Dear Justyce

by Nic Stone

  Tonight’s involved a white-eyed Justyce in a three-piece suit opening Quan’s chest and frowning at whatever he saw inside before summoning Doc to come take Quan out with a shotgun. And for the fifth night in a row, his eyes have popped wide in his cell, but he’s been unable to take a breath.

  Or move.

  All started on his second anniversary in this place. Seventy-nine days after entering a not-guilty plea.

  Which means he’s been in jail for seven hundred and thirty-five days.

  He can feel sweat at his hairline and along his neck. And he can’t breathe.

  But something’s different this time.

  I don’t know what’s going on with him. Eyes are open, but he ain’t respondin’. Look like he seen a ghost…Do I need to get the medic?

  “Excuse me.”

  Ma’am, you’re not permitted inside the cell—

  “Quan?”

  Quan knows that voice.

  He just wishes he could respond to it.

  Ma’am, your presence inside the cell is a violation of protocol—

  “Sir, this young man is in distress, which I think is a fairly top-notch reason to suspend your protocol for a few minutes,” the female voice says. “Quan? It’s Tay. I’m here, all right?” She puts a hand on his forearm. “The paralysis will subside shortly, and I’ll be here.”

  But what is she doing here?

  “Is everything okay, Octavia?” Another familiar female voice.

  “Yeah, he’s all right,” Tay replies. “Just needs a minute for his system to relax. Guessing he had a nightmare.”

  And now they’re both breaking protocol, the male voice laments.

  “We’ll be outta your hair shortly, sir,” says the second woman.

  “Figuratively speaking…,” Tay mumbles. (So it’s Bowling Ball giving them a hard time. Of course.) “We appreciate your patience,” she says loud and clear.

  “Appreciate my patience.” Tuh…

  “Can he see or hear us?” the second woman’s voice continues.

  “Hear, most likely. See, not quite sure. Sleep paralysis can be tricky. His eyes haven’t moved, so I’m guessing he’s not truly seeing much of anything,” from Tay.

  “That’s gotta be terrifying.”

  “Certainly wouldn’t call it fun,” Tay replies. “Okay, he’s coming down. Saw his thumb move—”

  All at once, the vise releases from around Quan’s chest, and two faces blur into view, one brown with a (fresh) blond fade, and one white with a dark-brown shoulder-length bob thing. He takes the breath that saves his life (or so it feels) and shuts his eyes.

  Opens them again to make sure he’s not still dreaming.

  The women are still there.

  “Well, this is embarrassing,” he says.

  Tay and Attorney Friedman both laugh.

  “What day is it?” Quan says, confused. He meets with Tay on Thursdays and Attorney Friedman every other Monday. He’s pretty sure today is neither.

  “Wednesday,” Tay says. “Sit up. We have something to tell you—”

  The young man is awake now. I need you to vacate the cell. Protocol.

  “Lord have mercy, Jesus,” Tay says under her breath. It makes Quan smile. Even though, yes: her and Attorney Friedman being in his cell is…weird. And a little uncomfortable. It’s not exactly tidy in here. Though better for there to be books scattered all over the place than something else, he guesses.

  Also: he’s in his boxers.

  As soon as they’ve exited and are out of view, Quan snatches his jumpsuit from where it’s plopped in a heap of wrinkly tangerine fabric on the concrete floor and pulls it over his drawers and tank top. Socks on with utmost celerity, as he learned from Doc, then his feet are in his sandals.

  Part of him wants to slow down. If Tay and Attorney Friedman are here, something happened.

  And it’s potentially something bad.

  Because why else would

  his lawyer

  AND

  his counselor

  be necessary?

  Too late, though. He’s already crossed the threshold into the cellblock common area.

  And they’re waiting for him.

  No one says a word as they stroll up the hall toward the line of little meeting rooms. Quan eyes everyone carefully, Bowling Ball and the superintendent included, trying to catch the vibe, but comes up empty because he’s too nervous. Sweat trickles down his side from his armpit, and he gulps.

  Then they’re in a room and he’s sitting. The guard is leaving and the door is closing.

  Quan is still breathing.

  Barely.

  Nobody’s saying anything.

  But then…

  Attorney Friedman is smiling.

  And looking at Tay.

  Who is smiling too.

  “So,” Attorney Friedman says. “We have some news.”

  “A lot of it,” says Tay. “And it’s likely to be overwhelming.”

  “Which is why Tay is here,” from Attorney Friedman. “If at any point you need me to repeat something, say so. And if you need me to stop so you can process, I will.”

  “Deal?” asks Tay.

  (Quan’s not really feelin’ this tag-team thing they got going on, but whatever.)

  “Deal,” he says.

  * * *

  —

  Attorney Friedman: First off, good morning!

  Tay: Really, Adrienne?

  Attorney Friedman: What?

  Tay: Let’s not give the young man a heart attack.

  Quan: Please.

  Attorney Friedman: My apologies. Just seemed rude not to say it.

  Quan: [Takes a deep breath.] Good morning.

  Attorney Friedman: So, we heard back on our motion.

  Quan: […Stops breathing.]

  Attorney Friedman: Thrilled to report that the court ruled to suppress your confession on account of the flagrant Miranda violation as well as suspected coercion.

  Quan: [Breathing—and beaming—now.] You’re serious?

  Attorney Friedman: Oh, there’s more. Also heard back on my request for an expedited trial date.

  Quan: [Stops smiling.] Okay…

  Attorney Friedman: The trial is going to be…

  Quan: [Bated silence.]

  Tay: Rude, Adrienne.

  Attorney Friedman: Sorry, sorry. Never.

  Quan: Huh?

  Attorney Friedman: Got a call from the DA himself yesterday afternoon. State’s dropping all charges.

  Quan: [No longer breathing…again.]

  Attorney Friedman: DA said with a suppressed confession, no murder weapon, and no witnesses, they don’t have much of a case. You’re getting out of here, LaQuan.

  Quan: [Still not breathing.]

  Tay: Quan? You okay?

  Quan: [Turning to her.] Is she saying what I think she’s saying?

  Tay: [Smiling.] I do believe she is.

  Attorney Friedman: I definitely am.

  Quan: [Looking back at Attorney Friedman.] So…I’m done?

  Attorney Friedman: Yep.

  Tay: You’re done.

  Attorney Friedman: Totally done.

  He’s done.

  The two BIG boys—if you can even call them that—chillin’ at the top of the climbing wall are wildly oblivious to the glares aimed at them from the actual children below.

  Who want to climb.

  “Justyce, you realize we look like grade-A creepers, right?”

  “Man, whatever. We’re chaperoning your brother’s party. What better lookout point is there than the highest spot in the park?”

  Quan shakes his head.

 
And smiles.

  “I still can’t believe you’re here. It’s your spring break, man. You ’sposed to be on a beach somewhere, checkin’ out honey bunnies from behind the darkest sunglasses you can find.”

  “Now that is some creeper shit, dawg.”

  Quan laughs.

  “Real talk, though, that whole broke college student stereotype is legit,” Justyce continues.

  “Whoa now, man. You can’t be calling yourself broke around me if we’re gonna be friends. That shit’s a mind-set. And it’s contagious.”

  Justyce snorts. “You sound like Martel.”

  Which makes Quan’s heart pinch. And he bets Justyce can tell because his boy doesn’t say anything else.

  “You seen him recently?” Quan asks even though he shouldn’t.

  Justyce nods. “Yeah. Went over there to help DeMarcus with an essay Doc assigned him as soon as I got in. Even took Jared’s wack ass with me. You’d think he and Brad were long-lost brothers the way them fools be actin’.” He shakes his head.

  Quan sighs and looks off into the distance. Not too long after he got out, Justyce—aka Earth’s Worst Secret Keeper Ever—broke down and told him the bizarre-ass story behind the Exactum notice he got from Martel. Including the part where he volunteered Doc’s instructional services to the members of Martel’s organization.

  Doc, Justyce told him, took the whole thing in stride considering the stakes. But Doc made it clear to Justyce that Jus would be working for the tutoring service Doc founded and planned to expand. Without pay.

  Quan, though, does get paid. And paid well. Way better than he feels he deserves, but that’s another thing he’s learning. From Doc, not Martel: Don’t undervalue yourself by undervaluing your skill set.

  Doc also made Quan open up a checking account on his eighteenth birthday and taught him how to use checks even though the practice is basically obsolete. (Doc isn’t hip to instant money-transfer apps.) And Quan is still mailing a check to Martel’s home address every couple weeks to cover his debt—though oddly enough, not a single one has been cashed.

  “So they’re all doing well?” Quan asks without looking at Justyce.

  “Yeah, man. They are. Still…doing business. The way they were before. But learning and growing too. Your boy Trey recently found out he’s gonna be a dad.”

  “Wait, for real?” What the hell did Martel have to say about that? Quan wonders.

  “Yep. Apparently he and this young lady have been dating for a while? I think her name is Trinity. You know her?”

  An image pops into Quan’s head of Trey hugging up on a gorgeous brown-skinned girl on one of those before nights when everything was different. He smiles. “I do.”

  “Dawg, I been knowing Trey most of my life, and I ain’t never seen that guy as happy as he was when he told me the news yesterday.”

  Now Quan’s eyes drop to his knees. Man, what he wouldn’t give to see Montrey Filly happy. Much as that dude been through. “That’s amazing, man. Give him my congratulations.”

  When Justyce doesn’t respond, Quan looks up to find the guy examining him the way Tay does sometimes. Quan shoves Justyce’s shoulder. “Bruh, why you eyein’ me like that? You tryna fight?”

  “Man, whatever.” Justyce shoves back. “Let’s talk about something else since I can tell your ass is gettin’ all nostalgic and shit.”

  “Quit cussin’. There’s babies in the vicinity.”

  Justyce waves him off. “So how are you, dawg? Everything copacetic?”

  “Who are you, Doc?”

  “Just answer the damn question, you question-dodger.”

  Quan sighs. And smiles again. Truth be told, it’s nice to have Justyce around even temporarily. Dude is genuinely the best friend friend Quan’s ever had. “Things are solid, man. Took a minute to get into the new swing once I moved back in with my moms—the suburbs are weird as fu—”

  “Language.”

  Quan laughs. “It’s weird out here is what I’m saying. Like mad quiet. No streetlights. And stuff, this park included, closes at like seven p.m.” He shakes his head. “I definitely had way more freedom—and way fewer chores—during my months at the Drays’, but I can’t really complain.”

  Right after his release, Quan moved in with Doc and his husband to spend a little time getting reacclimated before going back home. And it turned out to be a good thing: he really struggled at first, and having not one but two successful black men around to support and guide him was mad helpful. Even seeing two dudes crazy in love—something that was admittedly uncomfortable for Quan at first—was helpful: when he met Liberty for lunch to shoot his shot…and she shot him right down by letting him know she had a girlfriend, Quan hadn’t batted an eye.

  “You and SJ good?” he asks Justyce now that he’s got love on the brain.

  “Ah, we’re taking a break,” Jus replies.

  “Wait, what?!”

  Justyce grins. “I’m just playin’. We’re great, man. She’s in Israel right now on her Birthright trip.”

  “You better hope she don’t meet some bangin’ Jewish dude with more money than you, Mr. Broke.”

  “Whatever, dawg. I know you heard the phrase Once you go black…”

  Quan laughs so hard he almost falls off the rock wall. “Between me and you, I wish I could find me a woman like Liberty.”

  “Wait, did I tell you about how Jared randomly saw her and her girl at a restaurant, and his idiot ass tried to holler at her and got curved so hard, he had to get a crick in his neck?”

  Now Quan’s laughing even harder. “You’re not serious, man.”

  “Oh, I am. Dude is dumb as a rock sometimes. Those oblivious entitled-dude roots creep up and choke his good brain cells from time to time,” Jus continues.

  “You can take the rich white boy out the country club…”

  “But you can’t take the country club out the rich white boy. I feel it, man.”

  The boys—young men, really—lapse into a steady silence.

  Which is the only reason they can finally hear the angry jeers from the fourth and fifth graders beneath them. “You fellas mind coming down so we can, you know, climb?” comes the voice of a brown kid with slick black hair. Sunhil, Quan believes little dude’s name is.

  “Yo, who you think you talkin’ to like that, huh?” Quan says.

  Sunhil’s eyes go wide. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m just messin’ with you, kid. Come on, Justyce.”

  The two climb down and stand to the side, watching as pairs of kids, Quan’s brother Gabe included, race each other to the top.

  “Can you believe my baby brother is eleven, man?” Quan says, crossing his arms as he watches the long-limbed, superhero-loving kid he spends just about every Saturday with get bested in a climbing race by a tiny redheaded freckled girl who moves like a damn spider. “That’s two years older than when we met. Shit’s crazy.”

  “Yo, you remember the rocket ship?”

  Quan turns to look at Justyce like he just asked if blue whales can fly. “Are you really asking me that? Of course I remember the rocket ship. It was my favorite mode of imaginary travel, thank you very damn much.”

  Justyce drifts off to somewhere Quan can’t go, and his eyes narrow. “You miss it?”

  At first, Quan doesn’t respond. Because he really has to think about it. His eyes roam the always-clean park space. Touch on his mom, laughing with Sunhil’s; his sister, all boo’d up on the swings with some li’l boy Quan definitely wants to punch; his brother, sitting at the top of the climbing wall with his arms raised in triumph on his birthday; his best friend right beside him.

  Only thing missing is his dad. But they write to each other weekly, and Quan’s been out to visit the old man a couple times, so even that’s okay.

  He smiles. “You
know what, man? I don’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nah,” Quan says. “No need to go to outer space.”

  Justyce smiles, and Quan knows Jus knows exactly what he’s going to say next.

  So he does: “Everything I need is right here.”

  (Consider this one indefinite, and therefore un-date-able)

  Dear Justyce,

  Thank you.

  For everything.

  Sincerely,

  Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr.

  This is the hardest book I’ve ever written. From the research to the content to the painful pieces of my own past I found myself unintentionally mining, Quan’s story took more out of me than I knew possible to pour into a piece of “fiction.”

  I put fiction in quotes because despite this being the most fictionalized book I’ve done thus far, it felt the most non-fictional as I was working on it. In truth, I know more Quans than I know Justyces. More boys—and girls—doing their best to just stay out of trouble in a world that seems bent on shoving them into it. Kids, mostly poor, African American, and living in less than ideal circumstances (euphemistically speaking), who experience their first suspension from school and are said to have “behavioral problems” before they reach double digits in age. Classic school-to-prison pipeline. Look that up.

  I spent time in juvenile detention facilities interacting with the kids who are being held there, and hearing their tales of downward slide. Many of them had stories like Quan’s: an incarcerated parent, deeply traumatic home lives, and limited resources for survival, let alone situational improvement. Most of the decisions they made—especially the ones that landed them in detention—were rooted in desperation: A seventeen-year-old who joined a gang after his dad left and his mom slowly unraveled; he got tangled up in drug use to numb the hurt he didn’t know how to deal with, and eventually committed a gang-related murder. A fifteen-year-old who was being bullied and eventually got fed up and shot the bully in the head. A kid whose parents would boost him through the windows of houses so he could let them in for the robbery. And the one who keeps winding up back in detention because she takes her ankle monitor off whenever she gets out and is placed on house arrest.