Chapter Fourteen
VIDEO FOOTAGE OF JANAE, WIDEMOUTHED, ANGRY, AND ACCUSING A REPORTER of being a racist, played on every local news channel. She was a target for attack.
Channel 10 ran a segment featuring the annoying reporter at the press conference. A still image of Janae was fixed in the upper-righthand corner of the screen. It hovered angrily over the reporter as though she might pounce on him at any moment.
“I was simply working the story,” the reporter professed. “The next thing I know, this woman comes totally unglued and accuses me of things I find quite offensive.”
The newscaster nodded. “So what are your thoughts on how the local officials are responding to the violence that has gripped the city?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “If the mayor wants to get reelected, he must prove he can keep his constituents safe, and the DA has no choice but to address the violence. Really”—he paused, tapping his lips with his index finger—“I think the parents, like the woman today, need to stop pointing the finger at everyone else. Their kids are the alleged criminals, and they are the ones who raised them.”
Janae turned off the TV. Her eyes darted to the phone. It had been ringing off the hook since the interview aired. Her best friend, Tameka, left seven messages on her voice mail, each one demanding, with increasing urgency, a return call.
Janae and Tameka met in high school. While their classmates were into the sports scene, they bonded over Student Council. In their sophomore year, Janae helped Tameka in her presidential campaign. Tameka ended up winning with her “More Rights for Students” platform. From the first day Janae met Tameka, her friend was always standing up for what she believed in. That’s what Janae loved most about her. Now, Tameka was absolutely her closest friend. The one person she could always rely on for the truth.
“Hey girl,” Janae said, her friend picking up on the first ring.
“Well, it’s about damn time you called me back. Where the hell have you been? I called your mother; she didn’t know where you were. Have you lost your mind?” Tameka said.
“I just didn’t want to deal with all the noise about Malik. I know everybody is talking and stuff. I’m not trying to hear any mess. I can’t deal, not right now.”
“Here’s what you’re not going to do—you’re not going to sit there in that apartment all by yourself, hiding, as though you are alone in this. Malik is my godson!” Tameka reassured her. “I am all in this with you. Girl, you know I love you.”
Janae sighed, “I know.”
“Are you sure?” Tameka questioned.
“Tameka—I know. I know.”
“Good! Now listen, there’s something I need to tell you. I heard a few things that could be helpful, but”—Tameka paused—“I’m not sure it’s even worth repeating.”
“Why not?”
Tameka took a while to answer. “I heard it from Kim.”
Kim was Tameka’s older sister. She was also their relentless glimpse into the world of drug addiction. They knew she lied, begged, and stole—whatever it took to get her next fix. After Kim was barred from her mother’s home, she sold her body to get the money she needed in order to buy the drugs she craved. And when she became pregnant, it was Tameka who gave up a full academic scholarship to college in order to raise Kim’s son, Keith, while Kim was out using drugs.
“Tell me!”
Tameka sighed. “Kim claims she was there on the corner of Thirty-ninth Street the morning of Troy’s murder. She had bought drugs from a guy named Shaun G. And Troy was there. She said Malik was there, too. Apparently, Malik and Troy got into a fistfight. But when they parted ways, Troy was very much alive. He left with Shaun G.”
“Shaun G? What kind of name is that?” Janae questioned.
“He’s probably a wannabe rapper. Anyways, it seems Kim has bought drugs from him before, but she doesn’t know much else about him. She is sure, though, that he is not from around the immediate area. You know Kim. She’s familiar with the streets, since that’s where she gets what matters most to her.”
“Why would Malik even hang with such a loser?” Janae wondered aloud. “Tameka, I just don’t get it. I need my baby out of jail. I get sick to my stomach every time I think about him behind bars, which is all the time.”
“I know. When I think of Malik, how sweet and silly he is, it’s just insane that we’re actually going through this.”
“I’m scared, Tameka. If I’m really honest, from the moment I held Malik in my arms and I knew he was a boy I was terrified. I kept thinking over and over how was I going to teach him how to be a man? How I was going to protect him from the streets? I just wanted him to have a chance to get out of here. To have more than what I could give him,” Janae cried.
“I know you did. But it’s not too late. It’s not,” Tameka said.
“I feel like I’ve lived the past fifteen years holding my breath—and the day he was arrested, that’s when I started choking to death. I think I’ve always known deep down that something like this would happen, or even him dying,” she sobbed. “Maybe, maybe I jinxed him. I don’t know.”
“You didn’t jinx him. Don’t even say that. How could you not be afraid? I worry about Keith’s safety every single day. Boys are either dying or going to jail around here. That’s real. And the violence is just getting worse. Janae, you are the best mother I know. This is definitely a setback. It’s horrible. I’m not going to lie to you. But we will make it right.”
Janae sighed heavily. “Why are you just telling me this?”
“Do you really even have to ask why? I got this info from Kim, and you, more than anybody, know how little I trust in whatever she has to say. Her mind is fogged up from years of smoking. She was probably coming off a high or fiending for her next one when everything went down. With Kim, all she sees is her next hit,” Tameka said nonchalantly, as though she was talking about something insignificant and not her sister.
“But! But!” she said. “There’s a rumor going around that it was one of Troy’s friends—and I use the term loosely—who called the cops, anonymously of course, to report the murder, and they say he mentioned Malik by name.”
“Is it the same person? Was it this Shaun G who said Malik killed Troy?” Janae sputtered. She could feel her pulse quicken.
“Maybe it was Shaun G. I don’t know,” Tameka said. “But it does seem like too much of a coincidence if you ask me.”
Janae nodded in agreement as if her friend could see her. “Um, this Shaun G,” she said as she tried to gather her thoughts. “I gotta talk to Kim. I gotta find out who this guy is and—”
“Janae, girl, turn on the TV. Turn it on,” Tameka cut her off. “You’re on TV.”
Tameka had turned up the volume. In the background, Janae could make out the voice of a female newscaster.
“I know. I already saw it,” she said somberly. “And I do not want to deal with that again.”
“Turn the damn TV on,” her friend insisted.
“I was there, remember? I don’t need to see it. I already know I made an ass out of myself.”
“No, seriously, Janae, you gotta turn it on. It’s not bad. Really. And, by the way, you are rockin’ that purple dress. Is it the same one from Malik’s kindergarten graduation?” she teased.
“Tameka, I don’t give a damn how I look.”
“I know, I know. I’m just saying. Can’t a sistah save her son and look good doing it?”
There was a brief, awkward silence, and then they both laughed nervously.
“Only you, Tameka, would notice something as stupid as my dress, considering everything. God, that conference was horrible,” she moaned. “Right afterwards I just wanted to crawl up under a rock. I still do.”
“I don’t know, Janae. It couldn’t have been that bad. This lady reporter just said you made a passionate plea for Malik to be spared a trial as an adult.”
“Really! You mean they’re not showing me talking crazy, with spit spraying out of my mouth?”
Janae searched for her remote control and found it between the cushions of the sofa. Still wary, she pressed the on button.
The woman on the screen was Assistant District Attorney Dembe. She maintained that same strained look she had in the courthouse, a look that said she wanted to be anywhere but where she was. She sighed impatiently into the microphone. “The CPHR’s attorney has offered a moral argument for why we should turn a blind eye to children who commit crimes, but there is no legal basis for it to be taken seriously. The bottom line is that in this country we prosecute and punish those people who violate our laws. It doesn’t matter if they are fifteen or sixty-five, white or black. That is how we maintain a lawful society.”
“Could you address specifically the correlation that Mr. Whitford was making between endangered animals and black boys?” the reporter followed up.
ADA Dembe snorted, revealing deep wrinkles in her brow and along the corners of her eyes. “Actually, I was quite shocked that an attorney of his caliber would make such a statement. The law he is using does not apply. It never has and it never will. I personally think comparing humans to animals is appalling, and I will not even begin to consider his rationale for doing such a thing.”
Janae rolled her eyes.
“What a stupid bitch!” Tameka spit out. “Don’t worry about her, Janae. She’s just like the cops—all they want to do is lock people up. That’s their answer for everything.”
As Janae positioned her finger to turn off the TV, the reporter invited viewers to call in or tweet their opinions. “Are black boys endangered? Should they be given leniency when they commit crimes?”
There was an unusual silence between the girlfriends. Typically, their phone conversations—or, what Malik liked to call them, chatfests—could go on for hours without Janae and Tameka circling back even once on a topic. Over the years, they have laughed, cried, and soul-searched over the phone, always supporting each other.
“Why are you so quiet?” Tameka asked.
“I don’t know. What do you think about the reporter’s question? Do you think I’m wrong for allowing Malik’s attorney to call him and other black boys an ‘endangered species’?”
“Are you for real?” Tameka chided her. “Because I know you not worrying about political correctness when my godson Malik is behind bars. If it works, if it gets Malik out of jail, then it’s the right argument. It’s that simple.”
“Yeah. The only thing that matters is if it works. It’s just a strategy,” she agreed. “So I definitely shouldn’t worry that my white attorney is making the argument?”
“I wouldn’t care if he was neon green,” Tameka said. “As long as the argument works. Besides, blacks being called endangered species is nothing new. A while ago, there was a huge controversy in Atlanta over a major anti-abortion ad campaign referring to black babies as endangered species. I read it in the New York Times. There was a quote that went with the claim. Something like—The most dangerous place for African-Americans is the womb. Of course the media jumped right on it. They’re in the business of making money, so, whatever sells. Anyway, there have been books, articles, debates, and symposiums on whether black males are an endangered species. Even Tupac had a few words to say about that.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. So I wouldn’t give that another thought. I just wish black folks in general would stop worrying about what other people think of us and focus on what we are doing to each other. If we could just figure that out—we’d be straight.”
Chapter Fifteen
THE RINGING OF THE PHONE STARTLED ROGER OUT OF HIS SLEEP. THE papers that had been balanced on his chest slid to the floor.
“Good morning, Roger. Calvin Moore here. Hope I didn’t wake you,” he said apologetically.
Roger wriggled himself free from the covers and then sat up in his bed. He looked over at his wife, who was sound asleep. She still had her reading glasses on, while the book Invisible Man teetered at the edge of the bed, threatening to fall to the floor.
“Hold it a sec,” Roger said as he gently leaned over her and grabbed the hardbound copy of his wife’s favorite book. “Calvin, I was expecting to hear from you. I’m just not sure if four in the morning was how I pictured it.”
“Sorry about that. It’s just that . . .”
“No, don’t worry about it. I’m usually up around four-thirty anyway. It’s just that those last few minutes are always the best ones, it seems.”
Calvin nodded in agreement. “Roger, I’ve been thinking, and I suspect in the days and weeks to come things are going to get even more intense as you’re able to fully get your message out. Though, there is something missing from your case.”
“Really? What?” Roger said curiously.
“Imagery. I admit you’ve done a good job, making it clear that the crux of your claim is protecting life—protecting the quality of life of African-American boys. The problem is, since there’s no urgency it lacks imagery. The murders, and black boys going to prison, that happens case by case, in dribbles. But, don’t you readily recall the images of Hurricane Katrina—Air Force One flying over flood-ridden New Orleans, the bloated bodies floating in the murky water, and people begging for help. You need searing images like that.”
“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought, and I really appreciate the assessment, but is that why you’re calling me at this hour?”
“No, no, no. I called in a favor from one of my friends over at Good Day America. She does the programming for the show and she wants to have you on.”
Roger shifted his body so that his back was straighter. “Well, that’s really good news. I appreciate that. When was she thinking?”
“At eight.”
“Eight when?” Roger shrilled. He instinctively patted his wife’s side to soothe any disturbance he might have caused her.
“Eight this morning.”
“Oh, Calvin”—he looked at the digital clock that was on the nightstand next to the phone’s base—“I’m assuming that I would need to get to New York?”
Doing it over the phone or via Skype would create barriers and not be as powerful as in person. They needed to connect with the audience in a meaningful way.
As Roger swung his legs over the side of the bed, he started thinking out loud: “Gotta get Janae on the phone . . . we need to be on the R7 by . . . what? . . . six, at the very latest . . .”
“Rog, I’m online now. There’s an Acela express train pulling out of the Thirtieth Street Station at six-fifteen. That’ll get you in the city by seven twenty-five. I’ll book the tickets. You’ll just need to pick them up at customer service.”
“Book three.”
“Three?”
“Yup, you’re going with us. I am tired of this pussyfooting. You, my friend, are officially on the case. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Chapter Sixteen
THIS WAS JANAE’S FIRST TRIP TO NEW YORK CITY—ANYWHERE OUTSIDE OF Philly, really. Under different circumstances this trip would have been one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to her. She would have taken Malik with her. They could have gone to see the Empire State Building, eaten New York pizza, and maybe checked out Times Square at night with all the lights. Malik would have loved that, and it would have been valuable for him to see something different. When this is over, she promised herself, she would expose Malik—and herself—to more of the world.
Janae shook her head slightly but kept her gaze steadily on what was outside the train. It was still difficult thinking about Malik in the context of crime and court hearings. But it was real. It was really happening. Baby steps, she reminded herself, yearning for Malik’s freedom.
Janae was quiet the entire train ride. Every once in a while she tuned into the conversation between Roger and the new attorney. Roger would take the lead on the greater humanitarian aspect of the case; Calvin would focus more on Malik’s specific legal situation.
The Acela pulled into Penn Station a few minutes ahead
of schedule. They needed to catch the number 1 train uptown to Lincoln Center to get to the TV network studios on West Sixty-sixth Street. It was seven seventeen. Calvin’s friend at the station, Samantha, had already called. She said they needed to be at the studio by seven forty-five or their segment would be bumped.
They arrived just in time for the interview. Both Roger and Calvin stressed to Janae how crucial it was that she maintain her composure.
“I know. I get it,” she said, showing some irritation in the face of their lack of confidence.
Roger peered at her over his glasses.
“Oh boy. What?” she said.
“Janae, you might not be able to change where you live, or how much education you have or how much money you make—at least not right now—but you do have control over your mouth.” He pointed to it. “I expect you to exercise it.”
Janae put her right hand up as though she was about to make the Girl Scout pledge.
“They can set me on fire and they won’t get a reaction out of me.”
Calvin chuckled. “We want you to be poised, not dead.” He touched her arm lightly. It felt sturdy and comforting to Janae, even protective.
“I’m just saying, I’m not going to be any trouble”—she turned to Roger and looked at him regretfully—“I swear.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Roger said.
Within two or three minutes of their arrival, a tall thin woman with long blond hair walked toward them. She reminded Janae of a character from TV or the movies. She didn’t seem to have a worry in the world, based on the way she glided down the hallway. Her hair bounced and swirled with each step as if she had a personal fan blower walking in sync with her.
Janae reached to feel her own hair. It was in its usual style—pulled back off her face, and held together by an elastic band. The last time she had flowing hair was over three years ago, when Tameka treated her to the salon for her birthday.
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