2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  We finally headed up the escalator to the second floor and found Courtroom 206 about ten minutes to ten.

  I don’t know what I expected, but the beige-colored room wasn’t that large. The judge, a balding black man with grandfatherly jowls who amply filled out his black robe, was already hearing a case. Our lawyer, William Farrell, was sitting in the empty, cushioned, jury seats, waiting our turn, I supposed. His sunburned face, topped with a thick head of auburn hair, looked up, surprised, and he hustled our way as Denny and I slid into the first of three pewlike benches at the back of the room. “Denny. Jodi,” he murmured, shaking our hands. “You didn’t have to come, you know. I was going to ask for a continuance, citing recovery time for your injuries, Jodi.”

  “I know.” How could I explain that I needed to do this—now?

  Two cases were dispatched in fairly quick order as we waited— one involving a man in drab, Department of Corrections garb, flanked by two Chicago police officers, who pled guilty to abuse of a controlled substance. The judge gave him a one-year sentence on the spot, minus thirty-three days he’d already served.

  I stared at the man’s back as the police officers led him out, suddenly feeling claustrophobic, like I might never leave this room a free person. I grabbed Denny’s hand and held on tight.

  A door marked “Conference Room” opened along the right side of the room, and a middle-aged white man in a rumpled tan suit came in followed by an African-American woman with closecropped hair, small glasses, and gold hoop earrings framing a thin, tense face. She was accompanied by two boys—one nine or ten, the other an older teen—wearing T-shirts, baggy jeans with crotches to their knees, and big gym shoes with floppy laces, who stared at me as they sat at the far end of the pews. Mr. Farrell murmured something to Denny, who turned to me. “That’s the assistant state’s attorney,” he whispered.

  Must be Jamal’s mother with him, I thought, looking straight ahead. Are those his brothers? My hands felt clammy. Why did I think I was brave enough to do this?

  Someone slipped into the row behind us. I turned slightly. Avis! What was she doing here?

  She leaned forward. “Thought you weren’t coming,” she murmured. .

  “So why are you here?” I whispered back.

  “Somebody needs to pray over this hearing.”

  I faced forward again, but at that moment, my heart ached with love for Avis, who came all by herself just to pray, not even knowing we were going to be there.

  God, when I “grow up,” I want to think like Avis . . . be obedient like Avis . . . pray like Avis.

  I cringed when the clerk read, “In the matter of the State of Illinois versus Jodi Baxter . . .” Mr. Farrell motioned for me to join him at the defense attorney’s desk, which I did, feeling like every eye in the room was boring a hole in my back as I awkwardly made my way around chairs and railings. I tried to listen as the indictment was read but was distracted by the assistant state’s attorney whispering to an aide, who hustled quickly out of the room. But all I heard was, “ . . . resulting in the death of Jamal Wilkins, male, age thirteen” and “vehicular manslaughter.”

  “Mr. Prendergast. Are you ready to present the state’s evidence?” The judge peered over the top of his glasses at the prosecuting attorney. The man shuffled some papers then made his way to one of the two podiums facing the judge.

  “Uh, my witness has not arrived yet.”

  The judge raised his eyebrows. “Your witness has not arrived yet? Witness . . . singular?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The judge paged through the papers in front of him. “It was my understanding, Mr. Prendergast, that the court would hear three witnesses at this preliminary hearing—two young men who were with the victim at the time of the accident, and a bystander, with sufficient evidence to take this case to trial.”

  “That’s true, Your Honor. But . . . ah . . . the bystander is now uncertain she can verify the information she first gave to the police, and one of the boys with Jamal that day has declined to testify. I did not have time to serve a subpoena before this morning.”

  I heard William Farrell snort beside me, scribbling something with his pen.

  The judge made his fingers into a tent, tapping his lips with the tips. “And your other witness?”

  “Uh, we’re waiting for him to arrive, sir.”

  The judge shook his head. “Counsel, approach the bench.”

  William Farrell patted my shoulder and joined the assistant state’s attorney before the judge’s bench. They bent their heads together, but I was close enough to hear the other attorney say something about “running a red light . . . exceeding the speed limit . . . talking on a cell phone.”

  I bit my lip to keep it from trembling. Running a red light? Exceeding the speed limit? I didn’t . . . I hadn’t . . . had I? But how could we ever prove it? It was going to be their word against mine. But the cell phone—that I knew wasn’t true!

  I glanced toward Denny. Behind him I could see Avis’s eyes closed, her mouth moving . . . she was praying.

  William Farrell was leaning on the front of the judge’s bench, looking completely relaxed. He had told us that only the state’s evidence would be presented at the “pre-lim”; the defense could cross-examine their witnesses, but any defense witnesses did not have to appear until trial. What witnesses? Just me?

  The other attorney pointed toward Jamal Wilkins’s family, obviously asking for more time for his witness to arrive. My heart was pounding in my ears. Would there be a continuance after all? We’d come today for nothing?

  But the judged eyed the clock, leaned back in his chair, and shook his head. The two attorneys returned to their seats.

  “Ms. Wilkins, I presume?” The judge addressed the woman sitting behind the prosecuting attorney. She gave a slight nod, her thin face a mask of controlled emotion. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Ms. Wilkins. It is a terrible thing to lose a child in an accident such as this, and we do not want to discount the pain that you and your family are going through. But . . .” The tented fingers tapped his lips again. “. . . without witnesses, the state has failed to show any evidence that would sustain taking this case to trial. I have no option here but to drop the charges against Mrs. Baxter.” He banged his gavel. “Case dismissed . . . Next case.”

  Denny was out of his seat in half a second. “Thank you!” I heard him say to Mr. Farrell, pumping his hand. “Thank you!” Then, “That’s it? It’s over?”

  “Yes—though the state’s attorney could subpoena the witnesses and ask for a grand jury indictment. But don’t worry—even if it went to trial, Jodi would walk . . .”

  Even as Mr. Farrell started bragging about the defense witnesses he’d lined up, I could see Jamal Wilkins’s mother sitting perfectly still on the other side of the room, staring straight ahead. Mr. Farrell’s voice sounded far away, as if I had water in my ears . . .

  “The driver of the car that slammed into your minivan is prepared to testify that you both had the green light . . . evidence technicians who examined the skid marks at the scene of the accident found nothing consistent with excessive speed . . . not to mention that no cell phone was found in the minivan at the time of the accident . . .”

  Taking my crutches, I hobbled toward the other mother. Swallowing past the huge lump forming in my throat, I spoke.

  “Ms. Wilkins? I’m Jodi Baxter. It was . . . my car that struck your son.”

  The woman’s face turned slightly, her eyes cold. “I know.”

  “I just want to say how terribly sorry I am. I can only imagine the pain you must be going through. I would . . . give anything if it hadn’t happened. Even exchange my life for Jamal’s—if I could.”

  Jamal’s mother just stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. Then she stood abruptly, gripping her purse with both hands. “But you can’t . . . can you?” She pushed past me and strode out the door of the room, the two sullen boys trailing behind her.

  I watched her go. I could hard
ly forgive myself. Did I really expect that she could forgive me?

  Avis came over and gave me a long hug, saying nothing.

  Denny and Mr. Farrell joined us. The lawyer held out his hand. “Well, Jodi Baxter, you can go home a free woman. What happened today took me by surprise, but even if we had gone to trial, we could easily have proven you were not guilty.”

  I shook his hand. “Not legally, anyway.”

  He looked at me strangely, but I just said, “Thank you, Mr. Farrell,” and headed my crutches for the door of the courtroom.

  DENNY WANTED TO TAKE AVIS AND ME OUT TO LUNCH to celebrate, but I shook my head, hoping Avis would understand. I just wanted to get home. I wanted to think . . . or pray . . . or something. But not talk.

  Once we arrived home, Denny said he’d fix lunch while I got off my feet in the living room. The room was dim, air moving lazily through it from the window fan. I swung my crutches over to the front windows and, one after the other, opened the mini-blinds, letting in the bright daylight.

  Stopping by the music cabinet, I shuffled through the CDs sitting in little stacks. I picked up one of the Songs 4 Worship albums and ran my finger down the list of songs till I found what I was looking for.

  Putting the disc into the CD player, I punched the “forward” button until it came to the number of the song I wanted.

  In Your presence, that’s where I belong . . .

  The music, slow and majestic, swelled until it seemed to take over my whole body.

  Seeking Your face, touching Your grace . . .

  In Your presence, O God . . .

  Lifting my face and with awkward grace, on one leg and two crutches, I began to dance.

  Yada Yada Prayer Group

  Reading Group Guide

  1. Which character in this novel do you identify with most? Why?

  2. Why do you think it was important for the women in The Yada Yada Prayer Group to get off the Internet and into each other’s homes?

  3. What was the common denominator that kept the women in Yada Yada hanging in there with each other?

  4. Jodi, a longtime Christian, experienced what it truly meant to be “just a sinner, saved by grace” for the first time. Does admitting you’re still “just a sinner” like everyone else feel like blame . . . or freedom? How have you experienced “God’s grace” up close and personal?

  5. What “religious clichés” have basically lost their meaning for you? Brainstorm new ways to communicate old truths.

  6. What particular barriers tend to divide people, even those who share the same faith, where you live? (Cultural or ethnic differences? Racial tensions? Doctrine or worship styles?) Brainstorm ways you could be intentional about “breaking down the walls.”

  7. What obstacles have you experienced in making friends—real friends—“across the color line”? (Be honest!)

  8. Share instances when a cross-cultural relationship has been a gift for you. Or ask yourself: How might an interracial or cross-cultural friendship enrich my life? What would you be able to bring to such a relationship? What challenges might you face?

  9. Do you have a group of friends that “yada” you—i.e., know you deeply, inspire you to praise (“yadah”)? If you were to form a “Yada Yada Prayer Group,” who would you invite? (Pick up the phone!)

  10. What would you still like to know about the characters after reading this novel? What do you think is going to happen to The Yada Yada Prayer Group in Book Two?

  the

  yada yada

  Prayer Group

  GETS DOWN

  To Pat Hall

  — the real “Bandana Woman”—

  who is now my friend and sister in the faith

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

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  Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down Reading Group Guide

  Prologue

  CHICAGO’S LABOR DAY WEEKEND, 2002

  The southbound elevated train squealed to a metallic stop on the trestles above Morse Avenue, and its doors slid open. On the street below, a slim figure slouching in the recessed doorway of the Wig Shop squinted intently through her wraparound shades at the train platform spanning the overpass. The commuter cars looked full, but only two women got off and started down the stairs to street level.

  The woman in the doorway swore, sending expletives like a stream of spit toward the sidewalk. Three trains had come by already, and she hadn’t seen an easy mark yet. Not with today being Sunday and tomorrow the Labor Day holiday. Mostly young folks heading downtown for the Jazz Fest in Grant Park— or coming back. The northbound would arrive soon, disgorging a handful of teenagers in baggy pants returning after a long day along Chicago’s lakefront, noses burnt and ears plugged into their music. Maybe a few haggard parents who were smart enough to leave early with strollers, backpacks, and whiny preschoolers.

  If only it was a workday! A bunch of skirts and suits would be coming home, tired, not so alert, twenties and fifties in their purses and wallets. Once they separated and headed onto the side streets of the Rogers Park neighborhood toward the brick apartment-buildings-turned-condos or the old two-story homes jammed between, hitting on a mark was usually just a matter of smooth timing.

  But she couldn’t wait till Tuesday. She needed some cash now. The ten blue Valium pills she’d washed down with a glass of vodka that morning hadn’t suffocated the depression that was pulling her down, down into a bottomless black hole, threatening to swallow her, body and soul.

  She had to get some smack. Soon.

  The southbound pulled out overhead as the two ex-passengers spilled from the doors of the Morse Avenue station on street level. The figure in the doorway straightened, eyeing the pair. The first was a young woman, tall, nicely dressed in a white tailored pantsuit, straight black hair pulled back into a ponytail, a black handbag slung over her shoulder. And an older woman, her dark hair wound into a bun, wearing a navy skirt, red blazer, and sensible shoes with low heels. Their faces seemed long and flat, foreign. Asian. The watcher pulled back into the doorway as the pair crossed the street and passed right in front of her.

  “Don’t worry about your traveler’s checks, Mama-san. See that drug store? It’s got an ATM. I’ll get some cash.” The younger one took her companion’s elbow as though to hurry her along, but the older woman shook off her hand, rattling off strange words that seemed to come out her nose, nasal and sharp.

  A tight smile pulled at the corners of the mouth in the doorway, all that could be seen of a face masked with the wraparound shades and a red bandana tied tight around her head and knotted at the nape of her neck. She’d heard enough. ATM. She’d seen enough. Two skirts at odds with each other, distracted.

  She waited a few seconds until the two women passed. Then, clutching the stiff paper bag with its long, hard object stuffed beneath her faded jean jacket, she stepped out onto the sidewalk behind them. Watch ya feet, girl . . . don’t bump inta no nickel feeders . . . be cool . . . don’ call no ’tention to yo’sef.

  The two dark-haired women turned into the parking lot of the Osco Drug Store and disappeared inside. The woman in the jean jacket, skimpy tank top, and tight jeans leaned her backside against the corner of the sto
re and fished out a nearly flat pack of cigarettes. She had to clutch the hidden paper bag with her elbow in order to light the cigarette with both hands. The long, flat object inside the bag made her feel confident. She wouldn’t have to use it—just scare them. No problem.

  The cigarette had burned only halfway when the pair came out of the store, but the woman flipped it into the street. So what if it was her last cigarette. She’d get some smack and a whole carton. Ha. Come right back here to this store and buy a carton straight up.

  Or die. Didn’t really matter.

  She knew she couldn’t keep this up—hooked on four habits. She’d tried to kick the heroin, signed up for that methadone program at the hospital. Yet all she’d done was pick up another habit. Most days she did all four—a handful of Valium washed down with vodka, a trip to the hospital for a slug of methadone, then back out in the ’hood to roll some sucker for money to pay for a bag of smack.

  But none of it was keeping her from sliding deeper and deeper into that big black hole. It was going to come down on her one of these days. Maybe today.

  She let the pair get several yards down the sidewalk before pushing off from the store wall to follow. She’d only taken a few steps when a loud voice behind her yelled, “Hoshi! Hoshi Takahashi! Wait up!” The mark—the young, tall one—turned and looked straight past her, a smile lighting up her long face.

  The watcher swore under her breath. She couldn’t stop now; she had to keep walking, right past the two women, who had now both turned back toward the running feet and yelling voice behind her. Why had she thrown the cigarette pack away? She needed something, some excuse to stop, to keep an eye on her mark. Desperation bubbled up in her throat. This had to work. Or it would go down—badly.

  Her shoe. She’d retie the brand-new Nikes she’d lifted right under the nose of that stupid clerk at Foot Locker. She bent, untied one shoe, pulled it off, and shook out an imaginary piece of grit, rubbing the bottom of her bare foot and tipping her head slightly so she could keep the trio in her line of vision. Best thing about wraparound shades—you could watch people, and they didn’t know you were looking.