And then there was the hoodie that he wore, a black one where the hood covered his whole head and part of his forehead.
Every time I saw that photo, I trembled. In the daytime, it scared me; I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if I’d seen Marquis at night.
But on the other side, there was his mother. Janice. They never showed a photo of her; I only saw her image as she stood by her husband’s side. Every time. He never spoke alone.
She was so regal, not in terms of the clothes that she wore. In my years of marriage to Wyatt, I’d learned the difference between discount and designer. She was definitely a Target or maybe a Marshalls shopper. The kind of shopper that I’d once considered upscale.
Her elegance was beyond her clothes. It was in the way she stood, head high, chin forward, eyes wide and clear, even as people around her spoke of her dead son.
And it was in the way she carried herself, she moved with grace, looking as if her feet barely touched the ground. She held her husband’s hand. Every time. He never walked alone.
She was the kind of woman that I wished I knew, the kind of woman I wished I could help.
“Sweetheart!”
I blinked my thoughts away and focused on my husband standing right beside me. I hadn’t even heard him come into the kitchen.
He frowned before he planted a kiss on my cheek, then gently patted my head. “Are you all right?”
I nodded.
“That’s all you’re having for lunch?”
I looked down at the chicken broth and crackers. “It’s all I want. I’m not very hungry.”
He shook his head. “I know what this is about.”
My heartbeat galloped. Had Dr. Leach broken her promise?
He said, “You’re tired of being cooped up in this house. Because,” he continued, “I know I’m going crazy and so is our poor boy. This is just plain ridiculous.” He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. “Ten days. We’ve been home for ten days and we can’t do a thing.” After a long swig from his beer bottle, he said, “I hope Newt brings some good news soon.”
I nodded; I agreed.
“They’re not protesting as much anymore, just like Newt predicted,” Wyatt kept on. “So I don’t think it will be too much longer.”
The sound of chimes filled our home and I rolled my eyes.
Even though I hadn’t said a word, Wyatt laughed. “You think that’s Gloria?”
I nodded. “I don’t know why she feels like she has to come here every day.” That’s what I said, though I suspected that my mother came by so often to check on me. She was making sure that I kept my promise never to say a word.
Wyatt grinned. “Gloria is our only entertainment, since I sent Wally to visit my mother.”
As he went to answer the door, I tried to come up with some excuse that would send my mother home. But my thoughts turned from my mother when I heard the heavy footsteps.
“Hey, Meredith.” Newt came over to the island where I sat and kissed my cheek.
And my stomach did a triple backflip.
It was the sternness of his expression, the stiffness of his shoulders, and the fact that he was here on Sunday that kept me silent. But whatever I saw in Newt’s countenance, my husband didn’t see the same.
Wyatt gave Newt one of those buddy slaps on the back. “So, you’ve got good news for me?”
“I have news.” A long pause. “And it’s not good.” Another pause. “There may be charges.”
“What?” Both Newt and I jumped a bit when Wyatt pounded his fist on the counter. “What kind of charges? How could there be charges? You told me there wouldn’t be.”
“Well,” Newt began, his tone sounding so calm alongside my husband’s rage. “There are a couple of challenges. I spoke with the district attorney. They’ve interviewed the young girl who was in the car and she’s telling them that Marquis had no weapon.”
“He had a baseball bat!” Wyatt screamed.
I stuffed two crackers into my mouth.
“Well, that’s another thing. There were no fingerprints on the bat.”
“What?”
“No fingerprints. Marquis’s fingerprints were not found on the bat.”
“Well, whose fingerprints were on there?” Wyatt asked.
Newt shook his head. “They said they found no prints.”
“That’s impossible,” my husband shouted.
“I know. Look, I’m just telling you what I know so far.”
My glance went back and forth, from Wyatt to Newt. And I kept eating crackers.
“So based on this girl, they’re going to charge me?”
“Based on her and the bat, it looks that way. But”—Newt held up his hand—“there are things that we can do before they make a final decision.”
Wyatt’s lips hardly moved when he said, “Whatever we have to do, we need to do it.”
Newt nodded as if he was steps ahead of Wyatt. “We’re going to begin putting on our defense. I’ve hired a firm to start spinning our story, doing a publicity campaign.”
“Is that legal?” I croaked.
Newt nodded. “Everybody does it, especially with these kinds of cases.” Turning back to Wyatt, he said, “We’re going to dig into Marquis’s background and his father’s and mother’s.”
“Oh, God!” I pressed my fingers against my mouth.
Only Newt looked my way; my husband didn’t even hear my cry.
Newt kept his eyes on me for a couple of seconds before he continued. “We’re digging into everything about the Johnsons: their lifestyles, their social media accounts, we’re going to find their police records—the son or the father probably has something. We’re checking out if Tyrone Johnson has ever had an affair, anything we can use to show that they’re not the victims, you are.”
Wyatt nodded as if all of this sounded like a grand idea to him.
I ate the last cracker.
“And then the second thing is going to be this girlfriend.”
“Okay. What? What do I have to do? How much money do we have to offer her?”
Newt held up his finger. “Don’t ever say anything like that again. Do you know the penalty for witness tampering? You’ll go to jail for sure.”
“Witness tampering? That’s not what I was talking about.”
Newt shook his head as if he thought my husband didn’t have a clue. Still, he went on: “There may be something that we can do to stop her from testifying. Her name is Heather Nelson. She’s the daughter of Richard Nelson.”
“Richard Nelson? Who’s on the board of my Raising Up Boys foundation?”
Newt nodded and that made Wyatt grin.
Wyatt said, “I’ll just talk to Richard, tell him what his daughter needs to say.”
This time, all Newt did was shake his head. “Listen,” Newt began, “just let me handle this case. You don’t talk to anyone unless I tell you to.”
“Okay, okay.”
“So . . .” Newt went back to explaining his plan. “We’re going to figure it out with Heather, either get her not to testify, or get her to admit that Marquis was angry when he got out of that car and went after you.”
“Good! ’Cause that’s what happened.”
“And,” Newt said, “we are gonna play up your foundation. When everyone hears how you work with inner-city kids, they’ll get a better understanding that you’re not this white man hunting black boys that the media is making you out to be.”
“Good. Good. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of my foundation,” Wyatt said.
I had to admit that Newt had a good strategy there—at least with the foundation. The foundation that Wyatt and I started together did do good work, training teenagers so they could find jobs in the fast-food industry, teaching them how to be good employees, and after they held a job for two years, they could enter a special program that prepared them to own a franchise, if they could ever raise the money.
“And what about the fact that most of my jobs go to tho
se kids?”
Newt chuckled. “You give most of your jobs to those kids ’cause nobody else will take them.”
“Look, a job is a job. And ninety percent of my workforce is black kids.”
“Someone is going to point out that all of those jobs are minimum-wage positions.”
“So?” Wyatt shrugged. “They’re still working, right?”
“We’ll figure out how to spin it. But the key to all of this is making sure the Johnsons don’t look like angels and making sure that Heather Nelson doesn’t take the stand, or if she does, that she’ll say what we want her to say.”
“Okay, okay!”
My husband was cheering up with excitement as tears came to my eyes. They were going after the Johnsons, people who had already suffered.
“Just know, Wyatt, that we’re going to take care of this,” Newt said. “And so many people are on your side because this could be a precedent-setting case. Our office is being inundated with calls from television stations, radio shows, corporate executives—all asking how they can support you. Everyone knows what’s at stake.”
I wondered if that would be the case if everyone knew the truth.
Wyatt nodded. “Just do what you have to do, buddy. Money isn’t an issue; whatever, however much it takes.” He held up his hand. “And I’m not talking about tampering with any witnesses. I’m talking about paying for whatever services we need.”
“Okay.” Newt was a little more relaxed than when he first walked in. But his tone was still stern when he said, “I want you to understand, though, that this could happen. I want you to be prepared.” He turned this glance from Wyatt to me. “Both of you. This could go to court.”
Now my stomach swirled and twirled. And that must have shown on my face because Newt added, “But, if that happens, I will get you off.”
“How . . . can you guarantee that?” I said, sounding as if I were speaking through stones in my throat.
“I have my ways. But with what they have now, this isn’t going anywhere. There wouldn’t even be any charges if there wasn’t all of this social pressure. This is all about satisfying the black community. So I’m not worried. Let them do what they think they have to do. And unless some witness comes forward, you have nothing to worry about.”
I was barely able to jump up and charge out of the kitchen to the downstairs bathroom in time to assume the position—seat up, head down.
I heaved and heaved until I was empty and spent.
There was a quick knock on the door. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
“Yes,” I squeaked, hoping that Wyatt didn’t open the door and find me sprawled out on the tile. “I just . . . had to go to the bathroom.”
A pause and then, “Okay. Newt wants to talk to us some more; we’ll be in my office.”
“Okay,” I said. But I didn’t want to hear anything else Newt had to say. He’d already said enough for me.
Unless some witness comes forward.
You have nothing to worry about.
That was so not true. My husband and Newt had so much to worry about. And they didn’t even know it.
Chapter 26
It felt like a whirlwind of hate to me. But that’s not what Newt called it.
“We’re just exposing people to all of the facts,” he said.
And the facts began to roll out the day after Newt told us of his plan.
It was Monday, June 2, three weeks after May 12. And I was sitting in Wyatt’s office with Newt and two other lawyers. These were the men who would actually be representing Wyatt if he was charged since Newt didn’t have a license to practice in Pennsylvania.
I didn’t want to be at the meeting; I didn’t want to hear anything that was going to upset my stomach or my baby. But Wyatt had insisted. Early this morning, he’d awakened me and told me that Newt was coming over for a strategy session and he wanted me to be there.
There was no way for me to protest, so I agreed, and then I made sure that I didn’t eat a thing. The only way to handle all of this was on an empty stomach.
My strategy in their strategy session was to sit as far away as possible, giving myself the illusion that I wasn’t really part of this effort to destroy the Johnsons. I sat by the door that led to our son’s playroom.
“So what do you have?” Wyatt asked once they were all around the circular table that seated four.
“We have plenty,” Newt said, sounding like a kid who was about to tell someone’s secrets. “First, Marquis Johnson was suspended from school back in April.” Newt’s grin became wider when he added, “For possession of marijuana.”
Newt stopped and Wyatt paused, too, as if he were waiting for more. “That’s it?” he finally said. “That’s all you got?” He shook his head as if Newt had failed him. “If every teenager who had a joint on them were suspended right now, America’s schools would be empty. Trust me, I work with these kids. Smoking weed to them is like smoking cigarettes for us.”
Then Newt puffed up his chest. “You must not remember who you’re working with. That’s the fact. But the spin is going to be that Marquis Johnson was suspended from his upscale private school because he was caught with marijuana and because he was suspected of selling drugs to other students. We’re going to say that there is some information that might also connect him to one of Philly’s top drug dealers.”
“Oh, my God.” I pressed my hand against my stomach. “Is that true?”
Their faces, when they looked across the room, made me think they’d forgotten that I was there.
Newt answered me. “No.”
I frowned. “It’s not true?”
“No.”
“So you’re just going to lie?”
“No.”
I think Newt would have left it there if he were only talking to me. But Wyatt had as much of a question on his face as I did, so Newt continued: “This is what’s called spinning, Meredith. We’re taking the truth—that he was suspended from school for possession of marijuana—and we’re spinning the rest.
“We didn’t say that the other things are facts. We’re saying that he was suspected of selling drugs to other students and there’s information that might connect him to a drug dealer.”
“Oh, I get it,” Wyatt said, now grinning, too. “This is brilliant.”
Well, I didn’t get it and I thought it was rather stupid. And immoral, and really should have been illegal. No matter what you called it, it was nothing but lying.
But the team went with it, and that night, as I sat with Wyatt in our media room, we saw the spinning begin. Wyatt had the three televisions all tuned to a different news station. And all three stations reported the story. It ran so much on the conservative channel that it felt like this story about Marquis Johnson being suspended from school was the most important news of the day.
The next morning, Newt and his team returned to our home at nine o’clock sharp! With a new report. This time, it was about Marquis’s uncle, Raj Johnson.
That night, the news anchor spoke the words that Newt had read to us that morning.
“We’ve just received new information pertaining to the Marquis Johnson shooting,” the reporter said. “Apparently Marquis’s uncle, Raj Johnson”—a picture of a black man wearing a scowl and a beret flashed onto the screen, and lingered as the anchor continued—“is a member of the Brown Guardians, the motorcycle gang that some call vigilantes and others call terrorists. Johnson, who has been arrested several times for domestic violence, is also a suspect in several unsolved murders in the Philadelphia area. And there are reports that he was grooming his nephew, Marquis, for a role with the motorcycle gang. Several people inside the Brown Guardians say that Marquis was on his way to a meeting the night that he was shot and killed.”
Then that picture of Marquis flashed next to his uncle’s. It was the same picture of Marquis, and each time that I saw it, he looked more dangerous to me. In that moment, I wondered if maybe Wyatt had been terrorized that night.
&nbs
p; Wednesday’s report was about Tyrone Johnson and his auto mechanic shop. Several patrons suspected illegal activity (or so the report said) and an ex-employee (who admitted to being recently fired) said that he’d once bought a gun from Tyrone.
While Newt and Wyatt chuckled over the spinning, I wanted to cry with the Johnsons because I was sure that’s what they were doing. I tried to imagine Janice. What was she thinking, what was she feeling when she heard these “spins” about her husband and son?
And then Thursday came.
It was only because Billy wasn’t feeling well that Wyatt didn’t summon me to the meeting that morning. As I held Billy in my arms, I was grateful to be away from the Think Tank, which was what Wyatt now called their daily meetings.
I didn’t ask Wyatt what the attack was going to be about tonight. But maybe I should have. Or maybe it was better that I saw the report cold—the same way Janice Johnson had to see it.
“It seems that every day there is new information about Marquis Johnson and his family,” the news anchor said on Thursday night as I sat in the media room. “And the latest is that Marquis might not even be Tyrone Johnson’s son.”
My mouth was wide open when the anchor tossed the story to the reporter in the field.
“Yes, Jefferson,” the reporter began. “According to a friend of the Johnsons, there has long been speculation that Marquis might not even be Tyrone Johnson’s son. Mrs. Johnson is said to have been involved in a long-term affair with her pastor. And there are questions as to whether the pastor is Marquis’s father . . .”
It wasn’t until Wyatt released a whoop that I remembered that I was not alone. My husband leaned back in the recliner and laughed so loud anyone outside would’ve thought we were watching a comedy show.
But if they’d seen my expression, they would have known for sure that this was no comedy—it was fantasy at best, and horror at worst.
For a long time, I sat there, staring at the television, and the reporters went back and forth, one asking questions, the other offering speculation, and then I turned my glare onto my husband.
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