This isn’t like skipping a day of school,” Shanika replied with an edge to her voice. “If I’d known you were going to bail on her, I’d have already started making arrangements to hire a private sitter.”

  Adisa felt her face flush with anger. She’d already sacrificed more than Shanika.

  “I’ll be here when I need to, but you’ll see for yourself that there won’t be any major decisions made tomorrow, the next day, or the day after that. Both of us are going to put some miles on our cars over the next weeks and months as we figure out what to do for her. We’ll talk after you have a chance to check out the situation tomorrow.”

  “I know you want to cut this call short, but we’re not going to give Aunt Josie the leftovers of our lives.”

  “Bye, Shanika,” Adisa said.

  Steaming, Adisa slipped her phone into her purse. Her sister was a master at laying on a guilt trip. Ronnie probably never won an argument in their household. Adisa returned to Aunt Josie’s room and prepared to settle in for a long, sleep-deprived night.

  “Are you sure you should go?” Jane asked Luke.

  “I’m the reason for the meeting,” he answered. “People need to see that I’m not some trigger-happy monster. If I don’t show up at a rally supporting me, what message will that send?”

  “Just remember, anything you say will be twisted and taken out of context.”

  “How many speeches have you heard me give in the years we’ve known each other?” Luke asked, trying to manage a smile. “Look, public opinion is a big deal. The DA has to run for election next year. The other side is bashing me and spreading all sorts of lies. I’m not going to hide out in the house. It makes me look like I’m guilty of doing something wrong.”

  “It’s just—” Luke stopped his wife with a gentle touch of his index finger to her lips.

  “I’ll be home before Ashley finishes her bath,” he said.

  “Be careful.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Luke owned an older-model pickup truck that he’d bought from one of his uncles. He’d then carefully restored it. Before Ashley was born, Luke referred to the red truck as “his baby.” Now it had second billing.

  It was a five-minute drive to the rally, which was being held at a high school gym. As he passed familiar houses on streets he’d come to know by heart, Luke thought about how different the world looked to him. He’d enjoyed the lower stress of the job in Campbellton and welcomed the new family responsibility that fell on his shoulders with the arrival of Ashley. But now he was struggling more and more under the crushing mental weight of the shooting. He’d hoped the passage of a few weeks would make the burden easier. It hadn’t. Luke tried to keep a positive attitude in front of Jane, who remained a rock of stability, but inside he felt himself beginning to crumble.

  Luke parked his truck beside the space reserved for Dr. Letha Cartwright, the high school principal. Dr. Cartwright was a well-respected black woman with a reputation for strict, impartial fairness that helped tamp down racial tensions at the high school. Several men joined Luke on the sidewalk.

  “Are you Officer Nelson?” a middle-aged dark-haired m
an asked him.

  “Yes,” Luke replied.

  “It was a good thing you did,” the man said. “It sent a message that needed to be heard loud and clear—law enforcement in this town isn’t going to back down from anyone.”

  “Yeah, and white folks need to stand up for you when the blacks are trying to take you down,” said another one of the men.

  Luke didn’t respond. He didn’t want the responsibility of representing the entire police department. He especially didn’t want to be categorized as a white supremacist. They reached the gym entrance, and Luke held the door open for the others. He wasn’t being polite. He didn’t want to be seen in close proximity to the men and somehow be linked to their views. Inside the cavernous gym was a cluster of eighty or ninety people sitting on the bleachers. Luke saw several homemade signs: “Support Your Local Police,” “We Believe Officer Nelson,” “Protect Police Rights,” and “Police Lives Matter.” Luke recognized several faces, but most of those present were strangers. The crowd clapped when he appeared, and he awkwardly acknowledged their support. Dr. Cartwright was standing to the side but didn’t clap her hands.

  “We believe in you, Luke!” shouted a woman sitting halfway up the bleacher seats.

  “Don’t listen to the lies!” yelled a man Luke didn’t recognize.

  “We’ll speak up for you!” another man called out. “Just tell us what to say!”

  A middle-aged man Luke didn’t know came to the front. “I’m Bob Jenkins, a local business owner. I want to thank each of you for coming out this evening. My family and I are praying for Officer Nelson and his family. It’s important that every citizen of Nash County demonstrate support for our local police who work tirelessly to protect our community. Your presence here is a practical way to show that.”

  The businessman stepped back and motioned for Luke to come forward. He nervously cleared his throat. The room became extra quiet.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Because there’s an ongoing investigation, I can’t make any public statements about what happened, but my family and I really appreciate the support.”

  “What about Deshaun Hamlin?” a woman’s voice interrupted. “He’s lying in the hospital on life support. And you put him there!”

  Instantly, several people sitting around the woman began confronting her in loud voices. Luke glanced up and watched as one of the men who had walked into the gym with him swore at her.

  “She has a right to ask her questions!” a man sitting ten feet from the woman said, rising to his feet and pointing his finger at Luke. “And Officer Nelson is a coward if he won’t answer her!”

  “Get out of here!” responded a man Luke didn’t recognize. “We’re here to support the police, not accuse them!”

  Luke raised his hands in an effort to bring quiet, but the restless crowd refused to calm down. He turned to Mr. Jenkins, who had retreated to a seat on the bleachers. Arguments were breaking out everywhere. A photographer Luke hadn’t noticed began taking pictures. Dr. Cartwright rose to her feet. She was a large woman with eyeglasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She stood beside Luke.

  “Quiet!” she roared in a voice load enough for crowd control of an auditorium full of rowdy teenagers.

  Either the volume of Dr. Cartwright’s command or her innate authority caused the group to settle down.

  “The school board gave you permission to have this public meeting,” Dr. Cartwright said, her voice projecting to the four corners of the room. “But I’m going to put a stop to it if you can’t at least act like ninth graders.”

  The room became more still.

  “How many of you have children who attend this school? I know there are some of you because I recognize your faces.”

  About thirty hands went up.

  “Keep your hands up. And how many of you have children or grandchildren who attend a school somewhere else in Nash County?”

  Most of the people in the bleachers raised their hands. Dr. Cartwright slowly let her eyes go back and forth as if taking names for detention.

  “Those children are watching and listening to see how you respond to this situation. And what you do and say is going to teach them a lesson they’ll carry with them for the rest of their lives. It’s your choice whether that lesson is good or bad.”

  “You’re saying that because we’re white!” a male voice called out.

  Luke braced himself for the explosion he knew was coming from the principal, who stared in the direction of the man who spoke.

  “All of you may be white,” the educator responded calmly. “But I said the same thing in a Sunday-night meeting at my church, which is all black. And this past Wednesday morning I had a meeting with the faculty of the school and told them we’re going to use this as an opportunity to model the kind of society we want our students to live in. If change is going to come, it’ll start with people who have a firm foundation to stand on. It’s time this community took the next step—from integration to reconciliation. If you want to know the details of our plan, I’m available to talk with you one-on-one.”

  For Luke, the shooting wasn’t an opportunity to learn; it was an ordeal to survive. The next fifteen minutes were a blur filled with the shaking of hands and mumbled thanks. The people in the room expressed many sentiments, all supportive. He particularly thanked Mr. Jenkins for his comments.

  “I couldn’t keep quiet,” the businessman replied. “My younger brother works in law enforcement, and I know what you guys go through every day.”

  When the man approached who’d called Luke a coward, Dr. Cartwright stepped in between them, and the man didn’t try to push past her. Luke accepted a quick hug from a woman who worked at a local insurance agency. He’d helped her one day when her car was broken down on the side of the road.

  “We’re praying for you,” the woman said. “And your family.”

  “That means a lot. I’ll tell my wife.”

  As soon as he could, Luke began looking for a graceful way to exit. He decided talking to Dr. Cartwright would be the best way to signal that he was finished interacting with the crowd.

  “Thanks for what you said,” he said to the educator. “I’d like to hear more, and maybe be a part of the process you described. Of course, that can’t happen until I’m officially cleared.”

  The principal eyed him for a moment. “Do you believe justice should be done even if you don’t like the result?” she asked.

  “Certainly, but I didn’t do—”

  “I’m not asking you to say something about what took place the night of the shooting,” Dr. Cartwright said, interrupting him. “But you have to be at the right place in your own heart and mind before you can have the moral authority to speak to this type of societal problem.”

  Luke opened his mouth but closed it without speaking. He suddenly felt like a student called on in class who hadn’t read the assignment. He knew the educator was right about one thing—his offer of help was hollow. He’d not really thought much about the bigger picture, the broader implications of the shooting beyond the threat to himself and his family.

  “Uh, I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” he replied.

  “Someday I hope you will,” Dr. Cartwright replied. “I really do. Maybe then you can speak, and it will have an impact.”

  When Luke arrived home, Jane jumped up from the couch in the den where she was reading her Bible and hugged him tightly.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Luke said, stroking her hair. “There were a few hecklers.”

  “It’s not that,” Jane managed before she pulled away. “Check the living room.”

  Luke stepped across the foyer into the small formal space. Normally, Jane kept an arrangement of fresh flowers in the middle of the low coffee table. Tonight, the flowers were gone. In their place was a large brownish-colored brick with bits of mortar stuck to it.

  “Someone threw that through the window while I was giving Ashley her bath.”

  “Did you see anything?”
Luke asked sharply.

  “No.” Jane shook her head. “I guess whoever did it knew you wouldn’t be here.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About fifteen minutes.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I thought about it but wasn’t sure that’s what you would want me to do.” Jane sniffled. “I just wanted you to come home.”

  Luke pulled back the curtains. Two panes in one of the windows were shattered. Jane had already covered the holes with pieces of cardboard taped to the frame.

  “Where’s the glass?” he asked.

  “I cleaned it up. Should I have left it on the carpet?”

  “No, no,” Luke replied as he rubbed his temples with his fingers. “I was just thinking that this is a crime scene.”

  “It is,” Jane answered slowly. “And I’m scared what may happen next.”

  Between the uncomfortable chair and interruptions by the nurses checking on Aunt Josie, Adisa was glad when 5:30 a.m. arrived. Swishing water around in her mouth, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Stopping by her apartment for a quick shower, a change of clothes, and fresh makeup would be mandatory before she ventured into the office.

  “Shanika is going to visit later today,” Adisa said to her aunt. “Let me know if she tries to boss you around, and I’ll straighten her out. She doesn’t scare me like she used to.”

  Aunt Josie didn’t respond. After a final glance, Adisa quietly left the hospital. Getting in her car, she tuned the radio to the AM station that broadcast local news. The announcer led off the morning news with the latest updates about Officer Luke Nelson and the shooting of Deshaun Hamlin. The radio report added one piece of information, not included in the newspaper article, about a rally that had been held to show support for the police officer the previous evening. Adisa said a quick prayer that the problems surrounding the shooting wouldn’t spill over into violent confrontations in the streets.