by Kim Johnson
I watch Jamal, nervous with how he’ll handle this.
“Well, they must be proud,” Susan says.
“He is.” Jamal hesitates after he says “he.” He looks directly into the camera, and I smile at his secret way of acknowledging Daddy, and his ability to sidestep additional questions is impressive. Jamal’s not going to let this interview go down like that.
I’m both proud and nervous. I bite my lip, regretting that I tried all week to persuade him to use this as an opportunity to talk about Daddy’s appeal. Now Jamal’s guarded, each word carefully crafted to avoid Daddy coming up.
“One thing I love about highlighting you, Jamal, is that you could have chosen to go anywhere in the country, but you chose Baylor. Everyone thought you were going to Track Town, Oregon, or North Carolina. Why Baylor?”
“I’m a mama’s boy. Plain and simple. Got my two sisters over there.” Jamal points to us. “And I can be home in less than four hours if I need to. What can I say?”
“I’m sure your family loves that you’ll be close. Let’s bring them out now.”
Angela leads Mama to the stage, where she sits next to Jamal. Corinne squishes in, and I end up at the edge of the couch.
The hot lights beam down on me. I’m dizzy now, with one thing on my mind.
The thing everyone here is thinking about, the thing that hasn’t been said but that’s boiling near the surface.
“Let’s meet your sister Corinne.”
Corinne’s round face immediately goes blank; her eyes bulge, like they’re about to pop.
“How old are you, Corinne?”
“Seven.”
“You love your brother?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m gonna be real sad when he goes off to college.”
“I bet you are. What’s special about your brother?”
“He’s fast. And…when he packs my lunch, he always leaves me notes. I’m gonna miss that.”
“What kind of notes?”
“Nice stuff.” Corinne pauses. “Like if he knows I’m worried about something or trying to be funny. Like, ‘Smile. I’m watching you, Bighead.’ ”
Susan laughs awkwardly.
“It’s okay if he says Bighead.” Corinne shoots me a warning. “Only he can say it, though.”
I chuckle, because she’s told the world her nickname from Jamal, and now he’ll have to triple his notes to her.
“Or on Mondays when I’m real sad, he always leaves me a note like, ‘I love you more than the sun.’ I keep all those.”
Her voice has a heaviness to it no seven-year-old’s should have. The thing that goes unsaid in our family. That missing piece of us that keeps us down because we only see Daddy an hour on Saturday or Monday.
“Tracy.” Susan tries to stay upbeat. “You’re a year behind Jamal. Are you also an athlete? College plans?”
“I used to do track.” I pause, looking at Corinne, and then go for it. “I’m a school journalist and organize Know Your Rights workshops in the community.”
Mama digs her finger into my side. I have to grind my jaws together to keep a smile.
Susan’s face is expressionless before she turns to Mama.
“Mrs. Beaumont, what do you think about your son?”
“I’m so proud of Jamal. Anyone would be lucky to have him. He’s respectful. Dedicated. Charming. There’s no one like him.”
“I’ve definitely picked that up.” Susan rests her hand on her chin again. “Bet your husband is real proud, too.”
“He is.” Mama gives a tight smile.
Three minutes left on the show clock. My chest floods like I’m being filled by water. Time’s almost up. Susan has opened the door to talk about Daddy. I know that what hurts Jamal will hurt Mama. But we all want Daddy home. I can’t let this opportunity pass us by. I speak before Susan asks Mama another question.
“College seems so distant because I’ve been focused on helping my father’s appeal.”
Mama parts her lips. A small gasp escapes.
Jamal flinches, and it’s like a wave has come crashing down over the entire interview.
“Jamal.” Susan turns to my brother. “Is this what influenced your decision to stay close to home?”
Jamal’s expression goes blank.
Susan keeps going when Jamal doesn’t answer. “Because your father is in Polunsky Prison.”
I watch him. Hope this pushes him to speak up on Daddy’s innocence. But he’s staring past the camera like he wants this to be over.
“Not too long a drive from Baylor to see him or your family.” Susan uses her hands like there’s an actual map.
Jamal stays composed. “I couldn’t find a reason in the world to go somewhere else. I wouldn’t want to miss any time with Pops, Moms, Corinne.” Jamal gives me a once-over. “My dear sister Tracy.”
Shame runs through my veins when Jamal singles me out.
“I can imagine,” Susan says. “You don’t get that time back. Every week counts.”
She’s wrong; every second counts.
“Now, your father, how long has he been sitting on death row?”
Sitting? Why do people say sitting? Like he’s waiting patiently in line with a number in his hand.
“Yes. Ma’am. He’s…umm.” Jamal shoots a look at Mama. He’s starting to flounder.
The crew is buzzing, scrambling at the breach of contract.
“He’s been, umm…on death row nearly seven years since the conviction,” Jamal says.
Inside I scream out in joy that he doesn’t skirt the issue.
“Must be painful.”
“A lot of pain felt from him missing in our lives.” Jamal pauses when his gaze is caught on Mama. “I’m sure there’s a lot of hurt, of course, from the families who lost the Davidsons that night.”
Daddy’s innocent. Why did he say it like that?
“But I take all that and train. I run. I care for my family. I work. I live my life freely because my dad can’t. I don’t need to be at a big track school. Not when the thing that matters is putting in work to help take care of my family. That’s something I can control. No one can beat me.” Jamal gives a shy smile. Slows down his rapid pace of talking. “In my head, I mean. Everyone has to lose sometime. But in my head, I can’t lose. Because I’m growing with each race.”
“Your dedication’s a rare trait, Jamal.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I don’t let things get me down. That’s why I’m so glad you highlighted me, and we can focus on my accomplishments.” Jamal smiles, unaffected by her prodding questions. I almost believe him.
“Must be hard, though.” She puts her delicate hand on her chin again. “Your father’s death sentence, having to start over from New Orleans, and then…the challenges in Texas.”
“Texas is home now. I plan to keep it that way.” Jamal keeps his fake grin.
It aches to watch Jamal hold his composure. He’s avoiding the topic as best he can. Mama’s scowl says she’ll slam it shut if Susan tries her.
“How long does your father have on death row?” Susan’s voice goes low.
“Two hundred and sixty-seven days.” I say it because knowing how long Daddy has left is the air I breathe. Time to live. To appeal. To turn back time.
Mama whips her head at me. The camera follows.
“Two hundred and sixty-seven days,” Jamal repeats. “That’s why we want to keep our family together and focus on the good.”
“Yes.” Susan touches Jamal’s shoulder this time. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be having your father in prison. Convicted of a double murder. Unimaginable.”
“Our father is innocent,” I say. “He’s been trying to appeal. But we don’t have the financial resources to prove his innocence.”
I’ve been writing to Innocence
X to take Daddy’s case. They represent people wrongfully convicted and sentenced to death. Especially those in underserved communities. People who can’t afford their bail, let alone an attorney with a team of expert witnesses to prove their client’s innocence.
After seven years of letters and no response, I’m getting Innocence X’s attention. Today.
“If your father is innocent, I’m sure the system will work.”
“No,” I say. “The system has failed us. Continues to fail us.”
“I don’t know much about the details of his case, but we can talk after the show, since we’ve reached the end of the interview time. Jamal, what would you—”
She’s cutting me off. I can’t let her take this time away from me. I haven’t said enough. I stand so the camera is forced to focus on me.
“Do you know how many men have been put to death who were later exonerated postmortem?” I point to the camera. “What about conviction rates by race and class? The system works if you have the money to defend yourself.”
Backstage, the crew creeps to the edge of the stage. My legs are Jell-O underneath me. I’m close to collapsing right here, so I form a fist that fills me with courage.
“My father is innocent, and we have the evidence, but not the legal support to appeal his case. There are hundreds, thousands, of cases like his. Innocent people sentenced all the time.”
Susan’s spiderlike eyelashes blink rapidly. Her legs point toward Jamal because she knows this should be his interview, but the journalist in her focuses on me.
“What evidence do you have proving your father’s innocence?”
The producer throws his arms up in frustration.
“He was home all evening,” I say.
“You were young then. I’m sure it’s hard to remember. I barely remember what I had for lunch.”
“That’s not something you forget, ma’am. A small town with a double murder, everyone locked in the memories of where they were that day.”
“He was home,” Mama interjects, even though I know she’s angry at me. “This interview today is about Jamal, but I can’t sit here and not defend my husband. He. Is. Innocent.”
“Then who do you suspect killed the Galveston couple?”
“Mark and Cathy Davidson were murdered, but not by my father or his business partner, Jackson Ridges. Other suspects have been recently identified,” I say.
Mama’s and Jamal’s expressions turn hard.
I know Mama doesn’t like when I lie, but we need to catch Innocence X’s attention.
“Unfortunately, the Galveston Police Department refuses to look into them, but we will find a legal team to represent my father’s case. When they study what we have, we’ll prove his innocence and the real killer will be arrested.”
As soon as the interview is over, Jamal jumps out of his seat.
“Tracy.” Mama’s got her hand on her hip. Susan Touric steps between us. Along with the producer, she blocks my view of Mama, but not before I witness how upset she is.
“This is unacceptable,” Mama says. “We had an agreement.”
“I stayed within my parameters,” Susan says. “Your daughter—”
Mama puts her hand up to me as I draw in closer to join the conversation. Her gesture is instantly sobering. This won’t be the time or place to talk to Mama. She won’t listen to a word I say. I want this to be a moment to celebrate because I did what I’d planned, but to everyone else around me this isn’t a celebration. I’m standing in the rubble of a building I blew up.
I follow Jamal, who is now in the hallway with Angela. Jamal’s shaking his head, and Angela is tearing up. Her boyfriend, Chris, paces as he waits for Angela on the other side of the studio.
“Jamal.” I reach for his shoulder, but he brushes me away. My cheeks are hot. “Jamal, I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. Go to Ma.” His voice is expressionless.
“I mean it. I’m sorry.”
“I knew you’d make it go the way you wanted to. Just wish you wouldn’t have done it like that.”
His response isn’t what I expected. I wanted him to be upset with me. Shout. Yell. Anything to help me figure out how to approach him, but he doesn’t budge.
“Give me a second, please,” I start.
“I don’t wanna hear it.” Jamal walks back to the studio.
I turn my head to find Mama. Angela stands in my way.
“You’re so selfish. You think you know everything, but you don’t,” she says.
“My father’s innocent.” I turn away from her.
“It’s not just this. It’s the same thing with the school paper, always about you and what you want to do. Think about how Jamal must feel.” Angela shakes her head, then storms out the exit doors. The Texas heat sucks the air out of my lungs until the door shuts behind her.
Mama’s no longer on the stage. The only person left is Corinne. She hasn’t moved from the interview couch. She’s crying. Jamal gets to her first; a sob builds in my throat watching them. Jamal sinks down to his knees and wraps his arms around her waist. I stand awkwardly behind him, wanting to help but knowing I did this. Corinne puts her arms around Jamal’s neck, her tears wetting his collar. The hurt I’ve forced onto my family knocks me backward as I look down at Corinne’s searching eyes.
“Everyone is angry,” Corinne says.
Jamal brushes her hair back. “Sometimes people do things that hurt because they think they’re helping.”
I shut my eyes and hope it’s not a lie.
WHAT HAD HAPPENED
WAS…
Mama’s silence is worse than being scolded. I can’t take it anymore, so I text my homegirl Tasha for a ride to Polunsky Prison. Maybe this way I can smooth things over with Daddy before Mama and Jamal get to him on Monday.
Tasha’s twenty minutes away on foot if I cut across the field from my house. She lives on an old historic block that seems to be forgotten. The rows of shotgun homes perch up close to the sidewalk along dusty potholed roads. I swiftly approach her dull-green-colored house.
Tasha’s already out front. “You know I’m not one to judge, but damn, why’d you go off like that?”
My face droops. “Nice to see you, too.”
“I’m surprised your mama didn’t skin you alive on television.”
“It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“Train wreck.” Tasha slams her palm and fist together. “Full-on collision.”
Damn.
“If I take you to Polunsky, I’m not aiding and abetting, am I?”
“She didn’t answer when I asked.” I shake my head. “I didn’t want to stick around for her to stop me.”
“Come here.” Tasha leans in to give me a hug. “Are you grounded?”
“Probably.”
“Jamal pissed?”
“He won’t talk to me.” I put my head down. “Didn’t even come home with us, so I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
“Jamal’s not the type to hold grudges.” Tasha lets me in, and I enter her living room. “Remember when you washed his white jersey with your red pants?”
“Yeah,” I say, and chuckle. “He rocked that pink for weeks.”
“He’ll forgive you. Just don’t hold your breath if he ever gets another interview. No way he’ll let you in the building.”
“I know.” I let out a small smile that hurts, holding on to hope that Jamal won’t be mad forever.
I follow her down the hallway, passing two tiny bedrooms on the way to the kitchen that’s placed in the back of the house. Tasha only has two window units for air-conditioning, but the long shotgun shape of the house lets cool air flow throughout.
When we get to the kitchen, Tasha’s sister, Monica, is practicing on her keyboard while her mom washes dishes. They all have the same long, thin braid
s, same flawless dark brown skin and high cheekbones. Folks easily confuse mother and daughters for sisters when they’re out shopping. Only thing her mom’s missing is the large gold hoop earrings.
“Need any help?” I ask Tasha’s mom, Ms. Candice.
“Hey, Tracy.” She gives me a hug. “I’m good. I know you rushing. Tasha, get your daddy’s keys.”
“Daddy Greg! Tracy’s here.” She yells out the kitchen window instead of going out back.
She calls him Daddy Greg because she grew up not knowing what to call him, since he was in prison. She wanted to call him Greg, but calling him Daddy was a requirement. Say it with respect, her mama always said to her. So Tasha did what she do, calling him Daddy, but making it a point to add in Greg.
We used to be on the same page about getting our dads back. The first time Daddy Greg was out, Tasha was excited, but he barely stayed in the house and disappeared days at a time. He had a hard time adjusting, especially when he couldn’t land a job, part of his parole. So back in jail he went. Three more years. Now he’s done all his time, and Tasha don’t trust he won’t mess it all up again. Her tone stays sharp with him. Unyielding. Unforgiving. He spent his time in prison only to come home to a new prison, where he’s free, but serving his own penance through harsh glances and judging looks.
Tasha pounces on Monica’s keyboard and starts singing off-key.
“Stop.” Monica pulls it back toward her, then gives me a nod. “Hey, Tracy.”
I nod back.
“Tasha, quit playing around,” Ms. Candice says. “You know you can’t hold no tune, so just leave it for your sister.”
“Damn, Mama, why you gotta say it with your chest like that? Can’t a girl dream? Be the next superstar. Try out for one of those talent shows.”
“You love to sing, baby. Got a real nice voice.”
Tasha smiles.
“But you ain’t no Whitney Houston.”
“Ain’t nobody trying to be Whitney, Mama.”
“What you want me to say. Beyoncé? Come on now. You best focus on school. Be a business major. Accountant, I say, because you always up in my business. Checking my wallet.”