A Time to Stand

by Robert Whitlow

  “Wow,” she said before catching herself. “But I wouldn’t want to step on Catherine’s toes.”

  “Steel-toed boots are a prerequisite in this business. We have a partners’ breakfast on Friday, and I’ll put your availability on the agenda. If something opens up before then, let me know. I want us to be in the mix.”

  The call ended, and Adisa’s spirits soared. She made two other calls, left voice messages for managing partners, and spent the rest of the drive in a pleasant fantasy about what life might be like in a smaller, boutique firm.

  The Westside Quik Mart was in a part of town Luke rarely visited except on patrol. He parked his truck at the pump closest to the exit. A middle-aged black man was filling up his car. As he swiped his credit card, Luke glanced toward the building but couldn’t see inside the store. There weren’t any cars parked out front. An older-model sedan sat alongside the building.

  The man finished pumping gas and placed the nozzle in its slot. As he walked around his car toward the driver’s side of the vehicle, the man glanced over at Luke, who quickly lowered his eyes.

  Luke carefully filled his tank without allowing any of the gas to splash out on the paint. Locking the driver’s-side door of the truck, he walked across the narrow lot to the convenience store. A bell chimed when he opened the door. A black man was at the back of the store bending over in front of the beer cooler. Luke couldn’t see his face.

  “I’ll be with you in a second!” the man called out.

  “Take your time,” Luke replied.

  He quickly surveyed the store. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He just wanted to check out the place where the events occurred that led to his current troubles. He noted the placement of the surveillance cameras and the obviously new Plexiglas shield in front of the cash register. The store clerk moved in his direction, and Luke hurriedly grabbed a bag of cashews from a nearby rack. As the clerk came closer, Luke saw bandages on the man’s neck and hand. It was Stanley Jackson.

  Luke’s mouth suddenly went dry, and he turned away from the cash register and stepped over to the drink coolers. He stared unseeing at the rows of fruit and sports drinks before making a selection. He took the drink and the cashews up to the cash register. The young man didn’t pay any attention to Luke as he scanned the items.

  “That will be $5.59,” Stan said.

  Luke suddenly realized he didn’t have any cash in his wallet and would have to give the clerk his credit or debit card. He slid his credit card across the counter.

  “Ran out of the house without any cash,” he said with a nervous laugh.

  Stan took the card. “Even though it’s not much, I need to see your ID before I run the card,” the clerk said.

  For a split second, Luke considered grabbing the credit card and bolting out the door. Instead, he flipped open his wallet so his driver’s license was visible. The clerk stared at it for a second and then jerked his head up, his eyes wide.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, glancing around.

  Luke licked his lips and tried to swallow. “I bought some gas and wanted a drink and a snack,” he managed.

  The store clerk gave him a skeptical look.

  “And I wanted to see where all this mess started,” Luke continued, relieved to say something that was completely true. “I’m sorry you were cut up during the robbery.”

  Stan didn’t respond but swiped the credit card without looking Luke in the eye.

  “Do you want your receipt?” the clerk asked, still averting his gaze.

  “Uh, yes.”

  Stan looked up and fixed his eyes on Luke as he handed him the receipt. “I didn’t say Deshaun robbed the store,” Stan said.

  “I know,” Luke quickly replied. “But that’s the word that went out from the dispatcher.”

  “And there wasn’t any mention of a gun.”

  Luke nodded but didn’t say anything. Stan looked down at his injured hand.

  “I wish you hadn’t shot him,” Stan said. “He’s a good kid.”

  Luke knew he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. Anything he said might be replayed in the future before a jury.

  “If you’d given him a chance to explain why he was walking down the street, I would have been the only one hurt,” Stan continued.

  “I wanted to see where it started,” Luke said, repeating himself.

  “This is it,” Stan answered with a sweeping motion of his non-injured hand. “They’ve added a couple of cameras and this plastic that I doubt could stop a pellet gun. But I wasn’t going to hide out in fear. That’s not who I am.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I just hope Deshaun makes it.”

  “Me, too,” Luke replied. “I really do.”

  “I’m sure about that,” Stan said in a sarcastic tone of voice.

  Luke shifted on his feet and didn’t reply.

  “Well, unless you want to buy something else, I’d appreciate you moving on,” Stan said after a few awkward moments of silence passed.

  “I understand.”

  “No.” Stan shook his head. “I don’t think you do.”

  Arriving in Campbellton, Adisa pulled into the hospital parking lot. As she entered the main doors, she glanced at the newspaper box. The headline grabbed her attention: “Grand Jury to Consider Charges Against Officer.” Adisa found enough loose change in her purse to buy a copy. The local paper didn’t publish articles online until the day following their appearance in the print version.

  Aunt Josie was sleeping with her mouth partly open and an untouched supper tray on her bedside table. Adisa frowned. Going to the nurses’ station, she introduced herself to the woman on duty.

  “What has my aunt eaten today?” she asked.

  The phone rang, and the nurse picked it up. Adisa stood in front of the counter and waited several minutes until the call ended.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “How may I help you?”

  “Josephine Adams in 2568. She didn’t eat any supper, and I’m wondering what she’s had today.”

  The phone rang again. The nurse answered it and raised her index finger. After another minute passed, Adisa gave up and left. It didn’t look like Aunt Josie had moved a millimeter. Pulling a chair close to the bed, Adisa lightly touched her aunt’s right arm. The once-sinewy muscles were already beginning to feel softer and weaker. Adisa lowered her head and sighed. There was a knock on the door, and a nurse’s aide entered.

  “Sorry,” the young black woman said. “The call nurse asked me to come in and feed the patient.”

  Adisa moved to the side.

  “Would you like something to eat, sweetie?” the aide asked.

  Aunt Josie opened her eyes and managed a weak nod. The aide brought the tray closer and began to carefully spoon the liquid into Aunt Josie’s mouth. It was a tedious process, but it was clear that she wanted nourishment. Adisa was relieved. Some appetite was better than none. She sat in a chair at the foot of the bed and picked up the newspaper. The aide glanced over her shoulder.

  “Isn’t that terrible about the young man who was shot by the police?”

  “At least the grand jury will have a chance to hear the evidence,” Adisa replied. “Lots of times that wouldn’t have happened in the past.”

  “Yeah, but my daddy says in a few months they’ll come up with an excuse to drop the charges.”

  Aunt Josie opened her mouth to receive another bite.

  “I’ve been taking care of Ms. Adams ever since she came to the hospital,” the woman continued. “She’s a fighter. Maybe this broth will help her regain her strength. She told me about you and your sister. Are you the one who’s a lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. What do you think will happen to the man who shot the teenager?”

  “I’m not sure,” Adisa said. “But everybody I talk to in Campbellton wants to see justice done.”

  “Does that include white folks?” the aide responded.

  Theo
Grayson had come across more as an advocate for the officer than a champion of justice.

  “I hope so.”

  The aide patiently worked with Aunt Josie until all the food was gone. During the meal, the older woman mostly kept her eyes closed.

  “There you go,” the young woman said to Aunt Josie. “Maybe those calories will give you the energy to talk to your niece.”

  Aunt Josie’s eyes blinked open. Adisa, who was still sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, stood up.

  “Adisa?” the older woman croaked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Adisa came around to her aunt’s side.

  “You’re not leaving me, are you?”

  “No, I’m here.”

  Aunt Josie nodded slowly and closed her eyes. The nurse’s aide gently cleaned the older woman’s mouth with a sterile wipe.

  “Do you want me to brush her teeth?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Adisa replied.

  “You’ll be getting plenty of practice,” the aide said sadly as she patted Aunt Josie on the left arm. “Now she’s having trouble with the left side, too.”

  The young woman left. Adisa put a tiny amount of toothpaste on a moistened brush and gently worked it around the inside of her aunt’s mouth. When she finished, she held a plastic cup with water up to the older woman’s mouth so she could swish and spit. Adisa was relieved when her aunt realized what to do.

  “Great,” Adisa said, wiping Aunt Josie’s mouth with a tissue. “Are you ready for another nap?”

  “No,” Aunt Josie said with surprising strength and then turned her head toward Adisa. “Tell me what’s wrong with me. My body isn’t working, and I’m confused.”

  Adisa scooted a chair close to the bed and told her what had happened.

  “Am I dying?” Aunt Josie asked when Adisa finished.

  “Not yet,” Adisa replied. “You’ve perked up since eating supper.”

  “I’m ready to go,” Aunt Josie said, closing her eyes. “The plans for my funeral are in the desk drawer at the house where I keep all my business papers.”

  Adisa had seen the envelope marked “Funeral” when she retrieved the power of attorney.

  “Please, no,” Adisa said. “Let’s not—”

  “How long are they going to keep me here?” Aunt Josie said. “Whether I live or die, I want to go home. You can hire Mary Broome to take care of me. If she could handle Walter when he was sick, she can help me. And they need the money. I’ve got money in—” Aunt Josie stopped and looked at Adisa in alarm. “I can’t remember where I put my money!”

  “I know about your money,” Adisa said soothingly. “And I check the bank statements every month to make sure everything is okay.”

  Aunt Josie sighed again. “Thank the Lord for you, Adisa. You’re better than any daughter could be to me.”

  And with that the older woman fell asleep, leaving Adisa wondering how she could, in fact, be better than a daughter.

  Jane had fixed spaghetti for supper. Normally, it was one of Luke’s favorite meals. His wife’s spaghetti didn’t have the runny, tepid sauce Luke grew up eating as a child. Her version of the classic Italian dish featured noodles covered in a thick, meaty sauce with plenty of onions and loads of fresh tomatoes that were cooked until they released all their slightly acidic goodness into the deep red broth. A moderate dash of garlic and a liberal covering of freshly grated Parmesan cheese made the meal complete. Luke usually ate two large servings. Tonight he barely finished his first plateful and turned down a second.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” Jane said as she took away his plate and placed it in the sink. “Especially driving over to East Nixon Street where the shooting happened. Are you sure no one saw you snooping around?”

  “I wasn’t snooping around. I had to look at everything again in the light of day so I could try to figure some things out for myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Luke stared straight ahead, unaware that Ashley was carefully laying a messy piece of spaghetti across her arms.

  “I keep replaying the tapes in my head of what happened, but I’m not sure they’re accurate. I thought the distance from the streetlight to my patrol car was greater. That night it seemed like it took Hamlin a long time to run down the road toward me. But it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds between when I first saw him and”—Luke paused and took a breath—“I shot him. I guess I was so pumped full of adrenaline that it made everything slow down. Chief Lockhart told me adrenaline will mess with our senses and perception.”

  “People should realize how fast you had to act.”

  “Yeah,” Luke said as he looked over at Ashley, removed a piece of spaghetti she’d deposited on top of her head, and placed it on the high-chair tray. “I just wish there were eyewitnesses who would back me up. Of course, folks might be afraid to come forward because of the backlash they’d face in the black community.”

  “I want to believe the people in this town would tell the truth under oath,” Jane said resolutely. “And I can’t stand the thought of a bunch of lies being told about you just because you’re white and Deshaun Hamlin is black.”

  Luke didn’t respond. Ashley had managed to wrap part of a noodle around one of her stubby fingers like a ring. She held it up and admired it in amazement. The phone rang, and Jane answered it. She listened for several moments.

  “Okay, thanks for calling to let us know,” she said, replacing the receiver in its cradle. “That was Betsy. She says we need to see the newspaper. There’s a front-page article that claims the DA is going to submit the case to the grand jury.”

  “I’ll go out and buy one,” Luke said, scooting back his chair.

  “No, you clean Ashley. She’s going straight to the tub. I’ll run over to the dry cleaners. There’s a paper box out front. I don’t want you driving to the Westside Quik Mart to buy a newspaper.”

  FOURTEEN

  IT WAS 7:30 p.m. when Adisa pulled into the driveway of Aunt Josie’s home. Walter and Mary Broome were locking the front door of their house. Seeing Mary Broome up close, Adisa couldn’t imagine the seventy-year-old woman caring for Aunt Josie. It would be like trying to fit a size 6 shoe on a size 8 foot.

  “How’s Josephine?” Mrs. Broome asked in the high-pitched voice that had enabled her to sing soprano in the church choir for the past fifty years. “We went down to see her this morning, but she was sleeping the whole time.”

  “I saw the note you left on the nightstand beside her bed,” Adisa replied.

  “We’ll get down there again soon,” Mr. Broome said. “But we don’t have time to talk now. There’s a big meeting tonight at the rec center for the Hamlin boy who was shot.”

  Adisa glanced across the athletic fields to the redbrick building that served as a multipurpose community center.

  “It was moved from one of the churches so everyone can feel comfortable about coming,” Mr. Broome continued.

  “I disagreed with that decision,” Mary Broome added. “But nobody is going to listen to me. I just hope someone makes sure they start and end the meeting with prayer. Do you want to come with us?”

  “I’m exhausted and ready to collapse,” Adisa replied.

  “I want to grab a seat down front,” Mr. Broome said, looking at his watch.

  “And as soon as Josephine gets home from the hospital, I’ll coordinate the meals folks from the church will want to bring,” Mrs. Broome said. “I know it’s aggravating for her to be on a liquid diet, but I have several soup recipes that are savory enough to scratch the itch for something flavorful to put in her mouth.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  Mrs. Broome reached out and patted Adisa on the arm. “Seeing you is the best medicine in the world.”

  Adisa went inside the house. From the window over the kitchen sink, she could see the rec center. She’d praised Reggie Reynolds for getting involved in the local justice effort. Now she wasn’t willing to walk 150 yards to attend a meeting. She felt lik
e a hypocrite. Going into the bathroom, she washed her face and reapplied her makeup.

  The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Adisa left the house. Leaving her car in the driveway, she walked across the backyard. There was a small gate in the fence that served as the boundary for one of the baseball fields. The sound of chirping crickets accompanied her across the outfield toward home plate. The parking lot was as full as on a July evening when the baseball or softball play-offs were in full swing. Vans from several area churches were parked in front of the building.

  Adisa slipped inside and leaned against the rear wall. Most of the people were already sitting on folding chairs set up on the floor of the low-ceilinged gym. Even though it wasn’t a particularly warm evening, the mass of bodies in the room was causing the temperature to rise. She estimated that at least seven hundred people, including families with small children, were present. For a town the size of Campbellton, this was a major event. The sound of that many people greeting one another and talking in an enclosed space reached a dull roar. Reggie Reynolds, wearing a dark suit, stood up with a microphone in his hand and tapped it with his finger. There was no podium or pulpit in front of him.

  “Testing, one, two, three,” he said.

  The crowd began to settle down.

  “I’m Reverend Reginald Reynolds, pastor of the Zion Hills Baptist Church, and I want to greet each and every one of you in the name of the Lord. This meeting is open to every citizen of Campbellton and Nash County who wants to see justice for Deshaun Hamlin. We welcome all races and particularly thank our white and Latino friends who have joined us. If that’s you, please stand.”

  About forty people stood up. Reggie clapped his hands while still holding the mic.

  “We also want to recognize the members of Deshaun’s family who are with us and offer our prayers and support to them during this trying time,” Reggie said. “That includes Mrs. Thelma Armistead, his grandmother; Mr. Cecil Hamlin, his uncle . . .”

  Ten or twelve of Deshaun’s relatives were sitting on the front row. Mrs. Armistead was wearing a black hat and a white dress.