by Kim Johnson
Re: Death Penalty—Intake Department
Dear Mr. Jones,
My brother, Jamal Beaumont, is on the run. The Galveston County police think he killed a girl at my school. He didn’t. He couldn’t. They’re blaming him because of who his dad is. The cycle won’t stop. I need your help more than ever. We have to help Jamal, take every last drop of money we have—which is almost nothing, so maybe our house—to help defend Jamal. That means nothing left to help with my dad’s appeal.
I can’t have my father and my brother be in prison in a death penalty state. You are the only one who can help us. There’s no hope if you don’t take his case. Help us, so we can help my brother.
Please review James Beaumont’s application (#1756).
Thank you for your time.
Tracy Beaumont
GUILTY…UNTIL
PROVEN INNOCENT
Wednesday morning Jamal’s still missing. That’s how Mama sees it, but I know the truth. He’s running. Each call to his friends was a dead end, all denying they know anything about where Jamal is. He was home. I locked eyes with him, and now he’s out of touch. Suspected of killing Angela—the girl he’s been secretly seeing. His boss’s daughter.
Mama moves gingerly down the hall, stopping at my door to wake me, but I’ve been up for hours, waiting to hear from Jamal and writing a letter to Innocence X to let them know about Jamal’s situation. As much as I want Jamal home, I’m also hoping he ain’t stupid enough to come back, at least not until we know it’s safe for him. Deep down I know it won’t be easy. We’ve never had it easy.
“You up?” Mama asks.
“Yeah. You heard from him?”
“Grab that legal-help handout from your workshops for me. Gonna make a few calls before we head to the police station.” Mama’s hair is haggard, sticking up. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her hair wrap on in the morning.
I go through my drawer and hand the paper to her, then help Mama by checking on Corinne, who will be going to school. She’s in her bed, folded into a small ball with her arms wrapped around her legs, fully dressed, knowing we’d need to be ready in the morning. It’s a routine of urgency we’ve all mastered. Usually, we can brush away the fear. Today feels different. Today, we don’t know the rules we’re supposed to follow.
“Morning.” I rub my hand on Corinne’s back, then kiss her hair that’s sticking in all directions.
“Jamal back?” Corinne asks.
I shake my head.
“Maybe he’s at work,” Corinne says, getting up.
I run my fingers across the hash marks on her doorway that track her height. When I’ve capped the top of her most recent smudge, I glance out the window.
The road that leads to our house is a quarter mile long, but you can see the unmarked police car parked down by our mailboxes. Beverly no longer there.
The image of blood swirling down the drain comes back to me. Worry fills me that Jamal is hurt, or worse: he did something horrific on accident and he’s too scared to ask for help.
The cops left last night with Jamal’s toothbrush and clippers, but no towel. I have to confirm if it was blood or if my mind was messing with me so late into the night. I search the bathroom for the towel Jamal used. The rack is empty. Then I remember he balled it up before going to bed.
I rummage through every crevice and corner of his room.
“What’s with you?” Mama stops at Jamal’s door.
“I was looking for the bathroom hand towel. You seen it?” My gut churns with dread.
Mama pushes her lips out like it means nothing to her, but then she looks down, which makes it harder to study her for the truth. I wait until Mama goes back downstairs, and then I search Jamal’s nightstand.
All he’s got in here are college acceptance letters, a Bible, Chapstick, and a handful of pencils. I flip through a small notebook filled with scribbles of reminders to himself, like school application dates and deadlines. A date: July 14, with Angela’s name, circled. I pause at the writing near her name, then make my way to his window. He rarely lets me in his room, but sometimes when we’re both up on a sleepless night, I get the chance to join him when he climbs out on the roof. I’ve always been a captive audience when he allows me into the world inside his head. We’d talk for hours.
I want to be closer to Jamal, so I push up his window to go out on the roof. It creaks like when Jamal left last night. I extend my leg out, pull my body through, and settle on the roof. Sit in Jamal’s spot. I angle enough, though, so that the cops who are posted on the side of the road can’t see me.
In my head, I sort through what Jamal might be doing. He might not feel safe to come home, but Jamal wouldn’t just run. He’d keep watching out for us. Work on clearing his name. He should also know I’m the best one to help. If I hear from him, I’ll need to persuade him to tell me what happened. For Daddy, for Mama. For me.
Back inside, I go through Jamal’s things one more time. Except this time, it’s to get supplies and clothes for Jamal. Make it easy if he ever decides to come home quick. On my way back downstairs, the television catches my attention when BREAKING NEWS flashes at the bottom of The Wendy Williams Show. Susan Touric comes on the screen. I step closer to study her reaction. She’ll influence the media coverage of Angela, and if she does, Jamal could feel safe enough to come home and tell his story.
We interrupt this program to share a breaking news development in the case of our production assistant, eighteen-year-old Angela Herron, who was murdered last night. The Galveston County sheriff’s office has identified a suspect.
Angela’s homecoming photo flashes on the screen. She’s smiling bright, her hair in those rolling blond waves. They do a close-up on her face, angelic precision, the way they highlight the photo with doctored light around her face.
I’m jarred into reality when Jamal’s picture flashes on the screen. The word suspect stamped under his name. They didn’t use his footage from her show last week. Not his homecoming picture, a school photo, or a picture from the countless track meets and fund-raising banquet dinners.
Instead, they use a photo of Jamal with a red cup in his hand, middle finger up, a big grin on his face. I remember it from his Instagram. They have it cropped close around him, but if you saw the rest of the photo, you’d see the entire track team. A unity shot of everyone flipping off Coach Curry for scheduling an early-morning run the day after homecoming.
They’ve got Jamal painted like a thug, standing between two other Black team members with blurred-out headshots, Dean and the other white teammates conveniently cropped out of the original photo. All Jamal was doing was being a teenager at a party, no harm. He was the designated driver that night, but the red cup sticks out. Now it don’t matter he was hydrating with water before the early-morning run.
My breath catches when Angela’s photo lines up next to Jamal’s. The words suspect, on the run, last seen flash in front of me. I’m sick, wanting to heave. They can’t set him up like this. We can’t go through this again.
My phone pings and I get a text from Tasha.
You see this! The news is a mess. Jamal had no business with Angela. This is stupid.
I know. I’m watching Susan Touric.
Turn it off, it’s trash!!
I can’t help it. I need to know more.
You going to school?
No. Heading to the police station with Mama. Let me know if you hear anything at school.
I’m on it…Jamal still gone?
Yip…See if you can corner Quincy. He was real short with me on the phone.
Oh, I’d be happy to corner Quincy.
Ummm…Never mind. I’ll call him again.
Hater. Let me know if you want me to come through.
K. Love you.
I should turn the TV off,
but I can’t help myself. I turn up the volume. Susan plays footage of Jamal’s interview. They replay Mama saying Daddy is innocent, then Jamal smiling onstage. The words The calculated act of a killer? flash up on the screen.
The news continues, except this time Susan’s talking about Daddy. His mug shot goes up with sketches from the courtroom. It’s been so long since I’ve seen his story on the news. Flashes of old memories run through my mind. Déjà vu.
Jamal Beaumont is the son of convicted killer James Beaumont. Cathy and Mark Davidson were killed by gunshot in their downtown Galveston County office. A second suspected shooter, Jackson Ridges, barricaded himself in his home and died when police attempted to bring him in for questioning. James Beaumont stood trial. Upon conviction, he was the only one to pay for the crime in the Davidson family massacre.
“Jackson was murdered, too,” I say to the television.
The district attorney wanted Daddy to take a plea deal, say it was self-defense, anything to get the death penalty off the table. Daddy’s attorney thought he should take the deal because of the way the case was building against them. But Daddy wouldn’t do it. Not when he was innocent. He also believed if he took a deal, then he wouldn’t just be pleading guilty for himself; he’d be claiming that for Jackson, too. He couldn’t help justify Jackson’s murder, so Daddy didn’t take a plea deal.
We lost.
Even with the gun missing…even though there was no blood or marks on Daddy…even though he had multiple people who could confirm his alibi…we lost.
My father’s alibi was trumped by white witnesses in the neighborhood who swore they saw Daddy’s Buick, with two Black men inside, leaving the Davidson office late that afternoon, not at noon like Daddy said. I used to ask Daddy if he thought things would be different if he’d had a Black attorney, that maybe his attorney would have understood the bias in the trial more. Daddy squashed that. It wasn’t about the race of his attorney, but about being a Black man on trial in a town that never accepted us. Everyone wanted an answer to a heinous crime, and it was easier to think it was an outsider—someone “not like them.”
I won’t let Jamal go down like that. Not this time. Not if I can help it.
We can’t lose again.
POLICE STATE
Mama’s waiting on the porch with Corinne. She meets me outside, the ends of her hair hastily bumped in a curl. She’s so shell-shocked she’s not tracking things well. Like she knows she needs to be strong, but inside she is cracking. Scared to death.
“Anything on the news?”
“Just local weather,” I lie. Mama knows how bad it can get. I don’t need to add to her concern. “Tasha’s gonna ask around at school. See if anybody’s heard from Jamal.”
“Good.” Mama’s eyes are glazed.
“He didn’t do it. We’ll get Jamal back.”
We both know Jamal could never, but when has that mattered? It sure didn’t when Mama kept saying Daddy was coming home.
As we leave, we’re forced to pass the police car staking out our house. I square my shoulders and narrow my eyes while I reach for Corinne’s hand to pull her close to me. Beneath our anger, there’s hidden shame and embarrassment that’s similar to what we felt the first time we left the house after Daddy was arrested.
Ten minutes on the road and I let my mind wander. Every small town looks the same, all rolling into each other. Except, of course, when we reach the WELCOME TO GALVESTON COUNTY sign. Whenever we pass it, I have the same visceral reaction.
The first time I saw the sign, I was riding a bus from New Orleans. Daddy tried to hide that he was just as frightened about evacuating as we were. The way his eyes skittered around, though, I knew he was questioning if we should’ve waited out the storm. I didn’t know the answer then, but I know now that it wasn’t the levee failures in New Orleans that wiped my family’s life away. It was moving to Texas.
Not returning was Daddy’s idea. Daddy partnered with Jackson Ridges, who’d gotten him his first contractor job when we evacuated to Texas. Later, Mark Davidson hired Daddy by himself for renovation work. After a few jobs, he said Daddy could get a loan if he wanted to expand his business to land development. Mark trusted Daddy. He knew he did good work. He didn’t know Jackson Ridges, and so he tried to edge him out of the development deal. I think he just didn’t like what part of town he was from, but Daddy was always loyal and was ready to pull out unless Mark agreed to include Jackson in the new business venture.
Daddy being charged with the Davidsons’ murder was unbelievable for anyone who knew their relationship. There was no bad blood. Just a disagreement.
I lean my head against the window, let those memories wash away as the signs turn into a blur. Then distract myself with Mama’s voice that rises and belts as she ups the volume on the radio. She points her finger to the ceiling of the car, humming along at the notes that are too high to hit.
The gospel music baptizing her the way it can rear inside your veins and cleanse your entire body, giving you goose bumps, making you raise your hands high. Probably the thing that gives Mama hope and the strength to rise and fight whatever the battle is for the day. And for today, we need all the help we can get.
* * *
After we drop off Corinne at school, we pull up to the police station. The first person I recognize isn’t a police officer. It’s Dean.
“You call him to meet you here?” Mama points at him.
“No,” I say. “You know Dean, though.”
“Well, tell him to go to school. The last thing I need is his mama giving me grief we got her boy caught up in our mess and skipping school.”
“Mrs. Beaumont,” Dean says, approaching our parked car.
“Morning.” Mama and I both get out of the car. “You shouldn’t be here, Dean. You got school.”
“Where else would I be?” Dean runs his hands through his hair. “Y’all are like family to me. My dad knows I’m here.”
“Go back to your mama, then. You know she won’t like you here.” Mama purses her lips.
Dean doesn’t budge, and the truth is, I’m not ready for him to leave. He’s always been someone I can rely on, and I need him more than ever. School won’t be easy. We lost a classmate in a horrific way. Today will be a shock for everyone, and then all that anger will be directed at Jamal as a suspect. Someone to blame so people can move on, because it hurts too much not knowing who could do something like that to Angela. I’ve seen this all before.
“Were you always this stubborn, or is my daughter to blame?”
“Definitely your daughter.”
I sock Dean lightly on the arm.
“After we done, get back to school. I don’t want you missing a whole day. Get Tracy’s work from teachers. She’ll be out of school the rest of the week.”
“I’m not going back until Jamal gets help,” I say. “He needs a lawyer.”
“You need to be in school.” Mama rests her hand on her hip.
I swallow hard. Being at school won’t be easy. It took years to get people to stop talking about my father’s trial, and even now my circle is still small. I’d rather be absent the last month of school and do my work from home, but Mama won’t have it. I know.
“Stay out here with Dean.”
“I thought I was going with you,” I say.
Mama knows I can help. I might not have been able to help when Daddy was arrested, but I’ve made up for it in working with the lawyers and running Know Your Rights campaigns in the community. I pull out my rights crib sheet from my back pocket.
Mama studies me, then closes her eyes in agreement. As soon as Mama turns toward the station, her face goes stern, like she’s going to put a hurting on anyone who gives her the runaround.
I show a grateful smile as Dean waits by the stairs. I know he’d be out here all day if he needed to, and that helps take away the f
eeling we’re alone in this.
Following Mama, I clutch my phone before sending another text to Jamal that’ll probably go unanswered. I look back one more time at Dean, then suck in a breath to prepare myself.
This time has to be different. We trusted that the truth would come out in the Davidson murder investigation, but we should’ve known. Daddy was the number one suspect, and nothing else mattered. I won’t forget that. All we’ve been through with Daddy has to have been preparation for fighting for Jamal.
Goose bumps pucker my skin from the cold air in the police station compared with the heat outside. There’s a long hallway to the back, where three offices stand to the right of a small holding cell. A few deputies from last night shuffle back and forth with paperwork. I search for someone who’ll listen. Who’ll want to help. The room is empty of that care. They know who we are and have already made a judgment.
“Sheriff Brighton, please,” Mama says to the desk officer. “You can tell him it’s Mrs. Lillian Beaumont.”
Mama doesn’t wait for a response. She whips around and takes a seat at the bench.
“Let’s do this,” I say under my breath.
“If Jamal don’t come home, we’re going to need to get word to your dad.”
I gulp hard. I know this truth. Daddy’s already been pulling away, pushing me to get prepared for when he’s gone.
Mama closes her eyes and lays her hand over her purse. They must not realize Mama can wait them out all day.
I look past the officer, over at the deputies stopping to talk to each other. Standing with them is Chris Brighton, wearing his orange Texas A&M hat. My heart squeezes; Chris just lost his girlfriend.
The sheriff rests his hand on Chris’s shoulder and says, “It’s gonna be all right, son.”
He gently grabs the back of Chris’s neck. My eyes well at the sweet gesture between father and son. Then I begin to wonder how much it’ll hurt when Chris learns Angela’d been spending time with Jamal. That kind of secret comes out at trials, and I hope it doesn’t make Jamal seem more of a suspect. When Chris turns, his piercing blue eyes are hidden behind a black right eye, his face all splotchy and red.