Juanita wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t lit the fire that sealed Walter’s fate, but she was as guilty as the papers described. Her breasts lactated, swollen with life-sustaining nourishment. But Juanita knew how putrid she was on the inside. Her milk was poison, her birth canal a watery grave. Nothing could come out of her unscathed.
Still, she needed to see for herself. “Bring it to me.”
The infant was a helpless mass of wrinkled humanity squirming in the crook of Velma’s arm.
“It’s a boy,” Velma declared.
“Let me hold him.”
Malcolm intervened. “There’s no time, baby. He’s not breathing right.”
Juanita glared at him.
“We’ve talked about this,” Malcolm continued. “We have to let Velma take him. She will make sure they fix whatever is wrong and that he ends up in a good home. And when the time is right, I promise I will find him and bring him back to you.”
Back in Walter’s office, with everything burning around her, Juanita knew she was going to die; but then Malcolm pulled her from the burning tomb. Less than a month later, Juanita learned she was pregnant.
Juanita didn’t believe in coincidences. It was no simple twist of fate that led her to Walter’s side. No miracle that Walter’s best friend saved her life and helped her pick up the shattered pieces of her porcelain existence. It was destiny.
Juanita felt her purpose returning. She gathered herself and replied, “Malcolm, no! If he goes to the hospital, we’ll lose him.”
“If we don’t take him now, we’re gonna lose him right here,” Malcom said softly. “I’m not willing to take that chance.” He motioned to Velma to get the baby.
Juanita tried to sit up, but her arms were too weak. “Velma,” she admonished. “Don’t you dare take my baby!”
“Wait,” Velma said in a shaky tone, trying unsuccessfully to break the tension. “What are we going to call him?”
Juanita had considered only one name for a boy. The man Walter had patterned himself after. “Lincoln,” she replied. “His name is Lincoln.”
Velma put the baby in the bassinette and hurried out of the apartment with Malcolm. Lincoln started crying.
Each wail pierced Juanita to the core. Her body and instincts were on edge—she had to take action. In her mind, Velma Baker had morphed from a dedicated helper to dark schemer. Juanita clawed at the wall for leverage, screaming, “You can’t take him, you bitch! You can’t take him!”
The apartment door slammed, cutting off her baby’s cries. Despite tremendous pain, Juanita made it out of bed, but collapsed on weak legs. She crawled toward the door, just as she had during the fire, screaming and stretching out her arms to welcome her child into the world. As his cries drifted away, her pain grew too intense to bear.
Curling her legs into her abdomen, she lay on the floor wishing for death. But not for herself. She passed into unconsciousness, fantasizing about how Lincoln would one day grow up to kill Randy Lafitte.
* * * * *
Chapter Eleven
24 years later
1998
Houston, TX
Amir Barber paused just outside of room 311 in the Houston Medical Center, preparing himself for what he would see when he pushed through the door. He rubbed his boot camp bald head compulsively. When he felt ready, he entered his mother’s suite with a nervous smile.
Dear God.
Amir gazed down at his mother in the aftermath of her stroke. Always the picture of strength, Juanita had degenerated into a muddy puddle, waiting for the sun’s rays to evaporate her into nothing. He whispered a silent oration to Ogou Balanjo, the Vodun spirit of healing, and set the flowers down on the nightstand.
Kissing her clammy forehead, he sat down in the chair next to the bed, clasping her hands in his own. Amir traced his fingers over the faded scar on her left wrist. He’d always wondered about how she’d gotten it and had sworn to himself he’d protect her against future harm. But he’d failed again.
I never should have left home.
Amir knew these thoughts were useless and unproductive. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what might have been if he’d stayed home after graduating from the University of Houston last year. Instead, he took his shiny new degree and enlisted in the Army as a Communication Operations Officer. He vividly recalled the look of betrayal in his mother’s eyes when he told her of his plans. Dad’s reaction had been predictably aloof.
* * * * *
“This is something I need to do for me, Dad,” Amir said, as he and his father rested in the Kempo Dojo after their workout. Dad was still slightly out of breath. Amir realized for the first time his father was getting old.
They were seated in front of a large mirror. Amir compared his twenty-two-year-old frame to that of his father’s. His father’s skin was dark and course, Amir’s fair and smooth. Amir’s skin tone was the only physical trait he’d gotten from his mother. Other than that, he was the spitting image of his father. “You know I was in the service, right?” Dad asked.
Amir nodded. He knew all about his father’s tour of duty in ‘Nam. Anticipating his father’s next words, he said, “Dad, I know you always tell me that the Army is no place for the black man, but just hear me out, okay? I’m not some dumb eighteen-year-old kid. I went to college, just like you asked me to.” Amir swallowed his fear and continued the speech he’d been practicing for a week. “But if you hadn’t joined the Army, you never would have discovered Vodun, right? So in a way, it was a positive experience for you. And you recruited your men over there in Vietnam, so had you not gone, the Black Mob probably wouldn’t exist either. Shoot, you and Mom might never have gotten together.” Knowing his father’s one soft spot, Amir saved this point for last.
“That’s not fair,” Dad replied. “You know me and your mother are going through a rough time.”
“Believe me, I know, Dad. But once I go away to boot camp she will be all alone and she’ll need you. Ya’ll can get back together.”
“Don’t change the subject. This is about you, not me. You want to join the white man’s army. You want to die defending a country that does not give a damn about your people. You want to be a pawn…when I raised you to be a king.”
“You don’t understand, Dad. I read the book.” Amir watched his father’s good eye squint in anger as it usually did whenever anyone mentioned Inside the Black Mob, the unauthorized book written about his life and work. His father had maintained for years that one day he would write his own account and set the record straight.
Amir continued, “I need to learn what you learned, Dad. I know you think I’m too young, but I’m ready to do my part in the Liberation. You and I both know the other men in the Black Mob will never respect me or follow me if I don’t do this.”
His father’s only reply was to stand up and walk out, leaving Amir alone to consider his future plans.
* * * * *
“Lincoln?”
His mother’s voice startled Amir out of his memories. He looked down to see her gazing at him through pained eyes.
“Who’s Lincoln?” Amir asked.
“No one. I’m so happy…to see you…my son.” She tried to smile, but paralyzed muscles on the left side of her face turned her smile into a sneer.
“I brought you flowers, Moms.”
“I…I saw. They’re…beautiful.”
“How are you feeling?”
She sneered again. “Looks worse…than it…feels.”
Amir seriously doubted that. He brushed the hair off her forehead. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Moms?”
“No…honey. I’m fine. Just…need to rest.”
“Okay, Moms. Well, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. The loa will watch over you and protect you.”
* * * * *
The following days blurred together for Amir, as an endless procession of doctors, nurses, technicians, and counselors did their best to help his mother recover and dissuade his g
rowing fears that things were far worse than they appeared. On the fifth day, he entered his mother’s room to find her sitting up and crocheting. He felt a surge of hope at the sight of her.
“Hey, Moms! What are you working on?”
“Just keeping myself busy,” she replied, sounding almost as good as she looked. “I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk.”
He took a seat. “What about?”
“Hand me my purse.”
He passed the bag to her and watched her dig around inside with a look of pained concentration, finally pulling out two yellowing pieces of paper. She reluctantly handed them over to him.
Amir studied the faded newspaper articles. The headline of the first one read: “Gang Warfare Responsible for Simmons Park Massacre.”
Amir recalled seeing the story on the news a few years ago. He’d forgotten how grim it was. Some high school basketball star, with gang affiliations, had shot up a bunch of gangbangers and cops in Louisiana. A group of first graders were caught in the crossfire, and a Louisiana state senator’s son, Kristopher Lafitte, died there as well.
Amir winced as he read the gangbanger’s name—Lincoln Baker.
“Moms, why are you carrying this old story around? And why did you call me by some murderer’s name the other day?”
Juanita avoided his eyes. He asked her again.
“That…that murderer is your brother.”
“What?” Amir yelled.
“Read the other article, Son. Please.”
Amir wanted to challenge her, but decided to keep the peace for the moment. He unfolded the second article. This one was much older. Some of the type had worn away, but the headline told him everything he needed to know: “Foul Play Expected Cause of Death for Mayor Walter Simmons: Missing Wife is Lead Suspect.”
“What the fuck?”
“Watch your mouth, Kareem.” She coughed into her handkerchief. She only called him by his middle name when she was really upset. He hated his middle name.
“Naw, fuck that, Moms!” Amir glared at her. “You used to be married to the first black mayor in Louisiana?”
“He…Lincoln’s father…was murdered.”
Amir doubled over in the chair, choking back anger and confusion. The news hit him like opposing linebackers used to back in high school when Amir played running back. The thought of his mother with another man was inconceivable. If this was true, then everything he knew about his life was a lie. “This article says you’re the lead suspect…”
“I know this is all very confusing, Son, but it’s time you know the truth.” She coughed violently again and wiped her mouth. “Amir, I waited too long to tell you all this and now it’s almost too late. I didn’t kill Walter Simmons, and Lincoln didn’t kill those people.” Her chest heaved from the effort it took to speak.
Amir choked back tears. “I don’t understand. Just tell me what happened, Moms. Please?”
His mother’s lips quivered as she said, “I’ve lost a lot in my life, Amir. But nothing has scarred me quite like the loss of your brother. If I tell you this, you have to promise me you will make things right with your father.”
Amir didn’t really believe that was in the cards, but nodded for his mother to continue.
* * * * *
A week after Amir learned that not only was Malcolm Wright not his mother’s first husband, but that he had a half-brother named Lincoln Baker, Juanita Barber’s chest rose and fell for the last time. But that chilly January day not only marked his mother’s death, it also coincided with the beginning of Randy Lafitte’s second term as Governor of Louisiana. A term nearly cut short by a bomb placed in the bowels of the Island of Capri Riverboat, where Lafitte was celebrating his re-election.
As Amir prepared to bury his mother, he learned his estranged father had confessed to the attempted assassination of Governor Lafitte.
* * * * *
Chapter Twelve
1998
Angola, LA
Malcolm Wright exited the powder blue prison bus just inside the gates of the Louisiana State Penitentiary. The January air was brisk and cold. He took his first shuffling steps toward his cage, relishing the brisk wind after the stifling three-hour bus ride from the detainment center in New Orleans. The rattling of the steel chains binding his hands and feet brought on a memory of the creak of the rope around his lynched father’s throat as his lifeless body twisted in the breeze.
His father had been killed because he was the most successful sharecropper in Lake City and had the audacity to try and renegotiate his share of the yield. Malcolm was only five at the time, but old enough to comprehend injustice, even if it took him much longer to put a name to the endless well of anger filling his heart. Thankfully, his oldest brother Frederick had been able to secure work as a day laborer and provide for the five of them left—Malcolm, the youngest, their mother, and his three older brothers Ralph, Duke, and Ronnie.
Frederick became an effective provider without turning into a stoic like their father. He married a woman, Abigail, blessed with the gift of balancing out their mother’s alternating states of aggression, agitation, and depression. Ralph was the athlete of the family and a standout baseball player. But Ralph was playing ball in a pre- Jackie Robinson era, and his success had a direct correlation to the number of death threats he received. He eventually quit playing baseball for good and became a mechanic.
Duke was the family scholar. He introduced Malcolm to texts by Frederick Douglass, Marcus Garvey, and Richard Wright. Duke was murdered during a peaceful protest in Selma, Alabama in the early sixties. Ronnie and Malcolm, the youngest of the four brothers, were only sixteen months apart and enjoyed the closest bond. When Malcolm was eighteen he followed Ronnie into the Nation of Islam. Years later, Ronnie followed Malcolm into the Black Mob, and the Black Mob led Malcolm to the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola.
He sniffed at the air. Yes. This was the place. This was home.
He turned toward the snapping sound coming from his blind side and saw photographers capturing his picture from behind the gates. He was grateful he’d finally be out of the public’s watchful eye.
The trial had gone smoothly. Except for his last conversation with Amir.
“Why did you do it, Dad?”
Amir’s questions followed him all the way to his cell.
“Mom told me everything.”
Malcolm sympathized with the boy’s pain, but in time Amir would understand that, as always, Malcolm had done what needed to be done. Unfortunately, Amir didn’t yet understand sacrifice, what it took to bring about real change.
Just like in chess, the trick is to learn to win from a position of perceived weakness.
Still, Malcolm was relieved his son finally knew some of the truth, even if the knowledge caused him great pain. Malcolm wondered if Amir would ever forgive him. He’d never wanted to lie to the boy, but Juanita had insisted they were protecting him. All Malcolm ever desired was to give Juanita the safety she craved and to provide their son, born two years after they lost Lincoln, with the benefit of their collective love and wisdom. And he’d been successful for a time.
* * * * *
In the eighties, as the AIDS epidemic and crack infestation destroyed black communities from coast to coast, the four-block community within Houston’s Fifth Ward, known as Frenchtown, existed as a protected haven. Malcolm and his Black Mob created a veritable utopia for black businesses, schools, and families. Not even trickle-down Reaganomics could gain a foothold in Malcolm’s sovereignty. His word was law and he ruled with a murderous regard for the criminal elements infecting nearly every other ghetto.
Malcolm made examples out of anyone who didn’t adhere to the Black Mob’s strict code of ethics. As a result, the community rallied around and insulated him from relentless attempts by the FBI and police to divide and conquer the Black Mob. Amir grew up healthy, intelligent, and conscious that his reality was different from many of his peers because his father had created a better wo
rld for him.
But it wasn’t enough for Juanita. Despite his best efforts, every year that passed with no sign of Lincoln pushed them further and further apart. Eventually, Malcolm left Frenchtown, his wife, his son, and all that he’d built to find Lincoln. If he could do that, he could finally have his wife back.
* * * * *
But now it was too late.
“She’s gone, Dad,” Amir said, tears streaking down his face like shooting stars.
The woman he’d loved since they were adolescents, the only woman he’d ever loved, died the day of his ultimate act of vengeance. She ascended before he could accomplish the two tasks he promised to complete—kill Randy Lafitte and find Lincoln. But she would not die in vain.
Malcolm prioritized his next steps. He had been checked into the prison, strip-searched, clothed, and oriented on the ways of his new home. The guards kept asking him to state his government name. He answered, “Panama X” each time until the blows came and they dragged him to the hole.
Juanita was raised a devout Catholic and never understood Malcolm’s conversion to the Nation of Islam. Then he returned from Vietnam claiming a new religion—Vodun. But it was his new first name—Panama—and the X connected to it, that upset her most, more than his foreign religious leanings. Juanita refused to call him anything but Malcolm.
He’d tried in vain to explain to her that Malcolm Wright was born poor and weak, a man who lived in fear of whites—until his brother Duke’s murder transformed that fear to anger. That anger became focused power once he gave up his slave name and slave master’s religion, and his power grew exponentially upon his indoctrination into Vodun.
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