Dear Justyce

by Nic Stone

  “I love your assertion,” Doc says. “And I agree: changing the rhetoric used when talking to and about African American youth could change their trajectories. But I need you to expound.”

  Quan grunts his assent.

  In truth, he ain’t in the best of moods. It’s been three weeks and two days since he sent that letter to Justyce, confessing a thing that he’s literally told no one.

  Not that he hasn’t been tempted to. Especially as of late. Matter fact, just yesterday Tay was explaining what happens to the brain when membership in a group or organization is achieved through mental or physical hardship (“everlasting loyalty, often misplaced”), and Quan almost spilled the beans then. He’s been having nightmares again, this time about his own arrest. Not that said arrest was especially traumatic—cops showed up at Mama’s house during dinner a few nights after the incident, and Quan didn’t resist when they Mirandized and placed him under arrest—but the looks on Mama’s and Gabe’s faces (Dasia was at a friend’s house, thank god) will likely haunt him forever.

  Quan had known the police would come for him. From the moment he and Trey got to the house of Martel’s Trey sometimes slept in, and Quan realized he no longer had his gun, he’d been 100 percent sure of where things were headed.

  So he went home and read the rest of Daddy’s letters. He wrote Daddy a letter of his own.

  And then he

  waited

  for what

  he

  knew

  would eventually

  happen.

  Then came the dilemma. Because while he would never snitch, the fact remained that he was being detained for a crime he didn’t commit. He held his tongue for a while, but the more time he spent alone in that holding cell, the more his wheels spun. No, the ballistics of the bullets pulled from Castillo’s body wouldn’t match those of Quan’s firearm and they’d have to release him…

  But then they’d start searching for the gun that did match. Which could lead to trouble for everyone, Martel especially. Quan knew what kind of contraband the guy had in his house. Which surely could lead to searches of Martel’s other properties.

  Quan couldn’t let that happen. Especially not after everything Martel and the guys had done for him. He wouldn’t’ve been able to live with himself.

  Even still, the “confession” surprised Quan when it popped out of his mouth that day.

  And just like that, his fate was signed, sealed, and delivered.

  * * *

  —

  He didn’t intend to tell Justyce the truth in that letter. It just…came out. On the paper. Like some poison pulled from his veins by the power of the pen.

  And at first, he felt lighter, rubbing his thumb over the stamp to seal it to the envelope with Justyce’s name and PO box address scrawled on it. Handing it over to be mailed felt like a pranayama exhale. (Tay taught him all about those during the deep-breathing exercises she was teaching him for his PTSD stuff.)

  But over three weeks with no response?

  Part of him felt ridiculous. In the grand scheme of things, twenty-three days isn’t that long. Doc did say Jus had finals last week and would be driving home from college…Maybe dude got held up studying or some shit.

  But what if the letter got lost—or never got sent? Where would it be now? He hoped with everything in him that nobody else had read it.

  Then again, what if Justyce read it and told somebody?

  Quan’s mind churns itself practically inside out at the thought of the cops running the ballistics and sending a search team to Martel’s right this very minute.

  He pauses to look down at his paper. Instead of his essay, what’s written on the paper are the questions swirling in his head. He’s losing it.

  “Quan?” Doc says, startling him. “You all right over there?”

  “Huh?”

  “You look a little clammy. Listen, don’t stress over this. You’re going to do fine. I know it.”

  Quan drops his eyes and takes a deep breath.

  Another one.

  In for a five count through the nose

  then out

  just

  as

  slow.

  Realign

  his

  prana.

  (Or whatever.)

  Then, “Doc, I gotta tell you somethi—”

  The door to the classroom flies open, and the house-wide superintendent’s frame fills the entryway. “Banks, you got a visitor.”

  Quan looks at Doc, who is clearly just as surprised (and why wouldn’t he be?).

  “Huh?” Quan says to the giant man eyeing Quan like he’s waiting for him to strike.

  “That was English, wasn’t it? Let’s go.”

  “You can finish the essay later, Quan. Go handle your business.”

  But what business is there for him to handle?

  Quan doesn’t say a word as he begins packing his school stuff—

  “Leave it,” the superintendent says, rotating on a heel. “I’ll bring you back. Now hurry up.” He disappears into the hallway.

  After one final panicked glance in Doc’s direction, Quan follows the superintendent out. They hang a right at the dead end—which surprises Quan: the visitation room is in the other direction.

  “Uhh…sir? Not to question your sense of direction, but aren’t we going the wrong way?”

  The superintendent doesn’t respond.

  When they get to the end of this hallway, the superintendent uses a key to buzz open a door Quan’s never seen before. He follows the superintendent through, and then they hang one final left before the superintendent stops outside a room on the right. Door’s open…

  And Quan sees the last person he would’ve expected to make a pop-up visit:

  His lawyer.

  (If you can even call dude that. Assigned file-handler is probably more accurate.)

  John Mark is his name. He’s white. Late twenties. Took a public defender position fresh outta law school and been there for the two years since—Quan’s case is his first time “legally flying solo” (his words).

  Was Quan surprised the morning he came into one of the counsel rooms and found the young-looking dude sitting where his previous lawyer—who was actually good and seemed to really wanna help Quan—usually sat. John Mark stood and introduced himself. Let Quan know his previous counsel had moved out of state to take care of an elderly parent.

  And it’s not that John Mark is a bad lawyer. It just gets under Quan’s skin a bit how…little the dude seems to question anything. It’s like everything in the file is gospel, and there’s nothing else to be said about it. Which, on the one hand, Quan can kinda get—he did confess (sorta)…

  Still, though. Quan obviously knows there’s way more to the story. Isn’t it an attorney’s job to poke around for more information?

  Dude stands to greet Quan, grinning like all is right with the world.

  Which is when the already tiny light that still burns inside Quan

  goes a little dimmer.

  “Vernell!” He shakes Quan’s hand a little too vigorously.

  “I told you to call me Quan, man.”

  “That’s right, man, my bad.” He runs a hand through his George Clooney haircut. Jumpy as a jitterbug, like Mrs. Pavlostathis used to say.

  (He’s been thinking of her more and more lately.)

  “Anyway, have a seat, man—”

  “Quan.”

  Dude blinks a few times. Goes pink in the cheeks.

  Clears his throat.

  “My apologies, Quan.” Straightens his tie and pulls out a chair at the small table for Quan. “I have some news to share with you. Mind if we sit?”

  Quan complies. His
eyes roam the small room where delinquents like him (if you let the state tell it) convene with their attorneys. The cinder block walls are painted the bizarre cloudy yellow of snot and are totally bare.

  And as lawyer dude takes his seat facing Quan and rests his elbows on his knees, fully in professional mode now, Quan’s anxiety ratchets up even more.

  “So,” John Mark says all definitively, putting the tips of all his fingers together like in the movies when the white dude in the suit means business.

  Quan almost laughs.

  Almost.

  But then dude says something that rings in Quan’s head like the

  ********claaaaa­aaaaa­ng********

  of his cell door

  shutting him in

  every night.

  “I got a call from the prosecutor’s office this morning,” he continues.

  And then he pauses. (For dramatic effect? Cuz it’s working.)

  He smiles again, then:

  “They’ve offered you a plea bargain.”

  May 18

  Dear Justyce,

  Man. I don’t even really know how to start this one. I got a lotta…conflicting emotions happening right now.

  On the one hand, I get my diploma tomorrow. Which I still can’t even really believe.

  On the other, though…well, my “lawyer” popped up yesterday. Came to tell me the state offered a plea deal on my case.

  Needless to say, ya boy was more than a little shocked. I’ve been combing through Georgia legal code for weeks, tryna see if my self-defense thing is feasible, and then boom. Shit’s crazy.

  Long story short, they’re offering to reduce the murder charge to voluntary manslaughter and drop all the others. (“What others?” I can hear your Poindexter ass asking. There were four: possession of a handgun by a minor, possession of a firearm by a felon, pointing or aiming a pistol at another, and discharge of a firearm on property of another.)

  I MIGHT be entitled to go back to juvenile court—though either way, the sentence is up to twenty years—but my attorney thinks they won’t give me more than fifteen, and the possibility of parole won’t be taken off the table.

  I obviously didn’t accept right then and there, but…I dunno, man. This complicates things a bit.

  I’ve been thinking about it nonstop since dude put his crusty-ass hand on my shoulder as he stood to leave and said, “Just think about it.” This is AFTER rambling on and on about how “solid” of a deal it is and how “blown away” he was when he heard it. “You could be outta here before your thirtieth birthday, man!”

  He was so…chipper when he said that shit too. It really rubbed me the wrong way.

  Anyway, I’d be lying if I said the deal isn’t tempting. Hearing dude talk brought a lot of my anxiety—I got officially diagnosed with the “clinical” type, by the way—about going to trial right up to the surface. For some reasons I don’t really get, I’ve been waiting on a trial date for over a year and a half, but hearing that offer made me realize how scared I am to actually be in a courtroom, at a defendant’s table. In front of people who would be just fine with the state lockin’ my ass up, grinding the key to dust, and sprinkling that shit over the ocean.

  It’s crazy to me that I’m even THINKING this, but maybe taking the deal wouldn’t be a bad move. If things go well and I stay on my best behavior, I could be out in a decade or less. Which is WAY better than I was expecting, real talk.

  I dunno.

  Would love to hear what you think. Giving this letter to Doc to give to you since I know you not at school no more. Imma wait to hear back before I make my decision, so maybe try not to take TOO long to respond? (I’m still waiting for a response to the LAST letter I wrote your punk ass!)

  —Q

  Standing beside the Friedman pool table with SJ grinning up at him from the Holy Land–made papasan chair, Jus almost feels like they’re back prepping for a debate tournament.

  Except this time, a young (almost) man’s freedom is on the line.

  He clears his throat.

  “So, first off, thank you all for coming,” he says to the room. Mrs. F—Attorney Friedman in her current capacity—is on the leather couch, fancy pen in hand and lawyerly leather notebook open on-lap; Doc and Liberty Ayers are on barstools; and Jared Christensen is perched on a chair he snagged from who knows where.

  “As you all know, my homeboy Quan has been locked up since late September last year. For a crime that he did not, in fact, commit.”

  “Not to put a damper on your opening statement, Justyce, but how do you know that?” Doc asks.

  “He told me. And I believe him.”

  Doc nods. “Go on. My apologies for interrupting.”

  Justyce smiles. “It’s all good, Doc. I missed you, homie.”

  “Likewise, my man.”

  “So as I was saying, Quan didn’t do the crime, but they’re tryna give him hella time. The state offered to lessen the homicide charge—from murder to voluntary manslaughter in this case—and drop everything else if he pleads guilty. But that still carries a sentence of up to twenty years.”

  “Whew,” from Doc.

  “Normally I wouldn’t be tellin’ y’all my boy’s business, but him having to serve even one year would be a tragic miscarriage of justice. The fact that he’s been locked up for this long is a tragic miscarriage of justice.”

  “In-friggin-deed,” from SJ.

  “Now don’t get me wrong,” Justyce continues. “Despite my own unfortunate history with Officer Tomás Castillo, I do believe what happened to him was terrible, and that true justice should be served in his case. But this is not true justice. Imprisoning the wrong person is not true justice.”

  “PREACH, brutha!” Jared crows.

  “So we gotta do something. Y’all with me?”

  “Hell yeah we are!” from Jared again. Which makes SJ snort.

  “Now, provided I can convince Quan to fire his current legal representative, Attorney Friedman here will take over his case. Which is why I called this conference. So we can all…confer. Anybody wanna jump in?”

  Jared: So what exactly are we dealing with here?

  SJ: Of course you’re the first person to speak despite knowing the least. Of course—

  Doc: Sarah-Jane—

  Justyce: Actually, hold that thought. I’m being rude.

  Justyce gestures to the deep-brown-skinned young lady with her locs wrapped in an elaborate knot on top of her head, sitting on the barstool beside Doc. She smiles in appreciation. (And Justyce could swear he sees SJ tense up out of the corner of his eye. Which is ridiculous. Yes, Liberty is absolutely gorgeous—even more so than he was expecting from Quan’s letters. But it’s not like Justyce noticed that…)

  Justyce: Everyone, this is Liberty Ayers. She’s one of the case managers on Quan’s case—

  Liberty: I’m an intern. But thank you. Doc I know, but it is lovely to meet the rest of you.

  Jared: [With stars in his eyes.] Lovely to teet you moo, Liberty. I’m Jare—I mean meet tou yoo—crap.

  SJ: [Snorts.] Looks like douchewangle’s got a crush.

  Jared: BRO!

  Doc: [Smiling as he shakes his head.] I do not miss this foolishness in my classroom.

  Justyce: [Pretending he doesn’t feel some type of way about what SJ said.] Anyway, thank you for being here, Liberty.

  Liberty: Wouldn’t’ve missed it for the world.

  Jared: You’re an awesome intern, Liberty. Quan’s lucky to have you in his corner.

  SJ: Speaking of Quan, let’s talk about him.

  Justyce: [Notices SJ’s cheeks have gone a smidge pink, and she won’t look at Liberty…]

  Justyce: [Thinks, Odd…]

  SJ: What do we know?
/>   Jared: He’s a young African American man who’s been radically short-changed by our criminal INjustice system.

  SJ: [Smacks forehead.]

  Doc: He’s thoughtful. Dedicated. Fiercely loyal, even to a fault.

  Liberty: You can say that again.

  Attorney Friedman: What do you two mean by that?

  Doc: Well, he’s gone out of his way to protect whoever did shoot Tomás Castillo. Even beyond implicating himself and staying mum about the shooter’s identity, he refused the legal counsel offered by the leader of the…organization he was a part of because he didn’t want any connections that could link back to his associates.

  Justyce: I didn’t know that.

  Doc: Don’t think he wanted you to.

  Liberty: I know this mentality well. I was gang-affiliated when I was younger.

  Jared: [Perking up like Liberty just confessed to being Santa Claus.] You were?

  Liberty: I was. And even beyond the whole snitches get stitches and/or ditches concept that’s almost a joke to most people who say it—

  (Justyce could swear Liberty glances at oblivious Jared when she says that.)

  Liberty:—when you grow up feeling like no one’s on your side, and you suddenly find people who are, it literally changes your brain. That loyalty Quan feels isn’t merely a choice. It’s a psychological imperative.

  Attorney Friedman: [Jotting notes.] So I’ll steer clear of anything that would make him think I want him to throw a friend under the bus. What else?

  Justyce: The gun they found with Quan’s prints on it wasn’t the one that fired the deadly shots, so the ballistics won’t match.

  Jared: Isn’t that something they would’ve checked before making an arrest?

  Attorney Friedman: Not necessarily. If a firearm was found on the scene, I’m sure the moment they matched the prints to a name, a warrant was issued and that was that. Ballistics were likely run in forensics, but there’s a chance the report was hidden in the midst of a large discovery dump, especially if the bullets pulled from the body didn’t match the caliber of the weapon found on the scene.