The woman’s smile took up her entire face, and as she got closer to them it was clear it was exclusively for Calvin.
“Hey, you! I’m glad you made it,” Samantha Cartwright said to Calvin. She pecked him on the cheek. Calvin’s eyes fluttered when her lips made contact. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too.” Calvin beamed. He cleared his throat. “Let me introduce you. Roger, Janae, this is my friend Samantha Cartwright. I called her early this morning. I told her about Malik’s case and Roger’s argument and she immediately said yes to an interview. We have her to thank for this. She’s the boss around here.”
“Well, I know a good story when I hear one.” Samantha extended her hand to Roger. “It is truly an honor to meet you. I almost went to law school after reading about your work with the UN in Africa.”
“Thank you. What a compliment,” Roger said, looking at Calvin approvingly, and then back to Samantha.
“And you must be Janae Williams. It’s nice to meet you.” She took Janae’s hard in her own long, thin one and shook it firmly.
Janae smiled. The woman towered over her by a good half a foot, if not more. Everything about her seemed picture perfect: not a hair out of place, and her clothes were beautiful, and expensive-looking. The fabrics were thick and luxurious and did not cling awkwardly to her body. Janae could have purchased an entire closet full of clothes at Target for the price of that one tailored wrap dress Samantha was wearing. And there was an energy about her that conveyed confidence. Samantha was certain of the value she added to her work and contributed to the world. Malik had always been Janae’s greatest accomplishment.
The women Janae knew had no such lightness to their step. Her coworkers, her mom, even Tameka—all of them were struggling to keep their heads above water, and to keep their kids out of trouble. Most of them, either they were religious fanatics who denied themselves everything or they squeezed too much short-term pleasure, with long-term consequences, out of their lives. What if she hadn’t been a teenage mom and had waited to have a child? What if she had had the chance to go to college? What if she had a job that meant something to her? Would she have the same sort of confidence that this woman had? Would people immediately feel the energy when she walked into a room?
Janae fidgeted with a button on her coat to avoid staring at Samantha. She eventually unbottoned it and just took the coat off. Underneath, her purple dress hung a little uncomfortably on her frame.
She could feel Calvin’s eyes on her. Not meaning to, she let her eyes meet his. She allowed them to linger for a second, then she shifted them back to Samantha, and then back to him. Janae tried but she couldn’t quite accomplish a smile.
Calvin spoke to Samantha, though his eyes were still locked on Janae’s. “Do you personally greet all of GDA’s guests?” He turned his full attention back to his friend.
“Only when it’s been too long since I’ve seen them.” She pursed her lips seductively. “Maybe we could do an early lunch or grab a coffee after the interview?” she suggested. It was as if Janae and Roger weren’t even there for a moment or two.
Without thinking, Calvin shifted his body toward Janae. “I, um, I would love that. But we’re headed back to Philly right after the interview.” His brow creased. “Next time, for sure.”
“I’m going to hold you to it,” Samantha said and pointed playfully at him.
“You better,” Calvin said.
Janae turned her head away to give them some space. No man’s face had ever lit up because she entered the room, especially not the face of such a handsome, successful man as Calvin. That has to be nice.
“Let’s get you to set,” Samantha said, crooking her arm around Calvin’s and leading the way.
JANAE FELT LIKE A SPECIMEN—A SMALL PIG SMELLING OF FORMALDEHYDE—split open, pinned down, and under a microscope about to be dissected. Such was the prospect of having her life examined on television. She was seated on the interview couch in the studio. The TV crew busied themselves around her. It was a big production, with a fancy set and stage lights.
There were multiple crew members behind multiple cameras. A woman with short red hair rushed over to her and clipped a microphone to her dress; she also put mics on Roger and Calvin when they joined Janae on the sofa.
The interviewer, Tiffany Palmer, looked every bit like the second coming of runway model Iman. She was tall and thin, and somewhat athletic. Her mocha complexion had a glow to it. Her short-cropped natural hair with streaks of honey brown was a perfect complement to her easygoing elegance.
Tiffany Palmer sat up taller and fiddled with her earpiece. Janae heard a woman call out, “We’re on in five, four, three, two, one.” Before Tiffany Palmer opened her mouth, Janae felt her stomach sink. A rush of nervousness came over her. She tried her best not to show it.
Roger leaned into her. “This is for Malik,” he said.
Just as quickly as the uneasiness came over her, it was gone—for Malik she could do anything.
Tiffany Palmer shifted her body somewhat to her left and smiled into the camera. “Welcome back to Good Day America. Today we have a story about murder, race, and politics. Hold on to your seats, guys, because this will either incense you or inform you about what is going on in big cities across America. You decide. We have with us the internationally renowned human rights attorney Roger Whitford.”
A camera zoomed in on Roger. He grinned in its direction. Janae could see a monitor that showed the image home viewers received. There was Tiffany Palmer and Roger across from each other. It was an interesting pairing. The vibrant and much younger newswoman and Roger who looked more like a mad scientist than a well-traveled attorney with reading glasses perched below the bridge of his nose.
“He has supported women’s rights globally, fighting for economic and educational access and against sexual exploitation and violence in places such as Afghanistan, India, Guatemala, and Mali. During some of the most important events in our recent history, where victims around the world have been voiceless, this man was somewhere on the scene, championing their cause.”
Tiffany Palmer’s expression shifted from wide-eyed adoration to the squint of confusion. “And now Mr. Whitford is representing a fifteen-year-old boy who has been charged with the murder of another teen in Philadelphia. This case has been receiving a growing amount of attention, partly because of the astounding number of murders so far in this still-very-young new year. Twenty-nine murders,” she stressed. “What’s going on down there in Philadelphia? Let’s first take a look at this clip.”
Janae braced herself. She started breathing again when the clip started with the same question that Tiffany Palmer ended with—“What’s going on in Philadelphia?” In the background there were flashing police lights and glowing yellow crime-scene tape. Finally, the names of all the victims, including Troy’s, crawled up the screen. The voiceover stressed that these homicides had gripped the city, along with a fear of perpetrators as young as fifteen.
Janae squirmed. Malik had been the youngest defendant accused of murder.
The clip continued with the observation that all the victims were young black males, as were all the alleged perpetrators. Philadelphia Police Officer Peter Rhinehold, flanked by local black pastors, demanded a stop to the violence. He said the latest killing in the city amounted to nothing less than local terrorism. He demanded justice for the victims and communities. The clip went black.
Tiffany Palmer turned to Roger. “Why are you jumping into the fray? Have you switched the focus of your practice from human rights to criminal law?”
Roger removed his glasses and took the time to carefully fold and place them in his inner breast pocket. He leaned toward her. “Well, first, Tiffany, I want to thank you for having me on this morning, and also for purposely avoiding any mention of the name of my client, who is a minor. Not every journalist has been as gracious as you. And, no, I have not changed my practice. I have long devoted my practice to human rights, and
I continue to do that with this new case.”
“So is it your claim that some human rights violations occurred during the arrest or detention of this defendant?”
“I think the best way to answer that question is to first define what human rights are. They are rights that we are all entitled to by virtue of being human beings. They include the right to be treated with dignity and to have access to justice—for our humanity to be recognized by our fellow citizens and government. Human rights most certainly embrace freedom from discrimination and mistreatment by one’s government. It is our position that every single day in this country there are human rights violations in the administration of our criminal justice system, and our education system, that are, quite frankly, endangering an entire group of people.”
“Let me ask you this: Why have you decided to represent the fifteen-year-old boy in this case who is being tried for murder?”
“It’s simple. I have taken on his case because the criminal justice system demonstrates a pattern of injustice in how it treats—no, let me say mistreats—black boys. And I believe it’s so detrimental that there is the real threat of extinction of black boys in our culture.”
Tiffany Palmer’s eyebrows leapt up toward her hairline. “Extinction? Well, that’s a pretty strong word. Aren’t you concerned that people will think your assertions are a bit over-the-top?” She raised her hands as if defending herself from attack. “Full disclosure here: I have a fifteen-year-old son myself who’s black. You’re not speaking of boys like him, are you? You can’t turn the TV on and not see black men. They are thriving in sports, entertainment, they’re in every field. In fact, your cocounsel on the case is a successful African-American man.”
The camera zoomed in on Calvin, who nodded in its direction.
Roger smiled with a confidence that comes from years of practice. “Extinction is a strong word, and it’s exactly what I mean. Those successful black men you are talking about”—his eyes diverted to Calvin briefly before returning to the camera—“are a drop in the bucket compared to the larger group as a whole. If you could put up the statistics I provided your producer . . . ? Already thirteen percent of all black males eighteen years old and older have lost their right to vote because they have been tried and convicted of a felony. That means that they can never be fully participating citizens of our society ever again. That number is huge. We know from studies conducted at Princeton, Harvard, and Columbia universities that education—or, more to the point, lack of education—is directly linked to crime. The less education you have the more likely you are to be involved in crime. If you take a look at the statistics again, in almost every major metropolitan area in this country—L.A., here in New York, in Detroit, in Chicago—over sixty percent of black boys drop out of school, and the ones who stay are disproportionately placed in special education, or they are suspended, or even expelled. It’s not a question of if those kids will end up in the criminal justice system, it’s a question of when. And here’s the proof: already, right now, one-third, or roughly thirty-three percent of all black males between the ages of sixteen and twenty-four are either awaiting trial, in prison, or on probation or parole. And if the criminal justice system doesn’t get them, homicide will. I can sit here and rattle off countless more statistics that would paint a grim picture of black boys’ future . . . the point being, their lives are truly and literally endangered.” Roger paused.
“I will give you just one more fact,” and he raised his index finger by way of promising. “The leading cause of death for black males fifteen to thirty-four is homicide. Not cancer, not heart disease, not old age. It is murder. Most of us expect to grow old. Outlive our parents. Have children and grandchildren, even. This is becoming less and less of a reality for the black male.”
In response, Tiffany Palmer broke a cardinal rule of broadcast journalism: there was complete silence, dead air. Her eyes went from Roger to Calvin, then settled on Janae.
The frazzled voice in her earpiece brought her back to the moment. She was on air. The three guests sitting across from her all looked at her with questioning eyes. The voice commanded her to ask a question, make a statement. “Fill the damn air, Tiff! We have forty seconds to the next commercial.”
Tiffany Palmer finally spoke, to Roger. “As a journalist, I didn’t realize how . . . I feel somewhat shell-shocked, embarrassed honestly,” she said. Her body shifted slightly toward Janae. “As the mother of the boy at the center of this case, what are your thoughts as you sit here and listen to all the statistics your attorney just mentioned?”
Oh no. No, no, no. Not again. Roger told me I wouldn’t have to talk. Janae stole a peek at Roger. If he was terrified about what might come out of her mouth, he sure didn’t show it. She could feel Calvin’s eyes on her but she didn’t look at him. She took in a deep breath and exhaled.
“My son is innocent of the charges against him. He is only fifteen years old. He is my baby.” She could feel a lump forming in her throat. “He is in the system right now. He is, right now, one of those boys that Roger”—and she abruptly diverted her gaze to him—“excuse me, I mean Mr. Whitford, talked about. But we will prove his innocence. And that is the day I look forward to.”
The red light on top of the camera went off. Tiffany Palmer pulled the piece from her ear. “That was good. That was good.”
The two women locked eyes for a pregnant moment. In that moment everything that separated the worlds of the two women faded away.
Roger reached for Janae’s clenched fists, which lay in her lap, and squeezed them. “I could not have said that any better myself.”
Janae laughed nervously. “I hope that is it for me,” she said, relieved.
Calvin chimed in his agreement. “You really showed the human side to the story.” He patted her on the back. “I’d say you’re a pro at this.”
Her back stiffened at his touch. Her nose scrunched at his words, as if she smelled something rotten. “I just want my son home.”
“Well, that is why we are here,” Calvin said. “To get your son back.”
Janae’s face softened slightly. The enormity of his words hit her in the place that she struggled to contain since all of this began; that tender delicate place where she knew that if something didn’t give soon she would lose her mind. She adjusted herself by straightening her back and looking Tiffany Palmer directly in the eye. They weren’t done, and she was prepared for the second round.
Chapter Seventeen
ROGER ENDED THE CALL ON HIS CELL PHONE AND GRINNED A TOOTHY GRIN at Calvin and Janae.
“What? What is it?” Calvin returned the smile.
“I have two pieces of good news.” He looked at Janae, who appeared relieved the interview with GDA was over. “Well, maybe I have good news and bad news.”
Janae looked at her watch. It was already past nine.
“That was Margaret. CNN wants to interview us, too.”
“When?” Calvin said enthusiastically.
Roger’s grin widened. There were even touches of red creeping into his cheeks. “Well . . . now. As soon as we can get there.”
“Look,” Janae said through pursed lips. “These interviews are fine and all that. And I know I agreed to this. But I don’t see how they are going to help Malik. He has a hearing in a week to see if he is going to be tried as an adult, and there’s this guy—” She stopped mid-sentence when she noticed Roger and Calvin’s eyes narrowing.
“What guy?” Calvin demanded.
“I thought we agreed that you would leave the investigation to the police and me. To us”—Roger wagged his index finger back and forth between Calvin and himself.
Janae told them about Kim and what she had seen.
Calvin slipped one hand in his pants pocket and with the other rubbed his chin in frustration.
Janae felt something else emanating from Calvin’s body language.
“Well,” she shrieked, “I wanted to actually have something concrete to tell you!”
“No, that’s not how this works. Anything you know, we need to know it immediately,” Calvin said forcefully.
She put up her hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. But”—and she pointed to her watch—“I’m supposed to talk to my friend’s sister today. And I am not missing it.”
“I will be talking to your friend’s sister,” Calvin insisted.
“I don’t know,” Janae wondered out loud. “Kim isn’t expecting you. I’m not sure if she’ll even talk to you.”
“Then we’ll call your friend to give them the heads-up that I’ll be there. This is too important to Malik’s case.” Calvin paused. “We need you safe, Janae. So we’ll do the next interview, and then we’ll go together.”
Janae studied Calvin. “All right. We’ll do it your way.”
“Besides, this interview with CNN is not going to take long,” Roger said. “All three of us will go and we’ll be out of there in half an hour, forty-five minutes tops. All of us need to be there. This is for Malik, too.”
Janae shook her head. “I don’t see it, not yet,” she said, followed by a pause. “But I trust you.”
“Good,” Roger’s voice bellowed through the hallway. “That’s all I need. And, by the way, you are not off the hook. You’re not a detective.”
Janae smiled sheepishly.
“Rog, I really think with this CNN interview you’re going to need to get right to the point. We have to keep in mind the full message that we want to deliver in order to get the public debate really cranking the way we want,” Calvin said.
“I hear you. Maybe I should pick up where I left off on GDA?”
“Exactly. Treat the two interviews like one extended interview. You should touch on the statistics but then jump right into your views on black boys’ lives being endangered.”
“I can’t exactly force-feed the guy the interview questions I want.”
“You can parlay every question, though, into a platform to advance our position,” Calvin retorted.
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