This Is My America

by Kim Johnson

  “I gave the plate number to the officer. Who do you think he is?” I ask.

  “I was hoping we’d have a couple of weeks before things got complicated.” Steve rubs his head, then pulls at his chin. “The cops don’t need to run the plates. I was able to get the name of the organization that owns the car, but they wouldn’t provide the driver’s name. Said I’d need a subpoena. The cops should be able to get that. The organization is called Liberty Heritage for a New America. They’re a special-interest think tank funded by ultraconservatives. This one has ties to white supremacists who use conservatism to cover their agenda. We’ve run into them before, but I thought they were stopping harassment and stepping up their fight through lobbying state representatives. This is aggressive, which means we must be on to something they don’t want me looking into.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. This is the last thing we need.

  “What’s the status of my daddy’s case?” I ask.

  “The case is officially pending review for direct appeal,” Steve says. “They could review it thoroughly or treat it like the others. The hope is I can get more evidence for a new trial.”

  “My dad has less than two hundred fifty-two days left until his execution date.”

  “We can’t spend time thinking about the obstacles. You’ll lose your mind trying to make sense of it. We file. We research. We push. We make noise. We put pressure—”

  “We pray,” Mama says at the door.

  “Yes, we pray,” Steve says. “Come in, Mrs. Beaumont.”

  Mama leads us in prayer. “Father God, let your holy power fill us with strength and protection.” She continues, but I lose focus, things rushing through my mind on what we should do next. Whatever it is, we must be on the right track or we wouldn’t be getting blocked like this.

  I open my eyes when Mama says, “Amen.”

  IF IT WALKS LIKE

  A DUCK…

  Before I head off to school on Monday, I stand close to Mama. She folds the newspaper, a late attempt to keep the headlines away. I’ve already seen them. Jamal on the cover, and Daddy on page 7. Galveston Times with a personal countdown: Fourteen days Jamal’s been on the run; 251 days until Daddy’s execution date. My chest aches.

  Her worry lines compound with each day Jamal’s been gone. I take a seat at the kitchen table.

  “I was thinking—”

  “That statement never ends well.” Mama winks.

  “We don’t really know Steve. Like he’s doing all this stuff for Daddy…and Mr. Evans gave him a great deal on the office space.”

  “Save it. Where’s this going?”

  “We should have them all over for dinner tonight.”

  Over a meal, guards can come down. Steve can get insight into things Mama hasn’t told us yet, and Mrs. Evans might warm up more to the idea of Steve staying at the loft after the break-in. I also want to thank Steve; his words last night meant the world. And I don’t want him regretting taking our case.

  “I’m sure this has nothing to do with Mr. Evans calling last night to say Mrs. Evans wants Steve to move out.”

  Mama has no chill to hear me out. Having Steve move out would be a setback. He’s making progress—the break-in proved that.

  “Mrs. Evans might change her mind if she got to know Steve. Anyway, isn’t this something you normally would do? It seems…kinda negligent.”

  Mama has always used food to bring people together. Our hardest days in courts were accompanied by other memories. Guests joining us for family dinners. Until it got too much. Until it was clear Daddy wasn’t coming home.

  “Steve does need a break,” Mama says. “He shouldn’t be spending those late nights in that office by himself. When the day is done, tell him he’s coming here for dinner. I’ll leave you the grocery list.”

  “What about the Evanses?”

  “I’ll talk to them when I get into work.” Mama cranks her neck my way.

  I smirk at Mama, who only needed a push. Then send another text to Jamal. He’s been silent since Quincy told him about me crashing the party.

  * * *

  I step out of the car to get to Elm’s Grocery store. When I run across the street, I almost don’t see Mr. Herron, Angela’s dad, standing in front of me. Out of habit, I attempt a wave, but stop midway because he’s visibly shaken seeing me. As much as I want to comfort him, my presence won’t give him peace.

  I want to say I’m sorry. Scream out Jamal’s innocence. That I wish Angela was still here. None of that happens. I’m frozen.

  “How can you act like everything’s fine?” Mr. Herron’s jaw is tense.

  “I—I—I’m sorry. We have someone who can help find out what happened to Angela.” I point down the street to the loft above Evans Antiques. I want to make it true, even though I know my focus has been on Jamal, and freeing Daddy.

  He throws his hand out. “Bring my daughter back, if you want to help. Can you bring her back?”

  My breath catches. Stunned. He knows that’s impossible.

  “You can’t.” His eyes go wet. “Stay away. I hope they find Jamal and he rots in prison like he left my baby girl outside to do.”

  I want to be outraged at his behavior, but I can’t. It’s shame. Pure shame running through my body, even though Jamal didn’t do nothing.

  I escape to Elm’s Grocery, my cheeks red as I pass customers who witnessed the interaction outside. I hurry through the store, picking from Mama’s grocery list. I go to check out, and the grocer doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look up at me. They all know who I am. All itching for me to leave.

  When he’s done, he rings me up. “That’ll be forty dollars and twenty-seven cents.”

  He’s rushing me so fast he almost forgets to take my cash. I wave two twenties in front of me. He halfway apologizes but doesn’t meet my eyes while I fish around for the change.

  “That’s okay. Forty is good.”

  I ignore him. I’m not gonna have him say I shorted him. As I turn to exit, I bump into another customer.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Without looking up, I scoot around to pass the guy.

  He steps between me and the exit.

  I glance up to give him a glare. My face drops when he stares at me with cold eyes. I almost let it slip out that I know him—the guy from Liberty Heritage for a New America. I now realize he was the same guy with Chris at the police station. He looks like a slightly younger version of Sheriff Brighton. My throat constricts when I know for sure he recognizes me, too. That’s why he stopped me.

  “Excuse me,” I force out, shaking as I move left, then right, to get past him.

  He blocks me again. Then finally he lets me pass, his hateful expression unchanged.

  Relief sets in when he goes the other way. My steps are tentative. I’m so light-headed from the blood rushing through my body.

  I cross the street and then call Officer Clyde, tell him about being harassed by the same guy from the break-in. I hear him write down a few things, and then he hangs up. Immediately, I text Beverly. I can’t take the chance Officer Clyde will let this pass because Sheriff Brighton might have a closer connection to it all.

  I wait to see if the guy will leave, but he walks down the street toward another office building. Without hesitation, I sneak behind the white SUV to get a better look. Inside, sitting on the back seat, are boxes from the copy store. An image of the original copy is taped on top of the box, but it’s too hard to see unless I go on the street side. I strain to search the other half of the car, trying not to look suspicious. When I can’t take the curiosity anymore, I go around. My heart beats fast for fear of getting caught, or worse…facing him again.

  In broad daylight, on the street side, I peek in the white SUV’s window. Taped to the top of the box is a sign, a drawing of a white, straight couple holding a baby. The words at
the top: Don’t let white guilt control you. Join together and honor our heritage.

  My heart is racing. I read again, searching for the name of the organization. Nothing states Liberty Heritage for America, though. The posters are clearly recruitment flyers. The flyer doesn’t state a meeting location, but my guess is Tuesdays at the Pike is one of them. This could be Angela’s exposé.

  I move closer to the driver’s side, but out of the corner of my eye I spot the man leaving the office, so I cross traffic. He doesn’t see me but turns toward his parked car. We’ll be forced to walk by each other. I duck into a store and hold my breath until he walks past.

  I close my eyes to picture him in the police station. Then our interaction in the grocery. The hate in his eyes was the same. My breathing gets labored. I suck in air to calm myself, but my panic grows.

  I don’t forget a face. Spent my whole life observing everything around me. It was him. I didn’t catch it before because he was so far away, his sunglasses and hat covering his eyes.

  I race to Jamal’s car, dumping my groceries in the back, then lock the doors. I scroll through my phone, searching the Liberty Heritage for a New America staff directory. I find a Richard Brighton. Google his name. His image is as clear as day. Brother to Sheriff Brighton.

  I check my other phone, not having heard from Jamal recently. At a stoplight, I blow up his phone with desperate texts. With the hot, dusty air outside rushing in through the open windows, I feel like I’m riding in our evacuation bus all over again. I shut the windows because I don’t want those memories to chase me home.

  GUESS WHO’S COMING

  TO DINNER?

  Promptly at six, the doorbell rings. I loosen my two-twist strands before opening the door. Mama insisted I wear a summer dress. Corinne, too, although we couldn’t stop her from wearing her favorite cowboy boots. I force a smile at the door so any evidence that I was terrified earlier disappears. But inside I’m spinning, each move I made today still bouncing in me like a pinball looking for a safe place to land.

  Three smiling faces greet me: Steve, Dean, and Mr. Evans. Followed by a sullen Mrs. Evans. Dean towers over them all, wearing my favorite blue-checkered shirt, the one I got him for his birthday. Mr. Evans lets them enter first, his arm around Mrs. Evans. More pushing her in than ushering.

  “Welcome,” Mama calls out from the stairs, dressed nicely, like she hasn’t been on her feet, cooking. She greets everyone with smiles but gives Mrs. Evans an extra-long hug.

  “All right, all right. I told you I was coming, Lillian.” Mrs. Evans laughs. “I’m not going anywhere, so you can stop hugging me.”

  Mama has that way about her. She claims her cooking is her visible weapon—praying’s the invisible one.

  I immediately glance over at Dean, who gives me a half-cocked fake smile that lets me know it was an ordeal getting here.

  “Who is this young lady?” Dean says over my shoulder. Corinne’s playing shy at the bottom of the stairs.

  “It’s me, silly.” Corinne gives a bashful laugh.

  “You clean up well, little sis.” Dean picks her up for a hug.

  At the table, Mama leads us in grace. All heads bowed and thankful at a break from everything causing pain. Mama’s cooked a traditional New Orleans meal. In the middle of the table is a mound of boiled crawfish, with corn and potatoes. She overdid the crawfish because it’s the last of the season. Then red beans and rice, corn muffins, and okra. Plates pass around, a miracle the way it washes away fear from earlier.

  Steve’s laughing, talking, shoving food into his mouth and sucking down crawfish. As dinner goes on, though, you can tell he’s fading away.

  “I should’ve had you over sooner. Not like me at all.” Mama smiles, but it’s a heavy one. Weighted. Painful. Steve’s sitting in Jamal’s seat after all.

  “Understandable. I went right to work on the case. Barely had time for anything else. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Evans, for the use of the office space,” Steve says. “I can do some real work there.”

  “What exactly are you doing?” Mrs. Evans dabs her napkin at her mouth before placing it on the table.

  “Judy—” Mr. Evans places his hand over hers.

  “I’d like to know. Because all I see is trouble. We’ve never had break-ins before.”

  “That’s not Steve’s fault,” Mr. Evans says. “We talked about this.”

  “I don’t mean any trouble.” Steve waves his hands. “I’m doing my job.”

  “I didn’t have y’all over here to argue with each other.” Mama puts her hand on the table. “Let’s not start a war before we even have dessert.”

  “I don’t mean to disrespect your home,” Mrs. Evans says. “But since he’s here, I want to know more about this business that’s going on upstairs, from Mr. Jones himself. There’s a difference between someone who might mean well with their social justice interests and actually having proper legal training.”

  “I can assure you, my Harvard law education and my work for my father’s legal clinic, Innocence X, have given me the adequate skills to take on this case.” Steve sits up and covers his chuckle at her knowing so little about his background.

  “I, uh—” Mrs. Evans hesitates.

  “I don’t intend on causing trouble, but some people don’t want me to be successful. We’re a nonprofit with highly trained lawyers; we work for people without the funds to successfully support their cases. I believe every person has the right to a fair trial, regardless of income.”

  “That’s all fine.” Mrs. Evans’s face turns a shade of red. “I’m not saying I disagree, but sometimes organizations like yours stir up problems. Like all those anti-cop workshops Tracy does. People get riled up, making nothing into something, and I don’t need to have my family mixed up in that.”

  I open my mouth to correct her. She’s never directly said anything about my workshops. They’re not anti-cop—they’re pro-rights. Mama’s giving me the eye, so I force a bite of food to swallow my words. I look over at Corinne, who seems to have lost her appetite. I give her a wink. She doesn’t react.

  “If Dean were accused of something he didn’t do and was sentenced, you’d want justice, a fair defense, even if you couldn’t afford it,” Steve says.

  “I just wonder, why now? What can possibly be proven after all these years?”

  I choke on my food, guzzle some water down. Mama looks like she’s five seconds away from cursing out Mrs. Evans talking like this in her house, over food she made.

  “The Beaumonts believe it’s worth it.” Steve points around the table at us. “The first family appeal letter I read was from a stack my father took home every night. That’s when I stopped hating him for working so much and realized he was a hero. Tracy’s letters have come in like clockwork every week for seven years. While I’m here, this case is the only case to me. I’m not worried about a town’s wish to get back to normal.”

  I hold back a sob, thinking about my daddy’s life on the line and someone actually reading my letters.

  “Well, I, for one, am glad you’re here,” Mr. Evans says, then looks at his wife. “I’ve always given you room for your opinions, but we’re in someone’s home right now. Lillian’s worked for us for years counting books, helping expand our sales online when the business was damn near ready to fold. We know her kids, and there’s nothing wrong with an investigation to help bring justice for James if they can prove he was innocent.”

  “Don’t make me the bad one here.” Mrs. Evans raises her voice. “I want to protect my family. I don’t want to get mixed up in this like I’m choosing sides.”

  “Choosing sides,” I say. “There’s one side. The side of justice.”

  “I’m not saying anything about your dad’s…situation. But with that poor girl dead, people are asking questions. Now, if it looks like we’re helping, we might lose business.”


  Mama’s face goes tight. Mrs. Evans is talking about Jamal now, and it don’t sit right.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Lillian. I don’t mean anything by it. I’m saying what it looks like to other people might have an impact on my business. My home.”

  “I don’t want to get anyone upset.” Steve shakes his head. “But if causing disruption in town is asking questions and finding evidence that might free an innocent man, then call me guilty.”

  “I’m gonna start on dessert now.” Mama sits up. “Corinne, you wanna help?”

  “I’ll get the bananas.” Corinne races to the kitchen, finally a smile on her face. Mama goes to follow Corinne, but Mr. Evans places his hand on hers.

  “No. No. Sit down,” Mr. Evans says. “I think it’s due time Judy sits and listens. If she’d change the news channel every once in a while, she’d see real issues are going on with police and Black folks. And you know it’s no different than it’s ever been around here.”

  “Don’t get started on this Blacks and police.” Mrs. Evans shakes her head. “None of this has anything to do with race.”

  I’ve always suspected her feelings but didn’t know for sure. Dean’s hidden them as much as he could from me until recently. But the more I hear from her, the more I’m boiling inside. I grip my hands under the table to control myself and avoid looking at Dean, who is desperately trying to capture my attention.

  “That’s enough.” Mr. Evans taps at the table with his fist. “Steve, the office space is there as long as you need it. I’d be more than glad to let it be used for something good. Now, I don’t want to hear another word because I want Lillian’s famous bananas Foster, and I’m not leaving without a bite.”

  Mrs. Evans stays silent.

  Mama spends a few minutes in the kitchen, then enters the dining room with a flaming pan as Corinne runs to turn down the lights. That’s Corinne’s favorite part about eating bananas Foster.