This Is My America

by Kim Johnson

  I squint at him.

  The sheriff goes back to his office, and Chris is joined by a guy who looks to be in his forties. He’s wearing a USA hat and a collared shirt with nice dress pants. He makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He puts his arm around Chris, waves at the sheriff, and whispers something to Chris. I see a resemblance between this man and Chris and the sheriff, the same broad build and strawberry-blond hair. Definitely related.

  The guy leads Chris down the hallway, without letting go of him. Chris is shook. Part of me is angry with Jamal for messing with Chris’s girlfriend. How stupid do you have to be to run around with someone who’s dating the sheriff’s son? This might be what got the cops after Jamal for Angela’s murder. An easy suspect. That’s the fastest way to jail—don’t stop at go, don’t collect two hundred dollars.

  Theories flood my mind: Chris killed Angela. Jamal and Chris got into a fight; Angela died by accident. Whatever the case, it’ll be Chris’s word against Jamal’s. I don’t care about the blood; Jamal couldn’t have killed her. Whatever happened, though, I need to hear it from Jamal.

  Chris passes without even noticing me. I can’t say the same for Mr. USA, who stops dead in his tracks by Mama. She must feel his scrutiny, because she opens her eyes. She folds her arms tighter around herself, like she wants to disappear. I’ve never seen Mama show her fear in public. Chris watches Mr. USA, and then he finally recognizes me.

  “Your brother’s not getting away with this,” he says.

  I tighten my fists at my sides, ready for an altercation with Chris. “He didn’t do this. He could never—”

  “Chris! You don’t say a word to anyone,” Sheriff Brighton calls out, then charges toward the front desk.

  “Let’s go.” Chris gives me a glare before he exits, breaking out of the hold of the guy with him.

  As soon as the door closes behind them, Mama pulls at the cross on her necklace.

  “Mrs. Beaumont.” Sheriff Brighton approaches Mama. “I hope you’re here with word about your son.”

  Mama goes to answer him, but not before I step in front of her.

  “Is focusing on Jamal a personal vendetta on behalf of your son, or do you have any evidence?”

  “Excuse me?” Sheriff Brighton’s jaw goes tight.

  “You bring the entire force to our home looking for Jamal, holding a warrant. What evidence do you have on Jamal?”

  “Tracy.” Mama pulls me closer.

  “This is abuse of power,” I say. “You should know this won’t stand in a courtroom, especially the way you barged into the house. When we hear Jamal’s side of things, you’re going to regret—”

  “What exactly are you charging my son with?” Mama asks.

  “Murder.”

  I gasp and Mama rocks back. We heard about Angela from Beverly, knew it was leading up to this, but hearing it from the sheriff makes it more real.

  “We have a witness at the crime scene. A 911 call placing him near the victim, and your son’s letterman jacket covering her body. The sooner he comes in, the better chance he has of getting the DA to give him life rather than a death sentence.”

  My fingers touch my parted lips. He knows what that threat means to our family.

  “Have you heard different from Jamal?” Sheriff Brighton asks. “Seen him at all since the murder?”

  I gulp hard because I don’t have an answer about the blood on Jamal. I can’t deny he was jumpy last night.

  “Jamal could be injured,” I say. “Have you thought for one second that maybe his life is also in danger? Someone could be after my brother.”

  “The facts aren’t adding up that way.”

  “Next time you come barging into my home, you better expect our lawyer will be ready to make charges of excessive force,” Mama says as she shifts her purse around. She doesn’t wait for him to respond; instead, she stands and steadily walks out the front door.

  Outside, Chris’s red truck drives past with him in the passenger seat; he must trust Mr. USA to drive his car. Hitched to the back of the truck is an American flag that flies in the wind. Something tells me that to him the Stars and Stripes represents the good old days when the American Dream was narrowly defined. Our nightmare.

  “I’m sorry, Mama.” I touch her shoulder. “We’re going to find Jamal.”

  Mama wraps her arms around me, shaking.

  “What should we do about Jamal?” I ask.

  “I’m worried we haven’t heard from him yet. I wish—”

  Mama doesn’t finish her thought, but I know what she’s thinking. I wish Daddy was home. Having his son be a suspect in the murder of a young white girl isn’t going to help his appeal. I gotta see Daddy. Gotta find Jamal. Before I lose them both. Before I lose Mama.

  I know Jamal would be mad, but Mama can’t be engulfed in worry over his disappearance. She needs to know he chose to leave.

  “Jamal came home last night.” I pause before telling her what I know about Jamal and Angela, and how I heard him last night. Everything…but the blood I saw. That could be the stake that nails the coffin.

  Mama sweeps her trembling hand across her forehand. Her voice catches, and she’s unable to speak.

  “He’s safe, Mama.” I stare up at her with hopeful eyes.

  “Do we tell someone?”

  We both know the answer. Not yet. At least not until we know more.

  “Jamal needs a lawyer,” Mama says. “We can’t wait until they find him.” Mama smooths her clothes as Dean approaches us. Like she’s trying to get the wrinkles out to convince herself things are fine.

  “I’ve got some things I need to take care of. You gonna be okay with Dean? Let him take you back, so if Jamal comes home, we got someone who can watch out for him.”

  “I’ll keep her out of trouble,” Dean says.

  “I’m counting on it. I don’t need more on my plate than I already have.”

  I nod. Give her a kiss.

  When Mama drives away, the tears build, and I can’t stop them. I let them run down my cheeks, biting my bottom lip to keep any sound from escaping. The only thing I can think about is wanting to see Daddy. Like he might have some answer, something he’s learned over time that’ll fix everything. Stop this cycle from repeating itself.

  “Why would Angela be with Jamal by the Pike?” Dean asks.

  I blink. Stuck on this question and so many others. Angela was alive less than twenty-four hours ago, and now she’s gone. Jamal would never hurt anyone. Couldn’t hurt anyone. I force myself to ignore the blood I saw on Jamal last night, the thing I can’t explain away.

  “You don’t—”

  “Absolutely not,” Dean says. “It’ll clear itself.”

  “Like my daddy?” My eyes get blurry.

  “It’s not the same,” Dean says.

  His voice is firm. I agree, even though on the inside I feel different. I can’t trust that things will get better.

  “Chris looked like he got into a fight, but he walked out, so they weren’t arresting him. Not like the sheriff would do that to his own son.”

  My phone vibrates, and I pull it out.

  Jamal.

  How is Ma?

  This looks bad. Jamal, what happened to Angela?

  I didn’t do it.

  What should we do?

  DON’T tell Mama you heard from me.

  Meet me?

  I can’t. Gotta keep moving.

  Do you have enough to get by?

  A few days. Don’t worry about me.

  What can I do?

  Take care of Mama. Corinne.

  Who killed Angela?

  I wait for a second longer, but he doesn’t text again.

  I want Jamal to come home. But if he doesn’t, the cops are taking him in.
When they took Daddy from our house, that was the last time we saw him not behind bars. Except in the courtroom. I used to pretend he was the lawyer, all suited up, trying someone’s case. I couldn’t pretend that any longer when the decision guilty crossed the lips of every juror.

  Jamal is in the same boat now, and things don’t look good. But I have to believe I know my brother better than anyone. Then prove it to the world before it swallows him whole.

  Friday, May 7

  Stephen Jones, Esq.

  Innocence X Headquarters

  1111 Justice Road

  Birmingham, Alabama 35005

  Re: Death Penalty—Intake Department

  Dear Mr. Jones,

  “Let us realize the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

  This saying is etched outside your main office. I saw it in all your photos. I got a question: Dr. King wrote this and Obama believed it, but how can it be true if it seems like everything is going backward? Does it mean a hundred years from now someone else won’t go through the same pain that my family’s been through? Because if that’s what you believe, then what about me? What about my family? Do I have to lose my daddy? My brother? Because if people just wait enough years, laws will change. I’m not trying to be funny. I really want to know. Because right now I’m looking for something to make me feel hopeful, and I’ve got nothing.

  Please review James Beaumont’s application (#1756).

  Thank you for your time.

  Tracy Beaumont

  FAMILY MATTERS

  On Saturday morning, I visit Tasha’s to catch up on school the past few days, but when I enter her house, I can feel the tension. I don’t know what I walked into, but they act like I’m not even here. Everyone is gathered in the kitchen.

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” Tasha says.

  “We’ll see about what I can and can’t do,” Daddy Greg says.

  “You gonna be around long enough to make sure I don’t?”

  “I’m not taking this shit from you. You might have got away with this before, but I’m not letting you talk like this in my house.”

  “Your house? Ha! I’ve paid as much of the bills as you, more even.”

  “Tasha, you stop this right now,” Tasha’s mom says. “The both of you. I won’t have this talk in my house. Let’s be clear. This is my house. Besides, we got guests. Tracy don’t wanna hear this bickering when she got bigger things to think about.”

  She wraps her arms around me, holding me tight. “Excuse their manners, Tracy.”

  “Sorry, I just came in,” I say.

  “Girl, you family. No need to apologize. I just wish they’d both act civil around here. I can’t take it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Daddy Greg kisses Ms. Candice’s forehead.

  She shoos him to the front of the house, and I follow Tasha to her room.

  I was trying to get away by coming here. Jamal is hurt, gone. Mama is lost, stressed. But I’m now consoling Tasha. We have so much in common, except she’s turned to stone. I know I’m the only one who can bring her back. I touch Tasha’s hand to warm her and pretend it doesn’t hurt when she flinches.

  “What was that all about?”

  “He thinks he can come back and tell me what to do,” Tasha says. “Like I gotta ask him for permission. Where the hell’s he been if he wanted to play daddy so much?”

  I rub Tasha’s back to comfort her.

  “I’m annoying. Sorry.” Finally, she smiles. “I’m glad you came by. I was gonna head to you.”

  “I had to get out, too. It’s suffocating being home.”

  “I know the feeling.” She squeezes my hand.

  “You hear anything at school?” I ask, studying Tasha.

  “Nah. Bunch of rumors.” Tasha’s eyes cut away. “You know how school gets. Things were crazy, though. We barely had class. First period, people were just crying, and then they had an assembly to share the news. Grief counselors came, and they’ll be there next week, too.”

  “They say anything about Jamal?” I hold my breath. I know it’s bad. That’s why I came by today, because Tasha wasn’t saying much on the phone, trying to protect me.

  “A little on Jamal, but mostly everyone feeling sad about Angela. The school is split. You know how it goes.”

  “Black and white?”

  “Pretty much everybody Black’s got Jamal on their mind. They better find Jamal and clear things up soon, or by the end of the year there’s gonna be a riot.”

  “Anyone seen Jamal? Know what he was doing out by the Pike?”

  “Last people saw him at school was Tuesday. Rumors are flying, though, that he looked upset, but people thought it was because of the Susan Touric interview.”

  “Great.” I shake my head.

  “I did hear it going around Jamal was talking to Angela Tuesday morning.”

  “I skipped class and spoke with Angela that morning, too.” I flash to our conversation. “Angela wanted me to work with her on some exposé. I was supposed to meet her first thing Wednesday.”

  “Damn. Really? Maybe she got herself killed.”

  “Over what, a school scandal? Rigged student council elections?” I tighten my face after I say it. Reality sets in. She’s gone now.

  “I don’t know,” Tasha says. “It’s messed up.”

  “Really messed up, and to make it worse, the cops believe Jamal did it, but he’s running, can’t defend himself.”

  “Somebody knows something,” Tasha says. “If she was out by the Pike, there’s gotta be witnesses.”

  “On a Tuesday night? Who knows what they were doing out there?”

  I hold in my worry that Jamal and Angela chose that night because it’d be isolated and they could hook up. Jamal’s only witness could be whoever killed Angela. Him admitting to messing around with a white girl in the middle of nowhere isn’t going to be much of a defense. The Pike has the reputation for being the underage party spot on weekends, but Black and Latinx folks don’t hang out there. Lots of drinking and white boys with big trucks off-roading in the dried-out marshes. I can’t imagine Jamal even being caught out there. I just can’t see it.

  “What about Quincy?” I ask. “You see him?”

  “His fine ass wasn’t at school.”

  “Wait, he was out?”

  “Trust, I looked.”

  “I saw Chris at the police station, too, so he was out of school on Wednesday. What about the rest of the week, or his boys?”

  “Haven’t seen him. I heard people talking about how he was all sad. That he witnessed what happened. Scott and Justin were at school, mourning Angela like everybody else. I’ll admit, school’s been depressing as hell.”

  “The news hasn’t said anything about Chris. I wonder what that’s all about.”

  “Maybe they think he’d be in danger. If he said he was a witness and all.”

  I shake my head. I have no idea.

  “What the police been saying?”

  I go over everything I know. But I hold my tongue about the blood and the fact that Jamal was messing with Angela. I love Tasha, but sometimes she can slice you with her words. Cut people off without giving them the benefit of the doubt. She’s already hot with her dad; I don’t know if she’ll give Jamal the grace. So I keep it to myself for now.

  PAST IS ALWAYS PRESENT

  Quincy knows something. That’d explain why Quincy was short with me on the phone, and why he didn’t go to school the rest of the week. If Jamal was in trouble, Quincy wouldn’t turn him away. Any other situation, Quincy’d be hollering back real quick. My cheeks blush at the thought. He’d hit me with his usual jokes about if I’m finally giving in or that he knew I wanted him all these years. I’d hide a change in expression, but inside I’d be squirming because Quincy is e
asy on the eyes.

  When I pull up to Quincy’s place, his Impala is nowhere in sight. I pause, unsure if I should get out. Quincy’s mama opens the door, hand on her hip. Her lips sealed tight. I want to vanish, but I make my way to her.

  “For a second I thought Jamal was driving with you.” Mrs. Ridges’s expression relaxes, her hair with purple tips framing her face.

  “Is…” I pause. Unsure what exactly I’m supposed to say to her. “Quincy home?”

  “He gone. What you need with my boy?”

  She’s lost a lot. I know she blames Daddy for mixing up Jackson in his business. We hadn’t lived in Crowning Heights long before we met the Ridges family. She can’t blame us for what happened to the Davidsons. And Jamal’s been a good influence on Quincy; that’s why Mrs. Ridges took to him. But by the way she’s staring at me, all that’s lost. Every time Mama sees her, hurt floats in Mama’s eyes. There’s a longing for a friendship that ended the day the police killed Jackson. I don’t think Mama and Mrs. Ridges stopped caring for each other. But when you lose someone, and an entire town thinks your spouses were guilty, it does something to your friendship. Being close reminds you what’s missing.

  “Jamal, that you?” Malcolm, Quincy’s younger brother, comes strolling to the door, disappointed when he sees it’s just me.

  I’m taken aback—Malcolm’s about my height now. He’s wearing a washed-out track shirt that used to be Jamal’s. My throat closes because Jamal was always hooking up Malcolm with gear. Jamal wasn’t just watching out for Corinne and me.

  “You coming in?” Malcolm asks.

  “She was looking for Quincy, but I told her he ain’t here. I got to get to work, so come on now.”

  Malcolm’s eyebrows raise. “You heard from him?”

  “Malcolm.” Her voice is biting.

  “No.” I smile. “But I’m sure we will. It’s all—”

  “Bev will find him. She’ll clear things up.” Malcolm’s all puffed out.